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A QUIET END [PK POST]


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Ailred Ruthern had not the time to mourn his father properly, he had heard the news of his passing late in his office, nearing the time to midnight. Hands of his bore a light tremor as he continued about his office-work, from paper to paper, from the hours of zero to the break of dawn. On his route home, he allowed it not to trouble his mind and instead turned his typical walk into a tiring jog. And once at home, the Marshal of Hanseti-Ruska wended his way to the room of his daughter; Mathea, pressing the back of his hand to her cheeky lightly as to make sure she was well in sleep. His family meant nearly everything to him, so he remained there for a few minutes, brooding as an attentive gaze looked over his sleeping daughter.
 

"Tsk," he eventually came out with, moving away into his own bed. When the next day came about, for the first time since he had been able to grow hair around his face -- and out of his typical routine, he left for work with a stubbly face. He simply didn't have the energy, for he was a tired man to be.
 

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Marjorie Baruch sits silently in her bedroom in Valwyck, her chubby hands clenched tightly around the missive that read the news of her father's passing. With her eyes red and teary, she stared out the widow, watching over the lands of her husband, wishing she had been at home, in Druzstrat, so that perhaps maybe she could have somehow saved him from his fate, saved her beloved Papej from death for her own selfish want. She wished she had remained as close to him as she was as a child, dwelling on the fact that she wasn't.

 

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The youngest sister of the Duke had just started making her way back from Knoxville when she heard about her brother's demise. A sadness spread in her soul, one she hadn't felt for years and as she sat in the carriage, her gloved hands resting on her lap the Ruthern looked out of the window with teary eyes. 

 

Camilla swiftly got out of the carriage, rushing through the hallways of Druzstrat to Maric's chambers. The Dukes body, with his closed eyes and head resting on a pillow, was on the bed already prepared for the funeral. He looked like he was simply sleeping. Quietly Camilla made her way to the bed taking a kneel next to him. For a few minutes she was muttering prayers until she proceeded to whisper stories of their youth to him. 

Soon her nieces and nephews entered the room. Camilla lightly squeezed Marics hand before leaving her brothers bedside.
"May Godani protect vyr soul, Hauser." she said making room for the others to say their goodbyes. As she left the room, she called out for her maid to prepare her black gown.  

 

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Mathea did not know her hauchpapej very well - but she lit a candle in his honor. A quiet prayer was spoken by the raevir child as she vowed to try and remember him for her own and her younger sibling's sake. 

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Somewhere, an aged figure would smile. Who knows if he actually met Maric in the afterlife, but he smiled as his colleague finally found peace. "You crazy bastard..." the aged man said "At least you died doing what you loved... I am glad you finally found your peace, Maric." 

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The man - once a timid and cautious boy - heard the news with a cold feeling of apprehension. He had fled long ago, and yet snippets of what once had arrived, continuing to remind him of who he truly was. The cold and expressionless mask, wrought of steel, betrayed no emotion; merely the featureless face that he chose to don. Orange eyes, once blue, remained - unmoving and changing, for this was the guise he chose. Ronwe, not Mikhail. And it refused to show the cries of the child.

     

The abyssal feeling grew, enveloping the man in a disheartening sorrow. Yet, it refused to let him show the effects of this revelation. He grasped the Jar that he carried along with him, placing it within a dark room where no light was shed. The lid was grasped, undone as soon as azure smoke filled his surroundings - with it, he delved deep within it; retreating where none may see him. Mikhail, no longer Ronwe. And he allowed himself to cry.

     

Alone, he lived. Alone, he heard of this news. Alone, he wept.

     

The others relented, allowing the boy to cherish what was lost and what could've been. Estranged, he may've been -- yet he didn't allow that to change what he was. And on that night, away from prying eyes did Mikhail Ruthern sob where none may hear it, within the world he wove for himself.

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Fionn Castaway would sigh heavily as he came onto another pile of work in his office for him to sort out "Brilliant. More ******* work." His grumbling would cease, however, upon laying his eyes on the missive of the Duke's death. His throat would burn from the carrion he was drinking from as he read the announcement, though he would ignore it as he read on with a solemn look on his face. "Another good man gone from this world." he huffed, glancing at the painting of him and Igor Kort which rest on the wall of his office. "Let's just hope Ailred can be as good a man as tú, Maric." he'd mumble a prayer before signing the Hussariyan Cross and getting on with his work.

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Spoiler

 

 

The news were delivered to Harren by a courier, and the Ruthern who was now in his late twenties, himself a father of three, and a husband too, began packing enough belongings for a brief stay at Vidaus to mourn their father.

 

The carriage left Providence on a quiet morning of the summer month of Vzmey and Hyff, and drove through fertile, lush fields, that were growing all around the Orenian capital, before it carried on into deeper forests, with grand trees standing with their proud green leaves, before it finally came near the colder parts of Almaris, reaching up to the beginning of the Rimeveld as it finally arrived at Vidaus.

 

As he began up the steps, and finally stepped through the gates of the keep, it felt largely unfamiliar to him. His older brother, Ailred, had done some renovations through the years, and the absence of most of his family, parents, siblings, et cetera., made him feel more unwelcome than he ever had before in the place of his birth.

 

He began to meander through the halls of Druzstrat. First, he came to a painting of a young blonde woman and a young raven-haired man. They were both dressed in wedding clothes, it was, after all, his parent’s wedding in 352 E.S. Maric looked happier in that painting than Harren had ever seen him, despite all that their family had achieved in the meantime.

 

Down the corridor hung another painting, painted on the beaches of Sutica. There was Maric, cheerfully holding some sort of ball in his hands, while Ailred, Antonina, Tatiana, Harren, and Mikhail crowded around their mother, who was holding Marjorie as a babe. He didn’t remember the trip himself, but could tell it dated back to 358 E.S., the same year Marjorie was born.

 

The painting that followed immediately after was more familiar, while the location had been the exact same. They were all older, he must’ve been around seven back then. Him and Ailred were kicking a ball around, Antonina and Tatiana were arguing. Marjorie was watching her older siblings, and Mikhal was nowhere to be found. Mother looked like she was having trouble standing, and Maric generously aided her with a concerned expression. While he only remembered tidbits of the vacation, the tragedy that came not many days after they arrived stuck much more to his conscience, just as it had when he was older.

 

He couldn’t bear looking at the next painting for very long. It was too grim, much too sad for a man of his usually cheerful demeanour. Children should never have to go to a funeral of one of their parents so young, especially not when their father would be appointed Lord Palatine, effectively leaving the children to their own devices with a group of poor servants and tutors, who could barely keep track of one of them at a time.

 

Then came a painting to lighten the mood a lot, it was from Spirit’s Eve of 368 E.S. Maric had dressed himself up as an orc, and followed his children around diligently. Ailred had proclaimed the entire festival to be heathenry, and, of course, refused to dress up for it. Antonina and Mikhail had both stayed at home, which had left Harren and Tatiana as the two only properly dressed up for it. Marjorie was crying somewhere, because her older siblings had refused to let her dress with them.

 

The corridor of paintings wasn’t much longer than that, as being Lord Palatine had gotten harder for his father, he had stopped commissioning paintings of the family. Though, Harren had maintained the tradition for his own family, and now eagerly awaited walking through that corridor in Oren.

 

As he was about to open the door to his room, Harren recalled an obsession from his youth, and made it out on one of the balconies, where his two old cannons still stood. Whether or not Harren shed any tears that night was unsure, nevertheless, the sound of two cannons firing from Vidaus rang throughout the entire kingdom.

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Caroline, the now duchess-dowager of Vidaus would have moved out of the carriage she was being carried in towards the Duchy of Vidaus, slowly moving towards the keep, now receiving a letter. As she opened it she'd offer a smile, thinking it was some sort of good news. Soon after her facial expression would have lowered the woman's eyes began to swell with tears more and more, she'd then look around into the distance before swiftly going to enter the keep moving quickly to her and Maric's room. As she then sat on the bed she'd continue to cry. For around four to five days she'd sit in the room, only receiving food and water from the maids as she personally mourned for her husband

 

(Rip Maric... )

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Per usual, the news of the former Palatine had spread hastily to Nataliya. the aging princess drummed her fingers against the wooden railing upon her husband's ship, pondering to herself. "A dobry man, one of the few who attempted to stop my assassination. as well as continuing to be kind towards me after the incident. another man who has earned others and my respect." she raised her Carrion to the sky before taking A sip. "May you rest well in the seven skies."

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Agnes heard the news in passing and frowned heavily. "Oh my poor sweet Caroline." The woman said, moving to her desk to write a letter. 

 

"Dearest Caroline, 

 

 I heard of the loss of your husband recently and I wish you all the best. Perhaps Aveline, Eloise and I can come visit when you feel a bit better. You've done well for yourself and I couldn't be prouder of the woman you've become. I miss you and I hope you get well soon. 

 

Love always, 

Agnes de Falstaff. " 

@HeftyDonut

 

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