Chapter Text
Consciousness came and fro like a fleeting lover, leaving reality and dream to smear into one kaleidoscopic mess they hadn't the mind to pick apart.
A cacophony of voices bouncing around in the air.
“Well, it’s not a fun ‘guess the poison’ mixture like with Kitty,”
“Aye. He got lazy.”
“Sophie’s going to have a word with him, see if she can wrangle out exactly which one we’re dealing with.”
“When? I think I’d like to see it.”
A hand stroking theirs, pale hair catching the light. “I’m terribly disappointed with you, Patrick, for abandoning us for this long. It’s…it’s unlike you. I expect you back immediately, do you hear me?”
An owl at their bedside, amber and white, cooing as it pressed a heart-shaped face against Patrick’s cheek.
A bitter taste on their tongue, a constant throbbing ache at their side, and a constant chorus of “ I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you .”
They were just tenuous potentials.
When Patrick finally, fully came to, they almost wished they could fade back into that tenuous dreamland. It’d been a hot-red, confusing panic, but there were some upsides to it, unlike reality. They ached everywhere but especially in their side, the pain a sharp, stinging throb, their lung felt tight, and their throat clogged up. They coughed, but that did nothing to dislodge the lump.
Bleary-eyed, Patrick looked up at the ceiling. It was all wood. They weren’t home, they were sure of that, nor were they in Thorne Guard. Why weren’t they in Thorne Guard?
Slowly but surely, the memory of the last few weeks trickled in, and it suddenly made a lot more sense. Oh. Right. The whole place had gone up in flames, that was why. A myriad of questions sluggishly came to mind, very few they could find the answer to. They finally dropped their gaze from the wooden boards above.
They’d start with something simple, Patrick decided, something easy. Where were they?
A room, a nice room. Not Guard grand but certainly nice. The bed was big and soft, though lacking in four tall posts and curtains, and a tapestry hung on the wall beside it. Patrick thought of their Lord's meticulous embroidery that had no doubt been destroyed in the fire. Even his waistcoat and beautiful shirt hadn’t made it. Even if they’d been wearing them when they escaped, both would’ve been ruined by the dagger and blood…
On the other side of the bed stood a stool, an empty chair and a table, on which lay a spread of what looked to be bandages, ointments, potions and the like. It was hard to tell from a distance. Taking all of this into account, Patrick guessed this was a manor owned by one of the Thornes who hadn't laid claim to the throne, or even more likely, the Thornes of old, Thomas’ parents. It was certainly green enough.
If Patrick had a smidgen less sense, and significantly less agony, they might have tried to sit up and see if they could find anything that confirmed their theory. As it was, even the thought of sitting up made their side.
They stayed lying down.
As they gently put out an arm, reaching for the familiar-shaped lump on the stool, they noted they were feeling calm. Much calmer than they likely should have been. Whatever potion the witches had slipped them, at whatever point, was doing wonders. They’d have to ask what it was and get some, they rarely felt this serene.
Patrick finally picked up the familiar lump, and bringing them closer revealed it was definitely their glasses. Brilliant. They put them on and gave the room another look. The tapestry bore the Powys shield, and there was a shelf filled with poetry books opposite him. A Thorne Manor for sure.
There, they mused, that’s question one solved. Question two.
They took in a long, whistling breath, one that barely seemed to fill their lungs, and spread out their fingers, their toes. They picked up both arms, very carefully raised each leg barely an inch off the bed, and patted down their face. All was accounted for. They hadn't thought they’d lost anything, but it never hurt to check.
Something brushed against their hand.
Before they could investigate, the door opened. Even with their glasses on, they couldn’t see who’d opened it, the figure - or figures - hiding in the dark of the hallway outside. Patrick could certainly hear them though.
"Thank you, Alison," someone said.
"No problem, Lord- Arthur. Sorry, Arthur. I'm still getting used to that."
"So I am, truth be told."
“Say hi to them for me, yeah?”
“Of course I will. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Through the doorway came who else but Arthur Howl.
He was dressed simply in a plain shirt and trousers, his cane replaced by two crudely cut crutches. He seemed tired and moved slow, but looked well taken care of. Gods, it was good to see him.
As the door closed quietly, Patrick cleared their throat. "Arthur?"
It came as a croak, less of a name and more of a two-syllable sound. It did the job though so they couldn't be too annoyed about it.
"Patrick?" Arthur replied, eyes wide. "Oh, Pat ."
He hurried forward, nearly tripped over himself in desperation and landed haphazardly on the nearby chair. One crutch went tumbling to the ground, the other caught and trapped between his legs. Arthur let out a curse towards the fallen one but promptly forgot it.
He took Patrick’s hands in his. "Are you-" Arthur stopped, clearing his throat.
"Fully there?" Patrick assumed. "Mostly."
Arthur exhaled, shoulder slumping. " Thank the gods . It's been far too long."
"How long exactly?" Question three.
"Two and a half weeks. Well, closer to three by now.”
"Three weeks?"
Patrick whistled weakly. That was a lot of weeks, more than he would have guessed. They’d been hoping the answer was closer to a few days.
A frown fashioned on Arthur's face, making him briefly look like the Lord Howl of old. "You were stabbed in the side with a poisoned dagger, worsened by your refusal to immediately seek the witches, and inhaled smoke for far too long which, with your lungs being as feeble as they were beforehand, left you barely able to breathe! It's a miracle you've reached coherency so quickly."
They felt a flicker of annoyance, but it was muted, distant. Patrick knew why they'd done what they had and they didn't regret it in the slightest, but they could also see how upset it'd made Arthur. His hands shook their hold, bottom lip wobbling.
"Oh, petal," Patrick said, "gave you a right scare, didn’t I?"
"When you collapsed there on the grass-" Arthur turned away, voice breaking. "I-I thought I'd lost you. Sophie had to pry me away, hold me still so you could be tended to."
Patrick wrestled a hand free, cupping their Lord's cheek, directing it back to face them. "M'sorry. I just wanted to get you out."
Tears welled up in Arthur's eyes and he closed them, breathing deeply. "I order you to never do that again, Pat, I mean it with all of my being. You cannot do anything like that. Leave martyrdom to someone else. I want you safe."
"I'll be careful."
"That's not the same thing."
"Yeah, I know." They brushed a thumb against their Lord's cheekbones, reluctantly dropping the hand after their side twinged disagreeably. "How about you?"
"Me?" Arthur scoffed as if it were a stupid question.
"Yes you , how are you?"
"Perfectly fine."
Patrick pointedly eyed the crutch.
"Mostly fine," Arthur granted. "The swelling had almost entirely gone down, this is just a precaution. I wouldn't even bother with it if it weren't for Annie. She'd have my head if she caught me without them."
Patrick laughed, though quickly stopped, the movement only worsening the pain. Gods. They’d always wondered what it’d feel like to be stabbed, in a distant, curious way, and the truth was this: bloody painful. A bit obvious, yeah, but it was hard to comprehend just how painful.
"Are you alright?" Arthur asked.
"Body doesn't appreciate me getting stabbed.”
“Patrick!"
“Sorry, sorry,” they apologised. They breathed in, lungs rattling. “Did say I was only mostly there.”
Arthur tightened his grip on Patrick's hand, rubbing a circle against the sick-paled skin. “That you did.”
For some time - or maybe it was just a few seconds, Patrick had a fairly loose grasp on time - they wallowed in silence, Patrick’s loud, uneasy breaths filling up the air. They wondered how long it'd take for their lungs to settle down, if they ever would. Perhaps Patrick would spend the next eternity breathing hard and noisily.
Question four. They were on question four. “George is dead, isn't he?”
“Yes, he burned in the fire.”
Patrick caught their Lord's eye, eyebrow raised. “That’s not how he died.”
“As far as the court is aware, yes it is.”
Ah.
“...Suppose the details don’t really matter.”
They felt…they weren’t sure how they felt, to be honest. George was a deeply, deeply awful person. He’d hurt Lady Button, tried to kill her, he’d hurt Arthur, and he’d hurt Patrick too. But a man Patrick had known was still dead, and that wasn’t exactly easy to grapple with. A quandary for another day, they decided.
“What about the other two? Eleanor, Francis?"
“They're being held elsewhere while we…work things out. We're making a case - with Margot’s account, the poison, the dagger, your injury, the honey- but so are Francis' family. Not Lady Thorne. He finally came to his senses after seeing your injury, and Kitty…” Arthur rolled his shoulders, the joints clicking and cracking loudly in the quiet of the chamber. “It’s slow work. We will hold them accountable though, court be damned, they will not get away with this.”
Patrick blinked slowly, trying to replay what Arthur had said. It was too much information at once for their pain-addled to process though, and their Lord seemed to realise that.
“But never mind all that, it is none of your concern. All you needed to focus on is healing.” Arthur raised their hand, kissing the back of it reverently. “I want you back in working order as soon as possible, Patrick Butcher. It’s been a miserable few weeks without you.”
Patrick wished they could leap up and pull him into a hug, wrap their arms around him so tightly that, just for a moment, they could pretend they were one strange being with two beating hearts. For now, the best they could do was smile up at him.
“I’ve missed you too.”
Arthur kissed their hand again. Against the skin, he mumbled, “ Marry me .”
It was out of the blue, but Patrick found they weren’t particularly surprised. It felt, in a way, inevitable. A good sort of inevitable, a welcomed inevitable, like the first bloom of spring. They waited as Arthur pulled away and, in a l
ouder voice, repeated the words.
"Marry me."
“Take me out to dinner first,” Patrick teased.
“I think we're beyond that. Will you marry me?" Arthur asked again, face aglow with a rosy hue. “Don't answer that now, not until you’re in top form.”
“The answer’ll be yes, whether I say it now or later.”
They liked the idea of an autumn wedding, a comprise between summer and winter. It’d suit them both nicely, Patrick thought. The surrounding sunset leaves would be a lovely backdrop to it all, a burst of colour amongst the white of the ritual robes, the weather cool enough that said robes would be welcomed, not cumbersome. Autumn, definitely.
Arthur swallowed thickly, briefly fumbling for words. “I-I know. I know, but wait, please. For my sake of mind if nothing else.”
“Alright,” Patrick gave in. They caught a flicker of amber from the corner of their eye. “Arthur, did your journal and quill survive the fire?”
“My journal did, Kitty took it with her, but not the quill, no. Why?”
“Hmmm.” They held up the feather, spinning it around between their fingers. “Then, I think we have a sign from the gods.”
Arthur gasped at it, stone eyes blown wide in shock. He gently took it from Patrick, placing it on the table, an empty bottle weighing it down.
“Perhaps we do. But again, that’s for someone other than you to worry about. Speaking of, shall I bring the others in to see you, or do you want some quiet time?”
Patrick loved their friends dearly, but right now, some peace and quiet sounded perfect, and their friends weren’t exactly known for either. “I want some us time, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind, but I'm afraid I don't quite know what to say…I’ve spent weeks thinking of all the things I must tell you, but now that I have the chance, my mind’s gone blank.”
The frown returned, and Patrick was eager to see it off.
“Tell me about our future home, our future life. What's it going to be like?”
It scurried away, an adorning smile settling on Arthur’s face, a look that suited him much better. “Well, I think it’ll go like this…”
_ _ _
Years passed, seasons changed, some wounds healed, some did not. The time for Lords and Ladies came and went, quiet as a death, and the Guards, once beacons of wealth, crumbled slowly into ruin. But the end to an era was not an end to all, and untouched by the hands of fate were the Lord and Hand of Dyfed. They remained adored and blessed in their cottage by the tall, oak trees, evergreen.