“Yes, he is.” Luchas lowered his head. “He has always been.”
It seemed apt that Luchas went to illness first rather than contusion or concussion. The aristocracy was not hardwired for physical combat or the realities of war, and the male’s perspective had not changed in spite of what had been done to him by the Omega’s son, Lash. And maybe Luchas’s abduction and torture were part of it. Even though he had been treated at the training center since he had been rescued from that oil drum, the Brothers and the fighters didn’t talk about the war anywhere around him.
He’d been through enough.
“How is your new prosthesis working out?” Blay asked.
That weight shifted in favor of the cane and a molded silicone foot presented itself from under the hem of the robe.
“It is what it is.”
“I’ll bet it just takes time to adjust.” As Blay made the comment, he was aware that he knew nothing about what being an amputee was like. “Have you talked to Phury?”
“He has been most helpful.” There was defeat in that voice as the molded foot was placed back on the concrete floor. “One is exhausted by so much, however.”
“You’ve come so far.” Blay tried not to notice the thinning hair and the lines that were etched deep into a face that should have been as youthful as his own. He also did not look at the mangled hand upon the head of the cane. “Truly, you have.”
“And yet I am no closer to where I wish I was. If you will excuse me?”
As if the male was uncomfortable with where the conversation had gone.
“Of course.” Even though Blay was sitting down, he bowed low in the manner of the aristocracy, bending himself over his outstretched legs. “I’ll tell Qhuinn you stopped by and asked for him.”
“Please do.”
In polite recognition of his departure, Luchas also inclined his torso—but a cracking sound let off as if his spine was not as flexible as it should have been. With a grunt of pain, his deformed hand tightened on the cane’s grip, and Blay jumped up and caught him as his balance listed sharply to the left.
“Forgive me,” Luchas said as he shoved his body back to level. “I am not my brother. I am not tough.”
“There are many who would disagree with that. And I am one of them.”
Eyes that were gray as a fog stared across the vast distance of experience and destiny between them. To think that they had both started in the same place: Healthy, first-born sons of the aristocracy. Now?
“I am sorry,” Luchas mumbled. “Did you tell me exactly what happened to my brother? I cannot recall. Lately, the pain has been making me fuzzy.”
As Blay hesitated, the male shook his head. “So it was in the field, was it not?”
“He is okay now.”
“You all protect me from things I very well know exist. The monsters are out from beneath my bed, dearest Blay, and not only has it been as such for quite some time, ne’er shall they return thereunder. I live with them in my head.” Luchas touched his temple. “I can assure you that there is no fact pattern you can report that comes close to what dwells here in my mind. Especially as my brother appears to have bested whatever attempt was made upon his life.”
Blay cleared this throat. “He was stabbed. In the stomach.”
That stare returned to the OR’s closed door. “He must have been in such agony.”
“He was… but he handled himself.”
“Of course he did. Survival is a learned trait that comes through the mastery of suffering. My brother suffered in our household for all of his most vulnerable years, so yes, he can get through any kind of pain. Endurance is what he learned to do best.” Luchas’s head relowered into its downward position. “On the other hand, I am not like my brother because I was not like him. I was nurtured and therefore have no strength. Or purpose, for that matter.”
“You are well loved here, Luchas. There are many who care for you.”
“Take care of me, you mean.” That prosthetic foot made a reappearance. “My needs far outstretch my contributions, I’m afraid.”
“That is not true.”
“And what exactly have I done for the race of late? Or any of you?” Before Blay could respond, Luchas shook his head. “Forgive me. I do not mean to sound churlish. It is just that Qhuinn is the male our parents should have found virtue in. Outward appearance is, after all, a very thin margin of judgment for character, is it not.”
“You are more than—”