Uther's chest pains him a lot these days, his breathing labored and dingy, wet, but none so much as the words that deliver the report of Leila's death. The Ostian spy who brings him the news looks just as pained as Uther feels — no doubt grieving over his lost comrade — and though the marquess's face shows only the sadness of a leader losing a loyal vassal, what wells up inside him is numb, is deep, is sick and cold and roiling in the pit of his belly.
He reads over Leila's final report several times over, his eyes failing to stay in focus every other line. As soon as he finishes reading, he has immediately forgotten what's contained in the report. He can't seem to process anything; all he sees are senseless words sprawled across the page. Alone in his study at Castle Ostia, he bends over the desk, hand cupped over his forehead, trying to focus. But though his eyes are fixed on the paper before him, his mind wanders. He tries to picture in his mind's eye Leila's body, still and lifeless, stretched out on the hard ground. He tries to imagine the blood that must have spilled, the gray tint to her face, the cold touch of her body. He tries to imagine her dead.
But he can't. He can't, and he's not sure he ever will. Leila may be dead now, but she has always been as a ghost, whispering in and out of life at Ostia. When he thinks of her, he only remembers the bright color to her face — color ill-suited, he once thought, to someone of her profession. He remembers the touch of her hand against his face and the warmth of her body and feeling of her skin and the memory is suddenly so sickening, so awful and sour that he vomits into a bedpan before he knows what is happening. His head spins.
He can't imagine what Matthew must be feeling, and he doesn't try. What started as a merely casual fling between two spies blossomed into something unexpectedly real, something worth pursuing. They had fallen bodily into their romance, ill-fated as it was. Even though hesitation had ever lingered in Leila's eyes, she never looked back. She was as happy as Uther has ever seen her. And though he knows it's wrong, and it's unfair, and he has done his best to bury his resentment, it still lurks somewhere in him. He cannot smother the bitter taste that still springs upon his tongue every time he speaks Matthew's name, and something somewhere deep within him says, Well, good. Now no one will have her.
He does not even have the decency to be disgusted with himself. He wishes he did, if only for her sake.
When he finally sleeps, he is fitful, and he dreams of Leila. He sees her dead, he sees her ripped apart and gasping desperately her last breaths, sees the light in her eyes flicker and gutter out. He sees her as the ghost she has always really been.
He has regained his composure by morning. He sits down and he reads her final report and though he feels raw and ashamed, he forces himself to swallow every last bit of it. It does not go down easy.
His chest settles down into numbness. Somewhere inside, the raging, sick thought of Leila's death lies encapsulated, surrounded. Day by day, it dwindles and begins to shrink. The cold nausea that churns his stomach dies down, and it stings just a little bit less. Day by day, he learns to cope.
Each breath is a struggle now, a tumultuous wave he must ride out in a sea of fever and fluid. When he coughs, he feels the awful tang of blood in his mouth. He spends his days in bed, slowly wasting away until his armor is the only thing that still holds the shape of the man he once was. He is sure he can taste death on his lips.
All the doctors and priests in the world can't save him, at least not now. He never thought he would live to see death so closely, so slowly. Uther, Marquess Ostia, he was supposed to die in battle, valiant and screaming and bloody. He never expected to live his last days as a corpse. He envies Leila now, imagines how quick her death must have been.
It's cruel of him to die now, to abdicate the throne while his brother is still at war. The burden of leadership will fall heavily on Hector's shoulders, he knows. He thinks for a while that he might hold on until Hector returns — if he can only just cling to life long enough to see his brother's face one more time, then maybe…
But he's growing weary. He feels his grasp slipping, and somewhere in his distant mind, he hears Leila's voice. His roiling heart begins to settle, flooding with cold, as he realizes that in death, he may yet find peace. He doesn't know where death will take him, but he swears he hears her calling, just on the edge of hearing. With one last rattling breath, Uther lets go. He closes his eyes, and he hopes she will find it in her heart to forgive him