A Tale as Old as Time

XIV

As silence filled the rest of the castle, the master chamber was anything but silent. Francis was cradling Arthur's head and working on removing his coat, vest, and shirt while the serpent took short, shallow breaths.

“You- hng. You came back,” Arthur panted, looking up at the Frenchman, who cupped his cheek and smiled at him.

“I had to,” Francis replied, then cringed when Arthur's bloodied chest had been exposed. Things looked bad, but they couldn't be hopeless, right? “We need to get you some help. Do you want me to go find Zwingli?”

Before he could even consider getting up, Arthur shook his head and put a hand on his chest. “It's too late for me. Just stay. So I can see you one more time. One last time,” he whispered, managing a smile though his eyes had welled up with tears.

Francis frowned and stroked the serpent's hair. He knew it was the end, but he didn't want to give up hope. Not yet. “No, don't say that. Please, you can't go anywhere yet. Stay with me,” he hummed, tearing up. Arthur's breathing had gotten more rugged and he was starting to feel cold.

“I-” the serpent started, but a coughing fit interrupted him. Though his voice was faint and he was growing weak, he held Francis’ hand and gave it the firmest squeeze he could muster. “I loved having you. And- I'm glad you're here. Now. With me.”

His breathing was frequently interrupted with whimpers, silent tears running down his cheeks. He shut his eyes tightly as Francis continued to stroke his hair and hummed a lullaby to soothe him.

Before long, Arthur's body had gone limp and his pained expression relaxed into a serene one. His eyes opened to see Francis and he let out a soft chuckle, then his eyes fluttered closed once more and his slow, pained breathing ceased.

“Arthur?” Francis stopped humming and he looked down to the master, who looked so peaceful he could have been asleep. “Arthur, wake up. Arthur, please!”

Nothing. Arthur didn't reply. He didn't even stir. Francis covered his mouth to hide the soft sobs that followed, a stark realisation hitting him all too late. He loved Arthur.

“Please, wake up. Come back to me,” the Frenchman cooed, looking for something, anything that could have been taken as a response. “Please! I need you, Arthur. I love you.”

When there was still no response, he leaned forward and he gave the master a soft kiss.

“Please,” he whispered one last time, letting his tears flow freely. He held Arthur and he cried, feeling bitter that his love had been taken away from him before he could even recognise the feeling.

How long he stayed up in that dark chamber cradling his lost love he did not know. When he felt strong enough, Francis shuffled back and laid Arthur's head on a pillow made from his coat. There was nothing he could do for him now.

As he wiped the tears from his eyes and stood, his gaze wandered to the enchanted rose, whose last petal had wilted and was drifting gracefully to join the rest of its kind. Whatever the flower had once symbolised hardly mattered now, Francis thought as he crossed the room.

Standing in the doorway was none other than the silent cloaked figure who had been watching the battle, but not participating in it. Francis watched as the figure held out a slender hand, his deep violet eyes focused on something the Frenchman could not see.

But he could feel it. He turned around to see Arthur, who was bathed in a soft, golden glow as he was being suspended by some unseen force. Francis covered his mouth and hurried back to him, stopping just short of him.

It was hard to see what was going on; Arthur's cloak was covering him completely and the glow intensified. Only able to watch in awe, the Frenchman looked over his shoulder to look at the mysterious intruder, whose hood had fallen back to reveal his entire visage. He looked peaceful in what he was doing, but once he made eye contact with Francis, the Frenchman cleared his throat and looked back to Arthur, who was once again resting on the ground, his cloak draped over him.