Originally posted to AO3 on April 12, 2021.
And, at last, the follow-up to my previous piece about one of these two poor boys losing his wife.
...All I do is write depressing shit, eat hot chip, and lie
I've decided to split it into two parts since it was getting pretty long and I hoped it would motivate me to write the second half faster, haha
Convenience
When Serra broke the news to him, her eyes fixed on her feet and her voice uncharacteristically hesitant, Hector didn't feel a thing.
She stood there in the door of his study, her hands folded behind her back, and told him that they'd done everything they could, but it wasn't enough―his wife had passed away. She gave him Lyndis' last words, which Lyndis herself had written down on a scrap of parchment, not trusting the clerics to deliver it word-for-word from memory. Then Serra offered her condolences, paused awkwardly for a moment, and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.
Hector stared at the paper held gingerly in his hand, and he didn't feel a thing.
They'd known for a long time that Lyn's life was nearing its end. She'd nearly died in childbirth―so had their little Lilina―and, although she pulled through in the end, she'd been weak ever since then. Soon enough, the bouts of nausea and lingering lightheadedness had intensified, turning into weeks of bedrest and unceasing headaches that left her sensitive to the slightest noise.
Everyone had known that she would die. Hell, she'd probably spent the past few months planning out her last words. It must have been disappointing that she had to write them down, rather than saying them to her lover's face. But no one had expected her to die today.
If they had, then there would've been people other than Serra at her bedside to hear her final words.
"My love, I'm sorry I couldn't stay," the parchment read in Lyn's lopsided handwriting. "But, no matter how many years go by, I will always be with you. My adoration for you lingers in the winds that sweep the plains." He could look at the shaky lines of each letter and picture her hands trembling, the tip of the pen scratching weakly against the paper.
The last line was crammed into the corner, and most of it had been consumed by blots of ink and errant pen strokes. Nonetheless, Hector could make out what it said: "don't forget―2nd drawer".
It was purposefully vague and cryptic for fear of prying eyes. But that didn't really matter. The message wasn't really supposed to make sense; it was just meant to be a reminder. And Hector already remembered.
He remembered, even though he felt nothing.
Oswin was waiting just outside of the study, his back to the wall and his head down. When Hector emerged, he immediately turned on his heel and snapped to attention, which was an uncommon enough occurrence to draw Hector's eye.
"Marquess," Oswin said, "I've put a notice out regarding Lady Lyndis'... passing. The news should reach the other marches before evening, if the weather permits. The populace has also been informed. Also, Elimine's bishops are gathering for the final rites. How should I instruct them to handle the body and burial?"
Funeral arrangements and official declarations of death were so far removed from Oswin's job description that it wasn't funny. Still, it was just like him to practically demand more duties―to take the burden from Hector's shoulders so casually―and a glimmer of gratitude shone through the empty numbness that encased Hector's insides.
"Tell them to do what they must for her soul, but don't let them bury her yet," he said without a single inflection. "I want... an open visitation, so that people can come and say their goodbyes. Starting tomorrow and lasting for as long as they can preserve her."
For once, Oswin didn't try to play the voice of reason. In fact, he didn't mention the absurdity of Hector's request at all. "Yes, milord," he agreed with a respectful half-bow. "Will you be retiring for the day, then?"
If Hector didn't know any better, he could've mistaken that command for a humble suggestion. As it was, he just closed his eyes with a heavy sigh. "...Later, Oswin. I... have a letter to write."
"Milord, surely it can wait," Oswin protested, still not breaking his facade of unwavering servitude, despite the boldness of his words. "Your fellow marquesses will not be expecting correspondence from you for quite some time yet."
Hector shook his head firmly, leaving no room for argument, but all he said in the way of explanation was, "It cannot wait." With that, he turned his back, hoping that his armor and cape would make for a more commanding sight than his weary face. "Once it is complete, I'll be sending the missive to Ilia. This is to be considered top priority, and its contents will be strictly classified."
To his credit, Oswin didn't hesitate for a moment. "Yes, Lord Hector. I shall send our swiftest messenger to deliver your letter," he said, mirroring Hector's stiff formalities. Then, without missing a beat: "Once it is sent, will you retire?"
Gods above, but he was a stubborn one. "...Yes, I suppose I will," Hector acquiesced after a moment of thought. He had to retrieve Lyn's letter from their bedroom, anyway, and this gave him an excuse to do so without arousing suspicion. "If it eases your mind, I will write from my quarters."
"That does ease me, thank you, my lord," Oswin replied immediately, almost before he could finish speaking, as if he was afraid that Hector would retract his offer if given a moment to think it over. "I shall direct our messenger to your door so that this missive may be sent at your earliest convenience."
Really, none of this was Oswin's job―he was a knight and vassal, not a servant. His duties were to protect and guide, not take care of mindless busywork. As numb and exhausted as he was, though, Hector didn't have the energy to spare on questioning it, so he simply said, "Very well; thank you, Oswin," and walked away without another word.
The scrap of parchment containing Lyn's last words burned a hole through his gauntlets and gloves, melting the steel and searing the leather right down to the palm of his hand, but Hector didn't feel a thing.
Their chambers―just his chambers, now―weren't particularly odd for the room of a noble married couple. One large bed in the middle of the room; two small bedside tables, one on either side; two wardrobes, because Hector's armor took up too much space for them to share one; a writing desk for Lyn, because she didn't get her own study like he did; various shelves scattered across the walls; a wide chest at the foot of the bed.
Hector didn't look at the two matching swords or elegant shortbow mounted on the wall.
As always, Lyn's writing desk was in a spectacular state of disarray, but it wasn't difficult to navigate; Hector was used to his own desk, which was far, far worse. Anyway, he didn't need anything off the desk itself, and Lyn's half-finished writings were none of his business. He bypassed them entirely and knelt down so he could reach the drawers built into the desk's legs.
It didn't take very long. Just by opening the second drawer and sliding his fingers across the inside corners, he quickly found the false bottom and pulled it out. Underneath it, sandwiched between thin pieces of fabric, was an envelope sealed with string rather than wax, Sacaen style. It was emblazoned with a dark, crisp string of foreign characters, rendered beautifully in Lyn's handwriting, which was usually cramped and crooked. "Миний хайрт," it read.
She'd addressed it in Sacaen. Smart. No average Lycian would dare learn Sacean script. Hector wouldn't even recognize it as such, were it not for Lyn's influence. The outside of the envelope, at least, would be safe from prying eyes.
Hector pulled the envelope out and placed it on the corner of the desk, then sat down and pilfered a pen, an inkwell, and a blank piece of paper from her drawer. Luckily, there was already a small space cleared atop the desk, so he didn't have to push any of her papers aside; he just smoothed the paper out and began to write.
"Dear Florina," he started, then paused and reconsidered. He pushed the paper aside into one of Lyn's piles, then hastily snatched it back up and threw it away. The last thing he wanted was to mix his own papers in with Lyn's; he felt wrong just sitting at this desk, much less tampering with its contents.
He started anew.
"Florina," he wrote this time, deeming the "dear" at once too formal and too familiar. "I'm sorry to bring you―" he paused; scribbled that out. "I'm sorry to inform you―" No; that was even worse. He struck that out, too. "I'm sorry to say that―"
Damn it. He crumpled up the paper and threw it away.
"Florina,
I'm sorry to tell you that Lyn is although the medics tried their best, they couldn't Lady Lyndis still passed away this morning. I know we were you were probably expecting this the news her death this letter, as she was already nearly dea in a fragile condition when you last visited. She wrote you In the event of her death, she wanted this letter to be delivered to you, because she and it goes without saying that you are welcome at her funeral. We are holding an open visitation period for you so please feel free to come by at your leisure. I'll try to give you some time alone with her, but Guests who were particularly close to her, as you were, will be allowed private visitation. Hurry Please remember that I can only the visitation will only last for as long as the clerics can preserve her.
Before she died Her last words She spoke of you in Enclosed in this envelope is the letter Lyndis wrote to you, as well as her last words, which she also wrote before she passed. Be careful Don't let anyone Keep in mind that the contents of this envelope are strictly classified, for your eyes only.
My condolences,
―Lord Hector, Marquess of Ostia"
Hector read the letter over and bitterly decided that it would have to suffice. He hadn't the time to transcribe it onto a fresh sheet of paper, nor fiddle with the words to ensure it sounded perfectly normal, like a letter which was truly about a close friend's death, rather than a lover's final message.
This letter, with its ink blots and suspicious wording, would have to suffice.
The odds of anyone reading it except for its intended recipient were negligible. Even then, Lyn's last words were already plenty incriminating on their own, and he didn't doubt that the contents of her string-sealed envelope were even more blatant (he certainly hoped her final letter to Florina wasn't as stilted as this). Really, he didn't have to be so secretive. He probably could've simply written, "Your Lyndis is dead, and, since you couldn't be with her on her deathbed, she wrote this letter as a final message for you. As her husband, I'll make sure you get a chance to see her again if it's the last thing I do."
Still, it never hurt to be careful. Not when you were keeping a secret as big as this one; a secret that could tear apart families, posthumously destroy Lyndis' reputation, and render his daughter legally illegitimate.
Gods, Lilina. He'd almost forgotten about her entirely.
One thing at a time.
Hector folded the letter and stuffed it into a large envelope, along with Lyn's letter, still sealed. After tearing off the blotted, illegible instructions at the bottom, he neatly folded the parchment containing Lyn's last words and slipped that inside, as well.
All he had to do then was write "Florina of House Caelin" across the front―an outdated form of address, but she would have to forgive him. He wished he could try to copy Lyn's elegant "Миний хайрт", which he assumed to be some sort of pet name, but they couldn't take the minuscule risk that the messenger could read Sacaen. So he addressed it to "Florina of House Caelin", because he wanted to at least acknowledge her connection to Lyn, and he sealed it with his Ostian signet ring and the untouched stick of blue wax tucked away in Lyn's drawer.
As Oswin had promised, the messenger was waiting just outside the door, already suited up for a swift journey to Ilia. He departed immediately with strict orders not to so much as look at the envelope under threat of banishment―top priority, top secret, Hector told him. At his speed, the message would make it to Florina within two days, as long as she wasn't away on a job and therefore unreachable.
It was incredibly likely that she was away on a job. The chances of her arriving in time to see Lyn were slim.
Perhaps, if Hector had sent two messengers; one to search for Florina around the towns where she usually took jobs, and another to ensure Lyn's envelope arrived safe and sound―or if he had only written faster; if he'd prepared his own letter ahead of time, like Lyn had, and sent them off as soon as Serra knocked on his door and softly called his name―perhaps then she would be able to―
It was out of his hands now.
Fortunately, Oswin was lingering nearby, as Hector had suspected, and he wasn't difficult to find; he snapped to attention as soon as Hector approached. "What of Lilina?" Hector asked immediately, without beating around the bush.
Oswin hesitated for a moment, although his face remained stoic. "Lady Lilina was able to see Lady Lyndis before she passed," he said slowly, staring straight ahead. "She... seems to understand, on some level, that Lady Lyndis is gone, but... it's hard to tell with young children. ...I believe Serra is with her now."
At first, Hector didn't respond; he just stared over Oswin's shoulder, trying to picture the scene. If Lilina was truly present right before Lyn's death, he couldn't imagine that Lyn would've pulled her punches. She would have told Lilina, with brutal honesty, that she was going to die. Forever. Some might call that overly harsh. For their little family of proud fools, though, there was no other option.
He hoped that Lilina had a chance to embrace her mother one last time.
"I should see her," Hector said, and took a step forward. Before he could take another, Oswin suddenly cut in front of him, his hands folded behind his back; not directly touching his lord, but still physically forcing him to stop.
"Lord Hector, not to be overly bold," Oswin said, his firm voice belying the subservient words, "but I don't believe it is in either of your best interests to see each other at the moment. Perhaps you might rest for the remainder of the day, and see your daughter tomorrow."
Judging by the way he braced himself, he was prepared for Hector to respond aggressively, even violently. Yet Hector found that he didn't have the energy to even push past Oswin, much less hit him. "Very well," was all he said, and he ignored the shocked look Oswin shot him. "I... will retire. But, if she needs me..."
"I will come retrieve you immediately," Oswin assured him. "Will you be closing the castle doors for today, milord?"
"No, I'll continue to take visitors," Hector said, because dealing with the inevitable influx of well-wishers was better to do now than later.
Oswin shot him a disapproving look, but, perhaps deciding not to try his luck again, merely bowed shallowly. "Very well, Lord Hector. I shall direct visitors to your door, unless they are deemed unimportant." Another brazen statement that should've been a question; another extra duty Oswin created for himself. "I wish you a peaceful rest, milord. ...My condolences for your loss."
This was most likely the least infuriating platitude Hector would hear all day, so he decided not to bother being irritated by it. "Yes, thank you, Oswin," he said, and then he stepped back and closed the door, shutting himself in his empty chambers which were really intended for two.
There were no chairs in the room―other than Lyn's writing desk, which he'd already sullied enough―so Hector had no real choice other than to retire as Oswin suggested. He stripped off each piece of his armor slowly and methodically, moving on autopilot, his fingers fumbling with each clasp. Once he was down to his tunic and trousers, he stored the armor away in his own, exclusive wardrobe, as neatly as one could stack several dozen metal plates of various sizes and shapes.
Then, for lack of anything better to do, Hector laid down in their―his―bed, pulled the covers over his legs simply because it felt natural, and stared blankly up at the ceiling, his arms limp by his sides.
He felt nothing.
The first well-wishers started trickling in far too quickly.
He wouldn't be surprised to learn that Oswin was turning most of them away, but it still seemed like far too much. First, the higher-ranking officers and knights began to show up, offering condolences in the most stiff, respectful way. He did feel for General Kent, who was legitimately visibly upset by the news, and Wil, who even had to wipe away a tear before he hastily excused himself, but the rest?
Make no mistake: they were sincere enough. But all they did was go on and on about how Lyn had been such a wonderful woman; they were sorry to see her go so soon; she was in a better place, now; sometimes there was just nothing to be done―and, most infuriatingly of all, how strong Hector was for taking it so well. The number of times some well-meaning fool had told him, 'Well, if it were my wife, I certainly wouldn't be so calm,' as if that was supposed to be a compliment―
As if Hector had any right to mourn Lyn as a husband mourns a wife when their marriage was one of convenience―
Suffice it to say, Hector was starting to understand why a man who'd truly lost his wife might not want to see any visitors. Even he, who was mourning a friend more than anything, was beginning to tire of them.
Nevertheless, they kept coming, particularly as the morning stretched into day and then waned into night. Some of the nearby nobles were beginning to arrive; those who had gotten the notice first and were close enough to stop by and show their sympathy. The visit from his cousin, Orun, was welcome enough, he supposed, although they'd never been particularly close. The rest of these visits were borderline unbearable.
Most of these nobles clearly didn't like him―even this many years after he'd taken the throne, he was still widely regarded as young and reckless―but they were interested in gaining the favor of Marquess Ostia, and so they were quick to lavish him with sympathy. Somehow, it managed to be even more taxing than the more familiar visits from the knights and officers.
Even though they had gone about as well as he could have anticipated, the meetings left him in an incredibly foul mood, so he was immensely grateful when Oswin informed him that there would be no more visitors tonight. Even if they showed up at this hour, they would be turned away. "It's been a long day, and you need your rest," Oswin said, which made Hector feel like a child, but he was too exhausted to be angry about it.
Once he was alone again, safely tucked into his quarters, he fell back on the bed and assumed his earlier position. He didn't bother changing into his nightclothes or getting comfortable under the blankets; if he fell asleep at all tonight, it certainly wouldn't be any time soon. The exhaustion that weighed on him couldn't be cured by bedrest; he'd been laying down in bed intermittently all day, and that hadn't exactly helped.
(Besides, he'd forgotten how difficult it was to sleep in such a large, cold, empty bed, all alone.)
('Florina will have to relearn this, too,' his mind whispered. 'But, then again, she probably never forgot.')
When dawn broke, Hector arose, even though he'd never truly fallen asleep. Methodically, he got back into all of his armor, not changing his tunic or trousers because he couldn't be bothered, and left his room.
Halfway to his office, Oswin intercepted him, looking about as haggard as Hector did, right down to the fact that he hadn't changed his clothes. "Lord Hector," he said, his exhaustion exacerbating the irritation in his voice, "you should return to bed."
"I would say the same to you," Hector responded, his voice flat and hoarse, "but that would imply that you'd ever gone to bed in the first place."
Oswin paused for only a moment, but recovered admirably. "Then perhaps I phrased my sentence incorrectly," he said, his eyes raking critically up Hector's slouched form. "You should go to bed, Lord Hector. Ostia will still be here tomorrow."
Oswin was getting progressively bolder with his borderline-insubordination, Hector thought numbly. It was something that, as Marquess, he should probably nip in the bud.
"I'll be in my study," he said, and walked past Oswin without a second glance.
Despite his exhaustion, he remained true to his word. For the rest of the day, he sat behind his desk and went through the motions of doing paperwork, pausing only to offer greetings and farewells to all the well-wishers who dropped by. At the very least, even the nobles he barely recognized sounded much more sincere now. Judging by their comments, the open visitation must have been underway, and several of them seemed genuinely choked up.
It occurred to Hector that he hadn't actually seen his wife since several hours before her death.
He did not go to the visitation.
He did attempt to visit Lilina as soon as he had a moment, but he didn't make it very far. When he knocked on his daughter's bedroom door, Serra, of all people, cracked it open and peeked through. The poor woman was almost as frazzled and exhausted-looking as Oswin. "Er, hello, Lord Hector," she said quickly. "I didn't think you'd―"
Behind her, he heard his daughter's young, high-pitched voice. "Tell him to go away."
Serra's eyes went wide with horror, flickering between the two of them, but Hector was too numb to be hurt. "I can hear you, lass," he said softly, leaning forward to speak through the small gap.
Lilina huffed. "Go away, Father!" she said again, ignoring Serra's frantic shushing motions. "I don't wanna see you!"
Despite himself, Hector couldn't muster up a single emotion―not frustration; not hurt; not fond indulgence. All he could do was lean back and wearily accept his daughter's judgment. "Alright, just be nice to Miss Serra, kiddo," he called through the door. Then, lowering his voice, he muttered, "Make sure she eats, and come get me if she changes her mind."
Serra nodded, then closed the door in his face and immediately began whispering furiously to Lilina. He took the hint and returned to his study, his face completely blank.
Three times during the day, a servant came by to bring him food. In the name of not being a hypocrite, Hector ate every bite, but most of it was hard to choke down. He could only hope that Lilina would do the same.
About halfway through the day, Oswin entered. "Milord," he said without waiting to be acknowledged, "we don't expect to receive any more visitors today. Now would be an excellent time to retire."
Hector continued to work without so much as twitching.
A few hours later, he made another attempt. "Lord Hector, you're completely caught up on everything you missed yesterday, and everything we had scheduled for today. There's no reason for you to continue." Again, he was ignored completely.
Later still, he stood in the doorway and spoke until he was very nearly shouting. "Milord, you can't stay here forever. You haven't even seen her yet. You haven't slept. How do you expect to do anything in this state? This isn't strength, this is foolishness. She's your wife; you're supposed to grieve. Denying yourself that will do nothing but hurt you!"
Hector continued to stare down silently at his papers until Oswin eventually got frustrated enough to leave. The door slammed shut behind him with enough force to rattle the portrait of Uther hanging on the wall.
Hector stared down at the papers, which he'd already signed, despite not having read a word of them, and didn't feel a thing.
He found himself thinking, as he lay in bed that night, that grieving for his wife would have been much easier if their marriage had been legitimate.
It didn't even necessarily have to be as idyllic as Eliwood's relationship with Ninian, nor as unbreakable as the bond between Lyn and Florina. He didn't need puppy-dog eyes and passionate kisses; he just wished that his circumstances were a bit more... normal.
He wished that they had married for love, not convenience. At least, then, he would be able to mourn her honestly, as any man mourns his lost wife.
Failing that, he wished that it could've been a purely political marriage; a union that existed only on paper to someone whom he didn't care about at all. He couldn't imagine being particularly happy like that―in fact, when he'd first agreed to marry Lyn, he'd been borderline terrified of such a fate―but at least, then, he would be able to brush her death off. He wouldn't have to mourn any more than he did for the death of any other nameless noble.
Either option would have been more manageable than this.
But this.
Lyndis wasn't just a friend; she was his wife. But, at the same time, she wasn't his love, and he wasn't hers. This was precisely why they'd gotten married in the first place. Lyn never would have approached Hector with her proposition if they hadn't both known that the other was in love with someone else.
"I know how you feel about Eliwood," was the first thing she'd said to him back then. Once he was done having a heart attack, she'd continued, "I'm pretty sure you know how I feel about Florina." It had all been laid out rather clearly.
"Even moreso," she'd added when Hector nodded warily, "I think you know how I feel about taking the throne in Caelin, and I think you know how poorly the people would react if I simply ceded control to you."
(Here, Hector remembered saying, "What are you suggesting?", which he thought was an impressive show of composure, since he also remembered being overcome with terror; horrified at the realization that his long-standing crush wasn't as discreet as he had thought.)
"If the marquesses of Ostia and Caelin were to marry, it would only be natural for the larger and more powerful Ostia to take Caelin under its protection," was Lyn's marriage proposal. "The people would eat up a story of love blossoming between nobles during the war. You and I would both produce our required one heir to the throne. And, since we're the same, neither of us would ever have to pretend that we love each other above all else."
Perhaps, if Hector was more like Eliwood, or even more like Lyn―if he had the capacity to love women―he might have been in a position to deny her proposition. As it was, though, he would've been a fool to reject her.
But perhaps, if he had said 'No', this wouldn't be so complicated.
How was he supposed to mourn her when they loved each other, they truly did, but both of them loved someone else more?
Dawn broke, and Hector got out of bed, groggy and lightheaded, his entire body heavy with exhaustion. He would have to change his tunic and trousers at some point, but he couldn't muster up the energy to strip, so he just fumbled back into his armor, fingers clumsy on the clasps, and staggered towards the door.
When he tried to turn the knob, his hand simply slipped off, ramming awkwardly into the door. Frowning, he got a firmer grip and tried again, but the knob didn't jiggle, even when he yanked with all of his body weight. The door rattled in its frame, but otherwise didn't budge an inch.
It was locked. From the outside.
For the first time since Serra gave him the news, a flicker of emotion tickled at the base of Hector's skull.
Slowly, he forced his fingers to slacken so that he could draw his hand away. A deep breath in and out. "Oswin," he said, short and clipped.
The response was almost immediate. "My apologies, Lord Hector," said Oswin, his voice muffled through the door (and completely devoid of guilt), "but, as your retainer, I can't allow you to run yourself ragged like this. You should use this time to rest and recuperate."
Hector's fists clenched. "Oswin," he repeated through his teeth. He shouldn't have allowed Oswin to take so many liberties yesterday. He shouldn't have wasted his night feigning sleep. He should have stayed in his office. He should have told Oswin off. He should have seen his daughter, whether she wanted it or not. He should have seen his wife before the visitation began. He should have seen his wife before she died. He should have refused to make her his wife. He should have. Should have.
"Milord," Oswin said, somewhat more gently this time, "if you would like to attend the visitation, see to visitors, or speak with your daughter, you may ask. I will post a servant outside your door to attend to you. For now, you need your sleep, and you need to take some time to mourn. You have subordinates to take over your duties in situations like this. Please attend to your own needs."
For a moment, Hector simply stared blankly at the door as if he could see through the mahogany and catch a glimpse of Oswin's face. Then, slowly, he stepped away, the floorboards creaking minutely beneath his weight. Neither man spoke. Hector took a deep, calming breath.
He slammed his entire body into the door with a resounding wham. The wood cracked and rattled noisily in its frame; the walls shook. Faintly, he heard the clinking of a crystal chandelier as it trembled―high and clear, like a wind chime.
The noises faded.
Hector extracted himself from the shallow imprint of his body that he'd left in the door, splinters of wood falling between the plates of his armor. They would have to replace the door at some point, but it was of good craftsmanship, and Hector's shoulder wasn't enough to break it.
Somehow, he didn't feel any better.
Eventually, Oswin spoke again, though his voice was quiet and respectful. "I will fetch your meals for you," he said. "What would you like for breakfast?"
Hector closed his eyes, let out a long breath, and leaned forward against the door, his forehead pressing against the smooth wood. "Oswin," he said very calmly, "the moment you open this door, I'm going to break every bone in your body."
"I'll bring whatever the cooks suggest," Oswin said. "Please rest until then, Lord Hector. You sound very unwell."
His muffled footsteps retreated down the hall until they were too far away for Hector to hear. Hector didn't move until long after then, though; he hadn't the will to so much as twitch a pinky. All he felt, now, was a quiet, simmering anger. Other than that, he simply felt numb and lethargic.
At great length, he stepped back and sat heavily on the edge of his bed. This somehow turned into him laying down across the rumpled, unmade sheets, staring at the ceiling as if it contained the secrets to the universe.
Oswin did, indeed, bring him breakfast at some point, but Hector was so out of it that he didn't even notice. Eventually, he raised his head to find a tray of food sitting just within the door, which was now closed and locked yet again, with no idea when it had been placed there.
If he had the energy for complex thought, he may have been unnerved at his own obliviousness. As it was, he simply stared at the toast, sliced fruit, and bowl of porridge that awaited him, then let his head flop back down onto the mattress.
He neither ate nor slept.
He just lay there and drifted and continued to feel nothing at all.
Time passed.
Hector must have fallen asleep at some point, because the unexpected knock at his door jolted him awake.
The sunlight that entered through his window had faded almost entirely; it was nearly evening. Every inch of his body ached from having fallen asleep sprawled across the bed with his armor on. His head was pounding mercilessly. Though he lacked the energy to bolt upright, he was eventually able to push himself into something that resembled a sitting position.
"Milord," Oswin said, in the tone of one who was repeating himself for the third or forth time. "You have a visitor."
This had happened enough times in the past few days that his reaction was more or less ingrained by now. "Enter," Hector said, his voice hoarse and rough from sleep or dehydration, or perhaps both.
For a moment, in his simultaneously sleep-addled and sleep-deprived state, he forgot about Oswin's infuriating, insubordinate actions entirely. Then, after a pause, Oswin said, "I hope you don't still intend on breaking my bones?" and the last bit of Hector's weariness vanished beneath a fresh wave of irritation.
Gritting his teeth, Hector leaned against the footrest heavily to stave off a sudden swirl of vertigo. "Depends," he growled. "You gonna stop treating me like a disobedient hound?"
There was no response at first. Then Oswin sighed heavily. "My apologies for the trouble. I hope you don't mind," he said softly to the visitor outside, his voice just barely loud enough for Hector to hear. "Please let me know when you are ready to depart."
As Oswin unlocked and opened the door, Hector clenched his fists until they were white-knuckled on the duvet. He might have even made good on his threat, were it not for the fact that, in the next moment, Eliwood stepped into the room, all dressed in black, and stunned him into silence.
The door closed behind him, and Hector distantly heard the click of the bolt sliding home.
"Hey, Hector," Eliwood said with a strained smile. He shrugged off his cloak and stood there in his mourning garb, hands clasped uncertainly behind him. "How are you holding up?"