In which there is much tripping involved and something disgusting happens.
(And we're back online! Thank you all for your continued support!
Also, a big thank you to Guest-san for their kind review even though this isn't entirely their cup of tea. Things may get bad, but I promise there will be a happy ending if you do choose to stick around!)
Alfonse spends the rest of the day in his room under the covers of his bed. The duvet is thick and dark, blotting out light to the point where he soon loses track of time, though he hardly cares about that. What does time matter when each approaching hour is just as unsteady as the last?
His privates hurt. The cord squeezes the length of him and cruelly pries him apart from himself. The pouch of the undergarment keeps him from touching and thus loosening it, and Veronica's threat that a worse device will be applied to him should he make the attempt keeps him from wanting to try, anyway. That she apparently possesses such a device at all startles him, for it reveals this is not her first time employing this strange and obscene torture with her prisoners. In her custody, he might have expected to be whipped, certainly, and perhaps cut and burned and beaten, and deprived of food and drink and sleep. But to be so intimately abused by her as he has been is so far outside the realm of conventional torture that prior to his imprisonment, he never gave it any consideration at all. His humiliation, too, is of a different sort than what is typically administered to war-prisoners and has had far more profound an effect upon him than he ever could have imagined, or perhaps he always gave himself far too much credit.
He doesn't want to think about what she'll do to him next. He doesn't want to think much at all. He likes being in the dark. It feels safe, concealing, smothering his erratic thoughts along with the light. He doesn't have to see himself in it, either; he can forget about his lower half, at least at times. Then he'll turn slightly to change position, and the strap of the breechcloth will tug against him, reminding him that it's there, that this morning was not a mere nightmare. He cries after a while, feeling so dirty and ashamed that he almost wishes he would die.
At some point, somebody comes to deliver food to him. He suspects it isn't Felicia, for whoever it is doesn't speak, merely leaves the tray before departing. Alfonse ignores the meal, whatever it is; he isn't hungry for anything, and further, the thought of having to eventually use the chamber pot fills him with certain dread. He resolves to put it off as long as he can, even as the pressure in his bladder steadily begins to mount.
He sleeps on and off and always remembers his dreams. Sometimes they're pleasant, snippets of him and Sharena as kids playing in the sunshine (is that a memory?), of everyone together celebrating a great victory in the dining hall, of lying under the old sycamore tree in the castle courtyard with his head in Kiran's lap (he never let himself get close enough for that to be any more than a fantasy).
But mostly, they're nightmares-one where he's trapped in a tiny room and slowly asphyxiating, another where he's eternally wandering an empty Askr Castle, never finding whatever it is that he's searching for. The worst is one where he's bound hand and foot with red cord and Kiran, his face a fleshy blur, is sitting on his chest flipping through a fire tome, never mind that he can't actually use magic, and slowly burning them both together. When, sobbing, Alfonse asks him why, his face is suddenly transfigured into Zacharias's, and he says, in a voice hoarse with smoke, "Gods, you're so needy. Sorry, Al, but this is the only way."
He wakes up with the front of his undergarment damp and the mortifying realization that he's partially wet himself. He whimpers, clutching indecently at his groin. His bladder is still uncomfortably full, but even if he were to signal for attention now, whoever came to aid him would see the wet spot. He has no choice but to wait until he's dry again.
In the meantime, he tries to focus his attention on calming down. It isn't the first dream he's had of Zacharias, but it's by far the most unpleasant, so vivid he could almost smell the burning flesh. Zacharias wasn't capable of magic, either, as far as he knows, and yet the dream feels entirely too realistic for him to simply discount it as complete imagination.
After all, it's what he said that rings the truest. Is he really needy?
He doesn't know how long he mulls it over, but eventually, he becomes aware of footsteps outside his door, then the sound of the bolt being drawn back. He stiffens as the door creaks open and somebody enters.
"Get up."
It's Bruno's voice. Alfonse shifts under the blankets but doesn't get up.
"You've been in there since yesterday." So it's morning now. "For how long do you intend to sulk? You need food and exercise, so get up. Now."
Reluctantly, Alfonse pulls the covers down to his chin. The sunlight streaming through his window in bars momentarily blinds him. "So that your princess can torture me again?" he asks. "No, I think I would rather remain in my cage if it's all the same."
"It is not all the same," Bruno says. "I'm ordering you up, and you would be well advised to oblige."
Alfonse doesn't move. He wonders if Bruno will actually hurt him. Some nihilistic part of him welcomes the possibility.
Bruno unlocks the cell door and lets himself in. Before Alfonse can even try to scramble away, he has the covers pulled back and is dragging him up onto his knees by the arms.
"Let go!" Alfonse demands. Bruno ignores him and whips up his gown, and he flinches, braces himself to be hit. But Bruno only runs his fingers lightly over the swollen skin of his bottom, feeling for marks. Alfonse sucks in a breath when he inadvertently presses into a bruise.
"It's still red, but there seems to be no serious damage," he reports, withdrawing his hand.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"You are fortunate Her Majesty did not use a strap," Bruno says rather severely. "This much should heal in short order."
"It still hurts," Alfonse grouses.
"I never said that it didn't." Bruno helps him off the bed, releasing him only when he's standing on his own. "Have you been to the bathroom at all?" he asks sharply then, and Alfonse stares miserably at the floor. "Tsk. Foolish boy."
He unhooks the strap from the back of the breechcloth, allowing it to pass between Alfonse's legs before nudging him toward the commode. "You should have no inhibitions now," he says. "You've done it in front of me twice already."
"That doesn't mean I like it!" Alfonse snaps. "It's humiliating!"
"Perhaps for a prideful, spoiled little prince."
Alfonse grits his teeth, but his heavy bladder won't afford him time to argue, not now that he's thinking about it again.
"Will you untie this at least?" he asks in a smaller voice than he intends to. He doesn't turn around, but he knows Bruno understands his meaning.
"There's no need," is the dismissive response. "You can urinate with it on."
Alfonse feels his cheeks reddening, both in anger and embarrassment. Part of him wants to scream like a child, the other, retain his princely dignity. He settles for something in between, stomping up to the commode and thrusting open the top. In his wretched state, he has to sit on the chamber pot, which he does with his back turned defiantly toward Bruno, though it hardly makes him feel better. Morbid curiosity gets the best of him, and he can't help but look down between his legs.
His penis is coming to be as red as the rope binding it. Just the sight of it is enough to send heat crawling up through his cheek, though he's distressed to find it faintly arousing as well. He hates Veronica for making him this way, for making him wicked and perverse. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on his anger because the bonds are already tight enough, and he dreads to consider what might happen if he gets any bigger.
Bruno is right, and he has no trouble making water once he overcomes his shyness. Reluctantly, because he knows Bruno will do it if he doesn't, he brings the strap of the breechcloth back between his legs and struggles to buckle it to the belt behind his back. He feels Bruno's hands on his, assisting him, tightening the strap until he has to stand on tiptoes in an attempt to avoid it, though that doesn't offer him any leniency when Bruno pushes him back down onto his heels. He winces at the pull between his backside, leaning forward to grip a bar for support.
"I hate this," he says, resting his forehead against the bar. "I hate every minute of this. Why must she torment me? When have I ever wronged her?"
"You are Askran royalty," Bruno says from behind him, "and you did not submit to her. That is enough."
Right, Alfonse thinks. Of course it is.
"You're going to eat," Bruno continues, guiding him to the desk, where a hearty breakfast has already been laid out for him-someone must have come and replaced his untouched dinner while he slept. "Then we will walk the gardens." He tries to push him down onto the stool, but Alfonse resists.
"Please, I"-he bites his lip, staring at the stool-"I need a pillow there or something! Don't make me sit like this!"
To his genuine surprise, Bruno obliges, taking one of the thicker pillows from the bed and setting it on the stool. Alfonse doesn't thank him-he's too bashful for that now-but he does sit and eat as directed. His bottom is still sore, but the pillow helps, and so he makes no complaints as he quietly partakes in the meal.
When he finishes, he stands and allows Bruno to put shackles on his wrists and ankles. If he's going to resist, he reasons, now is not the time for it. He will oppose Veronica at every turn just short of escaping-he won't break that damnable contract-but Bruno need not witness such efforts. Unlike Veronica, he seems not to care if Alfonse is broken or not.
They leave the room immediately after. Bruno doesn't take his arm as he is accustomed to doing; for once, he appears content to let him walk on his own, though the shackles would prevent him from getting very far should he try to run.
"Do you really think I'm considering escaping?" Alfonse asks, and Bruno casts him a curious sidelong glance.
"Does the answer to that inquiry matter very much to you?" he asks, raising a brow.
Alfonse thinks for a moment. "Yes," he says at last. "Yes, it does. I have been trying my hardest to enact cooperation between Askr and Embla, between Princess Veronica and myself, but if Her Majesty does not possess an ounce of trust in me, then such lofty aspirations are doomed to fail. Wouldn't you agree?"
Bruno smirks. "That's very diplomatic of you."
"I prefer to resolve conflicts without bloodshed, yes," Alfonse says stiffly. "And Her Majesty's noncompliance is-"
"Is her way. She does not trust. She does not show mercy. Like her father before her, she hungers for conquest and war."
"So you're saying she will never trust me-or Askr."
"I would not get my hopes up."
Alfonse sighs. "Then what was her aim in taking me prisoner at all? I surrendered myself on the condition that she would not engage Askr and that we would not oppose her in turn. I thought perhaps we could eventually arrive at a mutually beneficial compromise. But if she is as belligerent as you say, then she must still intend to conquer Askr!"
"I will not speculate on the princess's motives in doing what she did," Bruno says. "She is fickle and often ruled by her caprices. Perhaps, rather than diplomacy, your focus should instead be on ensuring her interest in you does not wane."
Alfonse goes cold at the thinly-veiled threat. Surely Veronica wouldn't break her own contract, would she? And yet the possibility is very real; when has she played by anyone's rules but her own-or even her own?
Bruno appears to notice his sudden gloominess, for he adds, "I will use what influence I have over her, little though it may be, to keep her from attacking your kingdom or taking your life needlessly."
Somehow, this doesn't make Alfonse feel much better.
"B-but the contract," he says, helplessly. "She drew it up herself-surely she's satisfied with the terms? If she intends to break it, then what's keeping me from doing the same? I would be better served escaping from here and leading my army-"
"Don't misunderstand," Bruno says, cutting him short. "Princess Veronica has no intentions of breaking the contract."
"But you said-"
"I said that the princess is fickle and that I would do everything in my power to protect you from that facet of her personality. That is all."
It's hardly reassuring, though Veronica's volatile temperament is far from unknown to him. Perhaps Bruno's support will prove to benefit him, even in a small way.
"What exactly is your relationship to the princess?" he asks after a moment. "You seemed quite familiar with her yesterday-using her first name. Are the two of you related?" It isn't too much of a stretch; the family tree of Embla's royalty is vast and convoluted.
For a long while, Bruno remains silent. Just when Alfonse thinks he isn't going to answer, he says, "That is of no concern to you."
Alfonse sets his jaw. "But it is," he argues. "I think you have more influence over her than perhaps you're letting on. And if you could use that influence to persuade her-"
Bruno stops walking so suddenly that Alfonse nearly runs into him. Before he can back away, Bruno has him pinned against the wall, holding him up by the chain of his manacles so that his arms are stretched high over his head and he's made to stand on the tips of his toes.
"What gave you the impression that I was on your side, little prince?"
Alfonse scrapes against the wall behind him with his bare foot, trying to gain some leverage. The manacles pull tight against his bandaged wrists, his own body weight serving to increase the painful pressure.
"Stop!" he gasps. "You're hurting me!"
But Bruno holds him there a while longer, watching him struggle until his exerted grunts fade into pained whimpers. Then, finally, he lets him go, allowing him to drop to the floor on his hands and knees.
"Get up," he orders, turning his back on him, "and remember your place, prisoner."
For some reason, the word stings coming from him, though Alfonse is well aware of the nature of their relationship. Weakly, he picks himself up, bringing his throbbing wrists to his chest. He's shaken, which only makes it harder to walk with his shackled feet. He stumbles almost instantly when he attempts to descend the stairs, managing to catch himself before he falls, but it gets Bruno's attention, makes him stop and turn around.
"Come on," he says, and Alfonse flinches when he reaches out his hand, but he only grasps his arm with it, offering support.
They continue on for some time before Bruno speaks again. "You have my apologies," he says, and Alfonse looks up at him in surprise and wonder. "I find that lately, I... lose command of myself. I should not have hurt you like that."
"It didn't seem like you," Alfonse admits, "to inflict wanton cruelty. You told me yourself that my debasement means nothing to you."
"I have no penchant for undue suffering," Bruno says, almost defensively.
"Right," Alfonse says hastily. "But... May I ask what you meant by losing command of yourself? Do you mean in anger?"
Bruno barks out a laugh. "How trite," he says. Then he sobers. "It isn't something that can be so easily tamed. It is... an affliction, of sorts. The same which ails Veronica."
Alfonse stops there, nearly tripping again when Bruno fails to do the same. "What do you mean?" he asks, quickly catching up. "Her Majesty is afflicted with some ill that makes her behave the way she does?"
"You would not understand," Bruno says, and then, before Alfonse can object, "Speak no more on this subject. I should never have brought it up."
Unwillingly, Alfonse falls silent. The last thing he wants right now is to run afoul of Bruno's temper again-or whatever that was.
They end up in a sunlit garden so rich and vast that it seems almost like a forest; indeed, there is a tree line far off in the distance that appears to lead to just that. Lilacs, camellias, and hydrangeas bloom all around them, the air thick with their perfume and the humming of pollinating bees. A large, elevated rock pool toward the center of the garden feeds into an intricate system of streams that weave amongst flowerbeds and cobblestone paths. Scattered throughout are ornately carved benches and white gazebos and little arced bridges, immaculate like dollhouse furniture.
There are servants here, too, tending to the plants, and Alfonse recognizes more than a few of them as summoned heroes. He can't help but wonder why Veronica retains them here as domestic servants rather than sending them off to fight in her army. Wasn't that one of her primary motivations for raiding other worlds-to amass more soldiers? Then he thinks back on his punishment at her hands and wonders if perhaps he isn't the only one receiving such treatment.
The cobblestone is warm and rough beneath his bare feet as Bruno urges him to step onto it, guiding him down one of the many pathways into the garden. They only take a few steps, however, before a familiar voice rings out.
"Prince Alfonse!"
Alfonse turns his head and perceives with a sudden thrill of warmth Felicia dashing toward him from across the garden. Partway there, her shoe catches in a crack in the path, nearly bringing her to her knees, but, admirably, she manages to correct herself at the last second. She skids to a halt before them, doubled over and out of breath.
"Clumsy maid," Bruno scoffs. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I... I'm very sorry, sir," she pants, hurriedly adjusting her dress. "I didn't want to lose sight of you. And I wanted to see how Prince Alfonse is doing." She finally lifts her head, and it's then that Alfonse realizes she has a bandage over very near the entirety of the left side of her face.
"Felicia, that wound!" he cries, stepping forward to examine it closer. "How did-"
"If you mean to ingratiate yourself with him because he's a prince," Bruno interjects, putting a firm hand on his shoulder to detain him, "then don't. Royalty though he may be, he is first and foremost Princess Veronica's prisoner, now and for the foreseeable future. I suggest you not rouse her ire by getting too close to him."
Alfonse frowns, but Felicia merely bows. "I understand, sir, but I have my orders from Her Majesty and only mean to monitor his health as directed. As you know, under this contract, I cannot disobey her."
Alfonse glares up at Bruno. "You would deny me what little pleasant company I'm afforded here?"
"I could have you bound and gagged in the dungeons round the clock without even the dignity of clothes if I wanted to, you foolish, entitled prince," Bruno returns coldly. "But fine-do as you will. It makes no difference to me."
A sudden, explosive shout draws their collective attention to the rock pool. An imposing man, regal in dress and aspect and wielding a decorated spear, towers over a meek-looking servant.
"Where is she?" he demands, his voice carrying across the garden. "Where's Eirika?"
The servant mutters something in response, but the man-Alfonse recognizes him now as Prince Ephraim of Renais-appears not to be listening.
"If you fools have done something to her, then I swear on my lance Siegmund that I will personally put an end to all of your miserable lives!"
Bruno frowns and releases his hold on Alfonse. "Watch him, maid," he tells Felicia without even turning to look at her. "This should only take a moment."
He stalks off toward the combative Prince Ephraim without waiting for her assent. Felicia, for her part, returns her attention to Alfonse. "This happens quite often," she says quietly. "Usually whenever Her Majesty contracts another hero."
"I can imagine," he says even as he recalls Kiran's summoning sessions and their infinitely more laidback and agreeable ambience.
"I-in any case, would you like to sit?" Felicia gestures to one of the garden benches.
"I... would rather stand, thank you," Alfonse says, and thankfully, she doesn't press the issue. "But please, Felicia, tell me what happened to your face. I dread to think that I'm the cause of it."
Felicia throws up her hands, clearly forcing a smile. "Please don't trouble yourself over it, Your Highness. It's a small wound that hardly warrants attention."
"But your entire cheek is bandaged! Tell me, is this Princess Veronica's doing?"
Felicia hesitates tellingly. "N-n-no, not precisely," she stammers, though his disbelief is clear upon his face. She hangs her head. "W-well, Her Majesty was very angry with me for yesterday's blunder, you see. So when she called me in for my punishment, I brought her tea with the hopes of calming her. But she flew into a rage as soon as I walked in, and, well... One of the cups broke, and..."
She trails off, touching the injured cheek with bandaged fingers.
"I am so sorry, Felicia." Alfonse looks to the side, squeezes his hands together. "None of this is your fault. If you hadn't been assigned to me..."
"Then it would have happened to another servant, Your Highness," she says gently. "And if that's the case, I would rather it be me. I'm tired of letting other people suffer to cover for my own weaknesses."
She stares off then as if recalling something painful, then slowly shakes her head. "In any case, my injury is not important right now. I'm more concerned about you, Your Highness. Though you appear to be in fair condition, I know Her Majesty must have done something terrible to you. Are you alright?"
Alfonse anxiously shifts his weight from one foot to the other, wincing at the pain in his backside that the motion triggers. "I'm... fine," he says at length. "It isn't anything I can't handle." Even as he says them, he isn't certain just how true those words are.
"Excuse me for saying so," Felicia says, twining her fingers together, "but I think you're lying." She reaches up to her undamaged cheek and runs her knuckles across it. "You have a large bruise here that was not there yesterday. And you look to be in a good deal of pain when you walk."
Alfonse raises his hands to the spot on his face that she indicated. It's where Veronica slapped him and where he landed when he collapsed onto the floor. The skin is tender to the touch.
"Forgive me for asking," she whispers, folding her hands together again, "but were you... Were you tortured, Your Highness?"
"I..." Alfonse freezes, shivering as he recalls the beating, the state of his genitals, his own whorish display. "I-I'm sorry," he gasps. "I would rather not speak of it."
Felicia balks. "I-I understand! I apologize for prying! I only meant to-I mean-if you were to-" She fidgets, appearing even more agitated than ever. "I'm on your side, Prince Alfonse," she settles on at last. "So if there's anything I can do for you-anything at all-I would be more than happy to do it. Just... just let me know!"
There seems to be an unspoken meaning in her words, but Alfonse doesn't dare let himself believe it. Surely the contract wouldn't allow her to harbor such thoughts. Only some of the more powerful heroes are able to question, let alone fight against, the contract that keeps them in Veronica's servitude-at least, as far as he's ever witnessed.
"Are you suggesting that I...?" he starts reluctantly, but she's quick to jump in.
"Suggesting? Me? No, nothing! I'm not suggesting anything, Your Highness!" She gives a nervous laugh, waving her hands around. "Sir Bruno is coming back," she adds, glancing over his shoulder. "I'll try and slip you a nice dessert with your meal tonight, okay? Though I suppose I'll owe Jakob another favor..."
"Please don't get into trouble on my behalf," Alfonse says earnestly. "Though your kindness toward me is infinitely appreciated." He's reminded then of a niggling thought from earlier. "Were you the one who delivered my food last night?"
But she shakes her head. "Since I was indisposed, it must have been another servant. There are quite a few of us who do such domestic tasks around here. I will be back tonight, though."
A hand falls on Alfonse's shoulder then, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.
"What are you doing?" Bruno asks from behind him, and Alfonse exhales sharply.
"You scared me," he grumbles, and then: "We weren't doing anything. Just talking."
Bruno pulls him toward him, sliding his hand down his shoulder to grip his upper arm. "We're going." He glances at Felicia. "Run along, maid."
She bows. "Yes, sir." She catches Alfonse's eye, giving him a meaningful look before turning and hurrying off toward the direction of the palace.
Reluctantly, Alfonse allows himself to be led into the maze of pathways and deeper into the garden. They walk in silence, and though the sights are beyond magnificent, he finds he cannot enjoy them. His thoughts instead turn to Askr. It's only the fourth day of his captivity, and he understands, rationally, that any schemes to rescue him could only be in their infancy. He wonders how Sharena's doing without him. She must be fine-she's never been needy. He thinks about Anna, but what could she possibly require of him? Her military and combat prowess vastly outstrips his. His people have never cared for him, either; perhaps they even relish his absence. He can imagine public sentiment-giving himself to Embla was the one good thing he ever did for them.
And then there's Kiran...
With this, you've finally made yourself useful, Alfonse-yes, he can even hear it in his voice now. The thought hurts, even more so when he can't reasonably deny its veracity. After all, what has he ever done for anyone? He's a subpar replacement for his father, an underwhelming soldier after Anna and Sharena and all of their summoned heroes, a poor tactician compared to Kiran. He isn't outstandingly handsome, he's outmatched at his own weapon of choice, and his distant personality leaves much to be desired, he's certain. What, then, is he even living for? Isn't he much better suited as a hostage than a king-a pawn to be used and then discarded at the leisure of a clever but apathetic chess master?
He isn't paying much attention at all to where he's going and so has no time to attempt to catch himself when he stumbles again. Bruno let go of him some time ago, and so he lands hard on his knees on the cobblestone. The shock of the impact hardly registers with him; his brain is distracted by an entirely different kind of pain.
"Are you alright?" Bruno asks, curling a hand around his arm to help him up, but Alfonse doesn't move.
"What's the point?" he asks. His voice quakes, and tears already slick his cheeks, dripping onto his wrists and hands.
"What are you saying?" Bruno asks, hand going slack on his arm. "What's wrong with you?"
Alfonse hiccups, mentally scolding himself for his childish display, but he can't seem to stop. "I'm unnecessary," he murmurs. "I'm not needed. I'm just a prize to be won, a trophy to be displayed. A toy to be played with until I fall apart at the seams. I'm expendable-nobody in Askr needs me, not my people, not my commander or my summoner, not even my own sister. I've been grasping at straws all this time, trying to find a place for myself, but…" All of it's so ridiculous that he can't help but laugh through his tears. "It looks like I really am all alone. Pathetic, right?"
Bruno slides his hands under his arms and hoists him back to his feet. His knees are skinned and bleeding, leaving smudges of red against the white stone. Bruno makes sure he's decently stable before crouching down in front of him.
"Get on my back," he says. Alfonse stares, caught off-guard by the order. "I'm taking you back to your room, and you look as if you can hardly stand, so do as I say."
Alfonse doesn't really want to have to endure the embarrassment of riding piggyback astride a man very near his own age, but he's in no humor to disobey a direct order of his captor, either. Cautiously, he lowers himself against Bruno's broad back, clutching his shoulders as best he can with his bound hands. Bruno slips his arms around his legs and stands, and Alfonse scrambles to tighten his hold. His knees make contact with his sides, probably staining his cloak with blood, he realizes guiltily. Bruno makes no comment on it, however, as he starts to carry him back to the palace.
"Were you not loved, your army would not have continued to fight for you even after you were taken away."
Alfonse lifts his head. "What do you mean?" It's a strange thing to say, all considered; perhaps he's misheard.
"Hmph. Why do you suppose Prince Xander and I arrived long after the rest of our company had set up camp? We had to deal with the tatters of your army that refused to give in, despite the contract that you signed of your own free will."
Alfonse suddenly feels slightly dizzy, though perhaps his freely bleeding knees are to blame. "No… That... That can't be true..."
His grip is loosening without his realizing it; Bruno shifts him higher up onto his back as they enter the palace. "Of course it's true. The fools rallied around you like a martyr, though it amounted to little. Still, you are lucky that their rash actions did not cause the princess to nullify the contract."
Alfonse can't believe it-not just Sharena and Anna and Kiran but his whole army fought a futile fight just to restore him. They wanted him back. He sniffles, nearly overcome, and buries his face into Bruno's cloak without thinking. Somehow, that man does not attempt to remove him.
When they arrive back at his room, Bruno sets him on his bed, removes his restraints, and orders him to stay put while he goes to retrieve something-he doesn't say what. He returns only minutes later with a damp cloth, a jar of salve, a handful of gauze pads, and a roll of bandages. Alfonse shudders when he touches the cloth to his right knee to clean it.
"Always making such a mess of things," Bruno grumbles. "When will you learn to behave yourself?"
"Sorry," Alfonse mutters, hardly meaning it, but he's too drained to argue.
"Now lie still and don't cause any more trouble for me," Bruno says peevishly as he finishes winding a bandage around a piece of gauze to secure it in place. "The princess will not send for you today, so you should take this chance to relax and recover."
"Right," Alfonse says, still partially in a daze. "Thank you."
But when Bruno leaves, Alfonse doesn't return to bed. Instead, he takes a book from the shelf-some volume on the history of the Emblian Empire-and sits on the tuffet under the window with pillows from his bed placed on the seat and against the wall behind his back.
Ever since his father died, whenever he was feeling overwhelmed, he found that reading a dry text was just the thing to take his mind away from his own thoughts where sleeping would only exacerbate them. Now, perhaps more than ever, he must remain lucid and even-headed. He reminds himself of his promise to Veronica that no matter what, she will not break him.
More importantly, he won't let himself break him, either.
I had to give one of my new favorite characters a small cameo.
This was a bit of a breather chapter, but I promise the lewdness will return tenfold next time with the inclusion of some fan favorites (?), so I hope you look forward to it! Also, this was kind of my "take that" against the large number of FE Heroes players who trash on my boy Al for all the things he mentions in this chapter-basically being an uninteresting sword lord Marth clone-while holding up Sharena as this paragon of originality. Hey, I like 'em both, but please don't pick on my poor, angsty son, okay? #PleaseProtectThisChild :3
See you next time!