Ourselves Alone

Fortasse erit, fortasse non erit

‘Fortasse erit, fortasse non erit’

Translation: "Maybe it will be, maybe it will not"

“He’s a fine beast, m’lord.”

“Huh.” Leopold murmured. His eyes followed the trail of the young hunter. This was no old, wheezing cart-horse. This was a high-bred, vital animal, not yet broken.

It was truly a handsome horse. Bright chestnut, with handsome white socks and a bright slash of white on its muzzle.

“Very expensive too.” Sighed his ever-present father, Sir Francis. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly at his child. But it was right, for Leopold to have a horse. Every young lord in the country had some high-bred young hunter, to break and ruin. He was thirteen now, too old for ponies, though that shabby grey pony had accompanied Leopold for a pollen-golden childhood.

“I like this one.” Leopold said. The shining sail of the horse’s mane dangled handsomely over his large, black-fringed eyes.

“Alright. Now Leo-“

“Leopold.” His dark blue eyes were icy cold against his father’s deep brown.

“You’re a funny child, Leo. Now come on.”

Leopold followed his father sullenly. He liked the horse, he did, but why did his father insist on calling him Leo? He was too old for baby names, he was thirteen. In a few years he could go on a crusade, or rule his own lordship, get married and sire children of his own. This was not an age where children were babied, or humoured. This was a country where children could be kings.

A sudden thought, a rose grey what if. What if, his father died? Sir Leopold of Herstmonceux. Why not?

And then, he cringed at the idea. He was just a boy, at heart. Some ideas were still too large, too frightening, too desolate. But a sinister little voice, purple-tinged with ambition, still whispered.

“There are others that would do this, child.”