Robert Baratheon (filthinbeauty) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2012-07-29 14:51:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, robert baratheon |
Who: Robert Baratheon [Narrative]
What: When breathing's a burden we all have to bear
When: Sunday
Where: Hospital
Rating: PG
Status: Complete
When the doctor pulled him aside to talk to him about Stevens' condition, Robert didn't understand half of what the man was saying. He'd heard words and phrases before - on one of those dramariffic medical shows on TV probably - but they didn't make any more sense here than they did on screen. Worse, this doctor lacked all the empathy and animation actors poured into their character to make them interesting to an audience. This man, the doctor, simply laid down facts in a language that eluded the Englishman, the actor. So he asked question upon question in an attempt to squeeze something meaningful from the doctor, fumbling for words now, a little flustered but also irritated by how thick this man with the foreign accent seemed to be.
A nurse saved the two of them from going at each other's throats. Bottom line was, the old butler was not going to wake up again and it was time to discuss how to proceed.
Power of attorney - another one of those phrases you heard in movies or on TV and never concerned yourself with in your cushy, wonderful real life - Stevens had given it to Robert and Robert, being who he was, found himself utterly helpless and powerless faced with that kind of responsibility. Paralysed and numb, he sat by the old man's bedside, too drained to even vent and rant at what had to be one of the stupidest decisions the servant had ever made; the first being accepting the duty of taking care of the Baratheons' first-born too many decades ago.
The hand under his palm was pale and still, brittle-boned, blue veins shimmering through paper-thin skin. Ever since Robert could think, Stevens had been there day and night, had moved to London when Master Robert turned his back on everything his parents expected him to be, had followed him to America in spite of his distaste for the new world and the lack of everything he held dear there. He'd stayed even when Robert stepped on the road to self-destruction, peppering the journey with sarcasm and wigging, but he never strayed from his side. Stevens didn't occupy the same spot in Robert's heart as Ned did - nobody ever would - but he was no less important.
I can't.
Responsibility was too heavy a burden and whenever it threw so much as a glance his way, Robert forever took flight and let somebody else deal with the aftermath of his behaviour. But here and now, there was nobody else. The old man didn't have anybody else and put his life into the hands of his unruly, infantile ward of forty-something years. For some reason, against all reason, he'd had faith that Master Robert would do the right thing. It was what he told the younger man every time he hit rock bottom and although Robert never believed him, it was comforting to hear it.
And now? Now, he wished for Stevens to prove the doctors wrong and open his eyes to slap Robert with a dry, sarcastic comment, and then tell him to get home and take a bloody shower and get some rest before he made an old man like him sick with such a pitiful sight.
Sitting by Stevens' bedside, still and quiet as a statue - not fleeing for once - hand resting on top of the butler's, Robert wished and wished and wished.