England, 1312
It was growing dark. He watched the sun set through the narrow windows encased by thick grey stone, studying the fading orange light and the pink sky, the green grass and the high walls. Mine, he thought. All of it, mine.
And yet there's something missing.
There was an absence within him, a gap he yearned to fill. Like someone had come along and slid one of the blocks out of the stone wall, and though it remained standing, there was a gaping hole right through it. He had been like this since June. Since then his whole world had come crashing down around his ears, it felt. He had the weight of the crown upon his brow and not a soul to help him carry it.
Except Piers.
He had always had Piers.
Sweet, darling Piers. With hair that was wont to curl upwards in the strangest of places and give him a constant look of disarray, and with startlingly green eyes that were so mischievous Edward's father had banished Piers to France five years before, in a vain attempt at preventing him from dragging Edward into the trouble he was sure to find himself in.
Because trouble was never very far behind Piers. It never had been. Perhaps, Edward thought as he stared longingly at the stone walls - willing them to fall and crush him, perhaps - Piers had brought it on himself. He was always so bloody cocksure. And god knows, Edward mused, it was the most attractive thing about him.
He could walk into any room, filled to bursting with the greatest and most powerful men in the kingdom, and command them to do his bidding. A mere knight, with the balls to act as though he were king himself. Edward stifled a laugh. Piers always did know how to make him laugh. Whether it was a wink across a vast hall, a kiss as soft as air placed on his collarbone, or the way he would often sit at the foot of Edward's chair, back against his king's knees, legs lazily outstretched, one hand reaching upwards to play with the rings on Edward's fingers when they rested on his shoulder. A heart wrenching display of casual, easy intimacy that could never be replicated or matched. Lord, how Edward longed for those lips to press just one more kiss to his temples. How he ached for Piers to open the door without knocking, to cast aside the king's protests with a kiss to leave him gasping.760Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx7bfhwri45
He looked at the door now, half expecting a half-drunken Gascon to stumble in, trip over the step as he always did, and fall to the ground in an exaggerated bow that sent his knees hitting the stone floor with a thud that can't have been painless. How Edward was convinced that he would, in just a few moments because surely he was bound to turn up, grumpily tell Piers to piss off and go back to fucking bed, because it's late. He would swat at the hand tugging on his sleeve, and fight back the urge to laugh at the sight of that stupid fucking grin on his stupid fucking face. And then Piers would win, as he always did, claiming, like always, that his only purpose in life was to serve his king.
Edward had always laughed.
Damn right it is, had always been his reply.760Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg5N9SJRKXC
But Piers wasn't bursting through the door in a vapour of beer and red wine any time soon. He wasn't falling to his knees, or pressing a finger to Edward's lips to silence his complaints. He wasn't pouring him another goblet of wine, he wasn't straightening the golden chain at his neck and he wasn't sitting next to him by the fire.
Fate hadn't seen fit to grant them that hand.
Edward was king, alone, and Piers was dead.
Piers was dead.
Even thinking the words made Edward's chest ache, an empty cavity where his heart should be echoed underneath his ribs.
He remembered, all those years ago, standing on the shore after his father had ordered Piers to leave England. Edward had watched the boat until it had faded into the horizon, carrying with it the only man he had ever loved. The only man he ever would love, for how could any compare to Piers? He could never give his heart to another. It was simple; his heart had stopped beating at the same moment Piers' head was cleaved from his shoulders by the sword of a traitor.
What was life now, anyway?
He might be king, but all the riches and all the beauty in the world was nothing, it meant nothing. He'd give it all up, give every last square mile of his land away, in return for Piers to be back in the land of the living. Edward had prayed day and night for the Lord to take away his grief. To lift the shadow that hung over his every waking moment and haunted his sleep, because everywhere he looked he saw his face, and was reminded that he'd never again be able to touch those lips, to stare endlessly into those eyes. God hadn't seen fit to listen.
Here he was, God's chosen representative on Earth, blessed by the Lord on his coronation day and divinely appointed to his post, and God didn't want to listen. Edward was starting to think He had forsaken him, and perhaps he would have been more troubled by such a notion, had he any emotion other than all-encompassing despair left. So instead he would drink himself into oblivion and wait for time to find him. Wait for death to find him, and pray that it came on swift wings.
Godspeed, Edward muttered as he thought of how, one day, he would be reunited with Piers. Whether in Heaven or Hell he knew - nor, come to think of it, cared - not.
Godspeed.
A/N: This is based on Edward II and Piers Gaveston. Gaveston was executed by the king's uncle in 1213 since the nobles were unhappy about how much favour Gaveston had been given. It is usually accepted that Edward and Gaveston were lovers, though it is not known for sure. Edward was certainly very, very attached to Piers (so much so that Piers was routinely given precedence over the queen) and when Piers died, one chronicler commented that the king "grieved for Piers as a father grieves for his son. For the greater the love, the greater the sorrow". Edward afterwards got his revenge on those who had a part in Gaveston's death, but it was not to last long as in January 1327 he was forcibly removed from the throne by his wife, Queen Isabella and her lover Roger Mortimer. He was taken to Berkeley castle where he was most probably murdered in September 1327.760Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg6x9jtLf7a
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