You're the one who held me up, never let me fall . . .

1999

Black silk draped the throne back at the palace. Black crepe was swathed across the altar here in St. Sebastian's. Black wool, black linen, black rayon, black cotton, even black polyester covered every mourner in the church and thousands of others across the Genovian countryside. Black lace veiled her face. Black curtains blocked every window of the palace and most homes and businesses throughout Pyrus. Black leather encased her son's hand that firmly clasped her own. Black thoughts cloaked the Queen.

Try as she might, Clarisse could not stay focused on the archbishop's words. He was currently delivering a rather lengthy homily on the life of Rupert Renaldi –your husband, for God's sake, Clarisse! – but her thoughts wandered back and forth through the morbid events of the last week. There had been the terrible fight, first with her, then with Joseph. And Joseph! Still, after over a year, and even through all that happened that horrible night, he would not look at her, would not touch her, hold her . . . And then the accident – the horrible, unbelievable accident. How many trips to the hospital had she made? How many nights had she slept in a chair despite Jeanine's efforts and the doctors' aghast requests? And Joseph! The poor, dear man! He had yet to express it that she could see, but his grief and his self-condemnation was tangible, to her, if to no one else. Then working through the funeral plans – Thank you, God, for Pierre and Sebastian Motaz! – and suffering through the pathetic jockeying for position amongst Genovia's elite. And Joseph! Dark as night in dress and in mood, he had been unwilling to put himself forward, to claim the rights to which lifelong friendship and grief entitled him – a friendship that she alone, and possibly Pierre, truly understood.

Today, which should have been the culmination of the week's sorrows, the beginnings of some closure, was merely one more black day among so many. Perhaps it would help if she could actually concentrate on Rupert, work through just how she felt about his sudden death, but each time she managed to bring her thoughts captive, they escaped once again to the man behind her.

He was the lead pall bearer – Pierre had flatly insisted on that despite the fact that those mostly honorary positions had not been identified in Rupert's funeral plan. His coffin had been carried by horse drawn caisson; the pall bearers had walked the funeral route alongside. Clarisse had seen Joseph's face once as they had prepared to depart the palace gates, she and Pierre following behind the coffin and its honor guard. It was tight, drawn, and still showing vague traces of shock. She knew he would have appreciated the honor shown him had there been anyone else in the coffin other than Rupert. Even having had glimpses into Joseph's relationship with Rupert, it seemed odd; she had lost a husband, and yet Joseph was the one bereft.

Now he sat behind her, his breathing calm but so very shallow – another legacy of the past week, becoming so attuned to slight changes in a man's breathing. Which is exactly where your thoughts should be right now, not on Joseph, no matter how miserable he is. Remember your duty – your duty to Genovia.

Pierre was standing, his hand beneath her elbow drawing her up. Had she spent the entire service musing about Joseph? They knelt in turn to receive communion, and she concentrated fiercely on the wafer dissolving on her tongue, the sip of sacramental wine warming her throat. As she returned to her seat, Pierre still at her side, she could just glimpse Joseph kneeling before the altar. His mouth was open for the deacon to place the body of Christ, but his eyes never wavered from the black-draped casket containing the body of his king. Pierre squeezed her hand and caught her eye as she paused; gently, almost imperceptibly, he urged her forward. She quickly slipped into her chair and turned her gaze back to the altar. Does Pierre know? No, he couldn't possibly! He was already at the seminary when she and Joseph first admitted the depth of their feelings. He was Joseph's friend that was all, she mused, and so concerned about him as she was. Indeed, she should learn from her son, because a friend was all Joseph could ever be to her now. If it hadn't been for that horrible argument, Rupert might still be alive now . . .

Joseph cringed as the casket slammed into the crypt with oppressive finality. This mausoleum had been a project of King Christophe; Joseph recalled a history lesson here with Senor G as a boy. Early in his reign, King Christophe had commissioned the marble monstrosity and arranged for the transfer of remains of nearly five centuries worth of Renaldi rulers. Ever the optimist, and as devoted to his family's preservation as he had taught his son to be, there was room for at least another five centuries worth. In the exact center of the courtyard of the mausoleum stood a larger than life statue of King Verdadero Renaldi, founder of the royal line; his remains were buried beneath. Rumored to have been the illegitimate Spanish son of a Prussian noble, who in turn was almost certainly the bastard of a renegade Scottish clan lord, Verdadero nevertheless forged a unified nation out of a few square miles of what had been land claimed by both Spain and France. An opportunist, by Joseph's estimations, but a successful one.

Along the east wall were plaques detailing the lives and marking the location of each of Verdadero's descendants. Joseph scanned row upon row of royal resting places as the priest began the Lord's Prayer. Joseph's lips recited with the rest of the small group present without consciously registering the well-remembered words. There was King Francis, who founded Genovia's University; and there was King Chevalier, the first Genovian monarch to entertain an American President; a little ways down was King Alonso, ruler during the First World War and father to King Christophe. Joseph stopped his historical scan and turned his gaze to the engraved ceiling; he would NOT contemplate the most recent addition here. Rupert should not be dead – would not be dead had it not been for Joseph. He had been selfish and negligent, placing his own emotional quandary over his duty, and here was the result.

Despite his self-mortification, or perhaps in response to it, his gaze drifted to Clarisse. She was pale and drawn; he knew what little sleep she'd had this week had been in a chair in a hospital room. Her eyes were firmly focused on the end of Rupert's casket. Her hands were clasped tightly before her. Let it go, Joe! If she was off limits before, she's even more so now. You don't deserve her.

He had exchanged no more words with her than had been necessary this past week, and yet, when he had not been actively nursing the ache that was his best friend's permanent absence, she filled his thoughts. Thank God for Shades and Pierre or he would never have made it this far. Shades was perceptive enough to pick up on Joseph's grief, if not all the reasons for it, and had taken on the bulk of the administrative workload this week, freeing Joseph to focus exclusively on Clarisse and Philippe. Not that he provided much security, he mused, but at least he was physically there, making up in some pathetically small measure for the moment when he hadn't been. And Pierre? Well, Pierre knew; and having him know was all the comfort Joseph could ask for at this point.

He watched her place a few small items at the foot of the casket in preparation for the closing of the crypt. Strange, these remnants of ancient ceremonies that no longer carried the same meanings – and, yet, as Senor G had often remarked, they gave comfort and continuity to an otherwise confusing existence. One of the young priests assisting the archbishop stepped forward to swing the heavy door shut, but Pierre stepped forward, stopping his fellow cleric with a brief touch on the shoulder and shake of his head.

Pierre faced the crypt and carefully removed his black leather gloves, nodding as Clarisse backed ever so slightly away. No one murmured but all eyes were on the priest-prince as he stepped forward to do his final duty to his earthly father. "Au revoirs, papa. Je t'aime," he whispered. Planting his feet, he grasped the end of the door with both hands and slowly, firmly closed it. The grating of the stone echoed throughout the chamber. "Pouvoir il se repose dans la paix," he intoned.

"May he rest in peace," the assembled family, dignitaries, and priests repeated in a variety of languages.

Joseph bowed his head, but still sensed Pierre stepping over to kiss his mother softly on the cheek. He was startled when the younger man loomed in front of him, offering a handshake and a knowing clap on the shoulder. Before he was even aware it was happening, Pierre pulled him into a swift embrace. The young prince said nothing, but bestowed on Joseph a quick kiss of peace before turning to escort the Queen out of the mausoleum.

Clarisse's eyes sparkled with tightly reined in tears. Joseph quickly looked away, concerned that if he met her gaze, one or both of them might completely lose control. He hung back, waiting for the others to pass, his position of honor eschewed. She was saddened, of that there was no doubt. They had been friends, after all. And yet he felt certain that Clarisse's tears were more for him or for Pierre than they were for Rupert.

It was odd, really – she had shared his bed for many years, and yet in so many ways his own relationship with Rico had been more intimate. Even when he'd been away all those years, every experience had been tinged by their friendship – what would Rico think, how would Rico react, what would Rico have done? He had to go back in time over fifty years to find a memory that wasn't somehow connected to his friend. Even his time alone with Clarisse over the last fifteen years had been overshadowed by their respective friendships and duties to Rupert.

And in the end, of course, that had doomed it . . . and him . . .

It had been more than a year since he'd held her hand, since he'd huddled with her over a book in his library, looked deeply into her eyes, danced with her – more than a year since he'd kissed her. Once again they had crossed a barrier and reached a higher plateau in their relationship. And once again, they had silently, mutually agreed to this self-imposed distance as they each worked out how it impacted their separate relationships with Rico. Joseph had devoted himself anew to Rupert's service. Once again, the staff had taken to calling him "the King's shadow" – appropriate, he thought, given his rather uniform attire.

Rupert was clearly oblivious to the undercurrents from the previous spring's royal balls and just as clearly relieved, along with the rest of the royal family and the palace staff, that Prince Philippe had settled into a reasonably stable liaison with Lady Genevieve from Lipitz. An engagement announcement was expected almost any day.

Why Joseph found himself passing near the Queen's door that evening he wasn't sure. He'd been fighting a low grade headache all day – sinuses, he thought, as he massaged the back of his skull and pulled at his buzzing left ear. Even just a quick glimpse of Clarisse would ease that discomfort, though certainly increase frustration elsewhere. Her doors were wide open as he approached however, and the raised voices from within only escalated his headache.

"Rupert," Clarisse reprimanded firmly, "it is NOT what you think!" Joseph could easily imagine the flash in her eyes to match the snap of her voice.

"Clarisse," Rico's voice was weary, but loud, "I know what this book meant to Joe. It was his mother's! He wouldn't have given it to just anyone."

Oh, hell. His mother had died a couple of months ago, and Rico and Clarisse had both worn black as a show of support for him. Sorting through his mother's things, he'd come across a slim volume of poetry that she had always carried with her. Somehow, it had just seemed right to give it to Clarisse. Writing the personal note inside had perhaps not been the wisest course . . .

"And you can't very well dispute what he's said here, can you?" Rupert turned snide, his pride and vanity clearly affronted.

"Rupert," she pleaded softly, though more as one might corral a recalcitrant child, "you don't understand-"

"Oh don't I?" he roared, apparently even more furious at being coddled than at being betrayed. "How long have you been sleeping with him, Clarisse?"

Joseph stood rooted to his post in the hall, relieved that the security station at the end of the corridor was momentarily unmanned – though he would address that in the morning. He should go. He really should go and quietly close the doors before he left. He should go. He should pack his bags and leave without even saying good-bye. He should go.

"I know we haven't had much of a physical relationship for a long time, Clarisse," Rupert was fuming, "but that doesn't give you leave to go around screwing everyone else!"

And so Joseph went. Not down the hall, not out the front door, not back to sea, but straight into the lion's den that was the Queen's private suite to beard the great royal lion of Genovia himself.

"That's way out of line, Rico, and you well know it," he growled menacingly. Joseph shot a quick appraising glance to Clarisse, who turned to look out the window.

"And here he is – my friend!" Rico bellowed. "My bosom, true friend who has never deserted me! He's just screwed my wife behind my back!" Rico advanced on him, and Joseph quickly pulled the doors closed behind him.

"I have done no such thing," Joseph answered calmly. He kept his hands tight at his sides, determined to outlast Rico's outburst. True enough, in his dreams he had done just what Rico said, but he was damned if he'd let Clarisse be blamed for something that had never happened in the flesh.

"Then explain this, Joe!" he shouted, brandishing the book in his face. "Explain why you would write a love poem to my wife. What right have you to-"

"I love her," he said simply. "And you've been drinking," he added as he ducked to avoid the clumsy swing Rico threw at him. He was surprised at just how easy the words had been to say. Of course, he'd had little choice to say anything else at this point. The poem had been tastefully graphic and filled with frustrated longing.

"You love her?" Rico stopped, stunned, and then pivoted to eye Clarisse. "And you?" he asked her plaintively.

When she nodded sharply, he spun from the window to the door, looking from his wife to his best friend. "Hell, that's even worse," he said as he slumped into a chair.

"Rupert," Clarisse whispered, her voice broken by unshed tears. She reached out a hand to brush his shoulder.

"No," he spat curtly. "No!" he roared, surging out of the chair. "I can't-"

"Rico," Joseph began softly.

"Out of my way, Joe!" he snarled, shoving Joseph aside. "I'm going down to the track with Philippe." He turned and gave Clarisse a withering look. "My son knows all about love and betrayal. We should have plenty to talk about." He stormed through the doorway, pausing only to shoot a hurt-filled look at Joseph.

"I'm sorry," Joseph whispered as soon as Rico's steps faded away. "I never should have written that."

"No, you shouldn't," she agreed, smiling bleakly, "but I rather enjoyed it." She turned to look at him, her tears beginning to trickle down her ivory skin. "Joseph, it's been so very long . . ."

"Clarisse, I . . ." His voice was husky with pent up love and desire. He coughed to clear his throat and again rubbed at his buzzing left ear – a warning he should have heeded earlier. "We can't; you know we can't."

"Maybe now we can," she said hopefully, though with little enthusiasm.

"What was that he was saying about Philippe?" he asked, moving to stand behind her at the window. She was close enough to touch and yet he dared not.

"Oh," she snorted, "Lady Genevieve eloped with her gardener this afternoon. Philippe isn't taking it very well."

"And now, neither is Rupert," Joseph added glumly. His fingers ached at not reaching for her hand.

"The timing is unfortunate," she admitted.

"And so Philippe thinks he can drive away his troubles?" Joseph glanced out the window just in time to see the Crown Prince spin a 360 in front of the palace. Rico jogged down the steps, nodding approvingly and motioning for Philippe to give him the driver's seat. Philippe stepped out, his breath frosty in the cool March night.

"It's what he does." Clarisse shook her head. Her hair almost brushed his chin. He inhaled her scent and almost leaned into her.

"He comes by it honestly," Joseph assured her, pulling at his buzzing ear. "That's what Rico did all those years. Whenever things got too tough up here, he would run down to me and Senor G. Philippe's no different. When he's afraid to face the problem, he runs."

"Well, where do you expect Rupert to run to now?" she snapped, turning to face him, eyes flashing. "You're part of the problem!"

"Do you feel better yelling at me?" he asked pointedly. He wanted desperately to take her in his arms and promise that everything would be all right, but he couldn't – and it wouldn't. "I don't blame you for this, Clarisse. I've loved you for far longer than-"

"Are you trying to make me feel guilty about that, too?"

Her words hung in the air between them, the silence left in their wake gravid. With a horrendous squeal and screech and crash, the silence broke into startled thunder.

"Stay here," he ordered, running out of the room, but she was barely a step behind him.

He dashed down the family hall and through the palace to the front entrance, darting past curious night shift staff who clutched at him seeking answers and bleary-eyed day staff wondering if they were under some sort of attack. Shaking them all off, he raced outside, all the while feverishly rattling instructions into his mouthpiece. His right ear hummed with acknowledgements from his staff while his left ear buzzed still more loudly. By the time he reached the twisted remains of Philippe's Maserati, Shades was running beside him.

The palace emergency services team had arrived, but Joseph wondered dismally if they'd even be needed. The car had collided off the garden wall; he could see the long gash across the stones and a corresponding scrape along the passenger side of the car. It had evidently flipped and rolled, denting the roof horribly, and then caromed into a large oak tree. All this Joseph processed on the run, part of him operating on automatic in the face of a security breach; the other part focused solely on Rico's bloody head, which he could dimly see slumped against the steering wheel.

Shoving an emergency technician roughly aside, he wrenched open the battered driver's door. Rico was bleeding in half a dozen places; his head seemed to be twisted oddly. His eyes flickered to his left and Joseph looked across to see Philippe hunched against the passenger door, blood trickling from his head to smear against the inside of the window.

"Oh, God," Rico whispered hoarsely. "That was stupid." His eyes flicked back to settle on Joseph. "I'm sorry, Joe," he croaked. "Tell Clarisse I'm sorry."

His last breath rattled in his chest as he slowly exhaled. The emergency tech yanked him back, shouting, "Senor del Lago, please!" Another tech was already yanking open the passenger door and carefully easing Philippe onto a stretcher.

Activity swirled around him. The emergency crew raced to revive Rico, continuing even as they loaded his body into the waiting ambulance, refusing to admit defeat. A second ambulance had just arrived for Philippe, its lights still flashing an eerie staccato and its sirens wailing. Security staff – where had they all been when both men had climbed into the same vehicle! --held back dozens of curious onlookers. Eager, and yet surprisingly somber press crews raced down the drive from the main gate. Clarisse slipped past him, radiating shock, hurt, betrayal, and guilt. After being firmly but respectfully denied her request to sit with her son, she just as firmly booted a medical tech from the front seat and joined the driver for the trip to the hospital in Pyrus. Shades was shouting instructions into his mouthpiece; Joseph could see his assistant's lips moving, but couldn't hear the words over the sirens and the droning buzz in his ear. Black security escort cars pulled up around the fringes of the growing crowd. The earth continued to spin on its axis, but Joseph stood rooted at its center, wondering why no one else seemed to notice that the axis had shifted – that the world was no longer the same.

"Joe," Shades's voice was low and intense. "I've got us a car." The younger man tugged him toward a waiting vehicle.

Coming to himself, Joseph shrugged him off and followed Clarisse's lead, pulling the med tech from the front of Rico's ambulance just as it started to roll forward.