CHAPTER NINE.
━━━━━━━━━
Though lovers may be lost, love shall not.
DYLAN THOMAS, DEATH HAS NO DOMINION
━━━━━━━━━
ASTORIA UNCLASPS THE CLOAK THAT marks him as a Kingsguard and it falls to the floor, startlingly white against the carpet painted in dark by the fire that is the only source of light in the room. Arthur is surprised at the profound relief he feels, as if he has not shrugged off a cloak but a mountain. The oaths are suddenly so immaterial. Why has he tormented himself so over them? Whatever is on my shoulders, I can take off, he thinks as he reaches for the ribbon holding her hair; the dark curls tumble over her shoulders, black and lustrous like a Dornish night. But what is in my heart, I cannot pull out. A damned thing, the heart is. That is how it is made.
Something had happened. Arthur is not sure what exactly but it had created a distance between them. Astoria is more quiet and solemn around him now, though still as loving.
"Do you ever think about it?" he asks. "If things were different?"
Astoria stays silent. Her nails dig, hard and red into her palm, and she says nothing. She feels as if she is looking down on herself from a great height, as if she is altogether removed.
"I cannot stop thinking about you," Arthur grits out, sounding like it pains him to say it, sounding baffled.
"Who are you to me?" she questions, her chin raised. For days, the question has been nagging at her mind. What are they? But more importantly — what are they not?
"I am your sword," ge replies, dropping to one knee.
"A man is not a sword," Astoria says. A vise slowly tightens around her chest, grabs hold of her heart.
"That is all I am," he replies, begging her to understand something that he himself does not.
"Do knights not have hearts?"
"That does not change anything," he says, wishing his voice sounded less harsh.
Arthur has watched a king, and a queen, and two princes. He has watched them and found them wanting. Yet he cannot intervene because of duty — the duty he gave himself. His duty is to never love, to serve only the Crown, to die. His duty is not to meddle in the world of men, no matter how objectionable their actions. What is duty but a burden? his father had spat out during an argument. He has forgotten his father's voice, an unfathomable thing to forget, but it has been so long. Will he one day forget them all? Forget watching his mother almost die of a fever, or the feeling of Astoria's skin under his fingertips, forget what it felt like to have a heart that beat for something more than honour?
The decision he must make is cruel, but not any crueller than this castle has seen before. The centuries keep spooling onwards, the same vile men repeat their deeds, the same injustices and tragedies. His duty means he often watches men repeat mistakes of the past, and thus he watches Aerys, this madman, playing with the lives of others like he believes he is a god and they are only ants.
Astoria's eyes are sad like many others have been, her voice is sweet like many he has heard before. Her blood, her family, is old but not the oldest. She is nothing, inconsequential, a flicker in his eye. She is not special, there is nothing about her that would justify him giving up his duty and betraying his vows.
Arthur knows in his soul that he wishes more could grow between them than this, but he has forsworn wife and children, has sworn celibacy. If he gives in now, he fears he would be lost, his body stirring his heart to love. As if she is a sweet poison, or hot oil and he the wick of a lamp desperate to burn.
"This doesn't have to end," he tells her.
She feels something twist in her chest, and takes a low breath, during the space of which the two of them break and crack and fall back again, fitting each other in all the wrong places. When Astoria responds, her voice wavers. "I yearn for something more than a cage, one you have grown so used to that you have mistaken it for the world."
"You cannot ask me to abandon my vows."
An unbreakable silence creeps into the room and Astoria feels hot tears pricking at her eyes. "I know. Forgive me, Arthur," he whispers. "Was it ever possible for us? Was there ever a time, ever a moment?"
Angry and already half in love with her and tremendously sorry, he turns away. "No."
Before she takes her leave, Astoria looks over at Arthur and tilts her head. Her green eyes catch on the light of the room, glimmering like darkened emeralds. And her voice — it's soft and knowing when she murmurs, "I could have loved you a lot."
Lust had brought them together and duty tears them apart. She will never, can never, marry Arthur.
Never. The very thought makes her sick to the stomach. How could she go through a lifetime of this? Then again, how could she not? The times he's gone are even more agonizing than when he's not. He's her poison, and her antidote, the best part of her, and the worst.
Her rise, and her downfall.
THE SILENCE OF HIS CHAMBERS close in on Arthur.
He closes his eyes for an instant, allows himself this final weakness — him and her, her and him.
His heart twists and pulls.
Outside, thunder begins to rumble in the starry nightsky. Two souls are being torn apart and that is always a cause for the clouds to weep, no matter the reason. The gods are saddened. In the flashes of each raindrop, there is a glimpse of a future never to pass, containing a maiden cloak being shed, then some lilac-eyed children with russet skin and dark locks. Daughters named Neela, Yazmin and Pia, sons called Karim and Yannic — each lifetime, through hundreds, Astoria calls for him. And each lifetime, sorrow finds them.
Arthur rages like he never has before, rages against gods and men and everything in between. He slams his fist into the wall until his knuckles bleed, the pain being a welcome distraction.
Lewyn finds him there later, sitting on the edge of his cot, his entire arm throbbing. His uncle is quiet as he bandages his hand as best as he can. He graciously asks no questions about Astoria, about what had happened.
Arthur makes the mistake of looking at him, and the sheer understanding he sees has him shattering into a thousand pieces. Lewyn holds him without judgment, lets him weep until there's nothing left at all.
It makes him wonder where he'd be now, had he not been offered the position so many years ago. Would he still be in Sunspear, perhaps as the captain of Doran's guards? Or would he have returned to Starfall as its castellan? Or would he gallivant around Essos as a sellsword? Or would he have settled somewhere else, married some noblewoman and had half a dozen children?
Or would they have ended up here all along? Is this their fated path?
DARLING, DEAREST, DEAD.
Destroy the idea that Elia thought nothing of Rhaegar running away with another woman just because she is Dornish or that her potential knowledge of what he planned at Harrenhal makes his actions alright or defensible. Destroy the idea that she put his precious prophecy ahead of her own children's well-being and lives, over her own pride.