The Gifts We Share [A Medieval AU]

Chapter Twenty-Three - Dealing With Grief

For a few days, Mark feels okay. He can go through his day, practicing magic on his own or reading, without feeling too weighed down. On occasion he visits with Seán in the king's office, which is a welcome distraction for both of them, but he knows, deep down, that the feeling of relative peace won't last long.

His grief hits him like a train unexpectedly one morning as he sits in the stable. A puppy gallops across the floor, followed by its mother. Trailing her are several more puppies, who nibble and claw at each other. Mark watches them, images of his family flashing through his mind, before bursting into tears. Unable to stop his sobs or deal with the aching in his chest and head, he buries his face in his knees and lets himself break down. He barely notices when Ethan comes back in and doesn't fight it when the stableboy helps him to his feet and brings him back to the castle.

"How can I help, Mark?" he asks gently when they get inside.

"I just... I don't..." Mark wipes his eyes, gasping for air between sobs. "I n-need to see S-Seán."

Ethan's eyes widen slightly. "Wait, Seán as in King Seán? I can't... There is no way I can go into the throne room and ask him to get up and leave. I would be crossing so many lines."

"I need you to," Mark nearly pleads. He leans against the wall, breathing heavily in an attempt to alleviate the pressure on his chest. "If you tell him that I need him, he will listen."

The stableboy hesitates for a moment before nodding and heading into the throne room. Mark tries to look calm and collected, but inside he's breaking apart. He feels like at any moment, someone could touch him and he'd crumble to dust.

Mere moments later, King Seán emerges from the throne room with Ethan on his heels. The royal murmurs something to the stableboy before thanking him and approaching Mark. Without a second thought, he takes the farmer's wrist and leads him up the stairs to the room where they have their lessons.

Neither of them says a word until the door is shut and Mark is stationed in one of the chairs. Seán tosses a blanket over him and kneels down beside the hearth in order to start up a fire.

"I'm s-sorry for being a b-bother," Mark says through his tears. "You p-probably have better thing t-to do than deal with a b-blubbering peasant."

Seán sighs heavily, stoking the fire one last time before standing up. He moves his chair towards the farmer so that their knees are almost touching. Mark pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, avoiding the royal's perpetual gaze.

"Mark, you are not a bother. This is exactly what I wanted you to do," he insists, resting a hand on Mark's knee.

The farmer watches his hand for a moment before burying the lower half of his face in the blanket that surrounds him.  He can't handle the pity in the king's eyes or the sympathetic gestures.  It makes him want to cry again.  "I'm not weak," he whispers. 

"Nobody said you were."

"But that's the whole thing with crying. It is a sign of weakness."

"No, it is not." Seán sighs. "When I started losing members of my family, all the advisors told me that if I cried, I was not fit to be king. It exhausted me, Mark." His eyes seem to burn into the farmer's as he maintains a steady gaze. "I will not tell you the same thing they told me."

Mark nearly bursts into tears again. He curls up on the chair, pressing his face into his knees and taking deep breaths. His heart aches, which in turn makes his very bones feel heavy.

"What do you need, Mark?" Seán asks softly.

The American doesn't lift his head. "I don't know."

A moment later, he feels strong arms surrounding him. He instinctively tenses for a second before relaxing, lifting his head from his knees. Seán is hugging him. The stoic, emotionless king is hugging him. Mark, grateful for the comfort, rests his head against Seán's shoulder and exhales heavily. The faint scent of firewood and nature surrounds him, helping to calm him just a little more.

"That helps..." Mark murmurs, wiping the last of the moisture from his eyes.

"Good," Seán replies.