Chapter Text
Stan considered himself to consist of very few, albeit incredibly important, points of character which served as the foundation to his entire being-- influencing decisions and otherwise keeping him afloat throughout his bustling and cacophonous life.
His strength; both mental and physical fortitude trained from a lifetime of being primed to assume the role of a perfect knight.
His battle intellect; forged through unenviable experience and discussions with those who predated his position.
And, his pride.
Somehow, through a manner in which Stan himself was entirely ignorant of, all three of those pillars failed, resulting in the most grotesque failure a man of his stature could ever find himself facing.
Silence hung in the cool room he sat in. A lantern in the corner flickered with the draft, sending an orange light to twitch along the textured stone wall. Every noise, from the minuscule tittering of bugs to the boisterous auditory experience of conversation, was exasperated and echoed throughout.
It had been three days of sitting vigil.
There weren't many visitors, the king was the last of the royal family, and he wasn't praised often for his sociability. A few people passed by with their medicines and treatments, each with assurances and comforts, but still Kyle slept.
Peace pained his high cheekbones, elegance still sitting upon his eyebrows even as his skin paled with fatigue. Occasionally, his finger would twitch. A slight tremor that could easily be mistaken for a trick of the eye or the candlelight's malicious trick, but Stan held trust in it to be a good sign.
“My Lord,” his aching voice broke through the silence like a whale breaching the surface of a tumultuous ocean. He reached out a tentative hand, letting a single finger graze the soft skin taught on the back of Kyle’s hand, “I’m not so foolish as to expect you to forgive me easily. I’m chagrined to admit I failed you utterly and will gladly accept the punishment you deem suitable. But you must wake up. I beg if you, please. If not for the joy of life, than at the very least to enact your righteous dues.”
He paused a moment, allowing his own impulsive words to register in his racing mind for the first time.
“Or awaken and allow me to live, allow me to fight your battles with a fever yet to be observed across all the lands, I’ll make the barbarians quiver in my quest to seek your justice should you grant me the privilege once more.” Stan declared.
He wasn’t sure what the future held, what the days to come would bring. And he yet would be left blind in the dark, awaiting the only man who could give him order.
Stan closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of tears travel down his cheeks. Hunger gnawed at his chest, his appetite diminished by the surging grief overtaking his body. He knew it was unsmart to allow his physical well-being to deteriorate while he was still meant to be on guard, especially given it was his shortcoming which led to such a grim outcome, but Stan couldn’t bring himself to fight the demons within him that tempted him toward the sin of giving up on yourself.
“Don’t,” a whisper, the wind, a breeze, the smoke flittering above the lantern's wick, a hallucination derived from hope, a croak,
Kyle.
Stan didn’t open his eyes, not yet sure it was true and less sure he had the ability to handle the heartbreak if it weren’t.
“Don’t cry, my love.”