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"Arthur, you need sleep," John said.
"I won't leave her side!"
Van Helsing watched the scene unfold with pity: Arthur kneeling beside Lucy's bedside with his hands clasped in prayer, John standing at his shoulder trying to make him see reason. "You won't do any good for her if you're about to collapse in exhaustion," John said evenly. Van Helsing knew that he was affected by Lucy's impending death almost as much as Arthur, but he guarded his emotions much more, holding to common sense even in the face of death's senselessness.
Arthur pressed his forehead against his folded hands. "I can't leave."
Van Helsing always worked hard not to show emotion around Arthur— he must be strong and solid and confident for this grieving boy— but the scene tore him up inside. He spoke gently, walking up to Arthur to give his shoulder a squeeze. "We will need you to care for Lucy tomorrow, and to do this you must sleep."
Arthur looked up at him, his blue eyes glassy with tears. His face wore the shock of grief that always lay more heavily on young people than old: shock that everything could go wrong in an instant, shock that nothing could be done to ward off tragedy, shock that the world could be so cruel. The expression did not suit his face, which was made for merriment and cheer, not this crushing weight of pain.
"Come, my child, come with me," Van Helsing said in a soothing voice he had used so often when he had been a father. "You are sick and weak, and have had much sorrow and much mental pain, as well as that tax on your strength that we know of. You must not be alone; for to be alone is to be full of fears and alarms. Come to the drawing-room, where there is a big fire, and there are two sofas. You shall lie on one, and I on the other, and our sympathy will be comfort for each other, even though we do not speak, and even if we sleep."
Arthur turned back to Lucy's sleeping form once more, and took her hand, pressing it to his forehead as his large shoulders slumped. Then he whispered, "Very well."
Van Helsing helped him to his feet and guided him toward the door, watching with pity the last longing look he gave Lucy. Van Helsing caught John's eye and nodded to him, a gesture John returned with the gravity of saluting a commanding officer.
As they walked down the hallway, Arthur stumbled slightly, as if his legs were giving out. Van Helsing steadied him, seeing the tears slipping down the boy's cheeks.
"Professor," Arthur said thickly. "She's really dying this time, isn't she?"
Van Helsing took a measured breath, smoothing over the rough ache in his heart, the dread and terror of what was to come, the awful truth he could not tell Arthur yet. "I believe so, dear boy."
Arthur shuddered and stumbled again, and Van Helsing held his arm firmly. He pushed the door to the drawing-room open. As he'd hoped, the fire in the grand hearth was burning brightly, with a sofa on each side facing each other. He eased Arthur down onto one sofa, and found a blanket folded on a nearby chair, which he draped over him. It was a small blanket and left his feet sticking out, but Arthur clutched it around himself as if it could protect him from the world.
Lying on the couch with the blanket tucked around his chin, he looked younger than ever, an overgrown schoolboy trembling in the dark. Van Helsing, exhausted to the bone as he was, pulled a straight-back chair up to Arthur's side and placed his hand on the boy's forehead, feeling his temperature. "Before sleep, let me check your pulse and your arm."
Arthur obediently stuck out his arm, and Van Helsing rolled up the sleeve to check the mark where the transfusion needle had been. It was a tiny purple spot now, and his pulse was normal. He seemed fully recovered from giving his blood a few days ago— it was grief that tore him down now, made his face haggard.
"Brave boy," Van Helsing said, tucking Arthur's hand back under the blankets. "Now try to sleep and forget sorrow for a while." He ruffled Arthur's hair and prepared to stand up, but when he felt the boy lean into his touch, he continued stroking his hair, watching him relax into his hand even as pain flickered across his young face. Van Helsing began to hum a lullaby— one he had not hummed for years upon years— watching as Arthur's forehead smoothed and his breathing became deeper.
The boy should not have to bear this grief. He should have his healthy fiancée by his side. He should have happiness, not pain.
He reminded Van Helsing so much of another boy who should've had happiness, too.
The swell of emotion in Van Helsing's heart was so intense that his hands twitched. He had sat like this countless times before: beside a fire, stroking the hair of another boy, clutching a crucifix and praying, praying, praying long into the night, for weeks upon weeks. Don't take my son from me. Merciful God, don't take Ruben from me.
Arthur looked like Ruben in many ways: the blue eyes, the sunny curls, even the shape of his nose. If Ruben had gotten the chance to grow up, he would have been tall and broad-shouldered like Arthur. He would have had a smile that charmed the ladies and won him friends. He would have been a light to all…
Just like that, Arthur was asleep, the lines of grief falling off his face. Van Helsing leaned down and pressed his lips against his curly head, closing his eyes and letting the tears finally come to his eyes.
My son, my son, my only son…
He stayed like that for a long while, tears trickling down his cheeks as he listened to Arthur's deep, relaxed breathing.
At last he pulled away, and touched Arthur's forehead once more before casting himself onto the opposite sofa and letting exhaustion overtake him.
His dreams seldom brought him peace, but he would wake to find Arthur alive and well, continuing to live even though others fell like flies around him. So Van Helsing must keep drawing breath as well, though the grief of the long years choked him, for the sake of Arthur, and John, and the dear lady who was about to fall into greater darkness than death.
He had failed before, and he must not fail again.
~~~