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How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!
act 1, scene 4 :: King Lear
‘Claude, if you don’t wake up this instant, I’m going to tell Judith exactly who it was that got so drunk he shot an arrow through her father’s portrait.’
Claude lurches off the pillows.
‘Up, up, Mr Leader Man,’ says Hilda, patting him on the cheek. ‘We’ve got a Roundtable to prepare for and— by the Goddess, I can’t believe I’m actually doing this right now because I’m the one who’s supposed to be lazing around you’re the one who’s supposed to be telling me to get working.’
Sleep washes out of his system, replaced by a nauseating fill of guilt. With a groan, he buries his face in his hands. ‘Hilda, I’ve done something terrible.’
‘Kicking Count Gloucester in the balls is not as bad as it sounds,’ says Hilda, perching herself on the edge of her bed. He spent the night in her room.
‘I didn’t do that.’
‘Kicking Lorenz in the balls isn’t as bad as it sounds. He can be really annoying and a good—’ she gestures with a jolt of her knee— ‘can bring him around really nice.’ She crawls towards him— which is an insane image considering she’s in one of her glittery, glimmering, fancy frocks— and plops her head on his lap, looping her arms around his neck. With a painful pull, she forces him to look at her, pearly teeth in a wide smile. ‘Are you going to tell me where you went last night?’
The nausea, if possible, doubles.
‘I told you,’ says Claude, eyes adjusting to the morning light. Her room is a mess of strewn dresses and scattered accessories. Somehow, it all smells pink. ‘Flew around to clear my head.’
‘Flying puts you in a nice mood. Yesterday, you came back looking like a kicked puppy. You still look like a kicked puppy.’ She taps his cheek. ‘Did your hook-up finally break up with you?’
‘Yeah, she did. Saw it coming, couldn’t stop it. What can we do?’
‘That’s a lie. You’re too sincere for hook-ups.’
‘Thanks for the analysis, Lady Goneril. Is there anything else I’ve missed in your assessment of me?’
Hilda makes an annoyed sound, pulling herself off him. ‘Because it’s way too early in the morning to banter with you and I’m hungry and I can’t get a decent breakfast without everyone pestering me about where you are, I’m going to end this—‘ she waves a hand all over him— ‘and tell you that it’s for the good of the Alliance.’ He must’ve let something slip— a grimace or a wince— because there’s no possible way she can know. ‘You used to be difficult to read, but now, not so much.’
‘I used to think of you as an unobservant ditz, but now, I’m going to have to rethink that.’
‘Now?’ She takes a pillow and beats him with it. ‘That’s just rude. I’m plenty observant.’
He stumbles out of her bed, trying to find his shoes. There’s a knock on the door as one of the servants ventures a: ‘Lady Goneril, you haven’t, by any chance, been in the recent company of Duke Riegan?’
Which is a tongue-in-cheek way of asking whether or not he had slept with her.
’You mean you lost the Duke?’ shouts Hilda, her voice exaggeratedly dramatic. ‘How could you lose the Duke? Oh no, where could he be? What if he’s hurt? What if he sprained his ankle?’
Claude nurses a pulsing headache. Behind the door, the servant sputters her apologies.
‘Don’t apologize, go find him!’ snaps Hilda. ‘Tell whoever your boss is that I’m on my way to help! And tell him to prepare a nice breakfast in case we do find Claude and he’s uninjured. That way we can celebrate with some nice food. You know how much our dear, beloved Duke loves his food.’
‘Yes, Lady Goneril! Right way, Lady Goneril!’
‘You really should stop doing that to the staff,’ mutters Claude.
‘You can’t deny it’s funny.’
He allows himself a smile. ‘Kinda funny.’
‘Aw, there’s the Leader Man I know. That’s right, get rid of that depressing frown. I’ll tell you a piece of advice Holst once told me: if it happened yesterday, forget it; it already takes a lot of effort to think about today.’
Claude grimaces. ‘That’s… not very good advice.’
Hilda only pushes him towards the bathroom. ‘Get washed. Get changed. I’ve done so much already, you know— I’ve riled up Lord Albany, hinted to Lord Cornwall about his wife’s affair and sent the wrong invitation to Acheron— and it’s not even ten. I didn’t do all that just so you can mope around and not put it all to action.’
‘That’s impressive, Hilda,’ says Claude, and he half-means it. ‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re enjoying a bit of work.’
‘But you do know better, so don’t depend on it.’
He changes into the spare clothes he has lodged in her wardrobe, listening to her prattle on about the luncheon they’re hosting for the northern lords, the upcoming Roundtable in the afternoon, the unofficial dinner they’re going to have with a few merchant families, the official dinner he’s supposed to have with Gloucester, the meeting they’re going to have with Margrave Edmund about finances, the correspondences he’s going to have to comb through at midnight—
‘Are you even listening to me? Because I’d much rather talk about our spa date instead.’
‘Our?’ he says, fixing his cravat.
‘You usually have nice skin but now it’s all dry and patchy,’ says Hilda, swatting his hands away from the infernal cloth and fixing it herself. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to just run away together to some seaside province, throw all your money on fancy dinners and morning massages, buying me whatever it is I have want while I tend to your every whim in return?’
It’s been an ongoing joke ever since Hilda found out about him. One that he is starting to consider.
Which is a dangerous sign.
‘Pretty sure.’
She pouts, but there’s no mistaking the mischief in her eyes. ‘Really? But I’ll give you so many babies.’
Claude matches her mischief with a wink. ’Don’t doubt it.’
He lets her laughter distract him, pushing his true thoughts so far out of his brain they suffocate at the corners of his skull.
There’s a door hidden away in his grandfather’s study (now his study), tucked away behind a large, wooden mount where his grandfather’s bow (now his bow) pulses. He has touched the cursed thing only once before immediately locking it away, unable to stomach how good the relic felt in his hands.
His blood thrums at the memory, craving a fix, and Claude tries his best to ignore it.
A passageway leads out of the main estate to a quaint garden nestled along a manmade stream, rushing towards the sea. A small table has been set up, with a pot of tea and a tray of pastries, as a man paces in anticipation of their arrival.
At the sight of Claude, the man rushes towards him, bowing low.
‘Let’s do away with formalities, Lord Albert,’ says Claude, inviting him to sit. ‘We know each other better than that.’
Claude tells himself it’s a last resort and, more often than not, it is. But, sometimes, it’s simply the best course of action when dealing with uncooperative idiots.
The borders of Riegan press against the Kingdom’s territories and, what was a promised unity to his grandfather fell flat on its face the moment Claude was made sovereign. At first, he tried to assure those petty, minor lords that the generosity they received from Riegan (i.e. the money his grandfather threw at them for simply existing and not causing trouble) would remain. When it wasn’t that, he tried to assure them that his army would protect them against any hostilities from the Kingdom. When it wasn’t that, he tried to assure them of grain— of trade— of whatever the fuck they wanted— because the last thing he needs is the Kingdom accusing him of hosting imperial spies since his bordering territories can’t be controlled.
And then sending their deranged army and invading.
Which is a logical possibility since, last he heard, Dimitri and his eyepatch didn’t make logical decisions.
‘Tea?’ asks Claude.
‘Oh, no, Your Grace, you’re very kind,’ says Lord Albert. ‘I had my breakfast before coming.’
‘It’s not poisoned.’
Lord Albert blinks. Claude smiles. He pours them both a cup.
When he couldn’t figure out why it is those bordering nobles became uncooperative, he had Hilda make the rounds. Breakfast with their daughters and luncheons with their wives.
‘They think your olive skin is a little too foreign,’ she said when she came back. Though she had been smiling, delivering it like a joke, her eyes had been dull. ‘So they’d much rather crazy Dimitri, who, though he crushes skulls with his hands, looks like the perfect picture of what Fódlan blood should look like.’
‘Well, can’t exactly drain my veins to suit them,’ Claude had said, not surprised, because how typical a reason and isn’t that why he couldn’t get a foothold at home?
Too foreign. Mixed blood. Eyes like a demon.
Coward.
’No, but you can drain theirs,’ Hilda had replied and the look she gave him— cold and ruthless and protective— was one he would never forget.
It was a look he used to see on his mother when she was brave enough to defend him.
Not that she did that anymore.
‘And would you help me?’ Claude had asked, half-joking, yet half-serious because the idiotic part of him still hoped.
Hoped she wouldn’t leave him. Hoped she wouldn’t abandon him. Hoped she wouldn’t let him deal with this all on his own. As much as he had tried to warn himself— this friendship is a means to an end— he couldn’t help how much he grew to value her. Sometimes, he thinks he’s a little in love with her, but that is too simple a word for what he really feels inside. An odd mesh of fear and exhilaration.
A mixture of gratitude and disbelief.
Especially when she had cupped his face, ‘Oh Claude,’ and kissed him. ’Say the word and I’ll do it myself.’
He pushes the teacup across the table, Lord Albert going three shades paler. ‘Hope you like Bergamot. It’s a bit difficult to come by, but, I heard it’s a favorite of the Flame Emperor herself.’
‘Oh.’ And the man picks at his collar. Looks over his shoulder to the Goneril guards stationed at the perimeter. ‘What an interestingly intimate detail.’
‘Well, she was my classmate,’ says Claude. ‘Something everyone seems to forget. Isn’t it crazy, Lady Goneril? Not two years ago we were sticking gum in her hair and tripping that patricidal retainer of hers in the corridors.’
‘Time flies when you’re having fun,’ says Hilda, fanning herself with a heavily sequined fan. It sends a kaleidoscope of lights across the table. ‘And we had so much with Edelgard, didn’t we?’
‘Oh definitely. By the end of it, we could tell her likes from her dislikes in a heartbeat. For example, she likes boardgames, a simple fish sandwich and really expensive eastern porcelain. She dislikes freedom of thought, the church and the ass-kissing nobility within the borders of my territory since they’ve proven themselves double-crossing spies.’
Blood drains out of the man’s face, his mustache trembling over his lips. ‘Your Grace?’
He didn’t start begging. That’s good. Claude hated it when they did that.
He folds his hands over his stomach and kicks back, his chair leaning on its hind legs. ‘Not liking me personally, I didn’t mind. Not liking me because of my foreign blood, also didn’t mind.’ The man sputters. ‘Not liking me to the point that you round up the other lords, promise their armies to stand by so that the so-called Shield of Faerghus can neutralize me… now, gotta admit, that tickled my nose.’ Claude fixes him with dull look. ‘Co-conspiring with the Empire so they could eventually uproot me… now, that one worried me.’
‘Your Grace—’
‘I can’t exactly go around killing everyone now— I’m not Edelgard— which is why I’m going to ensure that the power of your territory moves to your brother.’
‘Who still hates you, by the way,’ says Hilda, picking a cherry off her pastry. ‘He never forgave you for raping his daughter.’
‘He’ll whip everyone else in your treasonous little circle into line, supported by my own army, all for the sake of stability of the region, blah blah, official yada yada, you know the whole diplomacy talk around a pseudo rule-by-force.’
Lord Albert opens his mouth to— speak? Beg? Deny? Profusely deny? (That was a favorite) Insult? (Another favorite)— before blood dribbles from his nose, through his gums, out of his ears and eyelids.
A gurgling sound echoes from the depths of his chest. He must be bleeding from the lungs.
‘This isn’t poisoned,’ says Claude, running a finger around the rim of his teacup. ‘But the tea you had with your breakfast? Let’s just say your butler was very helpful.’
Those milky eyes fix him with a look of pure loathing. ’Scum,’ he spits— before his head slams against the table, cracking the floral plate in two.
He’d like to tell himself he feels a bit sickened. Lightheaded. Unnerved by the sight of now-bleeding corpse. But all he can think of is how pleasant a day it is, the morning balmy and the skies clear. Soft winds pull at the sea, creating creases of white as the waves press agains the cliffside. He spots a few sailboats, fluttering like gulls, and a few dhows, pulling into the harbor with fish.
‘Feels like weeding duty, doesn’t it?’ says Claude, peeling his gloves so he can take off his blood-spattered cravat.
‘Yeah,’ an odd smile on her face, as if she had been searching for the words and he perfectly picked them out. ‘Exactly like that.’
Claude pushes back the body, searching the lining of Lord Albert’s jacket for the correspondences he knows have been stolen from his office.
‘Done?’ asks Hilda.
‘Done,’ he says, flicking through the papers, realizing their confidentiality. Blueprints of Riegan estate. The estimates of the reserve armies. An approximation of winter supplies.
Claude chews the inside of his lip. Traitors everywhere. He’ll have to get rid of the steward.