werewolf fic, chapter seven, at last!
Sorry for the delay! Life, and so on. However, I now suspect there are nine chapters, instead of eight, if that helps?
Title: More Than All The World (The Werewolf’s Tale) (chapter 7)
(chapter 6 part two here) (chapter 6 part one here) (chapter 5 here) (chapters 3 & 4 here) (chapters 1 & 2 here)
Rating: probably R by the end, but PG for this bit.
Word Count: 5,644
Disclaimers: characters are not mine; only playing with them for fun! For sources, see the Notes.
Summary: very loosely based on Marie de France’s 12th-century French werewolf tale, in which Erik is the man transformed into a wolf and Charles is a king and eventually there’s a happy ending. Also, a villain’s nose gets bitten off. In this chapter, the fallout from the end of chapter six; Charles is alive, but not uninjured, and Shaw is still out there...
Notes: I am using the Robert Hanning/Joan Ferrante translation of Marie’s lais for reference and English translation aid; the title, opening and closing quotes, and all chapter titles, come from that version of “Bisclavret”. Also, all the herbs that Charles mentions at one point were actual medical treatments, in the Middle Ages!
Seven: and the king himself led the way…
He awakened to a hand on his head. In his fur. Holding on. The faintest of breaths, in his mind. Erik…?
Charles-!
Yes, I think so…Charles winced, slightly, at the force of Erik’s joy. But didn’t retreat, and Erik had the impression that he didn’t mind the sensation. Are you all right? And also thank you.
You-I’m all right, yes- True, more or less. He still felt as if he could sleep for a week, but each second of meeting that gaze, Charles awake and alert and alive, got translated into joyous new strength, under his skin. And don’t say-I didn’t-
You didn’t what? You saved my life. Charles looked at him, out of those beloved horizonless eyes, with absolute honesty. Plainly meant every word. Erik swallowed. Gazed at the visible edges of bandage, the whiter than usual skin, shocking against dark hair and cinnamon-spice freckles. Tried to believe those words.
You can ask Hank, if you’ve any doubt. He’s already told me how useful you’ll be in future emergency situations. I believe he’s pondering how best to conduct your medical training as we speak. Charles smiled, a little. “Do you think tea exists? No one ever mentioned being ravenous after near-death experiences…”
“You want tea?” Hank hadn’t seemed to be listening, on the other side of the room studying some unidentified object and pointedly letting them have the reunion, but evidently the mention of Charles needing anything couldn’t go unheard. “I can get you tea. And toast. Or soup. If you’re hungry I can go find you soup-or anything else you want-”
Charles considered this offer, thoughtfully. “Can I have pineapple jam?”
“Um,” Hank said, “maybe,” and went out into the hall, presumably to confer with someone more knowledgeable about the current contents of their larder.
“So that’ll keep him occupied for a few minutes, then.” Charles sat up a bit more. He was lying on one of Hank’s infirmary beds, but the usual plain linens had been draped in rich wool and fur and heavy warmth, adding color and weight to the world. Some kind person’d settled Erik’s exhausted body in a second bed pushed up beside his; Erik wondered fleetingly who’d had the joy of collecting an unconscious wolf from the floor, and then, a bit ashamed, told himself that it didn’t matter and he’d find something to do for each one of Charles’s guardsmen in trade anyway. Newly shaped arrow-heads, perhaps, or sword-blades.
Not knives. He glanced at Charles’s mostly prone shape again. Not ever.
Oh, Erik, don’t think about that-
I should’ve been faster-should have felt him, the knife, before-Charles, I’m sorry. He ran out of words. Looked down at the cracked-stone floor. He couldn’t cry, either. He ached with the need. I’m so sorry.
Erik, you DID save my life. Don’t apologize. “What you did…” Charles tightened his hand on Erik’s shoulder, across the expanse of blankets. “Did you even imagine you could do that?” I saw you, the first time I awakened, earlier. You looked nearly-you injured yourself, saving me. I was-Very quietly, this time: I was afraid I’d lost you.
Never.
Yes. Agreed. “We’re not letting Hank borrow you for the emergency cases, either, I think. Or only on very exceptional occasions. Not when you look like this, afterward.”
I love you.
And I love you.
Erik wriggled over onto Charles’s bed; Charles made room for him, beneath all the beckoning blankets, and wrapped arms around wolf-fur, and shut his eyes.
Outside, rain began falling, tiptoeing curiously around the walls. No windows, not down here in the converted space where Charles’d made room for healing out of a place of anguish. But they didn’t need windows; the tapestried walls even managed to hang there invitingly and insulate them all against the cold.
Charles, Erik began to say, wanting to ask, wondering how bad the injury’d been, such that Charles was remaining here in bed and not up the stairs in his own private rooms. And then he realized that Charles’s eyes had stayed shut; that that elegant voice had drifted into fuzziness, in his head; that Charles, in fact, had fallen asleep.
Normally this wouldn’t be cause for concern-Charles was wounded, after all, and needing to recuperate-but the suddenness was alarming. And there’d been no reaction to Erik’s half-question, saying his name, seconds ago.
Charles?
Nothing.
Erik sat up, shedding blankets in alarm. Charles-
“Stop that.” Hank was back, pushing open the door with one agile foot, balancing a tray in one hand. “He doesn’t need you panicking at him. And anyway at the moment you’re my patient too. Lie down.”
Erik attempted to scowl. He was no one’s patient, and Charles was hurt, and-
“I said stop that. He’s been like this since he woke up, which by the way was most of a day before you woke up, and we’ve been trying to figure out why, but neither of us has ever seen a case like this before, so we don’t…he’s just easily exhausted by, um, everything, pretty much. It’s not getting worse, though. We think. If that helps.”
Erik glanced at the unmoving Charles. Then up. Stared at Hank with all his might. Hank shifted weight, uncomfortably, and set the tea-tray down on the closest surface. “He’s…I just don’t know. It’s not the wound itself. We-I-know how to deal with that, and that’s healing. Slowly, but cleanly. It’s this…”
Erik followed his gaze to the object under examination earlier: the dagger, on the table. It gleamed dully. Stained by blood.
“I’d really prefer it if you could manage not to growl at me.”
Not at you, Erik thought. At that. The stupidly malevolent slice of metal. It quivered in place.
“Behave yourself. I need that for analysis.”
Maybe his expression got through, this time.
“It’s not the blade. It’s…” Hank sighed. “Poison. We think. Not instantly fatal-or maybe that’s only because you got there in time-but the tip was coated in something, and it’s not any compound we know, and he’s…well. You’ve seen him.” They both glanced at Charles, inadvertently. Who shifted position, a fraction, in his sleep, and stilled.
“I just don’t know.” Hank admitted that much, softly, to the floor; to the workbenches, and the walls, and Erik’s silence. “I’m sorry.”
The pause extended into nothingness, then. The slowing of the heartbeat of the world, teetering toward ruin.
There should be a hurricane, or wind, or a storm, Erik thought distantly. Something equally cataclysmic, to mark the moment. The elements steadfastly maintained their funeral hush. Even the rain trickled off into quiet.
“I’m not going to die,” Charles said, waking up. “Stop thinking that, both of you. I’m only-”
Charles-!
Yes-yes, I love you too, always-you can jump on me, come here, I’m not that fragile and you feel good- “-and I do think I can help reassure you, at least a little.” Blue eyes looked up at Hank, even while Charles’s arms remained securely around Erik, while those thoughts and that presence twined invisibly back into his own. Erik shut his eyes, and never wanted to move.
Charles, however, wanted to comfort the guilt-ridden Hank. Naturally.
“We may not know what it is, precisely, but I can tell you the effects. I know-I have to know, I think, I always have-my own body. The signals in my head, the sensory input…I’m fairly certain I’m not going to die.”
But, Erik whispered. He could hear it, in that voice. He knew.
“But…it may get a little better, with time, I’m not sure…I’m sorry, though, I don’t think it’ll be much better. Everything just feels…” Charles looked away. At the folds of richly-hued blankets, amber and amethyst and gold. His fingers tightened, in Erik’s fur. “Weaker. Less substantial. Like…having consumption, perhaps. Or some other slow illness, you know, the kind that isn’t going to kill you straightaway, but that lingers…I don’t know how else to describe it, and-Erik, look at me, please, this isn’t your fault, stop thinking that.”
It was his fault. If he’d been faster. If he’d felt the attack coming sooner. If he’d thrown himself between the knife and Charles.
If he’d never come here, if he’d never endangered Charles at all. If.
Don’t be ridiculous. Charles sounded somewhat exasperated, but affectionately so. You didn’t cause this. She wasn’t here for you, she was here for me, she said so, remember? This would’ve happened regardless. Which does rather beg the question of what Shaw hoped to gain… The sentences spun off into intrigued speculation, chasing down trails of new possibilities. Erik found himself very slightly comforted, not by the reminder-Charles would’ve been hurt anyway, and no doubt more badly so, and what if he, Erik, hadn’t been here, then?-but by the familiar irrepressible curiosity.
You were here, Charles murmured, gently, into those thoughts. And, Erik, you did save my life.
I love you.
And I love you. Without limits, without boundaries, in any form. “Speaking of you, Erik, and forms…I’d like to try something. If you wouldn’t mind.” Charles started to sit up and swing legs over the side of the bed. Erik and Hank, simultaneously, demanded, “Stay put!” and Charles blinked, looked from one to the other, and meekly settled back down.
“One of us is technically the monarch, here, you know. And it’s not either of you.”
“You’re in my infirmary,” Hank said, and Erik sat very firmly on Charles’s legs, immobilizing them, and scowled.
Charles sighed.
The wind turned up after all, and rattled the old wooden door, pointedly.
“All right,” Charles grumbled, “objection noted, thank you. Erik, what I was saying-or attempting to say, before the universe took your side-was that I believe I can reverse your transformation, now. Or Hank and I can. It’s not actually that complicated, we were on the right track earlier, and now that I know both the physical and mental components that were used-”
All the hopes and fears collided, for a vertiginous second. The question that emerged on top wasn’t the only one that mattered, but the one that mattered most. Will it hurt you?
“I shouldn’t think-”
Don’t lie to me.
“I’m not.” Hurt…no. But…
But Charles was wounded. Easily exhausted. No reserves. And a spark of memory presented itself: Charles laughing, surfacing from the depths of Erik’s head, breathing cheerfully labored: your mind is bloody iron, you know…
You don’t have the strength for this, do you? Not now.
“Not exactly tactful, Erik.” Honestly? I don’t know.
“Some of us can’t hear your telepathic conversations, Charles.”
“Oh-sorry, Hank! Erik’s objecting. Unnecessarily.”
Very necessarily!
You’re worth the risk. “We can’t try immediately, in any case; we do need certain drugs, to make your body more…receptive to change, let’s put it that way. We should have all the components, but I can make a list for you, Hank…”
“Erik doesn’t look entirely happy with you. Here.”
“Thank you, I’ll also need a pen…Erik, you know I love you. And this…we can do this. I want to do this. For you. Understand?”
The wind yelped again, mournfully; in the wake, Erik collected words. Charles. Please. You say I’m worth the risk, but I’m not-it’s not-if you’re doing this for me then please listen to me.
Charles stopped writing, to look.
I know you love me. I know you want to do this for me. And I want this, too. But it’s not worth losing you. I’ve already almost done that once. And that was-I can’t face that again. Not ever again.
Oh…Erik, you-
We can do this. Yes. But not yet. You said you might get a bit better. With some time. And if nothing else, the physical-please give yourself time to heal. If not for yourself, for me. Charles might not listen for his own sake. But Charles might listen, if Erik asked.
And Charles sighed, very softly. Held out his other hand, the one he’d not been using to write; the motion tugged tension into the corners of his mouth, briefly, unthinking stretches of stitched-together flesh. But he was smiling, genuinely, too. Even more so when Erik nestled back down at his side. “Compromise, perhaps? I can give this to Hank-here, Hank-and he can find us some of the physical ingredients, I know we have antimony and crosswort and the opiates but I’m not certain about the mandrake and the wolfsbane, Hank, could you-”
“I’ll check,” Hank said, unflappable in the face of Charles’s enthusiasm, “if you promise not to get out of bed until I say you can.”
“Why does no one believe me when I say I can stand up? Yes, fine, I promise. To you, too, Erik, stop looking at me like that. As I was saying, compromise…” Hank can get started finding these components-they’re mostly just relaxants in any case, to make you more, er, susceptible to suggestion-but we’ll wait a bit for the actual attempt. Because you’re asking. Fair?
Better, at least. And arguing, at this point, was probably futile. Yes. Thank you. Please rest.
Charles smiled again, and handed over his list, and let Erik nuzzle him back down into the pillows. Accepted tea and toast and licked pineapple jelly from his fingers, completely disregarding both royal dignity and supposed invalid status, and Erik curled up at his side and watched that bright smile and basked in the feeling of shared thoughts, sweet and brilliant and vibrant as the purring of the companionable wind outside.
It was a good first night, despite the lurking apprehension that’d set in at Charles’s words-like a lingering illness, weaker, less substantial-and Erik’s subsequent ceaseless vigilance. All the nights were good nights, really. Better than they could’ve hoped for. The knife-wound healed well, a clean cut despite the depth; Charles, although displaying visible signs of impatience, kept his promise and remained in bed and let the tearful visitors and well-wishers and courtly gawkers come to him, everyone needing to verify that their king was still here, still alive.
Raven, in tears, hugged her brother very gingerly, as if he’d turned into glass as a side result; she hugged Erik, as well, after, and Erik decided that he was getting used to this hugging business, and gave in and wagged his tail, because it’d make her giggle and Charles smile.
Charles’s guardsmen turned up with a bizarre wheeled-chair contraption that they’d clearly spent time constructing, claiming hopefully that it’d help keep him from needing to walk as much; Charles tactfully did not mention the existence of all the castle stairs, and instead called them over and talked at them earnestly for half an hour, until some of the guilt at their self-perceived failure to protect him lifted away.
Charles and Hank spent afternoons analyzing the traces of foreign substances on the knifeblade, and, sometimes, in samples taken from the wound. Erik had to look away, at those times. He wasn’t ever going to leave Charles’s side, of course not, but the reminder of his own slowness slashed viciously, in gruesome red detail, into his heart.
Charles slept often. Too often. He could manage staying awake, and holding conversations, and even the hours of scientific investigation, propped up by pillows, but simply ran out of energy around dinnertime, or sooner if he tried anything strenuous, such as the memorable expedition over to the library to acquire new reading material. Erik, who hadn’t been informed of this plan, had been upstairs acquiring Charles’s favorite pillow, and had nearly destroyed all of Hank’s surgical instruments in a fit of panic upon returning to the infirmary and finding Charles gone, and then had contemplated violence toward Hank himself after actually finding Charles, folded up on the floor two hallways over with a stack of books spilling over his arms.
Charles hadn’t let him bite Hank. Not even when Erik promised not to use teeth anywhere that’d show. Charles, instead, had argued that it’d been his own fault, for persuading Hank to let him out of bed and into much-needed physical activity.
Erik’d gazed at him, growled-but softly-and thought, how would you feel, if this were me? and, beneath that, had offered his own understanding-being trapped in bed was confining, in every way. He knew how frustrated Charles felt, because he was sharing the emotion.
But he still wasn’t quite prepared to watch blue eyes try, and struggle, to cover too-long distances too soon.
Charles had looked away, and then back, at him, and nodded, in agreement if not acquiescence. Had said, quietly, I love you.
Two weeks after the attack, Charles looked at Hank hopefully and thought, audible to everyone in the room, upstairs? Erik, who didn’t think that two months would be enough, tried to argue; found himself outvoted by plaintive blue eyes and Hank’s rather hesitant, “It isn’t that far…” and finally gave in, on the condition that he could walk next to Charles and offer support the entire time.
As if I’d say no to leaning on you, Charles said, and smiled. And then proceeded to swing feet over the bed and onto the floor, and Erik yelped and bolted upright to make himself into a prop for one questing arm.
There were a lot of stairs, on the way up to Charles’s rooms. More than Erik remembered. More than he wanted there to be. They didn’t magically decrease in number, though, so he gritted all his teeth and focused all his strength on just being there for each step.
They made it up into the curving tower bedroom without incident, or mostly without incident; Charles climbed stairs slowly, but assuredly, despite mental complaints about resembling a ancient person crossed with a snail. Erik sent back prompt retorts about the improbable compatibility of that particular relationship, which made Charles laugh out loud, which made Erik feel briefly proud and then worry about breathing and availability of air.
The blue eyes didn’t protest being led over to the bed, and Erik worried a bit more. The book-lined walls and pillowy mattress peered at them with concerned paper-and-down-filled gazes, and worried too.
But Charles grinned at him, after being comfortably enthroned among cushions and fluff. Chess game? I’ve missed playing, with you. And Erik draped himself-carefully-across Charles’s feet, and agreed.
The weary-ocean eyes began closing, halfway through the chess match. Erik swallowed, hard; sat up, nudged the set out of the way, and used teeth to carefully tug blankets up over him.
I’m not tired…
Yes, you are. We’ll finish tomorrow.
Oh-but-wait, I was winning!
True, but partially true because Erik’d been playing distracted, heart lurching every time Charles sighed, or changed positions, or grew too quiet. Charles, on the other hand, had been playing more or less like himself until the last few moves, when the loss of focus had become apparent.
You can continue winning tomorrow. Or not, as the case may be. I could just be lulling you into complacency.
Hmm…
Need anything? Tea? Water? More blankets?
No, only you. Charles shut his eyes again, resignedly. You may be correct…I could just nap, for a few minutes…
Go to sleep, Erik told him, and settled down in a curl of legs and tail, gaze not leaving those fatigued eyelashes. I’ll be here.
Know you will, Charles agreed, and the warmth of the concurrence slid and blurred into the velvet fuzziness of sleep, trusting and dreamless and unperturbed. Erik smiled, just a little wolf-smile, to himself, and kept watch.
Charles, sleeping, looked vulnerable, unguarded, even though he knew that was a false assumption; those time-honed mental defenses never truly went down, not even now, and disturbances would be dealt with decisively.
But he couldn’t help the tidal wave of protectiveness anyway, when Charles turned his head and dark hair tumbled over one closed eye, tangling in long eyelashes.
He set a paw over the closest arm, and held on.
A few days after that, Charles said, over tea and scones, “I think I’d like to talk to Emma Frost,” and Erik nearly choked on his breakfast bacon.
You WHAT?!
I know you heard me, Erik, honestly. Though I do appreciate the fierceness on my behalf. Followed by a telepathic caress, heartfelt and deeply sweet, golden-brown and delicious as caramelized sugar. “No, I mean it. We’ve wasted enough time-”
WASTED-! Charles, you’ve been healing, how is that-
“Just hear me out, please.” Charles lifted his chin another stubborn inch, and all at once Erik saw the monarch there, wounded strength that was more about the strength than the wounds. “She told us-before-that Shaw was planning something. Some larger strike, to instigate civil war. That was why they needed me out of the way, so I’d not interfere…”
You ARE out of the way. And would stay there, if Erik had anything to say about it.
You know that won’t work, love. “We need to know when and where he’s executing that plan. It can’t’ve happened yet, we’d know-I’d be picking up the fallout, if war erupted-but it must be soon. It has to be soon. And we need to stop it.”
WE don’t need to do anything-
You agreed with me, once before. About the need to fight him. And I know-Charles hesitated, momentarily. I know you want to see him dead. I won’t keep you from that, if that’s what you need to do. You know we talked about why.
They had. Had agreed, then, that Shaw’s vague goals-the death, the destruction, the fuel for his fire-had to be opposed. And Erik’s hatred of the man burned, like cold fire, through his thoughts and memories. Still true.
But Charles was hurt. That was another truth. That one burned, too.
Emma Frost, Erik said, and hated her. She’d caused that hurt.
She regrets it, I think. She doesn’t want me dead. It was only ever impersonal, for her.
Not better.
Erik, please. For now…I think we do need to see her. To find out what else she knows. I’ll be careful, I promise you. The blue eyes were very sincere. The morning fire, keeping Charles comfortable, crackled, in the pause.
Emma Frost, Erik agreed, against his better judgment, and sighed.
They’d been keeping her in one of the guest quarters, since Charles’d converted all his stepfather’s dungeons to Hank’s infirmary. Erik, completely convinced that no single lock could be secure enough, had pulled some of the metal into a glittering and tightly fused web across the door, and opened it when he felt a servant tap on it, bringing food. Charles, who hadn’t been told about this arrangement, raised an eyebrow at him, but clearly opted not to pursue that argument.
Neither of the current guards were from Charles’s handpicked extra-ordinary group, but they looked at his slow-footed approach with something like horrified concern anyway, and then practically ran over to try to assist. Charles sighed. “I’m really not an invalid, and this is already getting old-”
You’re not as strong as you were, either. You know that. Stop protesting and accept the help when you need it.
You won’t let me feel sorry for myself, will you?
Would you want me to?
Charles sighed again, and summoned up a smile of thanks for his guardsmen, and even let them push him into the first available chair, just inside the door.
“Where do you want to be? We can move you!”
“What? Oh-well, I was hoping to speak to her, but-” This admission resulted in the chair, with Charles in it, being hoisted across the room and deposited near Emma Frost’s cushioned seat at the window, from which she hadn’t moved, eying the show with amused indifference. Erik, half entertained and half concerned for Charles’s safety, trotted along.
“Is there anything else we can do?”
“You like tea! We can bring you tea!”
“Yes, all right, thank you-”
One of them ran out the door, and ran back, so quickly that Erik started to suspect collusion on the part of the household staff. He’d not be surprised if tea remained constantly on the boil, in the kitchens. Everyone loved Charles.
“Thank you,” Charles said, again, and finally shooed them both off, with assurances that yes, he’d call if he required anything, and no, they did not have to threaten the prisoner on his behalf, and yes, he had Erik for protection if necessary. The shorter of the two leaned down and whispered, to Erik, “If she tries to hurt him, you hurt her first,” and Charles said, shocked, “Stephen!!” and Erik licked his lips and grinned. Agreed.
“All right,” Charles murmured, as the door sealed itself up again, “I expect you can guess why we’re here.”
“I’d have to guess, wouldn’t I? Since you’ve made it rather difficult for me to read anyone’s mind.”
“Ah. Yes. My apologies.” Charles did sound genuinely contrite. “But I really couldn’t have you getting loose, you understand.” The chair was slightly too tall for him; he leaned forward, and managed to put both feet on the floor, and looked at her, earnestly.
“You were already in my head, Charles. You know what I know. Why do you not have chairs your size, in your own castle?”
“It’s an heirloom. Most of them are.” Charles, apparently, was prepared to let the first-name basis slide, or might actually be pleased about the familiarity. Erik kind of wanted to growl. “You have to admit, though, it was a rather dramatic first encounter. Very much like a whirlwind. I’d like the chance to try again in calmer weather. So to speak.”
“What else do you want me to tell you? I don’t know where he’ll be. He moves around. He’ll know you’ve either killed or captured me. I doubt I’ll be of much use to you.”
Charles gave up on trying to reach the floor with his toes, and tucked legs up into the depths of the chair, casual and perfectly at ease. Emma Frost blinked.
“You can tell us what he’s going to do, if not where. And you will, I think.”
“And you’re certain of that.”
“Would you like some tea? I find I get cold easily, these days.” Charles held out a cup, eyes wide and guileless. The words weren’t, for all that they fell into the air with no accusatory bite; Emma Frost had the decency to look away.
“Tea doesn’t fix anything. Neither does your optimism, Charles.” She took the cup anyway.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Charles looked at her, levelly; after a second, she took a sip, then sighed. “If you must.”
“I’ll be gentle,” Charles said, and she looked as if she wanted to laugh or shake her head in dismay, but in the end only set the teacup down and met his eyes.
From the outside, nothing much happened: a slight catch of breath, a distance in locked gazes. Erik, sitting at Charles’s feet, felt the hair along his spine prickle, and his hackles rise. The wintry air practically hummed with unarticulated power.
He tried to keep quiet, not wanting to break Charles’s concentration, but couldn’t help the accompanying apprehension.
I’m all right, Erik, don’t worry. Charles kissed him softly, intangibly, not moving. She’s not fighting me. But he did sound somewhat distracted, attention elsewhere, so Erik only nodded and waited, poised to leap in at the first sign of trouble.
A gasp, an exhale, and they both surfaced; Charles said, gravely, “Thank you,” and offered a hand. She contemplated it, and the how-are-you-real? question was plain even without telepathic powers; but the hand stayed outstretched, and she took it, after a moment. Obviously thought something else, which made Charles grin.
“Yes, it is. I find that it works rather well. There might even be scones, as my secret weapon. Thank you again, and I’ll ask you for your answer once we return, fair?”
Emma Frost looked at Erik, this time, and said, “You know, I feel a bit sorry for you,” and “Fair.”
Out in the hallway, Erik asked, She feels sorry for me? and struggled to keep the indignant tone out of his thoughts.
“Oh,” Charles said, and laughed, which didn’t help. “Yes. But not for any of the reasons you’d think.” She said she feels sorry for you, having to try to win arguments with me. Apparently I’m quite terrifying with the politeness and the tea, which I don’t really see, I don’t think I’m terrifying, do you?
Only when you run OUT of your tea. What did she tell you?
I’d like to tell you all at once, I think… The mental request, after that, went out to Charles’s counselors and guardsmen, not all of them, but the ones he trusted most, the ones who ended up in the library looking at each other as Charles painted details of Shaw’s plans into their heads.
Coastal raids. Ships flying the colors of other nations. Provoking attacks, and widespread retaliation. War. And Shaw, absorbing energy with the release of each death, a loathsome spider at the center of it all.
We can stop this now, Charles proclaimed, softly confident. We know which cove he’s using as a base for his fleet. He’s begun already-you’ve heard, or not, about the decimation of the English shipping convoy two days ago-
This provoked some muttering among those who’d not known, and who’d had goods to be lost.
“Yes, well, there’ll be more. And pointing of fingers, and threats. And worse.” As I said, we need to act now.
“We don’t have an army. You were opposed to conscription, as I recall.” This from an ancient curmudgeon at the back of the room. “Your stepfather always had an army.”
“The Regent’s policies are not under discussion.” Very calm, but the closest of the counselors inched away from the objector on either side nevertheless. “And I’ve never believed that conscripted farm boys can do more good than harm in a battle. We do have mercenary companies if we need them, but I don’t believe we do.”
“Then what-”
Erik wanted to ask the same question, because all at once he had an vision of where Charles might be going with this speech, and it was not a pleasant destination.
“A small group, I think. A strike force. Made up of people who have…special abilities, like Shaw. Like my guardsmen, of course-”
Don’t you dare! Erik shouted.
“-Like myself.”
The room erupted in babble. Charles let them squawk for a few minutes, and then put a stop to the noise. Decisively.
Enough. Silence.
“This isn’t a discussion. It’s a courtesy. I believe that he needs to be stopped, and if I’m not willing to put myself on the front lines for that belief, how can I ask anyone else to go out and possibly die in my place? I’ll listen if any of you have practical objections, but don’t waste your time and mine with those thoughts about royal privilege or prerogative, all right? …Yes?”
“You’re the only heir,” said a brown-haired, quiet-voiced woman off to one side. “And you’re not replaceable, Charles.”
“Ah…Moira. I mean Lady MacTaggart, sorry, Moira-oh, drat. Sorry again. You are, of course, correct. However, you do all remember that I have an adopted sister, and the power to name my own successor? All right, then: the Lady Raven-”
“The Lady Raven’s going with you, Charles.”
“-as if I could stop you. The Lady Raven, and, should the unthinkable happen, Henry McCoy and the Lady MacTaggart as co-monarchs, then. Witnessed?”
“What? Charles, we’re not even related-”
“No, but you’re an excellent estate administrator and you’ll keep Hank’s scientific indulgences in check. Besides, consider this revenge for that time you tried to set me up with the French ambassador’s nephew.”
“We were fifteen! And you were lonely, and I was trying to help!”
“And now you can. Witnessed?” This time there was a general rumble of reluctant agreement, washing through the room. Erik sat next to Charles, and thought, very quietly, Will it be a discussion, with me?
Oh, Erik…it can be, if you’d like, I’ll listen, but you should know I’m not letting you go without me.
I seem to recall saying that to you. Flickering memories: despair, anguish, and blood, on the throne-room floor.
Charles winced, in their heads. Yes. I am sorry. I can’t even imagine-well, I can, I can feel what you-but you know I meant what I said when I said it to them. I won’t ask my men, or anyone, to face a danger I wouldn’t face. And I do believe that what we’re doing needs to be done. And…I don’t want you to have to encounter him alone.
Charles-
I’m not going to change my mind, so let’s just pretend we’ve had the argument and I’ve won, shall we?
I love you. Helpless, in the face of all that determination. But that was Charles, too, the man he’d fallen spectacularly in love with, scars and courage and stubbornness and loyalty and crazy hope for the future of the world. And he wouldn’t ask Charles to change. Wouldn’t want this, them, any other way.
I love you, too.
I’ll be right next to you. The entire time.
As you said…I wouldn’t want this any other way. Through the noises of politics happening around them, new alliances and wooing of Moira’s good graces and speculative fortifications, Charles looked down at him and smiled, and Erik thought, Sebastian Shaw, and then, Charles, and smiled in return.
Title: More Than All The World (The Werewolf’s Tale) (chapter 7)
(chapter 6 part two here) (chapter 6 part one here) (chapter 5 here) (chapters 3 & 4 here) (chapters 1 & 2 here)
Rating: probably R by the end, but PG for this bit.
Word Count: 5,644
Disclaimers: characters are not mine; only playing with them for fun! For sources, see the Notes.
Summary: very loosely based on Marie de France’s 12th-century French werewolf tale, in which Erik is the man transformed into a wolf and Charles is a king and eventually there’s a happy ending. Also, a villain’s nose gets bitten off. In this chapter, the fallout from the end of chapter six; Charles is alive, but not uninjured, and Shaw is still out there...
Notes: I am using the Robert Hanning/Joan Ferrante translation of Marie’s lais for reference and English translation aid; the title, opening and closing quotes, and all chapter titles, come from that version of “Bisclavret”. Also, all the herbs that Charles mentions at one point were actual medical treatments, in the Middle Ages!
Seven: and the king himself led the way…
He awakened to a hand on his head. In his fur. Holding on. The faintest of breaths, in his mind. Erik…?
Charles-!
Yes, I think so…Charles winced, slightly, at the force of Erik’s joy. But didn’t retreat, and Erik had the impression that he didn’t mind the sensation. Are you all right? And also thank you.
You-I’m all right, yes- True, more or less. He still felt as if he could sleep for a week, but each second of meeting that gaze, Charles awake and alert and alive, got translated into joyous new strength, under his skin. And don’t say-I didn’t-
You didn’t what? You saved my life. Charles looked at him, out of those beloved horizonless eyes, with absolute honesty. Plainly meant every word. Erik swallowed. Gazed at the visible edges of bandage, the whiter than usual skin, shocking against dark hair and cinnamon-spice freckles. Tried to believe those words.
You can ask Hank, if you’ve any doubt. He’s already told me how useful you’ll be in future emergency situations. I believe he’s pondering how best to conduct your medical training as we speak. Charles smiled, a little. “Do you think tea exists? No one ever mentioned being ravenous after near-death experiences…”
“You want tea?” Hank hadn’t seemed to be listening, on the other side of the room studying some unidentified object and pointedly letting them have the reunion, but evidently the mention of Charles needing anything couldn’t go unheard. “I can get you tea. And toast. Or soup. If you’re hungry I can go find you soup-or anything else you want-”
Charles considered this offer, thoughtfully. “Can I have pineapple jam?”
“Um,” Hank said, “maybe,” and went out into the hall, presumably to confer with someone more knowledgeable about the current contents of their larder.
“So that’ll keep him occupied for a few minutes, then.” Charles sat up a bit more. He was lying on one of Hank’s infirmary beds, but the usual plain linens had been draped in rich wool and fur and heavy warmth, adding color and weight to the world. Some kind person’d settled Erik’s exhausted body in a second bed pushed up beside his; Erik wondered fleetingly who’d had the joy of collecting an unconscious wolf from the floor, and then, a bit ashamed, told himself that it didn’t matter and he’d find something to do for each one of Charles’s guardsmen in trade anyway. Newly shaped arrow-heads, perhaps, or sword-blades.
Not knives. He glanced at Charles’s mostly prone shape again. Not ever.
Oh, Erik, don’t think about that-
I should’ve been faster-should have felt him, the knife, before-Charles, I’m sorry. He ran out of words. Looked down at the cracked-stone floor. He couldn’t cry, either. He ached with the need. I’m so sorry.
Erik, you DID save my life. Don’t apologize. “What you did…” Charles tightened his hand on Erik’s shoulder, across the expanse of blankets. “Did you even imagine you could do that?” I saw you, the first time I awakened, earlier. You looked nearly-you injured yourself, saving me. I was-Very quietly, this time: I was afraid I’d lost you.
Never.
Yes. Agreed. “We’re not letting Hank borrow you for the emergency cases, either, I think. Or only on very exceptional occasions. Not when you look like this, afterward.”
I love you.
And I love you.
Erik wriggled over onto Charles’s bed; Charles made room for him, beneath all the beckoning blankets, and wrapped arms around wolf-fur, and shut his eyes.
Outside, rain began falling, tiptoeing curiously around the walls. No windows, not down here in the converted space where Charles’d made room for healing out of a place of anguish. But they didn’t need windows; the tapestried walls even managed to hang there invitingly and insulate them all against the cold.
Charles, Erik began to say, wanting to ask, wondering how bad the injury’d been, such that Charles was remaining here in bed and not up the stairs in his own private rooms. And then he realized that Charles’s eyes had stayed shut; that that elegant voice had drifted into fuzziness, in his head; that Charles, in fact, had fallen asleep.
Normally this wouldn’t be cause for concern-Charles was wounded, after all, and needing to recuperate-but the suddenness was alarming. And there’d been no reaction to Erik’s half-question, saying his name, seconds ago.
Charles?
Nothing.
Erik sat up, shedding blankets in alarm. Charles-
“Stop that.” Hank was back, pushing open the door with one agile foot, balancing a tray in one hand. “He doesn’t need you panicking at him. And anyway at the moment you’re my patient too. Lie down.”
Erik attempted to scowl. He was no one’s patient, and Charles was hurt, and-
“I said stop that. He’s been like this since he woke up, which by the way was most of a day before you woke up, and we’ve been trying to figure out why, but neither of us has ever seen a case like this before, so we don’t…he’s just easily exhausted by, um, everything, pretty much. It’s not getting worse, though. We think. If that helps.”
Erik glanced at the unmoving Charles. Then up. Stared at Hank with all his might. Hank shifted weight, uncomfortably, and set the tea-tray down on the closest surface. “He’s…I just don’t know. It’s not the wound itself. We-I-know how to deal with that, and that’s healing. Slowly, but cleanly. It’s this…”
Erik followed his gaze to the object under examination earlier: the dagger, on the table. It gleamed dully. Stained by blood.
“I’d really prefer it if you could manage not to growl at me.”
Not at you, Erik thought. At that. The stupidly malevolent slice of metal. It quivered in place.
“Behave yourself. I need that for analysis.”
Maybe his expression got through, this time.
“It’s not the blade. It’s…” Hank sighed. “Poison. We think. Not instantly fatal-or maybe that’s only because you got there in time-but the tip was coated in something, and it’s not any compound we know, and he’s…well. You’ve seen him.” They both glanced at Charles, inadvertently. Who shifted position, a fraction, in his sleep, and stilled.
“I just don’t know.” Hank admitted that much, softly, to the floor; to the workbenches, and the walls, and Erik’s silence. “I’m sorry.”
The pause extended into nothingness, then. The slowing of the heartbeat of the world, teetering toward ruin.
There should be a hurricane, or wind, or a storm, Erik thought distantly. Something equally cataclysmic, to mark the moment. The elements steadfastly maintained their funeral hush. Even the rain trickled off into quiet.
“I’m not going to die,” Charles said, waking up. “Stop thinking that, both of you. I’m only-”
Charles-!
Yes-yes, I love you too, always-you can jump on me, come here, I’m not that fragile and you feel good- “-and I do think I can help reassure you, at least a little.” Blue eyes looked up at Hank, even while Charles’s arms remained securely around Erik, while those thoughts and that presence twined invisibly back into his own. Erik shut his eyes, and never wanted to move.
Charles, however, wanted to comfort the guilt-ridden Hank. Naturally.
“We may not know what it is, precisely, but I can tell you the effects. I know-I have to know, I think, I always have-my own body. The signals in my head, the sensory input…I’m fairly certain I’m not going to die.”
But, Erik whispered. He could hear it, in that voice. He knew.
“But…it may get a little better, with time, I’m not sure…I’m sorry, though, I don’t think it’ll be much better. Everything just feels…” Charles looked away. At the folds of richly-hued blankets, amber and amethyst and gold. His fingers tightened, in Erik’s fur. “Weaker. Less substantial. Like…having consumption, perhaps. Or some other slow illness, you know, the kind that isn’t going to kill you straightaway, but that lingers…I don’t know how else to describe it, and-Erik, look at me, please, this isn’t your fault, stop thinking that.”
It was his fault. If he’d been faster. If he’d felt the attack coming sooner. If he’d thrown himself between the knife and Charles.
If he’d never come here, if he’d never endangered Charles at all. If.
Don’t be ridiculous. Charles sounded somewhat exasperated, but affectionately so. You didn’t cause this. She wasn’t here for you, she was here for me, she said so, remember? This would’ve happened regardless. Which does rather beg the question of what Shaw hoped to gain… The sentences spun off into intrigued speculation, chasing down trails of new possibilities. Erik found himself very slightly comforted, not by the reminder-Charles would’ve been hurt anyway, and no doubt more badly so, and what if he, Erik, hadn’t been here, then?-but by the familiar irrepressible curiosity.
You were here, Charles murmured, gently, into those thoughts. And, Erik, you did save my life.
I love you.
And I love you. Without limits, without boundaries, in any form. “Speaking of you, Erik, and forms…I’d like to try something. If you wouldn’t mind.” Charles started to sit up and swing legs over the side of the bed. Erik and Hank, simultaneously, demanded, “Stay put!” and Charles blinked, looked from one to the other, and meekly settled back down.
“One of us is technically the monarch, here, you know. And it’s not either of you.”
“You’re in my infirmary,” Hank said, and Erik sat very firmly on Charles’s legs, immobilizing them, and scowled.
Charles sighed.
The wind turned up after all, and rattled the old wooden door, pointedly.
“All right,” Charles grumbled, “objection noted, thank you. Erik, what I was saying-or attempting to say, before the universe took your side-was that I believe I can reverse your transformation, now. Or Hank and I can. It’s not actually that complicated, we were on the right track earlier, and now that I know both the physical and mental components that were used-”
All the hopes and fears collided, for a vertiginous second. The question that emerged on top wasn’t the only one that mattered, but the one that mattered most. Will it hurt you?
“I shouldn’t think-”
Don’t lie to me.
“I’m not.” Hurt…no. But…
But Charles was wounded. Easily exhausted. No reserves. And a spark of memory presented itself: Charles laughing, surfacing from the depths of Erik’s head, breathing cheerfully labored: your mind is bloody iron, you know…
You don’t have the strength for this, do you? Not now.
“Not exactly tactful, Erik.” Honestly? I don’t know.
“Some of us can’t hear your telepathic conversations, Charles.”
“Oh-sorry, Hank! Erik’s objecting. Unnecessarily.”
Very necessarily!
You’re worth the risk. “We can’t try immediately, in any case; we do need certain drugs, to make your body more…receptive to change, let’s put it that way. We should have all the components, but I can make a list for you, Hank…”
“Erik doesn’t look entirely happy with you. Here.”
“Thank you, I’ll also need a pen…Erik, you know I love you. And this…we can do this. I want to do this. For you. Understand?”
The wind yelped again, mournfully; in the wake, Erik collected words. Charles. Please. You say I’m worth the risk, but I’m not-it’s not-if you’re doing this for me then please listen to me.
Charles stopped writing, to look.
I know you love me. I know you want to do this for me. And I want this, too. But it’s not worth losing you. I’ve already almost done that once. And that was-I can’t face that again. Not ever again.
Oh…Erik, you-
We can do this. Yes. But not yet. You said you might get a bit better. With some time. And if nothing else, the physical-please give yourself time to heal. If not for yourself, for me. Charles might not listen for his own sake. But Charles might listen, if Erik asked.
And Charles sighed, very softly. Held out his other hand, the one he’d not been using to write; the motion tugged tension into the corners of his mouth, briefly, unthinking stretches of stitched-together flesh. But he was smiling, genuinely, too. Even more so when Erik nestled back down at his side. “Compromise, perhaps? I can give this to Hank-here, Hank-and he can find us some of the physical ingredients, I know we have antimony and crosswort and the opiates but I’m not certain about the mandrake and the wolfsbane, Hank, could you-”
“I’ll check,” Hank said, unflappable in the face of Charles’s enthusiasm, “if you promise not to get out of bed until I say you can.”
“Why does no one believe me when I say I can stand up? Yes, fine, I promise. To you, too, Erik, stop looking at me like that. As I was saying, compromise…” Hank can get started finding these components-they’re mostly just relaxants in any case, to make you more, er, susceptible to suggestion-but we’ll wait a bit for the actual attempt. Because you’re asking. Fair?
Better, at least. And arguing, at this point, was probably futile. Yes. Thank you. Please rest.
Charles smiled again, and handed over his list, and let Erik nuzzle him back down into the pillows. Accepted tea and toast and licked pineapple jelly from his fingers, completely disregarding both royal dignity and supposed invalid status, and Erik curled up at his side and watched that bright smile and basked in the feeling of shared thoughts, sweet and brilliant and vibrant as the purring of the companionable wind outside.
It was a good first night, despite the lurking apprehension that’d set in at Charles’s words-like a lingering illness, weaker, less substantial-and Erik’s subsequent ceaseless vigilance. All the nights were good nights, really. Better than they could’ve hoped for. The knife-wound healed well, a clean cut despite the depth; Charles, although displaying visible signs of impatience, kept his promise and remained in bed and let the tearful visitors and well-wishers and courtly gawkers come to him, everyone needing to verify that their king was still here, still alive.
Raven, in tears, hugged her brother very gingerly, as if he’d turned into glass as a side result; she hugged Erik, as well, after, and Erik decided that he was getting used to this hugging business, and gave in and wagged his tail, because it’d make her giggle and Charles smile.
Charles’s guardsmen turned up with a bizarre wheeled-chair contraption that they’d clearly spent time constructing, claiming hopefully that it’d help keep him from needing to walk as much; Charles tactfully did not mention the existence of all the castle stairs, and instead called them over and talked at them earnestly for half an hour, until some of the guilt at their self-perceived failure to protect him lifted away.
Charles and Hank spent afternoons analyzing the traces of foreign substances on the knifeblade, and, sometimes, in samples taken from the wound. Erik had to look away, at those times. He wasn’t ever going to leave Charles’s side, of course not, but the reminder of his own slowness slashed viciously, in gruesome red detail, into his heart.
Charles slept often. Too often. He could manage staying awake, and holding conversations, and even the hours of scientific investigation, propped up by pillows, but simply ran out of energy around dinnertime, or sooner if he tried anything strenuous, such as the memorable expedition over to the library to acquire new reading material. Erik, who hadn’t been informed of this plan, had been upstairs acquiring Charles’s favorite pillow, and had nearly destroyed all of Hank’s surgical instruments in a fit of panic upon returning to the infirmary and finding Charles gone, and then had contemplated violence toward Hank himself after actually finding Charles, folded up on the floor two hallways over with a stack of books spilling over his arms.
Charles hadn’t let him bite Hank. Not even when Erik promised not to use teeth anywhere that’d show. Charles, instead, had argued that it’d been his own fault, for persuading Hank to let him out of bed and into much-needed physical activity.
Erik’d gazed at him, growled-but softly-and thought, how would you feel, if this were me? and, beneath that, had offered his own understanding-being trapped in bed was confining, in every way. He knew how frustrated Charles felt, because he was sharing the emotion.
But he still wasn’t quite prepared to watch blue eyes try, and struggle, to cover too-long distances too soon.
Charles had looked away, and then back, at him, and nodded, in agreement if not acquiescence. Had said, quietly, I love you.
Two weeks after the attack, Charles looked at Hank hopefully and thought, audible to everyone in the room, upstairs? Erik, who didn’t think that two months would be enough, tried to argue; found himself outvoted by plaintive blue eyes and Hank’s rather hesitant, “It isn’t that far…” and finally gave in, on the condition that he could walk next to Charles and offer support the entire time.
As if I’d say no to leaning on you, Charles said, and smiled. And then proceeded to swing feet over the bed and onto the floor, and Erik yelped and bolted upright to make himself into a prop for one questing arm.
There were a lot of stairs, on the way up to Charles’s rooms. More than Erik remembered. More than he wanted there to be. They didn’t magically decrease in number, though, so he gritted all his teeth and focused all his strength on just being there for each step.
They made it up into the curving tower bedroom without incident, or mostly without incident; Charles climbed stairs slowly, but assuredly, despite mental complaints about resembling a ancient person crossed with a snail. Erik sent back prompt retorts about the improbable compatibility of that particular relationship, which made Charles laugh out loud, which made Erik feel briefly proud and then worry about breathing and availability of air.
The blue eyes didn’t protest being led over to the bed, and Erik worried a bit more. The book-lined walls and pillowy mattress peered at them with concerned paper-and-down-filled gazes, and worried too.
But Charles grinned at him, after being comfortably enthroned among cushions and fluff. Chess game? I’ve missed playing, with you. And Erik draped himself-carefully-across Charles’s feet, and agreed.
The weary-ocean eyes began closing, halfway through the chess match. Erik swallowed, hard; sat up, nudged the set out of the way, and used teeth to carefully tug blankets up over him.
I’m not tired…
Yes, you are. We’ll finish tomorrow.
Oh-but-wait, I was winning!
True, but partially true because Erik’d been playing distracted, heart lurching every time Charles sighed, or changed positions, or grew too quiet. Charles, on the other hand, had been playing more or less like himself until the last few moves, when the loss of focus had become apparent.
You can continue winning tomorrow. Or not, as the case may be. I could just be lulling you into complacency.
Hmm…
Need anything? Tea? Water? More blankets?
No, only you. Charles shut his eyes again, resignedly. You may be correct…I could just nap, for a few minutes…
Go to sleep, Erik told him, and settled down in a curl of legs and tail, gaze not leaving those fatigued eyelashes. I’ll be here.
Know you will, Charles agreed, and the warmth of the concurrence slid and blurred into the velvet fuzziness of sleep, trusting and dreamless and unperturbed. Erik smiled, just a little wolf-smile, to himself, and kept watch.
Charles, sleeping, looked vulnerable, unguarded, even though he knew that was a false assumption; those time-honed mental defenses never truly went down, not even now, and disturbances would be dealt with decisively.
But he couldn’t help the tidal wave of protectiveness anyway, when Charles turned his head and dark hair tumbled over one closed eye, tangling in long eyelashes.
He set a paw over the closest arm, and held on.
A few days after that, Charles said, over tea and scones, “I think I’d like to talk to Emma Frost,” and Erik nearly choked on his breakfast bacon.
You WHAT?!
I know you heard me, Erik, honestly. Though I do appreciate the fierceness on my behalf. Followed by a telepathic caress, heartfelt and deeply sweet, golden-brown and delicious as caramelized sugar. “No, I mean it. We’ve wasted enough time-”
WASTED-! Charles, you’ve been healing, how is that-
“Just hear me out, please.” Charles lifted his chin another stubborn inch, and all at once Erik saw the monarch there, wounded strength that was more about the strength than the wounds. “She told us-before-that Shaw was planning something. Some larger strike, to instigate civil war. That was why they needed me out of the way, so I’d not interfere…”
You ARE out of the way. And would stay there, if Erik had anything to say about it.
You know that won’t work, love. “We need to know when and where he’s executing that plan. It can’t’ve happened yet, we’d know-I’d be picking up the fallout, if war erupted-but it must be soon. It has to be soon. And we need to stop it.”
WE don’t need to do anything-
You agreed with me, once before. About the need to fight him. And I know-Charles hesitated, momentarily. I know you want to see him dead. I won’t keep you from that, if that’s what you need to do. You know we talked about why.
They had. Had agreed, then, that Shaw’s vague goals-the death, the destruction, the fuel for his fire-had to be opposed. And Erik’s hatred of the man burned, like cold fire, through his thoughts and memories. Still true.
But Charles was hurt. That was another truth. That one burned, too.
Emma Frost, Erik said, and hated her. She’d caused that hurt.
She regrets it, I think. She doesn’t want me dead. It was only ever impersonal, for her.
Not better.
Erik, please. For now…I think we do need to see her. To find out what else she knows. I’ll be careful, I promise you. The blue eyes were very sincere. The morning fire, keeping Charles comfortable, crackled, in the pause.
Emma Frost, Erik agreed, against his better judgment, and sighed.
They’d been keeping her in one of the guest quarters, since Charles’d converted all his stepfather’s dungeons to Hank’s infirmary. Erik, completely convinced that no single lock could be secure enough, had pulled some of the metal into a glittering and tightly fused web across the door, and opened it when he felt a servant tap on it, bringing food. Charles, who hadn’t been told about this arrangement, raised an eyebrow at him, but clearly opted not to pursue that argument.
Neither of the current guards were from Charles’s handpicked extra-ordinary group, but they looked at his slow-footed approach with something like horrified concern anyway, and then practically ran over to try to assist. Charles sighed. “I’m really not an invalid, and this is already getting old-”
You’re not as strong as you were, either. You know that. Stop protesting and accept the help when you need it.
You won’t let me feel sorry for myself, will you?
Would you want me to?
Charles sighed again, and summoned up a smile of thanks for his guardsmen, and even let them push him into the first available chair, just inside the door.
“Where do you want to be? We can move you!”
“What? Oh-well, I was hoping to speak to her, but-” This admission resulted in the chair, with Charles in it, being hoisted across the room and deposited near Emma Frost’s cushioned seat at the window, from which she hadn’t moved, eying the show with amused indifference. Erik, half entertained and half concerned for Charles’s safety, trotted along.
“Is there anything else we can do?”
“You like tea! We can bring you tea!”
“Yes, all right, thank you-”
One of them ran out the door, and ran back, so quickly that Erik started to suspect collusion on the part of the household staff. He’d not be surprised if tea remained constantly on the boil, in the kitchens. Everyone loved Charles.
“Thank you,” Charles said, again, and finally shooed them both off, with assurances that yes, he’d call if he required anything, and no, they did not have to threaten the prisoner on his behalf, and yes, he had Erik for protection if necessary. The shorter of the two leaned down and whispered, to Erik, “If she tries to hurt him, you hurt her first,” and Charles said, shocked, “Stephen!!” and Erik licked his lips and grinned. Agreed.
“All right,” Charles murmured, as the door sealed itself up again, “I expect you can guess why we’re here.”
“I’d have to guess, wouldn’t I? Since you’ve made it rather difficult for me to read anyone’s mind.”
“Ah. Yes. My apologies.” Charles did sound genuinely contrite. “But I really couldn’t have you getting loose, you understand.” The chair was slightly too tall for him; he leaned forward, and managed to put both feet on the floor, and looked at her, earnestly.
“You were already in my head, Charles. You know what I know. Why do you not have chairs your size, in your own castle?”
“It’s an heirloom. Most of them are.” Charles, apparently, was prepared to let the first-name basis slide, or might actually be pleased about the familiarity. Erik kind of wanted to growl. “You have to admit, though, it was a rather dramatic first encounter. Very much like a whirlwind. I’d like the chance to try again in calmer weather. So to speak.”
“What else do you want me to tell you? I don’t know where he’ll be. He moves around. He’ll know you’ve either killed or captured me. I doubt I’ll be of much use to you.”
Charles gave up on trying to reach the floor with his toes, and tucked legs up into the depths of the chair, casual and perfectly at ease. Emma Frost blinked.
“You can tell us what he’s going to do, if not where. And you will, I think.”
“And you’re certain of that.”
“Would you like some tea? I find I get cold easily, these days.” Charles held out a cup, eyes wide and guileless. The words weren’t, for all that they fell into the air with no accusatory bite; Emma Frost had the decency to look away.
“Tea doesn’t fix anything. Neither does your optimism, Charles.” She took the cup anyway.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Charles looked at her, levelly; after a second, she took a sip, then sighed. “If you must.”
“I’ll be gentle,” Charles said, and she looked as if she wanted to laugh or shake her head in dismay, but in the end only set the teacup down and met his eyes.
From the outside, nothing much happened: a slight catch of breath, a distance in locked gazes. Erik, sitting at Charles’s feet, felt the hair along his spine prickle, and his hackles rise. The wintry air practically hummed with unarticulated power.
He tried to keep quiet, not wanting to break Charles’s concentration, but couldn’t help the accompanying apprehension.
I’m all right, Erik, don’t worry. Charles kissed him softly, intangibly, not moving. She’s not fighting me. But he did sound somewhat distracted, attention elsewhere, so Erik only nodded and waited, poised to leap in at the first sign of trouble.
A gasp, an exhale, and they both surfaced; Charles said, gravely, “Thank you,” and offered a hand. She contemplated it, and the how-are-you-real? question was plain even without telepathic powers; but the hand stayed outstretched, and she took it, after a moment. Obviously thought something else, which made Charles grin.
“Yes, it is. I find that it works rather well. There might even be scones, as my secret weapon. Thank you again, and I’ll ask you for your answer once we return, fair?”
Emma Frost looked at Erik, this time, and said, “You know, I feel a bit sorry for you,” and “Fair.”
Out in the hallway, Erik asked, She feels sorry for me? and struggled to keep the indignant tone out of his thoughts.
“Oh,” Charles said, and laughed, which didn’t help. “Yes. But not for any of the reasons you’d think.” She said she feels sorry for you, having to try to win arguments with me. Apparently I’m quite terrifying with the politeness and the tea, which I don’t really see, I don’t think I’m terrifying, do you?
Only when you run OUT of your tea. What did she tell you?
I’d like to tell you all at once, I think… The mental request, after that, went out to Charles’s counselors and guardsmen, not all of them, but the ones he trusted most, the ones who ended up in the library looking at each other as Charles painted details of Shaw’s plans into their heads.
Coastal raids. Ships flying the colors of other nations. Provoking attacks, and widespread retaliation. War. And Shaw, absorbing energy with the release of each death, a loathsome spider at the center of it all.
We can stop this now, Charles proclaimed, softly confident. We know which cove he’s using as a base for his fleet. He’s begun already-you’ve heard, or not, about the decimation of the English shipping convoy two days ago-
This provoked some muttering among those who’d not known, and who’d had goods to be lost.
“Yes, well, there’ll be more. And pointing of fingers, and threats. And worse.” As I said, we need to act now.
“We don’t have an army. You were opposed to conscription, as I recall.” This from an ancient curmudgeon at the back of the room. “Your stepfather always had an army.”
“The Regent’s policies are not under discussion.” Very calm, but the closest of the counselors inched away from the objector on either side nevertheless. “And I’ve never believed that conscripted farm boys can do more good than harm in a battle. We do have mercenary companies if we need them, but I don’t believe we do.”
“Then what-”
Erik wanted to ask the same question, because all at once he had an vision of where Charles might be going with this speech, and it was not a pleasant destination.
“A small group, I think. A strike force. Made up of people who have…special abilities, like Shaw. Like my guardsmen, of course-”
Don’t you dare! Erik shouted.
“-Like myself.”
The room erupted in babble. Charles let them squawk for a few minutes, and then put a stop to the noise. Decisively.
Enough. Silence.
“This isn’t a discussion. It’s a courtesy. I believe that he needs to be stopped, and if I’m not willing to put myself on the front lines for that belief, how can I ask anyone else to go out and possibly die in my place? I’ll listen if any of you have practical objections, but don’t waste your time and mine with those thoughts about royal privilege or prerogative, all right? …Yes?”
“You’re the only heir,” said a brown-haired, quiet-voiced woman off to one side. “And you’re not replaceable, Charles.”
“Ah…Moira. I mean Lady MacTaggart, sorry, Moira-oh, drat. Sorry again. You are, of course, correct. However, you do all remember that I have an adopted sister, and the power to name my own successor? All right, then: the Lady Raven-”
“The Lady Raven’s going with you, Charles.”
“-as if I could stop you. The Lady Raven, and, should the unthinkable happen, Henry McCoy and the Lady MacTaggart as co-monarchs, then. Witnessed?”
“What? Charles, we’re not even related-”
“No, but you’re an excellent estate administrator and you’ll keep Hank’s scientific indulgences in check. Besides, consider this revenge for that time you tried to set me up with the French ambassador’s nephew.”
“We were fifteen! And you were lonely, and I was trying to help!”
“And now you can. Witnessed?” This time there was a general rumble of reluctant agreement, washing through the room. Erik sat next to Charles, and thought, very quietly, Will it be a discussion, with me?
Oh, Erik…it can be, if you’d like, I’ll listen, but you should know I’m not letting you go without me.
I seem to recall saying that to you. Flickering memories: despair, anguish, and blood, on the throne-room floor.
Charles winced, in their heads. Yes. I am sorry. I can’t even imagine-well, I can, I can feel what you-but you know I meant what I said when I said it to them. I won’t ask my men, or anyone, to face a danger I wouldn’t face. And I do believe that what we’re doing needs to be done. And…I don’t want you to have to encounter him alone.
Charles-
I’m not going to change my mind, so let’s just pretend we’ve had the argument and I’ve won, shall we?
I love you. Helpless, in the face of all that determination. But that was Charles, too, the man he’d fallen spectacularly in love with, scars and courage and stubbornness and loyalty and crazy hope for the future of the world. And he wouldn’t ask Charles to change. Wouldn’t want this, them, any other way.
I love you, too.
I’ll be right next to you. The entire time.
As you said…I wouldn’t want this any other way. Through the noises of politics happening around them, new alliances and wooing of Moira’s good graces and speculative fortifications, Charles looked down at him and smiled, and Erik thought, Sebastian Shaw, and then, Charles, and smiled in return.