Within Lord Henri’s Private Apartments; Evening, Veere, north-eastern Frisstreek
Henri ran his taut fingers through his tuffs of brown hair, for a moment, his light eyes closing, a hollow breath echoing through his lips. “Mia…” He called to his wife, his voice echoing through the chambers of the hall. Here were the Royal Apartments, meant to be filled with the little feet of his vorsten and vorstinnen; his princes and princesses, his sons and daughters. Yet the halls were silent. No babe cried for a wet-nurse, no little boys tussled, and no little girls fussed. All that was left was a silence. Every bed that had been filled was only for the night; in it would lay a weak, lame creature, its screeches that of a demon, though they lasted only hours before his legacy would return to the grave.
Since Mia was born, Henri had been betrothed to her. She was the daughter of his father’s best friend and closest ally, the Hertog, duke, of Zeehaven. The same man, who on his father’s death, assumed the title of Lord for fifteen years in Henri’s stead. They’d known each other since their youth, and a month after she first bled, they were married. Twelve years had past since then. Seven pregnancies failed, the majority of which were over before Mia’s belly had grown fat. Those which did bloat her ended with two stillborn sons, and a monstrous daughter who had not last the night. All that his family consisted of now was aunts and uncles, first cousins, second cousins. He’d had them all sent away, away from court, away from him. They held the eyes of carrion, circling from above as the years passed, and the Prins approached the threshold of thirty.
He did not believe in the curse, but he knew they prayed everyday for its magic. His own family wanted him dead, to feast upon the succulence of his flesh; fight over each morsel, strip him to the bone, and leave him forgotten. What irony the Gods must have, they were rich in children, healthy lines of a dozen male heirs, yet it was from his cursèd loins that the linage would be passed.
“Mia!” He called again, passing his reflection in the tall windows, facing the northern gardens, where gardeners worked every day to reseed the thawed earth, light green buds of flowers beginning to poke up through the dirt. Roses, he’d imagine, the sigil of the Frisstreek, three golden roses, their long stems interwoven together, meant to symbolize the three Lords, separate monarchs, though interwoven for a common cause.
He’d never cared for the roses, and instead wore the Prins sigil, the crushed scull of a giant, whom his many-great grandfather, Dirck-the-Defender was legended to have killed. Running his hand across the golden inscription, finally his wife emerged from her hiding spot.
Mia was a extraordinarily-ordinary looking woman, twenty-six years old, with curling brown hair that clung desperately to her round face. Her gown stuck out with her bloated stomach, hands resting upon it with a reluctant touch, feeling it; for it was true and real, but with hopes dashed, she dare not let herself grow attached. Henri approached her, a hand coming out to rest upon hers, an affectionate action even if he was not often prone to affection. She blinked, and said nothing on it, looking, as if embarrassed, down to the side, and then back up to him, “M’lord.” She spoke the formality casually, nodding her head slightly, and he would nod back.
Silently they stood there few a few seconds, appreciating one another silence, before Henri finally spoke, the room growing stale with his words, “How do you feel, Mia?”
Without speaking, she looked down at her belly, and then back to Henri, conveying her health simply through that secret smile which cultivated in her eyes, “You do not look well, Henri.” Her free hand came to brush his knuckles, “I imagine your Mecht with the Lords did not go well?”
“ Of course it did not,” He began, harsher than he intended, though pausing, he smoothed his tone, “de Vries is intolerable. She always has been, and Basilious-… He is not much better than her. I do not understand how such a beloved leader, best known for his passion for peace, can raise such an arrogant, foolish boy as his son.”
“Great leaders are not always great fathers.” His wife would reply, Henri looking at her for a moment, curious if she had meant something of that, but studying her face was like studying a empty wall, nondescript and flat.
Giving up with trying to decipher her, Henri gave a defeated sigh, “It’s all very boring business, you wouldn’t care to know anyhow. We should be getting you a midwife very soon, someone to come stay with you other than the servants or your Ladies. Someone informed; the very best!” He smiled, trying to change the subject, trying to act as if he was happy for a midwife.
The dead haunted him, all of them, his father, his seven children who never drew milk of a breast. Lady Sara’s brother too, the tall wisp of a boy, he recalled him well, pale in the hair, with a distance in his light eyes. He was haunted too, the boy, having lost his father around the same age Henri had lost his. Curious, fate was. They were the most powerful people in the world, their fathers, and yet even they could not beat death. Their wealth could not save them, good doctors, good medicine, it had not kept their weak hearts beating. In that regard, Henri had always regarded Nys with pity, and looked forward to the day that he would become a Lord nearly as much as Sara did. That day word never come, and it was a damn shame.
Mia stared at Henri as a distant look came across his face, she had told him often that he was a dreamer, promising him as they lay beneath the sheets together, sharing the heat of the others breast, that one day the world would be as he had planned it to be. She promised that Lord Henri Prins, first and only child of Lord Eckel Prins, would be a name not forgotten. He would be the last Lord, and first King of Frisstreek, and the people would cry his name, his legacy would span twenty centuries, if only it would just begin.
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