Things became increasingly harder to keep track of after the poison had started to work its way through his bloodstream. Even before it had gotten too far, Francois was beginning to feel its effects. The Princess, to his thankful surprise, had taken the liberty of yanking the needle out of his arm—something he would rather not have done himself, and Edouard clearly had his own hands full at the moment. Francois tried to focus, truly he did, as guards scrambled every which way and medics burst forward, the Princess staying by his side momentarily as he was lifted from the ground as if on an invisible stretcher.
Francois supposed it was the fogging of his mind, but he found himself unable—practically unwilling—to take his eyes off of her. It was even more difficult than that to let her slip her hand from his as she left running at full speed. Of course, it wasn’t as if Francois was in a position to put up much of a fight.
But it was even harder to focus once he had gotten to the infirmary, due to the white-washed faces amongst white-washed walls bustling to and fro, injecting him with who-knows-what to sustain him. The only things he really kept track of were the cold sweat that drenched his chest, which rose and fell in shallow puffs , and his brother, who stood looming in the corner. They locked eyes—it was the only thing that kept Francois completely calm, the panic of the hospital setting unable to fully set in. To the average individual, Edouard appeared indifferent, if a touch protective, a frightening and out-of-place figure. But to Francois, the one person who knew the man behind the mask, he was the only thing keeping fear at bay.
But soon, even that wasn’t enough. The poison steadily dulled Francois’ mind in waves as it increased in painfulness, until the young man found himself in a waking nightmare. Nothing but white coats—nothing but pale faces prodding him without comfort. He rolled his head to the side. Edouard wasn’t there—Fernand wasn’t there—just a man. A dead man, eyes lowered in sympathy.
“Bell…” Francois was half aware of himself attempting to calling out to the imagined phantom, but it was nothing much stronger than a weak mumble. Was he dying? Was he already dead? That would explain Bellamy, standing there as if completely unaffected from the times past. Perhaps he was there to guide his brother to the afterlife…or whatever lay beyond. Frightened and incoherent, Francois closed his eyes. Not yet, Bellamy, he wanted to say, it isn’t my time yet; I have too much left I need to do. I’m sorry.
He wanted Fernand to be by his side, but even as disoriented as he was, Francois was aware of the impossibility. Nonetheless, he remembered the last time he had been in a hospital, frightened and in pain. Fernand had been there, at his bedside as often as he could manage, squeezing Francois’ hand and offering words of encouragement.
“You’re the bravest person I know,” Fernand had said, his small face more serious than it ever should have needed to be. “Never, ever forget that.”
Francois didn’t feel brave. He wanted to disagree then, and he wanted to do so now. How could a man be considered brave when he felt so helpless? So cornered?
Gently, a hand graced his brow, brushing away the wet strands that had fallen there, and Francois opened his eyes. The face that hovered above him he hadn’t expected, but regardless he felt himself relax, a weak smile forming as if he had all but forgotten the terrors of his mind.
“Hello,” the princess said.
She was sliding needles into his arm, one by one as easily as if his skin were made of butter—but he hardly noticed. It was one dull stab after another; what was more pain, at this point? Nothing I can’t handle, Francois told himself, nothing that makes saving a life less worth it. Her hands punctuated each needle, driving away the unpleasant sensations with gentle pinches. At least for a moment.
“I don’t believe you’ve been at court before?”
Francois shook his head in response. At least, he attempted to shake his head, but the effort made him dizzy so he vied to vocalize an answer instead. “It’s quite a ways from home.”
“Might I know your name?”
Francois searched her eyes. She was smiling, so kindly, but a mixture of emotions welled behind those trademark greens he was far too exhausted to completely separate. He wasn’t sure how it made him feel. One thing at a time, anyway.
“Francois,” he answered obligingly, “Francois Moreau.”
She slipped a hand into his, and beneath the tremors Francois was halfway aware of his heart swelling in appreciation. Despite the pain, a wave of relaxation flowed through him with the action. She filled the place reserved for her brother—it wasn’t the same, but it was a good enough substitute for its purpose. “Well then, Francois…welcome to Licia. Now squeeze.”
“Thank you, Princess. I’m glad that I came.”
Following orders, Francois managed to clench his fingers around hers, grimacing at the feel of black blood oozing from the infected wound. He closed his eyes—not from disgust, but flashes of bruises and fractures and blood that he thought he had escaped. And, besides that, the burning was only getting stronger. If the young man hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that the Princess was trying to finish him off. Despite himself, Francois could feel the hospital closing in around him. Images—memories—childish pleas of Fernand, don’t leave me alone! What if he comes back after me? What if he comes for Mother, again? We’ll die! He’ll kill us!—and then the Princess’ hand, the one comfort left, slipped out of his.
He tried to smile as he turned his gaze toward the beautiful woman standing over him once more. But there was desperation as he blurted softly, before he could stop himself, “…stay?”
Of course, she couldn’t stay. He knew that, and if he was in a better state of mind he never would have asked—and he would most certainly have been ashamed or embarrassed at such juvenile behavior. But regardless, she met his weak simpering with nothing but kindness, pleading him gently to rest before following the rest of the staff out the door, and Francois was left alone. Well, alone with Edouard.
A long, tense moment of silence (that felt more like ten) passed. Francois couldn’t bring himself to meet the gaze of his lone companion, but that hardly mattered. Fernand, assured they would not be disturbed, dropped the act. His face contorting in anger as he stepped out of the corner.
“What were you thinking?”
“Mon frère—”
“That was not part of the plan!”
“I…had an idea. I improvised.”
“We don’t improvise! That’s what gets people like us killed.” Fernand took in a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as he let the air out slowly. His frustration was palpable. “You didn’t have an idea, Francois. I know what happened, you’ve done it before—but never to this compromising of an extent. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your small heroics over the years. But why? Why now? Why do you always have to be so selfless!”
“I wasn’t being selfless…”
“You’re right. You were being careless.”
Francois was silent, save for the raspy rise and fall of his chest. Now, he actually wanted to rest. But he knew this was something he needed to face. He couldn’t risk Fernand wanting to switch places for the remainder of the mission, out of anger and apprehension. It was too risky…and, as it was…
“I thought…if I took the poison…it would endear her to me. You saw the way she looked, didn’t you? When she sat here? She’ll be back…and she’ll…”
Quickly, Fernand grabbed a waste basket that was sitting nearby and rushed to Francois’ side, just in time to catch the sickness that Francois had been trying hard to hold back. He curled there, on his side, trembling, and didn’t finish his explanation. Fernand softened, finding a cloth to hand to his brother to wipe his mouth with.
“I saw, mon frère.” With a sigh, he added, “and it was a good plan. Your intuition has always been spot on. You just…know that I hate seeing you this way.”
Francois nodded, but before much longer, with Fernand’s understanding acquired, he found himself once again dozing into a fitful sleep.
At one point, probably not much after he had managed to find a shaky peace, Francois awoke to the sound of the door. He rolled over, practically causing the maid who entered in the room to throw the tray she was carrying into the air. She took one brief look at him—her face pale and eyes wide—before putting the tray at his bedside as quickly as she could manage and darting back out. Fernand rolled his eyes.
“Close-minded Lician pawns,” he grumbled, shifting uncomfortable from the position he had once again leaned himself against in the corner. Francois simply stared at the plate. Just looking at the simple salad adorning it gave Francois the urge to be sick again.
“You can have it,” the invalid offered dully, to which Fernand merely snorted.
“No, thanks.”
Francois squeezed his eyes shut once more, pleading under his breath for rest.
***
She wasn’t screaming, only pleading.
S’il vous plaît, je suis désolé, I didn’t mean to anger you. Don’t hit me again, don’t—
They were watching from the door. Two small heads stacked over each other. Fernand held Francois by the hand while Francois cried silent tears. They knew they shouldn’t have been watching but they couldn’t help it.
And there was so much blood. And he wouldn’t stop hitting her—not even when she fell to the ground. The tall, dark, angry man.
You’re hurting her! You’re killing her! Stop it! She’ll die!
Francois ran forward, slipping away from Fernand before his brother could hold him back…and then the bloodied hands were tight around his neck as his father dragged him to the window—
***
“Mr. Moreau…? Mr. Moreau?”
Francois’ eyes snapped open with a start, causing him to jolt as his consciousness tried to catch up to his vision. If her hand hasn’t been resting (gently) upon his chest, Francois more than likely would’ve sat up so fast he would have smacked into the Princess. Underneath her cool fingers, his warm flesh heaved from its battle with the unseen enemy.
“Francois…shh…shh…It’s okay. Everything is all-right now…”
After a long moment of staring desperately into her eyes, he relaxed, falling heavily back upon the bed, his eyes lidded heavy, but out of exhaustion as opposed to ease. Regardless, she smiled, seeming relieved as he cleared his throat.
“…Princess. You…came back.”
“I’m sorry to wake you, Mr. Moreau,” she explained with a nod, “But you seemed to be having some….restlessness. Can you stand? I’d like to change your bed sheets and I’ve some food coming.”
“Yes…I…I can try.” Weakly, Francois shifted himself closer to the edge of the bed and swung his legs down. He managed to stand about halfway when a sharp pain ran through his side from the awkward angle he managed to step on his bad leg, and barely managed to grab onto the Princess (who had quickly moved to support him) before he would have fallen to the floor. Thankfully, Edouard took over for the young woman, whom he more than likely would have ended up taking down with him, and she busied herself with changing his sheets as Francois was brought carefully to the single chair left in the room.
“I’m not used to being this…in need of assistance,” Francois breathed as he sat heavily, putting a hand to his head with a weary sigh. “I’m truly sorry for all the trouble.”
But Alarice simply shook her head, never breaking from her folding. “Mr. Moreau…you saved my life. There is no way you could trouble me. In fact, I’ve been meaning to ask…why did you come?” Then, before Francois could reply, she added, “And if there is anything I could do for you, please name it.”
This time, Francois was the one to smile…if a bit weakly. “I came to offer my support,” he lied brilliantly, “I suppose…it isn’t of much consequence; loyalty from someone like me hardly means much—but having been given the honor of speaking with you, I know now more than ever I want to give it. All I can ask is that you accept it.”
It would have been an appropriate place to bow, he noted mentally, but he was afraid that if he tried such a move, he’d somersault into a heap on the floor.
There was a moment of silence. The Princess finished changing the sheets, and then straightening herself, she admired her handiwork with what appeared to Francois as a bit of accomplished pride before she spoke again, firmly and like a true royal. “Prince Dwayne once said,” she began, “that the loyalty of one man meant more than the falsity of a thousand.” Flashing a smile, her voice softened as she assured, “Mr. Moreau no one who pledged their support to me could ever be of no-consequence. I am honored to receive, “someone like you.” to court.”
Then, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear and averting her gaze bashfully, the Princess amended, “The court…I mean.”
As Francois watched her, he suddenly found himself breaking into a toothy grin beneath his haggard eyes. “You…aren’t wearing gloves,” he observed, more matter-of-fact than anything else (although one may not have been totally imagining things when hearing the subtly coy hint to his tone). “Now that I think of it…you weren’t wearing them before, either, were you?”
Almost immediately after he had managed the rhetorical question, the door opened, revealing a set of maids and attendants carrying trays and furniture alike. Francois watched as his bed was moved to one side of the room while another was brought for his brother (guilt seeped in as he realized exactly how long Fernand had been standing), along with food for both of the brothers and a chair for the Princess.
Once everything had been arranged, the group hovered awkwardly for a moment before Alarice curtly dismissed them with the promise that “Mr. Dubhan will be joining me shortly.”
As soon as they were gone, the Princess prepared a needle that had been brought along with a bowl of oatmeal, using a damp napkin to gently wipe his shoulder in preparation. She hesitated—but only long enough to bring a hand to his forehead. “I’m afraid you’re still a bit feverish, Mr. Moreau. This will help, I promise.”
“Thank you,” he breathed as the needle slid quietly into his skin.
He swallowed the quick flash of Bellamy dead on the floor, blood spread beneath him in a cool puddle—the shot was for the fever. There was nothing to be afraid of. Before he could stop himself, his eyes flickered to the tall man sitting on his cot, munching his meal appreciatively (but quietly and as politely as possible). There were no ghosts of the past to haunt him. Or hurt him.
Francois didn’t know if she noticed anything; she was busy pouring a powder into his oatmeal, explaining how it would help him sleep. He would pray for a dreamless sleep, at that, devoid of the demons that had followed him into the immaculate room. As he reached for the bowl, the Princess rested her hand gently on his, lowering it. “There’s no reason to waste any energy Mr. Moreau,” she chastised, taking the spoon in small, bare hand. “Save it so that you may recover.”
Brows furrowing, the young man began to protest, but was halted by the spoon full of oats entering his half-open mouth. Francois sighed internally, supposing there was no real need to protest, especially if it was something that the Princess wanted to do. If nursing him to health attached her to him, than he would be more than willing to let her feed him like a child. And, if he was being quite honest, Francois supposed his arms were rather tired.
Before too long, Francois could feel the effects of the powder setting in, the warmth from his stomach traveling up and making his brain a delightfully peaceful haze. He was only half-conscious by the time a guard—the same dark-haired one from before—appeared at the door, exchanging a brief dialogue with his charge before going out of sight once more, and even less so when another appeared—this one as strikingly Lician as he was wholly unfamiliar. The blonde came in only to provide the Princess with further clothing (a shame; he had been quite enjoying the view), before leaving with a respectful nod. She seemed to notice how much effort it was beginning to take him to keep his eyes open, and once she had slipped on her robe and gloves, set the oatmeal aside and (with the help of Edouard), dragged Francois back into bed. “Good night, Mr. Moreau,” the Princess Alarice bid, in gentle formality, and Francois nodded sleepily as her figure blurred and retreated before his eyes.
“Good night…your highness…” he mumbled in response, eyes shutting of their own accord while he fell limp against his pillow.
“Peace be with you, mon frère,” was the last thing Francois heard before he finally drifted into a dark and quiet slumber.