Author's Note: The end of the week of Christmas! Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me this week :) You were great motivators, and I hope you enjoyed my gift to you. My only request is please don't come for me with pitchforks after this chapter. I promise it hurt me too. If you celebrate Christmas, MERRY CHRISTMAS! If not, I hope you're having an awesome weekend and happy holidays :D
Before either Oliver or Kaitlyn could even think to move, the door to her room banged open. Almost instinctively, Oliver shifted in front of her. She'd gotten hurt on his watch once before. He wasn't going to let it happen again.
But instead of the anticipated foe, a mixture of relief and confusion flooded Oliver's brain as Jonathan strode into the room. "Jonathan, what—"
"Come on," Jonathan ordered, his tone more serious than Oliver had ever heard before. He grabbed the prince's arm and crossed to a corner of Kaitlyn's room. Jonathan's enormous hands slid up and down the paneled wall. "Damn it," he grumbled under his breath while his hands frantically traced the panel. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and his muscles strained as he pushed.
The wall opened to reveal a stone staircase. Without speaking, Jonathan ushered Oliver and Kaitlyn into the stairwell. "What's going on?" Oliver demanded, pausing at the top of the stairs. To his surprise, Jonathan shoved him forward so roughly that he had to grab the rickety railing that lined the stairs.
"Go," ordered Jonathan.
"Not until you tell me what's happening," Oliver countered, although he'd already begun to take the stairs two at a time. When someone as large as Jonathan was on your heels, it was hard to make a meaningful stand.
"The palace is going into lockdown," Jonathan explained when they reached the bottom of the stairs.
Even though it was a relatively simple sentence, Oliver's brain had refused to comprehend it. "What?" It was the only word that he could think of. All the thoughts and fears in his mind were swirling around until they eventually ended up at the same place: what.
Kaitlyn put a hand on his arm, as though she was trying to comfort him, but her face held a similar expression of bewilderment.
"This way," Jonathan urged. He led them down a small, dusty stone hallway. If they were in the pits of the palace, they were lower than Oliver had ever been.
When they arrived at a metal door, Jonathan pressed his thumb onto a keypad. The keypad flashed green, and the door swung open to reveal a plain room that looked like it hadn't been used in years. There were two cots, a sink, toilet, and a small supply of canned items. A light layer of dust covered everything, and a combined scent of dust and mildew floated through the air.
Jonathan herded them into the room and sealed the door behind them. "Now will you explain what the hell is going on?" Oliver demanded of his guard. His voice was shakier than he would have liked.
When he turned towards them, Jonathan's usually tanned skin was ashen, and it took him a moment to find his voice. "The palace is in lockdown," he repeated. "This is your saferoom. There are two people who are authorized to open this door: myself and General Gauge."
"Okay, I'm just going to throw this out here: that sounds extreme," Oliver declared.
Instead of rolling his eyes or cracking a grin like he normally would, Jonathan's serious expression darkened. "You're the crown prince, Oliver," he continued, "In an event like this, your safety is our prime concern. I'm trained to find you, wherever you are in the palace, and get you to the saferoom in under five minutes once the alarm is sounded."
His sudden appearance in Kaitlyn's room made more sense with Jonathan's explanation. But it also caused a new concern to blossom in Oliver's brain. "What about everyone else?" he demanded. "The other Elite? Sara? The rest of my family?"
The mention of Sara seemed to unsettle Jonathan. Oliver watched his knuckles turn white as his hands tightened into fists. "I have to trust that Sara's guard will protect her and get her to a safe room," he replied, the pain obvious in his voice. "Just like you have to trust that the other Elite's guards will do the same. My only concern is you in the event of something like this. Lady Kaitlyn is only here because you were with her." He paused before he added, "Uh, no offense, Kaitlyn."
But she looked too dazed and frightened to be offended by his honesty. Oliver eased her onto a cot before he turned back to Jonathan. "What about the rest of my family?" he repeated.
Jonathan frowned. "Your mother will be isolated, just like you are, while Celine is in a saferoom with your father." He must have predicted the question on Oliver's tongue about why they weren't together at a time like this, because he explained, "The heirs and primary monarch—in this case your mother—have to be separated in the event that… something happens."
His explanation left Oliver dazed, and he stumbled onto the cot beside Kaitlyn. When he found his voice again, he turned his wide eyes on his guard and friend and croaked, "Jonathan, what's happened? Is someone in the castle?"
"We're not sure," Jonathan admitted. "This could be precautionary for all we know. But…" He trailed off, a frown creasing his face.
"But what?" Oliver wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer, but not knowing was going to drive him crazy.
"There's been…"
He could practically see Jonathan searching for a way to explain it, and Oliver swallowed deeply, steeling himself for whatever came next. "What happened?" he repeated in a tone that betrayed all his fear and anticipation.
There was a long pause before Jonathan took a deep breath and made Oliver realize one of his worst fears: "Tristan's plane crashed."
It took a moment for Oliver's reaction to come. Almost instinctively, he nodded and said, "Okay." A plane crash. Tristan. Tristan in a plane crash.
But then as he combined the words in numerous reiterations in his brain, he realized that no combination was okay. No matter how he strung the phrase, it was not okay. "Oh, my god," he gulped. He felt physically ill.
Beside him, Kaitlyn had started to shake. He glanced at her, wanting to comfort her but unsure of how. "Isolde…" she breathed.
Oliver glanced at his body guard, the question about his brother's fiancée in his eyes. It was possible they'd been apart, that Tristan had been on the plane alone. But Jonathan nodded, and he wasn't sure if Kaitlyn grabbed him or vice versa, but their hands were cutting into each other's arms a moment later.
Before Oliver could demand more details, Jonathan provided them. "They're being flown back to Angeles by helicopter. We're not sure the extent of their injuries, but… the pilot's dead. And, Oliver, there's… there's something else."
Something else? What else could there possibly be? "What is it?" he mumbled.
"The crash… it was caused by a Russian carrier jet."
Bile and a white-hot fury rose in Oliver's throat. "What?" His voice was no longer weak and disbelieving. Instead, it sliced through the silence like a knife, a sharp embodiment of the prince's rage.
He released Kaitlyn and was on his feet in an instant. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd grabbed the front of Jonathan's shirt and shoved his guard against the wall with an unnatural strength, much more extreme than the force that he usually possessed. There was a small voice in his head that argued that Jonathan was just the messenger and couldn't have done anything to prevent the Russian plane, but Oliver needed to lash out. He needed to hold someone responsible, because under his watch, his greatest political enemy had attacked his brother.
"Why was a Russian plane even in Illéan airspace?" he demanded. His voice was a harsh yell, too large for the small room that the three were locked in at the moment.
Jonathan was unyielding under Oliver's wrath. If anything, his face was understanding, as though he condoned Oliver's reaction. "I don't know, Oliver," he admitted, "You're going to have to ask your mother."
"They were supposed to be on a tour of the country. My tour," Oliver breathed.
"I know." Jonathan's voice was soothing, as though he was trying to comfort Oliver. He reached up and gently removed Oliver's grip on his shirt. As though he knew what had begun to transpire in the distraught prince's head, he declared, "It's not your fault."
Oliver lapsed into silence, and Jonathan led him back to the cot beside Kaitlyn. Like a doll, he was seated on the cot by his guard, and Kaitlyn reached out to grip his hand with her own shaking palm. His brain kept revisiting the facts that he knew in an obsessive loop: Tristan and Isolde had been doing his Christmas appearances. Their plane had been crashed by a Russian jet. They were hurt. He was in lockdown.
Time wasn't real in the room, and Oliver had no clue how long they waited before the locks of the door began to rattle. Jonathan rose first, quietly signaling Oliver and Kaitlyn to stand behind the door. They followed his instruction like robots, and Jonathan pulled a gun from his belt, standing directly in front of the door.
"Stand down."
Gauge. It was Gauge.
The gun was holstered as General Gauge entered the room. Oliver had a million questions, but before he could voice a single one, the Gauge announced, "Your brother's back."
It wasn't manly, it wasn't princely, it wasn't even remotely dignified, but Oliver took off for the hospital wing at a run. He had a feeling that the group he'd left in the saferoom was behind him, but he didn't stop to check. His only thought was that Tristan was back, which meant he was alive, and Oliver needed to see him.
"My brother," he demanded when he burst into the hospital room, "Where is my brother?" A nurse tried to explain something to him, but it was too slow, and she wasn't leading him to Tristan, so Oliver cut her off with an order: "I don't care, just take me to him!"
He must've yelled the demand louder than he'd intended to, because a door opened to his left, and his mother appeared. Her face was white, her eyes red, and she looked like she'd aged ten years overnight. A lump formed in Oliver's throat. He might've been a twenty-one-year-old future king, but right now, he needed his mother. "Mom," he croaked.
"Oliver," she exhaled, the relief evident in her voice. She had him in her arms less than a second later.
"Tristan." Oliver pulled away, his own eyes bleary with tears. "Where is he? Is he okay?"
"He's going to be okay," Eadlyn assured him, his emotion mimicked in her eyes. "He's in surgery."
Surgery did not sound like he was going to be okay. "What's wrong?" he demanded.
"It's his right arm," explained Eadlyn. "Broken from clavicle to wrist. I haven't been able to talk to him, but the doctors says he was likely pinned under something. Other than that, he's perfectly fine. Some cuts and bruises, but he's going to be okay."
"And Isolde?"
This time, Eadlyn frowned. "She's having an emergency appendectomy right now," she explained, "She has internal bleeding that the doctors are trying to stop. Dr. Groff is tending to her personally himself though, and he promises he's going to do the best he can."
Oliver swallowed deeply. The feeling of relief at Tristan's condition had been eradicated by Isolde's. "Mom, what the hell happened?"
Eadlyn glanced around the hospital wing before she sighed. "Come with me." She led him into Dr. Groff's private office and closed the door behind her.
"A Russian carrier jet ran into their plane before it had taken off the runway," she explained. "The pilot was killed, and some of the flight crew were injured. We'll be sending our condolences and compensation to their families and personally visiting them after the holiday."
"Why was a Russian plane even here?" Oliver pressed.
She looked hesitant, and she turned away from Oliver before she admitted, "Tristan and Isolde were going to Russia."
"What?" His voice had returned to a volume too loud, too harsh.
Eadlyn squared her shoulders and turned back to him. "It was supposed to be a brief visit," she explained, "Less than a day. They would land in the morning and then be off to Italy by night, France the next day, and back in Illéa by Christmas eve. With Marid's latest bout of unpredictability, I needed to make a show of good will to Tsar Anatoly before Marid gets in his ear. So, since I couldn't send you—"
"You sent the second son," Oliver concluded, the disgust obvious in his voice.
Guilt flashed across her face. "I never thought—"
"No, of course you didn't, because you don't listen to me!" snapped Oliver. "How many times do I have to tell you that Nikolai is an actual psychopath?"
"I wasn't dealing with Nikolai," she protested, "I only spoke to the tsar and the tsarevich."
"But clearly both Nikolai and Marid have their hands in this. There's no way the crash was an accident." It couldn't have been. Royal flights were always regarded with the highest measure of security. Any plane that came within a certain radius of the airstrip while a royal jet was present would've been instructed to turn around and informed of the consequences they would face if they did not.
It didn't matter how it had happened though, Oliver realized. It had happened, and now they had to deal with it. He sighed. "So, what's next? A declaration?"
Eadlyn's brown furrowed. "A declaration?"
"We'll have to reinstate the first round of the draft immediately," Oliver mused, his mind already going through the mobilization tactics that he'd studied with the help of General Cairn and Gauge.
"The draft? Oliver, what on earth are you talking about?"
His jaw dropped when he realized she was not on the same page as him. "Mom, this was an open act of aggression against our family! Against Illéa!"
"If we responded to every act of aggression with war, we wouldn't have a country left to defend," she retorted. Her face softened briefly before she added, "We can't prove it was intentional, Oliver."
"But you know it was!"
"I know nothing of the sort!" Eadlyn snapped. "For all I know, the Russians were sending a jet for Tristan and Isolde as an act of courtesy."
It was maddening. The fact that she was trying to justify the incident that had left his brother and soon-to-be sister in operating rooms was incomprehensible to Oliver. "Mom—"
"An appropriate response is a matter for me to discuss with Generals Cairn and Gauge," Eadlyn rejoined coolly. "Not you. You're still just a prince, Oliver."
"Who is going to be left with a country at the brink of war if you let Russia push us around like this!" he fumed.
"That's enough, Oliver."
They both turned to find Kile in the doorway. "Dad, you can't tell me you agree with her—"
"I agree that it's her job to decide what to do next," retorted Kile. He approached his son and put a hand on his shoulder. "Look, Oliver, I know you're angry and scared right now. But Tristan is going to be okay, and Dr. Groff is hopeful about Isolde. The entire coast has been declared a no-fly zone for at least the next twenty-four hours, with the understanding that any aircrafts in violation will be shot down. There's nothing to worry about anymore."
It was a naïve point of view, in Oliver's opinion. But he grit his teeth together and decided it was useless. With Kile on her side, there was no way Eadlyn was going to hear him out. Seeing the danger simmering in his son's eyes, Kile added, "Tristan should be out of surgery soon. Why don't you go wait for him?"
Without another word to either of them, Oliver stalked from the room. He'd been prepared to ask a nurse which room his brother was going to be in when a band of people caught his attention.
All seven of the Elite were huddled together in the hallway of the hospital wing. Some were in pajamas, while others had changed, but they all wore similarly grim expressions. They'd seemed to have come together though, several of them with arms wrapped around each other.
Oliver slowly approached them. Mae was the first to notice him, and she eagerly asked, "Have you heard anything?"
His mouth felt like sawdust. He didn't want to deliver the bad news, but he couldn't lie to her. "Tristan's going to be okay," he began, "Isolde… she's still in surgery."
He could tell that she knew what he was trying to avoid saying, but instead of her eyes filling with tears, she fixed her face into a determined expression and nodded. "Isolde's strong," was all she said in reply. She tightened her embrace around Kaitlyn.
"Are you okay?" a small voice asked.
Rosalie. Oliver turned in her direction and pondered the question for a moment. "No," he realized.
A wave of sadness passed over her face, but instead of saying anything, she reached out and hugged Oliver. The gesture was so comforting that he had to swallow down a too familiar lump of emotion and instead tried to express the unsaid by gripping her tightly in return.
While the girls normally jostled to be near him, they mostly left him alone while they waited. Maybe they could see that he was worn thin and would snap at the smallest strain. Maybe they were worried themselves. Whatever it was, Oliver didn't question it. He sat silently on the ground in the hallway, staring blankly at his feet.
The doors to the hospital wing swung open again, and Oliver immediately looked up, hoping it was the doctor or someone wheeling Tristan and Isolde to their recovery suites. It wasn't, but it was the next best thing: his friends.
Elijah glanced around wildly, and when he saw Oliver, he marched right up to him and pulled him into a rib crushing hug. "How is he?" he whispered, his voice hoarse with concern.
Oliver could remember the only time he'd ever cried in front of Elijah. They were eleven and had snuck out to go horseback riding at night. Blackie had thrown him, causing Oliver to break his shin, and Elijah had helped him limp back to the castle. Instead of laughing at Oliver's tears, he'd told him it was going to be okay and that he wasn't going to leave him. And he didn't until Oliver's leg had been set in a cast.
Hot tears stung Oliver's eyes as he gripped Elijah as tightly as he had ten years ago, and although he had yet to report on Tristan's condition, Elijah immediately declared, "It's gonna be okay. We'll get through it."
Oliver turned his back towards the Elite when he finally released his friend. While he appreciated their silent support, he wasn't prepared to let them see him cry. "He's gonna be okay," he admitted as he hastily swiped at his eyes. "Broken arm. Like the most broken it can be. But Isolde…" His nose burned as his eyes refilled themselves.
"It's gonna be okay," Elijah countered. He put a firm hand on Oliver's shoulder. "They're gonna get through it, and we are going to get super drunk at their wedding and teach their kids their first swear words and the best ways to sneak out of the palace."
Oliver laughed through his tears. "You're right," he nodded. He hesitated before he added, "Thanks, man. For…"
It didn't need said. "Always," promised Elijah.
"Your Highness?"
Dr. Groff had appeared in the hallway. "Prince Tristan and Lady Isolde are both in their recovery rooms," he announced. "The queen and king are with Prince Tristan, if you'd like to join them. Lady Isolde might take a little longer to wake up."
Oliver nodded and followed him to Tristan's room. His brother was pale, his eyes barely open, and his arm was bandaged from hand to past his shoulder. But he was alive, safe in the hospital room, and Oliver was overcome by a new wave of emotion at the sight of him.
Eadlyn and Kile sat on each side of him, but when Oliver entered the room, the younger man's eyes followed his older brother. "Tears?" croaked Tristan. "What did you tell me when I cried after I fell off my bike? "Suck it up, buttercup", right?"
Oliver had never been more relieved to hear his brother's voice. "In my defense, I was only nine," he countered. "I've matured since then."
"Oh yeah?" snorted Tristan.
"I mean, most of the development has happened in the last couple of months, but yeah."
Tristan tried to laugh but cringed. "Bruised ribs," he explained to Oliver's worried expression. "Piece of cake." He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing through the pain. "Do me a favor, Ol?"
"Anything," Oliver instantly promised.
"Go sit with Is," he requested. "I don't want her to wake up alone."
Oliver nodded. "Of course."
Before he could sneak into the next-door room, he saw that Jonathan had arrived with Sara, Xander, and Alaric in tow. Oliver's dormant anger gave a brief surge at Alaric's appearance, but he remembered his mother's assertion that they had no proof the Illéas were behind the crash, so he swallowed it down. "How is he?" Sara asked worriedly.
"He's gonna be okay," smiled Oliver. "Pain in the ass as ever."
She didn't look amused by his joke. "This is all my fault," she frowned, and Oliver realized that she knew it had been Nikolai too.
"It's not," he assured her. "You can't blame yourself." She nodded, but Oliver had a feeling he hadn't done much to convince her otherwise.
He told them he'd catch up with them later and slipped away into Isolde's room. She was still sleeping, hooked up to a million little machines. Her blonde hair was matted and not in its usual glossy waves, but her face had escaped the wreckage remarkably well. There was a cut in the top corner of her forehead that was beginning to bruise as well, and her bottom lip was swollen, but most of the damage was hidden on the rest of her body.
There were numerous bruises and cuts peppering the length of her arms, and he guessed that more lied beneath the blanket that had been placed over her. He pulled a chair over beside her bed and gently took her hand. "I'm sorry," he frowned at her sleeping figure. "I'm sorry that I wasn't the one going instead, and I'm sorry that I wasn't able to keep Marid from getting to you guys."
He was certain that this was what Marid had meant at the masquerade when he'd said they hadn't begun to even play. Marid knew that it was difficult to directly injure the monarch or their heir, but everyone else… they were fair game. Tristan and Isolde had just had the misfortune of landing in the blast zone.
At some point, pure exhaustion won out, and Oliver lapsed into a fitful sleep at Isolde's bedside. His dreams were hectic and nerve-wracking, filled with the jeering faces of Marid and Nikolai. In his sleep, he saw the extent of the damage that they could inflict, all the people that he loved that they could take away.
He didn't feel rested when he jumped awake an hour and a half later. He was, however, comforted to see that Isolde's blue eyes were open. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty," she smiled weakly.
"How are you feeling?" he asked anxiously.
She tried to sit up and gasped, clearly in discomfort. "Not… one hundred percent," she admitted. Fear flickered across her face. "How's Tristan?"
"He's gonna be okay," Oliver assured her, "Just a few plates, screws, and rods. He's basically got a Terminator arm."
Isolde made a face. "If that's what passes for 'okay' these days, I shudder to think about what I've been upgraded with."
"Well," chuckled Oliver, "I hope you weren't too attached to your appendix."
"Just literally," snorted Isolde. She grimaced again, the pain evident on her face.
"Let me grab a doctor," Oliver offered.
"Just let them know I'm awake," she countered, "No rush. But would you bring Kaitlyn and Mae back with you?"
"Of course," he agreed. He dashed into the hall and ordered a nurse to bring Dr. Groff to Isolde as soon as she saw him and snagged the two girls as requested.
While Oliver had managed to pull himself together, both Kaitlyn and Mae were reduced to watery messes when they were reunited with their friend. "I'm so glad you're okay!" Kaitlyn sobbed as she leaned down to hug Isolde, who promptly blanched at the contact. "Oh, god, I'm sorry!" gasped Kaitlyn.
"It's alright," Isolde assured her. "Just a little sore."
"Oh, Is, we were so worried," Mae sighed as she dropped her face into her hands. The tired stance of her body reminded Oliver that it was nearly three-thirty in the morning, merely hours since the lockdown.
"I'm okay, don't worry," Isolde declared soothingly. The door opened to reveal Dr. Groff, and Isolde turned a smile on them. "If you don't believe me, ask the good doctor."
Dr. Groff smiled at the young woman. "How are you feeling, Lady Isolde?"
"Tender," she admitted, "And a bit curious as to what happened. Oliver gave me a concerning description of 'okay.'"
"Of course," nodded the doctor. "I'd be more than happy to discuss your condition with you, but… uh, perhaps you'd like the prince and ladies to wait outside?"
Both Oliver and Mae reached for one of Isolde's hands at the same time, and she smiled. "They can stay," she decided.
Dr. Groff had been the palace doctor for the past ten years, but Oliver couldn't recall the last time he'd ever seen the man look so nervous. To the others, his tentativeness might've come across as exhaustion, but Oliver knew it was something else. He had bad news, and he didn't want to deliver it.
Oliver tried to lighten the mood. "She's still got ten fingers and toes, right, Doc?" he joked.
The doctor answered seriously, as Oliver had guessed he might. "Oh, of course," he nodded, "All of your extremities are intact and responding to stimuli well." Isolde smiled at the way the joke had gone over Dr. Groff's head.
"We had to perform an emergency appendectomy," Dr. Groff explained, "but that procedure was relatively simple. The issue…"
The hopeful look on Isolde's face vanished, and she took a moment to prepare herself for the bad news. "Go ahead, doctor."
"The trauma to your appendix was caused by a piece of shrapnel from the crash that lodged in your lower abdomen," Dr. Groff explained, "However, it also caused substantial internal bleeding, which we eventually traced to your uterus and the right side of your reproductive tract, specifically the ovary and fallopian tube."
The four were all silent as they digested this news. "But you fixed it?" asked Oliver finally. "The bleeding?"
"Yes," nodded Dr. Groff, "But… not all damage can be repaired. Between the initial trauma and the subsequent scar tissue…"
"No." Isolde's face had crumpled, and Kaitlyn and Mae obviously knew something that Oliver didn't, because they immediately tried to comfort her. "No, no, no."
"I don't…" Oliver turned to Dr. Groff, perplexed. "What does that mean?"
The doctor's jaw tensed. "It won't be possible any longer for Lady Isolde to have children." There was a long pause before he added, "I'm so sorry, but as you know, I have to tell the queen as well."
"Of course." Isolde's face was stony, her eyes quickly welling with tears. The doctor disappeared, and Oliver turned to his future sister.
"It's going to be okay," he declared, giving her hand a squeeze. "There are… other ways, and it's not like it's going to change Tristan's mind or anything."
"Not Tristan's," nodded Isolde, "But it does change things. We were engaged with your mother's approval. But a princess's job is to have children, to add security to the Schreave line." The first tear fell, opening a flood gate. Mae and Kaitlyn clung to her, their own faces devastated for their friend. "We'd already talked about how many we wanted and n-names and—" She broke off, struggling for breath through the sobs.
Oliver thought of how Elijah had declared they would teach his future nieces and nephews how to swear and sneak out just hours ago.
There would never be nieces and nephews now. Not from Tristan and Isolde, at least.
A commotion in the hallway captured Oliver's attention, although it went unnoticed by the girls who were still trying to calm Isolde. Unsure of how he could help, he retreated towards the door to see what was going on outside.
Before he could reach the door though, it swung open, nearly hitting him in the process. Tristan limped into the room, using his good arm to lean heavily on the pole that held his IV and heart monitor. As soon as he saw his devastated fiancée, the heartbreak on his own face disappeared and was replaced with resolve.
He limped to Isolde's bed, taking a seat on the edge. "Look at me," he ordered, his voice brittle and strong at the same time, "This changes nothing."
"It changes everything," she countered, "I can't—"
"You can still make me happier than anyone else in the world," he assured her. "And I won't let that go for anything." He took her hand, gripping it fiercely.
She struggled to even her breathing before she tried to ask, "What-what if—"
But the typically polite, sedate Tristan cut her off. "There is no what if," he proclaimed, "Isolde, I love you. Haven't you realized that I would defy the world for you yet?"
The attempt at regaining her self-composure was abandoned as Isolde dissolved into tears again. Tristan leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers, whispering something to her that Oliver couldn't hear. It felt more intimate than a kiss, and Mae and Kaitlyn joined him as he slipped out of the room.
His parents were standing in the hallway looking exhausted. "You're not gonna…" Oliver frowned. "I mean, Isolde's predicament…"
"No," Eadlyn answered. A wry smile tugged at her face as she added, "Tristan already promised he'd never forgive me if I tried and would marry her regardless anyway."
He should have been relieved by his mother's assurance, but Oliver was angry again. He thought back to when he'd joked with Isolde about being the fun uncle at the fountain before their engagement was announced. It had only been a joke for the moment. But when they were older, ready for kids, he'd fully intended to be the uncle they came to when they needed to smile or couldn't confide in their parents.
And now they simply would never be.
There was a fury bubbling in the pits of his stomach at the injustice. The fact that he had no one to hold responsible made everything feel that much worse.
"Your Highness." A maid had appeared at his elbow. "You have a letter. They said it was urgent."
It seemed ridiculous that something like a letter could be urgent considering everything that had happened that night, but Oliver accepted it and thanked her. He pulled the thick stationary from inside the envelope and unfolded it.
My condolences for your loss. Your move. -M.I.
And then three things happened very quickly.
First, Oliver's fingers closed around the letter, crumpling the elegant stationary. Second, all the fear, sadness, and frustration erupted, combined into a geyser of unbridled rage that tensed his muscles and made him feel light headed. Third, he crossed the lobby of the hospital wing and took all his indignation out on the only Illéa in his reach.
He grabbed Alaric by the lapels of his jacket and dragged him away from where he'd been talking to Kaitlyn. Alaric's eyes widened in shock, and Kaitlyn gasped, "Oliver, what are you doing?"
He threw open the door to Dr. Groff's office, and as soon as he'd slammed the door shut, he shoved Alaric against the wall with more ferocity than he had used against Jonathan.
"Did you know about this?" Oliver demanded, his voice gruff and authoritative.
"N-no, of course not, Oliver!" Alaric insisted. "How could you even—"
Oliver released him, only to throw the letter at him. "Read it!" he barked.
Alaric tentatively bent to collect the crinkled parchment. His face waned when he read the brief message. "Oliver, you know—"
It wasn't a random accident, Marid's letter had confirmed that. There was no way he'd have been able to find out and send a handwritten letter in less than four hours. The media wasn't even reporting that Tristan and Isolde were the ones involved in the crash.
Besides, he'd tauntingly sent condolences. He'd intended for someone to die.
But Oliver still couldn't punish anyone. There were a million "M.I."s in Illéa, and he had a feeling that even if he tried to extradite Marid from Russia, Regan would fight him. He had no one to hold responsible.
Except for Alaric.
"When's the last time you talked to your father?" Oliver demanded.
Alaric's face blanched. "He… he sent me a letter after he left. But he didn't say anything about this, I swear!"
The anger materialized in the form of dots in front of Oliver's eyes. "You didn't think that it was worth telling me?" he roared. "God, I was so stupid! I let you into my home, into my council!"
There was panic in Alaric's face. "Oliver, you promised," he began softly, "You said in Likely that you wouldn't hold me responsible for anything Marid or Regan did—"
"Do you know what he's done to my brother?" raged Oliver.
Alaric looked pained. "You know I care about Tristan and Isolde," he tried.
"Don't!" Oliver lashed out, knocking a lamp off Dr. Groff's desk. "Don't try to pretend that you care about my family at all! The Illéas are poison, and I was stupid to think that we could have any sort of partnership, friendship—"
"We are friends," Alaric insisted, "Saying that we aren't doesn't change that—"
The rage ebbed away slightly. Yes, they had been friends. Just like he had loved Regan once upon a time. He'd been tricked and hurt by the Illéas too many times.
When Oliver spoke, it wasn't with the fierce outrage that had fueled him previously. Instead, it was a quiet, disconcerting calm. "We were," he admitted, "But I've learned my lesson. This is the last time an Illéa will hurt someone I love."
"You're going to leave, Alaric," Oliver declared, "You're going to leave St. Sebastian's and Angeles all together. You're going to go back to Likely, and you're going to stay there. No matter how this Selection ends, you're going to leave Kaitlyn alone. And the Illéa name is going to die with you."
There was a long moment as the penance of his family's mistakes settled on Alaric. His face had drained of the color as Oliver continued with his list of demands, and at the mention of Kaitlyn, the pain in his eyes was evident. Oliver realized as he watched the blue eyes become despondent that his instincts had been right: Alaric had lied every time Oliver had questioned the depth of his feelings for Kaitlyn.
If he'd lied about that, what else had he lied about?
Alaric tried one more time. "Oliver, I know that this has been an emotional night, but please think about this—"
"If you don't leave now, I'll have Jonathan remove you," Oliver asserted icily.
Realizing what a lost cause it was, Alaric's face darkened. "What about the promise you made in Likely? You know this isn't fair."
Had either of their lives ever really been fair, though? "Not fair is being subjected to the cruelty of a fifty-year-old man who can't deal with the fact that his great-grandfather didn't want to be king and gave it up," Oliver countered. "Not fair is planning for your life with your fiancée, imagining your children, and then having them ripped from your future."
He had to grit his teeth together to ignore the stinging burn of the emotion in his nose. "Not fair is trusting someone," he continued, "only for them to be turn out to be exactly who you were afraid they were."
Alaric's eyes were full of tears, and for a moment, Oliver wanted to let him explain. He wanted to hear him say that he had no idea what Marid was planning, that he didn't care about Kaitlyn more deeply than he'd let on, that he had an idea of how to make things better.
But wrath won out, and instead, he sneered, "Get out."
Alaric turned towards the door but paused with his hand on the doorknob. "For what it's worth," he declared in a despairing voice, "I'm sorry for any pain that my family has caused yours. And I understand why you couldn't keep your promise, and… I-I forgive you." Then, he opened the door and made his way from the hospital wing.
"Alaric?" Kaitlyn's brow furrowed at his retreating figure, even further confused when he heard her call after him. "Alaric!"
She spun on Oliver when he stepped out of the office, the tear tracks already evident on her cheeks. "What did you do?" she demanded. Margaery reached out to put a reassuring hand on Kaitlyn's shoulder, but the smaller girl shook her off. "What did you do?" she demanded, stepping closer to Oliver.
"What needed to be done," he responded coolly. But already, the guilt was beginning to blossom underneath all the anger.
She looked shocked but turned determinedly towards the door, as though she was about to go after Alaric. The ugly, jealous monster living inside Oliver's chest reared its head, and before he could stop himself, he declared, "If you go after him, don't come back."
Kaitlyn froze mid-step. The confliction was obvious in her body language, but after a minute, she slowly turned towards him, her face disbelieving. "What about what you promised him in Likely?" she asked. She sounded more disappointed than angry, until Oliver failed to respond. "What about what you promised?" she yelled, reaching forward with both hands to push him.
In an instant, Jonathan had her hands behind her back, and Kaitlyn's face twisted in pain. Jonathan looked no happier about having to subdue her, but the fact of the matter was that Oliver was his job, and Jonathan was on duty.
"Stop," ordered Oliver. "Let her go."
The pain didn't disappear when Jonathan released her. If anything, Kaitlyn looked more agonized than ever, putting a hand over her mouth to repress the sobs that were shaking her small shoulders. Mae and Margaery, both avoiding Oliver's face, hurried forward to each of her sides and quickly led her from the hospital wing. Once she was away from Oliver, she released the tears she'd been unwilling to shed in front of him, and before the door swung shut behind the trio, he heard her sob, "He promised."
"Are you alright?" Jonathan frowned at Oliver.
"I will be," Oliver muttered before he swept past him. But even as he said it, he didn't quite believe himself.
Somehow, in less than four hours, everything had fallen apart.