NEVER FADE AWAY

[Proddy 2415]

NEVER FADE AWAY

 

 

 

@Draeris

 

Late in the nocturnal hour, as the clock would strike midnight, Robert Foltest Helvets jolted upright from his bed.

 

Sweating profusely, the youthful Helvets gasped for air as though he were a newborn given life anew, his clammy palms brushing against his forehead as visions of a recurring nightmare flashed within his mind. In his sleep, his consciousness finds itself drifting back to Haense, on that fateful evening in the Karosgrad square.

 

He watches as his grandfather is dragged in chains from the courtroom - a grandsire he had never known before today, though had been regaled with stories of throughout his turbulent youth. He had been told of a man skinny and frail of build yet imposing and threatening in his demeanour and words, uncompromising in his acts and at times even downright terrifying. But yet, as Roberts father had recounted the deeds and misfortunes of his own progenitor to his youthful son, whether through letters exchanged consistently or even when Robert would sit upon Adrians lap and seek his comfort and advice as he would often in his infancy, Lord Adrian Helvets still decreed his father to be the greatest Kaedreni who had ever lived. Because for all his faults, Richard Victor Helvets would never settle for anything but the best for his people and his countrymen, and never dared once to sacrifice the integrity of his homeland for his own gain or glory.

 

From what he knew of him, the first Count Rochefort was a man who could have had it all - Imperial honours, prestige in the capital and a comfortable office within the Orenian Government. But it was Richard’s own stubbornness and unflinching loyalty to his country in the face of opposition and adversary that had dismantled any of these prospects. Though his name was reviled amongst the common Orenian people and the upper echelons of high Imperial society, in the hearts of those true Kaedreni who dreamt of the day their homeland will be restored and their people unified by the ambition of their former glory, he was held near and dear. He was a villain upon one side, yet a hero and a true patriot to the other.

 

Such is the duality of man, Robert realises, for our hearts and minds are so feeble and wanting.

 

Robert remembers his grandfather being paraded down into the Karosgrad square, a wrathful mob gathered to see vengeance enacted upon the attempted kinslayer as Richard muttered obscenities and jumbled nonsense to himself. In his old age, the elderly Count Rochefort’s dementia and senility had deeply progressed - his mind had been all but gone by the time of that ill-fated day. Robert suspected he had no idea who he even was, where he was, what he had tried to do, how far gone the old man had become…. In a way his death was a mercy, yet to meet his grandsire as he were for the first and last time - it tore Robert’s fragile spirit asunder.

 

He remembered with horror when the armoured executioner had raised his sword, bringing it down in a terrible swipe at Richard’s neck - and then, for a brief moment, there was silence. A degree of shock had hung in the air amongst the crowd - but it soon subsided, and many were satisfied to see the cruel old goat of Helvets finally vanquished at last. Most of all Theodora Angelica Helvets, Robert’s aunt and Richard’s unfortunate target in his most abominable act. Robert did not hold her to account, for she was a victim in this terrible circumstance. Somehow, Robert felt as though he could relate to that…

 

The young Helvets remembered how he had felt in that moment where his grandfathers head was dislodged from his neck - the ringing in his ears, that tears that had flooded his eyes like an unrelenting waterfall. How he collapsed to his knees, the fight within him banished as all he could do was look upon the sky and scream his silent damnation to the heavens….

 

Stirring himself from the pained memory, Robert rescinded himself from his bed in his Trissingam quarters  - stealing himself to a mirror nearby.

 

He had been offered such prestigious accommodation only recently, in the aftermath of his grandfathers execution - he and the Duchess Helena with the assistance of a sympathetic Haenseni knight by the name of var Ruthern had brought the headless corpse of Richard across the border and into Providence, where they lay his body in the mourning room of the Palace Augustine. Robert and Wilhelmina had shared a moment of grief, then - him for the realisation that a man he once thought a hero had become a monster in his old age, and her for the uncle and second father she had lost. In their shared woes, they had found a moment of comfort amongst eachother - and she had promised him lodgings within the Palace of Trissinghams and servants to wait on him as though he were an Imperial Prince of her own womb, so that no longer he would find himself going wanting. Indeed, she had struck true to her promise, but it did little to ease Roberts soul - in these past few weeks, he had found his heart becoming a deep and inescapable pit, in where an irreparable hole had taken shape that could never be hope to be mended in this lifetime.

 

As he stares deep into the mirror with his sunken eyes, the young Rochefort discerns his own appearance - blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin and a small and slender build. He was a spitting image of his forebears, yet his own dilemma had been tugging at his mind for these past many weeks - the question of his own moral fragility.

 

Was he doomed to one day tread that same path, slowly descending into the madness and depravity of his grandfather and in some ways, his own father? Was this the curse of his bloodline? Would the same legacy and fate one day become his own? Robert concentrated hard upon the advice his guardian, Lord Carrington had gave him not so long. “Man is the maker of his own destiny…” he had said. But in that moment and this, and throughout many situations in the Kaedreni’s short twelve years on this mortal plane, it did not seem to be this way. Richard did not choose to go senile and mad, nor did Adrian choose to be cruel and negligent.

 

With a great loathing and a feeling of worrisome dread, Robert silently wondered what will he could one day become.

 

Pulling his eyes away from his mirror and unto his desk, Robert strode forth as he seated himself upon his familiar chair, lighting a candle as he recovers a parchment and pen. There was a letter he needed to draft with haste, and sleep could wait another hour or so - it wasn’t as though he got much rest the days or for any days of his life, besides. He puts pen to paper in one sharp motion, scribbling in the mailing address as the office of the secretary of his Holiness, the High Pontiff.

 

Your holiness,

 

I would wish to you that you would be receiving this letter of mine in good tidings, but I know that to well be far from the case. Though I’ve little involvement or interest in the politics of the church, word spread fast and wide of the Karosgrad riots. I did not watch the riots with my own eyes, only saw the aftermath - the smashed and broken merchants stalls close to the Basilica that had been destroyed in rage by the proponents of these violent protests, the glass that had littered the floor from the Basilicas windows that had been shattered by brick and concrete,  and the unrelenting anger and fury from those that remained - a wrath directed at you and your followers. Standing amongst the loiterers, I could almost feel their hatred and rage burning inside me as though it were their own… I am not the holiest of young men, but nothing to me about their spirits and demeanours looked or felt pious nor faithful to me.

 

I do not know the circumstances that led to this travesty taking place. As I have pre-faced this letter, I am not involved nor intrigued by the inner machinations of the church and nor will I ever be. And whilst I am sorry for the damage inflicted upon the Basilica in Karosgrad, and am glad to hear that you are alive and unscathed, I send you this letter so late into the night to talk about a more delicate matter.

 

I'm certain you know by now of the execution of my grandfather, Count Richard Helvets. I saw him die with my own eyes - watched unflinching as he was dragged into the Karosgrad square and beheaded for all to see. I never knew him well, only grew up on stories of the great man he once was. And it disgusted me, seeing what he was and what he had become on his last day in this world. I feel sorrowful for my aunt Theodora - no daughter should ever have to endure such a deadly wrath from her father, and I want to apologise to her eventually on his behalf, if I can. But I know the moment is sensitive now, and some things are better off left unsaid. I even got the chance to speak to him before his execution - to look him in the eye, and say goodbye. I think he may have recognised me or, for a brief moment, saw me even… for I could swear on all the saints that his face softened for a moment, and he did not look angry or afraid. I wonder if, mayhaps, there was a chance - a chance that I could have saved him from his fate. I think that is a question I will be pondering upon until the very day I die.

 

I know you both knew eachother well - I heard many stories in my youth from my father Lord Adrian about the bond that Laurence and Richard had shared, as they nurtured Owynsburg in its infant years. And through their bond and genius in governance, how Owynsburg would go on to become one of the largest suppliers of tobacco, cotton and wheat produce not only within the boundaries of the Holy Orenian Empire, but across the plains of the known world. I know you knew him better than I ever could have, and I am sorry you had to lose a man that was close to a brother to you.

 

My only request to you, your Holiness, as the future inheritor of his legacy and assets is that he be given a funeral proper and true - a public funeral, where those who want to come and mourn him for the man he was before he lost his mind may come and pay their respects and homage. He should be buried in Redenford - where many of the Kaedreni live and toil now. It is far from his home, but it is as close as we can get.

 

Yours in trust,

 

Robert F. Helvets.

 

 

 

[Draeris 3124]

His Holiness Owyn III sat by himself in the devastated Karosgrad Basilica, his centerpiece of a podium missing from the trashed chamber. There,  seated on the steps as he read this young man's letter, he wept. It wouldn't take long before His Holiness would muster the strength to go to his private Office, and pen a letter in return.

 

To the young Robert Foltest Helvets,

 

You are in my deepest prayers as we both combat the sorrow that now overcomes us. Count Rochefort was in many ways a pillar that upheld many around him: someone who rejected the sinful temptations of power and prestige for loyalty and dedication to his own kin. It pleases me that a young boy such as yourself shares my reverence, despite his succumbing to his ailments of madness. 

 

If you are indeed in possession of his body, do contact any clergyman of the Holy Mother Church with post haste. I shall provide him a funeral with full honours, and enshrine his contributions for all of mankind to see. I do hope that you fare well, young Rochefort, and that you currently find yourself surrounded by friends and family. A wise Monsignor reminded me of how much his death doesn't matter, even when it does.

 

For his soul and legacy shall live on, as he finds his path to the Seven Skies. There, among our friends that had fallen before him, he shall smoke his pipe and go on hunting expeditions: and one day, you and I shall join him. I shall pray to GOD to give him proper tobacco and a sturdy Castor crossbow: for I wouldn't want our Dicky Helvets to end up arguing with GOD himself. 

 

If you ever need guidance, solace or warmth: the Holy Mother Church, and myself, shall be there for you. GOD never abandons his flock, and I shall not abandon the grandchild of a dear friend. 

 

TE DEUM.

 

PONTIFEX MAXIMUS

OWYN III

 

[venclair 713]

Quiet days were feathers without hurry, moving lavishly in the air as the winter time passed in its somber majesty; having brought skies of richly marbled grays and trees so striking in their bare beauty. Those cold days for calmness and reflection are waning and a new day arises. Through the windows of Trissingham streams light, new-gold flowing in at the birth of each day. Days swept along and yet no sight of the young Helvetii boy. A friend amidst the blossoming gardens of The Augustine awaits, promenading mindlessly — pacing even, as she longs to see her friend once more. There was a strike of pity towards the tristful heir, uneasiness plaguing her mind. Victoria's stride paused then, standing at the very spot where the two had met in their younger years. Wistfulness overcame her features, mulling over the whereabouts of Robert Foltest.

[osumanduas 1442]

 

Spoiler

 

 

As he stood before his grandson in Karlsburg and before the assembled court, Richard Victor could not for the life of him remember where was. In one moment he was at a ball, his brother Henry at his side to encourage him forward. "Go talk to her brother, maybe you'll make a friend." In other moments he stood before that very women as a consoling figure, yet he could do nothing for the Horenic illness that plagued her. In other moments he stood before two graves, an abandoned patch of soil in rain stained woods, in the other a pyre that glowed bright as smoke pillowed out above, in both an immense pang of regret and sorrow. Lastly was a meeting, for which that whiskey he was promised would always get him through. One more minute, two more, then he would be home. That home in which, though he had done so much to preserve, he still despised, and in which his children were his only solace. That place had stolen his freedom. But the view from his balcony was a decent one, it looked out over all the valley of Cathalon and what had been Ves; his city of birth. He was so very tired.

 

In his grandson though he saw what could have been in his son. He saw his own reflection in the lad and the person he was so long ago. In better times he would have despised that weakness as he despised his own. Yet before the last he took solace in knowing that perhaps what was needed was a gentler hand than he had given. He had failed, yet in this perhaps there could be some respite. "Take care of it Adrian my boy, we'll be back to Cathalon in no time at all." he muttered as the boy hugged him and hurried away before the end. On some level he knew what was to happen at the cost of his actions, he knew and still he welcomed it. Perhaps he would chat further with his siblings who still even then whispered in his ear.

 

He was taken back to the countryside, and as lounged on that balcony which was the second of two things in life that could bring him peace, did he die. His head falling down unto the valley below, though he was now gone his blood would provide soil for a new Oak to rise in his place someday.