Henriad (History Plays, Book 5)

2: sweetest morsel of the night

Henry

I have no idea what time it is when Harry begins to stir. He's on a million drugs and his face is still swathed in bandages. But he stirs.
"Harry? Harry, I'm here, I'm right here," I grab his arm, my hand going to the undamaged part of his face. He claws with his other arm to get the mask and things off.
"Lie still, you're okay, I'm right here," I say, my voice rough and hoarse as I feel hot tears slide unbidden down my cheeks.
"I'll get the nurse," Joan is awake and moving.
He mumbles, but I can't tell what he's trying to say. His hands keep going to the bandages on his face.
"Harry? You're all right, we'll go home soon," Thomas piles on the bed nearly next to his brother, taking his other arm.
"Father,---?" Harry finally gets out when they get the tube out of his mouth. The nurses do not object to my help holding him down.
Ned is prostrate on the bed, sobbing and clutching him.
"I'm sorry," Harry mumbles, his  voice terrible from all those tubes.
"You've done nothing—for once you've done nothing, lie still," I say, pressing my face against his undamaged cheek. 
I have no real idea what I say to him after that but for the first time in that boy's life my words actually sooth him, and he lies still. He moves if he quits hearing my voice though, so I keep talking to him, and praying, keeping my voice low and soothing, as I keep my hands on his arm or chest or wherever the nurses don't need. Nurses and doctors flood in and out. It takes effort but I force myself to pay attention to their words.
The gist of it is that they have no idea how coherent he'll ever be. They expect the brain damage is minimal but his head cracking the ice sans a helmet left him with a TBI along with the TBI he got from the wood splinters and overall brain surgery. For now, he's souped up on an unholy amount of pain killers and they want him ridiculously still and calm and to that affect he's also on a more than reasonable amount of happy juice. They'll start decreasing both in a day or two and at that point all manner of doctors will be around to assess his cognitive abilities.
Apparently the comment "he can lose some and still be fine, I'll probably like him better" was "insensitive" because then they send around like three chaplains and a doctor to tell me I have to be nice to him or some shit.
"He's probably gonna think I'm an imposter or dead or something if I'm nice to him," I tell them, but only Joan laughs. It's a laugh of relief, not even humor.
Harry falls into a fitful sleep, but it's obvious he's more with us than he was and that alone settles me. The truth is I don't care. I don't give a fuck. He's back and I can take him home that's all that matters. We can take care of him now.
The doctors caution us after Ned and I won't stop talking to him, that he needs his rest and at minimum the concussion will give him some memory loss and he'll be unstable with respect to his mood. They warned us not to talk about Hotspur's death (I didn't know until then that he'd died but whatever, that's my boy, dealt a fatal blow despite having wood chips in his damn brain). They insisted we keep the mood light and brief and not press him for things he might not remember. He didn't need to know the extent of his injuries yet; they said to keep it to the basics that he'd just had surgery. I know for a fact that the scarring and all else will be extensive.
The surgery was emergency, which means they entered his face with little regard for his already shattered cheek bone, and since his vitals were so low after such a long surgery, they weren't about to keep him out to clean up their mess. Instead they patched him closed as quickly as possible. Somebody needlessly polite came and told me that that side of his face is pretty badly wrecked between the damage from the injury plus the surgery scars, and I waved them off saying I'd be sure to have family photos taken from the other side. Anyway, apparently they can do reconstructive plastic surgery later to make him look better. I really didn't care at that point nor do I care at this one. 
They also recommend limiting visitors. They have no clue how many of us there are but they know it's a fuck ton and they respectfully suggest two quiet ones at a time for a few hours a day and that's it. With all that maybe, potentially, he could go home in a week or two.
Finally, I think I start breathing normally again and  I can no longer feel my pulse pounding in my chest. Through this entire rigamarole, Ned stays resolutely by Harry's side talking to him or holding his hand, which gives me leave to breath a moment and let my mind start running practically now.
I dispatch Joan to take Thomas home. I give him strict instructions to explain Harry's condition to his siblings.
"Don't get their hopes up, let them know it's gonna be touch and go for a few days 'cause he's hurt and high as shit right now. Tomorrow you and they come back and you can see him all right? But that gives them twelve hours to practice being normal quiet people," I say, a hand on Thomas' shoulder.
"But—," he chokes off his own argument, but I see fresh tears in his eyes.
"Hey, he needs to rest now. There's nothing you're gonna do for him by being here. And you need to get some rest too all right? I need you to be strong and help me take care of your siblings," I say. And with those words he steels himself and nods.
I send Joan to drive him home, then think better of it and call a car for both of them. She's in no state to drive, and Thomas could probably use the attention. Joan informs me that she'll get the kids settled then come back with dinner for herself and me. For once I don't argue. I have no appetite, but I am aware I haven't eaten since before Harry got injured.
After that, I set about dispatching Ned. The little effeminate thing looks fully ready to argue with me, but when I speak he actually listens.
"I need you to do something for me. He's gonna be awake sooner rather than later; you heard those stupid people say that he's gotta stay still for the next week or so? Well I need you to go and get whatever the fuck you think will entertain him and keep him in that damn bed," I say, "All right? Movies, books—plans for space travel—I don't know whatever the fuck you think will keep him occupied and resting that's what I need you to bring. And some clothes and blankets and whatever else you can think of he likes, all right?" I should know the answers to all those questions but I'm a big enough man to admit I don't. He's one of those kids who could keep himself busy if only to my detriment. And this boy is definitely sleeping with him he'll know what blankets or shit he likes. Other than to reclaim my own personal items and make sure he wasn't overthrowing me, I haven't been in Harry's room in I don't know how long.
"If he wakes up—" Ned frowns.
"If he wakes up, I or Joan or his siblings will be here. We're not gonna leave him alone. But you need rest too, and then you need to find me whatever will entertain him," I say, I'm well aware it's wishful thinking to think he'll be up for entertainment but fuck this is Harry we're talking about. If he's awake he needs to be occupied.
"Yes, sir," Ned says, nodding now, a little defeated, he bends down and kisses Harry's cheek unashamedly, whispering something to him and touching his now shaved hair.
"I called you a car," I tell Ned's mother who apparently is also here.
"We don't need---"
"That was not a fucking question, I'm gonna guess you've been here as long as I have. Tell the driver when you want him to return." I also don't want anyone driving alone. I don't expect retribution from Percy or Glyndower's sympathizers, but I'm far from in the loop and I'm not about to gamble with lives. My men have locked down the hospital and should be taking care of any threats but I trust nothing if I haven't done it myself that's why Harry's brain surgery is driving me mad.
"Thank you," she says, taking her boy by the shoulders. Her healthy, living, sixteen year old with an undamaged face. For a moment I feel a flash of anger that doesn't belong in me. I shove it aside. It was the same feeling I had when I would see men with living wives and their happy children. Something I don't get to have, apparently. I'm beyond fathoming what any of them did to deserve me, but apparently I'm not beyond begrudging those who were lucky enough to escape my lot. In the part of my mind I don't think about anymore because it's usually right, I'm well aware Harry wouldn't have been on the ice let alone starting a fight with wood splinters in his face, if it weren't for me. I'm to blame, if not in actions in genetics. I should have pulled him off the ice when he first got hurt. He wouldn't listen. Of course he wouldn't he never listens. But I didn't make him come off the ice. I was too late for him, just like I was too late for Richard. Once again I got mad and I let someone stupid who wouldn't fucking listen to me do what they wanted. And they wind up—he's not dead. He's not dead. My Harry is not dead it's not the same he's still here with me.
"We'll be back soon," Ned says, and I'm not sure if he's talking to me or to Harry.
With Ned gone, I return to Harry's side. I rest a hand on his cheek and slump on the floor. I realize by now I could have dragged a chair over, but I was kneeling to pray and now I'm too tired to get back up. 
I'm asleep when Joan returns. I draw my weapon at the sound of the door, an impulse that has not endeared me to hospital staff. To her credit she doesn't even start, just murmer's my name and I relax. I'm back asleep by the time she's settled in the room. Harry stirs a bit but I talk to him and he goes back to sleep. The night goes like that. I don't even know what I'm saying, half the time I'm asleep myself and I'm settling him telling him to go back to sleep, like he's a baby again and safe pressed between his mother and I, rolling over and kicking and wanting to wake up. I'd put a hand on his stomach and mumble to him to go back to sleep. Then he'd stay still for some brief amount of time before he'd be patting my face and asking to wake up and go play.
"Daddy up? Daddy play?" he'd query. A crib was out of the question, little fool would escape. I'm something of a light sleeper; I'd wake if he tried to crawl over me to get out of bed.
"No, no it's still night, go back to sleep," I would mumble, patting his stomach and then stroking his soft baby angel hair, until he'd fall asleep fitfully curled up against his mother's pregnant stomach. Only to wake her up in two minutes or me in another ten. Mary would just smile at him with delight, then kiss my cheeks and tell me my son needed my attention.
Wrapped in those pleasant memories, too groggy and stubborn to acknowledge that I am in fact dying of cancer, sitting on the floor of a hospital while that very baby fights for his life in the bed next to me, I do finally slip off to sleep.