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483 I.C., aboard the Hässliche Entlein , docked at Iserlohn Fortress
Sub-lieutenant Kircheis had the luxury of time to acquaint himself with his new posting before they got underway. He perhaps didn’t need it; the Hässliche Entlein was just like any other cruiser in the Imperial fleet, and Kircheis had been on many before. But still, he took his duties as the security officer onboard seriously, and he would be more prepared to perform them if he did know the layout of the ship like the back of his hand. He spent his time before they embarked wandering the vessel, getting to know her and her crew.
Although he and Reinhard had been assigned to the ship several days ago, Reinhard had spent most of those days trapped in interminable meetings with the commodore who headed their small patrol fleet, along with most of the other commanders unlucky enough to be helming ships under that commodore’s command. What they discussed, Kircheis didn’t know, because every night, Reinhard returned to the Hässliche Entlein in a foul, stomping mood, and was not in the mood to rehash whatever the day’s conversation had been. Reinhard probably would have appreciated the time to get familiar with their cruiser more than Kircheis did, and Kircheis didn’t think that he would have minded attending command meetings, so it was a pity that they couldn’t switch places. More of a pity that they couldn’t spend the days together, of course, but it was a brief inconvenience that needed to be tolerated only until their ship left port.
Today was the last day that they would be in Iserlohn, and of course it was the busiest day, with all the supplies they would need to take out on patrol being frantically loaded onboard. Kircheis headed down into the loading dock to watch things be brought in. The second in command, Lieutenant Commander Wahlen, was already there, and he greeted Kircheis when he saw him.
In front of them, soldiers were driving beeping forklifts carrying wooden crates up into the loading bay of the Hässliche Entlein , the NCOs in charge of this activity checking off inventory lists and directing supplies to the places they would need to go. They paid Wahlen and Kircheis little mind, except the occasional salute whenever a new soldier wandered into the area and spotted the officers. Kircheis and Wahlen casually saluted back and waved them on with their tasks, leaning against a bulkhead to chat.
“Looking forward to getting underway?” Wahlen asked.
“I think so,” Kircheis said. “The captain certainly is.”
“I haven’t seen much of him, so far.” He looked over at Kircheis. “You came up from your previous posting together, didn’t you?”
“Yes, we did.”
“That’s unusual. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been shuffled around and totally lost contact with everyone I worked with before. It’s some kind of policy.”
Kircheis nodded. “I get the sense that with noble families, there’s already enough sectarianism in the fleet, so high command would prefer not to encourage more by allowing cliques to form.”
Wahlen chuckled. “I’m sure you’re right. You don’t mince words, do you?”
Kircheis smiled and said nothing.
“Did the captain manage to pull some strings to get you to come with him from your last post? I had heard that his sister is famous.” From Wahlen’s tone, it was clear that he knew what exactly Reinhard’s sister was famous for, and was exercising discretion in discussing it. Kircheis was grateful to him.
“Not our last post,” Kircheis said. “We’ve shared a posting since we graduated from the military academy.”
Wahlen raised an eyebrow. “Really? If you don’t mind indulging my curiosity as to how…”
“Commander Müsel didn’t ask for it,” Kircheis said. “His sister asked me to protect him, so I would assume it’s by her favor that I’ve been assigned with him.”
“But not promoted with him.”
Kircheis chuckled. “Glory only reflects so far.”
“I see.”
Kircheis looked over at Wahlen, who was pensive. “Does that trouble you?”
“No,” he said hastily. “It’s just not something I’ve ever encountered before.”
“It is unusual,” Kircheis agreed, then fell silent, watching two forklifts maneuver around each other as they both attempted to put boxes of provisions down in the same spot.
“I was intending to ask what your thoughts on the captain were, since you had worked with him before,” Wahlen said, explaining his changed expression.
“But you think now I wouldn’t give you an honest accounting?”
Wahlen smiled. “Maybe I would prefer to mince my words a bit more than you do, especially when it comes to someone that my new commanding officer has trusted to follow him since he was a schoolboy.”
“I think I’m capable of giving an accurate report,” Kircheis said. “But it’s true that he and I are good friends. If you’re wondering if he’s capable— he is.”
“And his promotions are not simply due to proximity to his sister’s fame?”
“I think the saying is that people rise to the level of their incompetence,” Kircheis said. “Commander Müsel keeps rising, so he hasn’t found that level yet.” He smiled. “And as his friend, I would add that I do not believe that he has a level of incompetence to reach.”
Wahlen laughed. “I appreciate your candor.”
“At the very least, he wouldn’t have survived if he wasn’t talented. I know that’s a different kind of skill from command itself, but it’s not nothing. You should ask him about our posting on Kapche-Lanka.”
“That wasteland? Now I’m curious. You tell me the story.”
“He’s a better storyteller than I am.”
“Ah.”
“He’s an easy man to follow,” Kircheis said. “I’m sure you’ll find that out yourself once we get underway.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Wahlen watched a fresh truck full of boxes back into the loading dock, and there was a renewed scramble to get the new supplies on board. “It sounds like you’ve seen a lot of action, recently. I hope Commander Müsel isn’t expecting to be in the thick of things every day. This is a pretty calm posting, despite operating out of Iserlohn.”
“Commander Müsel is good at taking opportunity when it comes to him,” Kircheis said. “But I’m glad you’re not expecting any trouble.”
“If we could expect all our troubles, we would have far fewer of them, Sub-Lieutenant,” Wahlen said.
It was at this point that one of the soldiers unloading the new truck came over, saluted the two officers, and asked, “Lieutenant Commander, what should we do with Captain Holland’s books?” He pointed to a smaller crate that had just come off the truck and was sitting rather forlornly by itself. Soldiers glanced at it, then swerved around it.
Wahlen let out a sigh. “Let me take a look at what he got.” He walked towards the crate. Kircheis followed, curious.
The soldier unbolted the crate, lifting off the top to reveal stacks of books, all wrapped tight in plastic wrap to keep them from shifting around during transit. Wahlen fished around in his pocket for a moment and retrieved a pocket knife. He sliced open the wrapping of the nearest stack, and pulled out the top book. It was a slender, cheap paperback volume, with line drawings of roses on the cover. Wahlen chuckled, and handed it to Kircheis.
“ Romeo and Juliet ?” Kircheis asked, reading the title. “What’s this about?”
“The play, or the fact that we have a crate full of them?” Wahlen asked, voice dry. Kircheis leaned over and saw that, indeed, all of the books in the crate were identical.
“I guess the second is the more pressing question.”
Wahlen grabbed another book from the stack and flipped through it as he spoke. “Captain Holland— our former CO, gods keep the man— felt that part of his duty was to edify the soldiers under his command. He didn’t really approve of the usual pastimes, gambling and brawling and whathaveyou.”
“I see,” Kircheis said. “So he makes everyone read?”
“Well, that’s a strong word. He couldn’t order it, but he could encourage it. He’d pick a play, pass it out, everyone would have a couple weeks to read it, and then at the end we’d have a live reading. We did Doctor Faustus last month.”
“Ah.”
“But he’s been reassigned, and he already requisitioned copies to pass out.” He tossed his copy of the play back down into the box.
“And what did people think of this project?” Kircheis asked.
Wahlen laughed. “I think it was surprisingly successful.”
“Really?”
“Well, I don’t know how many people actually read the books, but the live readings were always well attended. I think everyone liked getting a chance to watch their friends and COs make fools of themselves on stage. And it helped that Captain Holland was generous with the alcohol rations during these things.”
“Did you like doing it?”
“Me? It passed the time.” He chuckled. “There’s a video of me from when we read Don Juan . My wife found it less amusing than everyone else did when I sent it to her.”
“What role did you play?”
“The titular one.” He looked down into the box again. “You a man of letters, Sub-Lieutenant?”
“No,” Kircheis said. “I’ve never read this.”
“Really?”
Kircheis shrugged. “I left public school at ten to attend a military academy. There wasn’t much literature there.”
“I see you’re a member of the ‘uncultured warrior class’, as Captain Holland would have put it. The captain is the same, I assume?”
“I’m afraid so.” Kircheis smiled.
“Then I guess he won’t be as keen on all of this.” Wahlen nudged the crate with his foot, though it was heavy enough that it didn’t budge.
“Oh, if it’s a tradition, and people enjoy it, it should continue. He would be happy to participate,” Kircheis said. This was not true, but Kircheis thought it might be good for Reinhard to have an opportunity to do something fun with the crew of the ship, aside from the drills that he had already talked about running. “I’ll ask him about it.”
Wahlen seemed surprised. “Well, alright then. I guess we’ll bring these on board.”
In an attempt at sociability, Reinhard and Kircheis deigned to spend their evening in the officers’ lounge. It was late now, though, and everyone else had gone off to bed, so they were alone, sitting across from each other on plush armchairs near one of the simulated windows that showed a view outside the ship. It was getting late enough, and they had an early enough departure from Iserlohn scheduled tomorrow morning, that Kircheis was getting ready to tell Reinhard to go to bed, but Reinhard was finally in a good mood after having been freed from his endless briefings, and Kircheis didn’t want to spoil it. Reinhard had been eagerly describing some of the drills and simulations he was looking forward to running, bouncing ideas off Kircheis for how to structure them. Kircheis was trying to temper his enthusiasm just a little bit. There was no sense in running the crew ragged within the first month of being assigned to the ship. Not everyone had Reinhard’s boundless energy.
“We should start out slowly, and give everybody a chance to adjust,” Kircheis said. “Maybe just pick a few smaller ones to begin with, to let people get used to the way you command. The crew is mainly looking forward to getting to know you,” Kircheis said.
“Really?” Reinhard asked. “I’ve never found myself too curious about my commanding officers, except to see if they’ll make stupid mistakes.”
“I think it’s a friendly curiosity. I was talking to Lieutenant Commander Wahlen earlier.”
“And what did he have to say?”
“He wanted to know what you were like. He asked me about how we came here together.”
“And what did he think about that?”
“I think he will be happier getting to know you himself than listening to me sing your praises.”
“I’m flattered,” Reinhard said with a laugh and a curling smile, leaning forward in his chair onto his elbows, getting as close to Kircheis as their positions allowed. Kircheis smiled back, nudging Reinhard’s foot with his own.
“He also wanted to know if you have any interest in participating in the ship’s traditions.”
Reinhard was immediately skeptical, but Kircheis’s smile disarmed him, and he flopped back in his chair. “How can a ship have traditions when its crew changes completely every two years?”
“I didn’t ask. But apparently they like to do little public readings of plays, once a month or so, when things aren’t busy.”
“Even if we’re not busy in the corridor, we’ll be plenty busy running drills,” Reinhard said. “I want to be prepared.”
“Sure,” Kircheis agreed. “But that won’t be all the time.”
“Plays?” Reinhard asked, mild derision in his tone.
Wahlen had dropped off a stack of books in the officers’ lounge earlier, and they sat on top of the bookshelf in the corner, the shelves of which seemed to be full of the evidence of past months’ reading. Kircheis pointed over to them. “ Romeo and Juliet is this month’s selection.”
Reinhard got up languidly and plucked the top paperback from the stack. He paged through it, though he didn’t stop and read any of the words. “And what do you want me to do with this?”
“Nothing,” Kircheis said. “Just give your blessing for everyone else to continue the tradition as normal. The previous captain provided time off duty and extra alcohol rations during the live readings, so if you could do that…”
Reinhard waved his hand and sat back down. “You don’t expect me to play a part, do you?”
“No,” Kircheis said. “Unless you wanted to?”
“No, thank you.”
Kircheis just smiled at him.
“Were you planning to play a part?” Reinhard asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Why not?” Kircheis asked.
“It seems beneath you,” Reinhard sniffed. But he couldn’t help but add, glancing at the cast list in the front of the play, “What part will you play?”
“They’re randomly assigned,” Kircheis said. “But I’ll put my name in the drawing, when it’s time.”
“Hmph,” Reinhard said.
“Are you opposed?”
“Do whatever you like.”
“Reinhard—”
“If you think it will improve morale, do it,” Reinhard said, though the grudging tone in his voice remained.
“I won’t if it will upset you,” Kircheis said. “But I don’t see what the problem is.”
“You don’t think this is just a way to embarrass you?” Reinhard asked.
“Being able to let out some steam by laughing is part of it,” Kircheis said. “But if you’re in on the joke, it’s funny for everyone.”
Reinhard continued to frown.
“I think I have a thick enough skin, Reinhard.”
“I don’t want to see you humiliated.” It was an uncalculated and raw statement, the kind of profession of love that Reinhard could make without even thinking about it. It softened Kircheis’s heart, and he wished they were somewhere more private than the lounge, where anyone could walk in at any time.
“I won’t be,” Kircheis said, as gently as he could. “I promise.”
“How do you know?”
“Will you come see the reading?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Your opinion is the only one that matters to me,” Kircheis said. “I don’t mind what anybody else thinks.” He tilted his head, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “And you wouldn’t laugh at me unless I was trying to make you laugh.”
Reinhard’s expression smoothed out, just a little, and he thumbed through the book again. “Do you want me to watch?”
“Only if you want to.”
Kircheis didn’t bring the subject up again, though he noticed that Reinhard had kept the playbook, and read through it in spare moments when he wasn’t busy. Since Reinhard had a tendency to micromanage and overplan, one that Kircheis was trying to cure him of, he had very few spare moments. It took him quite a while to get through the slender play. It was in his hand every night after dinner.
As the intriguing new captain was seen reading it, enthusiasm for the reding project was high among the crew. People couldn’t help but be curious about Reinhard, so what he was doing naturally caused a stir among the crew.
Reinhard never brought up the play, or expressed any opinion on it to Kircheis at all, but it pleased Kircheis that he was making an effort.
As the end of their first month aboard the Hässliche Entlein crept up on them, Wahlen organized the usual live reading of the play. He even got one of the more artistically minded members of the crew to draw up some posters, and he showed Kircheis the stack of them that he was going to post up, laughing. The soldier who had done the drawing had decided it would be funny to draw Wahlen in the leading male role, with some other soldier with his face obscured, comically wearing a wig and ill-fitting dress, swooning in Wahlen’s arms.
“What do you think, Sub-lieutenant? Did they get the likeness right?” Wahlen chuckled.
“Er,” Kircheis said, mildly uncomfortable. He could suddenly understand Reinhard’s aversion to his participation. If he had been featured on the poster, rather than Wahlen, who seemed to be taking it in stride, he probably would have flushed beet red every time he walked past one of the posters in the hallway. “That does look like you.”
“I’d better not show this to my wife,” Wahlen said. “She wouldn’t appreciate it as much as everyone here.” But he pinned up one of the posters to the corkboard above his desk in his office anyway.
Eventually, the day came for roles to be chosen. Although the performance of the play would be done with books in hand, everyone just reading their lines and doing minimal acting, it was still useful to give people a few days to prepare. Reinhard volunteered to do the drawing of names for the roles. People had written down their names on slips of paper, and tossed them into a helmet, and Reinhard and the other officers headed into the mess hall during dinner to do the drawing.
Everyone stood from their benches in a scraping, clattering wave when Reinhard came in, but he told them to be at ease and let them sit again.
Wahlen picked up the helmet. “Any last volunteers?” he called.
Soldiers shuffled, laughed, and shoved each other, but no one stood to add a last minute name to the drawing.
“We’ll draw these in order of appearance,” Reinhard said. “Kircheis— go down the list.”
Kircheis opened his playbook to the list of characters. “Narrator.”
Reinhard drew a name from the helmet. “Eugene Kranz.”
From one corner of the room, there was a round of laughter, and one man stood up and took a bow. “Lucky me!”
“Next is Sampson,” Kircheis said, moving down the list. Reinhard drew another name, and another, each one greeted with rounds of cheerful ribbing.
“Romeo,” Kircheis announced, when they got to the leading role.
Reinhard reached into the bucket and withdrew another folded slip of paper. He unfolded it, then frowned deeply, reading the name that was written there. “Siegfried Kircheis,” he said.
There were whoops of laughter from the crowd, and Kircheis just smiled placidly. Wahlen leaned over to him. “Lucky you.”
The next few names were drawn smoothly, until Kircheis got to Juliet on the list. He called out the role; Reinhard fished in the helmet for a scrap of paper and unfolded it. Without a single twitch-change of his expression, Reinhard called out, “Reinhard von Müsel.”
The whole room erupted into shouts and laughter, and even Wahlen couldn’t stifle the smile on his face. Reinhard clenched the scrap of paper in his fist, but not before Kircheis saw that it had someone else’s name written on it. Kircheis glanced at Reinhard, who did not acknowledge him except to say, “Next role, if you would, Kircheis.”
Kircheis tried to ask Reinhard why he had substituted himself into the play, but Reinhard didn’t answer, and so Kircheis let the issue drop. When Reinhard didn’t want to discuss something, there would be no making him discuss it. That much, Kircheis knew.
He wasn’t sure what to feel about the play. On one hand, he was grateful that Reinhard would be there with him. But on the other, it felt far too exposing to play opposite parts in a romance. He knew that this was part of the joke, why the play had been chosen. The silly shame of having some fellow playing a woman’s role was some of the best entertainment there was in the long stretches of boredom while the ship was away from port. Nobody expected to take things too seriously .
Reinhard would, of course. Kircheis had never known him to do anything by half measures. The idea made something in Kircheis’s stomach tumble and flutter, whenever he thought about it. He sat in his tiny room at night and read his lines.
On the day of the play, Kircheis got ready, dressing in one of the few non-uniform outfits he had brought, and heading out. The reading of the play was to take place in one of the ship’s cargo bays. The acoustics in there were good, for one thing, and for another, they fit plenty of soldiers, seated on the ground. A makeshift stage was constructed from pallets, just enough to elevate the players high enough that the audience could see. Kircheis came in there alone, before everyone arrived to do the performance, just to look things over and make sure that the stage would hold up. All of the props that they would be using were already on a table nearby, and someone had hauled in kegs of beer and set them up in the back of the room, accompanied by stacks of disposable cups. This was the real reason why these shows were well attended.
From the prop table, Kircheis picked up one of the fencing swords. These were Reinhard’s, he noticed. To test the fitness of the stage, he hopped up onto it and danced as if fighting an invisible enemy, his sword arm stretched out before him. The pallets creaked beneath his feet but felt stable enough.
The door of the cargo bay opened, and Kircheis turned on his heel to see who had come in. It was just Wahlen, who had been lucky enough to be chosen to play Paris in the play. He had found some sort of flowy white shirt to wear as his costume. Kircheis suspected that the rest of the cast would also be dressed in somewhat haphazard outfits.
“Don’t actually kill me with that thing, alright?” Wahlen said gamely, looking at the sword in Kircheis’s hand. He deposited the last of the props on the table, and held up a very realistic looking fake dagger. “This one’s for the captain.” He pressed the retracting blade to his own chest. He tossed it down on the table with the rest.
“How drunk do people actually get at these things?” Kircheis asked, hopping down from the stage and putting the fencing sword back on the table.
“Strict cutoff at three drinks apiece,” Wahlen said. “They stamp hands.”
“Reasonable.”
“Not to say that people don’t bring in their own liquor, but most don’t. And people usually wait until after the play to get rowdy. Why do you ask?”
“The captain wouldn’t appreciate his performance being interrupted,” Kircheis said.
Wahlen barked out a laugh. “You ready?”
“Sure.”
“Stage fright?”
“If I was afraid of being in front of people, I think being an officer in His Majesty’s fleet would be the wrong career choice.”
“Truer words, Sub-lieutenant.” He glanced at his watch. “People should be getting here soon.”
“You didn’t pass out costumes, did you?”
“No,” Wahlen said. “I think there are some around from previous plays, but I figured I’d spare the captain the embarrassment of whichever dresses were purchased from Iserlohn’s singular women’s clothing supplier.”
“Probably for the best.”
Wahlen gave him a wry smile. “I have gotten the sense that Commander Müsel’s participation is only through your encouragement. I wouldn’t want to stretch his goodwill too far.”
“It should be fun,” Kircheis said, though he was beginning to doubt it.
After a few minutes, people began to trickle in, getting drinks immediately and taking up seats on the floor. NCOs put themselves in charge of making sure no one was going to cause problems. It was clear that despite the change in captain, this was a well oiled machine. Kircheis appreciated Wahlen’s efforts in getting the whole thing put together and organized.
Although some of the performers who were playing women’s roles (the nurse, and Lady Capulet) had come in in dresses and heavy, comedic makeup, Reinhard came in barefaced, and wearing his uniform shirt, though not his jacket. Kircheis saw the way Reinhard was gripping the playbook— white knuckled, the cover peeled back and the whole thing rolled, revealing highlighted lines— and was suddenly eager for the whole thing to be over with. His mouth was quite dry.
“Are we ready?” Reinhard asked, glancing around the room at the assembled crowd seated on the floor, crosslegged like schoolchildren. His gaze was cool and domineering, but there was tension in his shoulders.
“We are,” Wahlen said. “Would you like to get started?”
“Let’s.”
Wahlen gave a signal to the one man over by the doors who controlled the lights. The overhead lights in the cargo bay turned off, and a few utility lights with hot, industrial-white bulbs, turned on to illuminate the stage. They buzzed loudly, audible even over the sound of the seated crew murmuring and shuffling and slurping their beers.
The man who had been chosen to be narrator strode on stage, greeted by cheers and laughter from the assembled.
“Two households, both alike in dignity,
“In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
“From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
“Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.”
He delivered his lines confidently, though he held his book up and squinted at the text the whole time. When he left the stage, it was with relief, since most of what he would have to do for the rest of the play was yell out who was coming on and off stage, just in case anybody forgot. He was chased off by polite applause, and by the actors for the first proper scene running onto the creaking pallets and energetically, if confusingly, delivering their own lines, rapiers in hand.
The play went on. The audience enjoyed it, and laughed along at the action, especially when some of the actors delivered their funnier lines directly to the audience, or when the opening sword fight involved someone falling backwards off of the stage and nearly hitting one of the utility lights.
And then it was time for Kircheis to go on stage. He didn’t think he made a particularly convincing Romeo, or a good actor, but he read his lines clearly, and with as much realism as he could muster. There was polite applause when he left the stage for the first time, so he figured he couldn’t be doing too terrible of a job.
Kircheis sat back in the seats to the side of the stage and watched as Reinhard strode on. Perhaps strode was not the right word. Something in his bearing had changed. There was something arrestingly familiar about the way he held himself, the way he touched his face and mimed tucking long hair behind his ear, the way his footsteps were suddenly so light that they didn’t squeak the boards of the stage. He was acting, not just reading the lines, but Kircheis couldn’t put his finger on what Reinhard was acting as until he was partway into his first scene.
The soldier playing Lady Capulet, in heavy drag, reached out to stroke Reinhard’s cheek, eliciting shrieks of laughter from the audience as he stood there under it. Very unconvincingly, in a falsetto, Lady Capulet said, “Tell me, daughter Juliet, how stands your disposition to be married?”
“It is an honor that I dream not of,” Reinhard responded. He didn’t modulate his own voice except in volume, no false pitch, but it clicked into place who he was playing as. The quiet delivery of the line, the strength that underlay the distaste— Reinhard was playing Annerose. And he was good at it.
It stood out. Though the men around him were playing their roles with jocularity, Reinhard was deadly serious, and the crew’s eyes fixed on him, rather than the other men bouncing and jockeying around the stage. The laughter quieted whenever Reinhard stepped up to read his lines.
When it came time for Reinhard and Kircheis to share the stage, Kircheis wished that Reinhard had discussed what they were planning to do in these scenes. Had it been anyone else, there wouldn’t have needed to be discussion: they would have simply held their playbooks up in front of their faces and leaned comically forward, pretending to kiss. The audience would have laughed; it would have been funny.
But when he and Reinhard stood facing each other, looking into each other’s eyes, Kircheis suddenly understood why Reinhard had volunteered for the part. He didn’t want to joke about it. It was far too real, and Reinhard didn’t mind that anyone knew. Kircheis’s stomach turned, but he still took Reinhard’s hand, because Reinhard wanted him to. No word passed between them except the lines of the play, but Reinhard squeezed Kircheis’s fingers when Kircheis bowed his head and lifted Reinhard’s hand to his lips.
Kircheis didn’t look at the audience. In fact, the whole world faded away into silence. Perhaps that was because they were silent, watching him and Reinhard circle each other, half dancing, palm to palm— palmer’s holy kiss.
They almost whispered their lines as they leaned towards each other. It was a brief peck, a stage kiss, but a real one none the less.
“You kiss by the book,” Reinhard said, his own chastising tone coming on through his character persona, and Kircheis had to smile. Not here , he tried to say with his eyes.
When the nurse interrupted the scene, it was a true interruption for Kircheis, and he startled out of whatever reverie he had been operating in.
When Kircheis left the stage, Wahlen raised his eyebrows at him, and Kircheis could only shrug, not really apologetically. Wahlen shook his head and looked back towards the stage.
The middle of the play was a little less charged. It helped that Reinhard and Kircheis did not share the stage very often, and Kircheis’s scenes without Reinhard involved plenty of swordfighting, which he was good at doing expressively.
Reinhard was on stage was captivating, and terrible. His impression of Annerose became increasingly desperate as the play continued, pleading with Friar Laurence to devise some method of saving her from marrying Paris, or threatening to kill herself. It was horrible to watch, and Kircheis’s sweaty hands worried at the pages of his playbook as Reinhard yelled and wept his lines, trapped by the play and by cruel fortune and by a father who sold Annerose’s hand.
The audience was nearly silent now, and there was not even a hint of laughter when they came to the final scenes of the play. Kircheis’s anger and grief when he pointed his rapier at Wahlen playing Paris were barely feigned, and Wahlen ended their swordfight early, letting Kircheis “kill” him and drag his body downstage.
Reinhard lay stretched out on the stage, his hands over his chest, his eyes closed, feigning death. Even though Kircheis knew it was an act, there was still horror in it as he leaned down over his body, sliding to the floor and lifting Reinhard’s limp hand to deliver his lines, barely above a whisper.
Reinhard made a beautiful and terribly convincing corpse. His face was slack, and no matter how Kircheis touched him, he was limp and yielding. His head lolled to the side when Kircheis touched his cheek. It was enough to make Kircheis imagine him truly dead, and the idea terrified him beyond words, made the play feel too real again.
He spoke his long speech in a panic, each word with a beat of his heart, the words quiet and slurred, touching Reinhard’s hair as he did, until he came to the end of his lines and drank the poison (a cup of beer that someone had graciously handed him— he was grateful for it now).
“Thus with a kiss, I die!”
He pressed his forehead to Reinhard’s, deathly still on the ground, and toppled over. He landed partly on Reinhard’s chest, where he was reassured to feel his breathing and heartbeat. The audience was holding its breath. Kircheis could hear but not see; his eyes were closed.
Reinhard stirred beneath Kircheis’s body, and sat up, ending with Kircheis’s head cradled in his lap.
“What's here? a cup, closed in my true love's hand?
“Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end:
“O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop
“To help me after? I will kiss thy lips;
“Haply some poison yet doth hang on them,
“To make die with a restorative.”
Reinhard shifted, and Kircheis felt his warm breath on his face. His hands stroked Kircheis’s hair, tangling in the curls. Reinhard kissed him, not at all gently. Kircheis tried to stay slack, feigning death, but the urgency with which Reinhard was holding him made it difficult. He wanted nothing more than to get up and tell Reinhard how alive he was, to break the spell that the play had them both caught in.
“Thy lips are warm,” Reinhard whispered.
Kircheis barely processed the rest of the scene as Reinhard feigned stabbing himself, then lay down at his side, his head nestled on Kircheis’s shoulder. Kircheis wanted to wriggle his pinned arm to grab Reinhard’s hand, but then remembered the audience and lay still as the play finished around them.
After the prince delivered his last few lines, there was a long moment of silence as everyone left the stage except for the corpses that littered it, Reinhard and Kircheis in the center, and the expectant silence stretched until suddenly there was applause from the audience. It had a strange tenor to it, like no one was sure what to do, the joke having stopped being funny long ago, but it was applause nonetheless.
And, rising from the grave, Reinhard and Kircheis stood. Rather than bowing, Reinhard gave a single nod to the audience, then strode offstage, leaving Kircheis behind. Kircheis smiled to the audience and gave a much more usual theatrical bow, as the rest of the cast came back up to bow as well. As soon as he could, Kircheis left the stage, chasing Reinhard, who was quickly leaving the cargo bay and rushing through the empty halls of the ship.
He could still hear the audience’s noise behind him as he left, but his and Reinhard’s footsteps clanking on the metal floors were suddenly much louder in his ears. Reinhard had abandoned his Annerose mannerism and was back to being himself, quick and sure, though clearly upset by something.
“Reinhard!” Kircheis said as they turned a corner.
Reinhard stopped and turned, and Kircheis saw the strange tremble in his hands, the unfamiliar pallor of his cheeks. “Kircheis!”
“Are you alright?” Kircheis asked.
“I’m fine,” Reinhard replied, though it was obvious that he wasn’t. He was sweating, and it was not just from the lighting of the stage. His eyes were wide.
“Where are you going?”
“My quarters.”
“May I join you?”
“Isn’t there some sort of afterparty?”
“The men will have more fun if officers don’t show up,” Kircheis said.
Reinhard turned, neither giving permission nor denying it, and headed towards his cabin. Kircheis followed, and Reinhard didn’t protest.
Reinhard’s quarters were far more spacious than Kircheis’s, having a sitting room area as well as a bedroom. Kircheis immediately took a seat on the couch, but Reinhard paced back and forth silently.
Kircheis finally broke the silence. “We probably shouldn’t have done that.”
“We’ll be reassigned from this ship soon enough.” His voice was clipped. “It doesn’t matter.”
It did matter, as if rumors began to follow them, it would make their lives much more difficult, and could even lead to them being split up in future assignments, but that was not what Reinhard’s agitation was about. The practical considerations were Kircheis’s job to worry about— Reinhard was fixated on something else.
“You reminded me of Annerose out there,” Kircheis offered, fishing for something to say. “You did a good job.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“You’re very like her.”
Reinhard looked away, continuing to pace. “I don’t think so.”
“Alright.”
The silence stretched on, with just Reinhard’s footsteps like a beating drum. “What’s the matter, Reinhard?” Kircheis finally asked.
“Kircheis—”
“What?”
“What would you do, if I died?”
Kircheis looked in his frantic face, studying his wide eyes for the answer he was looking for. “Are you worried that I would kill myself?” Kircheis asked. “Is that what you’re upset about?”
Reinhard’s mouth opened and closed, unsure of how to answer the question.
“Reinhard—”
“What would you do?” His voice was pleading.
“I would take care of Annerose,” Kircheis said after a second. It was the only answer he could give that he thought would satisfy the both of them. “I would have to.”
Something in Reinhard relaxed, the tension dropping from the way he held his arms. Kircheis held out his hand to him, and finally Reinhard collapsed against him, falling half into his lap and half on the couch, burying his face in Kircheis’s shoulder, mumbling something that Kircheis couldn’t parse in the least.
Kircheis stroked his back until Reinhard relaxed and softened like clay, warm and alive beneath his touch.
“Are you really afraid that I’ll kill myself if something happened to you?” Kircheis asked after some time.
“I would, if something happened to you,” Reinhard said, nuzzling Kircheis’s neck.
The words made Kircheis’s blood run cold. “Don’t say that, Reinhard.”
“It’s true.” He turned his face further into Kircheis’s shoulder. “I have to die first,” he said. “I couldn’t live without you. You have to promise that I’ll die first.”
“I’m not going to promise that, Reinhard,” Kircheis said. “You can’t— no.”
“Kircheis…” He tugged on Kircheis’s hair.
Kircheis tilted his head back, stretching his neck to look up at the decorative moulding on the ceiling. Reinhard’s fingers traipsed over his adam’s apple, making him shiver. His voice sounded odd when he spoke. “You’d have to go on, if something happened to me. Just like you’d want me to if something happened to you. You promise me that, Reinhard.”
Reinhard shook his head against Kircheis’s shoulder.
“Promise me,” Kircheis said. It wasn’t quite a demand— he was bad at demanding things from Reinhard— it was more of a plea.
“It won’t happen,” Reinhard said. “So I don’t have to promise.”
Kircheis knew that was the best he was going to get. He stroked Reinhard’s back until Reinhard’s breathing slowed, and he melted, asleep, in Kircheis’s arms.