Duke of Camellias

THIRTY-NINE

The doctor came and examined Charles, still weak and emaciated in his bed, head dropping to his shoulder, and eyes dull.

Blair looked at him, so different from the first time he came to the Duke, and he had looked like art, a strong angel or clever demon. Now he was a mortal, fallen prey to poison and time. His dark tendrils curled about his neck and brow, and he breathed heavily.

"How is he, Doctor?" Blair whispered.

There in the small room was Flemings and the Doctor, and in their presence, Blair stood too, shoulders sloped down.

The doctor removed his fingers from Charles's wrist and nodded briskly.

"He's still weak, but the poison shouldn't be a problem any longer." Blair blinked, too wary too be happy just yet. "He is still frail, it seems like he still hasn't an appetite. Try to get him to eat as much as you can, and rest in bed as much as he can. Sleeping too much can have adverse effects, so do have him walk about briefly twice a day or so."

The doctor turned back to his leather case at the bedside and began to rummage about.

"Take some vials if he can't sleep, and what liquids he can if he can't take solids."

Flemings nodded as Blair peeked at Charles again, who had closed his eyes, bags visible, the hollows in his cheeks prominent.

Flemings started to walk the doctor down, and soon the two were left alone.

It was day, and Charles had just woke up yesterday, and after crying, he sat in his bed in silence. Blair didn't dare say anything, but stayed next to him like a faithful old dog.

The next morning the two set out to the garden, Charles wobbly, and despite his silent proposals to grab his cane, Blair held him by the arm. For the first time, the Duke didn't have a say, and was forced to follow Blair.

In the garden they stood, Charles looking up at the May sun, and Blair looking at his sharp profile and tired eyes, and despite everything, he was still beautiful.

"Your garden is always blooming," Blair said. Charles did not reply, but that did not deter him. "When I first saw you, I thought you were like a fallen angel. All I could see was your beauty."

"And am I beautiful, even now, on the brink of death?"

"You are ever more beautiful, because I know you now."

The Duke snorted. "As expected of a writer, you have such colorful prose. Such pretentious flattery."

"I've told you that first day, I'm not interested in brown-nosing people." Blair smiled at the memory. "You are ever the cynic."

Charles only looked from the sky to the flowers. He pulled away from Blair, and Blair watched him carefully as he brought his long fingers to a camellia, and akin to brushing soft stroke or softly molding a statue, traced the petals and their every nook and cranny.

"Why, Blair, am I beautiful?"

Blair didn't need to think.

"Because you smile when you read my stories. You remember what things people love, from chocolates to breakfasts. You care for your staff. You do not refuse to see your old friends, and you still remember what they like, too, from piano to wines. You cannot throw people out into a blizzard, and despite all their brashness, treat them as a guest.