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“Alia… do you believe in soulmates?” Evrard winces as soon as it’s past his lips, but waits as chalk glides across her slate. Short and definitive.
‘Yes.’ She writes. She brushes away the chalk with her sleeve in a practiced gesture. It’s the only thing messy about Alia. Her bandages are wrapped neatly, her dress falls perfectly despite having no lady’s maids to assist her. The only thing out of place is just the chalky dust on her green sleeve. Out of place, but strangely comforting. Even a woman of her otherworldly gifts can have such a human detail.
She waits for him to ask. He doesn’t.
She writes an answer anyway.
‘You are not his.’
His hands clench. Why should he feel so much for a man he’s only known less than a week? And yet he is bitterly disappointed by her answer.
He should say no more and let the matter lie, but he can’t.
“It’s the John he softly speaks to when he thinks no one can hear him,” Evrard guesses. A name that Arthur whispers like a prayer for guidance and support.
John, who wasn’t beside him as sickness wracked his body. John, who wasn’t anywhere near as injured, Arthur killed a monstrous beast. John, who is still not here even though Arthur softly calls to him in the night.
‘Yes.’ Alia writes. She looks in his direction, reaches out carefully, and puts her dusty left hand on his. Comfort and understanding.
So it is John then. It is unworthy of him to envy a man he has never met and does not know the calibre of. The man that holds Arthur's heart must be worthy of it. Yet he does, quite forcefully find himself resenting this stranger.
What does he have that I do not? Traitorous insecurity whispers.
Alia is not watching him, she cannot, but he feels her stare all the same.
“No it’s…” Far too late he wants to deny it all, but it’s no good. He sighs in annoyance as she tries to support him. “I know you see my heart. There’s no point lying to you, is there?”
A tiny smile. Instead of the slate, she shakes her head.
“I’m an utter fool.”
She shakes her head again.
“His soulmate… does he…” Evrard doesn’t even know what he wants to ask. Does he care for him? Is he even alive? Is he the reason for the quiet grief in his bearing? One that Evrard knew so well himself?
Alia squeezes his hand again.
“When he arrived…” Evrard says, thinking back. “I knew there was something about him. He met the expectations to be the Prince. He knew how to command a room, make fighting men listen to reason. Yet, it wasn't in a way I had expected for Prince Warin and his silver tongue. Arthur’s is more… golden. I don’t know. That’s probably nonsense.” He runs his fingers through his hair in agitation. He has lived in this castle all his life. Has grown to be a man of duty. He has little time for companionship beyond those that would aid his cause. He has sworn to never have a blood heir for fear of the taint of his father’s family line passing down. A wife was an impossibility. He made peace with that fact long ago, and it has never stolen his focus. He has found some pleasures with men, but none that would ever know who he is. Now though, he couldn’t help but imagine a companion at his side who stays more than just for duty, but who understands his duty just as well. He imagines Arthur.
Chalk on the slate. ‘You watched him from the beginning.’
“How could I not?” He laughs at his own stupidity. “I asked him… ‘Do you think you’re a decent man?’ He hesitated, his answer meek and a little ashamed, but truth nonetheless. ‘Yes,’ he said. And in that second I believed him. That is before I reminded myself of what the Prince was capable of. A master manipulator could sound sincere. But Arthur in a den of murderous cultists told me the truth.”
‘A decent man like you.’
“I serve good and decency, but I am not decent.”
Alia taps her slate again, the words unerased.
‘A decent man like you.’
Evrard can not help but smile, although she can not see how much her faith in him means. “Having you here…” He lets his eyes fall from the slate. “I don’t mean to imply that your companionship has not been a balm—”
He is interrupted by the click of her chalk.
‘You are lonely.’
Perhaps that’s why he so resents Arthur’s ‘John.’ Because every whisper of his name makes Evrard feel his loneliness to the bone. He wonders if Arthur feels it too, if he is lonely without his John by his side.
The thought cuts deep and ragged.
“I have never allowed myself to open my heart in the way it has so effortlessly opened to him,” he admits. “Perhaps it’s because I know… this is all the time I get with him.”
He waits, hoping that she will correct him. Say that they will meet again when the mission is done.
She only bows her head, her mouth curved in pity.
“Ah,” he sighs softly. “And it must be him. I didn’t misjudge the sign of the coin.”
A sad headshake. Writing on the slate.
‘It must be four. It must be him. He will save us. I am sorry.’
“Don’t apologise," he says. His shoulders slump, but his fondness only grows. "Arthur will see all my dreams and hopes realised. I can only love him more for that.”
Alia offers him a tight smile.
‘You fall in love with hope itself.’
He laughs.
‘It is reckless.’ She adds on her slate. ‘But beautiful.’
“Evrard is coming in,” John tells Arthur. It is their fourth day of recovery and his friend is finally better enough to make plans.
John mentally grumbles. Or he would if they had time to themselves for once. Evrard or Alia are constants. Alia silent, doing her strange magics that ease Arthur’s breathing. John didn’t resent her presence much. She hovers silently over them and never speaks. Never even changes her expression no matter how Arthur tries to start some kind of conversation. It’s Evrard that’s the problem.
Evrard has gone from carefully drilling Arthur about who he is to just… talking to him. A constant distraction that Arthur can’t ignore. Arthur tells him any truth he can give him. The two men quickly find commonality in their feelings toward the dark things that lurk in this world, and the duty that presses them forward.
John can already feel the guilt bubbling in Arthur’s veins. Despite all they have been through, his friend’s heart remains a tender thing. Arthur hates deceiving good people. The kind of people he would throw his lot in with in a heartbeat if not for Kayne’s dagger pressed to their throat.
John hates it too, but has to remain pragmatic—a realist, because he knows how hard Arthur will struggle. His stubborn friend who does all he can to wriggle out of gods’ and men’s plans for him.
But it isn’t just a threat to them this time. If Kayne had threatened to torture them for eons, John doubts that Arthur would have budged, but everyone they care about. Lilly. Farore. Everyone.
Kayne holds their leash and they have no choice but to obey.
“Hello,” Arthur greets. John can hear the smile on his face. He enjoys Evrard’s company. John watches Evrard, ready to describe the encounter. The facial expressions, the gestures. He has shown himself to be an ally. As long as they don’t tip their hand he would remain one.
He steps to us, taking the chair to your right. He… John hesitates. There is a tenderness. A soft affection. A yearning.
It surprises John and he sputters a half truth. He smiles warmly at you.
“How are you feeling, Arthur?” Evrard asks, his voice is gentle. The weariness from when they first revealed themselves as imposters is gone completely.
John… knows what this is. He thinks he does at least.
He reaches over to you, squeezes your shoulder. John almost doesn't warn Arthur fast enough to prevent Arthur startling from the sudden pressure, but Arthur recovers. He leans into it.
“I’m doing much better.” Arthur is energetic. “I honestly think I’m ready to—”
Arthur, you still need rest! John protests. He feels his own frustration at the man boil. Just for a few more days. Just rest. He died and almost died again so soon after—
“Arthur, you still need rest,” Evrard says sternly at the same time. “It wasn’t only sickness ailing you. There are many wounds you neglected that Alia had to see to.”
“I… yes. I know,” Arthur mutters. “And I thank both of you for it...I just… I don’t like sitting around.” Arthur sighs. For all he tells John of his dreams of dinners, and showers, and shaves, the man rarely gives them time for it. John's still annoyed about the movie, but has soften his stance since Arthur started telling him the plots of the ones he had seen before he closes his eyes for the night. It gives John something to think about as he waits for his companion to awaken. He likes to dwell on the detailed parts that Arthur had obviously enjoyed. Wonders if they would ever be able to watch one together. Movies weren't silent anymore, maybe he could be convinced.
John's attention is brought back to Evrard who looks taken with Arthur's restless nature.
“I see that,” Evrard says. "I understand all too well. I don't like staying still when there's work to do either."
He looks —affectionate— amused by your eagerness, but also firm. He reaches to your chest and presses you down against the pillow.
John watches the hand linger before pulling away from them.
“Alright, alright,” Arthur grumbles at both of them.
Evrard laughs. “And here I was hoping I might be stimulating enough company for you to weather the wait.”
“You are!” Arthur protests quickly. Enthusiastically. He has enjoyed their conversations.
John feels ashamed for his envy. At first he had told himself it was to protect Arthur. His friend didn’t deserve yet another heartbreak. They were planning to betray Evrard. Being close to him would only make things harder, and hurt all the more when they took the Black Stone for themselves… for Kayne.
But Arthur is magnetic. Either he wins undying friendships or bitter enemies. No one can just fucking… be indifferent to him. He has, what? Three, four, five gods with their eyes on him now? Kayne, Lilith, Mother Darkness, fucking Horig!
The King.
So yes, at first it was easy to tell himself he was adding distance for the sake of Arthur’s heart.
But really it's just envy. It's Oscar all over again, except now John's aware of what exactly eats at him.
They have considered revealing John to the lord, but decided against it. There are too many unknown variables. Arthur is sure he can convince Evrard of Yorick, but that's as big a risk as John can stomache. John has his doubts about Yorick too after all, even with his help with Lillith. What is it about Arthur and severed heads?
But even if they do tell Evrard about John, John doesn’t think it would help. It isn't like Noel, where John being let into the conversation would ease him. There will still be a pit at his core.
Evrard, a separate being that pulls Arthur’s attentions, so clearly wanting him for himself—
Evrard, in love with Arthur and it's so human and so open and so tangible.
John thinks of Arthur’s story. About the wooden train. Throwing it in the fire. He feels it rise up in him.
He shouldn’t feel like this! He and Arthur love each other. Arthur has chosen him time and time again.
Evrard is just another passing face in their story. Inconsequential in the long run.
But he is also all the things John can't be—doesn't want to be. He still hasn't admitted that he loathes the idea of separation now. Doing Kayne’s dirty work in the Dark World, losing Arthur to the Hag.
He wants to remain buried, snug against Arthur’s soul. He knows his possessiveness isn’t fair. New York left scars on both of them in that regard. John wonders if it comes from the King that he is still trying to leave behind, or if it’s something far more flawed and human
He doesn’t know. He hates it. He hates Evrard and understands him completely.
John has gotten frustrated with Arthur, sick of his presence, sick of his judgements, but Jesus, the man is every happiness John has in the world too.
And sometimes he hopes it's the same for Arthur and hates himself a little when he does.
At last Evrard is forcing himself away, needing to see to preparations for their journey.
“John?” Arthur whispers.
But the lord lingers at the door.
He’s still here. He might have heard you.
“Oh,” Arthur says softly. He quiets and shifts over, turning in his bed as if tired from the long conversation. He probably is, although he’ll never admit it. He closes his eyes so that John can only see through the fan of his eyelashes.
John watches Evrard. There’s wistfulness on the man’s face, not suspicion.
Perhaps he didn’t hear you…
Arthur gently taps John’s hand.
He’s gone. But he might not be far, keep your voice low.
“Of course,” Arthur replies dutifully. “It’s the 1300s. We don’t want anyone thinking I’m possessed.” His chuckle is warm and free of the wheeze and cough that has plagued him. It settles John.
Is that supposed to be a joke? He plays along. Sets aside his thoughts on Evrard. He was right in the first place, the lord of the castle will only be a face among many. This is their story. It is him and Arthur. He can bear it for a few more days.