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i. Ouverture
It was the flute that first had captured him.
The young prince’s fingers dancing nimbly along the instrument like so many ballerinas, as light as the tones soaring through the air, mouth rounded, brow furrowed, eyes closed. He seemed lost in his own world, where nothing existed but him and the music; no court, no kingdom, no wars to be threatened or planned for.
And then, in one moment, holding a long note in joyous preparation of the melody finding its completion, he had opened one eye, looking straight at Hans, and an eyebrow rose, and a smile seemed to lurk around his puckered lips, though he finished the tune as if nothing had happened, with the discipline worthy of a royal.
ii. Allemande
Friedrich was a diligent student when it suited him, which in fairness was more often than not. Seated next to him, bent over the newest edition of the Principia Mathematica, Hans could not help noticing how rapidly he turned the pages when left to read at his own speed, how his eyes darted across the text, as quick as his fingers on the flute.
“I detest German!” he exclaimed at one point, slapping his hand against the table. “It’s dour and dark and brutish – just like my father. It is my father’s tongue, why should it be my mother tongue? If you did not speak French, my dear Katte, I would have had you sent away on the spot.”
A boyish grin accompanied this imperious statement. Hans reminded himself of royalty and rank, the facts of the world which made him subject to the whims of a lad of seventeen.
“It is your father’s tongue,” he said, “just as it is your father’s throne you will be inheriting. Your Highness.”
“My father’s throne,” Friedrich said scornfully, “and my father’s country. I never asked for them.”
“Your father’s country,” Hans concurred, “and your father’s men.”
“Ah,” Friedrich replied. The boyish grin was back. “Like yourself?”
“Like me,” Hans said. “In due time.”
They held each other’s gaze, just a little longer than was necessary. Hans felt his pulse beat faster. This was dangerous, he thought. A lad of seventeen? No, his Crown Prince, his future monarch, the son of a Soldier King. Only a fool would try to rob the tiger of its cub.
“But until then,” he said, keeping his voice light, “I would advise you to work on your orthography. If you appeared at the French court writing as you did in your last letter, Your Royal Highness, they would send you away on the spot.”
iii. Aubade
In the end, he gave in – not so much as to the Prince as to himself.
Friedrich was not quite inexperienced, but neither was he jaded; there was an innocence to him, an earnestness to his kisses that threatened to break Hans’s heart whenever he let himself dwell on it. Sprawled together in the princely bed, mostly naked and wholly sated, it was easy to let himself forget, for a moment, how many differences lay between them – different ages, different ranks, different destinies.
“Stay with me,” Friedrich murmured, pressing a kiss to Hans’s neck, below his ear. “Don’t go.”
“I should – it’s almost morning.”
“I forbid it. I am the Crown Prince; I can do as I like.”
That was nonsense, and they both knew it.
Hans ran his fingers through Friedrich’s hair. “How would you explain my presence in your bedchamber? Am I your pageboy now?”
“Easier than if they were to find me in yours,” Friedrich quipped. “Surely it is the first place they would look, as soon as they discovered I was gone.”
Hans felt his face heat at the thought, even more so from the way Friedrich was watching him – challenging, bold, even gleeful, as if he were savouring the prospect. As if he wanted them to be found together, for all the world to see.
But that was hardly surprising, Hans thought. Nothing would enrage the King more.
He sighed, turning his face away, preparing for the inevitable separation. That was the hardest part of this: to be the party old enough, wise enough, mundane enough to bear the responsibility, and yet knowing himself unable to put a stop to the affair, as if he were but a piece in a fatal game of chess, his loyalty torn between two opposing forces of will.
iv. Fugue
“Come away with me,” Friedrich murmured in Hans’s ear, clutching at his sleeve. “We’ll flee to England and be free. I’ll go first, to join my uncle, and then you’ll follow.”
They were alone in this secluded part of the garden, shielded from the others by thick hedges. Even so, Hans bit back the exclamation that almost forced itself out; his heart beating wildly, he quickly scanned their surroundings for any signs they might be overheard.
“Childishness!” he said at length, forcing his voice to remain calm. “Aren’t you too old to speak such nonsense?” He lowered his voice. “Unless you are being serious, in which case, my dearest, you have gone utterly mad.”
“Mad with love,” Friedrich countered. His hand found Hans’s and pressed it. “I need to leave this place, or I shall never be fully human. My dear papa will see to it.”
Hans looked at him. The painful earnestness was back, his eyes frank and hopeful where they held Hans’s gaze. They were the eyes of a boy who had not yet learned how to turn himself into steel, how to endure pain and crush his enemies. They were not the eyes of a future King.
If Friedrich had his will, they never would be.
“What you are proposing,” Hans said, very quietly, “is impossible. You have a duty to fulfil here, and so have I.”
He looked away. “You are not the only one with a father,” he said, feeling his voice thicken, “and I owe mine everything. He wishes for me to get married.”
“Join me in England,” Friedrich whispered, “and I will marry you there.”
“Enough with your nonsense!” He tried to withdraw his hand, but Friedrich held on to it. “Enough with your dreams, enough with your childish fantasies – can’t you see that what you are proposing is treason?”
“But so is staying,” Friedrich said, “and becoming like him, and losing you, whether it’s in battle or to some woman. No. You shall at least listen to my plan before you reject it – or I will count you as the traitor.”
Hans bowed his head. Dread filled him, less at the prospect of Friedrich’s witless scheme than at his own inability to reject it, for he knew how all his own defensive forces could not withstand a determined assault from his Prince. He raised their joint hands to his lips and closed his eyes.
v. Pavane
The steps towards the scaffold ought to be heavy, but he barely noticed. He was walking slowly, regularly, one foot in front of the other, but his thoughts were not with him. They were with Friedrich.
Friedrich, to whose window they were now taking him: Katte the traitor, the Prince’s seducer. He could easily imagine the whisperings behind his back, the King's furious determination. Make an example of him, show that corruption is not to be tolerated. Teach the young fool what lies in store next time he dares to lose his heart and his shame and his sense of duty.
Once there, he raised his gaze to the window to see Friedrich’s pale face, his red-rimmed eyes. He was still so young, still just a boy! Would they ever be able to make a monarch out of him?
One last time, they looked at each other.
Remember this, Hans told him without words. Remember how I loved you. When you go into battle, imagine me there beside you. Be strong like your father, not for his sake, but for mine. For my sake, you must be victorious.
“There is nothing to forgive!” he called, and meant it. In the last second before the sword fell, he remembered once more the anticipation, the smile, the music, and warmth filled him, and his own words came back to him, the truth of it resounding through all his being: I die for you with joy in my heart.