AN IMPERATOR IN EXILE

[LithiumSedai 5750]

An Imperator in Exile

 

An imagined portrait of the Prince and his daughter, the Duchess Furnestock. Self-painted in his exile, c. 1750

 

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 It had been a noiseless day. The nestled Ruberni city had grown desolate after the vacancy of its leadership. One man, as he habitually did, was confined to a bench at the tavern, however. His hair was wispy; thinning, almost, and of a greying chestnut pigment. He donned an aurum coronet as his father did before him; as his grandfather did; as his great-grandfather did. He battled, as they all did, with the renown of their legacy and most importantly, how to maintain its relevance. His namesake, Prince Charles, last son to Emperor Peter the Second, had been a renown Archchancellor. His grandfather, a law and clergyman, and his father Prince John, a domineering father to Blessed Adeline of Alstion. Meanwhile, Charles had been a once-Emperor (then nephew to another) but most importantly, he was a father. Throughout his vying for the Empire, the Princeling coddled his two children, more prominently his eldest, Henrietta Karenina. She had grown into adulthood and made her own life amongst the Orenian demesne. He, all the while, remain estranged from his wife, his daughters, and legacy.

 

Hefting himself from the velvety seat, the man who so gracefully passed his prime expulsed a resounding cough. He checked his pocket watch very briefly, rapping a hoary finger atop the translucent crystal. 

 

Melancholy: a feeling which seemingly consumed the Prince, nowadays. He was overwhelmed by it, if not utterly devastated by it. He had lived lavishly once, free of qualms as he roamed the Aeldinic wildlands. Even without the stern protection of his father in his youth, John Alexander, or the nurturing of his mother, Vivienne d’Amaury, as they both departed to accompany the afamed Empress to Arcas, the Princeling still found solace in the mien of his homeland. Even in old age, he yearned for the statured walls of Walden,  the Louvaini courtiers, the embrace of his wife. Somewhat, the walls of Helena never satiated his grief. Certainly, he attempted to make amends with such disparities by way of his sister’s Empress-ship, and even through his own briefly-tenured sovereignty, but it was never the same. Stricken by lackadaisical reverie, he prodded towards the Palace, desolate as the Princely Stibors remained confined in their chambers.

 

He stopped short of the foyer, where a basket laden with a bottle of cognac and a note was lain. The man sat, reclined into the bench. Poising his elbows unto the table, he uncorked the liquor, pouring the substance into a glass. Meanwhile, he flattened the note, pressing the glass into his face’s vicinity, as his eyes grazed over the text.

 

With a resolute nod, the man pilfered for an unsealed envelope, gingerly securing the parchment within it and branding it with his seal. The weary man brought a hand to his face, lamely scratching at his left cheek, tangentially beckoning forward a drowsy steward. 

 

Responding to the Prince’s whispers with a steep bow, the steward slipped away, the parchment in tow. 

 

Charles looked to his right, on the table, where a miniature sketch was bolstered against the wall. He offered a sober smile, his eyes sifting over the familiar features of two young girls with delicately painted features; one bore a smile, the other — a frown. His hand lingered on the surface, fingers quivering as emotion was evoked in his stature. He abruptly grasped for it, rising himself too with an audible grunt, utilizing his alternate hand to grip at his knee. 

 

He did not speak until he reached the ports of the cloud temple, obscured only by a purpur cloak, ignoring the salutations of passerbys and the vague hollering of vagabonds. He stopped short of a meager ship, tended to by an assemblage of haggard men and helmed by a medium-sized man of limber constitution. Mounting the deck, much to the objection of the men aboard, the Princeling beckoned for the captain — in his hand, a large bag of Mina. 

 

“Passage to Axios,” he commands, his eyes affixed relentlessly on the angular man’s face. 

 

A sneer formed on the countenance of the captain, matched by Charles’s lingering simper. 

 

“Don’t get in the way,” the man threatens offhandedly, receiving the coin upon being tossed it.

 

As the men readied to set off, Charles joined their endeavors with ease, hoisting at the mast sail, his eyes grazing over the cerulean ocean ahead of him. 

 

 

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THE WILL AND RENUNCIATION OF CHARLES EDWARD

 

I, Charles Edward, being of Full age and sound mind, do publish and declare this as my will and renunciation of my assets. 

 

I decree my eldest daughter, Henrietta Karenina, my successor as Princess of Alstion, Duchess of Furnestock, Balamena, and Alba, Countess of Enswerp and Walden.

 

I bequeath unto Henrietta Karenina the remainder of the Johannian and Pertinax relics, as gifted to me by HIH Princess Amelia Philippa of the Seventh Imperium.

 

I bequeath unto my youngest child, Heidemarie Jane, Blessed Adeline, ownership of our familial yacht constructed in honor of my late sister, the Holy Orenian Empress Adeline Margaret.

 

Signed,

Carolus Eduardus, Princeps Johannes

 

 

Spoiler

Credit to @Axelu for generous assistance.

 

[Axelu 4333]

Henrietta Karenina is startled, having been roused by reverie by an approaching page, deep within the Novellen’s depths. She slackens her hold on the quill in her right hand, beckoning the youth forward.

 

”What is it?”

 

The page merely extended a letter, bowing steeply to the young woman, uttering, ”Your father has left a copy of his will to you, Your Highness,” briefly before he took his leave.

 

She leant into her chair, peering at the cerulean waters from the Archchancellor’s office, succumbing to contemplative silence.

 

 

[monkeypoacher 8055]

“i hate titular nobles almost as much as i hate women” says sprinkles the clown, eyes bulging out of his ghoulish head