A House Divided

Chapter 13

"No," Lach said in a voice so hoarse it was almost unintelligible. "No more." He turned his head away, refusing the draught Cianne was supposed to be administering. He had refused to take his previous doses from anyone other than her, but he'd taken them dutifully enough earlier in the day.

"Lach, your mother said—"

"Since when have you cared what my mother says?" he asked, the words coming out in short gasps. She was shocked. The tension between his mother and Cianne was something about which they had never spoken. Cianne knew Lach had noticed it, but she also knew he had chosen to ignore it as a means of telling her that he couldn't care less about his mother's disapproval.

"Fair enough," she said, setting the draught aside. He was exhausted and overwrought, and she didn't know if he'd made the comment as a joke or if he was angry with her for some reason. His emotions had been volatile the entire day, though she suspected the sedative was exacerbating the problem. It made him fall asleep for hours on end, but he was fitful and combative whenever it began to wear off.

"So thirsty," he said, panting.

Cianne poured him a glass of water and he drained it, holding the glass out to her. She refilled it and he drained that one as well.

"The sedative?" she asked.

"Think so. Don't want to be drugged anymore," he said, anger darkening his face. "She think she can drug this away for me?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure anyone knows what they're doing at the moment." Tears sprang to Cianne's eyes and she brushed them away.

"He's gone," Lach said, his voice breaking. He started to sob, but quietly this time.

"I'm sorry, Lach. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," Cianne said, putting her arms around him. Face pressed against her neck, he cried for a while. She rested her cheek against his hair, wetting it with her own tears.

"He didn't do this, Cianne," Lach said at last, when his tears were spent. He pulled away from her, sagging back against his pillows.

"Lach—" she began in a gentle tone.

"No! Don't you dare talk to me the way she does!"

The force of his anger took her aback, and she kept a wary eye fixed on him as she sat back in her chair, which a servant had placed next to the side of his bed, hours ago. It felt more like days. She poured herself some tepid tea and took a sip.

"Sorry," he said, hanging his head. He forced himself into an upright position, drawing his knees up to his chest. He dropped his head into his hands. "This grief, it— I feel like it will tear me apart."

"I know," she said softly.

"I know you do. Of course you do. I don't remember you acting like this, though," he said, waving a disgusted hand at himself.

"That's mostly because you didn't see it. I withdrew. We all deal with grief in our own way."

"I'm so angry," he said, the words a barely audible whisper.

She could understand that. She had been angry at her mother for dying, but Annalith hadn't gone out willingly. Cianne didn't know if she honestly suspected that what had happened to Toran had been anything but suicide, but she could imagine how she would feel if she were in Lach's shoes.

"It's okay," she said, hoping she didn't sound patronizing. "If you need to be angry, be angry."

"I'm angry because it's a lie," he said. He lifted his head to look at her, his face devastated by anguish, his eyes red and raw, his nose running, his cheeks scratchy with stubble. His hair stood on end as he yanked his hands through it.