An Angel Called Eternity

The Field Rat's Banquet - Rhema IV: Tears Well from Blood

Rhema IV: Tears Well from Blood

The Tenth day of the Twelfth Moon, 872 AD.
Anaria, Western Teleytaios, Klironomea.

He was going to kill the people who'd done this. The people who had cut open his closest friend as if they were some... some fucking animal! Those vile butchers, he would... he would...
Rhema looked down at his friend's sleeping form, and exhaled, doing his best to keep his mind clear. He would do nothing for now, save keep vigil. He would control himself, for his friend.
Besides, he thought with a chuckle that was only slightly mad, most of the people who did this are dead already.
After the raid on Seaview Manse the knights under Ser Romanos had spent the majority of the night following both leads and the fleeing cultists, resulting in the majority of the other manses being broken into and searched thoroughly for any sign of cultist activity.
He happened to know that his brother had used the knight's hunt as a front to strip the manses bare, carting their wealth off to the royal coffers. That had made him smile more than a little bit. It still made the corners of his mouth twitch upwards even now. Guess my brother isn't quite so afraid of dirtying his hands as some of those nobles thought.

Seventh shifted in their sleep, and Rhema's breath hitched ever so slightly as one of their wings peeked out at him from the top of the blanket. Angels, they were magnificent! They were small, far to small to actually lift them from the ground, surely, but nonetheless they looked stunning.
If only it had not taken so much pain to break them free.

Seventh had told him, albeit in a clipped and quiet manner, what had been done to them. Even thinking about such things roused such an anger in the young prince that he wanted to march out there and find every last one of those damnable cultists that had escaped before fucking shattering every rib they had, then he would watch and he would laugh as they choked on their own blood, pierced lungs flooding with their own hot ichor.
But not their ringleader. No. He had much better plans for him.
He sighed. As of right now those plans were useless and immaterial, because no matter how much he wanted to go out there and visit vengeance upon the people that did this, it was overshadowed by his desire to make sure his friend would be safe first, barely; it was a very fine thing, but his desire to ensure Seventh's immediate safety just about triumphed over his want for bloodshed.

Even so, the thoughts of what he'd do to that 'Turnkey' bastard or whatever Seventh had called him still warmed his blood and sharpened his mind. After all, it was hard to sleep with such detailed plans running dancing across his thoughts.
Ser Aenethar was still out there somewhere too. His plans for Turnkey may have been bad, worse than bad, but what he'd do to that treasonous fucking bastard when he got his hands on his fucking throat would make it seem like mercy by comparison.

He was shaken from his darker thoughts at the sound of the door creaking open. He shot around, hand already on the axe by his side, but let himself relax when Marshal Crowe entered the room. There were dark rings under her eyes, a tiredness in her step that told him she was only being kept awake by her own stubbornness and professionalism. He wasn't surprised, after all, she'd spent the last few weeks desperately trying to balance combat effectiveness and his sister's suspicions.
My sister...
He shook his head and banished that trail of thought before it had a chance to truly begin. He'd said it himself, they'd not truly been siblings for quite some time; she'd bullied him and cast him aside time and time again, and had called not only for the deaths of so many innocents but also their own brother in her quest for power. She was dangerous, she was violent, and she was downright hateful.
So why does it hurt so much?
He did his best to rid himself of these thoughts, speaking with a dry yet humorous tone to his mentor and friend.
"Crowe. You look like shit."
She raised an amused eyebrow, and responded in kind.
"Your Highness. You aren't looking too princely yourself."
He snorted and turned back to the bed, Crowe moving to sit in a chair next to him.
"They will be alright?"
Rhema nodded.
"My brother damn near stripped the city bare of those well-versed in the medicinal arts at my behest, but out of every physician my brother called in as well as his own personal healer from his retinue, not a single one can make heads nor tails of how they're managing to heal so quicky without any intervention. Indeed, my brother's personal healer has said that they've somehow managed to heal themself of any physical damage in totality already."
Crowe nodded, remaining as attentive as ever no matter her tiredness.
"Good, that's good," she hesitated a moment before continuing, "and mentally?"
He sighed bitterly.
"I don't know. I hope they'll be fine. If not, well..."
He gestured weakly to himself.
"We know how that story goes."
Crowe sighed next to him.
"You need to stop being so hard on yourself. I know you might not think it but these last few month's you've showed remarkable resilience and loyalty, not to mention competence. There are few men alive who would have the courage and determination to do what you did. Very few. Your actions shortened the war by months no doubt, and saved thousands of lives."
"Maybe. But I do not feel as though that was my doing, not truly."
Crowe stood with a sigh, patting his shoulder before turning to exit the room.
"Hopefully you will in time, your Highness. I'll leave you to your vigil."