An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
London flourished.
Makt followed.
In hindsight, Holland Vosijk would be able to see as much, would be able to see the monumental improvement of the lack of a Dane monarch. Later, he would grasp the full benefits of his well-placed legislation, even hand, and reasonable mind.
Much later, he would understand he had the full support of the London city guard from the moment Athos and Astrid departed for Arnes; from the moment he emerged from the servant’s stairs dripping wet and shoeless. That the revolutionaries who had once derided his presence and questioned his information had been earning him approval in the markets, the taverns, the thin alleys, the smoggy streets of the Kosik. That his reform efforts during the Danes’ absence had strengthened their claims and little Nasi’s presence at his side during his frequent trips into the proper had sealed the deal.
Months later, nearly a year, would pass before the Someday King knew the scale of what he had accomplished, what he had earned. The breadth and depth of his citizen’s approval, the booming industry flushing the country with new growth, the way the city seemed to clean itself from the inside out. His blindness was deliberate, purposeful, intended to steer him from the trappings of pride and a falsified sense of security. It kept him working diligently for the people of Makt -- his people -- alone.
One day, the Someday King would learn he had indeed saved Makt.
For now, Astrid Dane still lived.
She did not know of Holland’s ascension to the white throne. She did not yet know of her brother’s untimely demise at his favorite’s hand. She did not know how the palace guard had insisted he be left to float and rot in the bath water for days, until flies began to gather and the bile-sweet smell carried into the corridors. She didn’t know he was dumped into a shallow grave, haphazardly dug just outside the city gates, in the middle of the night; how London had turned out in full to tear down their statues, smash them to bits, and lined up to spit on the fragments one by one.
For now, she still lived. Oblivious to how Makt had turned a corner in her absence, happily installed in her plush rooms in Arnes, complaining in letter after letter to her twin brother about how they could have conquered the First London if the war had continued a little longer.
And Holland, desperate to maintain the ruse, replied to every single one in the guise of the man he had murdered. As far as Astrid Dane knew, her beloved twin brother was alive and well at home, making arrangements for her return in a month’s time.
A month that was passing far too quickly.
[special thanks to @ashintheairlikesnow, @casualnepotism, @muffinworry, @pinkcupboardwitch, and @museintheclouds for the moral support to finish this one off and always bringing a smile to my face. You all are brilliant and I appreciate your more than words alone could say.]
