~**A/N**~ Hi everyone! I don't want to give much away, but I do want to warn people who have a vendetta against Will/Kate to maybe skip this story. I would appreciate it though if you read it! A big thanks to anyone who reviews, it's people like you that keep me going! And [what a bad writer, you don't start a sentence with 'and'!], as crazy as it may sound, I dedicate this story to Edgar Allen Poe, without whom I would be without inspiration and a title!
Changes were in the air. William could feel it, hear it; his ears hardly eluded the whispers floating past him, the whispers of a terror too great to speak aloud. His blood turned cold whenever anyone gave him a look of sympathy, an encouraging word. The faith he had had in his people, his land, was now gone. No one could heal him from the grief he was feeling. From the grief Jocelyn was feeling. He sat still for a moment, unthinking, as a gust of air came in through his window, showering his face with the smell of flowers below in the courtyard.

The flowers were almost all gone now; William had cut them every day to keep by Jocelyn's bedside so that she would not forget what beauty there was outside her bedroom walls. It had been the only time he had been allowed in her room. Now all he had were scattered memories that got away from him more every day. Christiana kept William away from Jocelyn. This had proved difficult at first, and Christiana had gotten into an awful row with William over it. In the end they had apologized and forgiven each other. Now Christiana was not even allowed to see Jocelyn. No one was.

William could hardly imagine the solitude Jocelyn must be feeling. Growing sicker every day, waiting for the inevitable end, with no one by her side. She was fading quickly, but no relief came to her, and he stayed up many nights listening to her screams of pain. His heart broke every time he had walked past her door. The cool air he was feeling on his face could not even grace Jocelyn's; for fear that her disease would spread further than it already had. It had been ironic, that something as ugly and cold as the Black Death had somehow touched Jocelyn's refreshing demeanor. Now she was dying and there was nothing he could do. He had cried when he had found out, and then ran into the woods for two days, ashamed that anyone should see him in such a state. He was heir to Jocelyn's father's estate, and he had behaved like a child. He had cried out for his mother, his father, but never for Jocelyn. There were no words to express his grief. Dry sobs had come to him and had almost killed him from a broken heart.

He was brought back to the present by a light knocking at his door. He mumbled incoherently, and the door slightly opened.

"William."

He turned quickly. The voice was warm, yet full of pain. He knew what Christiana was about to say before she had even fully come into the room. And he was already pushing her out of his way, as he ran blindly in his tears through the hall.

Resistance met him at Jocelyn's chamber door, but he quickly overtook the guard, and went into her room.

His heart was caught in his throat. A gauzy blanket had been placed over Jocelyn's face. The room smelled of something rotten, and it choked him. He made his way slowly to her bedside, not worrying about the consequences of this forbidden action. He had to see his princess, his wife. He unveiled her and looked upon her face in horror and admiration. Even now, she looked strong. But she also looked of death, and William covered her back up quickly. Jocelyn would not have wanted him to remember her that way. Yet he uncovered her again, and hugged her tightly. Her hair was slick with grease, but he kissed it over and over again, rubbing his shaking hands through it. He had nothing to say. He dropped her back onto the bed and kissed her forehead, putting the blanket back over her face. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He had prepared for this day so long, that he was not sure what to do next.

His instincts grabbed him, and he picked up the glass vase with the flowers, and threw it against the wall. Outside the door he could hear Christiana let out a yelp. A moment later, her bedside table was broken too, and the mirror over it had a fist sized crack in it. He wrapped his bleeding hand with the wet rag that had been used to keep Jocelyn cool. The beige fabric immediately was spotted with red, but he ignored it, and sat on the edge of her bed. There was no point in standing over her; nothing would bring back the love and warmth he had felt with her.

Christiana entered the room and gave a quick look around. His face told her to leave, and she did so quietly, without looking at him again. She jumped as he let out a loud, frustrated yell. Another piece of glass could be heard shattering behind the door. William had thrown Jocelyn's jewelry box against the wall. The shining silver pieces fell to the floor, never to be worn again. William took another look at Jocelyn, his last, and then all went black.