(Cleradin/Wiseheart/Sorcadin ST AU I can't stop thinking about and will probably continue)
Beneath the crooked bend of an ancient willow tree, at the edge of a steady flowing creek, with his body empty of anything but anger, all his energy lost to the field which still raged on through the thicket of the woods, Michael wept into his blood soaked hand, feeling his tears roll down his wrist as the stain touch his cheek forever.
He could feel it even then, the magic of the grove as it tried to comfort him, but he shied from its touch, ashamed of his piety. Michael could hear the voices of the water, sense their hands in the streams of light through the leaves, but he could not bring himself to understand why they sought him, when only hours before, his prayers had gone unheard. He could not bring himself to understand that after all he had done, all he had promised of himself and given, that he had not been enough to whatever God he had begged to listen.
And to him, it no longer mattered. A broken oath, severed the same moment his blade cut through the sinew of his friend, was nothing compared to the body of the boy that lay beneath him.
It was just them there now, and as Michael looked down at William, his skin already losing the rosy life Michael had finally accepted as irrevocable love for him, he saw the blue lilies of spring touch his lips, a colour of cold William would have hated.
Michael could not bring himself to look at William’s face.
Dragging William away from the chaos, away from the madness which had befallen the grassy knolls beyond the castle grounds, he sought nothing more than quiet for his friend.
They had spoken about the future, where they both wanted to be after the world had fallen around them and they were free to live without guidance, but Michael had never thought that his life would lead to this, that he would be part of the reason for the downfall.
‘Wake up. Wake up, wake up.’
The red diamond pommel of his sword caught the moving sun, the blade buried all the way through to the guard, as it stuck out of William’s chest, poking into a divot between Michael’s ribs, just above his heart.
‘William, wake up, please.’
Michael found a spot where William’s souls may rest—to be carried to safety by whatever deity had finally deemed him worthy enough to die. But, as he pulled his hand away, staring at William’s blood in the cracks and crevices, their history running wet in his palm and embedded under his nails, Michael decided he would raise his sword one last time.
May the battle be damned, there was no life left to live without him.
Michael had to hold his breath as he looked down at William’s chest, the pool of blood already drying on his cloak, and as his hand gripped the hilt, Michael hesitated.
His blade had been broken, its length less than half of its original dignity, and what Michael knew to be the reason for the gruesome impale. Had he still possessed the full blade, he knew the wound wouldn’t have killed him.
And the grove kept calling him.
Michael looked at William’s face and the grip on his sword fell.
One eye was missing, gouged from his skull by a Flayer, a mess of black viscera blooming in the empty socket. Blood streaked down from the other which remained, fogged over, glossy. From William’s nose and ears, blood dried, and dirt, to lost hope, to his final words, lay forever among the bust vessels on his neck. Michael scanned every detail as his tears fell onto William’s cheeks.
With his head lulled to the side, William’s mouth remained parted and Michael swallowed back bile.
Even in death, William was beautiful.
‘I will do anything you ask. I need you.’
For the first time, Michael touched his face.
‘By my sword were you slain. I should have refused your order, and yet, I could not.’
He cupped William’s head with his remaining hand.
‘Because you are my Prince, and I am no more than your Paladin. William, I am yours.’
And pressed his forehead to his.
‘I swear my oath, my honour, my life to you. I swear it. Come back to me.’
