Our Little World II

Rahal’s tense expression eased as Rhys dug into Nicholas. The man, who had so recently attacked them all, leaned happily into the cushions as Rhys turned his attention towards Nic. He laughed under his breath. His laughter was like broken glass, falling hard, without compassionate joy. It was clear he loved how Rhys taunted Nicholas for old scars, while a fresh one, and one from Rahal himself, was bleeding heavily on the servant’s face.

Nicholas stood, still and stiff, stunned at Rhys’s words. They threw him back into darkness. He could hear the door unlock, the brief light casting into the darkness before it closed again. Firm hand holding down, cruel and angry hisses, and that knife slicing through his skin. It had been a lesson that lasted weeks, with periods of healing allowed before new wounds afflicted. How Nic had wondered why Rhys hadn’t just killed him. He could remember the door being unlocked, heavy clangs as the system worked, and some poor wretch of a servant applying a salve over the bloody mess that was his arms, legs, back, chest. His wrist and ankle had been chained to the wall, making escape impossible, so he only laid still during these times. Each time someone came to treat his abused flesh, he wondered if it was done. If Rhys had forgiven him, or forgotten him, and that he could die or be let go. However, time after time, the door opened, and it was his King armed with a knife. At the beginning, Nicholas tried to keep a brave face and accepted the cuts, as though he thought that if he allowed Rhys to physically manifest his hurt at Michael's lost on Nicholas's skin would ease the overall punishment, but soon Nicholas realized that the knife didn't stop and would cry, beg, until his throat was raw.  Nicholas would try not to scream, but he began to feel like a chunk of meat torn up for slaughter and he never felt that he would escape that bloody bed, or the chains, or Rhys’s strong grip or the smell of his own vo-

“You are not my King,” Nicholas said, forcing himself free of the memories. They were a void, a bloody void, that wanted to reclaim him. Still, the man servant visibly struggled to meet Rhys’s eyes. He swayed briefly, before swallowing and forcing his eyes up. Rhys and Rahal… Rahal was leaning back in the chair, not a care in the world. Rhys reclining with his **** coffee. Nicholas felt worn with the hell of their morning, and here were these serpents watching him with no concern. His hand unconsciously ran along the thick robe he always wore. He could feel the criss cross scars raised beneath the surface. Those marks were all over him. They felt hot under Rhys’s eyes. Nicholas shook his head again, trying to shake out the servitude that he had led his life with. It wouldn’t help him now.

“My body has remained adequate for the service King Michael needed over the years. As you have seen, he thrived,” Nicholas grit his teeth, and shifted the gun in his hand. He would not tell of the stiffness of his limbs, of the daily stretches, of the lotions and creams he had experimented with to make his skin livable. “Yet, he no longer does. It pains me to be here. The King and I both left here, left you,  on our own, and to return breaks at the most celebrated parts of our lives, but I will not fail my King. If there is something I can do to ensure his life, it is my duty as a loyal servant to do so. ” Nicholas words were sharp, though too rushed, and Rahal’s arrogant expression began to drop slightly. The rudeness of Nicholas’s words were irritating the Rhys’s Prince, and Rahal very much wanted to even out Nicholas’s new cut with another on the opposing side of his face.

Nic’s hand rose, clenching the gun, and rubbed the blood off his cheek. It smeared, and remained on his hand.  He tried not to think of the steps he would take next to ensure that Lien and Sai got out. He had promised them.

"I'll discipline you later," the statement was plain, clear, and said before enemies. Rahal stared at Rhys, trying to conceal the feeling of betrayal behind his eyes. He was mostly successful, as Rhys has been his teacher, but he knew the King could see him through like a beetle pinned to a board. Here was Nicholas holding a gun in the harem's entryway, and Rahal was to blame. Deep down, he understood why. He had pushed the boundary, conspired, but still he was the Prince. Rahal shifted his gaze from Rhys, staring pointedly at the floor. His face burned, but he was letting go of the fury and physical rage. His shoulders slumped, and he looked back at Rhys with more calm, though he carefully controlled his breath. He followed Rhys into the chamber, not bothering to pick up the kimono or clean his hands of Michael's blood. He glanced at the five cups, counting himself there, and relaxing further. He sat, looking sharply across the room as the others made their way in.

~~

Nicholas lowered the gun at Rhys's words towards Rahal. He watched the Prince struggle to contain his pride and anger, and Nicholas had to feel some joy at his struggle. The viper had just been at their throats, and he was pleased to see it collared. As Rahal followed Rhys, Nicholas moved to Lien and Sai. "Is he okay?" He panted, looking between the two. Blood dripped down the side of his face. The cut that Rahal had dealt was fresh and open. "Come," he whispered. Michael was barely breathing, and the three hurried into the room. Their high emotions and Michael's messy self stood out in such a lavish room. Rahal watched them enter, his arms wide on the chair he settled in, owning the space. Nicholas helped the Princes' plop Michael into a chair. His blood smeared the fabric, and his head lolled back. Nicholas looked at Lien, at Sai, expecting them to speak. He was of no rank to speak to Rhys.

"Cat got your tongue?" Rahal breathed, risking further wrath by speaking from Rhys, but his eyes still stared hungrily at Nicholas and the gun. He would not soon forget that the servant had aimed it at him.

Nicholas glared at Rahal. Even with the invitation of comfort, he still bore the silver weapon at his side. He may need it, just in case the situation continued to turn foul. He glanced back at Lien and Sai, before looking at Rhys. It hurt to stare at that man, to bring courage to his words, but he managed to struggle out. "Michael is dying. His body eats him from the inside. He doesn't have an hour left." Even as he spoke, Nicholas was staring raptly at Rhys's face. The King was a picture of vibrancy. While he was older than Michael, the two men looked to be of the same age, or at least when Michael was in good health. Could it... Nicholas swallowed, "The doctors have said that they have nothing left for him. Nothing of man can pull him back from this point now."  He hesitated, not sure how to dive into the Estraella connection. It seemed ludicrous to bring it up to such formidable men.

“That’s enough,” Rhys had said.

It was like a snap in the room. It was as though someone had opened a window during a storm and all the air was sucked out. Sai had the best view of Rahal’s face. He could see it change from a cold, precise rage, to a frozen icy mask. “****,” Rahal murmured. He had trouble unclenching his hand from Michael’s throat. He truly wanted to leave it for just a moment more. He was certain that another squeeze would push him over to the brink of death, but Rahal could now feel Rhys’s eyes on his back.

Rahal turned, the fury still lingering on his face as he turned to his King. Nicholas’s eyes had closed at Rhys’s voice. His stomach clenched with relief and anxiety. It had been long since he heard that voice while standing in Sanguarina, where Rhys was most powerful, and he suddenly felt very small. He couldn’t face that nightmare, for for a second, he was trapped in a dark room with that voice and a knife. Instead, he continued to hold his hand shakily at Rahal, the gun gleaming in the morning light.

Rahal seemed to finally notice the gun, and his darkened eyes widened. “You rat,” he began viciously, than caught himself under Rhys’s gaze. Still, the fury was undisguised on his face. Nicholas, Nicholas could have been responsible for shooting him? Rahal looked between Nicholas, Michael, and then Rhys. “They attacked, sir,” he said coldly. “I  was defending our home.” Rahal’s hand, coated in Michael’s blood, and Rahal’s otherwise uninjured frame seemed to defy his words.

“We’ve come for help,” Nicholas barely whispered. One hand rose to support the gun, and he showed no sign of lowering it, not when Rahal was still so close to Michael.  Nicholas still wouldn't look at Rhys, but he felt his presence like a huge imposing shadow behind him. Rahal looked over at Nicholas, that same fury in his eyes, then at Rhys.

“The traitor has brought a gun and a corpse into our home, my Majesty. I was dealing appropriately with them. Please, give me permission to continue.”   Rahal's words were breathless, but cold. He desperately wanted to finish the job, to kill Michael here, to silent the Princes' and their dog. He knew the unlikeliness of Rhys approving further violence, but it was what Rahal could plea for to try to preserve his current life.

 A small, pale boy sung from a chair. His voice filled the large chamber. In the center of the circular room was a dancer. It wasn’t a slight figure, but a lean and muscular young man whose short dark curls were dampened with sweat. He danced athletically, full leaps into the air with a bracing crouch upon impact, before leaning out again in a striking pose. The dancer had darker skin, nearing his late teens, but his entire dance imposed power and strength. He stopped, striking a final pose, his head drooping down as he panted.  His sweaty chest heaved up and down. The song left the room,

A white, ivory cane slipped underneath the dancer’s chin, pushing it upward. The dancer’s eyes, too light for his skin, caught the eyes of the fox in the room. Rahal held the cane carefully under the dancer’s chin, keeping it propped up. “Let them see your face here,” he said, “They have seen the rest of you. Let them see those eyes, and you will have a patron soon enough.” The cane kept the chin there for a second, then tapped it roughly.

“Again,” Rahal said, curtly. The dancer’s body seemed to slump and the singer’s head drooped. Based off the gleam of sweat on the performer, this wasn’t his first, or his second, or third performance. Rahal turned, wiping his long robe about him. His clothing was informal, but still reeked of expense. He wore loose white pants that sinched at his ankles. His feet were bare and he hadn’t bothered with a shirt. The ivory  kimono draped around his shoulders was embroided with diamonds and emeralds. Rahal sat back in his chair, his long red hair half pinned up in an elaborate braid. The most audacious part of his outfit was the heavy golden jewels around his neck, easily worth a small home. The singer had taken a sip of water. Rahal looked at him, his light eyes narrowing before hitting the boy with the cane. The boy jumped, startled. “I said, again,” Rahal said.

Song filled the room again.

Rahal’s eyes glazed as he watched the dance. In his mind, the last years had been kind to him. He hadn’t lost his role. He had a warm bed, and a trunk filled with gems. He had even heard rumor of a certain dog going downhill. That warmed his chest, but he wouldn’t allow that name said in his or his King’s presence if he could help it, so he had done his best to keep those rumors at bay.

“Prince,” a guard said softly at his side. Rahal’s eyes rolled back lazily. He held up one hand. The dancer froze in his stance, and the note was cut off. The guard leaned close to him. “We have a new delivery. He is off the streets, a looker that was picked up. He is… struggling to learn his place.”
Rahal listened, eyelids half closed. He nodded briskly at the end of the information. He closed his opened hand into a fist and both the singer and dancer relaxed. The dark dancer fell to his knees, panting heavily. “Go,” he said as he swept himself up.

~~

It was dark within the cell. The boy’s hands and feet were tied, his white flesh gleaming with sweat, naked as the day he was born. He shifted, straining. It hadn’t been too long ago he had been walking under the moonlight, high as a kite to be fair, but still free.

“What is your name?” a voice said from the darkness. The tied boy raised his eyes, squinting to see through the dark. The voice was young, strong, and oddly attracting.

“Who’s there?”

“Do not respond to my question with another.” There were noises as the doors dragged open, footsteps in, then the closing of the doors. “Answer me. What is your name?”
“Simon,” breathed the boy, cringing away as he felt the presence of someone else in his cell.

“Simon,” Rahal breathed. “I don’t like it. You will be given another. I hear you have been causing my guards trouble. You have failed to show gratitude towards the gift you have been presented with.”

Simon was finally getting a good view of his visitor. Long deep flaming hair, the hardest emerald eyes he had ever seen, and clothes worth pounds upon pounds of drugs. Rahal knelt near him. Simon attempted to jerk away, and the ropes strained, but Rahal’s warm hand found his arm anyways.

“So destructive,” Rahal mused, his finger running along the red and angry injection marks along Simon’s arm. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

“Get away  from m- don’t touch me!” Simon tried to kick out, but the bonds stopped his body. Rahal smiled coldly, slipping closer to the other person.

“I am the best thing to be near you,” Rahal grabbed Simon’s head with both hands. Simon’s head twisted, shaking violently, but Rahal held it firmly. He struck it hard, three times against the wall behind Simon. The teenager cried out in pain, his curly blondes held in Rahal’s cold hands. He stopped fighting at that. Rahal examined the teenager’s face. He had a good bone structure, desirable lips, olive skin that made his blonde hair a shock. It was no wonder the harem’s scouts picked up the youth up. He could make a decent penny, when broken.

“Do you know where you are?” Rahal breathed, one hand pushing the teenager’s lip up to examine his teeth. Simon bit at him, and Rahal laughed. “Don’t make me slam your pretty head again. Do you know where you are?”

“No…” Simon half whimpered, half shook his head to try to yank himself free from the grip. The pain at the back of his head throbbed, but he would rather have that pain than this man so close to him.

“You are home,” Rahal whispered, leaning down. He hesitated, then bit the ear lobe of the youth. He suckled, running his hand through the curls. As a Prince, Rahal wasn’t allowed the touch that he wanted, but Rhys was far from the dungeon and Rahal felt safe. The guards at the door wouldn’t tell, if they knew what was best for them.  Simon jerked, surprised, and resumed his struggle. Rahal held him by the neck. “You are going to be reborn here,” he whispered, “You will be broken from this addicted shell and remade. Who you were before was only a lie. It was a fragment, a ghost. You were trying to kill yourself anyways.” His long fingers stayed nestled on Simon’s chin, watching him very much like a cat would watch a bird in a cage. “You are now real. This is the truest place you have ever been, and as long as you listen to me, you will be safe.” Rahal’s fingers twisted in the boy’s hair, pulling the olive skinned boy close to him. Simon shuddered. This man didn’t smell like sweat or dirt, but the sweet almond smell was more threatening than those smells on the street. Rahal’s lips nuzzled against the boy’s neck and Simon growled. Rahal laughed, nipping him with those white straight teeth. “You will learn,” he whispered. He straightened, turning away. He approached the guards, beginning to prepare a list of instructions when a hateful whisper came from the dark.

“****,” Simon’s voice was tear choked, his gaze fixed on the ground. His entire body was tense and shaking, but he clung to the image of himself in the past. Not this image that the stranger had tried to assign to him.

The guards shifted. The silence filled the room, but the silence felt like venom slowly taking the air out.

Fabric moved. Rahal had turned back to Simon. In his emerald eyes now, predatorially gold specks seemed to brighten in the night. “Say it again,” he said, that oddly alluring voice more quiet than before.

“****!” Simon cried out, his voice choking as he strained. “I’m n-not going to stay here and be touched by **** like y-“

The crack of the cane against Simon’s jaw reverberated around the room. Simon’s head hit the back of the wall. He began to collapse, but Rahal’s white hand caught him by the throat. Rahal shoved the bottom of his hand into Simon’s windpipe, and the boy began to gag. Rahal’s forest eyes stared at the boy. The gagging sound filled the chamber for several long seconds. Rahal’s shoulders relaxed as he listened to it, his lips opening partway. Nothing relaxed in his arm, his weight against the boy’s windpipe.
“He will have no female courtesans or clients,” Rahal’s voice whisped, beginning the instructions he had been about to when the boy dared the insult. “Not for a year will you feel the touch of a woman.” He twisted his hand slightly and Simon felt blackness beginning to edge his eyes. Saliva was pooling at his mouth, and his hand clawed helplessly at Rahal’s merciless grip. “Only after this year, and only after you have prostrated yourself before me, begging for relieve, will I consider giving you mercy.” Rahal’s head turned, and his eyes widened in excitement as he watched the gagging youth. “My name is Rahal Khalstead. I am the Prince of Sanguinara, and I have held my position **** after ****, year after year. I will not hear one base insult from a flea. You have worsened your life, and you should see me in your nightmares. Dream of me everyday,” his hand shifted suddenly, releasing the windpipe, but gripping the neck. Simon took in gasping breaths, tears streaming down his face.  “Hope for my goodness,” Rahal grinned widely, “for it is the only way you will have reprieve again.”

Rahal put his lips next to Simon’s ear. Simon’s breath came in long puffs, struggling with this demon holding him, casting his life’s fate in words. “Say it again,” Rahal whispered, his voice pitching up, laughing.

Simon’s head violently shook. Blood trickled down the side of his face where Rahal’s cane had struck him.

“See,” Rahal let go, now turning to the guards. His hands held out gracefully at his side, the ivory cane held loosely in one hand. “Everyone can learn,” he stepped out of the caged chamber. He looked at the guards as he flicked his cane into his hand. He daftly wiped the blood off with his hand. He wouldn’t ruin his white clothes with it. He brought his hand to his mouth, sucking the blood quietly. He paused, looking into Simon’s cell. “Take him tonight,” he said simply to the guard. “We will not bother with the virgin pricing. He will see who the **** is then,” Rahal looked at the guard, who nodded hastily. He smiled.

~~

Rahal’s footsteps echoed as he climbed the stairs from the dungeons. He didn’t like to call them dungeons. The word didn’t suit a place like Sanguinara. Still, such places were necessary in a place like this. Rahal found the dark oddly calming. It wasn’t long ago that he was a child in the dark, hoarding the smallest of favors. He was no longer that man. Lean and slender like a dagger in the dark, Rahal felt as a man of control, power, and favor. The place ran smoothly, even if some blood had to be drawn. The concubines listened and obeyed, and money was flowing. Rahal thrived at feeling his hand in that – at making the name Sanguinara powerful. All for him. His King. Rahal may not always feel the acknowledgement of the man that he had known his entire life, but he knew that with each day that he was kept in his role as Prince, the King was gracing him with approval. At this point, Rahal considered as he sucked the last of the blood off his hand, he couldn’t be happier.

There was a daft buzz in his ear. Someone at the door, an unexpected client. Rahal went to turn the wireless bud off in his ear. He needed to know the comings and goings of the harem. Certain clients liked certain ****, and he would need to know if he needed to prepare them. Then, “I’m Prince Lien of Firesse…” Rahal stopped. The cane hit the next step hard as Rahal’s entire spine tightened up. No, Rahal’s hand lingered in his hair, listening to the intercom. Of course, he knew the bastard. They had been paired near each other many times on formal occasions, with barbed comments and side glances, but there was absolutely zero reason why Lien would be here at this hour.  “… regarding his estranged son. It’s is quite urgent.” His son? Michael? Cold waves crashed through Rahal’s body.

The day Michael escaped the harem had been the beginning of a new life for Rahal. It allowed him to bite, turned, and thrash in his role and fight his way to Rhys’s attention and affection. It was no secret the turmoil of Rhys’s and Michael’s relationship, and Rahal wanted nothing of that man in Sanguinara. He didn’t know how long he was still. He knew this message must have been relayed to Rhys as well.

I have to get ahead of this. Rahal suddenly realized, a thunderous resolution. He grabbed his cane and began to rush up, his long braids whipping behind him. “Let them in,” Rahal said, his hand pressed against the bud. He rushed into the pale red entryway. The dancer was still seated on the floor, his breathing coming with more regularity. Other concubines were beginning to fill the hall. A messenger boy was passing. Rahal grabbed the boy by the back of his neck. “Delay the King from coming here,” he snarled. The boy had started at being grabbed, but truly turned ashened when he looked up to see the fiery Prince holding him. “If you fail,” Rahal’s grip was painful, “I will be unhappy.”

That was enough. The youth rushed off, looking very much like he was going to cry, but headed directly towards the path Rhys would have to take to enter the grand chambers. By the time Rahal looked up, the dark mahogany doors were opening, and he could see  slumped figures coming in from the pale, morning light.

~~

Michael’s weight on Nicholas’s shoulder felt like bricks. Under the blanket, his head was lolled back and blood from his head and mouth dripped warmly onto Sai’s shoulder. He wasn’t supporting himself at all, and Nicholas and Sai had to drag his feet.

No man should come to this, certainly not a man like Michael.

Lien’s silence had been heavy in the car. Nicholas could only wonder at what his thoughts could be, and he thought that he may have understood, but Nicholas’s couldn’t turn his thoughts away from the dying man in the back. None of Nicholas’s life had been the pursuit of a story, a tale. He had never sought such a happy ending for himself, except for perhaps when he ran from the very place he was returning.

“I’m sorry, Michael,” Nicholas murmured. He didn’t decide to apologize. He could feel his own feet become heavier as they approached the threshold, a tight sense of dread as he looked into the entryway.

How could it be that this place still rung as home in his heart?

In the distance, he could see an uncomfortably familiar flame of hair. ****… Nicholas shrugged Michael more onto his shoulder, stopping a few feet past the doors. He could hear them begin to close behind him. “We want to see the King,” Nicholas said, his voice clear and tight.

Rahal’s eyes had darkened. They stormed a dark forest green as he looked at the strangers. Their presence was a sin to his home. “Outcasts,” he said, approaching slowly. His shoulders twisted up, serpent like, as he approached. “A traitor,” his feet clicked as he approached, “And two false Princes,” his eyes lingered between Sai and Lien. “And… what? A lump?” The dark eyes turned to the covered face. Something shifted in his eyes.

“We want to see the King,” Nicholas repeated. Dealing with Rahal was dangerous, and he would have none of the sympathies that Nicholas was counting on to save his King. He half glanced at Lien, wondering if the Prince’s word would be more effective with this snake, but before he could allow Lien a word, Rahal’s hand had whipped out and yanked the blanket off of Michael’s face.

The once proud King’s face was a tragedy. There was enough dried blacken blood to cake one side of his face, but there was still fresh hot crimson trails from his mouth. His skin had lost its vibrance and was steadily becoming grayer. His eyes were closed.

There was a small murmur, a break in the air. The concubines around the room, stepped forward, some gasping, but mostly stunned. Rahal’s lips twitched, a vein formed in his head. This… he could hardly breath for a moment.

Michael’s lolling, bloody form was the best image that Rahal had ever seen. In his wildiest dreams, he hadn’t had the imagine to picture such a beautiful sight.

The murmur grew. Rahal’s head turned and looked around the room. “Get out,” he said, his voice ringing. “If one of you repeats this to a mouse, to a fly, I will find you and flail you. Do not doubt my word.”

It seemed none of them did. The concubines’ departure from the space was rapid, and silent.

Michael gurgled slightly. It may have been a cough half an hour ago, but it didn’t seem he could manage that anymore. Blood trickled from his lips onto the floor. Rahal watched, fascinated. “He’s dead,” Rahal said flatly.

“He’s not dead,” Nicholas responded, voice angry. This was wasting time. He had never wanted to shout for Rhys before, but he did now. The way Rahal was looking at Michael was like a hawk with a rabbit in its claws. “Get Rhys, Rahal.” Dropping the crap, “You know he would want to be here. We requested an audience with him, and you delaying us is costing Michael valuable time.”

Rahal blinked, his expression shifting. There seemed to be a full tick in his brain process, “Why would you taunt Rhys like this?” Rahal said, his hand slowly going to his cane. “Bringing his dead son to Sanguinara,” a long slither as the slender blade pulled from the inside of the cane. A rattle of ivory on marble as he dropped it. “A last taunt from Firesse,” Rahal rolled his neck from side to side. “Disgusting.”

“Lie-“ Nicholas began to urgently try to pass Michael’s arm to Lien, but Rahal was too fast. Rahal’s blade swiped at Michael’s throat. Nicholas dropped Michael, causing Rahal’s blade to glide through empty air. Nicholas slammed his body into Rahal’s chest and they both went sprawling. Nicholas managed to stay on top, his knuckle pounding into Rahal’s wrist grasping his cane. Rahal cried out, forced to release it, but his legs spun up to encircle Nicholas and slam him to the ground to the side. There was a roll, and Rahal ended on top. Nicholas’s hands shot up, grabbing at Rahal’s chin and pushing it up, but Rahal produced a knife from within his robes. The knife slammed down, and blood appeared on Nicholas’s cheek. Rahal tsked as Nicholas cried out. “Another cut, another day,” Rahal mocked. “That is just your life, swine,” he switched the knife in his hands, prepared to give him a matching cut on the other cheek. Nicholas managed to wrap his legs around Rahal as before, knocking him off of him, but Rahal sprung up. Even as Nicholas scrambled to get to his feet, Rahal swung up his leg and kicked the manservant hard in the head. Nicholas crumpled, but Rahal didn’t stop, and kicked him again. The crunch of his foot against Nicholas’s skull filled the chamber.

Rahal stared down at Nicholas, panting, than spat to the side. Quite undignified, but there was no one of significance to notice. He again rolled his shoulders, stretching his arms out as he appreased himself. “Look at that,” he mused softly, before bringing those predatory eyes up to Sai and Lien. “Not a mark on me,” and he grinned wildly. He let the kimono slip off of him, revealing his lean muscular arms.

Nicholas began to stir, but Rahal didn’t notice as he turned and approached the Princes. “Give him to me,” he said. “You are making him suffer,” his voice turned to a whisper. “I will end it.”

Rahal sprung forward, right in between the two Princes, and his hand grabbed Michael’s windpipe. He squeezed. It wouldn’t take long to squeeze the life out of this half man. Michael wasn’t even gagging in response. He would slip right out of this life, and Rahal would be free of him. Behind him, Nicholas was staggering up, pushing his body up with one shaking hand. He seemed heavily disoriented, but he pulled the gun from his robes and pointed it shakily at Rahal’s back.

Not a hundred percent translation, but I imagine this is some of the feeling with Nicholas, Sai, Lien approaching Rhys's harem. They have to build themselves up for some of the darkness they have either experienced or felt. There is also some lines about pride in there that make me think of Michael.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOrOkTnmMy8