Work Text:
“Do you think it was enough this time?”
D3rlord blinks slowly.
His hands are shaking. Ink stains his fingers. His gloves. The golden sheen of his gauntlets tainted by smears of iridescent black. The quill is on the stone floor, ink splattered around the tip like blood spray.
Dropped.
Forgotten.
Useless.
Dead.
“...I’m sorry?”
He hadn't noticed the King’s approach.
How could he?
(the King is always with him)
(even here, even now)
(away from the village, from the gates of Carcosa, in this walled up little mine, sealed and blocked, where the strangeness and madness of the Hyades cannot fully reach him, the King is with him)
“What you did.” The King says idly. His fingers trail along D3rlord’s spine, skipping along each vertebrae like piano keys before circling to his chest. They linger for a moment, over the uneven metronome beat of his heart, then tap the book in that same unsteady rhythm that is still in D3rlord’s trembling hands. “Do you think it was enough?”
Yes.
No.
(god, please, let it be enough)
“I don't…know.”
It's a lie.
Of course he knows.
He knows so much. Too much. Not enough.
The King hums. His hand leaves the book, comes back to D3rlord, cups his jaw with sweet reverence, drifts down to his throat and squeezes it with holy possessiveness.
D3rlord’s breath catches.
“I…want it to be. Enough.” He amends.
The King relaxes his hold.
“Tell me, my Knight.” The book is plucked from D3rlord’s hands. He lets it go without thought. It's cast away into the chest he built earlier. Set aside. Not forgotten. Never forgotten. Only…put away for now, until the clock ticks to a time where it will be needed again, until the scene shifts and the prop will finally be used. “What would you do for such a want?”
The King leans closer.
D3rlord closes his eyes.
His chest hitches.
His hands, always so steady, have not stopped trembling.
“Betray me?” The King’s hand closes around his throat once again, his voice slipping into D3rlord’s ear like wasps.
D3rlord gasps.
His eyes fly open.
The King is before him, beautiful and resplendent.
(he has always been before him)
“I have not betrayed you, my King–” the words spill out from underneath his bleeding tongue, a useless prayer to his unyielding god. “--I have written nothing of you. I have only–”
“You have written of the crossroads.” The King cuts him off. “Is that not having written of me?”
D3rlord bows his helmed head.
Fingers squeeze and tighten.
He cannot, for a moment, breathe.
“It is time for you to come home.” The King does not let go. He does not loosen his hold. “I have been far too indulgent of your…whismys.”
“Please–” D3rlord’s hands close around the King’s wrist. It's futile. He can't pull the King away. He never could. The King has always been with him. The King is always with him. The King will always be with him. D3rlord’s heart beats to the drumming of Carcosa, even if his blood sings to the smile of someone he has not yet met in this life (but he will meet him, he will, because he knows). “--my King, I only ask–”
(he knows–)
(the King does not grant boons)
(he knows–)
“But you didn't.”
No.
He didn't.
“I beg you.” D3rlord changes his words, pleads instead of prays, promises instead of asks. “I will not leave Carcosa again if you only–”
He can not speak the words out loud.
(the King does not–)
The King, for a moment, remains silent.
(it is not enough)
(it is never enough)
(but maybe this time, maybe–)
“Whatever happens to him,” the King finally says. “Will be because of what you have done.”
The King draws his hand back.
But he does not let his Knight go.