OF BEARS ONCE MORE

[Ivoreyy 2303]

OF BEARS ONCE MORE

[--]

 

“My dear sister- In war, family can mean nothing. Yet it is the binding of who we are, and means everything in the same”

 

-=-

Anabel Lisette Cascadia wandered out toward the balcony from her Avalain palace bedroom, her hands tightly held together in front of her. The approaching winds seemed to tell a tale of their own, a cold chill moving toward the city from the lands of the north. She looked up, her eyes narrowing at the overcast sky. 

 

The city skyline was as much of a sight behold as any other, wooden rooftops laden with the ever thin layer of snow. Past the houses and buildings, she could see the faint telling of the frozen sea- its beauty and purpose rendered to nothing by the ventures of the winter.

 

---

 

“Ser Graham!” A raven haired youth bounded across the cyrilsburg streets, her eyes heavy with yet another sleepless night set upon her books. She looked up to the guard captain, bright blue eyes widened in a spree of excited curiosity. Clearing her throat, the child straightened her shoulders- her more official appearance 

 

“When the old Kingdom of Courland was betrayed- who was it by? Who opened the gates to allow the enemy in?” Alike to any other five year old, she could barely contain herself. If even the marshal could not best her knowledge of the wars of past, who could? 

 

---

 

Time had begun to rear its face upon the woman. Though barely past forty summers, the stress of sleepless nights and panicked days took their toll. Thin strands of grey lay intertwined upon her raven tressees, skin thinning and blanched. 

 

A ghost of the woman she once was. A fleeting remnant of the princess, the Queen. Sickly and sad she’d begun to waste away, each day a thread holding her grasp upon life, falling. The sky darkened, and she retreated to the confines of her room once again.

 

She walked, paying little attention to the world around her- lost within thought. It was only once she heard the smash of glass that she returned once again, her conscience realising the portrait she had picked up, only to let fall from her hands to the ground. Even beneath the fractured frame, she could make out it’s depiction- the vividly familiar face of grey eyed man beside her.

 

---

 

That girl was older now, her gowns heavier, hair longer. Though they sat delicately tied up upon her head, no longer left to knot and fly in the wind as they used to. The crowds of the Curonian court milled about, taking their seats for yet another series of petitions and crown requests. With her arms neatly folded, she smiled- her gaze catching the one person who mattered in this moment. The prince cleared his throat, standing up.

 

“King Wilhelm, I ask permission of yourself and your house to wed Anabel Devereux, Princess Royal of Curonia” Nothing short of a grin crossed each of their features

 

Her father drummed his fingers along the arm of his throne, a simple nod offered to the young dragon 

“Permission granted, young Romulus”

 

The noises of the court seemed to fade to little more than the subdued whispers of the gossiping courtiers, each with their gaze set upon the King. Anabel, eyes alight with a newfound hope- a joy, her future seeming one of happiness and prosperity. Wilhelm’s attention crossed to his daughter beside him

 

“I am proud of you, Anabel, and always will be”

 

---

 

And so beautifully painted alongside them, the three figures she would hold dear to her heart forevermore. Godfrey stood beside her, the teenage boy’s height matching her own. He bore that same smile she’d grown to know all too well- a smile taken too soon from the world. Resent, was all she felt. Bitter hatred that politics and pride had driven him likely to an all too early grave. 

 

In front of them stood the twins. Achilius, barely seven, his tousled hair a reminder of days spent running the length of Helena. He mirrored a smirk, the same his father had donned all those years ago. They were uncannily similar, twins born of different eras. 

 

Next to him stood Laurentina, her truest pride and joy. Anabel’s hand rest upon the raven-haired youth’s shoulder, met by the child’s own. She held her chin raised, tiara so tidely nestled upon her head. A girl born to royalty, yes, but she soared in the boundaries of her titles all the same.

 

---

 

She held her daughter’s hand, the pair making their way into the gates of Helena. A wave of nausea overcame her.

 

Bodies, everywhere.

 

The woman’s grip upon the child only tightened, striding forward through the dust and fallen stone. The people milled around her, falling into a blur of rush and panic. Some worked together, heaving unresponsive men onto makeshift stretchers, their heads glistening with sweat as they carried them off to what they could call a hospital.

 

Her eyes fell upon a family, huddled by the broken remnants of a wall. They held each other, muffling their sobs within the folds of another’s clothes. She could determine a mother, comforting her three children. In their hands they grasped the dirtied hat of a legionnaire.

 

“Laurentina” She began, casting her eyes away. The child looked up to her mother, widened eyes set within a mix of pure shock and pain. From her bag she retrieved a jewel adorned, golden cross of Lorraine- one given to her in protection at the dawn of the war. She placed it within the child’s palm.

 

“For them” She pointed to the grieving family, ushering her forward “We must do as we can, we must help those who are left behind. They are the ones who’ve paid the ultimate price- and GOD shall bless them so”

 

---

 

She took a hand to brush away the glass, picking up the now frayed painting. Her fingers traced each figure, eyes welling with tears of bitter longing. They should have had more time. Oh how fate loved to make for a tragic tale.

 

As she sat down upon her bed once more, it was this painting that she held onto. Dismissing her servants with a flick of her wrist, she pulled the silk blankets over her. Minutes faded to hours, hours to days- still, she remained there. She remained there when the winters left them, and spring returned. Trays of food grew scarcer, words fewer. Her rattled breaths began to slow, one by one.

 

And finally, upon the 14th of Owyn’s Flame, 1731- the Devereux breathed her last.

Anabel Lisette Devereux

9th of Tobias' Bounty 1691- 14th of Owyn’s Flame 1731

 

[amyselia 2962]

A torrent of Laurentina’s tears lacquered the endless trail of the Reznian sunset, cheeks glowing betwixt jeweled robes of glossed and intimate teardrops. Her mind stood unread and undiscovered- absent of emotion- for the light of the waning sun could only force her to encapsulate Anabel’s radiance in it’s ornate hue of gold, and the way she’d catch her in a mother’s embrace when none had shewn her the hands that GOD had made to love.

 

“Fly, and your wings will never touch the ground,” Her mother had said, and the daughter had remembered, “Sing, and your voice will never falter.”

 

And how she sang now, a song of undone intention, a staccato of perplexed ferosity:

“Why would you leave me, you said you would never leave me.” She cried, attention panning to the last ray of sunshine poured over the darkening horizon, the fading remnants of an era bred in the stitching of resilience, “I loved you!” She screamed.

 

“I loved you!”

[Dyl 2088]

Romulus would smile as his beloved joined him in the Seven Skies, the man who did anything for his family, even turn against his childhood friends now found happiness. He would pray for his children, hopeful that they would be more successful than he. 

[Axelu 4333]

Vivienne d’Amaury had often recalled her youth amidst the blistering days in the Rubrummagnus – how she and Anabel had practised their dancing together, intending to impress their formidable suitors, aged just eleven. Even in death, the late Princess of Alstion felt nothing but warmth for her estranged confidant.

 

“Cherie, he loves you... So much so, it is almost terrifying!”  The woman quipped years after, laughing boisterously before her own daughter’s wedding procession, locking forearms with the Devereux Empress-Mother. ”But we do what we must for our children, oui? Die for them – even die without them.” 

[HurferDurfer1 2978]

The long since dead Bottle welcomes Anabel into the seven skies, having forgiven the pair of his friends, Romulus and Anabel, regales the two with a tale of the time he had tackled the young Anabel in his own zealous youth.

[libertyybelle 6187]

Ophelia stared at the grounds in which the keep Anabel and her planned was to be built. Her eyes glazed red due to the crying she had done previously. Her hand reached to her heart, grasping at her chest. “Our plans never saw the sun light but I remember how late we stayed up planning for it. Your kindness and smile. I cannot forget you, my best friend. The early morning chats over tea. Sitting within the gardens chatting about our troubles.” She muttered her eyes leering over to look at the cold ocean. “I wish I could have done more. I wish we did what we had planned. I had a daughter. I named her after you. She has a lot of energy like you.” She whispered through streams of tears. “Farewell, Anabel.”

[Blanchables 528]

A Shield Forever

[...]

---

 

“Anabel, on my count, you need to run. Do not look back, do not ask questions, and do not stop for anything, not until you are safe.” The young Captain would remain looking forward through alarmed and sharpened eyes, never once leaving the two men that stared with malicious intent towards the girl and her retinue. His digits set firmly on the hilt of his blade, shield in hand, Graham would motion for the girls to stay behind him, before barking out the order to run. Down the roads they sprinted, not once looking back, Graham cast a final look behind him for only a moment, to assure their safety. Upon looking back, he would meet his attackers head on, engaging the ruffians with full force, if not to buy even a second of time for the Princess and her friends. “Please...be safe.” The thoughts drifted through Graham’s mind, before he could only focus on the fight at hand...

 

---

 

The starlight illuminated the path from Curon to Haense as Jarrack, armed with his personal guard, Ser Graham, and Princess Anabel filed into the city, quickly joining in on the festivities at hand and the ball within the confines of the palace. “Jarrack! Why not dance with your sister, eh?” Graham would utter out with a smirk spreading across his visage, patting Anabel on the shoulder as the young girl took a step forward. A rather cocky grin plastered across Jarrack’s face as he nodded in agreement, taking Anabel as she stepped forward, the young girl content with the situation at hand. However, as the music began to pick up, Jarrack’s eyes quickly drifted from the young girl to a young woman, and upon such, would drop Anabel mid-dip. He’d quickly leave the girl on the ground, not even sparing a glance back to her as she lay defeated. Graham, however, was quick to move. With great haste, he bent downwards, his knee resting on the stone floor as he helped the young girl up, her expression both saddened and irritated. “Well, that was rather rude.” Graham would state, brushing the young Princess off. “However, Princess, think nothing of it. For if a man cannot keep you in his focus, centered on his attention, then he is not worth the seconds you grant him. Come, come. Let us have fun. We are at a ball for GOD sakes!”

 

---

 

A war, brief as it might have been, slipped through the minds and rested heavy on each soul, and honor and glory were to be awarded to each of those who valiantly fought. Graham Milner knelt in front of his King, chosen for a great honor that much of his life had been built in anticipation for. “And do you, Ser Graham Milner, wish to undertake a moniker, to be referred to valiantly and with honor, until your dying day?” Wilhelm would ask the question, his light blue eyes piercing downwards towards Graham. The young Knight would hesitate for a moment, turning his gaze briefly behind Wilhelm towards the dais. Excitedly seated would be Anabel, now becoming a young woman, mouthing the words to him that she had spoken for ages, goading him to speak them himself. “Aye, my Liege. I wish to be known as The Paint Knight.” The sword would swiftly drop to each shoulder, tapping him lightly before a command to rise would be uttered out. Graham Milner would breathe out his last apprehensive breath, a confident new one stirring within him as the Paint Knight rose to his feet.

 

---

 

Seconds to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days, days to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years, time would pass for Anabel and her Paint Knight. Through conflict and strife, the pair would remain inseparable, as the watchful eyes of Ser Graham always kept the young woman within his protection. However, as with all things, time would eventually drive the two apart. A marriage to young Romulus would cause the woman to part ways with Curon, opting instead to live within the city of the Imperials. Though very much wishing to, Graham simply could not part ways with his home of Curon, and instead kept his watchful eye present in the Kingdom. However, not a day would pass when Graham’s thoughts hadn’t been on Anabel, his mind meandering towards how the young Princess had grown, and whether he had touched her life for the better. And as time continued to begrudgingly move forward, Graham would think each thought of his family beyond blood, and prayed for her safety.

 

---

 

The Paint Knight would casually stroll about the bustling streets of Curon, gaze drifting about before hearing a sharp noise to snap him out of his somber lull, a brief distraction from the tedious routine of the day. However, his face would only grow pale and frantic as the Knight ran forward. Falling instantly in his arms was that of the crying Devereux woman, a sight that would cause the Paint Knight’s heart to sink into his chest, his stomach uneasy as he supported the woman. “Lady Anabel, what is it? What is wrong?” She broke into tears, a hushed voice leaned into him as he continued to cradle the young woman. She spoke of the death of Romulus, a conspiracy, a tragedy. The Paint Knight’s heart wept with her, his mouth agape as he sat and listened, consoling the woman where he felt he could. But nothing could lessen the woman’s solitude, not words anyway. And so Graham continued to hold the woman in his arms, knowing that while she may not be able to speak her peace, and diminish the brooding pain which so consumed her, he would ensure that she would not suffer it alone. For each tear that she wept, his heart stung, and he wept with her, from the break of day, til the fall of night.

 

---

 

War. The very term is ugly, and the act is no less. A division of people, of family, of brothers and sisters. The blood that once ran through our veins spills onto the swords of our enemies, perhaps even once our friends. Ser Graham had seen his fair share of battle, yet never wished to raise a sword to his dearest. But upon this day, he was forced to do such, with Anabel being found on the opposite side of the field. His heart would ache, a feeling of emptiness consuming the man, knowing that for every swing of his sword, could be the life he wished not to take. And though he shared no common blood with the woman, the thought of spilling it struck him like a hammer to hot metal, and his entire being would shatter. But when the two once more found themselves on the same side, Graham’s heart would sing, and a protector, he would be once more.

 

---

 

Time was not kind to the aging Knight, finding himself growing hairs of gray, reflexes slowing, his mind wandering more frequently. The years would pass him as swiftly as a candle in a storm, the loss of comrades, Kings, and friends taking its toll on the Paint Knight. The thought of those he failed ever present in his mind, he would shut himself away. As he would age away, his thoughts gaining no sense of consonance, the man would swiftly deteriorate, losing the purpose he once had. The news of each death struck him swiftly and without remorse, though, he was never a stranger to loss. However, on a simple quiet morning, Graham sat within his cabin hidden in the wilderness, attempting to remember and forget all at once. A familiar knock on his door would snap him from his vapid gape, as he slowly steadied himself and opened the door. Present was a young man, who would visit with news of Curonia, tasked specially with delivering note to the once Grand Knight. Tired eyes would scan over the man’s face, and a curious look would cross his visage, as the man’s cheeks were tear stained, his blue orbs bloodshot. Graham’s brows would furrow, and his gut would drop. At further request for the news, the boy would speak through sorrowful tone. He would recount the death of the Devereux, landing a blow to Graham that was far stronger than any he might ever have received. The ground beneath him fell, leaving nothing but the emptiness of the void and the blackness of his spirit. Graham’s eyes would shift briefly, before tears wholly consumed them.

 

A breath would escape him, whimpering as it were, as Graham shakily stepped backwards, falling to the floor as he stared upwards at the wooden beams lining the ceiling. The startled murmuring of the courier would fade from existence, as the Knight was truly alone, his eyes never leaving from the heavens from which he watched from his own recluse. A sanctity to his insanity, no more, but rather a residence for his own private hellscape. Trapped within his mind, the Knight saw the young girl that once was, and pictured the woman that was no more. For an eternity, he sat and saw, watched and replayed the memories that continually poured from his being. And as the world faded from view, a certain clarity had entered his mind, after the counts of defeat and tragedy had struck him.

 

“Though we held no common-blood, you were forever my family. Though I had not riches to give you, I’d have proffered you everything. Though I was never your Father, you are the daughter which I had always dreamt of. Though my bones have become brittle and my mind weak, I would forever raise my shield in your defense. And though you are gone, to never again grace my company with your presence and laughter, I will forever love you, and while many promises I have broken, that one, Anabel, shall never shatter.”

 

The aged Knight would stir from the floor, only now raising himself upwards as he looked about his empty surroundings. Standing now, he’d walk to the corner of his barren abode, where a small wooden rose would sit upon a table. Gathering it tenderly, he would hold it within his once dexterous hands, twirling it to view the craftsmanship he had once put into it. His bag loaded, but none as heavy as the burdens with which he toted, the man looked a final time around his once dim isolation, before closing the door. And the dawn would break and the sun would rise, and the Paint Knight was set to return home once more.

 

---

 

((Anabel and Graham will always be one of my favorite stories on LoTC, in the years I’ve been on the server, I’ve never had something quite like it, and I use it as a constant reminder to why I still play. I’m sad to see her go, but every story needs its end, and every good one leaves you having wanted more. Thank you so much for the memories of Graham and Anabel, and I hope that wherever you take yourself on a new character brings you just as much enjoyment as I got from making this story with you. I hope you enjoy the little story I wrote for this, as I felt this was nothing less than what it deserved.))

[helldiving 5793]

 

 

 

 

3 hours ago, roseways said:

 

Otto would observe the depiction of a midget sitting atop Anabel “Midget...”