Written for comment_fic on livejournal

A kingdom isn't land or subjects. It's not an armory full of blades or a treasury full of gold.

It's a tightly woven cloth made of bonds and oaths and loyalties and blood.

And so, when these things fall away, when betrayal and confusion and the anger of ghosts turns the palace halls into a chaos of blood, it becomes clear. The cloth is rent, undone.

I hear of these things and I am not tempted to go back. I have no desire to claim that kingdom.

I prefer the kingdom that I have here. The tiny estate in the English countryside, far from the centers of power, given to me by the king of England after I forged a note from my uncle.

And in my new realm, my small, perfect realm, is a thing of wonder. My Horatio.

He does not think me mad for giving up my claim; he does not think I hide or shrink from the fights in Denmark.

He is content that I should rule over no one but him.

And that I do. Instead of castle built of sturdy stone, I rest my head on a firm chest, on stout shoulders and arms like a moat. Instead of owning vast forest and field, I own a more precious lot, a mouth and a chin and a beard. A hip and a thigh. A body like a perfect sheath, smooth-fitting and beautiful. And always by my side in the only battle that ever truly counted.

The one for my kingdom. A life after my other life. A cloth Horatio and I have woven together.