By rights Clarus should have been home by that hour, but for the past month he had been spending increasingly longer hours at the Citadel. It wasn't without precedent and Fidelia, Astrals bless her, was incredibly understanding in trying times. The fact was that Clarus couldn't, in good conscience, leave Regis unattended.
Weskham had been a Godsend, himself. It must have been wearing at him as much as it was at Clarus, but he never spoke a word of complaint, even though he didn't have a wife and child to return home to and never got a moment to decompress.
Yet that night, when Clarus stopped by the king's study in search of his friend, he found Weskham instead, alone.
Clarus poked his head in, glancing from one side of the room to the other to make certain he hadn't missed anything. "His Majesty?"
"In the nursery." Weskham supplied, hardly looking up from the stack of papers he was organizing on Regis' desk.
"Thank the Gods," Clarus sighed, stepped in, and dropping onto the lounge.
Weskham gave him a knowing smile. It wasn't so much that it was a relief to have someone else—namely, one of the nursemaids—looking after him, but that these days it seemed the only way the king ever let himself let go and just be was when he was with his children.
"I gather that things are not going well in court," Weskham observed, stacking a pile of papers neatly on one corner of Regis' desk and picking up a few stray sheets, which he flipped idly through.
"It's painful to watch. I expect it's worse for him," Clarus sighed, leaning back against the high back of the lounge. "Every time anyone speaks, I watch in his eyes as he struggles to focus on them. Invariably they glaze over after a few seconds and he completely loses the trail of conversation. On the rare occasion that he manages to glean enough to act, he cannot. Or does not. I don't know. It's like…"
"The lights are on, but no one is home," Weskham supplied, finishing off the last of his organization and coming to join Clarus in the sitting area.
"Precisely," Clarus agreed darkly, "And he won't give himself a break."
"That, I believe, is the root of the problem."
"The root of the problem is Aulea—" Clarus sighed and waved a dismissive hand. Weskham knew that, obviously. That wasn't solvable.
Weskham was silent for a moment; he always had that gaze that made you believe he knew more about what was going on in your head than even you did. At length he spoke, moving past Clarus' pointless comment as if it hadn't been voiced at all.
"He has spent a lifetime dedicated to being what he needs to be. The suggestion that perhaps, for once, he should set his duty down and do something for himself is not one he is easily able to accept," Weskham said.
"So what do we do?"
Weskham shook his head, indicating that he didn't know any more than Clarus did.
"If only he would admit how much he's hurting inside. But he won't speak of a thing—has he said anything at all about her to you?" Clarus asked, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. He clasped his hands and looked up at Weskham, hoping for some shred of wisdom from the man who had always been the most perceptive of the king's retinue.
"Not a word," Weskham said. "I do not know whether he is trying to convince himself that it isn't there, or if he believes it is pointless to discuss when we all know it is. Either way, he alludes to things that trouble him but never to the source. He refuses to step foot in his own chambers, but he won't meet my gaze when he asks me to do it for him. He never explains himself and I know that if I were to ask he would merely tell me that I already know the answer."
"Well you do," Clarus said, dropping his gaze to his clasped hands.
"That is hardly the point," Weskham said severely. He sat in the armchair across from Clarus, his back as straight and stiff as if he had a metal rod up the back of his vest. Perhaps he did.
Clarus shook his head, looking up. "I know. I'm sorry," he sighed. "If he spoke to someone else, do you suppose…? Someone who never knew her?"
"You are begging the question, my friend," Weskham said. "Assuming that he wants to talk about it at all."
"Wouldn't it be better if he did?"
"Perhaps. But we each heal in our own way. You knew her nearly as well as he did. Do you not mourn her passing?" Weskham inquired, his tone light, but somehow Clarus found an accusation in it all the same.
"Of course I do! Aulea was a beautiful person, inside and out. Her death leaves the world a darker place."
Weskham raised his eyebrows, looking down his nose at Clarus. "And yet, I hear you speak little of her, as well."
"I suppose I have preferred to keep them to myself. Is it so bad to hold my thoughts of her over a quiet drink?"
Weskham's expression remained unchanging.
"Ah. I see what you mean," Clarus said. "But Regis doesn't even do that, does he?"
"He certainly has a stiff drink now and again," Weskham noted, his eyes falling on the crystal decanter of amber liquid that sat on Regis' coffee table beside an empty glass. "But you're right, of course. I suspect even that is not used for catharsis. If anything he uses it to deaden the relentless march of memories, when he ought to embrace them."
"Has he even been to visit her tomb?"
Weskham shook his head. "No. I believe he thinks that allowing himself to have these thoughts—to dwell on her, to acknowledge what he feels at her passing—will make him ineffective at his work."
"He is already ineffective," Clarus growled.
"More ineffective," Weskham said. "His duty is, and always has been, his life. What can he do, if not that?"
"And his children?"
"The prince and princess are the one thing that gives me hope for his future. If only he would accept more time and simply be with them—it would go a long way in the healing process, I think," said Weskham.
Clarus nodded mutely, feeling just as drained and out of ideas as he had before they sat down together. If nothing else, though, it was reassuring to have someone to share thoughts with. The whole process would have been considerably more trying without Weskham.
"I'll try to encourage him to see them whenever there is a moment," Clarus said, fighting back a yawn.
"As will I," Weskham said. "But for now, you may as well go home. You've done enough for one day. I will see to it that he gets ample time with the children, tonight, and do my best to convince him to take some rest in between."
"I don't envy you that," Clarus said, rising from the lounge. "You would probably have better luck putting both twins to bed at once."
"Doubtless correct," Weskham agreed, standing as well. "But I'll try, nonetheless."
Clarus offered him a smile and clasped Weskham's shoulder. "Your best is all anyone can ask of you."
He released Weskham and moved for the door, but halted in the doorway and turned back around. "And Weskham," he said. "Don't forget that you knew her, too. Don't forget to feel it, in between everything else."
Weskham gave a stiff bow; he wore a wry smile when he straightened. "In every spare moment."
The smile, Clarus knew, was because there were no spare moments. Clarus sighed, returning the gesture with a tight smile of his own and a nod, before he withdrew, heading back to the only refuge he knew: his home and family.