Chapter 22
Pain laced through Alaric’s body as his mind traveled through time. He was a boy learning what it meant to be proper. He was a young man embarking on his Grand Tour. He was a grown man discovering yet another of his father’s secrets.
Memories flooded him, rapid and intense. Everything he had lost rushed back like a bullet. He was nine, standing by his mother’s sick bed, begging her to eat, watching her grow weaker and weaker.
“Please, Mother, please,” he begged, his voice shaking.
Each breath made a horrifying rattling sound in her chest, somehow far too wet and yet bone dry at the same time. It reminded him of the fish he had caught from the lake.
He could feel every bone in her wasted hand, her eyes glazed over, and the sound stopped. “Mother? Mother!”
He shook her, but she stared blankly past him. Tears streamed down his face as he let out a primal howl of anguish, so wild that several birds took flight.
“I told you to be quiet.” A hand collided with the side of Alaric’s face, sending him flying. “She is dead, boy. Your wailing will not bring her back.”
He lunged at his father, but the man easily pushed his small frame aside, hardly noticing Alaric as he looked over his wife’s dead body, lips curled in disgust.
“Even in death, she continues to be a nuisance.” He shook his head and beckoned for servants to come in and take the body away.
“Do not touch her!” Alaric roared, but his father backhanded him once more, sending him sprawling.
“You will learn respect, boy. Your mother has indulged you for too long. It is time you understand what it is to be a real man.”
“Mother loved me.” Alaric was pressed against the wall, staring up into the monstrous form of his father.
“Love is weakness!” the Duke spat as he advanced upon Alaric. “It did not save her, and it will not save you.”
As the Duke raised his hand to strike Alaric, the world tilted, and the scene changed.
Alaric was a man, full-grown. He was standing at the altar of a church, dressed in his finest tails.
For a moment, he looked around, wondering where his father had gone, and then a goddess began walking down the aisle toward him.
Catherine.
He reached toward her, his fingers outstretched. Each step she took toward him made his heart beat faster. There was no smile on her face, only a somber expression as though she were walking to a funeral.
He took a step toward her, wanting to pull her into his arms to comfort her. But his legs stayed rooted to the ground. He sensed part of himself holding back and felt a hardness settle across his heart that was both familiar and completely foreign.
Go to her, damn you, h e roared in his head, but nothing happened. Love is weakness.
The world shifted again, and he was sitting beside Catherine on a chaise longue. The fire crackled merrily in front of them, and outside, snow drifted.
He felt himself frown, glancing out of the window. “This must be a dream.”
They had not yet had a winter together, he knew that for certain. Catherine stirred beside him, softly placing her hand on his chest. It ignited a fire within him, both painful and comforting. Her smile was the final balm.
“If it is a dream, it is a pleasant one.” She leaned against him, the weight of her soothing.
His heart slowed, but a sharp sting shot up the back of his neck. He looked down at her, and a shiver ran across his entire body. Every hair stood erect. He felt something pulling him away.
“I have to stay,” he murmured. “I want to stay with you.”
The pain was growing with each moment. “Then stay.”
“I am trying.” Alaric felt beads of sweat trickle down his neck and back.
She smiled at him, and the tug away from her grew stronger. His heart felt as though it were too big for his chest. “I love you.”
Love is weakness.
The world fell away, and he was falling, tumbling into blackness.
“Catherine!” he cried out.
Pain threatened to split him in two. Someone was carving a knife down the center of him, peeling him apart like an orange.
“I am here.” A voice echoed in the darkness as he fell.
He whipped around trying to find Catherine, to see her. But all he could see were his own memories. His father beating him. His mother weeping. The first time he rode a horse. His matriculation at Oxford.
His father was on his deathbed. Alaric heard his own voice: “Your weakness dies with me.” He saw the pain in his father’s eyes and the fury as he tried to hurt him.
The world roiled around him, a fierce wind whipping at his chest, his cheeks, and every exposed part of his skin, threatening to tear his clothes away.
Pain like nothing he had ever known threatened to rip his limbs apart.
“Come back to me.” Catherine’s voice shook.
He had to do what she was asking. He needed to get to her. I do not even know where she is. He twisted, his eyes searching for any sign of hope in the inky black. Every movement threatened to undo him, but he did not care.
“I am trying,” he whispered into the darkness.
He felt something wet trickling across his face, the smell of lavender wrapping around him like a blanket. “Come home. Please.”
Alaric opened his eyes and groaned. Every part of him felt like he had been hit by several boulders. His stomach churned, and the dim light in the room made his head spin.
I remember. I remember it all now.
“Alaric?” He realized that Catherine’s hand was in his own, the softness of her skin a stark contrast to the dull aches across his entire body.
He tried to sit up, and the room swayed dangerously.
“You need to rest.” He felt her hand on his shoulder but he ignored it, pulling himself more upright.
“What happened?” H is voice was hoarse as though he had been screaming for hours.
“You collapsed at dinner.” Catherine’s face was pale, but her voice was steady. “I had the servants bring you to your chambers.”
His head felt like a bag about to burst. He took a deep breath, focusing on the sensation of Catherine’s thumb brushing across the back of his hand.
“How long have I been…” Alaric trailed off.
“Since last night, though you turned a corner around six this morning.” Catherine trembled, and Alaric squeezed her hand gently without thinking. “I thought about waking you for breakfast, but you seemed to need the sleep.”
Has she been here all night? He wanted to ask, but the words got stuck in his throat. Instead, he said, “I do not think I could have eaten even if you had.”
Even the thought of food made his stomach turn uncomfortably. The mid-morning sunlight seeped through the gap in the curtains, but even that was enough to make Alaric wince.
Catherine caught sight of it and made as though to stand and shut them, but Alaric shook his head. Pain and nausea washed over him, making him double over and clutch at his stomach.
“Alaric!” He felt her hands on his face, her fingers brushing his sodden hair from his forehead.
“I am fine,” he rasped, collapsing against the headboard.
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Do not lie to me.”
“I should not have shaken my head, that is all.” Alaric gestured to the curtains and the light streaming through them. “Leave it. I just need some time to adjust.”
Catherine bit her lip and sat down gently on the bed beside him. “I... I thought you were going to die.”
The pain and fear in her voice cut through him like a hot knife through butter. He felt his arms reaching to pull her close but stopped himself.
“I did not mean to frighten you.” He took in the dark circles beneath her eyes, the red rimming edges of them, and the rumpled state of her clothes.
It felt as though a part of him was being torn in two while he pictured Catherine curled up beside him, tears streaming down her face. He had inflicted that pain on her.
“I thought at first that the fever was the worst. You seemed so in pain, and the heat… I did not know a body could get so hot. And you were saying all sorts of things…” An unreadable look crossed her face, and Alaric had the sense that she was waiting for some sort of answer from him.
What did I say? He did not ask; instead, he said, “I hope I was not unkind in my ramblings. I do not remember what I said; no doubt it was just the fever.”
“Of course...” Was that a catch in her voice? Before Alaric could ask, there was a knock at the door. “Enter.”
A footman appeared, followed by the physician. Catherine stood up and moved forward, cold air filling the space where her body had been just moments before.
Alaric swallowed and tried to sit up a little straighter. The physician inclined his head toward him. “Your Grace. Forgive me, I came as quickly as I could.”
“Thank you.” Catherine gestured to Alaric. “I trust you have been told everything?”
“Yes.” The physician began unpacking his bag as he stepped closer to Alaric, pulling out several instruments. “Might I inspect you, Your Grace?”
“Of course.” Alaric leaned back against the headboard, letting the physician get to work.
The man nodded and began running through various tests with Alaric. “How long have you been having these fits?”
“This is the first time it has been so severe. I have had several unsettling moments, and my headaches have been getting worse. I thought it was normal, as each time it has happened, I have regained a little more of my memories.”
“Should we have sent for you sooner?” Catherine clenched her hands into fists.
“Perhaps. Though I understand why h is Grace did not.” The physician put his tools away. “Your turn last night notwithstanding, you seem in good health to me. Her Grace appears to have gotten you through the worst of it.”
“I only wish I could have done more.” Catherine wrapped her arms around herself.
“I suspect h is Grace owes you his life, at least based on what the staff has told me.” The physician ran a hand through his hair and nodded to Alaric. “Your body will need time to recover. Try not to do anything too strenuous.”
“I will see that he does not.” Catherine shot Alaric a look that clearly said she meant every word.