The first thing he remembered was holding Frederik's hand. He watched seemingly from outside himself as his own blurred figure tripped after the boy, his red hair a stark contrast to Frederik's then platinum blond. Shrill laughter rang in his ears as the two swept past Elizabeth standing in the hallway. He looked back to see her watching them, her soft green dress with all its frills swaying from their movement. As his gaze traveled over her dark curls, she tilted her head and gave him a smile that did not reach her eyes. He smiled back as Frederik pulled him along, stumbling and nearly colliding with the wall as they turned a sharp corner. Frederik halted then and hoisted himself up onto the seat of a bay window. For a moment it seemed as though he would fall, his small hands and feet scrambling for purchase on the silky cushions. Huffing with pride, the boy pulled himself onto the seat at last and leaned down to offer his hand. Hans latched onto it and scrambled up beside his brother.
They spent a moment in silence, gazing out upon the lush greenery of a spring afternoon. Harold and Laurence-the twins-were playing catch in the courtyard, and the children soon found themselves arguing over which of the two players was winning. Frederik thought it was Laurence, citing Harold's frequent fumbling and dropping of the ball. Hans, in contrast, was convinced Harold had the lead by at least a dozen points, and was only playing poorly so that his brother could catch him up.
They were both wrong,they discovered later that day when they found the twins again and accosted them in the hall. It was a tie by all accounts, never broken by more than single point. The pair had abandoned the game in frustration, claiming they were too evenly matched to ever win a contest between themselves.
As evening came, bringing with it the gentle hues of sunset, the children found themselves marching toward the dining hall for supper. The day had been well spent in games and riddles, just as the day before. And, they presumed, every day to come.
As they stepped into the hall, they were met with silence. A somber mood lay in the room, casting its shadows on every nook and cranny. No one looked at the boys, or dared to move an inch. The food sat untouched. It was as though time itself has come to a standstill. Hans recalled Elizabeth's empty eyes, how unnatural it had seemed. He looked for her and found her absent. Indeed, nearly every seat was empty. Clenching his tiny fist, he approached the nearest man, Sigurd, and pulled his tunic. His brother's sad eyes turned to meet his. At last, four dreadful words broke the silence, each bearing impossible weight.
"The King is dead."
"What?" Hans froze where he stood, all thought grinding to a halt in an instant. He felt Frederik come to hover at his side, the boy's face a perfect mirror of his own disbelief. A hundred questions bubbled on his tongue, desperate to be voiced. "Who will succeed him?" He asked, voice hardly more than a whisper.
No sooner had he asked the question than the heavy doors which guarded the hall creaked open and the slow purposeful thud of boots on stone echoed through the chamber. At last the sound ceased and Hans turned slowly to set his gaze upon the new arrival. Rasmus stood before him, piercing blue eyes sparing the children hardly a glance. He cupped his hands behind his back and lifted his chin, peering down his sharp crooked nose at Sigurd. A small smile tugged at his lips, pride unfurled. Long moments of tense silence passed between the eldest brothers. Hardened gray eyes gazed steadily into piercing blue. Sigurd clenched his jaw and squared his shoulders as he wrestled with his own pride. At last, he parted his lips and uttered the despicable phrase so silently demanded.
"Long live the king."
…...
After Rasmus' ascension to the throne, the palace became decidedly dreary. As the months went by, Hans saw his brothers less and less, until he finally stopped seeing them at all. Sigurd vanished for weeks at a time, always busy training new recruits out at sea, and Laurence had his hands full with new duties in the church. Harold grew so depressed in the absence of his twin that he sent himself to study abroad so as to relieve the palace inhabitants of his omnipresent gloom. Elizabeth, too, had been sent overseas to reside with an aunt; "to better learn the finer points of womanly behavior", so Rasmus had stated. Hans, for his part, found his beloved sister to be perfectly womanly, without the stifling presence of Aunt Agatha perpetually breathing down her neck.
Frederik, at least, was always a willing playmate, and accompanied Hans on all the necessary daily adventures.
One chilly autumn morning found them in the stables, wrapped up in an imaginary scene of knights and conquests. Frederik advanced slowly through the stable, wooden sword held out before him. Cautiously, he proceeded, peering into stall after stall in search of his adversary. He crept at last into the final stall, breath clouding in the air. He stopped. Perked his ears. Listened.
Silence.
Suddenly, a sharp crack sounded behind him. He whirled about, sword waving wildly. Something knocked him to the ground, a snarling creature with flaming hair. "The beast!" Frederik shrieked, small heart pounding with equal parts excitement and terror. The beast loomed above him, fangs bared in preparation for a final strike that never arrived.
A knock sounded on the wooden wall, startling the children from their play. Hans leaped to his feet, looking for a moment like a deer in a huntsman's sights. Frederik rose more slowly, rubbing his aching head, and peered around his brother at the new arrival. Sigurd stood in the entryway, brown hair swept back and chin freshly shaved. He had arrived in uniform, standing tall and stiff like every soldier the children had seen. Those soldiers had been multiplying for weeks, marching in the streets day in and day out. Now, thought Hans, they would surely learn why there seemed such a sudden need for so many armed men. He looked up at Sigurd expectantly. Beside him, Frederik did the same.
Sigurd sighed a long, weary sigh and knelt down in the hay. His broad shoulders slumped and his brow creased. It was as though a great weight had settled on his back, a weight which was now too heavy for him to bear. "Hans, Frederik." He spoke slowly, looking at each child in turn. His voice was rough and quiet. There was sadness in his eyes. "Brothers. I am to leave you again. I am to be gone for a very long time, longer than you have prior known me to be absent. I will be away for months, maybe even years." He paused to draw breath and bowed his head. He sat silent for several moments, shaking visibly. Hans reached out to lay a hand on the man's shoulder.
"What's happened?" He asked quietly.
Sigurd raised his eyes to meet the child's and drew a shaking breath.
"War." He answered. "War has been declared and I must heed the call to arms."
"Are you frightened?" Frederik asked softly, as though afraid to break the moment by speaking too loud.
Sigurd looked at him and smiled sadly. "Yes. I am."
The children stared at him with mouths agape. So brave had their brother always seemed to them, so strong and resolute, that the very thought of fear taking him seemed downright alien.
"I don't want to fight." Sigurd spoke in an unsteady voice, one large hand rising to rest atop his brother's small one. "I don't want to die."
As a treacherous tear fell down the man's cheek, he opened his arms and embraced his brothers. He kissed their heads, first the younger and then the elder. A bell began to chime in a distant tower as the children stepped away and Sigurd rose. He turned his back to them, squaring his shoulders and balling his gloved hands into fists. "It's time." He spoke, and marched stiffly out into the fog.
…...
The war ended three years later, with every bit as little excitement as the start of it. Throughout it all, the royal palace remained untouched and the children all but forgot the event entirely. Hans and Frederik went about their days much as they always had, filled with tussles and laughter. The day the war ended, the children watched from a window in the hall as a garrison of soldiers marched into the courtyard and announced victory before dispersing.
Minutes later, they beheld Sigurd before them again. His face was drawn with exhaustion and in his eyes they beheld the torment of a man who had seen too much. He walked with a limp and still wore his tattered uniform, shredded by blades and bullets and caked in earth. Hans stared at the slices and holes, wondering how the man had survived. Sigurd, too, looked them up and down. His brows furrowed and tears welled between his lids. Closing his eyes, he sank to his knees and spread his arms wide. The children rushed forward into his embrace, hearts swelling with joy. Sigurd smothered them with kisses as years of torment flowed in rivers down his cheeks and hurled themselves from the depths of his lungs. The children held him tight and cried tears of their own.