Chapter Text
The sunlight streaming down through the spring-green canopy paints Boedicea in shifting watercolors, her red coat shining copper-pink.
Dazed, Charles dismounts from Taima, runs his hands over her beloved neck, youth-strong and blood-warm.
He can feel his pulse in this throat as he follows the familiar trail of crushed grass and wildflowers through the copse of oaks, coiled-snake anticipation rattling through him as he walks slowly on. He treads ball-to-heel, quiet and careful.
Arthur Morgan dozes in the shade of an oak-tree, worn-leather hat pulled low over his eyes.
Charles stumbles the last steps, strings cut as he collapses to the soft grass. The sharp, green smell is almost overwhelming, undercut with the sweet scent of rot.
He knows this script. He is helpless but to follow it.
Charles reaches for that broad shoulder, hand trembling. Arthur’s arm under his palm is thick with muscle, straining against the familiar blue of Arthur’s favorite shirt.
“Arthur,” Charles whispers, fingering the sun-warmed fabric. The shift of Arthur’s steady, easy breathing cuts through him like a joyous knife. “Arthur—“
One scarred, callused hand lifts the hat from Arthur’s face, baring lake-green eyes under fawn-brown lashes.
Charles chokes, tears streaming freely down his cheeks.
“Charles,” Arthur drawls, smooth and easy and fond, fond, Charles’ name off his tongue the sweetest way anyone had ever said it, has ever since—
Charles bites down on the ocean swell of sorrow, swallows it whole. It’ll drown him, soon, but not yet.
The sand is trickling from the hour-glass, he knows. But he has learned to subsist off stolen moments of joy, crumbs gathered from others’ tables.
“Arthur,” Charles repeats, seizing Arthur’s jaw in hand. Those eyes shine up at him, crows-feet crinkled in the corners. There’s love there, love that fills Charles’ chest like a hot air balloon, sends him soaring.
“Arthur,” Charles says, soft, honey on his tongue.
Arthur lifts a hand to Charles’ hair, fingers tangling gently in the curls as he draws Charles down into his lap. His chest rises and falls against Charles’ own as they settle. Charles can feel Arthur’s heart beating, a steady rhythm that matches his own.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” Arthur says, lifting a palm to press sweetly against the scar along Charles’ cheek. “Been too long.”
“Arthur,” Charles says, low and soft like prayer. He leans in, down towards that smiling, living mouth, Tantalus reaching for a drink from the river—
And blinks, eyes damp with sweat and fresh blood. The grains of Saint-Denis street dirt, red and fine, cling to his lips, coat the back of his tongue like grave dust.
The crowd groans as he stumbles his way to his feet before the final count, facing his opponent. He steps back in, swinging, the sting of crushed grass still sharp in the back of his throat.
It’d been a pleasant, familiar dream.