"You would have no chance to." The barb is lacking from his tone, but he is at least lucid enough to remember (some of) the plans he laid when they were married, when she fell pregnant - that lucidity, at least, must be a good sign. "You cannot think I would let you outlive me long, sweet empress. I am not yet tired enough of life to give you that kind of motive."
Three things occur to him then, muddling together in the sweat-drowned swamp of his thoughts. Firstly, that he may have misjudged: that he should have been more obvious in making that threat clear (and it is a genuine threat, one which she will find traces of if she should care to look into his affairs - hollow threats are more dangerous than none), for it serves its purpose only if she is quite sure that she will not survive his killing. Second, that he is strangely bereft of her fussing, where its absence should come as a relief. And thirdly, that he no longer feels that threat is needed, after all. With the sharpness that only comes with borderline delirium, he is finally aware of the truth of what was said so many nights ago: that she does not want him dead, and he does not want her dead, and they do not hate one another. Madness. They are both mad; and he cannot even blame the fever for it.
He lets out a low, almost unconscious laugh, which turns into a cough, and rolls onto his side, away from her, as best he can without dislodging the cloth on his brow. "Is there still sage tea?"
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Three things occur to him then, muddling together in the sweat-drowned swamp of his thoughts. Firstly, that he may have misjudged: that he should have been more obvious in making that threat clear (and it is a genuine threat, one which she will find traces of if she should care to look into his affairs - hollow threats are more dangerous than none), for it serves its purpose only if she is quite sure that she will not survive his killing. Second, that he is strangely bereft of her fussing, where its absence should come as a relief. And thirdly, that he no longer feels that threat is needed, after all. With the sharpness that only comes with borderline delirium, he is finally aware of the truth of what was said so many nights ago: that she does not want him dead, and he does not want her dead, and they do not hate one another. Madness. They are both mad; and he cannot even blame the fever for it.
He lets out a low, almost unconscious laugh, which turns into a cough, and rolls onto his side, away from her, as best he can without dislodging the cloth on his brow. "Is there still sage tea?"