Chapter Text
The first thing everyone seemed upset about was the fact the will was written in English. It was Simon Milena’s first time on the job and it seemed he was too keen on softening the blow. After expressing their acute outrages over their patriarch, the children scuffled back to take their places in the reading room.
“This isn’t very legally binding. It appears as though your father was never too keen on having it printed.” Simon resumed, “Take it as his last words, perhaps. Undated and littered with dated information. Either way, it was said that the crown would go to Trystan—”
Everyone’s eyes turned to Trystan and Lydea. Party time.
“Yeah, no shit. Line of succession and all.” Emika scoffed.
“No but like - this is on his will, Emi.”
“Yeah, so?”
“That means he would have wanted Trystan to be the fucking king, no matter what the laws of succession said.” Kasper reasoned. “Does it say anything else?”
“ However, the word ‘crown’ has not been capitalised. ‘Crown’ with the capitalization would refer to the throne and — just ‘crown’ would mean the actual — um, artefact, by this statement. I would suspect these are more of a collection of thoughts, meant for the abstract eyes.” Simon enunciated, as clearly as he could. The words ‘not legal’ hung at the tip of his tongue as a last-resort weapon to yield. He was so much more of a father than Maksim. The thought disgusted him.
“But Pa made it quite clear. He certainly isn’t a — a newborn to make such errors.”
“What are you doing, Trystan?” First blood. Simon didn’t get his hands dirty in this. Good.
“I am not claiming anything. You would not expect father to make such errors. He’s, perhaps written, thousands of documents by hand. This is a very objective— perspective.”
Trystan’s name was written in loopy, elegant handwriting, a few words away from the ‘crown’. It was hard to tell, surely. But what are the siblings thinking? Power moves? He was just an enforcer of their father’s will. An.
“Cursive handwriting is difficult to decipher anyway. Besides, the crown in itself is — it belongs to me. Father was one of the witnesses in my coronation. Separating the crown from its bearer is essentially fictitious. Father may have meant many things, but you made your choice. Abstract eyes and all.”
“What else is there?” Marguerite piped up.
“Oh just - a few specifics, distribution of private assets, sculptures, pottery. Of course, a majority will go to the crowned heir as per the Charter. He has made it certain all of you walk away happy. He quite likes hyacinths, the flower.”
“But if the crown legally counts as an artefact-”
“Already planning to sell it, dear brother?” Astrid laughed. “Those Hollywood freaks and their clown circus you run will certainly appreciate it.”
“It isn’t his.”
“But it’s on a will.”
“Well, I am the executor of his wishes, so matters of who gets the hyacinths and who gets the pottery concerns me. On a grander scale of things, it should not hold much relevance to the reigning monarch.” Relevance. Yes. Lydea seemed pleased. A little uneasy. What was Trystan thinking? For a second, he had his father’s eyes in him. Souvenirs. Wouldn’t want to upset the prodigal son. A change of heart, maybe? Then again, who’s ever heard of an atheist turning to God?
“Right, so this is all pottery and pretty stuff?”
“I suppose that requires a bit of digging into the law and what to do if the personal wishes of a dead monarch goes against it, but — I would advise you to take it for what it is.”
“Dad sure loves writing — fucking stories.” Kaspar huffed. “What about Bas’s share? Or Vasili’s? Or have they taken secret lovers in some— British village and it goes to them now?”
“And are you sure there is no date to this? He could have written this well after the — yeah, um—” Emika shot a look towards Trystan. “When Trystan went all guillotine on us.”
“We estimate it could be a few years old at least. Hard to tell, but maybe 2016? A little after Trystan’s exile. It was preserved in good condition. In a folder next to his rings. We will have someone look into it, but my guess is — maybe during that time period.”
“Can we hurry it up? I would like it if this was sorted today. Trystan has a flight to catch and I have to drive up to the airport. Security sweep and all. You understand.”
“Perhaps it is best if you two come with me.”
Simon led Lydea and Trystan down the long hallway and into a parlour. Best to keep them separated away from the rest of the family before they strangle each other. He made a quick few phone calls in succession, calling upon the country’s best law interpreters. What did it mean? The crown went to Lydea, but the actual crown went to his eldest son? Mercy gave the prodigal son a second chance, the daughter gets the leftovers from the bacchanalia. Simon didn’t feel too good about being called back again. The odds were slim.
Contempt? He couldn’t read the siblings’ faces well. Trystan had pawned off the load from their back. Lydea was still eating dog food. It seemed unfair to her, but Maksim loved playing favourites. It was like a fun little board game he played with a shot of fine liquor. At least there’s other things to play with . Simon was almost glad the rest others were on the table. Hope Trystan likes gardening. Keep people happy, what the fuck was he supposed to be?
It didn’t take no less than five minutes for Simon’s distress signal recipients to come over.
“So it’s all Pa’s creative writing at play?” Lydea called bull. “To what degree is it a thing you need to do?”
“As far as we can sink it in.”
“Do you care?” Lydea turned to Trystan.
“Well given the crown is supposed to go to me, I do.”
“Take it to your cult orgies, I’m sure people would love that.”
“Oh I would rather attend a fuck-festival than have it sit here, gather dust in a wasteland--” Trystan paused, letting the words hang in the air, “-- of a shelf, obviously . They’re a package deal, yes, but exceptions..? What are we feeling? A divorce situation? I keep it for six months, she gets the other half for weddings and funerals and cutting ribbons?”
“The nature of this is a little tricky. Clearly your father meant for the actual crown to go to you. Not the monarchy. Historically, the crown was never counted as a part of the jewels; rather a concept in itself. Something with life, very Kafkaesque. The crown and the Crown Jewels . An amendment was made in 1986 to preserve the sanctity of the artefact. Colloquialism, lost in translation, lots of things to blame for -- the oversight. Your father is clearly purebred in his thinking.” Anna spoke.
“ Separate the art from the artist , the shit from Father?”
“Unfortunately it is difficult to interpret the nature of this possession. You see, it simply says it must go to him.”
“Oh Persephone.” Trystan drawled. “The Summer Palace will be welcoming. You would have nothing to worry about.”
“This isn’t a I Love NYC t-shirt.”
“I think this is exactly like a I Love NYC shirt.”
“Again, not quite. Trystan, you have a vault here at home. The crown will be here for safekeeping. It will go to you, as a part of your properties. Take it as an estate. You can’t take and plant it somewhere.”
“So what -- er - okay--” Lydea swallowed, composing herself, “What do I wear?”
“The Crown is just customary. I’m sure you two can come to a settlement regarding that.” Simon added nervously, testing the waters. “Besides, it is entirely customary. You wear it, not the other way around. Your father himself wore a dupe. Easy to carry around, he used to say.”
“Okay, that was underwhelming.” Trystan stood up. “Hope you can take care of this. I’ll have a look at it before I go.”
“Very well.” Simon stood up. “Beautiful day for a cup of coffee, right?”
“Very happy.”