The King's Wife |Kylo Ren x Reader|

XVIII-A Moment of Silence

It is a strange morning for the midst of summer.

Fog drifts eerily between the spires of the palace, coating the ground in a dense blanket of white wisps. Crows caw and click from the gardens below and fill the silence with their wing beats and mysterious songs. The din in the courtyard that is often muddled with shouts, armor clanking, and wheels squeaking has gone deathly still.

Palace life has halted; its occupants wait with bated breaths for something to happen.

Guards go about their patrols with little talking. Servants walk slowly with their heads held low. The kitchens and the lower levels of the castle fill with whispers and gossip. With the sun covered by the clouds and the heavy fog, the torches are re-lit every few hours to keep hallways and corridors aglow with warmth. Even their golden light provides little comfort.

Even the city below can sense the tenseness seeping through the palace walls. Streets have been clearer than ever and all too quiet at night. The bells that toll from The Hall are deep. They reverberate through the hushed streets almost mournfully.

The air in the king's chamber is heavy.

Healers roam around quietly, filling bowls and measuring out unidentifiable liquids. The bottles clink quietly while they work, accompanied by the sloshing of water and the crackling flames of the fireplace. All of the curtains in the room have been drawn tightly shut, filtering out what little light remains.

The king lays atop his bed with the blankets drawn up to his navel. In the firelight, the pale--almost grey--skin of his chest glistens with a sheen of sweat. Nothing different can be said about his forehead and cheeks. It was as if someone had drained him of all color and he was now living in a world of black and white.

Silently, you stand at the foot end of the bed and stare solemnly at your husband's still figure. While the healers work quietly around you, they hardly acknowledge your still presence. With your hands clasped before you and the skin of your knuckles stretched tight, you can't help but stand with a rigid spine and your lips pressed together in a colorless line.

You are dressed in grey today, a color that often evades your wardrobe, but you thought it would be inappropriate to wear anything remotely pleasant. The fabric falls in soft rivers down your body in various shades of stone. It would be best if you didn't wear black, you had decided that morning. You didn't want to appear as if you were already mourning a loss.

And you were.

The loss of two people in a sense that isn't quite death. Wystan's betrayal still weighs heavy on your shoulders. It gnaws a pit into your empty stomach--you hadn't eaten since last night--and digs its talons into your heart. He was the cause of this. The reason why Kylo Ren was now laying in bed, incapacitated and battling a harsh fever while the antidote fought the poison in his system.

In a way, he almost looks peaceful like this. With his dark eyelashes resting and his colorless lips softened. Occasionally, the scar shifts with the twitching of his face or his fingers jumping briefly at his sides. The breaths he takes are shallow. You have to stare intensely at the contours of his chest  to even notice it rising or falling.

"How is he doing?" Your softened voice finally fills the bitter silence.

"It is hard to say, Your Grace." The oldest of the healers--Master Thorleye--replies honestly. He stands by your side with a little vial in his leathery fingers. "He appears stable for now, but the possibility of it turning sour and losing him in the night is still present."