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The doors to Ding Dong Dell's throne room slam against stone. The plush carpet beneath Evan's feet is damp with humidity in ways it never was while his father was alive, but the ways are familiar as they've ever been. The throne is still there, lofted high above the rest, the standing pools of water lapping at the steps.
It's home, and yet it's not. There is no one here to greet him, no father, no mother, no Nella, no one.
No one but Mausinger, standing on the steps with a horrid sneer of a smile across his maw. He strokes his little beard, leaving deep red streaks in the orange fur.
"The prodigal son," he laughs, "come home at last. Here to lose someone else?"
He half expects to see Nella's body, or his father's, where Mausinger gestures, only he doesn't.
It's Roland laying crumpled on the walkway, his coat soaked purple with the red of his blood. There's so much of it, the stench of it permeating the air, but somehow he's alive enough that he locks eyes with Evan. For half a second, Evan is sure that they'll be able to reach him, to bring him home.
But then Mausinger steps between Evan and Roland and his sword is in his hands and he brings it down and--
"No!" Evan shoots awake, tangled in soft cotton sheets. His hair and nightgown stick to sweaty skin, his tail fluffed up to twice its usual size as he heaves for breath, looking around his familiar rooms in Evermore Castle. Home.
Home. He's safe. Roland is in the next room--
Roland!
Evan scrambles out of his too-large bed, stumbles to his knees as the hem of his nightgown tangles around his ankles, the sheets half pulled off the bed in his rush to get free. He picks himself up, launches himself almost like a frog, and hits the hallway running.
What feels like a lifetime ago, when Castle Evermore had been in its infancy of construction, Roland had claimed the rooms next to Evan's. Protection, he'd said, for their new King. No matter how safe Evermore itself was, the same couldn't be said about the world at large. He'd rather be close than too far in case of something going sideways. Times have changed since then, but Roland's meaning hasn't. He still keeps those rooms behind their oaken doors, and it's a thankfully short run down the hall, Evan's feet slapping against the cold stone in a half-blind panic.
And though his tutors--Nella--would scold him for it, he doesn't bother to knock. He throws his shoulder into the solid wooden doors and they give way because why wouldn't they? There's no need to lock doors in Evermore.
"Roland!"
For days, these rooms have been cold and dark and empty. Not even the maids wanted to go in and clean, not in the wake of Roland's sudden apparent betrayal, and so it had been left to gather dust and chill. Evan had gone in once, trying to understand before he had, but the rooms had held no answers. The rooms themselves still hold no answers, but they're warm again, lit by the fire in the hearth, and they're not empty.
"Evan?!"
Roland is here. He is alive and awake and alarmed, but he's here. He's standing up by the small table in front of the hearth, feet bare and nightclothes already on, Arms band gleaming in the light of the fire. Evan stumbles out of his collision with the door, keeps his footing, and throws himself forward. Roland catches him, stumbles backwards, and barely keeps them off the floor. Evan wraps both arms around him and clings.
"Evan?"
"You were dead!" Evan's voice cracks 'round the middle. He tightens his grip in Roland's nightshirt. "Mausinger and there was blood everywhere and we couldn't reach you and I--"
He can't breathe for the force of his sobs. Roland is alive, and home, and safe. He shouldn't be crying but he is and he just can't stop! Roland doesn't try to dislodge him.
"It was just a bad dream, Evan," Roland rubs a hand over Evan's back; his voice is a rumble through his chest, a soothing feeling more than a sound, and his heartbeat is calm. Even with this proof that his friend is alright, he still can't stop crying. "Just a dream, okay? None of it was real."
He knows that now. He should apologize for just barging in in the middle of the night like this--it certainly wasn't a very kingly thing to do, the slowly returning rational part of his mind chimes in--and so he takes a deep breath.
Blood. He can smell it!
"You're hurt!" Evan shouts, jerking out of Rolands arms. He looks his friend up and down, both sure and scared that he's going to find those same wounds from his nightmare, but there's nothing. No traces of injury, no blood, no easily visible scars. There's just--there. A bandage beneath the sleeve of his shirt wound tightly around his arm. There's the faintest hint of pink, of blood on linen, but the smell of Soreaway is much more prevalent now that he's actually thinking. It's been treated already.
"It's nothing," Roland soothes in the same instant that Evan realizes that, "Vermine got a lucky shot, that's all. The coat got off worse than I did."
The coat. The Ding Dong Dell guard coat that he's had for months. It's been tossed across the back of a chair and it's still blue but for half a moment it seems to turn purple in the firelight.
It was just a nightmare, but it could have been real. Roland might have died there, alone, without anyone to help him. All to help Evan. Just like Nella.
His vision blurs. With a hiccup Evan stumbles back into the chair, scrubbing roughly at his face in an effort to stem the tears. It doesn't work. They keep coming and he feels stupid for it because everything's fine and everyone's home safe and why is he sobbing like a kit?!
"Hey, now," Roland goes to one knee by the chair, looking up at Evan. Evan lowers his hands from his face; Roland's eyes are warm, his smile fond as he says, "This is nothing, really. Remember that Windwyrm?"
Evan's ears go flat against his skull because yes, he does remember. They'd been sent flying pell-mell and all about fighting that thing, blood all across the field, but....they'd come through. In the face of that day, the small wound to Roland's shoulder really is nothing.
And yet...
"I know," Evan whispers, "But I just..."
The image of Roland's too-still form laying sprawled across familiar pathways won't leave him. He clenches his hands in the material of his nightgown, holds it so tight his knuckles turn nearly as white as the fabric. He's being foolish. He's a King, for goodness sakes, and here he is crying about some foolish nightmare? Nella would have...she would have...
She would have done exactly what Roland is doing now, he realizes, and his heart clenches around that thought.
"Promise me--" Evan looks up, "Promise me you won't leave me. I can't lose you, too."
"Oh, Evan..." Roland sighs, and though it seems to pain him he shakes his head. "I can't make that promise," He says softly, "No matter how much I want to."
"But--"
"Sometimes," Roland says quietly, pulling the second chair up to sit, never taking his eyes off of Evan, "People will leave without meaning to. They don't choose to, it just happens." He takes Evan's hands in his. "I'll stay as long as I can, that much I can promise you, but never..." He shakes his head. "No one has never, or forever. It's just not our way."
He knows that, really he does. Life doesn't deal in nevers or forevers and he accepts that. It's just. He sniffles. Roland tightens his grip on his hands.
"Hey," he says, "You won't be rid of me that easily. You'll get sick of me first."
A smile plays across Evan's face. He opens his mouth to say something, to thank Roland for his understanding but all that comes out is a yawn instead and he flushes pink. Roland chuckles.
"Come on," he says as he stands up again, "I'll take you back to bed."
To sleep alone? He really, really should. He has for years, and he should because he's a King and not a child anymore, but...he can't. The idea of his too cold rooms and the too large bed makes him shiver. He shakes his head. Roland seems to understand.
"Alright," he says, "You can stay here, then. Come on--" He puts a hand on Evan's shoulder, guides him to the still made bed, and pulls back the blankets. "You need your rest."
Feeling once more like a scolded kitten, Evan crawls into the offered bed. The sheets are a little rougher, a little darker, but the blanket that Roland tucks up around his shoulders is warm. He curls up a little underneath it.
"You'll..." He can't bring himself to ask. It feels too foolish in the wake of his display. Still, there's fondness in Roland's eyes.
"I'll be right here." He confirms, tucking a lock of hair out of Evan's face. "Get some sleep, Evan."
He's already halfway there, the wrench and tug of his emotions having pulled what energy he'd had clean out of him. Evan nods, just a little, into the pillow. Roland smiles and walks away, but he doesn't go far. He tosses another log on the fire, then settles in to work on whatever it was he was doing before Evan barged in. Evan watches him for a little while, sure he'll disappear if he closes his eyes, but when he dozes then jolts himself back awake and Roland is still there, the tension slowly bleeds from his shoulders.
He's here. They're all fine. It's okay.
Finally able to relax, Evan closes his eyes. He drifts off to the sound of Roland's pen scratching away.
There are no more nightmares.