Letter in the Desk

[BenevolentManacles 2232]

 

Dear James,

 

A grandson, the midwife told me, with a polite address, offering the child out to me as if I were to hold it. 

 

I could think of nothing to say but to tell the midwife to return him to his mother. A cold command, my innate affection for the boy clouded by the tumult of my most recent years. My first grandchild, my first grandson, and I could not give him my all, not in the moment, Lord forgive me.

 

I am an aging Prince now, James, but I have no pity for myself.

 

You would be overjoyed to see me live, vicarious, through my children. Josephine is the image of your wisdom, though without your piety. I warn her daily that her wisdom is too old for her, and that it will suffer her. I was, when young, without the same, and it served me well. If I knew what I know now, I would have been tormented in my quest for faith, where instead I was blinded and blissful.

 

The General would not take me as an officer since my return, and he condemns me as a deserter. This is the greatest shame of my life, that he considers me so lowly, when I love him and his army so dearly. Should not my decades of service be revered? Shall I be hated by the officers of the army, one I bled for so harshly, and fought with so fervently? I curse him for the insult. I am a servant of God, and His soldier, His servant, and the bearer of His banner. If I see no honor for it from mortal men, it is merely proof of the Lord’s test, that I am destined to walk the rainbow bridge in the end times, to see the virtuous dead.

 

This is rambling, though. I have learned the lessons of sin. I must seek to live as a Saint, and know I will never become one. How can I be more virtuous, if this is not my path? This tumult may be invented by the Lord as insurmountable, and so it is, when I once thought he would only give me that which I could conquer.

 

I know deeply that I am a sinner, still. The boy, the General’s grandson, spit in my very face. My daughter’s hand in marriage offered to him, and he cast it aside. I have prayed so dearly for forgiveness for what I write to you now.

 

My son, Robert Francis, stood with me in the garden, the brigadiers in guard around me, as the future Duke of Sunholdt rebuked my daughter’s hand. It could only be that he knew nothing of the insult he gave me, and in my rage, I resolved myself to finish the matter by my own hand. I feared shame for bringing this to my Imperial father, who with a stroke of his hand would see it resolved. 

 

I told him that he would eat mud and that he and his progeny would beg forgiveness for generations. I have been unable to extinguish the violence of my soldiery, and I passed it to my dearest son. I told him I would kill him, and my son threw the gauntlet at him, thirsty for blood, to defend his sister’s honor.

 

What would my new grandson think of me, James? Will he hear this tale and lament the sad weakness of his Imperial grandfather, who lost the grace of the Lord and brought insult onto his fellow?

 

I think not. I think he will agree with me. I know this was a sin, James, but his offense was too great. I have determined that some failures to be saintly are natural, or necessary. 

 

My Imperial father imposed the marriage between my daughter and the d'Arkent all the same, deeply offending the Helvets who had believed their marriage to the d’Arkent son was secured. The new Duke Cathalon, a young boy named Thomas, descended on the Emperor with references to tyranny for his action against the d’Arkent’s insult.

 

I could have killed him as he sat there, spitting at the Emperor without obedience. Whence my brother and I reign, James, I will be sure such behavior is eradicated severely. The Emperor is not the autocrat he once was, but the authority of good and Godly government comes from him. It must be respected, God willing.

 

My daughter, even, despised my father’s action. She lamented against the Emperor and myself. These Princes and Princesses, these Dukes and Duchesses, they desire all things of their status besides the duty. Judith and I wed without question, as were my brothers and sisters, though some of them struggled a bit. But all this offense against the command of the Emperor. It boils me, James, even after, as she has submitted to be happy in her union, and learned the lesson she must.

 

Robert Francis has all of my violence and all of my faith. He called the Cathalon girl a w.hore  for betraying Josephine’s betrothal, only then to be set to marry her by my father in recompense for the marriage the Helvets lost to d'Arkent. God knows irony.

 

I hope dearly that you do not feel defeated, that you cannot send me paper in return. There will be a message received, James, I will read it in what the Lord shows me. 

 

I told you before you died. I am but a form of wax, by you imprinted. I will remember the lessons, and pray forever that the Lord forgives my weaknesses, and supports me against my own sin, and the sins of others. That I forgive with quality of soul, and chastise the unrepentant. I do not regret my violence of word or action, James. This Empire requires a rough hand, well toiled, as much as it needs a gentle hand filled with the Lord’s love.

 

Forever your son,

Philip Augustus

[kuerbis 3802]

That night - after all those countless guests had left - Anne Caroline could do naught but to sit within her hospital bed, left to wonder if she'd done anything wrong. Surely, she did not look her best. Perhaps her father was disappointed? Dark circles were left under her eyes and her face was still a burning red colour. Somewhere to her right flank, a baby - her baby - was nested in a crib. Despite not yet being allowed to do so, Anne rose up and walked around the room.
The love she felt for that little child did not falter, but the sting of seeing her father reject to hold his first - and currently only - grandchild hurt Anne Caroline's motherly pride - even if she did not want to admit it.

She pulled a chair towards the crib and sat herself down. After lighting a candle, Anne leaned forwards to study her son's features.
Were there flaws? Was his nose too large? Were his ears protruding too much? Perhaps his hair was too red - red like her own?
A sigh escaped the princess, her hands running nervously through her hair. She could not tell what exactly had made her Imperial father reject to hold the baby, but she would make sure to find out and fix whatever it may be.

That very night, Anne decided to be a stern mother, to be a mother that will not allow any flaws, any weaknesses. She will raise this boy to be one to be proud of. One, that her father would enjoy holding and parading about the city. One, that was what she - or anyone else - never could be...

... perfect.

[Nectorist 12870]

Tell me, O Lord, by what sin did I commit to warrant such a plight? Afflicted has my conscious been by you, a toll most merciful for my grave sins, but why must you still punish my earthly form? To be wed to the same woman you so tell me to revile- such a fate confounds me! Dutiful am I to you, to country, to family, yet even the most stalwart of soldiers may question the command of an officer, if not challenging the legitimacy of such an order, then aiming to discover the reason for it being issued in the first place so they make remain confident in the decisions made by their superior. It is in this hour that I make this humble request, O Lord, for even as I am a worthless sinner, saved only from eternal damnation by your mercy, a fact you have told me a great many times, I still beg for the privilege to at least be told the purpose here. Is she to be saved by my hand? Is this Harlot of Cathalon to be rendered punishment by my hand? Or, a thought so fleeting for a God as wrathful as you, so ephemeral that your fiery tongues do whip at my mind even as I so wonder it, must I learn to temper this fury you so incite, and learn to love and forgive, to show a better way? Such is what I ask, O Lord, and if this humble servant of yours has performed even an ounce of true penance for the many sins that so weigh upon him, inflicted by his cruel hand and accursed disposition, then pray reveal your design in this seemingly-wretched turn of fortune.

 

So prays the prince, his frail mine still beset by foul spirits, each claiming to be the God he so revered.