Fill the Throne

Ruben and Lucretia were not the picture of poise and calm, as they waited in the palace’s personal wing reserved for the king.

The hallway in front of his personal quarters was something ingrained into both their memories, and what would normally be hallowed grounds for the common folk, and something impossible to envision, was merely something they had grown up all their childhood, which cared not for the elaborate paintings that lined the walls, the finely lacquered wood furniture they’d put their grubby hands on, or the plush seating they would stand atop.

Memories of laughter, of servants doing their best to corral their youthful exuberance, of growing up.

Now, two adults, sitting side by side, stewing in anxious fear as they sat in two familiar chairs just outside their father’s bedroom. Ruben was hunched over, elbows on his knees as he kneaded his worried fingers in front of his mouth. Lucretia was stock still and sitting stiff, gaze blank as her mind ran through thousands of worst-case scenarios.

It seemed no matter the year, they would always dread being in those chairs, whether it was to receive a chiding, or unhappy news.

Eventually those white double doors were thrown open, and a number of doctors and finely-dressed officials filed out. Ruben kept the curse in his mind, even if he hated the idea that an ailing man had to be turned into an exhibit, king or no king.

A bespectacled, portly man in a white coat turned from the exiting herd to face the siblings with a gracious bow, and the pair nearly scrambled to their feet in worry.

“Your highnesses,” The man said with a relaxed cadence of a man who had just left a cursory check-up. It made the siblings relax just the slightest.

“Doctor Torrier, is our father well?” Ruben quickly asked.

“Be frank; I want the truth rather than courtesies,” Lucretia added, warning tinging her voice as always.

It was a familiar tone for the doctor, who nodded in understanding. “Have no fear. Your father’s condition is stable and shows no sign of deterioration. The current prognosis is that it is a momentary weakness, brought about by overwork. As a precaution, we’ve set up a few tools to keep the air fresh, and to monitor his breathing. And of course, the servants will be attending to his needs.”

A second, broader, mustachioed man, who had been stuffed into a uniform brimming with medals, approached to back up the doctor’s claims.

“His highness Albrecht has been troubled with reports of under-performing harvests. He’s been busy trying to plan around the fallout with various ministers for days. He always kept waving off our requests for him to rest, and I fear it caught up to him all at once.”

Ruben and Lucretia both looked partially mollified by the news for now, though the princess was still turning the thoughts over in her head.

“Vels,” she said, and the mustachioed man straightened at the address, “The court and ministers will be handling daily affairs while he’s indisposed?”

“Yes, your highness,” the distinguished officer said with a respectful nod. “Though some things in the planning stage will be delayed until the king is well enough to resume duties.”

“Your father is awake and aware right now, he just needs rest,” Torrier added. “I’m certain he’d want to see you both. Just try not to excite him too much. I’m sure you both know how much of a workaholic he is.”

With those final words, a manservant opened the door and let both prince and princess in.

Despite the worrying news they had received, Albrecht Ambrose Arnis looked at ease, the sheets of his four-poster bed, which took up only a little bit of his large private chambers, tucked up to under his armpits. If anything, he looked grumpy and a little put-off by the need for bed rest, while the table nearby clicked and tittered with a few golden gadgets. One was a small spinning fan that did its worth on the air. Another wobbled from side to side like a metronome, measuring something else of the king.

But as Ruben and Lucretia made their way to his bedside, Albrecht’s vitality couldn’t hide the gray of time eating into his hair and face more severely than it should have. Kingship was a chronic condition, simply put.

“I’m so sorry to have made the two of you run down here for nothing,” the older man sighed, but Ruben was already on his knees, hands clutching his father’s.

“The king collapsing is not ‘nothing’. It is everything for everyone,” Ruben empathetically said. “Let us worry about you while we have the opportunity to.”

Albrecht smiled. “And have your studies been well?”

They talked for some time like that, Ruben catching up on the time lost with his father while they were busy with separate things. Lucretia sat to the side, merely watching and occasionally letting loose a mild ribbing to annoy her brother.

The night wore on, and eventually Albrecht gave his son a stern look – a kingly look.

“Ruben, would you permit me to be alone with your sister for a little while?”

The prince understood, and looked over his shoulder at Lucretia, who had been waiting all this time.

“Of course,” Ruben answered before squeezing his father’s hands one more time as a reminder. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

Ruben filed out, and the room was much quieter as the two rulers held their own private court.

“How have things been for you?” Albrecht tried to say congenially, but his daughter’s gaze was as focused and cold as ever.

“Troublesome,” she said as she moved to one of the windows and looked out into the darkness filling the inner courtyard of the palace. “We’re on the cusp of something and I’m trying to understand what it is.”

As she turned to look back at her father, her expression was apologetic – to a limit.

“Your condition is ill-timed. Turmen is still building momentum against us, and we can’t have our neighbours see our government floundering for an instant.”

“I’ve already ordered the ministers to contrive excuses for my non-appearance. Well, ‘excuses’, I’ll probably still be busy trying to manage these grain policies and trade deals while I’m in bed.”

“You really mustn’t.”

“Bah!” Albrecht whined, before he firmed up again. “Those men you mentioned, the ones Ruben detained at Mountain Maw. Have we confirmed they’re Turmen operatives?”

“Turmen, yes. Operatives, no,” Lucretia answered. “For now the guards can only get them to admit to trespassing and smuggling. I’m certain they were sent on deliberate orders, however. A deniable asset wouldn’t know what to look for.”

She looked up into the air, thinking for a moment, before adding, “I might pay one of them a personal visit.”

“Lucretia, don’t get fixated on punishing them,” her father warned, rising slightly from his bed for emphasis. “Open accusation will only stir the pot further.”

“How long can we put off hostilities?” the princess grumbled, for once bodily throwing herself into a chair near her father, arms splayed against the arm rests, and legs crossing under her dress so she slouched in a manner unbefitting her position. “Turmen is waiting for precisely these opportunities, father, when we inadvertently bare our necks. As long as you're ill, we are exposed. It’s worse still, that there are rumblings of insurrection.”

“The Guard can handle any talk that rumbles too much,” Albrecht reminded her daughter, who merely clucked her tongue.

“It’s ridiculous. At least when we wiped out the Sant-Lumieres generations ago, we became heroes for it. I had hoped we would have lasted a few more generations first before our popularity swayed. What grounds do they have for burning us in effigy? It’s not like we turn people into monsters to brutalize everyone and everything.”

“Lucretia,” Albrecht warned, shaking his head. “One problem at a time. The guards will keep the peace for now. If you must insist on worrying about Turmen, be discreet and trust the ministers. We all know we have bothersome neighbours. Don’t throw your weight around or you’ll just feed into the local problems you mentioned.”

The princess deflated. “Yes, father.”

Even so, her mind still wandered. Turmen. Sant-Lumieres. It didn’t matter. Her future lay in her father’s footsteps, and the peace their lineage had won by defeating the tyrants of old would be upheld, even if it meant wiping out a few more nascent tyrants.

Elsewhere, Ruben sat in an out of the way meeting room – one of the many little places where diplomats and clerks would meet and discuss matters. For now, the prince was alone as he sat on one of the couches and waited with the ceiling light turned low.

A knock on the door made the prince turn in the direction of the noise, and waited patiently as a palace guard entered and bowed, before silently offering a folder to him.

The transaction was quick and silent, and Ruben set to work reading the documents within, the topmost was emblazoned with “Mountain Maw Temple Report”.

After a few minutes of glancing through the lines, Ruben snapped the folder shut.

“I have to take this to Cerise…”