Fracture 8
A small redhead stood before an intimidating doorway— so tall that it easily tripled his height, with gates so heavy one must use a small system of cranks simply to open it. With deliberate hands he adjusted a golden clasp on his red-trimmed black coat, dusted a non-existent spec of dust from the simple but smart breeches, straighten a perfect tricorne hat, and finally nodded to the guards to open the door.
Heine was a practical man, and once he had made the decision, it became unexpectedly easy to follow-through on all the preparations. The palace had provided a huge accommodation for the king's companion, and it had been impossible to wriggle out of the formal clothings.
Heine did not mind as much as he thought he would. To some extent, he had said yes to the offer having already prepared to have to be "elevated" to befit a king.
Tonight everything was planned, carefully controlled from the whole proceedings to the tiniest detail of his own mannerisms. Everyone was informed, regardless of relevance, of each and every detail. There would be no surprises, and there would be no room for misunderstanding.
Still Heine fretted inside. Each step he took towards the twin throne felt resounding, even though it was completely drowned out by the crowd within the large ballroom.
Then it registered for Heine in a crash: twin thrones. Not a slightly lesser seat off to the side as they had discussed. An unplanned detail. A knot tied itself painfully in Heine's stomach. But he kept stepping forward, striving for an unruffled appearance.
Viktor, of course, is not yet here. The king has the privilege of making an appearance last.
Heine maintained a neutral expression throughout the procession, completely ignoring the cheering and a general loud din around him. The princes greeted him at the throne, warmly, and the crowd responded in what Heine hoped was a positive reaction.
The crowd was saying things he could not comprehend— fragments like 'estranged friends' and 'the light of the kingdom' and 'wrongly accused' and 'lost love.' It was as if these people knows who he really was, as if they knew what had happened all those years ago, now only buried in the old records. Although, that must not be true. Heine refused to let himself consider it.
He sat down on the right hand throne, and the crowd continued for another several seconds before quieting to a calm sea of conversations, though they did not disperse back to their tables.
They were waiting for the king.
Heine felt even smaller than usual, ensconced in this tall velvet chair, with the four princes flanking him. At the very least the crowd has turned its attention back to the large double doors and away from the Royal Tutor.
Heine let himself breathe the first full breath since the day began, only to tense up again when the herald started announcing Viktor's long and decorous titles. It took everyone's breath away just to listen to it. Then, as soon as it stopped and even before the door even started opening, people erupted into cheer.
Then a soldier engaged the mechanism and the large wooden doors slowly started to swing inwards.
Viktor stood there smartly, in a slightly more decorated version of his usual blue coat and black breeches. The clothings were simpler than many of those the crowd wore— no Rhinegraves, no elaborate embroidery, no laces nor frills— but his eternally young complexion, lightest blond hair, and emerald eyes proclaimed to anyone that cared to look who this man was. Viktor hardly needed the golden crown pressing primly atop his golden locks.
Heine stood as Viktor started to walk his way, descending to the bottom of the dais to welcome the king as the princes has welcomed him. It was curious to think of himself ranked between these people. More than a prince and less than a king. It was a strange place to be.
The Royal Tutor did not have any time to ponder the notion, as Viktor quickly made his way across the huge ballroom, drew up in front of Heine with a smile, and gave him a ceremonial embrace. Heine stepped back as Viktor then embraced all of his sons in turn.
"I have prepared a gift for your majesty, if it pleases you," Heine enunciated clearly, pitching his voice to carry. This, also, was planned.
"It would please me greatly," said Viktor into a frighteningly quieting room, "let us see the Royal Tutor's gift."
Heine felt the riveted attention on him, and felt the beginnings of sweat pricking at the back of his neck. This was nothing like teaching, and the impact of his words now, he realized, could affect not only the life of a few students, but probably most of the orphans in the generations to come.
Heine gripped the edge of his coat to hide the slight trembling of his fingertips, and turned to a guard behind the throne, nodding.
Several moments later five young people dressed in ordinary but clean and formal clothes marched in— three boys and two girls of about the princes' ages. Heine knew each of them by name, and could locate in his mind the exact location of their letters of gratitude within the large box that he keeps all the sentimental items from his students.
"For years I have served your church in caring for and educating those in this country born without the privileges of a full and functional household. My students and I have no wealth nor holdings to speak of, and could only offer our services to your royal cause."
He went on to describe the qualifications of each student— rivaling all of the princes' and surpassing many of the academics in the city.
Heine felt vulnerable, talking like this, with attention carefully paid to each and every one of his words. He wasn't worried about Viktor— most people would, but not Heine. Viktor was one man, and one who he can argue and reason with. What he worried about was the large gathering itself.
These are orphans. He himself was an orphan. And these aristocrats has spent their entire lives despising and looking down upon street orphans. This, he knew, was not only a ceremonial occasion. It was a plan— their plan— to further improve the standing of the under-privileged in this kingdom.
If nothing goes wrong, they might even be able to get some at the church adopted into good families.
Heine finished his considerable speech, and Viktor warmly approved, as they had discussed before. The murmur in the room was a constant buzz, but never loud enough to obscure the words the two of them say. The crowd, they both could tell, were becoming interested.
Then Viktor said, "Every man, even the the king, is only as great as his teacher. I am fortunate to have met you, all those years ago."
The crowd grew silent, then bursted into a rumor-mongering energy.
It's true, they were saying, everything we heard was true.
But what has they heard?
Heine tried intently to ask the question with his eyes, but Viktor seemed determined to ignore him. He was turning, talking to a retainer. The retainer rushed off a back door somewhere, and Viktor turned to talk to another person, who approached his orphan students and respectfully invite them outside. They would, Heine hoped, be shown to their rooms.
And then Viktor simply looked benevolently over the crowd, never making eye-contact with Heine. When the room quiets again, he said, "I approve of your gift, Herr Wittgenstein. Now if you would be so good as to accept mine."
The retainer from earlier came back with a dark red velvet box, elaborately decorated. To everyone's surprise, Viktor took it himself, and came to stand in front of the redhead.
For a moment it seemed like the world fell away around Heine, and he was once again in the nightmare. Trying to approach the inapproachable. Reaching out, expecting that glass wall, that terrifying fracture of the earth with liquid fire staring back up at him.
Viktor had opened the small box, and inside was a perfect golden watch.
Frozen mid-reach, Heine whispered, "Is this—
"The very same," Viktor replied when Heine's voice caught.
"Where did you find it?"
"The watch has a royal crest," Viktor shrugged, "I have eyes and ears. But beyond that, Heine, what do you think of the… improvement?"
The watchface was familiar, but altogether different. The roman numbers and markers and hands all looked the same, but the gold tarnished by a decade of constant use was instead polished to shining. And above all was the glass, the clear, unmarred glass without even a single imperfection.
"How did you manage to fix it? Replacing the glass? Melting the pieces back together? Transparent intermediary material?"
"Does it matter?"
It didn't matter, and Heine knew it. The fact was, Viktor had the watch fixed, and to all appearances the fracture was gone. And he is giving it back to Heine as a gift.
"This is yours, Heine," Viktor said. The room died away. Everything turned dusk-dark.
Please take it, Heine. Sell it for the orphans.
"Will you… accept it?" In the real world, Viktor asked uncertainty.
Heine could hear a clink of it on cobble stone. The royal crest! It's the prince's. Kidnapper!
Heine wanted to shut his eyes and his ears and curl up into a ball. He felt like he was way overreacting this— and could not stop.
Shoot him!
Viktor has always been like this. Too kind, too generous, always giving. And Heine hated receiving, at first, then eventually came to fear it.
But was it ever possible not to accept something from one's king? Is it ever possible to deny these small sentiments from someone you love?
The presence of the onlookers suddenly felt too oppressive for Heine. Short of disappearing into thin air right now, he wanted to be out of here, but that wasn't possible either. Instead, he smiled, rigidify his shaking fingers, and knelt to accept the gift.
The echoes of accusation wouldn't leave the confines of his mind.
When his small fingers ran over the smooth glass, something felt missing in Heine. He felt like he should be happy. He felt like he should be grateful. But Viktor couldn't have known the significance of that watch to Heine, nor what it really means to erase that fracture as if it had never existed, could he?
He gazed at the beautifully crafted golden watch, then up at the crowd. The noise seemed to fade back into being around him. He slowly stood, expecting the scorn, the outrage, the false accusations.
But the crowd was applauding, and Viktor was smiling triumphantly.
The room was surprisingly warm.
Throughout the party, people would come around and approached him, asking about his unusual career and education, awe in their listening faces. They ask his opinions about important things, and they seriously listened to him. Nobody called him a child. Nobody called him a lowly peasant or an orphan. People even suggested he writes books, autobiographies, academic papers. Some aristocratic families asked if he could take on their son as another student.
The evening was a whirl of conversations upon conversations, more than Heine thought possible in even a lifetime.
By the end, Heine realized, he had started being genuinely happy without even knowing it.
"How do you like the gift?"
"It was a little unfamiliar to look at, but a major upgrade. I appreciate it."
"Not that gift," Viktor said, "the other one. The real one."
"Which one?"
"Acceptance from the kingdom. It was what you have always deserved. Did you enjoy it?"