Chapter Text
“It is a chronicle.”
Uhtred’s fingers stilled over the page but his head snapped back toward that painfully missed voice. His heart skittered to a stop, and his whole body froze for a long second as Alfred’s familiar form appeared in the shadow.
“The pages.” Alfred explained, moving forward.
After weeks of frustration in trying to convince himself that he didn’t care anymore, after all the fruitless denial, the first glimpse of Alfred's face nearly brought Uhtred to his knees.
His gaze slowly wandered over Alfred's face. There were deep, dark circles under Alfred's eyes, and those once sharp, clever eyes were lifeless, dull and sunken.
A horrible feeling started to crawl into Uhtred's chest, and something sour and thick knotted his throat.
But when Alfred stepped closer, and his eyes sought and met Uhtred's gaze, his eyes alighted and that terrible bluntness cracked, and once again, his gaze gleamed with that same intensity Uhtred was used to.
The one Uhtred was a helpless sucker for.
“It is a chronicle of Wessex.” Alfred said, slowly closing the distance between them and stepping next to Uhtred at the table.
The storm of emotions brewing inside Uhtred— cracking the protective shell around his heart— told him, that he definitely wasn’t quite as indifferent, and quite as done with a certain King of Wessex, as he wanted himself to be.
Breaking their eye contact, Alfred’s eyes snapped towards the books on the table—and Uhtred could breath again.
“It will include my life as king...” Alfred explained further, taking in small, shallow breathes before he continued, “from the moment of my brother's death until now. Songs of a kind.”
Uhtred knew, he should say something, he should answer in some kind, but as it was, he just lost the ability to speak. He opened his mouth but nothing came out, while his eyes were roaming all over Alfred’s face, then skimmed down and took in the rest of his form.
The changes wrought by Alfred’s illness was like a kick to Uhtred’s gut.
The last time he'd seen Alfred, he’d looked unwell—thinner and frailer—but this was something else altogether.
He’d lost even more weight, and now he was shrunk to skin and bones. He wasn’t so much wearing his clothes than he was all but disappearing inside them. He looked achingly frail, like a strong wind might carry him away. His face was gaunt, and in the sunlight that broke through the window, his shallow skin had a papery, almost white look over the achingly sharp cheekbones. And Uhtred could see how badly Alfred’s fingers trembled as they rested over the pages.
The dramatic physical changes chilled every bone in Uhtred’s body.
Hell, they terrified him.
And despite the roaring fire in the heart, Uhtred's skin felt like ice, as a cold shiver ran down his spine. Because, for the first time, since Alfred’s sickness took the turn for the worst, Uhtred realized, that this time; Alfred wasn’t going to recover from it.
He hadn’t actually believed that until now. But now, that he did, he felt like a heavy stone crushed down his chest.
He was going to loose Alfred.
And just how close he was to that was cruelly staring right back at him.
Something in Uhtred sank, and all he could think about was to wrap Alfred in his arms. He wanted to hold and cradle that painfully thin body against his. Wanted to savor the warmth of Alfred’s body while he still could.
He wanted to do all of it, and he wanted to do it —badly—even as those unexpected, sudden needs, shocked and scarred him to shit.
He clenched his hands at his sides and bit the inside of his cheek so he didn't give in and close the distance between their bodies. But then, of course, as it was the fucked up dynamic of their relationship, Alfred’s next words made it easier to resist.
“None of which will mention Uhtred of Bebbanburg.” Alfred declared, meeting Uhtred’s gaze again, the first spark of that old challenge blaring in his brilliant brown eyes.
Turning away, shrugging his shoulder, “Men will remember what I have done.” he retorted.
“But men will die, as we all must.” Alfred’s voice, coated with sadness and resolve, riposted behind Uhtred’s back. “These pages will remain. The act of committing ink to parchment gives a deed permanence.”
“If it is not burned.” Uhtred countered dryly, turning to face Alfred again.
“If it is preserved, yes. And in one hundred years from now, learned people will read or recite what is written, and Alfred will appear. They will know nothing of the Lord Uhtred...” Alfred said, lifting his eyes from the table to lock them with Uhtred’s.
Even now, the son of a bitch, enjoys this. Uhtred thought with an equal mix of resentment and amusement, trying hard to ignore the roaring in his ears from that startling intensity that was still packed behind Alfred’s gaze.
“Nor of your loyalty...” Alfred continued, and with that, he turned and walked toward the window as he went on. “Advice... Bravery... Courage...” and when he added, the tiny curl at the corner of his mouth was almost fond, “and Insolence.”
Uhtred’s eyes snapped back to the table, gazing over and pondering at the drawings in that damn book, that mentioned and showed him everywhere-- in every page, as if he were some kind of hero out of a bard’s tale. As if he could slay dragons and even hang the moon-- and not mentioned and showed him at all.
He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, telling himself it was annoyance he felt. Only annoyance.
“Why are you here?”Alfred’s question cut through the air, almost as sharp as a knife behind Uhtred's back.
He turned and stared at Alfred, wide-eyed. “In Winchester?”
“In this room.”
That surprised him. “I was told you wished to speak.”
The sudden aggression in Alfred’s words then, threw Uhtred aback. “Why grant me that wish? What is it you want from me? What is it you would say to me, while I am still able to listen?”
Maybe he shouldn’t know, but in his core, on some unexplainable instinct, Uhtred knew, where these questions came from. And the next he knew, without his permission, the words were stumbling out of his mouth.
“If I were to say one thing, it would be that I could never have killed you. When I held the knife to your throat, I could never have taken your life.” A small, discerning noise forced itself out before it caught in the back of his throat. “I would have beaten you, gladly....” he said, voice firm, steady and teasing, despite the terrible, disturbing emotions tightening his chest.
Despite the fact, that it was the truth.
At the time he would've gladly delivered more punches into Alfred's smug, haughty face, if he had more time. Because he was hurt and angry and frustrated at Alfred's injustice and treatment.
Whatever. He refuses to apologize for that.
“But I would never be the man who killed Alfred...” his voice rose with a kind of reverence, he didn’t even know he possessed, ”-- King of Saxons.”
Alfred froze for a long second, then sent Uhtred a disbelieving but meaningful look. “Killing me would have earned you a place in these pages.”
“I would not want such a deed written.” Uhtred said with a sudden struck of truth. Then he thought about everything he just saw, “Besides, I've earned my place in these pages.” He declared with an arrogance— that was expected of him, then added with a nonchalance— that he didn’t really feel. ”But every lord is the hero of his own songs. I understand my absence.”
At that, Alfred turned his eyes away and said words, Uhtred never thought he’d ever hear from those lips.
“It will not be written that Alfred did stand on Uhtred's shoulders.” Alfred admitted, rendering Uhtred speechless, because he knew, what it took for this stubborn, prideful man to say those words. ”Many times.” Alfred closed his eyes and his voice shook when he added. “But I know it to be true.”
Uhtred’s heart squeezed, then soared high at that painful confession. He didn’t know how he could manage it, but he gave a brief, distant nod.
“Thank you, Lord.”