The Heart of the King

[Pureimp10 5179]

“Aw man!” exclaimed Friar Josef

[Phersades 1165]

 

Spoiler

 

 

Klara Miray Kortrevich thumbed through the papers that had sat at her desk for days and days, though there was no end to her task list. She laid each and every one out so that she may have her pick to tackle first. In the end, she mindlessly chose a random piece, picking it from where she sat and leaning back to take the words in before a knock came at the door to her shop. 

One more interruption. 

The courier wasted no time upon being let in, handing off the news of the King's departure with haste before leaving just the same upon being waved off by the to-be Duchess. Klara unfolded that parchment and took a seat in that large wooden chair that she often worked in, settling comfortably as she read through it. Despite the departure of an enemy, Klara didn't smile. There was some sort of bitter taste that welled from her throat, making her sick the longer she read.

Who would she tell? 

Surely, she could not tell Alikos. She knew all well what he would say should she speak her mind, he would remind her of all the awful things that came from Haense. He would remind that Kortrevich what they had done to his Mariya, the girl he raised. He, like others, would remind her of the cold hearts they carried, their incompetence, ignorance, and all else... But that was not what Klara wished to hear. The Vasoyevi was thankful for the life she had presently, surrounded by people who truly loved and cared for her; Nesrin, Nadia, Alikos, Eredain, Johanes, but that still did not make up for the pain that ached her heart in the moment. Slowly, the paper was folded up and set on top of the desk like everything else that plagued her mind and took up her time. At any moment, that familiar Inquisitor would walk through the doors to celebrate the loss of King Georg I, but for now Klara sat in the silence of that room, taking the moment to mourn in private. 

So there in that office space of her soon to be boutique, she cried over the stolen painting of the late Queen Esfir Amelya. 
 

---

One day in the future, when Georg would eventually end up in the Seven Skies, there he'd be met with an old friend.

Renate Mariya Barclay would walk alongside that aged Barbanov, Osha perched on her arm just as she always had in their life. 

"For what it's worth, I always knew you'd be a wonderful king. Sorry we could not be there like we had planned." 

 

[marikandaperc 1168]

From the top of the sky, a knight meowed a welcoming melody for the newly deceased king.

[satinkira 5943]

In the labyrinthian depths of his dwelling, the Ash-Knight murmured a soft prayer; for that young, curious King, who had been so willing to listen.. so willing to understand. To grasp, where others turned away.

[ThanksChris 589]

Valdemar awoke suddenly and near instantly clutched the edge of his berth. Strange, he thought to himself. He had not expected the roll of the waves underneath. Ashore he expected such fitfulness. That his every attempt at restful sleep would shatter into so many shards of glass. That it would feel as though he were walking over that very same glass with every step he took until the lapping salt water could again relieve him of his pain. But this was no such night. The bones of the once Duke of Valwyck ached with age, but they did not scream of fire as when he willed himself through prolonged visits to land. For this uncanny feeling he knew slumber would not find him again, and so the captain rose to inspect the night shift.

 

The boards, worn and replaced many times over, moaned underfoot. He selected at random one of many canes carved of foreign wood that hung by his cabin door and marched onto deck flatly, with nothing of the swagger that would be expected by the crew he had collected over the years. It was calm waters tonight for the stretch of sea they clipped over. Tufts of cloud as thin as a Pontiff’s hair drifted in lines across an otherwise clear sky. After a few moments he permitted himself to exhale. There was such a peace in the Summer air that it would be impossible not to partake a measure. The inspection took little time given how sparse the crew typically was at this hour, and so he settled behind the helmsman, leaning against the wall and prodding his pilot for idle conversation.

 

There were so few remaining of those he had originally set out with - so few whose words rolled with that familiar burr of Lallybroch speech, and the helmsman was one such a man. Something he could take further solace in, given the odd circumstances that rendered him so early awake. In place of the rest of his countrymen were errant sailors, dancers, artisans, magefolk, and misfits. The sort he was always wont to surround himself with. How he once dreamed, he thought to himself. How he had dreamed of returning home in triumph with all manner of friend and treasure from afar. This had been the talk that kept Valdemar and Magnus awake into the wee hours, poring over navigational charts, drafting grand schemes for an Ayrikiv Trade Company. But fate could not deliver this dream to him, not as he recognized it then.

 

It’s not that Valdemar had led a bad life by any means. In fact many elements of that vision had been fulfilled. He had travelled many places beyond his earlier imagining. This was limited in part to locales within a day’s journey of sea or river, but at times he was willing to suffer a day or two longer in search of something truly extraordinary. He had seen ruins encrusted with precious gems untouched by the greed of the outside world, navigated treacherous reefs, bargained with sea witches in their veiled grottos, and traded at so many ports as to outnumber the very months he had passed on this mortal plane.

 

But he had never again known home.

 

And the treasure… what treasures there had been. Coins, and metals, and gems yes, but what he typically reserved for his share were the outlandish artifacts they would come across. Animal masks that seemed to blend seamlessly with one’s own features, staves that rended the winds in his favour, idols of strange aquatic creatures like the ones Elizaveta had gifted to him in his youth. From the sea witches he had acquired a set of magic lanterns that could be made to glow brighter the closer one’s loved ones were near. Into these he had whispered many names, but he had never seen the faintest light from them in the years since, and wished he’d had Manon along to verify their authenticity. It was not the first time he had been so duped.

 

“Georg… Roslin… Franziska… Alasdair…Magnus… Manon… Vladimir”

 

He whispered the names in the order he once had into the lanterns and could not help but laugh at his own expense. Had he not been at the bottom of a lonesome, sentimental bottle that evening he might’ve considered longer who among his old compatriots might ever actually find themselves at sea one day. Magnus perhaps would still be in the business. Manon, he suspected, would always be drifting. It is doubtful that Georg or his own firstborn would ever find themselves far from the capital, but he could not for a moment have thought to exclude either.

 

And for all the effort they seemed a sham to him anyway. He was alone.

 

Not totally so, for a ship demanded a crew. There had, however, always existed a distance between himself and the men and women he brought aboard. At first it was his inescapable nobility that rendered them formal in his presence. He made efforts to join occasionally in their merrymaking and demand when speaking that they not temper those accents that reminded him of home. After years of travel what distinguished him was legend. Despite the Muc-Mhara’s considerable speed it always seemed to travel faster than he could. Legends of a foreign captain adorned in colorful square-patterned clothing with hair that burned like fire. A cursed man of eccentric behavior, who consorted with the fish of the sea as spies against his enemies. Captain of a ship crewed by ghosts, djinns, seers, and wizards. Bearer of profane artifacts that ought never to have been lifted from the bottom of the sea. Some were truths, some exaggerations, some fabrications. But most even after baring witness to the truth struggle to separate it from the fiction, and so he was seen as something slightly apart from man.

 

The Ayrikiv pilot with whom he shared an outset was an exception to this, a pillar of what his life once was, a man who still remembered this troubled soul as the Duke of Valwyck. A man who had seen him march in procession as a young heir through the streets of Lallybroch on festival days, who had learned the ropes at the very same port on a Baruch ship. But Valdemar could extract only a short conversation. There is seldom much news to go about between two men aboard the same ship. Months pass, and men choose silence, song, or story on which to hinge their continued sanity. It had been enough to calm his nerves, and perhaps to allow a few more hours of sleep. He settled on a glass of brandy and bed.

 

Valdemar cautiously descended the stairs, pausing at the threshold to feel the gentle roll of the deck beneath his feet. The feeling which burdened him before returned, stronger now. He felt cold, unsure whether to temper this false hope. He knew somehow before the familiar creak of the opening door pierced the silence where to direct his eyes. Upon his desk stood seven lanterns, forgotten to the years and specked with cobweb and dust. In the centermost, perched higher than the rest atop an unused book of charts, there burned a small blue flame. His flame.

 

Valdemar wept, for it was then he knew. Perhaps after all this time he would not pass these final years alone.