The Heavens Lour Upon You

"The voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries"

August 28th

Cornwall dropped his shoulders as he crossed the threshold of Middleham House. Had he followed his heart, he might have disappeared forever, but something else told him it was time to come home. The first meetings with both Regan and Kent promised to be, at best, unpleasant, and he hoped to avoid them this evening. So far, his luck had held at the gate, by the stables, and all the way across the courtyard. All that stood between him and a quiet night were two staircases.

To his disdain, he nearly collided with a young maidservant. He had timed his arrival to coincide with the servants' evening meal. At first, he told himself the sudden wave of terror on her face was simply fear of a reprimand for cutting through the family rooms on her way to the kitchen. When the maid dropped into a ridiculously deep curtsy, his suspicions rose sharply. "Welcome home, my lord. How very good to see you again."

"Yes," he muttered, "I'm sure it's an absolute delight."

"Oh, it is - for all of us," a tight voice interrupted. "It has hardly been the same without you in the house, husband." Regan sent the maid running with one cold glare. "You were supposed to be gone for five days."

"I was detained."

"For three months?"

"Regan, please." Cornwall felt the life draining out of him like blood from a gash. Strangers were so much easier to live with than family; there were no unanswerable expectations to care about strangers. "I've been in a saddle since daybreak. Could we possibly have this argument tomorrow?"

"That was your choice, as was abandoning me for months. It is my turn to choose now, and I choose to speak to you. Sit down."

That struck him as fair, but he didn't want to be fair. He wanted to announce to all the world that he was finished with Capulets, finished with trying to be something he wasn't, and that he would see every last one of them in Hell. The time for that was more then twenty years in the past, unfortunately. Instead of separating himself from a woman he knew he didn't love, he had made promises to her. However unpalatable those were, they were his to keep. He sat.

Regan stood, too angry to even start the argument. Her courses were a fragile thing at her age, and they could stop at any time. She had lost three valuable months to Cornwall's little odyssey, turning an otherwise welcome relief from his presence to a constant terror. After Hermia gave birth to her twins, the terror was salted with jealousy. For all of this, she wanted to make her apathetic husband suffer, but she simply did not know how to begin.

Several minutes of uncomfortable silence forced Cornwall to speak. "So, I take it you aren't...?"

"Do I look like I am?" She emphasized her flat stomach. "Does that look like anything is growing inside, you toad? I can hardly believe you had the gall to come back here after you ran off like a common coward!"

"I needed time to think."

"What the hell was there to think about? We had an agreement!"

Wearily, he slouched forward and rubbed his eyes. They stung where the road grime seeped into them. "By all means, dear, scold me. I'll even agree that I am a coward, a disgrace, and so forth. Just tell me when you're finished."

His passivity infuriated Regan. Combat was her sure path through strife, her guaranteed method of endurance. That she should be denied the battle was almost more than she could take. "I asked you what there was to think about," she snarled.

What wasn't there to think about? The only way Regan would ever have a child was if he gave it to her; she was too proud to carry a bastard. Whatever she said, the result was his responsibility. At best, the poor creature would have drawn the worst lots imaginable for parents. Regan wasn't likely to love the child if it dared to be male, and he wasn't sure he could love it at all. The kindest thing to do would be not to create such a wretch in the first place. On the other hand, Regan's future happiness was apparently dependent on doing exactly that.

While her husband struggled with his doubts, Regan fought her demons. There were two of them, most inconveniently located in her eyes. When they were awake, they threatened to fling water where it wasn't wanted. The demons were strangers, for it wasn't often she had to battle tears. Like most other undesirables, tears had first been defeated years ago and lived in trembling submission. Every now and then, however, they liked to remind her of their presence.

"When is the last time you heard someone gossip about us?"

A little alarmed, he stuttered before answering. "I... I don't remember."

"Of course not, because it hasn't happened in years."

"And something tells me that isn't the credit I think it is."

"Are you this stupid on purpose? I'm sure you never bothered to notice, but the clucking matrons gossip about the stomach of every married woman. The longer it stays flat, the more they look for every hint of a protrusion, because the only purpose of a marriage is to continue the line. They've stopped looking, Cornwall, and do you know why?" Not interested in a response, she continued immediately, "We have been given up as barren. It has become an accepted fact that I will go to my grave with nothing to show for my existence. You and I will be relegated to some crumbling back corner with the other failures of the line, left to rot in obscurity forever!"

Cornwall frowned at the thought. Regan, at least, would be Regan Celia, daughter of Contessa and Consort, sister of Goneril, Kent, and Cordelia. He would be Cornwall Dane, husband of Regan. They would probably even stack her tomb on top of his when their moldy corner became crowded. What a treat that would be, spending all eternity with Regan on top of him.

"But I suppose that will only be right," she said bitterly, "because there will be nobody coming to visit either of us. I may as well have never existed for all it will have meant the moment they toss me into the crypt! A purposeless, wasteful existence, not worthy of the smallest mention in the entire history of my family, will be my great legacy."

While his wife was a fearsome manipulator, Cornwall believed there was more truth than fiction passing her lips. She was honestly perturbed by the idea that a lack of obligatory mourners would allow her to be forgotten. It had never bothered him, but he had never expected anything else. What Regan expected from her frosty personality and avoiding childbearing this long he didn't know, but he did feel something like pity for her. It was very strange, to say the least. "I'm sure Goneril and Kent would mourn you..."

"Oh, how very comforting to think they will outlive me! Should I be grateful that you didn't offer to visit my bones, too?"

So much for pity. "Your bones wouldn't scream so much, so maybe I would."

"What did you say?"

He waved his arm in a mixed gesture of surrender and apology. However good they felt to say, dry comments weren't helpful. "Dear, you know this is a bad idea. I'll be a lousy example for it, you will be disappointed if it's a boy, and, more importantly, you could die. There are people here who love you. How the hell would I look your brother or sister in the eye if you died?"

"Did you take lessons from an oracle while you were away? Are you able to divine the future now?" Regan barely took notice when her husband dropped his head into his arms and groaned. "How much more do you want from me? I can't imagine anything more humiliating than forcing myself to ask you to do your duty by me for once. Is it truly too much to ask that you consider me for one minute of your life?"

At his limit, Cornwall stood up to Regan. When she wouldn't give him an inch, he pushed past her. "For God's sake, do you ever listen to yourself? Are you so accustomed to Goneril feeding you your every thought that you've lost all common sense? How simple do I have to be before you listen? It isn't fair to create a person because you want somebody who is obligated to love you!"

"What isn't fair is that I don't already have anyone who is obligated to love me!"

After twenty-two years of hearing the litany of his shortcomings from Regan's mouth, Cornwall knew for certain she wasn't talking about him. He had no affection to offer her and she didn't want any: this much was a blessing. However, it was ultimately his fault that she was in want. Cornwall would never know what made Regan go through with the marriage, but he had felt doubts enough to justify stopping it. If he had acted, they wouldn't now be shackled together in this boundless pool of shallow miseries. Although he wished he hadn't, he had spoken the binding words. He owed her something, at least an effort to keep her from being miserable. Keeping his secrets no longer appeared to be enough.

Still, everything inside him was revolting against her request. Creating a new person to serve another's purpose was wrong. A person deserved a better fate than to be treated like a lapdog or kitten, even whatever kind of person could be made out of his parts and Regan's. But he wasn't entirely sure that it was right to only listen to his own feelings. She had nowhere else to go with this request, and that much was his fault.

Goddamn it. 

"Regan, I want you to do something for me." What that something was hardly mattered. He wanted only to feel like he wasn't simply capitulating. "If we're going to go through with this, you must do something for me."

"Well, I can't read your thoughts, fool. What do you want?"

He didn't care. There was nothing Regan could give him that would make much difference to him. Longingly, he thought of the wonderful illusion of freedom he had enjoyed over the summer. Selfish as it was, he was glad he had gone on the journey, because it was unlikely he ever could again. These regrets led him to a half-hearted idea. "Your agent in Port Gale lost his wife last year. He needs a better position, and you've wanted to put the steward here out of his place. If you retire him and hire Gloucester in his stead, we have a bargain."

"Why do you care what happens to some wretched servant?"

"I don't, but he has four children."

"Are you joking? What kind of steward has a brood of little beasts and no wife to mind them?"

"Yours, if you want a little beast of your own. If I have to let you have dominion over a living creature, I deserve to see you own a scrap of compassion."

It struck Regan as a reasonable bargain. She thought Talbot, the long-serving Middleham steward, was incompetent. This other man, children or not, could hardly fail to be an improvement. Still, the idea of actually compromising with Cornwall riled her. Her hand curled into a fist and itched to strike, but she knew her husband to be possessed of a thick skull, quick reflexes, and just enough pride to defend himself. Of all things, she would have to be a lady. "Very well. Gloucester and his children may come, but you must take care of Talbot, and mind that you don't give away everything in a pension."

"Where do you want to put the family?"

"The garret would suffice."

She started to walk away, but the sensation of eyes upon her back stopped Regan. When she turned, her husband was glaring at her. A tense moment passed before she realized what he was unhappy about. "Oh, for God's sake! I suppose we can put them... put them in the steward's cottage."

"And where are we putting Talbot?"

"That dolt is your pet, you take care of him."

"Fine. I'm going upstairs. When you see a servant, can you tell them to send up bathwater?"

Regan sniffed. "I see three months is long enough to forget the household schedule. The servants are eating, if you don't mind, and I don't have the time to do favors for you. I'm going to visit my father - who, if you were concerned, is still alive."

"I wasn't," Cornwall muttered to Regan's back. If Consort lived, the family would avoid a tedious civil war for a little while longer, and that was all Cornwall cared for. Once the door had shut behind Regan, he mounted the stairs without another thought of it in his head. He was grimy, tired, and now more wary of running into Kent than ever. There wasn't a house in the duchy large enough for a quarrel with Regan to go unnoticed. If Kent was at home and inclined to speak to him at last, there was real danger of crossing paths. He walked quickly but quietly toward the second staircase.

"You're home? Are you staying?" When he received no answer, Kent ran to catch up with Cornwall. "I need to speak to you."

"You can save your breath. I've told her I'll go along with it."

A cautious satisfaction rose up inside Kent. While all of his siblings treated him decently, Regan was the one who had always defended him. He wasn't blind to her personality, but her behavior toward him merited loyalty. That early morning in May had been the first time Kent couldn't pretend that his Cornwall and Regan's husband were different people. If Cornwall would help Regan, then the strain would have been worth it, and life could return to normal. "That's good to hear. I honestly think it will make her happy."

"Someone has to be."

"And about... well, I'm sorry."

"You're what?"

"I'm sorry."

In a flash of anger, Cornwall backed Kent up against the wall. "Don't. Don't tell me you're sorry. I went to bed with Regan, I begged you on my knees to let me apologize for something that wasn't any of your business, and you wouldn't even look at me. You treated me like the lowest piece of filth, and there aren't words enough in the world to make me forget that!"

Stunned, Kent tried to find words to explain himself. He had expected to have to grovel a bit, but this conversation was souring quickly. Something had hit a hard ending, and he didn't like it. "I know I overreacted, I see that now."

"Overreacted? That doesn't begin to describe it, Kent. Whatever I did to her is between us. I didn't do anything to you. That argument had nothing to do with you!"

"Yes, it did!" Innocence was one charge that Kent wouldn't accept. The lonely summer had given him almost unlimited time to think, and he had passed a harsh judgment on them both. He didn't want them, but his doubts were creeping back into his mind. Time had made them only seem distant, but the conflict had never died. "God, what was I thinking? This is insane, do you know that? This is all absolutely insane."

Cornwall backed away and tried to breathe. This aching sensation that belonged only to Kent had been tearing him apart from the inside for months. When he was younger, he had been anxious to find something that inspired strong emotions in him. He had always felt a confusing twinge of attraction toward both sexes, but he had lacked a strength of feeling that he knew others had. Love was a mystery and sex was possible but ultimately unremarkable. When he found Kent, that all changed. It was still all a mystery, but it was finally an engaging, exciting, and emotional mystery. At last, he felt happiness and companionship, and he suddenly understood the mad passions that drove others. He realized he had some piece of a heart, and he knew where it belonged. Then, as suddenly as it came, it went away. Kent took it all away, and Cornwall was left with even less than he had started with.

Kent remembered himself only after watching Cornwall dissolve. He searched for something to say that wouldn't make the sadness worse. Only an empty, pathetic lie came to him, but he took it. "I'm sorry. I only meant we should... we should probably do this somewhere else. I, uh, I thought I heard someone."

"Let them hear, what the hell does it matter? What, will they keep us apart? Will they try to shame me for what I feel? Will they all cast me off, treat me like I'm beneath their notice? You've already done all that." Bitterly, he laughed. "For God's sake, I loved you. I thought that was worth something, even if you didn't... but I was wrong." Instantly, his expression chilled over. "I was wrong. You showed me that the only feelings that matter are your own."

"That's not true! It's not true at all. Please!" When Cornwall kept walking, Kent scrambled for more effective words. He felt something precious slipping out of his hands. "I swear, it will never happen again. I promise, I can make it up to you. I'll never hurt you again. I-"

"I don't care." Cornwall saw the flicker of recognition on Kent's face. To his shame, he felt satisfied. "I needed you, and you left me to hang. Do what you want, but don't expect me to treat you any better than you did me. We are brothers-in-law only from now on, do you understand?"

For a moment, all coherent thoughts abandoned Kent. He was reduced to a warm, round, red feeling that meant "no" pulsing inside of him. Guilt and morals had only been tolerable as long as Cornwall was fighting them, as long as he would be there when Kent mastered them. Now, they were all he had, and they were hollow comforts. They didn't make the world worth living in.

A primal instinct finally arrived in Kent's crippled mind. He chased after him, driven by that pulse. Though it took all his might, he caught Cornwall and dragged him back down the stairs. "Like hell we are!"

"Back off!"

"No. No, I won't. I won't believe this is what you want!" It hadn't been when Kent said it. That very morning, he realized, he hadn't entirely believed his own words. He did care what happened, because he needed the world to right itself and allow him to go back to where he was. He had been lying, and he had to know that Cornwall was lying now. "Who is tossing who away now? Who is being the stubborn bastard? How can you just give up so easily if you were so miserable?"

"Because I can't trust you," Cornwall hissed. "I never thought I'd say that, but I can't trust you. How do I know you won't do this again the next time you feel a little guilty?

"Are you that hateful that you've never felt guilty about it all? I can't believe you. You're going to blame me for having a conscience!"

"Oh yes, your great, magical, magnificent, motherfucking conscience! Can I tell you something about consciences, Kent? They aren't a license to treat other people like shit so you don't feel sad anymore. You can't act like a child and expect more in return because your precious conscience made you miserable. If mine makes me feel miserable, it's because I'm a selfish bastard who has to live with the consequences of his mistakes." A healthy shove gave Cornwall time enough to run up most of the stairs freely. Near the top, he turned back to see Kent looking up at him with a whimper. It took all he had to stand firm. "And if you're miserable now... follow the logic."

But there was no logic, not that Kent could see. There was nothing logical about choosing to be unhappy. Were Cornwall's principles really more comforting to him than Kent was? Did he truly believe that breaking his heart would put his own back together?

No.

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