I am no poet. Forgive me for the simplicity of my tale.
After John sailed, after his letters stopped, after Severn's missives bubbled with frantic hope, I simply took it upon myself to go to him. I'll not regale you with the trials of a young woman traveling alone except to say I was largely unmolested if not exhausted when I reached the sun drenched base of the Spanish steps. It was easy enough to find the lodging house from John's descriptions and I gained the small landing between the first and second floors before a thousand miles of courage gave out. I sat there, a dozen stairs and a few feet from finally being with my Keats again but could not will myself to cover that last distance
A small crash of china from the apartment I had not gained made me jump in greater alarm then it warranted and anxious shivers gripped my person.
"John!" Joseph Severn's thin voice admonished.
"The laudanum, Severn." It was a statement, not a request, given in Keats' still firm tone which had yet only been touched by the breathy edge of consumption.
The slight clink of shards of china being retrieved. "I don't have it," Severn said in a muffled voice as he bent to his task. "I gave it to Dr. Clark."
I fled back into the bright street, John's angry despair spilling from the upper floor after me.
...
"Fanny!" The surprise in Severn's voice bordered on incredulity. He sat on the same step I had vacated so recently. Oddly enough, the space around him was occupied by all manner of cutlery, mostly knives and forks, but such things as a letter opener had found its way into the mix.
"I fear for his soul," Severn admitted after we had been sitting for a bit. "He talks about this being his posthumous existence as if he plans on any moment leaving this world if only he could find a way."
"He will not get well," I said. It was not a question.
"Only God can decide our fate. Deciding ourselves is tantamount to disparaging…"
"Joseph," I interrupted his self-righteous diatribe before he gained momentum. "Go out in the sun, walk a bit, take in a gallery."
It was pitiful the way his eyes lit with relief. "Can you ..."
I didn't let him finish, just stood and swished my skirts past him and his odd collection, closing the doors to the rooms behind me.
John lay high on his side on the pillows of the rumpled bed, a hand against his chest, closed eyed and wheezing painfully with each breath. It had been three months since I had seen him and the short time had wrought a sea change. He was all sharp angles and bruised shadows - a man surely sick unto death.
"I won't abide a nurse," he said shortly without opening his eyes.
I set a small thing on the bedside table and turned away to undo my shawl. A book grazed my cheek and crashed against the wall. I only froze in surprise for a moment, then stepped to pick it up from where it had fallen.
"You broke Ovid's spine, John," I said simply as I turned back to him.
His eyes were wide, almost frightened in their intense surprise. He could not even form my name as the gasp of air he'd taken in caught in his throat and he began to cough deeply, gutturally, bloodily. I had him in my arms in a moment, willing him to breath so I could at least say the goodbyes I had come so far for.
...
Even after the attack had calmed and his breath came more rhythmically, we clutched close to one another, his hands knotted in my skirts as if letting go would be to release a phantom. He did reach to the bedside table at one point to take my gift in his hand and hold it close between us.
What words we said were for each other only. A deep drought and a grimace at the taste were all that was left. He lay his head on my shoulder and I held him across my lap like a babe, my heart tearing as he settled into that deep comfort with a thankful sigh. After a time, his grip loosened from about my waist and John Keats finally found a peace beyond words.
...
"...it's a lovely spot," Severn said in a whisper as he came in some time later. "A shady boon for simple sheep."
I did not deign to point out his hypocrisy in describing what would be John's last resting place, but sat and continued to thread my fingers through Keats' russet curls, still light and soft despite his wasting illness.
"He's so quiet," Severn observed appreciatively as he settled into a chair beside the bed. The waning evening light filled the room with soft shadows, hiding Keats and I in dim secrecy. "He does look pale, though."
It was several minutes before Joseph actually rose from the chair in slight concern for the stillness. I involuntarily shifted when he moved, tightening my arms around John. Something clinked to the floor from a fold in the blankets as Severn leaned in to lightly touch his friend's hand. He flinched back from the still coolness in those fingers and stooped to retrieve the glass vile from the floor.
"What have you done?" His voice was a fearful whisper of sound - a brush of air that seemed to take the last, lingering presence of my Keats with it.
The evening finally faded into night.
Joseph backed away from the bed suddenly as if to distance himself from a cursed object. I almost expected him to turn and, perhaps, go for the police. He sat back down instead, pocketing the vile he had picked up, his eyes wide and flickering with too many emotions
I laid my Keats back against the pillows, kissing the smooth, peaceful face that tilted slightly toward Severn as if to say "this is all I wanted - don't you remember I have been half in love with easefull death?"
"Write your letters, Severn," I said to the mournful figure sitting in the dark . "Tell the story how you want. This was for me and for John."
With all the weight of farewell finally lifted from my soul, I began the long journey to home and the rest of my life.