Was Once the King: Chapter 10: The Edge of Almost
The studio lights were softer that morning.
Not dimmer. Just gentler. Like the world had decided, for
once, not to press too hard.
Hector noticed it the moment he stepped into the makeup
trailer. The hum of chatter was subdued, the movements slower. No one greeted
him too loudly. No one asked him about lines or blocking. It was as though the
set had learned to match his quiet.
Benjamin arrived five minutes later, a thermos in hand
and a script tucked beneath his arm. He offered a small nod toward Hector, who
responded with a barely-there lift of his chin.
Neither of them said anything.
But they didn't need to.
The silence had changed since the rooftop.
Now, it wasn't a wall.
It was a hallway.
The day's shooting schedule was light but significant.
Scene twenty-four: Oran and Cale after the siege. The
battle lost. The kingdom in ruins. A moment of quiet between the fallen king
and the one left standing.
It was a simple scene on the surface. No action. No
elaborate sets. Just two men, dust-covered and bruised, sitting on the wreckage
of a throne room.
But the weight of the lines—their subtext—was heavy.
Hector read them in his trailer, fingers tracing the
margin notes.
"You should hate me." – Oran "I
don't." – Cale "Why not?" "Because you were always
human."
He leaned back in his chair.
Those weren't just lines.
They were confessions dressed as dialogue.
The scene was set by noon. The set had been redesigned to
look scorched—scattered rubble, torn banners, a broken blade on the floor. A
single beam of light streamed through a shattered archway above the throne.
Hector sat on the lowest step, blood painted down the
side of his jaw. His armor was dulled, dented, faded from its former shine.
Benjamin walked in quietly, costumed in a newer version
of the same armor—his cleaner, untouched. Cale's rise.
The cameras rolled.
"Action."
Hector—Oran—looked down at the broken crown in his hand.
"You should hate me." He said.
His voice carried years in it.
Benjamin—Cale—stood a few feet away.
"I don't."
Oran turned his face toward him, expression unreadable.
"Why not?"
Cale stepped forward, slow but sure.
"Because you were always human."
Oran let out a quiet breath. Not a sigh. Something
deeper.
"I lost everything."
"You lost yourself." Cale said softly.
"The rest followed."
Oran looked up then. Into Cale's eyes.
And for a heartbeat, Hector wasn't acting anymore.
Benjamin wasn't either.
"I wasn't brave enough." Hector said, voice
raw. "To fight for what I wanted. Who I wanted."
Benjamin didn't blink. He stepped forward again, lowering
to sit beside him on the step.
Cale spoke, the line half-whispered:
"You're here now."
The director didn't cut.
Not right away.
The camera lingered. The silence stretched.
Neither actor broke it.
And when the director finally said "Cut." it
was barely above a whisper.
They didn't speak for a while after.
Not during the costume change.
Not during the late lunch break.
But Benjamin found Hector in the lighting bay later,
sitting on a crate, turning a prop ring over in his fingers.
"You alright?" Benjamin asked.
Hector didn't look up. "Wasn't acting."
"I know."
The quiet that followed was not awkward. Just careful.
Benjamin sat down on the opposite crate.
Hector finally looked up.
"That line—'You're here now.' You meant that, didn't
you?"
Benjamin didn't answer immediately.
Then:
"Yeah. I did."
Hector nodded slowly.
Then, in a voice more fragile than he liked:
"I wanted to say more. But I couldn't. Not with
everyone watching."
Benjamin met his gaze. "Then say it when you're
ready. I'm not going anywhere."
A beat passed.
And then, for the first time since their new beginning,
Hector let the tension drain from his shoulders. He didn't smile. But he
looked... lighter.
Almost.
Later that evening, a post began to circulate online.
A behind-the-scenes shot—taken by a fan—capturing Hector
and Benjamin in costume, locked in a powerful gaze during a break between
takes. The composition was stunning. The tension palpable. The caption read:
"This should be the official poster. Two kings. One
throne. All history."
The post went viral.
Some fans praised it, calling it iconic. Others—those
still reluctant to welcome Hector back into the public eye—criticized it
harshly.
"Why is Benjamin being dragged down by a
has-been?"
"He deserves better co-stars."
"Hector's drama days are over."
Benjamin saw the comments.
And under one particularly cruel thread, he responded
with a single, polite:
"With all due respect, go away. Far away."
The comment gained thousands of likes.
Hector saw it later that night. He didn't comment. Didn't
respond. But something in his chest unclenched.
Evening fell.
The set emptied gradually. Lights dimmed. The rooftop
remained untouched.
Hector climbed the stairs, not carrying anything this
time.
He wasn't surprised to find Benjamin already there.
No coffee.
No wine.
Just the two of them, sitting in the fading light.
The stars began to appear, faint but steady.
Hector spoke first.
"You handled it well. The scene. The press,
too."
Benjamin's shoulder lifted in a light shrug. "I
wasn't trying to perform. Just tell the truth."
"I noticed." Hector said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled something out—a
small, folded note.
He handed it over without ceremony.
Benjamin opened it.
Two words.
'Thank you.'
A pause.
Then Benjamin, voice quiet:
"Is this...?"
Hector nodded. "It's the first time I've said it.
Meant it."
Benjamin folded the note again, tucking it into his
jacket.
The wind blew gently. The rooftop was quiet.
Benjamin reached into his hoodie pocket and took out
something—two small wrapped candies.
"Only thing I had." He said. "It's
sugar-free. You'll live."
Hector smirked. Took the candy.
They unwrapped it at the same time.
And for a long while, they said nothing else.
They just sat.
Beneath a sky slowly stitching itself with stars.
Together.
Almost ready.
Almost whole.
Not quite.
But close enough.
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