Grief Is The Lonlinest Number
In the darkness of bereavement, Arthur needs a hand to hold M/A
:-:
He hasn't cried yet, and it worries you. You may have had little love for the man yourself, but to Arthur Uther was his whole family. All that Arthur had done, as far as you could see, was attend to matters of the state, funeral arrangements and death announcements for neighbouring kingdoms. He was probably even preparing for a coronation - an idea that both excites you and makes you nervous.
He is uncharacteristically formal and monosyllabic, even with you, and as you help him undress for bed you wish there was something you could do to comfort him - even with all your magic you have never felt as helpless as this.
As he climbs into bed you are muttering your goodnights, wondering if you can tidy his chambers in the morning because you hate being so near to him and yet of no use, when he reaches out and grabs your wrist. The grip is gentle but insistant, and you want to ask him what he is doing but he hasn't spoken and you can't bear to break the silence. Instead you just look at him looking at you; a blush forming on your wrist where his fingers touch your skin. You raise your eyebrows questioningly and, when he doesn't object, you toe off your shoes and slide in beside him. He moves over to accommodate you, all the time his fingertips still applying the smallest pressure. You both lie there staring up at the canopy until you fall asleep. You never say anything, and he never cries.
:-:
You have no moment of uncertainty the next morning: you remember exactly where you are and the events that led you there. You awake before Arthur, his sleeping form turned away from you and huddled on the other side of the bed. You creep out and down to your quarters - grief can do strange things to a man and there is no guarantee that Arthur will understand your actions in the bright light of day. It is a fresh clear morning and you have to break the ice on the water butt in order to wash. The sound is harsh in the silence and it wakes you more than the water. The ice is fractured and bobs on the surface and as you stare you remember those cold fingers on your wrist and find yourself not wanting to wash away that touch. You do anyway.
:-:
Tonight he cries. Maybe he thinks you have already left the room - maybe he doesn't care. He is curled in the foetal position of that morning and the sobs are silent but move the whole bed. You want to ask him if he is okay, but figure the question is a moot one. Instead you perch yourself on the free side of the matress and ponder for a moment as the heat from Arthur's body comes over you in waves. Finally you reach over and place one hand on his exposed wrist. The symmetry of the situation does not escape you. He grabs at you suddenly, holding your hand like a lifeline, and again you find yourself slipping under the covers; tethered to him only by the press of fingertips.
Arthur sleeps when the exhaustion of tears has knocked him out. He still has a firm grip on you and still neither of you have uttered a single verbal exchange. It should feel strange, but somehow it doesn't. It's cliché and you hate yourself for thinking it, but something about the whole situation seems right. And then you remember that Uther is dead and guilt is your companion until you fall asleep.
:-:
His eyes are already open when you awake and it surprises you. In the night he has pulled you to him; wrapping your arm around him as he still grasps at your hand. He feels huge in your arms and far too warm. You are imagining your duration in the stocks for this and just trying to formulate the right explanation for events, when he pulls himself from you and walks toward the window. His eyes seem red raw and you ponder momentarily if you should follow him. Instead you creep from the bed and out of the door, running all the way to your chambers. Today when you stare at the water butt you don't break the ice.
:-:
Arthur has another busy day and you are expected to attend him, which you do. He seems reluctant to meet your eye and you don't try to catch his. His lack of jibes and sarcasm is notable and you wonder if he will be this serious always now that he is king. You find yourself hoping not.
Mostly the day consists of meetings. Arthur spends the majority of his time renewing peace contracts that were previously in his father's name. He talks at length with his council and paces the floor impatiently until you imagine he must have left a groove there. Unoccupied yourself, you watch him as he moves: the muscles that ripple and his golden hair that catches the light. You realise that you climbing into bed with him that first night may have been partially self-serving and you accuse yourself accordingly. The meeting drags on and still you find you cannot tear your eyes away.
When you prepare his bath in the evening you resist the urge to use magic - there is nothing quite like trudging through a castle half a dozen times to remind you of your place. You keep your back to him as he takes to the water and busy yourself with setting his rooms in order. He talks to you about the desicions he has made that day and you actually raise a laugh from him. Normality very nearly seeps in and then he is going to bed and you find you are hesitating - should you? But the invitation does not come so you say your goodnights before withdrawing; feeling more than a little betrayed by your inner disappointment. Normality, it would seem, now abounds.
:-:
You think maybe it will be hard to sleep without him, but it is some hours before you are awoken by a presence in your room and you have to make a conscious effort not to call for light magically. Luckily the moon is near enough to full for you to make out your king's silhouette and you are on the verge of asking if you can do anything for him - the way a servant is supposed to think - when he deposits himself on the edge of your bed and you are stunned into silence. Again. His head is forward in his hands and his hair is ruffled as though he has been pulling at it for at least the past hour. He utters your name, and it is the beginnings of a question. You don't wait to see if he is able to complete it, instead accommodating him by sliding over to the edge of your slim cot. You wonder if lifting the covers would be a bit suggestive, but it doesn't prevent you from doing so. His relief at the invitation is physical: it settles down across his back and you watch as he pulls off his boots and swings his legs up and in beside you.
Your bed is excruciatingly narrow and there isn't an inch of your side that is not touching him. You wind up staring at him in the semi dark - his eyes catching the little light and amplifying it as if just for you. He smiles. It is the first genuine smile since the death of his father and it warms you. Then his hand is warming you as well as he turns towards you and reaches across your belly to place a featherlight grip on your hip, his blond head buried in your shoulder. Tentatively, you extend your arm to encompass him and he snuggles in closer. His scent is in your nose and his skin is under your fingers and you drift off with him literally in your arms.
:-:
In the morning you decide you dreamt his visit and curse your imagination. The water has thawed in the butt and you wash almost willingly. When you head back to your room you find you can still smell him on your sheets and it makes you want to cry, though you don't know why this is.
He spends the morning looking at you, sometimes smiling but never blushing, which just about drives you crazy as every time you meet his eye you wind up the colour of beet. In the afternoon you are preoccupied moving his belongings into Uther's old chambers and it hits you that Arthur is a king. You breathe deep and continue. What surprises you most is the allocation of Arthur's adjacent rooms as yours; a king's right hand man is expected to be on his right hand. You want to object - not leave Gius and the sanctuary he provides - but the memory of Arthur's skin against yours burns into your memory and sways you. It takes a meagre two trips to move your belongings in. The bed is still narrow and the walls still close, but the view from the window has improved. Arthur would only need to call and you would hear him easily; all the stones in the castle could be between you and you would still hear him even without the aid of magic. Your heartbeats, it seems, are already intuned.
When you ready him for bed he looks a little lost in his surroundings and you find for a second he is clinging to you. Maybe because you are the only thing familiar. Maybe he is feeling Uther's absence. By now the moon has risen and he is still to make his way to bed. He stands in the middle of the room; the thick rug is curling at his toes and yet he looks cold. Disbelieving your own boldness, you ask him if he wants you to stay.
His head snaps up and you would have taken a step backwards if you were not too nervous to move. Then he is the one moving, his strides sure as he crosses the floor and makes his way towards you. His feet have found cold stone and yet now he is flushed. He takes your head in his hands, your over large ears fitting neatly within his palms, and he kisses you.
It is such a simple sentence for something so momentous. You wonder if this is where things have been going all along, but before you can kiss back he has peeled his lips from yours and is instead resting his forehead on you, rolling it slightly from side to side. He has hold of your hand and is guiding you to the bed.
You begin to blabber, rambling on and on about something completely ridiculous, and you can feel him rolling his eyes at you and you cannot avoid his smirk. Maybe the part of him that died with his father is finally coming back to life. With one hand in his hair, you kiss him and he smiles into your lips. He doesn't try to undress you, so you fall fully clothed onto the sheets; they mix with the fabric of his nightwear and form a shield between you. It feels safe. He positions you both so that his forehead can again rest against yours, and he places a hand on your waist. You mimick him and feel muscle there. Emboldened, you play with his hem until your fingers find the flesh beneath. His skin blushes at your touch.
Finally he talks, and in opening the dam he spills everything. He talks about the coronation; his hopes and his fears. He talks about his father, and again he cries a little - as do you. What he doesn't voice is why you are in bed with him and what he feels about it. He talks until he is tired and kisses you until he sleeps. You lie awake a little longer, tasting the breath he exhales.
:-:
You rarely sleep in your own rooms and they are not as much a part of you as he is. He thinks he cannot sleep without you and, when he finally tells you this, you reassure him that he won't ever have to. In the eyes of the castle and kingdom it appears there has been no change within you both, but in the privacy of those few stone walls there isn't a look that doesn't suggest or a touch which doesn't linger. You are not sure how fast you expected things to progress, but he never forces you. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world and still he never talks about it. Like you, he probably thinks it is self explanatory. The silence continues like a third party in your relationship and you cherish its company.
One day soon solid gold will be placed on his head. One day he will be expected to take a wife. But for now it is your fingers that crown his hair and to your lips and your body that he makes his vows. And you find, even for you, that that is magic enough.