John awoke late; through the single high window-slit, around the heavy fur rug that covered it, golden light seeped into the room. The sun did not touch that window until at least tenth bell this time of year. John kicked back the linens in a panic of old habits, deep ingrained.
The bed was empty, besides his own sleep-heavy limbs and the soiled linen sheets; Bane had gone without waking him. John had risen from his master's bed every morning for weeks and slipped away to begin his duties; now he regretted this, and alongside the awful loneliness in his breast there rose the inclination to blame himself. Had he stayed until Bane awoke each day, would Bane have forgotten Talia?
This was foolish, and John knew it to be so, but he was a man of secrets and malformed hopes, and he had worn grooves in these patterns of thought through long use. He had been a kitchen boy in this palace, once, orphaned and subject to the whims and petulances of every other member of service. Anger at others meant beatings; blame was safest turned upon himself, and used as a poisonous goad to train his own thoughts and behaviors, until he could grovel before those who required it and play the wiseacre for those who rewarded it, until his spirit was as supple as his body and what remained in him was a sharp, sly intelligence and a core of anger so deep it had turned to stone.
Now, even knowing it to be folly, he settled into the old mental routine as he washed himself hurriedly and scrambled to dress. Bane's clothing must be carried to the laundry, his practice armor would be needed in the training yard within the hour—
And still the chorus of blame rang out in John's head. If you had not told Bane you love him, he would not have pulled back— if you had not been such a coward, and told him before now that Talia had no feelings for him— if you had not gone behind his back to spy, he would have trusted you more— these thoughts pierced like knives, but the sting of blame and the self-loathing that came with it were familiar, and his world began to reassemble into something that made sense. He was wretched, and he wanted wrong things; only by working hard and doing as he was told, only by keeping his perverse nature secret and by honing his body and his intelligence into useful weapons for others to carry, only in these did he have any worth or meaning.
If you had not abandoned Bruce to the sorcerer's machinations, to Talia's arms... If you had not let yourself adore Bruce so, and been able to trust yourself with him, and truly befriended him and gained his trust... If you had not been born with such unnatural desires... If you had not been born—
With these recriminations pounding in his head, John rounded the corner by the vintner's pantry and saw a flash of familiar dark-brown hair— the hem of Selina's skirt disappeared into the pantry, and the door snicked shut with quiet caution that set off every alarm bell in John's body.
He crouched by the door, recriminations silenced, listening intently; within, Selina's voice murmured in scarcely-audible phrases. John caught only a few words, Talia and followed and gods above, Bruce and alive and prisoner and John fell back against the wall. Any other snippets of conversation were lost, falling against his deaf ears. Selina, spying on Talia rather than serving her? Bruce alive, and hidden away? Gods, could it be?
Habit pushed him upright again, quieted his pounding heart and forced him to listen. He knew the voice speaking now— Alfred, the castle steward and the King's confidante, who would certainly have died rather than betray him. It seemed that Selina was working against her mistress now, if Talia were truly Bruce's enemy rather than his bereaved widow.
A third voice rose, this one chiding, and John's brow knit as he recognized Auld Fox, the court wizard. The man rarely involved himself in the affairs of court; his was the domain of alchemy and astrology, impenetrable experiments and puzzling gadgetry. He had been known for bespelling Bruce's armor, and for summoning (some said) the King's demon steed, the black horse called the Bat. John could not imagine Auld Fox embroiling himself in some conspiracy scheme.
Footsteps approached the door, and John dodged away just as the latch lifted, ducking himself behind the corner. The door opened, as softly as before; and Selina's voice drifted to him.
"I have not stolen so much as a pin in a month," she said. "Alfred's silver and china treasures are safe from me, Auld Fox, and I have given you my mistress's darkest secrets and betrayed her to death for you— will you not trust me now?"
"If you have not earned my trust," replied Auld Fox, his voice amused and weary, "then I must not put my confidence in any man but Alfred until I die. You have done well, child. But you have not yet betrayed your mistress utterly— my arts tell me you will have more than one chance yet, to surrender her to her fate or to deliver her from her misdeeds as you choose."
"Will I choose rightly," said Selina, every trace of wit or superiority stripped away, beseeching.
"Yes," said Auld Fox, and John could almost hear the twinkle of his eye as he said it. "Now begone, child, before you ask me more difficult questions."
The door closed and Selina slipped away, hurrying back to Talia's chambers, and John made it as far as the armor storeroom nearest to Bane's billet before he sagged to the ground.
Bruce, alive. Bruce was alive. Somehow the mere whispering of it set the world on its head; the saintly image of Bruce in John's mind (lit with afternoon sun, smiling, only a hint of sadness in his eyes) dissolved into something immediate and pressing: that face, in dim light, tied in a cell or tormented on a rack or bound and gagged in a shed. Were they torturing him? Was he in the palace itself, or had he been carried away somewhere, an exile?
His chest hurt as if crimped with side-stitches; he was nauseated, and he shook. Surely the marriage must be dissolved now. Was he to have another chance with his king? He pictured himself kicking down the door of Talia's chambers and finding him bound within, tearing the shackles from those graceful wrists, lifting his helpless body from a prisoner's cot and carrying him out to freedom, cradled in his arms. He pictured Bruce's eyes opening, widening in recognition; and he told himself that a man might be forgiven one kiss, if he had just saved his king, and he closed his eyes on that image and opened them to the light-blotting form of Bane, who leaned over him with puzzled eyes.
"Are you well?"
"Yes," said John, "of course, never better." He could not even begin to disguise the lie. He could not bear to look at Bane; he did not wish to mingle the memory of this man's flesh with his fantasy of Bruce's rescue.
Bane simply looked at him, offering a broad hand to help John to his feet, and John struggled upright on his own, not wanting Bane to perceive the way he trembled.
"Will you be in the training yard soon," said Bane, shying away from any more dangerous questions, and John allowed himself a moment of relief to respond: "I'll bring your practice armor, and your new boots need breaking in—"
"I apologize," interrupted Bane. "I have wronged you, John."
"I don't want to talk about it," said John, choking on what felt suspiciously like a sob.
"I will not make you speak," said Bane, clenching his fists at his sides and then relaxing them. "It is I who am in your debt, and I wish to make amends—"
"Please," said John, hoarse from the effort of controlling his voice. "Please, don't."
"I have... I have taken a great deal from you, and offered you little enough in return," Bane pushed on. His eyes bored into John, and John fancied he could see through them the next words: I know that you have loved me, and if I could love you in return— but Talia— I am not the type of man—
And truly, Bane began to speak the words: I know that you— but John had hurt enough, and he was already torn to the edge of weeping, and he snarled: "If you wish to tell me that you love Talia deeply and terribly and that I could never understand her, or the way you love her, then you are welcome to her! I will never touch you again, if that is your wish— I will resign, and let your lady-love wreak whatever vengeance she likes, and you may have another simpleminded gods-damned manservant to clean your boots while you pine after a woman who is fucking her maid!"
There was a short silence; even in the dim light John could see the pulse leaping at Bane's throat. "Fucking her maid," repeated Bane, tasting the words the way a dying man clutches at the sword in his belly. "You know she is with child?"
"Then she's fucking someone else too," said John, light and cutting, at once sickened and elated with the careless viciousness spilling into his words. "But when she's fucking Selina, she likes to touch her hair and speak of love and protecting, she likes it when Selina licks her belly and eats her cunt, and she likes to laugh on her pillow about her poor heartbroken knight once she's come. Do you know what she sounds like when she comes? Because I know, now, and so does Selina, because she gets to make her lady come. Have you ever done that?"
He broke off, panting for breath, feeling his lips curl in dark fury. He knew the look in Bane's eyes would haunt him forever, and for now— with anger boiling inside him, with acid on his lips and the bittersweet knowledge that Bruce lived cutting into his heart— for now he did not care.
"I came here," said Bane at last, in tones that John had never heard from him even in the depths of passion, "to find you, to tell you that I love you, that I wish to be as close to you as a man to his bride, that I— that—" His voice broke, and John realized with a fierce triumph that he had reduced his master, his enemy, to weeping. "John, gods, fuck, have I hurt you so badly? Why— how can you say these things, if you love me as I love you?"
"Certainly you love me now, with Talia revealed as a whore," said John, face contorted with nastiness and temper. "Of course, now that I've taken your cock in every hole, now that you'll need a bedwarmer while you find the next woman you'll follow like a puppy while she fucks everyone but you—"
"I have never wished to strike you before now," said Bane, thick and dangerous. "I will not strike you now, but gods, John, do not tempt me."
"And this is how a man speaks to the man he loves," mocked John, spreading his arms in false demonstration.
"I do love you—"
"You do not. You want your cock suckled, that's all."
Bane clenched his fists again, and John remembered that this was the champion who had gutted four men in simultaneous combat, who had punished Bruce's armies so thoroughly that he married a sorcerer's daughter to save his kingdom, and now John was taunting him to murder in a dark closet where he would never be missed. For the first time since he had begun his tirade, the burden of fury lifted from him a little, and he saw the storm of pain and rage and confusion and loss in the eyes above the mask before Bane turned and left the room in silence.
"Gods strike me down," said John, hating himself more than he had imagined possible; the words cracked into a sob, and he staggered from the storeroom once the thunderous rumor of Bane's footsteps had faded away.
Selina rounded the corner as he emerged and stopped, startled; John realized he must look a mess, eyes tear-swollen and face still twisted with emotion.
"Bruce is alive," he said to her, and she went white all over, but she nodded.
"I will do anything to find him," said John, and Selina nodded again and offered him one of the towels she held.
She waited for him to scrub his face and take a few deep breaths, then tilted her head. "Can you open a door for me?"