|Thanksgiving Drabble Shipment #1: Antiquities
||[Nov. 27th, 2008|11:46 pm]
(lives between pages)
Not Much to Ask
When winter term broke in celebration of Our Lord's birth, there was out of Wittenberg, invariably, some considerable mass exodus. Hamlet had tired of the yearly summons home long ago, but this year he was, by hook or by crook, determined to make his sojourn in icy grey Elsinore bearable.
It was, he hoped, not too much to ask of one from such simple means as Horatio.
"Go with you, sir? Where?"
"Home, of course. Where else would my father hold such court as befits the season?"
In years to come, in moments of despair, Hamlet was certain he'd need only think of the dawning joy in his dear friend's disbelieving eyes. It was as if he, too, had been dreading the absence to come.
"If it would not overmuch trouble His Majesty - "
"I assure you, it is no trouble to me."
Nor would it ever be, he knew: not here at the first, and never, no, never at the last.
Aude had written them letters. Dozens. One corner of her hard-won writing table was full of them, a neat tumble of parchment scrolls sealed with green wax. Her father said that he could not direct them, not where Charles-le-roi had taken his army. No courier dared to brave those passes. They held perils dark and unnameable.
And so she sat in her chamber and wrote missive after epistle, one intended for two. The marriage contract, she suspected, was collecting as much dust as her scribbling. And all for what? Truth be told, she'd fear the children got of such a brute.
No fool am I, thought Aude, trimming down her quill. I know my brother's heart.