It was too much to hope for being left alone. With Regis' unexpected absence, the Citadel was teetering on the brink of chaos; during the first hour alone, no fewer than five different servants had come bearing messages from council members for Clarus. He should have expected that much, but in truth his mind was preoccupied with other things. The state of the kingdom seemed less important while he was wondering if the king would live to see it at all.

Now, though, Regis was stable. Still asleep, but the doctors had assured Clarus more than one time that he wouldn't remain that way. Now Clarus couldn't afford to ignore the kingdom any longer.

"Master Amicitia?" The servant by the door ventured a reminder after his prolonged silence.

"Yes, I know." In spite of his words, Clarus remained seated on the edge of Regis' bed. He didn't want Regis to wake while he was away, but he could no longer put off leaving.

The door opened again, but Clarus didn't look to see who had entered.

Regis had always looked a king; the way he held himself, the way he dressed, the way he never had a single hair out of place all added to it. Even when they were children it had been impossible to forget that he was the prince and would one day take his father's throne. Looking at him now, though, Clarus didn't see a king. He didn't even see a young prince making a name for himself. He saw a man, bent and broken under the weight of his wife's death.

"I'll stay with him, Clarus."

Weskham's voice pulled Clarus from his reverie. He looked toward the door for the first time and found that Weskham had arrived and dismissed the servant who had been waiting for Clarus' response.

Clarus gave him a grimace, which was meant to be a grateful smile. It wasn't as good as not leaving at all, but leaving him in Weskham's hands was preferable to leaving him alone or with any others.

"Very well." Clarus sighed and stood. His muscles protested the sudden motion. How long had he been sitting there? He released Regis' hand and stretched cautiously, wincing.

Getting old already, he thought. Once upon a time they could have spent all day cutting down imperials, slept for three hours with rocks for pillows, and done the same thing the next day. Now it was all starting to add up.

"You'll send word if he wakes?"

"Of course," Weskham said.

With no further excuses to keep him from his work, Clarus withdrew to face the council and see to the kingdom in the king's absence.

One thing followed another for what little remained of the morning and a sizable portion of the afternoon. It was late enough to be called evening by the time word was sent to say the king had finally woken. What remained on Clarus' schedule at that point was postponed; he took immediately to Regis' side.

Clarus found him propped among a heap of pillows with the IV still in his arm. Weskham sat in one of the armchairs, which he had moved to a spot beside the bed. He looked up when Clarus entered, but Regis didn't. Clarus had spent all day holding together the kingdom that Regis had carelessly abandoned and all morning before that worrying himself to shreds, and Regis couldn't even grace him with a single look. No thanks. No apology. No explanation for what he had done—for what he had very nearly done—just silence and a blank stare at the wall across from his bed.

"You. Fucking. Idiot."

Regis' eyes flicked toward him, but he didn't say anything. He didn't even have the good grace to look guilty.

Behind Clarus, the door opened once more. Cor entered and put his back to the door, standing with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Weskham looked momentarily surprised at Clarus' outburst—perhaps Weskham would try to stop him, but he knew that Cor would not.

"Of all the Gods damned stupid things to do—tell me, did you actually intend to kill yourself?" Clarus continued, heedless of the look Weskham was giving him.

There was a pause while Regis, apparently, collected his thoughts. His eyes were still fixed blankly at the wall directly opposite from him, though he didn't appear to be looking at anything.

"No," he said at last.

"Small blessings," Clarus drawled, folding his arms over his chest. "Instead of a suicidal king, I serve an irresponsible imbecile."

Regis simply nodded, his mouth drawn in a tight line. It wasn't very satisfying to chastise him, but at least calling him a fucking idiot had made Clarus feel a little better. At length Clarus sighed and dropped his arms; his anger was getting them nowhere and wasn't likely to. He took a step forward, then another, until he had crossed the distance between them and taken a seat on the edge of the bed.

"What were you thinking?" He made it a question rather than an accusation. He had no idea how to fix a broken heart, but perhaps if he knew what was going on inside Regis' head…

"You know what I was thinking." Regis' voice was slow and hoarse, but still bitter.

"Aulea wouldn't have wanted this for you."

Regis swallowed with effort, like his mouth was too dry for what should have been a reflexive motion. He was still staring fixedly at the wall, refusing to look at Clarus.

"I know," was all he said.

"If you keep at this, you will wear yourself into the ground. The drinking, the sleepless nights—you've gotten better with eating and not working yourself quite as hard, but you have to start taking care of yourself again, Regis." Clarus sat with his forearms braced on his knees and his hands folded. He didn't turn to look at Regis; it made it feel a little more mutual.

"Must I?" Regis asked, his tone dry.

"Yes. If not for your sake then for your childrens'. What happens to Noctis and Reina if you fall apart?"

"Perhaps they would be better off without this sort of father."

Clarus bit back a sound of frustration. Was this the game they were going to play, now? A wallowing in self-pity? He stood abruptly.

"You're right. They would be much better off with a father who cared whether or not they grew up with one parent or none, who strove to be better for them, who worked for love of his kin rather than hate of himself, and who had the self-respect to do something about it when he found he wasn't that man."

He turned on his heel, glancing only briefly at Regis. It was long enough to see that surprised expression on Regis' face when he finally looked up.

"Clarus—" It was Weskham, though, who called out when Clarus moved for the door. Clarus looked back to see him rising from his chair. "You know that's unfair."

So often in the past eight months he and Weskham had been united in purpose. It was bizarre to find himself at odds with an ally, but he didn't regret his words. If anything, Weskhams attempt to change his mind only stoked the flames.

"No. What's unfair is dedicating our lives to a man who is so willing to throw everything away over the death of his wife. What's unfair is two children, through no fault of their own, growing up neglected and unloved because their father can't get over himself. Whatever you say, I serve the king. You let me know when he wakes up; I'll be holding his kingdom together." Clarus turned toward the door again. This time no one stopped him.

Cor opened it and followed him out; perhaps he felt that everything that needed saying had been said, or perhaps he wanted to make a silent statement that he agreed with Clarus. Either way, Clarus wasn't certain he approved of the company.

He moved down the hall; there were some loose ends to tie up with the council before he could leave, but he had never wanted to leave early so much before. He was halfway there before he realized Cor was still walking with him.

When he glanced at Cor, Cor gave him a tiny nod. "It had to be said. He's had long enough. It's time he gets his head back where it belongs."

Somehow, the fact that Cor praised his actions did more for changing his mind than Weskham's scolding. Clarus pursed his lips and shook his head. "Someone had to say it," he agreed at length. "But that doesn't mean I enjoyed being the one to do it."

It took longer than Clarus expected to tie up all the 'loose ends'—by the time he was finally through, he found the phrase entirely insufficient for describing the mess of unwoven threads that was the state of the Citadel—and when he finally did he was feeling not only exhausted but more than a little bit contrite.

Regis, on what should have been the fourth anniversary of his wedding, had fallen back into the depression that had haunted him for months. Instead of reaching out, he closed himself inside and drowned his pain in scotch. It was frustrating. After convincing himself that Regis was through the worst of it, that he was finally opening up and letting the others help him, Clarus found that it was all just another lie.

But that was a poor excuse for how he had reacted.

Was it really Regis' fault? Was it really so unreasonable that he should mourn his wife most of all on the day that should have been a happy one for them? Cor would have them believe that it was, but after a day doing Regis' job for him, Clarus wasn't so sure.

So it was that he found his feet taking him back toward Regis' rooms, rather than to the front of the Citadel to leave this whole mess behind him for the night. Outside stood the usual crownsguards, but between them the door was ajar. Expecting to find Weskham inside, Clarus stepped forward and pushed it open just enough to see.

Instead of Weskham, though, Clarus found the woman from the nursery keeping Regis company. More than that, however: Regis held Noctis in his arms, enveloping him as if he meant never to let go. Regis' eyes were shut, but the look on his face was clear, even from across the room. Perhaps he had claimed that his children would be better off without him. Perhaps a part of him even believed it was true. But the real truth of the matter was that he could never have let them go for any reason.

Clarus only hoped it was enough. If Regis had that to hold onto, maybe—just maybe—it would be enough to drag him back for good.

Satisfied that Regis was in good company, Clarus turned and left before he was spotted. His apologies could wait until the morning.