[Open Post: A Flower That Blooms but Once]

[mobled_queen]

There's a woman walking slowly through the gardens of the Mansion: red-haired and beautiful, even in her fifties; the sun strikes fire from the emerald necklace at her throat and the flyaway strands of her hair. There's a warmth in her eyes that invites you in, that says she could be a confidante and a friend--and, too, a shrewdness that seems to see through you as though you were a clear lake. She touches each late bloom and spray of tawny grass with careful hands.

A part of her knows that this is only a temporary visitation, more than a dream and less than a miracle. She wears a queer little pocketwatch on a chain around her neck, and it ticks down the hours until she must depart again.

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[mobled_queen]

"Oh, you're wicked," she says appreciatively. And then, as though it had arisen naturally (and not as though she had in fact been hoping to have an opportunity to bring it up all along), she muses, "Do you know ... I don't think I've ever danced with you."

[wickedwit]

Claudius doesn't miss that natural-seeming turn, but it only makes him laugh and blush at the thought that Gertrude could have ever waited to dance with him. "It would've been the brightest memory I have of Denmark, if I were ever bold enough to ask you. But I never was, so no," he says, with a sidelong smile, "I don't believe we've danced."

[mobled_queen]

"Then let's fix that immediately." She rises from the bench, moving toward a small, clear patch in the middle of the greenhouse and offering her arms.

[wickedwit]

The last time Claudius dreamed of dancing with Gertrude, he was hoping to dance at their own wedding. He likely told himself it wasn't possible otherwise, that the world had to change in too many ways. Claudius could always convince himself that something world-changing had to happen, before he could pursue any happiness.

To be fair, worlds had to change for him and Gertrude to be in this greenhouse together, as two people who love each other. There's no hesitation -- Claudius rises after Gertrude like a planet pulled into her orbit, and asks, "What dance?"

[mobled_queen]

"Whatever dance lets me hold you the closest," she says, and pulls him into her arms. She's a tall woman--just slightly taller than he is, in heels--and with her arms around him, her eyes on him, the rose-and-musk scent of her perfume caught in her hair, it's easy for her to curtain off the rest of the world. She hums, searching a moment for a tune, and then finds the melody of an old song from their days in Denmark.

How should I your true love know
From another one?

[wickedwit]

There's no world or worlds he'd rather be in, than this one in Gertrude's arms. He links a hand with hers, running his thumb along the back of her knuckles, and listens to her hum, lets it be a sound to dwell in. Like a house shape he knows, so he can walk the halls without looking, moving his feet to feel out their dance's first steps.

[mobled_queen]

Rays of sunlight catch in drifting motes as they dance; they burnish the golden lights in Gertrude's red, red hair. Her cheek is warm against his, apple-round with smiling. The skin over her knuckles is starting to go papery-soft.

For only a moment, let there be an orchestra. Let there be soft strings swelling, and the low wistful voice of a clarinet--let there be a shimmer of chimes, a pulsing drumbeat, the distant echo of someone singing. Let there be another voice to carry the melody, so that Gertrude has hers to whisper, "I'll always love you. Be happy, Claudius. Be well."

And then there is only sunlight in Claudius's arms, and the last soft tick of a clock winding down.

[wickedwit]

It isn't long enough. It isn't long enough, but how long would be? If all his plans transpired, if he proposed, if he held his own wedding dance to follow a funeral -- he and Gertrude could have whole months, even a year. But they'd be in a story with only one ending. His brother's ghost would never let him live, and he could never live without being haunted, without the curse of Cain hanging over him. For Cain, that curse meant he could never garden -- he could never grow seeds from the earth that drank the blood he spilled.

It is a little on the nose. Claudius half-laughs, half-sobs at the thought, and holds himself. No blood was ever spilled by his murder. If it had been, it would be in another garden -- not this, not the Eden that Gertrude left him in. He can't believe he ever meant to lie to her, like the monstrous bridegroom in a fairy tale who keeps his true face hidden. Even in fairy tales, the bride would always look.

Gertrude could find Claudius wherever he hid, since he was a child. She could see through his every disguise, since he learned to wear masks. She knew his sin, with no need for confession, and she did more than absolve him. She loved him. She believed herself freed by him.

That slow, soft ticking marked the end of their time together -- but he'll miss it. He'll miss it, and he'll cherish more the watch he has, gleaming silver on his wrist, still carrying the time forward.