Chapter Text
"My deepest apologies, Your Majesty. This conduct is not befitting of a man, much less the Grand Duke…"
Léopold shrunk into the embroidered seat, patterns as coarse as grain beneath his clutch. He dared not crumple his posture in front of the King himself, only allowing his eyes to drop and narrow. Sniffing, he wiped away the tears falling from them.
The King stood ahead, regarding the young man attired in black. Tired rays stretched across the room, only serving to make the shadows all the more prominent. Heading back behind his long desk, he opened a drawer and drew out a fine cotton handkerchief, returning to hold it out to the shivering figure. Léopold peered up at him, weary.
Maurice gave him a firm look.
"My good man, that might be the silliest thing you've ever said."
The monarch flicked his hand forward again to urge him, and reluctantly Léopold took the handkerchief, dabbing at his eyes.
The King continued, taking a few aimless steps ahead of him. "If I were returning from the funeral of my mother and sister, I would be far more distraught than you. Nobody would see me for weeks," he chuckled, attempting to disrupt the sorrowful atmosphere.
The Grand Duke stayed silent. His mind was still whirling from the day's events, and the emotions it had brought with it still threatened to overwhelm him entirely. Truly, that disease did not discriminate status.
So soon after the death of his elder brother. He had no right to be in this room, in this position. It was Ferdinand's, his birthright. How could he forget; the man used to parade his grand future every opportunity he got.
But that wasn't the case anymore. Now Léopold took the title of Grand Duke of the Kingdom, and everything that came along with that. Fearfully at first, afraid of proving himself an imposter, the days and duties had slowly become rhythmic, jobs' well done rising in number. He'd thought maybe he did deserve the position. That's when the news came to utterly shatter the hope.
And now here he was, crying in front of the King.
Folly.
"I just…can't help but wonder—"
His croak stopped as he became painfully aware of the King's attention, as well as that of the numerous guards listening from beyond the velvet drapes of his office.
The King seemed to hear the unspoken words. He heaved, leaning on the desk behind him. "Sometimes…bad things happen for no reason, and there's not the darnedest thing you can do about it. All you can do is try to move forward."
Léopold, though he listened, had no more words he wished to speak. He kept his gaze fixed instead on his dark cuff, creased from his kid brother's pained grip during the interment.
The King sighed lightly. "Try to carry on best you can, Léopold. I know this is all a big change, but...maybe some change will be worth pursuing, one day."
He looked up. Change worth pursuing? What did he mean?
Usually Léopold would enquire what the greying man meant, as he did of all things. But his psyche had enough of contemplation today, too exhausted to care any longer.
The moonless sky beyond the glass darkened the room further. The Duke slowly got up from the chair, eyelids drooping.
"I think…I will retire to my chambers now." He dragged himself towards the curtains, every step an effort.
The King gave a small, solemn nod. "Have a rest. It does anyone good." He paused, face creasing as he watched the despondent boy trudge stiffly to the other end of the room.
"You know, I can get someone else to cover your duties, if you—"
"No."
The reply was resolute. Léopold forced himself to look back at the monarch to avoid any more discourtesy. "No, that's quite alright. I can carry on without issue. Thank you, Sire."
In sudden remembrance, he gave a quick bow before leaving the room.
Léopold wandered down the long, winding hallway in a daze. Only tall candles on either side lit the way ahead, providing small breaths of heat nonetheless too weak to warm even a hand.
Usually His Majesty would admonish me for forgetting such simple manners, he thought. Still, I must be more courteous next time...
Lost in despondency again, Léopold continued down the palace hall, head down and eyes half-closed. His vision blurred from a mixture of fatigue and gloom, unaided by the lustreless candles. He refused to look at them anyway, for their smoky aroma evoked yet more ashen images to mind.
He squeezed his eyes shut as he walked, giving a rough shake to dispel them again. Something that would prove to be a mistake, as he suddenly felt a hard force knock into him. The painful jolt sent him crashing to the floor, along with a flurry of papers and the unmistakable clatter of a quill.
"Oh—blazes, my greatest apologies, good sir!"
A panicked feminine voice broke through the haze. Finding the present, in front of him he saw a young frantic woman on hands and knees, hastily collecting the papers she had dropped. The pale ribbon tying back her brown hair flung wildly as she hastened her pace.
He had never seen her before.
His gentlemanly instinct kicked in, and he hurried to help her gather her things. The poor girl was in pieces; he thought he could almost hear her heart hammer within her thin frame.
"No, th-that's quite alright, mademoiselle," he spoke, hoping he sounded reassuring. "It was my fault, I wasn't—"
"…paying…attention…"
Unwittingly, he brushed her hand as they both reached for the fallen white feathered quill.
He felt something.
A strange spark, unlike any he had felt that day. Or ever before in his life. Even in the chilled, windowless hallway, it seemed to radiate warmth and light by its very essence.
The young woman appeared similarly stunned, staring at their touching hands before looking him in the eyes. Flushing slightly, she slowly withdrew her fingers and collected the quill, and the feeling faded slightly. He couldn't help admire the quiet beauty and poise she embodied even as she kneeled, despite the dim candlelight casting flickering shadows across her.
Léopold clambered up, reaching out a hand to help the woman off the floor, though she didn't take it as her arms were already full of her dropped papers. He quickly drew his hand back, smoothing down his frock coat in embarrassment.
They stood a few inches apart, voiceless. The fizzing of flames on wicks seemed almost audible. Léopold felt it prudent to draw some words out of his throat.
His attention was drawn to the feather balanced in her grasp. "That, uh… is a beautiful quill," he murmured, hoping the topic wasn't too awkward.
For a moment the woman swayed, as if a quick breeze had flitted past her. She readjusted her footing before responding, peering at him shyly.
"Thank you, sir." She dipped her head respectfully, and gave a small smile. "…It's made from a swan's feather," she quietly added.
Though its colour was a plain white, wisps seemed to dance with the surrounding flames, reflecting rays of beautiful coloured lights onto the walls, so Léopold observed. You just had to look closely.
The woman continued before he could reply. "I-I must be on my way; my apologies again," she uttered quickly, before heading down the hall the way he had come. Decidedly more slowly, this time.
Léopold watched after her in awe. He didn't have a chance to ask for her name. He'd a feeling she didn't know who he was either.
After stilling for a few moments more, he wandered down the rest of the hall before entering a wider circle of passageways. He descended the stairs to the floor below. Curiously, his surroundings sharpened despite the approaching night.
He barely spared his room a glance as he entered, gaze drawn to his hand. Though the feeling had now faded, the spark of it, its strength, the woman he had perhaps shared it with, did not leave his conscience. It was puzzling.
As he wondered whether he'd see her again, he realised with strange relief that the experience had momentarily alleviated the sorrow that had plagued his day.