Snow Child [5/5]
anonymous
February 11 2010, 01:08:33 UTC
His king had been ill for too long. While Sweden was not forbidden from her chambers, he kept himself away, as to not terrify the clucking flock that protectively gathered around her. When he visited her, at her bequest, he first noted she had lost far too much weight; she had never tended towards plumpness but now she looked like a wraith, her eyes too big for her skull. Their blackness only made the sockets seem deeper, hollower. He swallowed down his sudden unease at the disquieting visage.
Christina had been reading but she set down the book and put her hand over its cover. He sat by her bed and waited to be addressed.
“I will abdicate,” she said, without preamble.
He did not show any signs of surprise, noting the hard set of her mouth and the resolve in her eyes. She looked at him, seeming to wait for any protest but his expression did not so much as flicker.
“Women should not reign,” she said, with surprisingly little bitterness or indictment. She opened her mouth to continue but then she tightened her lips.
“Who then?” He was not sure how philosophical the question was meant to be, but she gave him a worldly answer, to his relief.
“Charles,” she replied. “We were intended to share the throne together, after all. But he shall sit alone and much joy should it bring him.”
“Why?” he asked. And he wondered if his voice would crack at the end.
She met his eyes and her expression softened and saddened. “Sweden.” She reached out with her thin hand and dared to touch his shoulder.
“He will serve you well,” she said, quietly. “I told you that I would not abandon you.”
Sweden’s jaw tightened. “Y’r my King,” he said, stiffly. “Y’r born to it.” He did not mean to be so harsh, so cold, but his words came out bitter and biting anyways. She would only hear the disapproval, not the pain behind it.
His eyes fell onto the book she had left uncovered and he felt his blood run cold at the crucifix and rosary that rested against its cover. Christina did not defend herself or offer excuses.
“You see,” she replied simply.
Outside, the snow continued to fall and the wind began to howl.
…
Once, kings did not leave their thrones until dead. And yet they had a ceremony, which struck Sweden as far too unnecessary. But the actions of kings could never be quiet, unnoticed. That was not the way of the world.
He watched mutely as the assembled lords took each piece of her regalia, trying not to think of scavenging birds. Christina kept her head held as high as ever, as the orb and scepter and cloak were relinquished and accepted. Last came the crown, but Per Brahe stood stock still in his place and did not step forward. As the lords milled and started to murmur, each one wondering what was to be done, Sweden took one step towards her.
Christina stopped him with a single gesture of her hand. She lifted both her hands to her head, grasped the heavy, glittering crown and lifted it from her dangled dark curls. But then, she turned to her former kingdom, the crown glittering with a thousand points of light in her hands against the pure white of her gown, and she extended her hands to him.
Her eyes held the tears that she refused to shed. She did not whisper her apologies but he did not need to hear the words. His gloved hands took the crown and held it gently, with far less effort than she took. Her hands did not linger on his.
Christina turned to the room and she spoke falteringly. Sweden did not hear the words; his world only consisted of the crown in his hands, glittering and cold, and her slender, slight figure, as ephemeral as snow in summer sunshine.
He exhaled slowly as he let her go on her own way, her form drifting on the wind to other lands and other tasks. His hands gripped the crown, but not too hard. He did not know his own strength, and he did not want to break fleeting, fragile things.
Christina had been reading but she set down the book and put her hand over its cover. He sat by her bed and waited to be addressed.
“I will abdicate,” she said, without preamble.
He did not show any signs of surprise, noting the hard set of her mouth and the resolve in her eyes. She looked at him, seeming to wait for any protest but his expression did not so much as flicker.
“Women should not reign,” she said, with surprisingly little bitterness or indictment. She opened her mouth to continue but then she tightened her lips.
“Who then?” He was not sure how philosophical the question was meant to be, but she gave him a worldly answer, to his relief.
“Charles,” she replied. “We were intended to share the throne together, after all. But he shall sit alone and much joy should it bring him.”
“Why?” he asked. And he wondered if his voice would crack at the end.
She met his eyes and her expression softened and saddened. “Sweden.” She reached out with her thin hand and dared to touch his shoulder.
“He will serve you well,” she said, quietly. “I told you that I would not abandon you.”
Sweden’s jaw tightened. “Y’r my King,” he said, stiffly. “Y’r born to it.” He did not mean to be so harsh, so cold, but his words came out bitter and biting anyways. She would only hear the disapproval, not the pain behind it.
His eyes fell onto the book she had left uncovered and he felt his blood run cold at the crucifix and rosary that rested against its cover. Christina did not defend herself or offer excuses.
“You see,” she replied simply.
Outside, the snow continued to fall and the wind began to howl.
…
Once, kings did not leave their thrones until dead. And yet they had a ceremony, which struck Sweden as far too unnecessary. But the actions of kings could never be quiet, unnoticed. That was not the way of the world.
He watched mutely as the assembled lords took each piece of her regalia, trying not to think of scavenging birds. Christina kept her head held as high as ever, as the orb and scepter and cloak were relinquished and accepted. Last came the crown, but Per Brahe stood stock still in his place and did not step forward. As the lords milled and started to murmur, each one wondering what was to be done, Sweden took one step towards her.
Christina stopped him with a single gesture of her hand. She lifted both her hands to her head, grasped the heavy, glittering crown and lifted it from her dangled dark curls. But then, she turned to her former kingdom, the crown glittering with a thousand points of light in her hands against the pure white of her gown, and she extended her hands to him.
Her eyes held the tears that she refused to shed. She did not whisper her apologies but he did not need to hear the words. His gloved hands took the crown and held it gently, with far less effort than she took. Her hands did not linger on his.
Christina turned to the room and she spoke falteringly. Sweden did not hear the words; his world only consisted of the crown in his hands, glittering and cold, and her slender, slight figure, as ephemeral as snow in summer sunshine.
He exhaled slowly as he let her go on her own way, her form drifting on the wind to other lands and other tasks. His hands gripped the crown, but not too hard. He did not know his own strength, and he did not want to break fleeting, fragile things.
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