A/N: This is my first Protector of the Small fanfic, actually, it's my first Tamora Pierce fanfic. So go easy on me :)
Also, I'm very aware of how randomly depressing this is, and you should know that it's not a habit. People call me morbid, and I'll clear that up for you right now:
Morbid is something I take to mean "obsessed with death/dying." And I'm not. I use death scenes to explore characters in other ways. I don't write death without a purpose.
Oh, yes, and the song is "Old and Wise" by Alan Parsons Project
Cleon of Kennan grimaced in pain.
"Idiot horse!" he hissed, removing his foot from beneath the ironclad hoof. "I'm in Corus for five minutes and you've already tried to hobble me." As he finished cleaning the tack, Cobalt, his blue roan destrier, shuffled restlessly in his stall. Cleon was halfway to the stable door when the sound of Cobalt's desperate whinny made him turn back. "You've caught me," he told the horse, and offered him the apple from his coat.
Cobalt took the apple in his teeth, abruptly quiet.
As he walked toward the palace, Cleon could hear the pages in the practice courts. The sound of staffs knocking together was familiar to his ears. He smiled as the voice of the training master, Padraig HaMinch, called, "Audric of Disart, the fact that your head's as hard as your weapon does not mean you can ignore the drill! Get back in line!" Padraig was more rigid than his predecessor, Wyldon of Cavall, had been.
The palace was cool; the air was less oppressive than it was outside. At the end of November, it was still as sweltering as August. The corridors reserved for knights and their squires were deserted. The silence was complete, nearly stifling. Deathly, Cleon thought, and rolled his eyes at his own morbidity.
Then he heard the voices—low, murmuring words from the room at the end of the passage. Cleon knew whose chamber this was; the name etched into the door still made his heart thump with painful longing.
As far as my eyes can see
There are shadows approaching me
In the few seconds it took him to enter the room, it was clear something was wrong. A stiffness, a hopelessness in the atmosphere. There were two men seated near the bed, and Cleon saw the many freckles of Merric of Hollyrose on the face of the man standing at the window. The others, he realized, were Nealan of Queenscove and Owen of Jesslaw. His friends were somber and the dark shadows beneath their eyes meant little sleep.
"What's happened?" Cleon demanded. "Who's hurt, who's d—"
Neal shook his head and gestured to the bed, where a figure lay twisted in mounds of blankets.
Seized by a sudden fear of the obvious and the inevitable, Cleon moved so that he could see the person's face. The light brown hair was still earlobe-length, but the lovely hazel-green eyes were shut. Keladry of Mindelan was snow-pale and glistening with a sheen of sweat.
"Mithros, Kel," Cleon whispered, clutching the back of Owen's chair to hold himself upright.
Merric brought another chair over, which Cleon gratefully sank into, glad for anything solid. Everything seemed to be heightened, more sharply rendered in his vision. It made his head hurt.
"Is she…" Cleon couldn't bring himself to finish. What if the answer was yes?
And to those I left behind
I wanted you to know
You've always shared my deepest thoughts
You follow where I go
"Dead? No," Owen told him softly, "but it's a close thing. She got stuck with arrows during that battle with Yamani pirates."
"But that was months ago," Cleon protested.
"The wounds were infected, but the damage didn't show until a week back. The skin's closed over everything."
"What—what about healers?"
Neal moaned and buried his face in his hands, in fingers that showed no sign of their green Healing magic.
"Too late." Owen looked at Neal pityingly. "If they'd caught it earlier, then maybe. Now, though, she'll just have to fight it off."
Cleon knew that his feelings were traitorous, forbidden. He was married, but not to Kel. Ermelian of Aminar was his wife. He belonged to her, and she to him—so why did he care so much for the woman on the bed? The answer, he knew, had always known, caused him more pain than he'd thought possible.
I still love her, he thought. I always will. The attachment hadn't vanished with their relationship, and there was nothing for it now. The knowledge spurred him into reaching out and brushing a few strands of lank hair away from Kel's face, tucking them behind her ear as gently as if she were a newborn child.
"Fight, Kel," Cleon whispered noiselessly. "Please."
And oh, when I'm old and wise
Bitter words mean little to me
Autumn winds will blow right through me
News of the Lady Knight's illness was slow to spread; in fact, it had been kept quiet for many days. Only those in Corus that were personal friends were alerted. Lalasa Isran appeared in the early afternoon.
"We can't simply sit here," she snapped after several minutes. "If my lady could see this—well, we might at least fetch some water." With an agitated jerkiness she stood up, only to drop down again. No explanation was needed. Cleon could tell she was as afraid as everyone that something would change if they left. But Lalasa was right—it was agony to be so helpless.
Raoul and Buriram of Goldenlake and Malorie's Peak arrived within another hour, hovering by the door anxiously for a few minutes before entering. Kel's former knight-master drew up a chair next to Cleon.
"Never, in all the years I've known her, has she caught anything worse than a cold," Raoul said in a low voice. "I wonder, if it had been anyone else, would they last this long?"
"Kel's strong. There's nothing to worry about." The words were so dead, even to Cleon's own ears. He himself was being eaten alive by worry. Kel was strong, but was she strong enough?
And someday, in the midst of time
When they ask me if I knew you
I'd smile and say you were a friend of mine
And the sadness would be lifted from my eyes
Oh, when I'm old and wise
Supper came and went, and nobody in the now-stifling room ate more than a few bites. Stomachs rumbled from time to time but they were ignored. Food was for those without trouble.
When Kel's eyelids cracked open, Cleon leaned forward, his travel-worn breeches chafing against the chair too loudly. The others in the room looked around at the movement but stayed where they were, tethered to their seats by some sort of wary superstition.
"Cleon?" It was little more than a half-asleep murmur.
"Kel." It was all he could say, all he could choke out through the tightness in his throat.
"You're here… why?"
What a question, he thought but didn't say. "Everyone is," he told her, and gestured weakly at where the others were clustered together.
As far as my eyes can see
There are shadows surrounding me
And to those I leave behind
I want you all to know
You've always shared my darkest hours
I'll miss you when I go
So gingerly that it was agonizing to watch, Kel turned her head to take in Neal, Owen, Merric, and behind them, Lalasa and Buri.
"How do you feel?" Raoul asked gently.
"Ouch," Kel mumbled.
"Rest," Buri ordered without her usual iron tone.
"Yes'm," Kel acquiesced. Cleon knew that the obedience was as automatic as breathing to her. She was already asleep, her breath coming shallow and in a painful rasp.
The tension seemed to ease a little. Cleon could hear the others getting up, moving around. Lalasa, Buri, and Raoul left for bed. Owen, Merric, and Neal made to follow them.
"Cleon? Coming?" Owen asked.
Cleon shook his head.
"It's probably good to have someone here," Merric muttered to Owen. "Just in case…"
The implication sparked some reserve of anger hidden away, and Cleon was suddenly furious—with Merric, with Kel, with the situation, with himself most of all. Without thinking, he was on his feet.
"Just in case what?" he demanded hotly. "She'll be fine. She's not going to—that's not even—you've got no faith in her!" He had Merric by the collar now, and Neal forcefully, yet considerately, removed his hand from the garment. They left without another word.
And oh, when I'm old and wise
Heavy words that tossed and blew me
Like autumn winds will blow right through me
The night wore on. Kel's breathing continued, clearly audible in the silent room. She never stirred or even twitched, as though the weight of her illness kept her still.
Every minute felt like an hour, each hour lasted a day. Cleon heard the clock strike midnight and prayed to Mithros and the Goddess with each toll.
And someday, in the midst of time
When they ask you if you knew me
Remember that you were a friend of mine
As the final curtain falls before my eyes
Cleon jerked awake, his heart pounding.
"Kel?" he gasped, his voice hoarse.
There was no answer. The only sound was that of his own breath. Reaching out, Cleon found Kel's hand, cold and stiff. Lifeless.
She was gone, and he'd never felt so alone in his entire existence.
Oh, when I'm old and wise...
As far as my eyes can see...
A/N: How'd I do?