A/N:
This is a ficlet inspired by the Seanfocal Challenges at the Dove – the challenge (27) was to describe what happened when an order did not come through, was intercepted… basically, something had to happen to an order.
Am incurably A/J shipper. Anyone who detests the like best not read.
Disclaimer as usual.

The weakened man lay in his bed of soft silk and linen coves. They had gone to every effort to make him as comfortable as possible, yet no one could ease the suffering he saw before him. Sheets embroidered with gold enveloped his frame, once strong and commanding, now fragile as glass. His son touched his hand fleetingly, as if afraid that some tiny pressure would break his father completely. The old man's tired blue eyes roamed about his room. Surrounding him were his remaining family – those who has left Tortall forever strangely absent from the family portrait – and his old friends, faithful to the last, despite past grievances. Now his children had grown into adults themselves, unique and determined, yet their eyes were full of fear and hurt – they'd never known someone close to them die. How dare he slip so willingly into the Black God's realm? Why wasn't he fighting it with every strength in his body?

Jonathan alone knew the answer. He could no longer live in the Mortal Realms. His heart was shattered; nothing in life, not even the most poignant cause for celebration, held any joy for him. Now that she was gone, his soul mate, his spirit, his fire, he welcomed death, a remote possibility of seeing her once more, and the absolution of the guilt that had plagued him since she had died – for him.

He knew she would be raging if she were here now, ordering her king to fight this gods-cursed disease, to reclaim his life, demanding he show the courage and obstinacy she knew so well existed in him. But she was no longer here, by his side. The order had not, could not, come through.

His wife's tears swelled and streaked down the planes of her too-beautiful face. His cousin's greying hair matted and flopped into his eyes. His Knight Commander remained stoic, and gripped his shoulder tight. I'd tell him he was hurting me, the greatest Conté king thought, but all my pain will be gone soon.

"I love you all: my darling children, Gary, Raoul… Thayet." His throat protested vehemently as he drew the energy to speak one last time. "Remain true to your hearts. I'm sorry…" with that the darkness swamped his vision, and his labouring lungs ceased to ache as Jonathan IV of Tortall sunk into death's murky depths, and nodded to the Black God's familiar silhouette.

"I'm ready."