![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
psalm_onethirtyoneWaen's Horatio/Fortinbras, part two. I hate sequels. Why do I allow myself to be talked into writing them?
Of Infinite Space
The King has nightmares sometimes. He dreams of a cold castle hall, of standing alone, of standing alive, when everyone else is dead. He dreams of realising suddenly that everyone else is dead. He is alone, he is alive, there is no one he--
And then he wakes and it is the truth, and yet now it is a new truth.
The people he used to know are dead (this makes him like any old man) -- but he has a court full of men he knows--he tries to know their names. A King has no need to do such a thing, but the courtier has. It is truth that he is alone (this makes him like any friendless child), but if he writes a letter, there is an answer. A King has no need to fear such a thing may not come about, but the courtier has. And he is alive, he is alive (and this makes him like anyone in his kingdom who wakes from dreams), but now he is truly alive. Four years have passed since he stood in the castle hall, and by now he can take joy in something again, he has allowed his nobles to teach him hunting, sporting--he does not lose himself in silent rooms and stand by windows without looking out.
Four years ago he used to pause and not rouse himself from his pauses. Four years ago his courtiers used to find him in the hall, and he would stand without moving until someone dared to touch him and speak his name.
He is alive now. A King has no need to dread such a thing, but Horatio had.
But now he has nothing to fear except the dreams.
~~~
In four years, Denmark has prospered. It is a fair country, and its King has made it fairer. His closest courtiers--no one is too close; this is wisdom on the part of a King or a courtier--know that he will favour them if they show him what parts of his kingdom can be bettered, and will consider their words if they suggest the means for such bettering. He has no advisor. Some of the court do not like this, but Osric, who somehow hears everything, makes pointed remarks about the advantage of considering all one's subjects rather than giving one's ear to only one man; if the entire court may give advice, why appoint only one fellow?
The King often leaves the castle; sometimes he goes into the city. The city is a whirl of colours, sounds, mixing together into one moving picture, a thousand different plays. The King comes on a horse he has learned to be accustomed to, to ride well, whose name he has learned to whisper before he mounts. He rides with his back very straight.
He is still very thin, as though he has just recovered from a long illness; and when he smiles, there are tiny weary creases by his eyes and mouth; and yet he smiles, and when he smiles it is reassuring, comforting, and safe. The people of the city watch him every moment--there is nobility in the way he holds himself, and the way he looks at them. The King is a King.
They have forgotten that he is not.
In the castle, there are libraries, parlours, rooms with wide windows and windowseats; one room has an old dust-covered harpsichord that the Prince used to play, when there was a Prince in the castle in Elsinore. Sometimes the King sits at the instrument, touches the keys (they hardly play, they are old, they are out of tune, and he does not know any music).
The grounds are wide. The King visits the graveyard every Sabbath, and on the Holy Days, and prays by the tomb of the old Kings, the Prince, the Queen, a young woman of the court and her brother, their father--he prays within the graveyard for two men who are not in it. Some days Osric accompanies him. Four years ago, they did not speak to one another--now they do. Inside the graveyard they are still silent, but walking there and returning back to the castle they speak of the Prince, the Queen. It does not hurt the King any longer.
In four years, everything has changed.
Denmark has changed.
The King has changed.
In four years, he has learned again to smile.
~~~
Fortinbras hates Norway. In the middle it's frozen, on the sides it's always raining. He vaguely remembers a time he didn't hate it, but it seems a very long time ago. Everything about it bothers him. It's all dirty, ragged mountains or grassy stretches that are too empty. There aren't enough trees.
He hates his own kingdom; his court bores him. It's been four years since he won back the lands his father lost, and since then he's campaigned. In the last four years he's been everywhere. He hates everywhere just as much as he hates Norway. It's no good. He's sick of it. It presses in on him, and everything is ugly. He doesn't feel like speaking civilly to anyone, so he keeps away from his men; alone, the feeling grows, and he stands up and sits down over and over again, wanting to break something or do something or scare someone or--
His mind keeps flickering back to the King of Denmark. It was four years ago (he tells himself over and over again). He usually forgets anyone he hasn't seen in four weeks! Tired face, straight shoulders (fingers that closed around his wrists)--the King was ill, he remembers that--he remembers that the King collapsed in a fever before he left (he tries not to remember--a moment after they agreed upon Denmark's future, directly after he kissed the King). He remembers quite well that there was no official farewell because the King could not rise from his bed until some time after Fortinbras had left him.
Denmark. He wonders what Denmark is like now. It isn't a warlike state. He could have asked for its army three times, but he always chose not to. His father used to be at war with Denmark constantly--some of his older soldiers tell him about the wars; Fortinbras has not once had any cause to return there.
Perhaps he should. He glares at the walls of his room, and hates it. It's too small. It's too big. It's in Norway. He hates Norway.
He hasn't heard from Denmark in four years. Perhaps the King is secretly planning a rebellion. Perhaps he's secretly intending to win back his land in the dead Prince's name. You never know. Fortinbras glares. (The King had aching eyes and trembled in his fever. Fortinbras can still remember the way the tremble felt against his hands.)
His uncle is dead now, and his uncle had no sons. With old Norway dead, Fortinbras is King. It is his duty to know what is happening, his duty to his country. He would be no King if he let the world go around him and didn't look up.
Very well. He will return to Denmark.
(Anything to get away from Norway.)
Anything to get away from Norway: he isn't ashamed to admit it.
~~~
When Fortinbras arrives in Elsinore, he can see at once that it is even stronger than it was when he left it. He has come like a conqueror, without announcing himself, with half his army behind him, and when he arrives at the city, he begins to feel ridiculous. He is a dangerous man when he wants to be. He is a warlord King. He is a good general, a victorious lord, behind his laughs there is always a sober line, and here he seems out of place.
He leaves all but an escort outside the city and observes the people staring at him as he comes.
At the gates of the castle he sends one of his men ahead. Now he is not a conqueror; now he treats himself like a royal guest, as though the messenger is there to announce his long-awaited arrival. As he waits outside, he looks around. The castle looks the same as it did before.
Somewhere within it the King is receiving his messenger. Fortinbras waits, sitting tall on his horse. Somewhere in the castle the King lives, sleeps, eats, passes the days. His court is in the castle. What else? He doesn't know a thing about the man, except that his policy is good. He doesn't even remember--no, he remembers his name. King Horatio of Denmark.
He waits.
Some time later his messenger returns, with an escort of the King's men. Fortinbras gets off the horse, a dismount that is practised and easy. He grins and jokes with his own men, putting them (not himself) at ease. The escort brings them in.
~~~
Horatio has dreams sometimes. He dreams of Fortinbras, of being made King, of red oils and green emerald stones. He dreams of standing in a quiet room in a stone castle in a cold country, speaking to a strong man while he is weak. He is feverish, he is ill, he is alive.
He is a King now, but when his courtiers call him Sire, Highness, Majesty, he wants to look around and see someone else in the room, someone else they address. Instead, he always finds himself. Osric calls him My Lord Horatio, and it is better, for it's his name, it's him a little; but it's still too great for the son of a nameless knight.
But he isn't, now. He is a King.
It is Osric who comes to tell him that Fortinbras has come to Denmark. Osric is disdainful, quietly.
"My Lord," he says, as he takes off his hat and then puts it on again, "Young Lord Fortinbras is now King of Norway. He has come to you on a friendly errand, says he, or so says his messenger." Horatio can hear disapproval in his voice. "Pray you forgive me, My Lord, I see no cause but that he mistrusts you, else why should he come? There is naught in Denmark to bring him."
Horatio smiles gravely. He is in the room with the harpsichord. He cannot play it, but he touches the polished sides and makes lines in the dust.
"Lord Fortinbras is a wise man. If he hath mistrust of me, surely I have given him some cause through mine own error. I shall seek to know't, that I may give him assurance 'tis not intent."
"My Lord, you are sometime too kind to men when they by rights should see thy choler--"
"I know the Lord Fortinbras. Do not fear, my friend."
Osric gives him a pained look. He and Horatio were equals for too long. Now they are not, but Horatio is King and may do as he likes, and he likes that they should be equal in some measure still. Osric, for his part, occasionally forgets himself, and speaks too straightforward with the King; but Horatio does not correct him, so Osric must correct them both. He sighs.
"Shall I then bring him to you, my Lord?"
"Ay, I will see him here. And wilt thou look to his men? Have their horses stabled and give them lodging here. I know not how long Lord Fortinbras shall desire to stay."
"Your will, my Lord." Osric bows, and leaves; he takes off his hat again and carries it out.
Horatio wipes a little more of the dust away. The harpsichord is made of dark red-brown wood, and under the dust it still shines. There are white flowers painted on, and gilt lines, and the keys are ivory and fair. The Prince used to play it, when it was in tune.
Horatio cannot remember the last time he dreamed of Fortinbras, but he knows he has. He remembers the dreams when he has forgotten the nights. He dreams of talk that hardly makes sense now, kisses that were coloured like bursts of pain--fever, death, kisses, why?--and words that he hardly remembers now. And now Fortinbras has come back to Denmark; why?--he has kept it quiet for four years.
He has spent four years forgetting the rest of the world and letting it go around him without looking up. He has spent the last four years turned inwards to Denmark. Quietly, but with strength, he has given her more, he has given her all; he has made her cities stronger, her officials wiser, her roads clearer, her people more content. It has taken four years, and he is not finished yet: it will take years more before her cities are strong, her officials wise, her roads clear, her people content--but everything is more than it was.
But he has left her army to his captains, to the men who know what war and fighting are. Denmark has kept from any battles.
Fortinbras is a warrior King. What is there for him to find in a small state that has not fought or sought to make itself noticed at all in four years (that were each as long as--) (--winters are long in Denmark)? (Horatio dreams more in winter.)
And then Osric brings Fortinbras in.
~~~
The King stands.
Fortinbras grins easily and makes a short teasing bow, as though he were a close friend, well-known and well-beloved enough to forget the proper respect. In the corner of his eye, he sees the King's man give him a look that has the faintest edge of reproach to it. His grin grows a little more confident. But when he speaks, it is entirely without a laugh.
"Your Majesty. Hast been long indeed since I saw thee last. I hope thou hast not forgot me."
The King bows, and his bow is deeper. "Nay, my Lord." He pauses for a moment.
In the pause, Fortinbras looks at him. His face is still thin, and his eyes are still a little tired, but although he is smiling quietly, he is smiling.
The King is no longer ill.
"My Lord, you are welcome to Denmark," he says, closing his pause.
Fortinbras has escaped from Norway.
A laugh comes into his grin.
~~~
Horatio is smiling. He does trust Fortinbras, though trust is not something he has learned easily. A courtier cannot trust many men; Horatio has never, not many.
Now he smiles, and realises that he is glad to see Fortinbras, and is that not a strange thing? It has been so long. For so long he has been in the castle, King for Denmark, King for his court, for his nobles and his knights and his courtiers who pretend they don't know who he used to be. Osric is closer than anyone, but even Osric tries to pretend. Horatio is always My Lord, never Horatio. They talk when they walk to the graveyard, but they never speak of Horatio's dreams, or the truth that Horatio has never wanted to be King, and though he is--
He has become a King, but four years later, he still wishes he were not. He would still give his life if the Prince somehow returned to him, if the Prince took his place as King; though he knows it is only a wish.
But Fortinbras knows. Fortinbras knows. Fortinbras made him King.
Horatio leaves one hand on the harpsichord, and feels the smoothness beneath his fingers; and he smiles, and he trusts, and he welcomes.
~~~
By evening, the King has made all ready for a banquet in Fortinbras' honour. It is the kind of royal welcome one becomes used to quickly. Fortinbras understands the point but still finds such things tedious.
He and his men will sit at the King's higher table, and his soldiers will be forced to say something to the King's courtiers, who remember little of hardship now, littler of war. He expects everyone will try to hide the silences with something else, and he hopes the food will be good, at least, and the wine. At least he will be seated by the King.
The King is steadier now, and a part of Fortinbras is envious; he has become more frustrated, more discontent, restless, until he feels he is caught in a room of his own displeasure, in which he walks around and around and finds the room smaller all the time, and the doors are locked and the air is stifling. The King has become stronger and lighter and Fortinbras might almost venture that now he is happy--he has a way of carrying himself, the same royal bearing with a new touch of understanding it. The King has grown into his place, and somehow he has learnt to live despite everything he said to Fortinbras the second time they met, everything he said about his weariness, his illness, that he desired to go away somewhere secret and mourn for his Prince. He has lived through it, past it, and instead it is Fortinbras who is tired and trapped.
He washes his face in the basin in his room, and it's cold.
Perhaps Denmark is somewhere secret.
There's water running down the back of his neck, and a little gets past his shirt and rolls down his back, single cold streaks that last a moment.
There's a very soft knock at the door, and Fortinbras straightens and turns.
"Well, come in."
The door opens inwards.
"My Lord Fortinbras."
"Your Highness. What desires thy gracious majesty with me?"
"You are King of Norway now."
"Ay, ay, that." Fortinbras laughs, a little ruefully. "'Tis true. Mine uncle hath gone his way to Heaven, if such an old wiry lizard of a man might go in that direction. 'A did little wrong, and little right. But enough; thou didst not come to hear of him. What wouldst thou?"
"Are you glad of it, my Lord?"
"Art thou?"
The King looks down, and Fortinbras wants to laugh again, but he does not; and he does not want to, either. It's the part of the King that is still a courtier somewhere, that's all it is.
"Nay, I'll give thee my answer," he says, before the King can say anything. "There is much I should love better, but thou canst but know I am a Prince, my father's son. 'Tis unwelcome, yet I am well-prepared for't. I shall endure. Had I my choice, I should be young Fortinbras for-ever, and no more to think on than my army and what country we might trouble next." It's light, and a half-truth. Fortinbras has never been so careless. "But I shall make a fine King Fortinbras of me, and be the stuff o' legend ere I've done. An I do little right, I shall have done great wrong, or an I do little wrong, I shall do such things right that they'll speak of me a hundred-thousand years hence. I am not my uncle."
~~~
Horatio has lifted his eyes, and now he cannot look away. Fortinbras is not the Prince, but Fortinbras is a King. Fortinbras is a man who should rule countries (should he, should he?--rule Denmark?). He has the kind of flashing pride that reflects off armour and swords, the bravery that distinguishes itself; half-laughing, half-solemn nobility that makes a beautiful profile and sits well in a throne because it belongs there.
He is silent for a moment.
"My Lord, I would you--"
"Thou dost not." Fortinbras shakes his head and grins an almost lopsided grin. "Thou'rt a goodly King; did I not tell thee so once before? Look what thou hast done: thou hast brought thy Denmark to prosperity."
Some part of Horatio trembles, and he doesn't understand. There's too much to think, and he doesn't know; something is wrong, or something is right (but no one has praised him like this before; one does not praise a King like this).
"I am glad you have come back to Denmark," he says.
"I will confess to thee, I am as glad. 'Tis warmer here."
"Warmer, my Lord?" Horatio asks, and he almost--ay--he does smile again. Denmark is cold. He knows how cold it can grow.
"O, ay; and it doth not rain so oft. I have great love for Denmark."
"I rejoice."
~~~
Fortinbras wants to laugh, at some point. A laugh would fit in. But it isn't time yet, and he understands time--in a battle, no one must move a second too soon, or a moment too late. When men's lives pivot on the number of steps they take in a minute, or an hourglass will determine who rules a country, a man learns to show it the proper respect. He does not laugh yet.
He reaches out, and lets his fingers brush against the King's face. He has done this before. He remembers. It's like dreaming something twice.
~~~
Horatio closes his eyes.
It has been four years since anyone touched him.
~~~
Now it is time to laugh, and Fortinbras does, softly, before he kisses the King. He has done this before, too, and it feels familiar to him, good, remembered, the way the King returns it, in the same gentle way. And Fortinbras wonders, if the Prince of Denmark had lived, would the King have kissed him like this?
The King is a King, truly, but he has learned it. He has learned to do things as a King does.
But he gives kisses like a courtier, with a quiet sort of respect, with obedience (with the love one might show to one's Prince--the gentleness is his nature, and it is devotion)-- (like everything Fortinbras is unaccustomed to, things that do not belong to battlefields and soldiers on horses and riding down endless roads to another war to be won--)
Fortinbras realises this is a different kiss now (perhaps it is the third, perhaps it is the second, fourth), but he hardly minds. Of course he could not forget the King of Denmark even after four years--how could a man forget a warmer country?
How could a man forget?
He wants to laugh again, for a new reason, but it is not the time at all; it would pause them (the King will never kiss the Prince like this, but he kisses Fortinbras).
~~~
The basin of water is perfectly still, like ice, like glass, like a mirror, like a, like a--they don't see it.
They don't see it now.
Of Infinite Space
The King has nightmares sometimes. He dreams of a cold castle hall, of standing alone, of standing alive, when everyone else is dead. He dreams of realising suddenly that everyone else is dead. He is alone, he is alive, there is no one he--
And then he wakes and it is the truth, and yet now it is a new truth.
The people he used to know are dead (this makes him like any old man) -- but he has a court full of men he knows--he tries to know their names. A King has no need to do such a thing, but the courtier has. It is truth that he is alone (this makes him like any friendless child), but if he writes a letter, there is an answer. A King has no need to fear such a thing may not come about, but the courtier has. And he is alive, he is alive (and this makes him like anyone in his kingdom who wakes from dreams), but now he is truly alive. Four years have passed since he stood in the castle hall, and by now he can take joy in something again, he has allowed his nobles to teach him hunting, sporting--he does not lose himself in silent rooms and stand by windows without looking out.
Four years ago he used to pause and not rouse himself from his pauses. Four years ago his courtiers used to find him in the hall, and he would stand without moving until someone dared to touch him and speak his name.
He is alive now. A King has no need to dread such a thing, but Horatio had.
But now he has nothing to fear except the dreams.
In four years, Denmark has prospered. It is a fair country, and its King has made it fairer. His closest courtiers--no one is too close; this is wisdom on the part of a King or a courtier--know that he will favour them if they show him what parts of his kingdom can be bettered, and will consider their words if they suggest the means for such bettering. He has no advisor. Some of the court do not like this, but Osric, who somehow hears everything, makes pointed remarks about the advantage of considering all one's subjects rather than giving one's ear to only one man; if the entire court may give advice, why appoint only one fellow?
The King often leaves the castle; sometimes he goes into the city. The city is a whirl of colours, sounds, mixing together into one moving picture, a thousand different plays. The King comes on a horse he has learned to be accustomed to, to ride well, whose name he has learned to whisper before he mounts. He rides with his back very straight.
He is still very thin, as though he has just recovered from a long illness; and when he smiles, there are tiny weary creases by his eyes and mouth; and yet he smiles, and when he smiles it is reassuring, comforting, and safe. The people of the city watch him every moment--there is nobility in the way he holds himself, and the way he looks at them. The King is a King.
They have forgotten that he is not.
In the castle, there are libraries, parlours, rooms with wide windows and windowseats; one room has an old dust-covered harpsichord that the Prince used to play, when there was a Prince in the castle in Elsinore. Sometimes the King sits at the instrument, touches the keys (they hardly play, they are old, they are out of tune, and he does not know any music).
The grounds are wide. The King visits the graveyard every Sabbath, and on the Holy Days, and prays by the tomb of the old Kings, the Prince, the Queen, a young woman of the court and her brother, their father--he prays within the graveyard for two men who are not in it. Some days Osric accompanies him. Four years ago, they did not speak to one another--now they do. Inside the graveyard they are still silent, but walking there and returning back to the castle they speak of the Prince, the Queen. It does not hurt the King any longer.
In four years, everything has changed.
Denmark has changed.
The King has changed.
In four years, he has learned again to smile.
Fortinbras hates Norway. In the middle it's frozen, on the sides it's always raining. He vaguely remembers a time he didn't hate it, but it seems a very long time ago. Everything about it bothers him. It's all dirty, ragged mountains or grassy stretches that are too empty. There aren't enough trees.
He hates his own kingdom; his court bores him. It's been four years since he won back the lands his father lost, and since then he's campaigned. In the last four years he's been everywhere. He hates everywhere just as much as he hates Norway. It's no good. He's sick of it. It presses in on him, and everything is ugly. He doesn't feel like speaking civilly to anyone, so he keeps away from his men; alone, the feeling grows, and he stands up and sits down over and over again, wanting to break something or do something or scare someone or--
His mind keeps flickering back to the King of Denmark. It was four years ago (he tells himself over and over again). He usually forgets anyone he hasn't seen in four weeks! Tired face, straight shoulders (fingers that closed around his wrists)--the King was ill, he remembers that--he remembers that the King collapsed in a fever before he left (he tries not to remember--a moment after they agreed upon Denmark's future, directly after he kissed the King). He remembers quite well that there was no official farewell because the King could not rise from his bed until some time after Fortinbras had left him.
Denmark. He wonders what Denmark is like now. It isn't a warlike state. He could have asked for its army three times, but he always chose not to. His father used to be at war with Denmark constantly--some of his older soldiers tell him about the wars; Fortinbras has not once had any cause to return there.
Perhaps he should. He glares at the walls of his room, and hates it. It's too small. It's too big. It's in Norway. He hates Norway.
He hasn't heard from Denmark in four years. Perhaps the King is secretly planning a rebellion. Perhaps he's secretly intending to win back his land in the dead Prince's name. You never know. Fortinbras glares. (The King had aching eyes and trembled in his fever. Fortinbras can still remember the way the tremble felt against his hands.)
His uncle is dead now, and his uncle had no sons. With old Norway dead, Fortinbras is King. It is his duty to know what is happening, his duty to his country. He would be no King if he let the world go around him and didn't look up.
Very well. He will return to Denmark.
(Anything to get away from Norway.)
Anything to get away from Norway: he isn't ashamed to admit it.
When Fortinbras arrives in Elsinore, he can see at once that it is even stronger than it was when he left it. He has come like a conqueror, without announcing himself, with half his army behind him, and when he arrives at the city, he begins to feel ridiculous. He is a dangerous man when he wants to be. He is a warlord King. He is a good general, a victorious lord, behind his laughs there is always a sober line, and here he seems out of place.
He leaves all but an escort outside the city and observes the people staring at him as he comes.
At the gates of the castle he sends one of his men ahead. Now he is not a conqueror; now he treats himself like a royal guest, as though the messenger is there to announce his long-awaited arrival. As he waits outside, he looks around. The castle looks the same as it did before.
Somewhere within it the King is receiving his messenger. Fortinbras waits, sitting tall on his horse. Somewhere in the castle the King lives, sleeps, eats, passes the days. His court is in the castle. What else? He doesn't know a thing about the man, except that his policy is good. He doesn't even remember--no, he remembers his name. King Horatio of Denmark.
He waits.
Some time later his messenger returns, with an escort of the King's men. Fortinbras gets off the horse, a dismount that is practised and easy. He grins and jokes with his own men, putting them (not himself) at ease. The escort brings them in.
Horatio has dreams sometimes. He dreams of Fortinbras, of being made King, of red oils and green emerald stones. He dreams of standing in a quiet room in a stone castle in a cold country, speaking to a strong man while he is weak. He is feverish, he is ill, he is alive.
He is a King now, but when his courtiers call him Sire, Highness, Majesty, he wants to look around and see someone else in the room, someone else they address. Instead, he always finds himself. Osric calls him My Lord Horatio, and it is better, for it's his name, it's him a little; but it's still too great for the son of a nameless knight.
But he isn't, now. He is a King.
It is Osric who comes to tell him that Fortinbras has come to Denmark. Osric is disdainful, quietly.
"My Lord," he says, as he takes off his hat and then puts it on again, "Young Lord Fortinbras is now King of Norway. He has come to you on a friendly errand, says he, or so says his messenger." Horatio can hear disapproval in his voice. "Pray you forgive me, My Lord, I see no cause but that he mistrusts you, else why should he come? There is naught in Denmark to bring him."
Horatio smiles gravely. He is in the room with the harpsichord. He cannot play it, but he touches the polished sides and makes lines in the dust.
"Lord Fortinbras is a wise man. If he hath mistrust of me, surely I have given him some cause through mine own error. I shall seek to know't, that I may give him assurance 'tis not intent."
"My Lord, you are sometime too kind to men when they by rights should see thy choler--"
"I know the Lord Fortinbras. Do not fear, my friend."
Osric gives him a pained look. He and Horatio were equals for too long. Now they are not, but Horatio is King and may do as he likes, and he likes that they should be equal in some measure still. Osric, for his part, occasionally forgets himself, and speaks too straightforward with the King; but Horatio does not correct him, so Osric must correct them both. He sighs.
"Shall I then bring him to you, my Lord?"
"Ay, I will see him here. And wilt thou look to his men? Have their horses stabled and give them lodging here. I know not how long Lord Fortinbras shall desire to stay."
"Your will, my Lord." Osric bows, and leaves; he takes off his hat again and carries it out.
Horatio wipes a little more of the dust away. The harpsichord is made of dark red-brown wood, and under the dust it still shines. There are white flowers painted on, and gilt lines, and the keys are ivory and fair. The Prince used to play it, when it was in tune.
Horatio cannot remember the last time he dreamed of Fortinbras, but he knows he has. He remembers the dreams when he has forgotten the nights. He dreams of talk that hardly makes sense now, kisses that were coloured like bursts of pain--fever, death, kisses, why?--and words that he hardly remembers now. And now Fortinbras has come back to Denmark; why?--he has kept it quiet for four years.
He has spent four years forgetting the rest of the world and letting it go around him without looking up. He has spent the last four years turned inwards to Denmark. Quietly, but with strength, he has given her more, he has given her all; he has made her cities stronger, her officials wiser, her roads clearer, her people more content. It has taken four years, and he is not finished yet: it will take years more before her cities are strong, her officials wise, her roads clear, her people content--but everything is more than it was.
But he has left her army to his captains, to the men who know what war and fighting are. Denmark has kept from any battles.
Fortinbras is a warrior King. What is there for him to find in a small state that has not fought or sought to make itself noticed at all in four years (that were each as long as--) (--winters are long in Denmark)? (Horatio dreams more in winter.)
And then Osric brings Fortinbras in.
The King stands.
Fortinbras grins easily and makes a short teasing bow, as though he were a close friend, well-known and well-beloved enough to forget the proper respect. In the corner of his eye, he sees the King's man give him a look that has the faintest edge of reproach to it. His grin grows a little more confident. But when he speaks, it is entirely without a laugh.
"Your Majesty. Hast been long indeed since I saw thee last. I hope thou hast not forgot me."
The King bows, and his bow is deeper. "Nay, my Lord." He pauses for a moment.
In the pause, Fortinbras looks at him. His face is still thin, and his eyes are still a little tired, but although he is smiling quietly, he is smiling.
The King is no longer ill.
"My Lord, you are welcome to Denmark," he says, closing his pause.
Fortinbras has escaped from Norway.
A laugh comes into his grin.
Horatio is smiling. He does trust Fortinbras, though trust is not something he has learned easily. A courtier cannot trust many men; Horatio has never, not many.
Now he smiles, and realises that he is glad to see Fortinbras, and is that not a strange thing? It has been so long. For so long he has been in the castle, King for Denmark, King for his court, for his nobles and his knights and his courtiers who pretend they don't know who he used to be. Osric is closer than anyone, but even Osric tries to pretend. Horatio is always My Lord, never Horatio. They talk when they walk to the graveyard, but they never speak of Horatio's dreams, or the truth that Horatio has never wanted to be King, and though he is--
He has become a King, but four years later, he still wishes he were not. He would still give his life if the Prince somehow returned to him, if the Prince took his place as King; though he knows it is only a wish.
But Fortinbras knows. Fortinbras knows. Fortinbras made him King.
Horatio leaves one hand on the harpsichord, and feels the smoothness beneath his fingers; and he smiles, and he trusts, and he welcomes.
By evening, the King has made all ready for a banquet in Fortinbras' honour. It is the kind of royal welcome one becomes used to quickly. Fortinbras understands the point but still finds such things tedious.
He and his men will sit at the King's higher table, and his soldiers will be forced to say something to the King's courtiers, who remember little of hardship now, littler of war. He expects everyone will try to hide the silences with something else, and he hopes the food will be good, at least, and the wine. At least he will be seated by the King.
The King is steadier now, and a part of Fortinbras is envious; he has become more frustrated, more discontent, restless, until he feels he is caught in a room of his own displeasure, in which he walks around and around and finds the room smaller all the time, and the doors are locked and the air is stifling. The King has become stronger and lighter and Fortinbras might almost venture that now he is happy--he has a way of carrying himself, the same royal bearing with a new touch of understanding it. The King has grown into his place, and somehow he has learnt to live despite everything he said to Fortinbras the second time they met, everything he said about his weariness, his illness, that he desired to go away somewhere secret and mourn for his Prince. He has lived through it, past it, and instead it is Fortinbras who is tired and trapped.
He washes his face in the basin in his room, and it's cold.
Perhaps Denmark is somewhere secret.
There's water running down the back of his neck, and a little gets past his shirt and rolls down his back, single cold streaks that last a moment.
There's a very soft knock at the door, and Fortinbras straightens and turns.
"Well, come in."
The door opens inwards.
"My Lord Fortinbras."
"Your Highness. What desires thy gracious majesty with me?"
"You are King of Norway now."
"Ay, ay, that." Fortinbras laughs, a little ruefully. "'Tis true. Mine uncle hath gone his way to Heaven, if such an old wiry lizard of a man might go in that direction. 'A did little wrong, and little right. But enough; thou didst not come to hear of him. What wouldst thou?"
"Are you glad of it, my Lord?"
"Art thou?"
The King looks down, and Fortinbras wants to laugh again, but he does not; and he does not want to, either. It's the part of the King that is still a courtier somewhere, that's all it is.
"Nay, I'll give thee my answer," he says, before the King can say anything. "There is much I should love better, but thou canst but know I am a Prince, my father's son. 'Tis unwelcome, yet I am well-prepared for't. I shall endure. Had I my choice, I should be young Fortinbras for-ever, and no more to think on than my army and what country we might trouble next." It's light, and a half-truth. Fortinbras has never been so careless. "But I shall make a fine King Fortinbras of me, and be the stuff o' legend ere I've done. An I do little right, I shall have done great wrong, or an I do little wrong, I shall do such things right that they'll speak of me a hundred-thousand years hence. I am not my uncle."
Horatio has lifted his eyes, and now he cannot look away. Fortinbras is not the Prince, but Fortinbras is a King. Fortinbras is a man who should rule countries (should he, should he?--rule Denmark?). He has the kind of flashing pride that reflects off armour and swords, the bravery that distinguishes itself; half-laughing, half-solemn nobility that makes a beautiful profile and sits well in a throne because it belongs there.
He is silent for a moment.
"My Lord, I would you--"
"Thou dost not." Fortinbras shakes his head and grins an almost lopsided grin. "Thou'rt a goodly King; did I not tell thee so once before? Look what thou hast done: thou hast brought thy Denmark to prosperity."
Some part of Horatio trembles, and he doesn't understand. There's too much to think, and he doesn't know; something is wrong, or something is right (but no one has praised him like this before; one does not praise a King like this).
"I am glad you have come back to Denmark," he says.
"I will confess to thee, I am as glad. 'Tis warmer here."
"Warmer, my Lord?" Horatio asks, and he almost--ay--he does smile again. Denmark is cold. He knows how cold it can grow.
"O, ay; and it doth not rain so oft. I have great love for Denmark."
"I rejoice."
Fortinbras wants to laugh, at some point. A laugh would fit in. But it isn't time yet, and he understands time--in a battle, no one must move a second too soon, or a moment too late. When men's lives pivot on the number of steps they take in a minute, or an hourglass will determine who rules a country, a man learns to show it the proper respect. He does not laugh yet.
He reaches out, and lets his fingers brush against the King's face. He has done this before. He remembers. It's like dreaming something twice.
Horatio closes his eyes.
It has been four years since anyone touched him.
Now it is time to laugh, and Fortinbras does, softly, before he kisses the King. He has done this before, too, and it feels familiar to him, good, remembered, the way the King returns it, in the same gentle way. And Fortinbras wonders, if the Prince of Denmark had lived, would the King have kissed him like this?
The King is a King, truly, but he has learned it. He has learned to do things as a King does.
But he gives kisses like a courtier, with a quiet sort of respect, with obedience (with the love one might show to one's Prince--the gentleness is his nature, and it is devotion)-- (like everything Fortinbras is unaccustomed to, things that do not belong to battlefields and soldiers on horses and riding down endless roads to another war to be won--)
Fortinbras realises this is a different kiss now (perhaps it is the third, perhaps it is the second, fourth), but he hardly minds. Of course he could not forget the King of Denmark even after four years--how could a man forget a warmer country?
How could a man forget?
He wants to laugh again, for a new reason, but it is not the time at all; it would pause them (the King will never kiss the Prince like this, but he kisses Fortinbras).
The basin of water is perfectly still, like ice, like glass, like a mirror, like a, like a--they don't see it.
They don't see it now.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 06:19 am (UTC)+hugs you+ You never fail to make me glad with your writing.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:26 pm (UTC)*huglovesback* You make me happy.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:09 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:10 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-03 05:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 05:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-03 05:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-03 07:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-12 05:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-20 10:43 pm (UTC)Hah. Don't I know it. *lives on the left-hand side*
I like this. It's wonderful. It's a great present.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-03 05:31 pm (UTC)^___^ Thank you so much.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-21 06:35 am (UTC)We talked about this on the telephone. Remember, twitching is a good sign. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-01 03:23 am (UTC)I recall't.
YOU ARE TEH WIN.(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-01 03:56 am (UTC)A very good sign.
*bows!*(no subject)
Date: 2006-01-03 07:37 pm (UTC)...Sorry, Hamlet.