Title: To Match Thy Goodness

Rating: K+

Wordcount: 938 (3133)

A/N: You've heard it all before: fanfic writer + real life = long dead fanfiction. Well, life has cooled off for a while, and I remembered what I was doing with this story. So here's the next chapter, and look for an update next week some time.


He Hath Slept Long

So please your majesty
That we may wake the king: he hath slept long.

…Doctor, King Lear, Act IV, Scene VII


They had laid him in his bed, loose-limbed, his face still and serene as if in sleep. Kit had come at once, upon the news. Where the dog had come from, he didn't know, but he welcomed the slim form against his leg as he waited, desperately, impatiently, for any sort of news. His hands wanted something to do, but there was nothing to be done. The fire was leaping high, the bed was piled high with blankets and furs, and his father—! His father seemed smaller, in the midst of the great bed and the great efforts that surrounded him.

They had already assured him, twice, that the King was not dead. That there was not yet any cause for concern that the king might die, as if the disposal of the kingdom were most on his mind now, when his father might be dying. But the physicians were also at a loss to explain what precisely was wrong with the king.

"There is not a mark on him, your highness. Not a mark, or a sign to indicate what is wrong with him." Giles, the court physician, explained slowly. There had been a whole bevy of doctors and physicians, healers and apothecaries by the king's bedside for the morning, but slowly they had faded away as they admitted their ignorance to the cause of the king's condition. "If it were not impossible, I would say the King was as he looks, peacefully asleep."

"Could he not simply be asleep?" Kit wanted to know. Giles seemed to hear his unasked question.

"If it were a natural sleep, he should have stirred at our commotion," the physician gave a wry smile, "which we have been making a great deal of, since the King was found. But he has not. Nor has he the languor of pulse and coolness of flesh that I would expect for unnatural sleep. Perhaps, he may yet wake, but I do not know."

"That is troubling, physician." Broke in a new voice, the silky baritone of Ian, the Grand Duke. "Bad news indeed for the kingdom and the king."

Kit felt himself bristling, but forced himself to appear calm at least. The dog at his leg, quiet all this long time, made a low growl and showed sharp, if yellowed fangs. Giles seemed to sense that he was no longer needed, much less wanted, and disappeared with the quiet ease of a longtime member of court.

"Perhaps you will be taking up the reins of ruler earlier than you thought, my Prince." Ian said, raising an eyebrow as he looked across the foot of the bed to where Kit stood by his father's side.

Kit, for a long moment, stayed quiet, looking down at his father, who would have known precisely the right thing to say to not only rebuke Ian for his base remark, but also to suggest the proper course of action. He was, however, not yet his father in wisdom, nor in tempering his anger.

But neither would he be like the dog leaning on his left knee, raising his hackles at the obvious threat. Kit could not afford that, not at this juncture or with this man.

Ian seemed to be opening his mouth again. Kit beat him to it:

"Perhaps not yet." Kit raised an eyebrow, letting a loose smile play around the edges of his mouth. It would not do to show weakness here before the Grand Duke, not when the kingdom rested on his shoulders. "I will but hold them a little while for my father, the king." The message was sent, Kit thought, watching Ian's face (acquiesce?). Ian inclined his head a little.

"As you say, my Prince. I will leave you with the King." Ian bowed gracefully as he went for the door. Even six months ago, Kit would have had a witty if foolish repartee to cut across the Grand Duke's dignified shoulders as he retreated for the door. But after his meeting and fitting for the girl in the forest, he felt such a thing beneath him. He could be gracious in his victory, at least in this skirmish.

The door shut solidly behind them, and Kit released the breath that had buoyed up his dignity and his head in the past hour or so. What was he to do, now and a little while from now, when the whole kingdom would be watching? He had been trained and taught his whole life to rule, yet it seemed an impossible task facing him.

Kit knelt by his father's bed, sure in this moment that no one was watching. He took his father's slack hand in his, still warm, but without any of the rigor of the hearty muscle and bone that lay beneath the skin. In that moment, he would have done anything to have his father with him, for his counsel and comfort.

"Father." He said, and that lonely word sounded loud, echoing in the empty spaces of the king's bedchamber. And then, again, more quietly,

"Father." And Kit rested his head on his father's chest, as if he were a little boy again. He felt more than heard the slow, slow rhythm of the heart beneath his ear, seemingly obliterate all else for a moment.

"Promise me you will stay." Kit whispered, almost prayerfully. "I must find her. But you must live."

Then, with a fearful energy, Kit rose to his feet in one sure motion, and headed for the door without a single turn to look again at the man lying in the bed.

Night was coming on fast.