Of Kings and Slaves Chapter 9
Title: Of Kings and Slaves AU - Chapter 9
Rating: Mature
Paring: OB/EW - AU
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: All made up :)
Beta: Many, many thanks to itstonedme
Previous parts:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4.1
Part 4.2
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Orlando enters the keep at midday and pauses. The smell of roasted meat being served to John and his men carries from the dining hall. He had hoped that John’s arrival would take a few more days at the very least, had prayed for a fortnight, but was told they had arrived mid-morning. It was all he could do to hide his disappointment, then and now.
He watches as black smoke from the torches soots the wall before turning to look at the worn bottom stair that will take him to Elijah. Shame has turned his feet to lead.
In his heart, he was grateful Elijah had fallen asleep almost immediately upon their arrival. He’d turned Piper away, wishing to remove Elijah’s damp clothes himself, touching him gently, something he surely would not have been allowed had Elijah been awake.
And the marks on Elijah’s body - he can see them even now and a sick revulsion courses through him. It was bad enough bearing witness without Elijah’s accusing eyes branding him; how will he stand it when Elijah wakes?
Orlando’s only peace came in removing the collar. Elijah had flinched in his sleep but did not wake. The fine silver had softened from the feverish heat rising from his skin, and Orlando had held it for a moment before twisting it so that it would never have to be suffered again. He buried the remains in the bottom of a trunk.
The night had been spent in a chair before the fire, worrying how he might convey the sorrow and horror for what he’d done. No words would ever be sufficient, all too simple and unworthy of Elijah. Fearing he would awaken, Orlando had crept from their room before sunrise like a frightened child.
He can hear John’s voice in he dining hall, the timbre and inflection, although he cannot tell what his enemy says. He strains, expecting to hear his name, but the murmuring of others obscures it.
The stairs beckon, but still he stands, rooted to the spot. He has no idea how to fix what he’s done, but he needs to make amends, to stop the echo of Elijah’s flat, resigned voice: ‘You can take my body now, but that is all you will ever have.’
There is shuffling behind him, and he turns to find a servant standing in the archway of the great hall. She stops, surprised to find him standing there.
“Is there something you need, my lord?”
For one, insane, moment he seizes upon the notion that he should ask her advice. He can imagine her horrified face as he begs her to tell him how he is to make up for what he’s done. Does he ask for forgiveness, or try to earn it? What should he do? He can see himself pleading at her knees, and he laughs out loud at the thought. His outburst makes her appear even more uncomfortable.
Whatever her purpose, it is abandoned as she makes a hasty retreat back into the hall. He bitterly wonders if she will take what she has seen to his enemy.
He labors forward, one foot before the other. There was a time he’d once hoped this kingdom would be his refuge, but his father’s promise pricks like a splinter beneath his skin. There will be no sanctuary in Neverwas. He is forever to be denied everything, especially now that John has returned.
Nor will there be support for him here, someone he can trust to watch over his interests. Both his father and John had made that perfectly clear, even in his absence, apparently. Orlando had charged Valpresio with keeping any eye on the men and ensuring that the rebuilding stayed on task, only to learn upon his return that John had ordered his men waste their time watching unmolested borders.
The futility of it infuriates him. The people need their homes finished, not able-bodied men staring out at a forest and doing little else. He is reminded of something Elijah said: ‘It’s the people who suffer in your battle of wills,’ and finally he realizes the truth behind those words. Especially now that Elijah had almost become the ultimate casualty.
Because of his own stubborn will, he’d let his father drive him to the brink of an unspeakable act. How he wishes that he could take it back or forget that it ever happened, but with every breath his bruised ribs remind him.
Orlando comes upon the man who is supposed to be guarding the stairs, startling him. The guard rises quickly, a blush reddening his face at being caught dozing. Orlando says nothing as he continues to the landing, removing his gloves and nervously snatching at the stays of his cloak.
He pauses before the unbarred door to their chamber. With both his heart and mind, he realizes it’s no longer his room but theirs. Only small, meager words of apology come to him, hardly adequate because Elijah deserves so much more. He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open.
The room is empty.
He stands in the doorway, staring first at the empty bed where he had left Elijah asleep, now neatly made, and then at the chairs, as if doing so will suddenly make Elijah materialize. Then he remembers the open door and orders given to the guard that Elijah be allowed to see his parents if he wished, knowing that Elijah would, and fervently hoping that it would be seen as his attempt at amends.
He turns on his heel and strides down the hall. Standing before the door to the deposed king’s room, he wonders if he should go back and wait for Elijah to return, not wishing to intrude on Elijah’s visit. He notices the guard watching his indecision suspiciously and, without knocking, pushes the door open.
The noise of children’s play comes to an abrupt halt. Their young faces stare at him and he at them. The silence he can accept; he can even force himself to believe it respectful, but the looks on their faces tell a completely different story.
He is a monster. It is there in their eyes.
He looks to Medias and Necia, who too stare in shock. But the pair of blue eyes he’d come seeking are not among them, and his heart begins to race.
If Elijah’s family is still within the castle, then Orlando knows Elijah is as well, for he would never run away and leave them. Of this, Orlando is certain. But he no less confused as he exits without explanation.
Orlando returns to their room, calling out to Elijah as he enters. He drops his cloak over the back of an empty chair, fingers aching from having held it so tightly. Then he notices the door to the slave’s quarters standing slightly ajar. He had missed that detail in his initial panic. But then, he hadn’t expected Elijah would hide from him, although now it makes sense.
He yanks the door open and there, curled beneath the sheets, back to the door, is Elijah.
It’s after midday, and Elijah is still in bed?
“I would speak with you,” he says uncertainly.
There is no response.
“Elijah, I wish to...” Orlando pauses, and tries to turn his voice into that softer thing he feels inside. “I want you to know that I’m sorry.”
Again, there is no reaction. Orlando bites his bottom lip and draws a deep breath. He will, if nothing else, have Elijah face him and know that he means what he says.
“Elijah, look at me.”
He pleads to himself for patience when Elijah doesn’t move, fighting the dread at Elijah’s lack of response and fearing that nothing he does or says will ever make up for what he’s done. Closing the few steps to the narrow bed, he lays his hand on Elijah’s shoulder. Even through his shirt, Elijah’s skin feels on fire.
Upon his touch, Elijah rolls limply to his back. Orlando can see the sweat on Elijah’s brow, the waxy color of his skin save for two spots of hectic color flushing his cheeks.
“Elijah.” He shakes him in alarm. In a jumbled flood of thoughts, he remembers that the collar had felt warm, that Elijah had been listless, that his clothing had been damp. How could he have not noticed that Elijah was sick?
Fever bright eyes struggle to open, and Elijah can see the concern in Orlando’s eyes. His Orlando. There are two of you, he thinks in his feverish state, and he remembers well the one he did not recognize.
“What are you doing here?” Orlando whispers.
Piper, Elijah thinks. Piper had come with breakfast. Piper had come to tell him that the door was unlocked, but Elijah couldn’t lift his head from the pillow. Then Piper had disappeared for some reason, and when had he returned, someone was with him. No, there had been more than one person, for he had heard John’s voice among them. It wasn’t John who had moved him, but it was John who had sneered that no slave, especially a sick one, was to sleep in his master’s bed.
“Moved me... not to make you sick,” Elijah manages to reply.
“Who moved you? Who took you from my bed?” Orlando feels suddenly flushed himself, hot with anger that someone would have moved Elijah without his permission.
Elijah just wants silence and sleep. He hasn’t the strength to deal with Orlando’s fit of pique.
Orlando’s long, cool fingers stroke his brow. The touch feels so good that he nearly cries when Orlando removes his hand. He realizes that he must have made some noise because Orlando’s asking softly what’s wrong, but he doesn’t have the energy to respond. Orlando strokes his forehead again, and seconds of relief come in the press of cool fingers; this time tears come as well, wetting the fringe of his lashes.
Orlando stands frozen and unsure with his hand on Elijah’s forehead. Only when Elijah’s breathing becomes deep and regular does he dare to pull away.
This is his fault. He left Elijah in the cold damp rain for hours.
The mattress on the cot is thin and hard. Orlando wouldn’t allow a dog to sleep here. He makes quick work of bundling Elijah, blankets and all, and carrying him back to the bed. Their bed.
“Elijah,” he whispers, laying him down and fussing with the blankets. How he wants those blue eyes to open, clear and lucid, even if they are filled with the hurt and disappointment he saw yesterday.
Elijah remains so still that Orlando inclines his head, listening for the sound of Elijah’s breath.
A voice slices the quiet. “What are you doing?”
Orlando lifts his head and turns slowly, as angered by the intrusion as by the intruder.
“He’s ill, John.”
“That is why I had him taken from your bed.”
“It was you then?” Orlando is not surprised.
“He belongs in the attendant’s room,” John says flatly. “Get a servant to be with him before you too end up sick.”
“No.”
The smile that spreads across John’s face arouses Orlando’s anger. John looks as if he’s been given the greatest gift. He wants nothing more than to be rid of Elijah, knows he has the power to do it, and is just waiting for an excuse.
“It is not fitting, Orlando.”
“You had no right,” Orlando snaps.
“I am looking after you, as your father asked,” comes John’s smug reply.
“What do you want?”
“I came to get you. I thought we should meet with Valpresio, get a report from him.”
“Why bother when you know what they’ve been doing, idling along the border, staring at the trees.”
“You understand,” John says, grinning as if this were all some great amusement to him, “that I simply took care of what you did not. You should be thanking me.”
“Get out,” Orlando orders quietly in deference to Elijah’s sleep.
“There are issues that must be seen to…”
“I have spoken with Valpresio. Go.”
“Orlando, you must remove him from your bed.”
“I will take care of it. Leave.”
“Your father…”
“I said I would take care of it!” Orlando bellows. He’s sure he has woken Elijah, but Elijah’s eyes remain closed.
“You remember the rights Tristan’s given me.”
If the window were larger, Orlando thinks he’d find out if Tristan had given John wings.
“Yes, John! Run and tell him that you caught me sniveling over my slave. Do what you must, just go away.”
“Your father…“
“I am not my father.”
“That is certain,” John agrees. If Tristan were to see this, he would have his own son’s head for such a fawning display. But why should John bloody his hands when the illness will most likely do it for him? Why rush when he can torment the boy who killed his son?
“Get out,” Orlando warns for the last time.
John turns without further argument, smiling as he goes. Perhaps this fever will take Orlando too.
*
Orlando rises and shuts the door firmly. He had not thought of having it bolted from the inside, but perhaps he’ll have to.
When he returns to the bed, the sweat is pouring from Elijah, beading on his forehead and darkening the hair framing his face. Orlando’s heart begins to beat heavily, and it’s hard to breathe. He thinks of the last time he saw his mother.
Illness terrifies him more than war itself. Meeting a man with a blade in his hand is something he has control over; he can be quicker and more cunning than his foe. But against this enemy, he is helpless. There was nothing he could do for his mother, and she had died.
He loosens the blankets, pulling the top one off completely and sits on the edge of the bed. He tries to tell himself that it is a matter of too many blankets, that Elijah will be fine now.
For a time, he’s able to believe that. Elijah stops sweating, and Orlando ignores the heat radiating from his skin. Removing his boots, he crawls onto the bed, lying so that he can watch the rise and fall of Elijah’s chest. Everything will be fine.
*
Orlando wakes to the sound of knocking. It has become dark, and for a moment he forgets whether he’s at home or in his father’s keep.
“My lord?”
His head is fuzzy, still wrapped in sleep and it takes a moment for Orlando to recognize that it is Piper’s voice on the other side of the door, and they are home and Elijah is sick. He cannot hear Elijah breathing, so he reaches out and lays his hand on Elijah’s chest. He feels the steady thump of Elijah’s heart, which is comforting, but the still unnatural heat is not.
“My Lord?”
Piper sounds concerned. Orlando stumbles from the bed and opens the door a crack. He squints against the light spilling from Piper’s lamp into the room.
“I came to check on you. You’ve not called for dinner.”
“We are sleeping.”
“How is he?” Piper tries to peer over Orlando’s shoulder.
“He sleeps,” Orlando answers cautiously, mindful that this is the servant who spoke to John.
“Would you like me to bring you something to eat? Some wine?”
Orlando nods. “Leave the lamp.” Once Piper has left, he returns to the bed, almost afraid to look. Elijah is still feverish, still sweating despite having pushed most of the blankets off.
Orlando wipes at his nose and eyes. It’s long past sundown, and a chill hangs in the air. He builds a small fire in the hearth and lights another lamp.
At least Elijah hasn’t started raving yet, not like his mother had. That means Elijah is not going to die.
In a short while, Piper returns bearing stew in one dish and broth in another, as well as bread and wine. Orlando takes the tray and bids Piper to leave.
“I could help…”
“I don’t need your help.” Orlando stands in the doorway until Piper reluctantly walks away. The less information Piper has to take back to John, the better.
Setting the tray on the table beside the bed, Orlando takes a bit of bread. Despite having no appetite, he hopes it will still the tremors in his hand.
“Elijah.” He brushes damp curls from Elijah’s forehead. “Elijah, will you wake and eat something?” There is no response, even when he repeats the question several times.
Towards the end, on her deathbed, Orlando’s mother had refused food and drink. At the time, he hadn’t known what that meant. But he does now, and fear grips him anew. He paces until he can’t stand it. Leaning over Elijah, he says his name, over and over again, each time louder and more demanding.
If Elijah hears him, there’s no indication.
“Please. Open your eyes. Obey me in this one thing,” he pleads, the last little more than a hitching whisper.
He leans his head against Elijah’s shoulder, listening to the shallow respirations. When the position becomes too uncomfortable, he stretches out beside Elijah and wraps his arms around him.
He must have dozed because Elijah’s shivering wakes him. He draws a blanket over them, then another and another, but still Elijah’s teeth continue to chatter.
His terror finally becomes too much. He needs help.
There is only one person he feels he can trust now, only one he would ever entrust Elijah to.
He doesn’t bother to knock on the door at the far end of the hall but simply throws the bar and barges in.
The fire has burned low, the children asleep in the large bed, but Medias and Necia still sit by the fire. They turn to him as one, alarm rekindled once more.
“Woman, your son is sick.”
Necia blinks in puzzlement before turning to look at her husband. Her reaction frustrates Orlando; he had expected her to rise to her feet at once. Perhaps he wasn’t clear.
“He is burning up and I don’t know what to do for him,” he explains.
Necia stands slowly, taking in Orlando’s wild eyes and trembling bottom lip. “May I go to him?”
“I didn’t come here simply to announce it,” Orlando says testily.
“Be quiet!” she hisses as her children stir. As they settle back into their pillows, Necia moves towards the door.
Chastened, Orlando doesn’t utter another word until they are in the hall. “I need you to save him.”
She looks over her shoulder at him. “I wish that also, but I can make no promises.”
Orlando blinks at her in bewilderment. How can she not tell him what he wants to hear? How can she be honest the one time in his life when he needs a lie?
“Please,” he implores softly.
In the flickering light, Necia takes in the dark smudges beneath his eyes, the pinched mouth, the fear. It appears strange on a man who only wishes to use her son. “I will do the very best I can. He is my son.”
They enter the room, Orlando remains at her back as she leans over Elijah. She gives Orlando a sharp look, and he reluctantly gives her space. She sits on the edge of the bed and rests her hand against Elijah’s brow. He is burning up.
“How long has he been like this?”
“Since yesterday, I think,” he confesses.
“You think?” she scoffs.
Orlando doesn’t know which is worse, her tone or the look she gives him. “He was warm. I … I didn’t know he was ill.”
She turns away from him then, and begins to croon softly to Elijah.
“Will that help? Is it magic?” Orlando asks.
She pauses, uncertain what to make of his question. “Of a sort,” she replies softly. “A mother’s magic. Did your own never touch you thus and comfort you?”
“If she did, I don’t remember it.”
“That explains much,” she replies coolly before picking up the threads of her song. Her son needs her comfort now, not this child-king.
Orlando isn’t sure if it is the words or her pure, sweet voice, but something makes his eyes sting. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I need cold water,” she tells him softly, “and cloths for his forehead. And tea.”
“I will get it,” he assures her, glad at last to find there is some way he can help.
He nearly collides with Piper when he steps into the hall.
“Pardon, my Lord,” Piper begs. “The ki…Medias thought I could be of some assistance?”
Orlando thought he might have the distraction of going to fetch what Necia needs but gives the request to Piper and sends him off. It is then that he notices Medias standing in the doorway at the end of the hall.
“How bad is he?” Medias asks when they are alone.
“He will not wake, that is all I know.” Orlando turns to re-enter the bedroom but pauses. “I will send word if anything changes.”
He slips inside quietly and listens to Necia sing, the anxious look on Medias’ face haunting him.
Piper soon returns, and Orlando meets him at the door, taking the tray laden with what they require, and advising that he will call upon Piper if need be. He cannot seem to resolve his grudge toward the servant.
“Bring it here,” Necia demands. The table still holds the remains of their dinner so he sets his burden on the floor, filling the basin with the water; he holds it for her while Necia dampens a strip of cloth before placing it on Elijah’s forehead.
“Has he had anything to drink?” she inquires.
Orlando shakes his head. He can’t even be sure when Elijah ate or drank last.
She lifts Elijah’s head gently and puts the cup to his lips. Orlando is hopeful when Elijah swallows a little, but his eyes never once open.
*
Later, Elijah begins to shiver again, and he accuses her of making Elijah worse.
“It’s just an effect of the fever, nothing that I’ve done or haven’t done,” Necia explains calmly. She pulls the blankets to Elijah’s chin and looks guardedly at Orlando. His behavior is beyond being upset that a favorite plaything is unavailable; he watches with fear in his eyes. She finally sees what she couldn’t see before and understands why Elijah wouldn’t take the knife. Orlando loves him.
“Is there nothing you can do?” Orlando asks. It’s unbearable for him to sit and watch like this.
“There is nothing we can do. The fever will pass on its own, one way or another.”
Orlando all but howls with frustration at her complacence. “How can you just accept it?” he snarls, his fingers balling into fists.
“What is all that for?” she snaps irritably, as if scolding one of her children.
Orlando’s fists drop to his sides and he blinks at her, stunned by the tone she has taken.
“Do you think that will help him?” she asks. “All it will do is disturb his rest. If you feel the need to make noise, then come tell him that you need him to get better.”
Orlando gapes at her a moment longer, then turns his gaze upon Elijah. He wants that more than anything, but those words are not for her to hear.
She senses his hesitation and feels torn herself. “Here, “she says at length, “help me get him to drink this.”
“What are you putting it in?” Orlando asks suspiciously as he watches her pinch a bit of power into a cup of water. It had been on the tray Piper brought; he hadn’t thought to check it.
“Just something to bring down his fever, I hope. It will not hurt him,” she adds when she sees the concern in his eyes. “Come here.”
“What-what do I do?” he asks as he sidles up to the bed, grateful beyond reason that he may, at last, be able to help.
“I need you to lift his head.”
Orlando inches forward and gingerly touches Elijah’s face, the skin still too hot beneath his hands.
“It would be better if you propped up his head,” she suggests softly.
Elijah seems fragile and Orlando’s afraid to touch, afraid that he’ll break Elijah further, and he already feels so responsible for this.
“Here,” she offers when she sees him standing unsurely. “I will lift his head and you sit, let him lean against you.”
Necia lifts Elijah’s head gently, with the practiced hands of a mother, and Orlando does as he had been instructed, cradling Elijah’s head.
“Have you done this a lot? Cared for the sick?” he asks, partly to fill the silence and partly out of curiosity.
“I have cared for my sick children many times,” she answers. “They are mine and I would have no other tend to them. I’m certain you understand such possessiveness,” she looks at him pointedly, “of not wanting others to touch those you love, don’t you?”
Orlando says nothing as he watches her bring the cup to Elijah’s mouth, tipping a little water between his lips. He thinks they may finally understand each other.
“Elijah, love, wake up and drink just a little,” she coos softly.
There’s a moment of quiet victory when Elijah opens his eyes and drinks for her. Orlando is envious that Elijah seems to notice only her, but as she pulls the cup away, his head tilts back and those blue eyes fix upon him; he can barely comprehend the terror he feels at the blankness in them.
There is no recognition whatsoever and he fears that the fever has taken Elijah’s mind. His heart slams against his chest as he rubs his thumbs along Elijah’s cheeks and speaks his name. A furrow appears between Elijah’s eyes, and Orlando thinks he may have caught a glimpse of anger; he is grateful to see it, for anger means Elijah knows him still, and that means Elijah is still in there. At last, he releases the breath he’s been holding.
There is a knock at the door that startles both him and Necia. “Who is it?” Orlando calls out. He doesn’t want to disturb Elijah unnecessarily, nor does he want to admit John willingly.
“It’s Piper, my lord.”
Orlando grudgingly suffers him to enter.
“I’ve come to see if there is anything you need.”
Orlando looks down at Elijah; the only thing he needs is for Elijah to improve.
Necia speaks up. “Broth, Piper, and more wine. When you return, tend to the fire.” She is at once every bit the queen of this castle, and every numb inch of Orlando is grateful.
“Right away, my lady.” Piper bows before slipping out again.
“Did I speak out of turn?” she asks when she catches him looking at her.
“Yes. It’s not your place to give orders.”
Necia smiles, for his voice is mild, and there is not a lick of anger in his eyes. What she sees before her is not a king, nor a threat to her child, merely a tired young man. “I cry your pardon, my lord, but you didn’t seem to be giving any.”
“You surprise me,” he tells her honestly.
“How so?” she asks as she wrings out a fresh cloth, replacing the warm one on Elijah’s forehead.
“That you were able to give him such sharp orders. I didn’t think you were like that.”
“We ruled our kingdom and our people, make no mistake. We just weren’t callous about it. People are people, no matter what their station in life, and they deserve to be treated as such.”
“You think me callous?” He tilts his head and looks at her. He has never asked another’s opinion of himself, not wishing to hear another opinion like his father’s, but he is curious how she sees him.
“Are you sure you wish to know?”
He nods. “Tell me.”
“Are you asking me or ordering me?”
“The first, unless you decline to answer, and then the latter.” He watches the corner of her mouth quirk into the bitter approximation of a smile.
“I do think you’re callous, the way you treat my son…” She stops.
“You think I treat him badly?”
The look on her face tells him all he needs to know. It twists bitterly in his heart. He can please no parent, his own or otherwise.
He does not like the pain such thoughts bring and lashes out cruelly. “Elijah has seen for himself how slaves are treated in my father’s kingdom, and I think he would tell you that he prefers my hand. Actually,” he smiles coldly, “he prefers more than my hand.”
She clucks her tongue at him. “Must you be so crude?”
“Crude? How so?” Orlando needles. “The fact that I speak of sex in this manner? It’s not like it doesn’t happen, even here in the ivory tower. It is just sex, however and wherever it should occur.”
“It means so little to you?”
He is reminded of Elijah’s own words. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel like goading her anymore.
“I raised my children to believe it is an expression of love.”
He shifts uncomfortably. Like mother, like son.
“But you don’t think that way, do you?” She baits him, and he finds himself taking it.
"It’s not an expression of anything more than desire, and love makes a man useless.” Is he still trying to convince himself?
“My condolences.” Her face is at once serious and sympathetic.
Orlando stares at her hand, the one that has just patted his knee. “For what?” he asks, fearing the answer.
“You know,” she says harshly. “You are smart enough to know, and stupid enough not to listen.”
“Listen to what?” he demands. “Why are you sorry for me? I do not ask for your pity!”
She looks at him for some time. She will make sure he hears her next words clearly. “For never having loved. I pity that you’ve never had or wanted it”
“Do not presume to know what I want,” he warns, glancing down at Elijah’s face.
She says and does nothing to betray the fact that she sees tears in his eyes.
“Leave us,” he begs softly. He is tired, defeated and he cannot bear anymore chastisement now.
Necia leans forward and kisses Elijah’s brow and then - gods! -- she does the same to him. Would that she knew the act he’d nearly committed upon her son! What would she have given him then?
“If he worsens, will you send for me?”
Orlando nods. He cannot look at her.
“Try to feed him the broth when Piper returns.”
*
He never imagined he’d be such a tender nursemaid. He never thought he’d have the patience, but for Elijah he would sit for an hour or more, coaxing him to swallow even half a bowl of broth.
The night has passed, and light is creeping into the sky. He has been awake since sunrise yesterday and finds himself nodding over Elijah, legs numb from sitting too long. He rises quietly, hissing at the soreness in his legs as he hobbles to the chamber pot and relieves himself. He extinguishes the lamps before climbing beneath the blankets with Elijah.
Elijah’s skin is still so hot. Necia’s powder does not appear to have helped.
He puts his mouth near Elijah’s ear. “Elijah, will you wake for me? I am sorry. Please, do not leave me.”
He reaches for Elijah’s hand and rests it, palm up, against the sheet, stroking the warm fingers gently.
“You mother was wrong,” he says softly. “I have known love. I loved Eric as much as a boy knows love. When he was taken from me, it hurt so badly that I never wanted to know it again. I didn’t want to know you.” He squeezes Elijah’s hand again, for reassurance. It feels so strange to lie here and talk to one who cannot hear him. Perhaps that is why he does it.
“I’m so sorry for what I did to you,” he whispers fervently. “My father told me that you would try to take advantage of me, use my blind love for you against me. He told me this after already saying such hurtful things, and I, like a fool, believed him.” Orlando traces the lines along Elijah’s palm.
“When I saw you at the tree, having untied the rope, I thought... I thought he was right. I thought, you will never obey me, ever. I was mad enough to think taking you was what I wanted, when it isn’t. But loving you is unacceptable. I risk your life. He will take you from me, and I can’t bear it. It would be worse... no accident ...” It is so hard to breathe, thinking about such possible ends.
Fingers curl around his own.
Orlando jerks his head from the pillow. Elijah’s eyes are open. He is still flushed and warm, but his eyes are lucid.
Orlando rolls to his elbows and his knees. “How do you feel?” he asks breathlessly.
Ignoring the question, Elijah whispers his own. “Do you love me?”
He touches Elijah’s face, stroking the now slightly cooler cheek with the back of one knuckle. “Yes. I do,” he admits. How could he not love the one who’s more necessary to him than water? Elijah is wearing away his rough edges, smoothing him like river stones and soon there will be no sharpness left to cut Elijah - not in words nor deeds.
“I don’t want to ever lose you, Elijah, not to fever nor my father. One threat may have diminished, but the other is still very real and just as dangerous. I don’t know what to do.”
Elijah lifts his fingers to Orlando’s face. “If you love me … then, we will find a way.”
tbc ... Part 10
Rating: Mature
Paring: OB/EW - AU
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: All made up :)
Beta: Many, many thanks to itstonedme
Previous parts:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4.1
Part 4.2
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Orlando enters the keep at midday and pauses. The smell of roasted meat being served to John and his men carries from the dining hall. He had hoped that John’s arrival would take a few more days at the very least, had prayed for a fortnight, but was told they had arrived mid-morning. It was all he could do to hide his disappointment, then and now.
He watches as black smoke from the torches soots the wall before turning to look at the worn bottom stair that will take him to Elijah. Shame has turned his feet to lead.
In his heart, he was grateful Elijah had fallen asleep almost immediately upon their arrival. He’d turned Piper away, wishing to remove Elijah’s damp clothes himself, touching him gently, something he surely would not have been allowed had Elijah been awake.
And the marks on Elijah’s body - he can see them even now and a sick revulsion courses through him. It was bad enough bearing witness without Elijah’s accusing eyes branding him; how will he stand it when Elijah wakes?
Orlando’s only peace came in removing the collar. Elijah had flinched in his sleep but did not wake. The fine silver had softened from the feverish heat rising from his skin, and Orlando had held it for a moment before twisting it so that it would never have to be suffered again. He buried the remains in the bottom of a trunk.
The night had been spent in a chair before the fire, worrying how he might convey the sorrow and horror for what he’d done. No words would ever be sufficient, all too simple and unworthy of Elijah. Fearing he would awaken, Orlando had crept from their room before sunrise like a frightened child.
He can hear John’s voice in he dining hall, the timbre and inflection, although he cannot tell what his enemy says. He strains, expecting to hear his name, but the murmuring of others obscures it.
The stairs beckon, but still he stands, rooted to the spot. He has no idea how to fix what he’s done, but he needs to make amends, to stop the echo of Elijah’s flat, resigned voice: ‘You can take my body now, but that is all you will ever have.’
There is shuffling behind him, and he turns to find a servant standing in the archway of the great hall. She stops, surprised to find him standing there.
“Is there something you need, my lord?”
For one, insane, moment he seizes upon the notion that he should ask her advice. He can imagine her horrified face as he begs her to tell him how he is to make up for what he’s done. Does he ask for forgiveness, or try to earn it? What should he do? He can see himself pleading at her knees, and he laughs out loud at the thought. His outburst makes her appear even more uncomfortable.
Whatever her purpose, it is abandoned as she makes a hasty retreat back into the hall. He bitterly wonders if she will take what she has seen to his enemy.
He labors forward, one foot before the other. There was a time he’d once hoped this kingdom would be his refuge, but his father’s promise pricks like a splinter beneath his skin. There will be no sanctuary in Neverwas. He is forever to be denied everything, especially now that John has returned.
Nor will there be support for him here, someone he can trust to watch over his interests. Both his father and John had made that perfectly clear, even in his absence, apparently. Orlando had charged Valpresio with keeping any eye on the men and ensuring that the rebuilding stayed on task, only to learn upon his return that John had ordered his men waste their time watching unmolested borders.
The futility of it infuriates him. The people need their homes finished, not able-bodied men staring out at a forest and doing little else. He is reminded of something Elijah said: ‘It’s the people who suffer in your battle of wills,’ and finally he realizes the truth behind those words. Especially now that Elijah had almost become the ultimate casualty.
Because of his own stubborn will, he’d let his father drive him to the brink of an unspeakable act. How he wishes that he could take it back or forget that it ever happened, but with every breath his bruised ribs remind him.
Orlando comes upon the man who is supposed to be guarding the stairs, startling him. The guard rises quickly, a blush reddening his face at being caught dozing. Orlando says nothing as he continues to the landing, removing his gloves and nervously snatching at the stays of his cloak.
He pauses before the unbarred door to their chamber. With both his heart and mind, he realizes it’s no longer his room but theirs. Only small, meager words of apology come to him, hardly adequate because Elijah deserves so much more. He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open.
The room is empty.
He stands in the doorway, staring first at the empty bed where he had left Elijah asleep, now neatly made, and then at the chairs, as if doing so will suddenly make Elijah materialize. Then he remembers the open door and orders given to the guard that Elijah be allowed to see his parents if he wished, knowing that Elijah would, and fervently hoping that it would be seen as his attempt at amends.
He turns on his heel and strides down the hall. Standing before the door to the deposed king’s room, he wonders if he should go back and wait for Elijah to return, not wishing to intrude on Elijah’s visit. He notices the guard watching his indecision suspiciously and, without knocking, pushes the door open.
The noise of children’s play comes to an abrupt halt. Their young faces stare at him and he at them. The silence he can accept; he can even force himself to believe it respectful, but the looks on their faces tell a completely different story.
He is a monster. It is there in their eyes.
He looks to Medias and Necia, who too stare in shock. But the pair of blue eyes he’d come seeking are not among them, and his heart begins to race.
If Elijah’s family is still within the castle, then Orlando knows Elijah is as well, for he would never run away and leave them. Of this, Orlando is certain. But he no less confused as he exits without explanation.
Orlando returns to their room, calling out to Elijah as he enters. He drops his cloak over the back of an empty chair, fingers aching from having held it so tightly. Then he notices the door to the slave’s quarters standing slightly ajar. He had missed that detail in his initial panic. But then, he hadn’t expected Elijah would hide from him, although now it makes sense.
He yanks the door open and there, curled beneath the sheets, back to the door, is Elijah.
It’s after midday, and Elijah is still in bed?
“I would speak with you,” he says uncertainly.
There is no response.
“Elijah, I wish to...” Orlando pauses, and tries to turn his voice into that softer thing he feels inside. “I want you to know that I’m sorry.”
Again, there is no reaction. Orlando bites his bottom lip and draws a deep breath. He will, if nothing else, have Elijah face him and know that he means what he says.
“Elijah, look at me.”
He pleads to himself for patience when Elijah doesn’t move, fighting the dread at Elijah’s lack of response and fearing that nothing he does or says will ever make up for what he’s done. Closing the few steps to the narrow bed, he lays his hand on Elijah’s shoulder. Even through his shirt, Elijah’s skin feels on fire.
Upon his touch, Elijah rolls limply to his back. Orlando can see the sweat on Elijah’s brow, the waxy color of his skin save for two spots of hectic color flushing his cheeks.
“Elijah.” He shakes him in alarm. In a jumbled flood of thoughts, he remembers that the collar had felt warm, that Elijah had been listless, that his clothing had been damp. How could he have not noticed that Elijah was sick?
Fever bright eyes struggle to open, and Elijah can see the concern in Orlando’s eyes. His Orlando. There are two of you, he thinks in his feverish state, and he remembers well the one he did not recognize.
“What are you doing here?” Orlando whispers.
Piper, Elijah thinks. Piper had come with breakfast. Piper had come to tell him that the door was unlocked, but Elijah couldn’t lift his head from the pillow. Then Piper had disappeared for some reason, and when had he returned, someone was with him. No, there had been more than one person, for he had heard John’s voice among them. It wasn’t John who had moved him, but it was John who had sneered that no slave, especially a sick one, was to sleep in his master’s bed.
“Moved me... not to make you sick,” Elijah manages to reply.
“Who moved you? Who took you from my bed?” Orlando feels suddenly flushed himself, hot with anger that someone would have moved Elijah without his permission.
Elijah just wants silence and sleep. He hasn’t the strength to deal with Orlando’s fit of pique.
Orlando’s long, cool fingers stroke his brow. The touch feels so good that he nearly cries when Orlando removes his hand. He realizes that he must have made some noise because Orlando’s asking softly what’s wrong, but he doesn’t have the energy to respond. Orlando strokes his forehead again, and seconds of relief come in the press of cool fingers; this time tears come as well, wetting the fringe of his lashes.
Orlando stands frozen and unsure with his hand on Elijah’s forehead. Only when Elijah’s breathing becomes deep and regular does he dare to pull away.
This is his fault. He left Elijah in the cold damp rain for hours.
The mattress on the cot is thin and hard. Orlando wouldn’t allow a dog to sleep here. He makes quick work of bundling Elijah, blankets and all, and carrying him back to the bed. Their bed.
“Elijah,” he whispers, laying him down and fussing with the blankets. How he wants those blue eyes to open, clear and lucid, even if they are filled with the hurt and disappointment he saw yesterday.
Elijah remains so still that Orlando inclines his head, listening for the sound of Elijah’s breath.
A voice slices the quiet. “What are you doing?”
Orlando lifts his head and turns slowly, as angered by the intrusion as by the intruder.
“He’s ill, John.”
“That is why I had him taken from your bed.”
“It was you then?” Orlando is not surprised.
“He belongs in the attendant’s room,” John says flatly. “Get a servant to be with him before you too end up sick.”
“No.”
The smile that spreads across John’s face arouses Orlando’s anger. John looks as if he’s been given the greatest gift. He wants nothing more than to be rid of Elijah, knows he has the power to do it, and is just waiting for an excuse.
“It is not fitting, Orlando.”
“You had no right,” Orlando snaps.
“I am looking after you, as your father asked,” comes John’s smug reply.
“What do you want?”
“I came to get you. I thought we should meet with Valpresio, get a report from him.”
“Why bother when you know what they’ve been doing, idling along the border, staring at the trees.”
“You understand,” John says, grinning as if this were all some great amusement to him, “that I simply took care of what you did not. You should be thanking me.”
“Get out,” Orlando orders quietly in deference to Elijah’s sleep.
“There are issues that must be seen to…”
“I have spoken with Valpresio. Go.”
“Orlando, you must remove him from your bed.”
“I will take care of it. Leave.”
“Your father…”
“I said I would take care of it!” Orlando bellows. He’s sure he has woken Elijah, but Elijah’s eyes remain closed.
“You remember the rights Tristan’s given me.”
If the window were larger, Orlando thinks he’d find out if Tristan had given John wings.
“Yes, John! Run and tell him that you caught me sniveling over my slave. Do what you must, just go away.”
“Your father…“
“I am not my father.”
“That is certain,” John agrees. If Tristan were to see this, he would have his own son’s head for such a fawning display. But why should John bloody his hands when the illness will most likely do it for him? Why rush when he can torment the boy who killed his son?
“Get out,” Orlando warns for the last time.
John turns without further argument, smiling as he goes. Perhaps this fever will take Orlando too.
*
Orlando rises and shuts the door firmly. He had not thought of having it bolted from the inside, but perhaps he’ll have to.
When he returns to the bed, the sweat is pouring from Elijah, beading on his forehead and darkening the hair framing his face. Orlando’s heart begins to beat heavily, and it’s hard to breathe. He thinks of the last time he saw his mother.
Illness terrifies him more than war itself. Meeting a man with a blade in his hand is something he has control over; he can be quicker and more cunning than his foe. But against this enemy, he is helpless. There was nothing he could do for his mother, and she had died.
He loosens the blankets, pulling the top one off completely and sits on the edge of the bed. He tries to tell himself that it is a matter of too many blankets, that Elijah will be fine now.
For a time, he’s able to believe that. Elijah stops sweating, and Orlando ignores the heat radiating from his skin. Removing his boots, he crawls onto the bed, lying so that he can watch the rise and fall of Elijah’s chest. Everything will be fine.
*
Orlando wakes to the sound of knocking. It has become dark, and for a moment he forgets whether he’s at home or in his father’s keep.
“My lord?”
His head is fuzzy, still wrapped in sleep and it takes a moment for Orlando to recognize that it is Piper’s voice on the other side of the door, and they are home and Elijah is sick. He cannot hear Elijah breathing, so he reaches out and lays his hand on Elijah’s chest. He feels the steady thump of Elijah’s heart, which is comforting, but the still unnatural heat is not.
“My Lord?”
Piper sounds concerned. Orlando stumbles from the bed and opens the door a crack. He squints against the light spilling from Piper’s lamp into the room.
“I came to check on you. You’ve not called for dinner.”
“We are sleeping.”
“How is he?” Piper tries to peer over Orlando’s shoulder.
“He sleeps,” Orlando answers cautiously, mindful that this is the servant who spoke to John.
“Would you like me to bring you something to eat? Some wine?”
Orlando nods. “Leave the lamp.” Once Piper has left, he returns to the bed, almost afraid to look. Elijah is still feverish, still sweating despite having pushed most of the blankets off.
Orlando wipes at his nose and eyes. It’s long past sundown, and a chill hangs in the air. He builds a small fire in the hearth and lights another lamp.
At least Elijah hasn’t started raving yet, not like his mother had. That means Elijah is not going to die.
In a short while, Piper returns bearing stew in one dish and broth in another, as well as bread and wine. Orlando takes the tray and bids Piper to leave.
“I could help…”
“I don’t need your help.” Orlando stands in the doorway until Piper reluctantly walks away. The less information Piper has to take back to John, the better.
Setting the tray on the table beside the bed, Orlando takes a bit of bread. Despite having no appetite, he hopes it will still the tremors in his hand.
“Elijah.” He brushes damp curls from Elijah’s forehead. “Elijah, will you wake and eat something?” There is no response, even when he repeats the question several times.
Towards the end, on her deathbed, Orlando’s mother had refused food and drink. At the time, he hadn’t known what that meant. But he does now, and fear grips him anew. He paces until he can’t stand it. Leaning over Elijah, he says his name, over and over again, each time louder and more demanding.
If Elijah hears him, there’s no indication.
“Please. Open your eyes. Obey me in this one thing,” he pleads, the last little more than a hitching whisper.
He leans his head against Elijah’s shoulder, listening to the shallow respirations. When the position becomes too uncomfortable, he stretches out beside Elijah and wraps his arms around him.
He must have dozed because Elijah’s shivering wakes him. He draws a blanket over them, then another and another, but still Elijah’s teeth continue to chatter.
His terror finally becomes too much. He needs help.
There is only one person he feels he can trust now, only one he would ever entrust Elijah to.
He doesn’t bother to knock on the door at the far end of the hall but simply throws the bar and barges in.
The fire has burned low, the children asleep in the large bed, but Medias and Necia still sit by the fire. They turn to him as one, alarm rekindled once more.
“Woman, your son is sick.”
Necia blinks in puzzlement before turning to look at her husband. Her reaction frustrates Orlando; he had expected her to rise to her feet at once. Perhaps he wasn’t clear.
“He is burning up and I don’t know what to do for him,” he explains.
Necia stands slowly, taking in Orlando’s wild eyes and trembling bottom lip. “May I go to him?”
“I didn’t come here simply to announce it,” Orlando says testily.
“Be quiet!” she hisses as her children stir. As they settle back into their pillows, Necia moves towards the door.
Chastened, Orlando doesn’t utter another word until they are in the hall. “I need you to save him.”
She looks over her shoulder at him. “I wish that also, but I can make no promises.”
Orlando blinks at her in bewilderment. How can she not tell him what he wants to hear? How can she be honest the one time in his life when he needs a lie?
“Please,” he implores softly.
In the flickering light, Necia takes in the dark smudges beneath his eyes, the pinched mouth, the fear. It appears strange on a man who only wishes to use her son. “I will do the very best I can. He is my son.”
They enter the room, Orlando remains at her back as she leans over Elijah. She gives Orlando a sharp look, and he reluctantly gives her space. She sits on the edge of the bed and rests her hand against Elijah’s brow. He is burning up.
“How long has he been like this?”
“Since yesterday, I think,” he confesses.
“You think?” she scoffs.
Orlando doesn’t know which is worse, her tone or the look she gives him. “He was warm. I … I didn’t know he was ill.”
She turns away from him then, and begins to croon softly to Elijah.
“Will that help? Is it magic?” Orlando asks.
She pauses, uncertain what to make of his question. “Of a sort,” she replies softly. “A mother’s magic. Did your own never touch you thus and comfort you?”
“If she did, I don’t remember it.”
“That explains much,” she replies coolly before picking up the threads of her song. Her son needs her comfort now, not this child-king.
Orlando isn’t sure if it is the words or her pure, sweet voice, but something makes his eyes sting. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I need cold water,” she tells him softly, “and cloths for his forehead. And tea.”
“I will get it,” he assures her, glad at last to find there is some way he can help.
He nearly collides with Piper when he steps into the hall.
“Pardon, my Lord,” Piper begs. “The ki…Medias thought I could be of some assistance?”
Orlando thought he might have the distraction of going to fetch what Necia needs but gives the request to Piper and sends him off. It is then that he notices Medias standing in the doorway at the end of the hall.
“How bad is he?” Medias asks when they are alone.
“He will not wake, that is all I know.” Orlando turns to re-enter the bedroom but pauses. “I will send word if anything changes.”
He slips inside quietly and listens to Necia sing, the anxious look on Medias’ face haunting him.
Piper soon returns, and Orlando meets him at the door, taking the tray laden with what they require, and advising that he will call upon Piper if need be. He cannot seem to resolve his grudge toward the servant.
“Bring it here,” Necia demands. The table still holds the remains of their dinner so he sets his burden on the floor, filling the basin with the water; he holds it for her while Necia dampens a strip of cloth before placing it on Elijah’s forehead.
“Has he had anything to drink?” she inquires.
Orlando shakes his head. He can’t even be sure when Elijah ate or drank last.
She lifts Elijah’s head gently and puts the cup to his lips. Orlando is hopeful when Elijah swallows a little, but his eyes never once open.
*
Later, Elijah begins to shiver again, and he accuses her of making Elijah worse.
“It’s just an effect of the fever, nothing that I’ve done or haven’t done,” Necia explains calmly. She pulls the blankets to Elijah’s chin and looks guardedly at Orlando. His behavior is beyond being upset that a favorite plaything is unavailable; he watches with fear in his eyes. She finally sees what she couldn’t see before and understands why Elijah wouldn’t take the knife. Orlando loves him.
“Is there nothing you can do?” Orlando asks. It’s unbearable for him to sit and watch like this.
“There is nothing we can do. The fever will pass on its own, one way or another.”
Orlando all but howls with frustration at her complacence. “How can you just accept it?” he snarls, his fingers balling into fists.
“What is all that for?” she snaps irritably, as if scolding one of her children.
Orlando’s fists drop to his sides and he blinks at her, stunned by the tone she has taken.
“Do you think that will help him?” she asks. “All it will do is disturb his rest. If you feel the need to make noise, then come tell him that you need him to get better.”
Orlando gapes at her a moment longer, then turns his gaze upon Elijah. He wants that more than anything, but those words are not for her to hear.
She senses his hesitation and feels torn herself. “Here, “she says at length, “help me get him to drink this.”
“What are you putting it in?” Orlando asks suspiciously as he watches her pinch a bit of power into a cup of water. It had been on the tray Piper brought; he hadn’t thought to check it.
“Just something to bring down his fever, I hope. It will not hurt him,” she adds when she sees the concern in his eyes. “Come here.”
“What-what do I do?” he asks as he sidles up to the bed, grateful beyond reason that he may, at last, be able to help.
“I need you to lift his head.”
Orlando inches forward and gingerly touches Elijah’s face, the skin still too hot beneath his hands.
“It would be better if you propped up his head,” she suggests softly.
Elijah seems fragile and Orlando’s afraid to touch, afraid that he’ll break Elijah further, and he already feels so responsible for this.
“Here,” she offers when she sees him standing unsurely. “I will lift his head and you sit, let him lean against you.”
Necia lifts Elijah’s head gently, with the practiced hands of a mother, and Orlando does as he had been instructed, cradling Elijah’s head.
“Have you done this a lot? Cared for the sick?” he asks, partly to fill the silence and partly out of curiosity.
“I have cared for my sick children many times,” she answers. “They are mine and I would have no other tend to them. I’m certain you understand such possessiveness,” she looks at him pointedly, “of not wanting others to touch those you love, don’t you?”
Orlando says nothing as he watches her bring the cup to Elijah’s mouth, tipping a little water between his lips. He thinks they may finally understand each other.
“Elijah, love, wake up and drink just a little,” she coos softly.
There’s a moment of quiet victory when Elijah opens his eyes and drinks for her. Orlando is envious that Elijah seems to notice only her, but as she pulls the cup away, his head tilts back and those blue eyes fix upon him; he can barely comprehend the terror he feels at the blankness in them.
There is no recognition whatsoever and he fears that the fever has taken Elijah’s mind. His heart slams against his chest as he rubs his thumbs along Elijah’s cheeks and speaks his name. A furrow appears between Elijah’s eyes, and Orlando thinks he may have caught a glimpse of anger; he is grateful to see it, for anger means Elijah knows him still, and that means Elijah is still in there. At last, he releases the breath he’s been holding.
There is a knock at the door that startles both him and Necia. “Who is it?” Orlando calls out. He doesn’t want to disturb Elijah unnecessarily, nor does he want to admit John willingly.
“It’s Piper, my lord.”
Orlando grudgingly suffers him to enter.
“I’ve come to see if there is anything you need.”
Orlando looks down at Elijah; the only thing he needs is for Elijah to improve.
Necia speaks up. “Broth, Piper, and more wine. When you return, tend to the fire.” She is at once every bit the queen of this castle, and every numb inch of Orlando is grateful.
“Right away, my lady.” Piper bows before slipping out again.
“Did I speak out of turn?” she asks when she catches him looking at her.
“Yes. It’s not your place to give orders.”
Necia smiles, for his voice is mild, and there is not a lick of anger in his eyes. What she sees before her is not a king, nor a threat to her child, merely a tired young man. “I cry your pardon, my lord, but you didn’t seem to be giving any.”
“You surprise me,” he tells her honestly.
“How so?” she asks as she wrings out a fresh cloth, replacing the warm one on Elijah’s forehead.
“That you were able to give him such sharp orders. I didn’t think you were like that.”
“We ruled our kingdom and our people, make no mistake. We just weren’t callous about it. People are people, no matter what their station in life, and they deserve to be treated as such.”
“You think me callous?” He tilts his head and looks at her. He has never asked another’s opinion of himself, not wishing to hear another opinion like his father’s, but he is curious how she sees him.
“Are you sure you wish to know?”
He nods. “Tell me.”
“Are you asking me or ordering me?”
“The first, unless you decline to answer, and then the latter.” He watches the corner of her mouth quirk into the bitter approximation of a smile.
“I do think you’re callous, the way you treat my son…” She stops.
“You think I treat him badly?”
The look on her face tells him all he needs to know. It twists bitterly in his heart. He can please no parent, his own or otherwise.
He does not like the pain such thoughts bring and lashes out cruelly. “Elijah has seen for himself how slaves are treated in my father’s kingdom, and I think he would tell you that he prefers my hand. Actually,” he smiles coldly, “he prefers more than my hand.”
She clucks her tongue at him. “Must you be so crude?”
“Crude? How so?” Orlando needles. “The fact that I speak of sex in this manner? It’s not like it doesn’t happen, even here in the ivory tower. It is just sex, however and wherever it should occur.”
“It means so little to you?”
He is reminded of Elijah’s own words. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel like goading her anymore.
“I raised my children to believe it is an expression of love.”
He shifts uncomfortably. Like mother, like son.
“But you don’t think that way, do you?” She baits him, and he finds himself taking it.
"It’s not an expression of anything more than desire, and love makes a man useless.” Is he still trying to convince himself?
“My condolences.” Her face is at once serious and sympathetic.
Orlando stares at her hand, the one that has just patted his knee. “For what?” he asks, fearing the answer.
“You know,” she says harshly. “You are smart enough to know, and stupid enough not to listen.”
“Listen to what?” he demands. “Why are you sorry for me? I do not ask for your pity!”
She looks at him for some time. She will make sure he hears her next words clearly. “For never having loved. I pity that you’ve never had or wanted it”
“Do not presume to know what I want,” he warns, glancing down at Elijah’s face.
She says and does nothing to betray the fact that she sees tears in his eyes.
“Leave us,” he begs softly. He is tired, defeated and he cannot bear anymore chastisement now.
Necia leans forward and kisses Elijah’s brow and then - gods! -- she does the same to him. Would that she knew the act he’d nearly committed upon her son! What would she have given him then?
“If he worsens, will you send for me?”
Orlando nods. He cannot look at her.
“Try to feed him the broth when Piper returns.”
*
He never imagined he’d be such a tender nursemaid. He never thought he’d have the patience, but for Elijah he would sit for an hour or more, coaxing him to swallow even half a bowl of broth.
The night has passed, and light is creeping into the sky. He has been awake since sunrise yesterday and finds himself nodding over Elijah, legs numb from sitting too long. He rises quietly, hissing at the soreness in his legs as he hobbles to the chamber pot and relieves himself. He extinguishes the lamps before climbing beneath the blankets with Elijah.
Elijah’s skin is still so hot. Necia’s powder does not appear to have helped.
He puts his mouth near Elijah’s ear. “Elijah, will you wake for me? I am sorry. Please, do not leave me.”
He reaches for Elijah’s hand and rests it, palm up, against the sheet, stroking the warm fingers gently.
“You mother was wrong,” he says softly. “I have known love. I loved Eric as much as a boy knows love. When he was taken from me, it hurt so badly that I never wanted to know it again. I didn’t want to know you.” He squeezes Elijah’s hand again, for reassurance. It feels so strange to lie here and talk to one who cannot hear him. Perhaps that is why he does it.
“I’m so sorry for what I did to you,” he whispers fervently. “My father told me that you would try to take advantage of me, use my blind love for you against me. He told me this after already saying such hurtful things, and I, like a fool, believed him.” Orlando traces the lines along Elijah’s palm.
“When I saw you at the tree, having untied the rope, I thought... I thought he was right. I thought, you will never obey me, ever. I was mad enough to think taking you was what I wanted, when it isn’t. But loving you is unacceptable. I risk your life. He will take you from me, and I can’t bear it. It would be worse... no accident ...” It is so hard to breathe, thinking about such possible ends.
Fingers curl around his own.
Orlando jerks his head from the pillow. Elijah’s eyes are open. He is still flushed and warm, but his eyes are lucid.
Orlando rolls to his elbows and his knees. “How do you feel?” he asks breathlessly.
Ignoring the question, Elijah whispers his own. “Do you love me?”
He touches Elijah’s face, stroking the now slightly cooler cheek with the back of one knuckle. “Yes. I do,” he admits. How could he not love the one who’s more necessary to him than water? Elijah is wearing away his rough edges, smoothing him like river stones and soon there will be no sharpness left to cut Elijah - not in words nor deeds.
“I don’t want to ever lose you, Elijah, not to fever nor my father. One threat may have diminished, but the other is still very real and just as dangerous. I don’t know what to do.”
Elijah lifts his fingers to Orlando’s face. “If you love me … then, we will find a way.”
tbc ... Part 10