Work Text:
John didn’t expect dying to be quiet. There had been many close calls, a few deaths on Arthur’s record that weren’t silent affairs.
The impact of gunfire one two three bullets .
The snapping of bone that was your femur , the choke of blood you just missed your jugular.
The impalement through flesh it’s pierced through your stomach from behind.
The impalement through flesh a rapier of sorts - Arthur we need to -
The blood curdling screams of agony as a body forced to reanimate took its next breath-
No. Arthur’s deaths had been loud. They had been sudden. Unexpected. No…not all of them unexpected. Unplanned. He never planned for Arthur to die. Even in bitter moments, at his worst he didn’t plan for Arthur to die. Sit back and watch? Revel in discomfort? After the King, he’d barely considered it interesting. Only painful as the two of them tangled further and further together.
This. This was quiet.
An acceptance on a level he hadn’t yet seen from his friend, an admission of defeat and a whisper of knowledge of what’s to come.
Dread had filled him from the moment he’d seen the slaughtered village, and it had not stopped its slowly growing pressure as they arrived at the castle knowing little to nothing about what they should and encountered men capable of killing them with a hard look if they risked turning the other way.
This slow march towards death was the most horrifying experience yet, and he had watched Arthur be gutted by the witch and filled with decay. Realizing that Arthur had not hurried after the friar because he could not stand - that he had avoided doing so with the expectation he would not be able to get up again made his mind twist with a worry he could do nothing to assuage.
He couldn’t help.
He couldn’t do anything but push Arthur further to an edge he couldn’t come back from.
Arthur-
“I’m tired, John.”
They were back in their room, securely barred and away from any chance encounter from the other people in the castle. Arthur had sat on the bed, breastplate discarded which gave John only a glimpse of crimson staining the cloth beneath before Arthur had doubled over, forehead pressed to knees, hands cradled to stomach. He was shaking, and John couldn’t tell if it was from the fever or the pain or from fear of what would come next.
I know, Arthur.
Arthur swallows hard, voice faint. “I…don’t think I can get up again.”
You should lay down, rest. John tries to keep his voice gentle. Arthur didn’t need to know how terrified he was, how even as he held Arthur’s hand he could tell he had no strength to grip back.
“I may not wake up again in the morning,” it’s said in whisper, but it may as well have been a shout with how it left his ears ringing.
John knew Arthur had said it earlier, but being back in this room, the heat of fever sinking heavily into Arthur’s skin, it was real.
Arthur was dying.
And there was nothing John could do for him.
It’s okay, we’ll take it one step at a time, John fails to keep his voice from shaking, let’s do what we can right now. If you try to get some sleep, that should help.
“Sleeping is what got us into this mess, John,” Arthur laughs without humor, but unfolds himself to sit upright. His breathing is labored as he shifts, letting himself lean back against the headboard.
John doesn’t like to think about that fact. He had never slept before. It had been a wonderful experience before he realized what had transpired while he was away. He would trade every night's rest if he could’ve kept Arthur from that fate.
Why not lay down all the way? He asks as Arthur tries and fails to get the blanket over his legs. A firm tug from John fixes it, and he tries not to let it seem like he’s fretting as he tucks it around him best he can.
“Trying to keep the lungs open,” Arthur gestures vaguely at himself. “Bella was ill one summer, horrible cough. Bedrest for weeks and had to be sitting upright.”
Another thing to add to the list of things to keep track of, he could do that.
What else can we do to help? Maybe there would be something they could do, something they could apply or ingest. If they were still in their time they could’ve gone to the hospital. Hell, if they were still in their time this wouldn’t have happened at all.
Arthur hums, head tipping back against the stone wall, “Bringing the fever down would be smart. Cool rags and the like, aspirin if we had it. Should’ve brought a bloody medicine kit. Woefully unprepared on our part.”
To be fair, we didn’t know we’d be sent to medieval England.
“Too true. If we had-” Arthur’s dry chuckle is interrupted by a cough, doubled over once more and shuddering as blood drips onto his cupped palm. John uses the far corner of the blanket to wipe it away, pressing his hand against Arthur’s chest. His heart was beating quick, too quick and he could feel the heat through the layer of clothing.
Lean back again, yes good Arthur. Rest, if only for a little bit. We can figure everything else out in the morning.
“We should…plan…for tomorrow….” Arthur manages to get out between deep heaving breaths.
Arthur…
“No, we need to-” Arthur coughs harshly, leaning to the side to spit another mouthful of blood. “We need to be prepared. As if there will be a tomorrow.”
There will be even if you’re not there to see it. It goes unsaid, but the quiet between them says enough. What are we planning?
“Oh anything,” Arthur almost laughs, but a spasm has him coughing into his palm once more. “What are we having for breakfast? Who do we want to talk to in the morning? Do you think the blackstone is actually here or just a ruse?”
John knows Arthur’s just trying to lighten the mood, it would be what he would try to do in a moment like this, but the lightness to his dry humor makes that dread claw its way higher in his throat. The blackstone has to be here, I don’t see why it wouldn’t be.
“It would be a sick and twisted joke if it wasn’t,” Arthur agrees mildly, “Although that seems to be par for the course for us doesn’t it.”
Right…Arthur I really think you should try to sleep.
Arthur doesn’t say anything, but his head tips back once more. The ceiling is dark, not quite illuminated by the candle at their bedside. The flicker of the flame almost reaches the darkest corners, but it fades as Arthur closes their eyes.
“I’m afraid to sleep, John,” Arthur admits in a painfully quiet voice.
Arthur…
“I’m afraid that if I close my eyes I won’t wake up again, I’m afraid that if I let myself fall asleep, all I’ve been doing to keep myself going will stop,” it’s said in a rush, panicked. “I’m afraid that this illness will finally run its course as you’re left watching as you are forced to when I sleep.”
Arthur, don’t worry about me, John says immediately. You’ll be ok, I can wake you if I notice anything wrong, okay?
“What if you can’t?” It’s a gasp, and John realizes Arthur is fully panicking. “It’s common to die from illness, you know. Especially in times without proper sanitation and entities that are intent on spreading rot and infection-”
We’re going to do what we can, Arthur. And that includes you resting right now. I will wake you if anything happens, alright?
For a moment he worries Arthur won’t agree, that he will insist on running himself further into the ground. He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. “Alright,”
We’ll talk more in the morning, sleep well, friend.
Arthur doesn’t say anything in response, and John hesitantly considers it a win.
They didn’t have a plan for the morning. If all went well, it would be them alone to see the blackstone. They had no idea how big it was, what it looked like, what would happen if they touched it. If they weren’t the only ones, if there was a trick or a ploy John wasn’t sure Arthur would be able to get his wits about him to solve it. Not as he was now.
The candle burns, the ceiling remains dark, and John can hear Arthur’s breathing become more labored.
It had been difficult to tell with their outer layers, but with his palm resting over Arthur’s heart, he can feel how sweat has soaked through the fabric. Arthur’s chest shudders beneath his palm as he attempts to draw a full breath, the rattle of fluid making John wince.
The candle burns lower, it’s difficult to see the walls now. Arthur’s labored breathing has become frantic mumbling.
Arthur.
The mumbles give way to thrashing, legs tangling in the blankets, hands reaching towards-
“No! Faroe!”
John’s heart drops, pressing his hand hard to Arthur’s chest to urge him back. Arthur, you’re in the castle, she’s not here.
“I can’t let her leave,” Arthur gasps, fighting against John’s hold but too weak to immediately get out of bed. He gets out from under the covers, taking two steps before falling hard to his knees, braced on the floor and hacking drops of blood to the ground. “I have to stop her-”
Faroe is not here, Arthur, John reiterates, you’re not well, you need to stay in bed.
“She knocked,” Arthur sniffs hard, “I-I yelled, I shouldn’t have, I need to get her.”
She’s not-
“She is!” Arthur shouts, then crumples, breaths wheezing through bone rattling coughs.
Reason won’t work here.
She’s…she’s safe Arthur. Faroe is fine, John says as soothingly as possible. She’ll be worried if you don’t stay in bed, you need rest.
“But Tess isn’t here…”
Tess put her to bed, just as you should be. It was a dream Arthur. A little hint of truth couldn’t hurt here.
“Okay…okay,” Arthur seems to debate with himself for a moment before searching around with his hand. “The…the bed?”
In front of you, yes straight ahead. I’ll leverage us- John winces as Arthur attempts to get up, then falls heavily back to the floor. Carefully, here. Brace your arm here and push.
“You don’t need to talk to me like a toddler, Parker,” Arthur mutters.
Parker.
Parker.
Of course, sorry, John manages to get out. They end up back under the covers, John doing a majority of the heavy lifting of pulling the blanket over themselves. Arthur shivers, curling into himself. You should sit upright, it helps your lungs.
“It’s bloody cold in here, is our heat out again?”
…yes. We can’t get it fixed just yet.
“Awful place, we should find a better building,” Arthur mutters, muffling a cough.
Go back to sleep Arthur, you’ll warm up soon enough.
A few mumbles, annoyed and petty, then quiet as Arthur lapses back into sleep.
John stares at the ceiling, thoughts racing and incorporeal heart pounding. He was getting worse, quickly. The second he had allowed Arthur to rest seemed to give his body the approval to feel the full effects of Horig’s infection. If only there was a place he could take him, a hospital to treat him or even a well meaning entity that didn’t expect anything else from them.
The time Arthur had spent in a coma felt like a lifetime ago at this point, but the thought of a hospital brought memories rushing back. The nurses would often continue their conversations around him, since they had no idea he’d existed and apparently hearing people talk was a good way to bring someone out of a coma. Or at least Lilly seemed to think so.
Some of the nurses still acted like there was no one home, but that’s besides the point.
John remembers now, the second week they’d been in the hospital, there had been a woman brought in for an illness. The nurses had been struggling to keep her IV’s in, apparently she’d kept ripping them out and she would go on about things that made no sense. Lilly had been fretting over her since her arrival, and they had been in mid discussion when they’d done their rounds to his room.
Almost makes me wish she was in a coma like John here, makes it much easier to keep them hydrated .
Don’t say that, you shouldn’t wish a coma on someone!
It’d been a fever, high enough to be dangerous, and prolonged enough that the nurses had been wondering how long she had before it began doing damage to her brain. John had heard her screaming from a floor away one night, although he’d never caught what it had been about. She’d gotten better, eventually, only to be checked into the psychiatry ward for her outbursts and supposed hallucinations.
Let’s hope you have a good explanation when you wake up John, I’d hate for you to be shipped off for whatever put you in your coma.
He hadn’t given it much merit at the time, still grappling with the fact that he was bound to a frail human body that seemed to have no intention of regaining consciousness anytime soon. Now, he wishes he had paid attention to what they had done to make the fever go away, on how to talk down someone seeing things that weren’t there.
Talking to people who weren’t there.
“Bella…”
The candle is burned just over halfway, the walls impossible to make out amongst the shadows. John blinks their eyes hard, trying to find something, anything to ground themselves.
“Bella you shouldn’t,” Arthur twists his hand into the blankets, “You’re not…you can’t-” His protests fade into whispers, things John doesn’t understand and he’s sure he doesn’t want to.
John sweeps his hand across Arthur’s chest in what he hopes is a soothing motion, feeling the telltale hitch of Arthur’s breathing that precedes a rough bout of coughing. Blood splatters on their hands, Arthur’s body spasming from the force.
“We’ll figure it out, Bella, we always do,” Arthur manages to get out between breaths. “Please just rest.”
John doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. There’s another candle he could light, and he’s considering taking his hand away from Arthur to do so, but Arthur lays his hand over his own before he can. It would be simple to move away from it, with how weak Arthur’s grip was, but he can’t bring himself to.
What is he supposed to do?
Hours have passed and Arthur has shown no signs of getting better. The heat of fever has only increased, the hallucinations growing worse. If it gets to a point that he shouts, cries out and draws the attention of the other people in the castle, he would have to do something.
They didn’t talk about what they would do if this actually killed him, he assumes they would use the talisman but-
Goddamnit.
Yorick.
Arthur had stashed the bag beside them on the bed, tucked away in case someone did end up in their room. He gently slides his hand from beneath Arthur’s too warm palm, flipping the fabric back.
“John!” Yorick says with too much enthusiasm for their current situation.
Arthur is sick.
“Yes he is, and he will not get better,” Yorick states.
What can we do? John ignores the second half of Yorick’s statement.
Bone clacks obnoxiously in the quiet. “Nothing, John. We will wait for him to pass. He will die, as humans do when infected with the Unclean.”
There has to be something! Arthur was dying, and he knew there were things they could do to fix it, even if they weren’t accessible to them right now.
“You can hurry along the process, release Master from his suffering.”
No, John says immediately, I’m not going to kill him.
“It is your decision, John, but he will suffer regardless.”
Life is loss.
They had dealt with suffering frequently, and never once had John considered killing Arthur to put him out of his misery. Unbidden, the memory of holding a knife to a throat, I’m sorry Lilly. A mercy kill out of necessity alone.
How…what would be the best way? Even the thought of it made him sick, but if it would mean Arthur would be better afterward, he would do it. For Arthur he would do it.
“There are many ways to kill a man, John. There is a dagger in this bag and a gun. There are your own hands, as you have used before.”
The thought of bringing a dagger to Arthur’s throat made revulsion shudder through him. The gun was a limited resource - they couldn’t risk wasting bullets and Arthur had enough in his chest already. However he died, John didn’t want him to be in pain when he was brought back - his revival from the witch had been horrifying enough.
I’m not going to do it unless I have to. This was just…curiosity.
“Of course, John,” Yorick agrees easily, “But Master will not improve with time, the only thing that will improve is the illness festering in his body.”
Yes Yorick, that’s all. Shut up again before someone hears you.
He probably should be worried about Yorick’s voice carrying, but all he can focus on is Arthur growing more agitated once more.
The candle has burned almost to the wick. He struggles against Arthur’s twitching, nearly knocking off the new candle in his effort to bring the lighter to it. It illuminates the ceiling once more, joining what little remained of the first candle.
“Mum?”
John’s blood runs cold.
“Mum, are you there?” Arthur’s voice shakes, breaths wheezing as he tries to speak through gritted teeth. “I…I don’t feel well.”
You’re ok Arthur, you just need rest, John soothes, trying to ignore the way Arthur jolts at his voice.
“Who is…dad? Is that…?” Arthur’s nervous voice fades into a hoarse whisper at the end, hand clutching at his chest. “I need…help I think…”
You do, someone will come, soon, It pains John to lie. They didn’t have any form of reinforcements, he didn’t even have a single idea on how to help him.
“I don’t feel good,” Arthur whimpers, curling to the side and gasping, hand moving to his stomach. “Everything… hurts .”
I know Arthur, John runs his hand up, sweeping sweaty locks of hair off Arthur’s forehead. He was burning up, but he leaned into the touch as John ghosted it back to rest on his chest. You’ll be ok soon.
“Please…” The plea is so soft John almost misses it, breathed into the fever hot air around them.
You’ll be ok, John reiterates, more to himself than Arthur. It’s a lie, something he is well honed in and all too willing to lean back on when he has nothing else. I promise, Arthur.
“John.”
I told you to shut up, Yorick.
“Of course, John. But, you can help him.”
He knows that. He knows that. He knows that every inch of light they lose from the candle is time passing that Arthur could be alive and well again. He knows that no matter what he does, this illness borne of an entity just looking for an apostle will run its course. He knows that Arthur is dying slowly, painfully, and he could do something to stop it.
He knows that he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to think of Arthur dying under his own hand, as he had done before, and he doesn’t want Arthur’s life to once more be placed in a talisman he had died to retrieve.
You’ll bring him right back.
“Immediately, John.”
The talisman will bring him back.
“Exactly as it did in the Witches Den, John.”
Okay.
Weapons were too messy, he would need to do this by hand.
Arthur had stilled in the time he was debating, only the rapid beat of his heart and the shudder of his struggling lungs an indication he was still alive. John slides his hand up, up, resting just below Arthur’s jaw. Beneath his palm he can feel the raised scar tissue born of Kayne’s dagger. Heat pours off his skin, sweat sticking to his palm. Arthur’s pulse is weak, but John’s hand is strong.
I love you, Arthur. I need you to know that.
Arthur doesn’t move.
I don’t want to do this.
Arthur doesn’t respond.
I’m sorry, friend. I wish there was another way.
John presses down.
He had choked people before, he had choked Arthur before. He had wrapped his hand around throats and squeezed until veins popped, breath stilled, and the frantic pounding of their hearts stuttered to a stop.
Every time he had, they had fought back and Arthur was no different.
Arthur wheezes, hand coming up to where John is pressing, squeezing, digging in his fingertips. Arthur can’t manage to get his hand around his wrist, scrabbling at the back of his hand and pushing weakly against it.
I’m sorry, I love you Arthur-
Wheezes give way to a desperate choking, throat spasming beneath John’s grasp.
I’m going to bring you back, it’ll stop soon.
John’s vision is blurring with tears as he forces himself to press harder, squeeze tighter, ignoring the frantic shudder of Arthur attempting to move away, to draw a breath that won’t come.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I’m sorry.
John knows the moment Arthur dies, chest stilling and hand falling away. John can no longer feel the hand he possessed, that helpless feeling reemerging as his own hand falls away from Arthur’s throat. Tears spill down cheeks still hot from fever, falling onto a chest no longer rising. He lets himself sit in the silence for only a moment, not letting himself think on what he had done before he speaks again.
Bring him back.