The twenty eight year old, newly crowned king of Prussia after the violent and pretty terrible treatment of his father had passed along with his death. And what did Friedrich feel?

…Relief. For once in his life, he felt free. He could do…whatever he wanted.

The first thing he did was invite Voltaire, the French poet, to visit him. Silly, maybe. They’d been exchanging notes for years. Letters, compliments, and…poems.

Friedrich read over the letter Voltaire had most recently sent before his trip to visit and see him for the first time, buzzing with anticipation—“I am sure to faint from joy,” Voltaire had written. Friedrich felt like a giddy teenager. He had eagerly wrote back, “I believe I shall die from it.”

There were no lies told. Truly, he was awestruck. The man he…admired ever so greatly visiting him after years of communicating back and forth over letters. Letters filled with compliments towards each other’s intelligence, raw poetry and feelings, and, erm…some intimacy as well.

For weeks, he had imagined the meeting: the terrace at Rheinsberg, a polished table set for dinner, his finest uniform, his manners and looks impeccable. He would charm Voltaire with wit as sharp as his pen. He would have Voltaire swooning by the might of the Prussian royal!

And yet, here he was, lying weakly in bed, feverish and trembling, while the hours ticked closer to the appointed time. His perfectly imagined entrance had died, and crumpled before he had the chance to act it.

When Voltaire arrived, he had not expected this. He paused at the door, taking in the sight of the young King—not in his grand attire, not standing regally—but in a blue, thin dressing gown, frail and vulnerable, in a sparsely furnished room that betrayed no hint of luxury. Awkwardly, and wearily from travels, he stepped inside.

Without hesitation, Voltaire crouched beside the bed, bowed low, and checked Friedrich’s pulse, his fingers lingering for a moment. Friedrich felt the scratch of bitten fingernails, and despite his weakness, beamed at the touch. The living, breathing Voltaire was beside him. Touching him! He hoped Voltaire mistook red cheeks for illness, not excitement. Oh, if Friedrich passed from this sickness, he would die happy.