#deanbeldy

The splint and bandages from the two young witches are lovely, beautiful in their testament to the girls' kind hearts, and Beldaruit might've worn them longer if Deanreldy hadn't insisted upon looking at the arm. He unspools them now, letting them fall to the bed Beldaruit is laid in, removes the length of wood, and grips the bone between both hands. Beldaruit gasps in pain.

The king glances up. "Forgive me, lord witch. Let me give you something for the pain."

"Stop calling me that," Beldaruit barks at him, but Deanreldy seems to ignore him as he stands and goes to his shelves of supplies.

The display in the courtyard, the show of fealty from king to witch was completely unacceptable--blasphemous to what witches abide by. And Deanreldy is aware of this, Beldaruit knows. He is tired of the games this king plays, even mere hours after the threat to all his people was miraculously thwarted, and perhaps Lagrah would be better suited to picking truths from the king's veneer, but Beldaruit wants to hear it himself, by his own demands. He has some sense that Deanreldy is at least somewhat more honest with him, as he has admitted his wants to Beldaruit. Perhaps in this room in the castle, the two of them alone, he will feel secure enough to be plain about his wild display of deference.

Deanreldy returns with a tin of some waxy oil that he scoops onto two of his fingers. He sets down the tin on the bedside table and holds out his free hand, with a cool and serene face. "May I?"

Beldaruit makes him wait, long enough to glare sufficiently before offering his arm out just enough. "Tell me," he says as the king takes hold, gentle now, and begins to rub the tinture in. "Why you did that."

Deanreldy watches his own hands work. "I think it's obvious, lord witch. Why else does one take the knee?"

The oil already has begun to numb Beldaruit, and as much as he wants to shudder at the release from the pain, he grits out, "I know what it means. I want to know why. You'd destroy everything both our worlds are built upon?"

Under his breath, Deanreldy says, "The bone is already set, thankfully." He takes up a long length of linen and begins to wind it about the arm, and aloud he replies, "Considering everything that has happened, I have done very little in these events. In fact, I am quiet ashamed at how ineffectual I was to my people. It is only by magic that lives were saved and the beast was slain." He looks to Beldaruit again with the same cool eyes; he is strange without a smile on his face. "So, lord witch, I have done nothing. Magic has done and undone everything here this night."

Beldaruit pulls his arm away once the king is done. "Whatever you think, you must know that witches will not accept responsibility for your kingdom. We have served you, as we always do, and you may offer thanks, but we will not become your rulers. We can't."

"You save an entire city of people, and you abandon them?" Deanreldy looks almost angry, and Beldaruit has to wonder if the emotion is real. Is any expression on his face real? "They are your responsibility--by your own actions, their lives are yours. In truth, they always have been, but now it is evident to all: we live because of magic, because of witches. We belong to you wholly."

Deanreldy, at Beldaruit's shock and gaping mouth, goes from his seat to his knees once more, both hands now splayed up in plea and offer, and asks, "Please, let me finish."

Dumbly, Beldaruit gives his arm again. Deanreldy lays smooth, thin rods of wood along it and fixes them in place with twine. Beldaruit watches and thinks of his own mistake: he had assumed too much of Deanreldy's pride, to think that he would do this both to himself and his people, that despite his frown, he is willing to admit defeat, debase himself for the gift of magic. A witch seeks never to subjugate, so to never be be conquered, but Deanreldy would force his own subjugation upon Beldaruit.

After the splint is in place, the king wraps the arm once more in a heavier bandage. Beldaruit tells him, "We shall help you rebuild, your highness, and perhaps we shall allow you to keep the Door of the Wise, but then we are leaving."

The bandage is secured, though the king continues his hold of Beldaruit's arm, the insistent touch of just his fingers. His eyes turn to Beldaruit's once more. His fire has changed in those brief moments, his prideful, begrudging concession to a mournful adoration that holds something more familiar to Beldaruit--a want.

"I cannot control you, my lord, as I never could." Deanreldy takes Beldaruit's limp hand. "I can only offer what I have: my kingdom, my strength--" he looks to him from below his gold lashes, "--I am yours."

Deanreldy kisses the skin just above Beldaruit's nailbeds, needlessly chaste and thus all the more perverse. This is what a witch must absolutely be denied, as a witch's basest nature is one of selfishness--want. It is what the pact stands for, ascetic and constant restraint. The long-standing denial has become obtrusive now, with the king knelt here, his lips just barely to Beldaruit's fingers. The display is disgusting, makes Beldaruit sick--and worse, Deanreldy has devoted his life to tending the sick.

Beldaruit takes his hand away once more. "You've finished," he says, with his voice old and creaky. "Leave now."

The king stands, tall and brilliant as he is, a golden thing like his magnificent cats, and bows. "Yes, my lord." He leaves the room silently.