sweet disillusionment of youth

[RaindropsKeepFalling 884]

[Do not metagame any of this information. None of this is public knowledge. However, notable to those scouts seeking him - and those close to him, would be his abrupt disappearance.]

Spoiler

 

 

“I’ll die here one day. I’m sure of it.

I think you should go.”

-Anton d’Amato-Orlov

 

(1800 - 1834)

━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━

 

“I’d like to be a good man.” 

 

There was something profoundly wrong, something rotten within a world constructed of good, and bad, but no one seemed to have ever noticed. They went on with their happy lives: playgrounds, and no one seemed to care. No one, save for a few: renegades against phony naysayers, perhaps all immature. If only things were so simple anywhere, a wanderer mused. 

 

His name was Anton, a seldom smiling, cynical misanthropist, persisting in the moonlit hours, and dozing amid the day. He was a phantom that way; merely ambling around the world- a ghost of a bygone epoch of the hearth, beside his late mother’s effigy. Even his surname, a constant, awful reminder of his dead, and hated heritage. d’Amato: his late mother, and Orlov: an absent father he resembled, and the man he loathed most. He was left with contrived reminders- around Providence, that city that paused for nobody: even one’s beloved. He was left alone: far, far away. 

 

Days were like hours, and minutes were like seconds: in the span of his fluttering eyes, five years passed and he approached thirty five as he’d similarly approached the apprehensive thirty: equally harrowing, always mundane. He didn’t know what he was doing, existing simply for the sake of it. He’d been a hero, a figurehead, a nobody and someone, yet it held no weight, nevertheless: not now. For, who was he really; the question troubled him.

 

A veteran.

A wanted fugitive.

A daft man- a dratted lickspittle.

An alcoholic.

A fool.

A man.

 

Everything was circumstantial in that terrible way. Never an objectivity, but another warped view of things from within. Never an answer of any kind. Only a fool would figure there would be, and the idealists dreamed. 

 

One day, the lonesome soul wandered throughout those dreams- perhaps better hailed as restless terrors, for he dared not sleep then. The circles beneath his eyes were darker with each  passing eve, as his gait grew to stagger. Each step further into the starlit unknown was more meager, surely.

 

And the man surely grew tired.

 

 

“If it's any consolation, I mistook you, Anton.”

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

Spoiler

1833

12th of Owyn’s Flame

 

I fumbled through some old leather bound journals I never wrote through from who knows when. This may as well go to use. 

 

I’ve never written much, lest it was for bureaucratic purposes of bills and busy-work, but here I figured it was worth a try. If I die, which appears as a growing possibility each day, it seems worthwhile; however insincere. I’m not arrogant enough to hail my own thoughts expressed as precious ideas for generations to come, but perhaps I’ve hope in the act of writing, even if I have little way with words. I’m quite illiterate, that way. 

 

-A.F.

━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━

 

He was persistent in his journey over the lush hills, with a branch within his grip as a makeshift walking stick, and a determination for something he knew not. He aimlessly trailed, as a searcher not so different from those scouts seeking him. They sought to render him dead, he figured. A single soul against the wider world in its whole; that’s the way it had always been. 

 

To those who knew him hitherto in the days before, his ever growing dread was evident around his very atmosphere. That nihilism tugged at his heart and he was left alone to ache and merely wonder why. Alas, a reply never came. He didn’t know, nor did anyone else he came across. He was offered contradictory quips, once in a while, indecisive always.

 

It didn’t matter then, and it didn’t now. A maddened, charlatan apathy had encompassed him after a while. What was the point, after all? Death crept after him and plucked off those nearest in his vicinity, ‘till no one was left but him. A dead man walking, or so he supposed; that’s the way it had always been. 

 

 

“You know there's something wrong with you, but you don’t want to acknowledge it to anyone, least of all yourself.”
━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

Spoiler

1833

5th of Godfrey’s Triumph

 

I wrote Cillian O’Rourke today. I find it funny how we’ve striked a superficial friendship of sorts, thanks to mere unlucky circumstances. As a teenager, I recall some drunken brawl inadvertently against him after the death of Ostromir Carrion. Had you told Anton then, he’d befriend such a man, I figure he’d have lashed out, as he usually did. 

 

I haven’t seen E in a long while since our last talk. I do worry, but I’m unsurprised by the outcome of the debacles and drama. It's anticlimactic, considering the past, but I suppose Geoff was right with what he said: maybe things will be better off. It's my own fault, if I’m to be utterly frank. I suppose everything lasted longer than anyone would, or could expect. It's for the best, anyway, or so that’s easiest to believe.

 

I’m to meet with the O’Rourke in a day's time, and we will “scheme,” or something like that. I don’t know. It's insignificant, I hope. 

 

-A.F. 

━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━

 

He clambered past a hefty hill to arise over the zenith as he’d conquered it from below. There was little satisfaction, as he witnessed only another, similar, equally steep rise from the flat sod he found himself so far from: that revered city, that god damned place. For the first time, he ached to meander over its cigarette scented, bustling streets.

 

Long hitherto had the man tossed that useless stick aside, both palms tucked within his pockets, searching for what he so hankered for: nicotine. He relied upon it for some modicum of sanity- some shallow control. Alas, no avail came. His belongings were all elsewhere, even he couldn’t quite pinpoint where. Symbolic, surely, as he neither knew why he began this odyssey.

 

Just as he’d trounced the previous mount, he arose up the next to a brighter view. Flickering lights and wooden posts which didn’t resemble anything Imperial. He hoped it was his salvation, and feared that he was diving into his own demise.

 

He couldn’t care less as he descended, hiking down that peak. He was pensive, as his psyche wandered, thoughts far from his hike halfway to nowhere. What drove him to this attitude? This zenith of his misgivings. And, had he always been this way, this complacent fool claiming to differ? One could blame the world, the shams of each day, assert it was all requisite. 

 

He knew he was insincere, and that wasn’t right. He knew nothing of what he said. So much work, as he climbed and climbed, only to face another obstacle. The metaphor didn’t escape him for his wider life. Anton longed to remember a different time, to squint to see a different future. He had a whole life, but how whole was he? 

Anton always had something to prove.

 

“Hello,” he rasped as he made his way to the cobblestone road separating the wider hamlet in half, approaching a figure enveloped in shade.

 

“Oh, evening, mister,” replied the elder man man docked just beside a carriage as he coerced his steed to munch on an apple. He couldn’t have been seventy, nor a second younger than sixty two. Wrinkles creased his features as a kindhearted smile met him. 

 

“You’re a coach, right?” He inquired at that, eyes flicking over the man, his steed, and the carriage attached.

 

“That’s right! Need a lift, sir?” 

“...I suppose so.” 

“Just give me a moment to feed my girl here, and we’ll be on our way.”
“Of course.” He reassured, raising a dismissive palm aloft. Surely he didn’t recognize him. If he had, he would’ve shouted, surely he would’ve betrayed him by now. He sought to lay his paranoia to rest, but only grew more anxious as he tapped his foot against the stones: clack, clack, clack.

 

The unnamed man’s eyes inadvertently drifted to him with the incessant sound, turning narrowed. It was short lived, and he returned his attention to the steed thereafter.

Anton climbed within the carriage as the coach settled himself in the front. 

 

“So, where to?”

He told him, thus they departed.

 

Not backstabbed yet.

 

“What’s your name, eh, sir?”

He hesitated, weary with the inquiry.

“Dimitri… Fiore,” he spontaneously lied, stiffening, seemingly sheepish by his own self-preservation, or so he excused.

“Raevir, hm? Me too. Y’know, you dress and sound like one of those Providence city kids, wouldn’t have guessed…” He trailed off. 

“Guessed what?” He snapped, a palm shifting to the handle of the carriage door.

 

“I dunno, Dimitri just isn’t what I would’ve thought, and your surname doesn’t match one of those Imperial Raev’s, you know? Just figure more people shouldn’t drive themselves too far from who they are.”

A pause encompassed the two, as only the hooves of that horse and the bobbing up and down down the thin roads broke a certainly deafening silence.

“...It’s my father's name, too.” He spoke up. “I wouldn’t wish to be like him.”

 

“Eh?”
No response came forth from the quiet man.

“Eh, just trying to make small talk… it's a long ride.” Muttered the coach, downtrodden.

 

Anton swallowed down his doubts and lingered there, extending his gaze to the window as the world outside rushed past. Where the hell was he, and where was he headed at that? 

 

It was for the best. For once, it would work out. It couldn’t swivel south. It wouldn’t. He was too careful, this time, too weary. 

 

 

 

“What gives you the right? To just…- to just be you?”

 

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

Spoiler

1833

20th of Harren’s Folly

 

My life is more of a lie with each passing day, and I am complacent with it. 

 

Cosimo reappeared, yesterday. I believe I suffered some sort of head injury, but dear Gracia had it a lot worse than I did. She’s very fortunate to be alive. Their shop- The Seamstress, seemed to be burnt after we were jumped amid an innocuous talk. They claimed it “wasn’t personal.” We leaped out the window, and I fell to the flowerbed only to spot my cousin, that man Cosimo. Where had he been? I had a million questions, and he just stood there beside Viktor, like he hadn’t been presumed dead for years and years.

 

We headed to the Redenford manor, and Natalia fixed her daughter up. Cosimo told me to discover who did such a heinous crime, and mocked me; as if I was the inactive one, as if I was the one that took too little action. He is a hypocrite. I told him the Ministry of Justice was useless, as usual. It's been years, and we’ve yet to uncover the culprit to Rhea’s murder, after all. I’m sure that this case will follow no differently. I wouldn’t be surprised if the d’Azor’s had some connection to the attack, as it was after me. It's strange, having people at your rear reminding you they may try to kill you at any time. Such is life. 

 

After Gracia was settled, and alive, Cosimo left once more, hailing himself as “Antonius.” He did appear different, with brown eyes as opposed to olive, if I recall correctly. I left shortly thereafter, and they told me to “be safe.” I said I’d try; I’m not as unstable as that family makes me out to be. 

 

I wonder if this mystery will ever culminate. Long ago, I supposed the man was dead, and now he turns up, clearly alive. I wish I understood him. He disappeared for so long. That is, unless I’m growing mad, which isn’t out of the question. I anticipate something, but that could be paranoia and my lack of sleep. Perhaps I’ll write Franz. He would understand. He always has: full of crazed rage, but he understands nevertheless.

 

I should have left with him to Dobrov all those years ago.  

 

-A.F.

━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━

 

“What would you recommend I do?” He asked abruptly.

“Hm, well, that depends.” He began. “Go from the stream. You don’t have to follow the river, or the roads. There are better routes. I know that much.” A stifled chuckle resounded through, to no reply. Anton was unamused: platitudes.

 

“That’s a cliche.” He observed, taking on an apathetic air.

“Maybe, but it's worked out pretty damn well for me. I mean, by my own standards. I suppose if you’re some ambitious Providence kid, well… my life looks pretty mundane as you’d call it.”

“If you’re content.”

“No one’s really content, Dimitri.”

 

His shoulders tensed as the name pierced him like a knife. “My names not Dimitri.” He blurted under his breath.

“Oh, I know.” 

His eyes shot wide.

 

“...You hesitated for a good moment before you said it, and you didn’t sound sure either. Seemed odd.” The elder coach spoke through a yawn with a nonchalant shrug. “What’s your name, then? Your real name.”

 

Despite Anton’s countless screams panging around his psyche, he did not move. He opened his mouth agape, at a loss for any words at all.

 

“Anton,” he quietly replied.

“Nice to meet you, Anton.- We’re here.” He announced.

 

He was right, as the horse whinnied with an abrupt halt and Anton was thrown forth against the front with a wince. He climbed into the exterior, brushing off the dirt and leaves hanging from his disheveled frame. Idly, he remained still, staring across to the opposite man.

 

He’d have done something by now. 

Wouldn’t he?

 

“What’s your name?” He asked.

 

A faint grin settled into the elder’s visage. “Alek, pleasure there, Anton, like I said.” He extended a palm for a handshake, and such commenced. 

 

Anton retracted his palm to tuck within his right hand pocket, tossing a small pouch across with a monotonous clink, most of the money he held onto, still.

 

“Thank you.” He offered a sole dip of his head, turning on his heel as he made his way to evanesce off from that road, delving deep into the forestry once more without so much as a farewell. 

 

Shade encompassed the direction he wandered; it felt as though it was endless. Past the trees, and the ground, only to stand before an identical scene hither. He continued. It was too late to turn back.

His fate was settled, and he embraced it with crossed arms and a bittersweet smile; for surely he’d be forgotten soon enough, as the fleeting few were.

 

 

“Nothing in this life revolves around luck or divine will. It revolves around choice. We choose to do things; it is not predestination.”

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

Spoiler

1834

13th of Horen’s Calling

 

The latest times have been barren and I’ve fallen more to my overindulgence in alcohol. It's medicinal, I tell myself. Then, that seems a slimmer possibility when I feel so damn terrible, come the morning. I’ve been contemplating, in retrospect, all the people I seemingly have lost total touch with. It has been months since I’ve spoken to Geoff, but that isn’t unusual for our relationship; he'll forgive me. So many others are bygones, however. I remember I ran into Amie Ruthern at the NGS awhile ago. She was with her second husband and a younger, quite tall girl. She wasn’t doing well, she said. You see, I always recollect little, unimportant things like that. It's always the times I should crucially remember, I forget. 

We had spoken through work with the MOJ briefly, but all of that was fleeting: completely professional and insincere [to be fair, the museum interaction wasn’t much better.]

 

 I just wonder why so many people must turn up absent, but I should maybe ask myself why such surprises me. It's occurred since I was a child; I’m that forgettable. I cannot grovel over it. Alexander was right all those years ago, when he said I’m virtually a liability. Gracia almost died, and for what? I couldn’t protect her, nor could I have expected Adeline’s death. Some bringer of woe, that way: it is the forsaken fate of the minority, I figure.  

 

Maria Othaman told me those in my association turn up dead. She was right. Whether or not it is “not my fault,” does not change the truth in her words. And I still stay, in some protest to abandoning those who remain. Could call it arrogance, or a pursuit of normalcy. 

 

I’m alright alone, luckily. I’ve made it this far, even if age does ache at times. For now, I hope to sleep. It has been awhile. I pray Cosimo will return, not for answers I’m sure he doesn’t have, but even a halfhearted explanation. 

 

-A.F. 

━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━

 

Who was he?

 

The coach had been a good man; he mistook him, and he hadn’t been sprung upon with swords erect. “Halt, fugitive!” He was simply himself, to that man. As much of himself, as he could, or would be. That man without ulterior motive, that man that had carried him through the forestry in a rough ride to a clearing, finally. 

 

If he was an optimist, it would have justified everything. It would have made sense. He was too cynical- staunch in the belief of the inherent evil of all the arrant knaves. It was expected of someone beaten and stabbed and bruised, time after time. One began to anticipate the worst, whether it be the disillusionment of entanglement, left abandoned, or betrayal; it had always been that way.

 

One good man wouldn’t rationalize hundred’s wrongs, he figured. Then, he contemplated. He thought of the times of those forgotten, unknown passerbys, much like himself. The good few, similar to the unlucky few, in the streets, in the stores. Short greetings exchanged, if one was lucky: Hello. There was this girl… this brunette girl he knew as an adolescent.

Anton couldn’t summon her name.

 

Most of these musings of bad memory were merely repressed to the crevices of his psyche’s labyrinth, twisted into knots. Whether it were the depths of alcohol percolating through the wavering sod beneath his feat, where he’d dare drown, or the everlasting business he seemed to have tomorrow. Endlessly preoccupied with what wasn’t so worrisome, endlessly pensive with the irrelevant reflections; distractions, like the rhythmic noise of his footsteps against autumn leaves, gravel and dirt. 

 

He arrived unto familiar ground as the bitter silhouette of Redenford stood upright on the horizon. It would be so easy to run, to voyage forth to shelter for once. It would similarly be easier to remain within the thicket, to disappear then and there. The latter made him melancholy, and he sprinted forth from where he was hidden, over the final stretch to hover beyond a familiar grouping in this wake.

 

An Illatian girl’s eyes grew wide with surprise, and another, older man’s reticent attention flicked over to the disheveled man who’d just turned up.

 

“ANTON,” exclaimed the fuming intonation of Ludovica, turning on her heel with wide eyes. Her palm shot to her flank where a waist belt lay, as she drew out a shortblade. 

“Woah…” He mustered under his breath as incredulous surprise struck him to his very core, once more. His dear, youngest sister had just unsheathed weaponry upon him. What was he doing here? What was he doing? Why had it come to this? 

 

He frowned.

Words rushed past like a waterfall. He only caught half, or less, attention elsewhere. 

 

“-Like a careless child!” Ludovica yelled. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea how much sh*t this will bring on the family?!”

 

It was the hindmost time he saw her, little did he know. So much that longing man knew not, and so much he yearned to learn. The world was unkind, as was he. Could he blame himself? Maybe- he hadn’t protested, nor arose upright. He had allowed this; he had allowed it to come to this. It was of his own action, his own fallacies, his own mistakes. If only he could do nothing at all- to be idle, to sleep.

 

 

“I thought I hated her, once. Then I realized, she’s just unlucky like the rest of us.”

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

Spoiler

1834

19th of Godfrey’s Triumph

 

I am a dead man walking.

 

I sought to murder Joseph d’Azor earlier tonight, and as I fled across to Redenford, who did I see but Ludo, Gracia, and Cosimo. I escaped alive by the skin of my teeth, by finessing a hostage situation in which I threatened to slit Cillian O’Rourke’s throat. I was called a terrorist. It was the choice of being dead, or an outlaw. At that moment, I chose “outlaw,” on the fly.  

 

I recall that I had all these reasons and notions of why I’d make such a series of utter errors. Now, they’ve all escaped me and I wonder whether the people that call outliers mad are correct. What I’m trying to say, beyond my pseudo-intellectual, pedantic extrapolations, is I am mad, and for the first time I confess: they may be right. 

 

I am mad, and I am a true pretender, yes. I criticize these aristocrats for their insincere system, then I burgeon into the world as a fraud- like them. Elisabeth was right, that way. I’m unsure of who this “Anton,” is, but I’d like to meet him, and ask him why he insatiably acts this way. I fear if I did meet him, we would not get along. He isn’t a good man, I don’t think. Maybe once, not now. They were right; there is something wrong with me. I’m sure of that now. All of this, and what was it worth? 

 

A former coworker tried to shoot me, and my sister spat at my feet. She loathes me. I resent her. Like Cosimo, I’m a hypocrite. Like her, I’m a hypocrite. My father was right, and he is gone. He was wrong, too. I haven’t hope. I threw it away. Like a fool- I threw it away. Cosimo asked me what had happened for my sister to draw a blade to cut me down, and what could I tell him? 

 

I still recollect this saying from some 25 years ago. It stuck with me.

 

“Don’t get into trouble, be good.” 

 

Ma: my kind, sweet mother. I miss her. What would she say now? I wouldn’t blame her if she scoffed at her so-called, renegade son: oh well. I really did it all, didn’t I?  I’ve made mistakes many times- too much, and consequences are imminent now, I know. 

 

I miss her. I miss them. I miss taking that old greyhound mutt around the block, but reminiscing changes nothing.

 

The translation of “perdonami” in Common is “forgive me.”

 

Perdonami, God.

━━━━━━━━┓ ✠ ┏━━━━━━━━

 

Three weeks had since passed. Three weeks of lurking in the crevices of Redenford under the police’s nose. Three weeks, wherein he found himself swathed in pensive contemplation. For, when he looked into himself in the mirror, he discovered an unfamiliar man with unfamiliar eyes. There was no hope for that regretful man.

 

He could twist and turn and swivel and struggle, but he was still stuck with himself. The sins of the father laid weight unto his shoulders, whence his unease was everlasting. He sought to scream, to demand an answer from a callous God. He wondered whether he deserved his deserted fate. Deserted by his wavering faith, his peers, his country, his judgement, and himself. In the span of a moment, he could turn from a martyr to a villain. And though he claimed he cared not for what the outside said, it was the biggest lie he could tell. In the morning, each day, panic overtook his mind with what they would say. 

 

Even as he said himself, what was it worth? That brutish world was steadfast with cruelty. He could run- to run with all his might, all his energy, briskly as he could. He could outrun his responsibility, his family, his own thoughts as he drank himself halfway to death. Never, could the man escape his own skin- his own fate without rhyme or reason.

 

And, he continued on nevertheless.

 

Perhaps there was no meaning as he’d always hoped to justify- no answer to every question. Perhaps there was no permanence, no people to truly trust, and perhaps it had always been that way. Though, it strained him to swallow the half-truth, with a heavy heart. For, everything he’d believed in, and anything he’d felt toward the future flew out the window. How much easier it would be, surely- to care not. His grief had passed, and he was left only with the residue of nostalgia for a rose-tinted time which differed.

 

What to do, what to do. He lingered within a cramped room, his lodgings for the time. Cosimo would recommend some rash action, claiming “necessity,” and Ludovica would raise hell with judgement. Neither of them understood; neither of them knew him. No one did. Slivers of truth, of his “true self” flourished from time to time, not wholly, however. He feared the latter, for if they did, surely they would turn the other way, leaving him. 

 

He was right to avoid them. They were better off, and he was a horrid caretaker: most of all for his own family. It was supposedly so important, and he was afraid. He locked himself within closed chambers and hid since he was a boy. Obsessions overcame him: they were always short lived. He flooded his world with work, and it was an easy distraction from that underlying distress and mortality, that sweet disillusionment of formidable youth. 

 

He was a manic, indecisive man, shrouded in ambivalence always. 

 

He reclined against the chair he slumped within, withdrawing a palm within his right coat pocket. He beheld a single, shining brass coin. He threw it up aloft in the air. It fell and rolled onto the desk before him: heads. 

 

Once more, he flipped the coin: heads. This went on for a while, as the landing side began to vary. It was foolish to figure that a coin flip would be any more definitive than his own unsound judgement. 

 

How could he do such a thing? How could he prove himself a righteous human being, when all the papers dubbed him otherwise? It didn’t matter, no… of course not. What else, however, was left to fixate upon? He was trapped within this inescapable cage, as a dangerous burden to those bystanders beside the horror.

 

Deep down, he wished to lie and sleep and lie that he’d dreamt; a wonderful trance, to be like a guileless child, perchance to find naught irking, and to worry not. A wondrous spot, he’d muse. But in that fortunus fantasy of something more, he couldn’t help but figure that it was a mere sham, not so different from the shining city he’d survived within. It was that uncertainty, one of those endlessly unsettled questions Man wondered, in the pursuit of some significance to their fleeting lives. And with the unsettled, came apprehensive fright; Anton was no exception, constantly reminded of his own mortality, and only just eluding it.

 

What came next?

 

 

 

“Perhaps there’s hope for you yet. I’ll see you soon.”

━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━

Spoiler

1834

23rd of Godfrey’s Triumph

 

I’m a little drunk.

 

I had a long overdue conversation with Cosimo, this evening. He spoke of his actions all being of necessity. He acknowledged I had no reason to continue on, and did nevertheless. I remarked that it was the same end, either way. We would all die, either way. I confessed to my idealism, once - how I believed that I could change something; that I could truly shift this terrible system to a better future as some justification for everything before. It is futile, I know now.

 

As far as I can see, I have two options. I may turn myself in at the gates, to the red coats jurisdiction and surely die, or I may run away as I have once, twice, thrice before: too many times to count. To live without meaning and go on with this everlasting fight and game of tag, or to die by hanging under the dominion of a man you once worked for? Pick your poison.

 

I’m a fool. Was I always this way? I couldn’t have been. 

 

I loathe this insincerity and this facade of a choice where there is none. 

 

It's a requisite. Everything I do, I suppose: an obligation, somehow. Typical. They’ll be better off, either way: my family, my old friends. They resent me, and I don’t blame them, after all. I’m no better than the rest, certainly no better than my father before. Esther, that Sedanite girl: I hailed her as mad. She was right. There is no truth here, it's just more of the same, mended to fit whatever actor’s worldview. I wonder if she is still alive.

 

I’m alright alone. I did it all; everything I could palpably muster. I did what I could, and I still stand here with two unappealing doors. Such is life- we shift to and fro from what to focus on, what to believe, but it is never abjectly fair; only thinking makes it so. This suffering, yet: it cannot be noble. 

 

I understand Cosimo now, as necessity overtakes all: want, need, and so-called meaning. It's all noise. Perhaps I shall reunite with my father soon enough, or perhaps not, and perhaps I shall reckon what is right, or not. I know my fate is sealed. 

 

For now, I hope to sleep. It has been awhile. If I do not awake, I will not mourn.

 

-A.F. 

 

---

Spoiler

 

 

When the morning came and the sun arose behind an overcast sky, Anton was gone with few traces he’d been there at all. He had existed, then had no longer. It contrasted him to his very crux as something so… simple.  Ironic, he’d always dithered over the right action, yet he’d just gone. Nothing was left, no notes, no long goodbyes and apologies already expressed.

 

Only pages very written in, brimming with thoughts preliminary to the end.

 

The soul found himself within that thick forestry a second, or third time, trailing deeper into the depths with darker intentions. He would repeat his various anthems silently to himself: They’re better off. He would wonder about the past: If only things differed. 

 

If only, if only, and it surely wasn’t fair. This pain was undeserved, though the world would go on, despite his protest. The surroundings were unsympathetic to his struggle, as they bristled in the idle wind. The past was unchanging, and the future was to be seen. 

 

Into the undetermined, he trailed, bidding the storm clouds to strike upon him. 

 

“Do you hear that mother clock tick?”

“I see her now.”

“I am a man, just like you.”

 

Into the undetermined, he stalked, awaiting for what crazed dreams may come, shuffling away from the mortal coil in some blind persistence. He wavered with the winds, and followed in tow, without roads. He recalled the rapping upon his door, and the simple words exchanged. Anton was finished fighting. He was a traitor to his determination, caring not for that useless sentimentalism. He was unsure of what he had wanted when the war began, but knew no longer. He couldn’t take it anymore.

 

He’d stayed long past the closing hour, and it was time to go. 

 

“Life, life is death. It happens. It isn’t fair.”

 

Life without hope, that is. As the clouds parted to his absence, a sunny sky showed its face, as children danced within the billowing, viridescent grasses and happy newlyweds shared a kiss, perhaps. It was a benign spring day, and Anton was alone. The dominion was without guile, absentminded with bliss. Surely no one would tell the forgotten man’s unsung tale; it didn’t matter.

 

The point would be left for the philosophers to speculate upon, or those who remembered. Though that d’Amato-Orlov was borne away, self-isolated in a state he’d built brick by brick. He faced the void with a weariness, but knew nothing else, burgeoning forward. 

 

And to those unlucky few, those few that were privy and tactless against the majority, rattling with the incessant winds, empathetic to themselves... They weren’t destined for happy ends, as they needn’t sleep, and they needn’t daydream in the wake of disappointment once more. Only in the longed for resolution, when all their stifled tears had been wept, then could the leaden spirits plead perdonami. 

 

Behind, a child collected seashells at the shoreside, none the wiser to what had occurred, or what would. The child went on happily, indulging in bittersweet youth.

 

How did that old slogan of a new face go? 

 

For a better tomorrow. 

 

 

 

 

 

Spoiler

WHAT AN END. 

 

I have had an absolute blast playing Anton, and its the end of an era with posting this :( if you werent mentioned, thats not because you didn't have a huge impact, it's probably to avoid good ol' metagaming, and over the fact that I already had to cut this hellishly long post down about 700 words. 

 

Anton has been a very interesting, complex character, but don't think me letting him go will stop me from RPing with all of you. Thanks everybody, except you @BogsBinny: my deadbeat dad.

 

That's all, folks. 

 

Edited August 28, 2021 by RaindropsKeepFalling

[Goon 1434]

Spoiler

 

 

A cigarette's translucent wisps were the only thing to obscure a man's view of the riverbank; the riverbank that split the land between his 'home' and the greater western city. The outskirts. So, surely it would take some time for that letter to reach its destination.

It's been a year, though. No response. Perhaps that was by design, though.

 

A LETTER TO ANTON FIORE D'AMATO:

Spoiler

Dear cousin,

 

I hope this letter reaches you wherever you've ended.

I hope it reaches you in better health, and I hope you've grown accustom to the violent changes.

 

The ISA still searches for you, you know. They would not be so quick to forget; and I'm certain that the d'Azors would be sure of such. They killed their own kin; imagine what they would do to you. You're a wanted man- but I needn't remind you. Merely inclusionary so you do not get any ideas to show yourself once more. Least not for a long while. Not until they tear down those posters with your face. Not until they're all dead and cannot remember the sounds that make your name.

 

They will never understand what you did; but I hope you might find solace knowing that I understand. It was necessity; to you, anyways. I would try to explain it to our kin, but I do not know if they would understand the same. Perhaps I will leave that to you, when you do show your face once more.

 

I hope you know your tale has not ended; you have not sung your last song.

 

Your mother watches over us, non dimenticare mai.

 

Godspeed, Anton. It will get easier.

I await your response, you know where to send for me.

 

Your cousin,

Antonius

 

It would take awhile for my letter to reach him.

It is not often they collect parcels from this place.

Perhaps that is why he has yet to write me in return, surely.

 

A hand took to waft those clouds of smoke away before taking yet another drag; a fruitless cycle if it continued.

Symbolic, perhaps, to the letters he sent that came with no reply.

 

ANOTHER LETTER TO ANTON FIORE D'AMATO:

Spoiler

Cousin,

 

I hope your lack of a response does not denote your quittance. 

I know you've little to live for, but you will find your reasons.

You have made it this far, do not yet give up. It would ALL be for naught if you do.

 

Much of the uproar around your name has subsided, but I do not believe it is safe still.

Showing your face would only remind them, but at least those scabs heal.

 

I will help you how I can, you know this.

You need only respond to my letters.

 

The family, they worry over you. I still do not know what to tell them.

I will leave that up to you. For now, I am as clueless as they.

But I am beginning to grow uncertain.

 

Al tuo ritmo.

 

Godspeed, cousin.

 

Antonius

 

"Anton is dead." He murmured to himself, as if to come to terms with such a statement.

Surely, the man would have to tell his children and his wife what happened to their relative.

He didn't want to lie, but perhaps they were better without the truth.

 

We will cross that bridge, I suppose.

Whether his rest was deserved or not, it was all the same. Anton is gone.

 

"Rest now, cousin." Solemn, he called; churning the cherry-lit cigarette's tip against the stone wall.

[Moenah 1018]

None the wiser to his passing, in a room sat one of the youngest Falcones — weaving away.
 

Reserved

[JoanOfArc 4586]

Franz sat on the edge of the Castle Kremlin. After a small puff of smoke from his cigar, he wondered melancholically if it was worth jumping.

 

"Shall we all unite in the skies, Anton and Lisa?" he said, with no answer from God or the nature around Dobrov.

[KaiserJacobII 1048]

Bishop Francis wonders where that Illalian man went. The Clergyman had heard of his crimes, but hadn't heard of an arrest. He clasps his hands together and mutters a small prayer for that lost soul.

[Tigergiri 2859]

Cece heard of the news of the fugitive man going missing. A smile caked on her red lips. 
 

a young girl heard of the news of a missing man a fugitive. But as she listened she wasn’t as scared as she ought to be. Her heart became unbearably sad .

[EmiliainWonderland 1526]

The Attorney General sat in her office, constantly being hounded about her work, but what no one really knew was the reason she lingered. Their long history was enough to make her hesitate. How could she prosecute Anton d'Amato-Orlov in good conscience. Letters she never sent sat on her desk at home, which she hardly came back to these days. Somehow everyone she knew kept dying, first her ex husband (no great loss), then her cousins had been missing for God knows how long, no mention of their whereabouts. Then came the loss of her good friend and her boss, George O'Rourke who she knew deserved more than what happened to him. His death brought her closer to the top, but was it ever worth losing him for? She couldn't really say. Then the lovely Elizavetta de Rosius who had always felt like a sister to her, and then her friend and Deputy Attorney General, Joseph Warrick, and now, Anton gone and seemingly never coming back. Somehow, she didn't know how she still continued to keep going. Her newest DAG had just resigned and she felt hallow, and still for the rest of her days she'd wonder what happened to Anton d'Amato-Orlov. The enemy who became an unlikely friend. 

---------------------

 

 

Maria Othaman sat in her apartment with her daughter Charlotte, still haunted by the last encounter with Anton. Unwritten letters and the secrets only he (and a few others) knew about her. She recalled it all like it was only a saints day ago. 

 

"Anton, what if we ran away together? We don't need to worry about anyone else."  The woman suggested. 

 

"Elijah said the same thing, I just can't run from these things." The man replied. 

 

Anton would never know the things Maria wanted to say, how much she truly cherished her dear friend. The insight he gave her into the man she never got to know, though only a little, inspired her and she found a deep trust with Anton d'Amato-Orlov. Brought together by an unlikely person who had died several years before their meeting.  

 

She remembered screaming at him, pleading desperately, hands bloodied from her time trying to keep a 6 year old alive. Anton was being bullheaded he wouldn't listen. She knew she had to try.

 

When the doors finally opened, she burst in, Diana d'Azor having taken over Maria's care of the child.

 

"Anton, please." She looked at him. "They'll kill you." She cried. Her words fell on deaf ears, his eyes looking to hers for a split second. It was all it took for her heart to shatter. 

 

"All the people around us die. You can't go too." She said, but it seemed he was no longer listening. 

 

So she sat at her desk, the place where she wrote. The letters which had been addressed to Geoff but she could never send because she didn't know how she could tell him their friend, the one person who could keep them civil... had become a fugitive.

 

And one letter in particular sat unfinished, this one addressed to Anton himself. 

 

"I don't have time for courtesies and you know this, Anton. I want to see you, I know it's dangerous but you and I, we're all we've got now. I haven't spoken to Geoff in years and Elodie still resents me for the book. You told Alice you understood, you knew what it was like. You're the only one who understands me, whether I'm Alice or I'm Maria you're the only one. So please, before it's too late, see me. You were there for all of those deaths, there to comfort me in the strangest ways, and I never got to say thank you so-

 

Please Anton, don't forget me. 

 

Signed,

Maria de Rosius and by proxy, Alice Thorne."

 

And Maria hated herself for never sending that letter, how could she? She wasn't worried about colluding with a fugitive, she was worried, deep in her heart that it was just simply too late. Why did she hesitate? 

 

She did love Anton, not in the way you love a husband or a lover, in the way you love family. Anton was her family, her rock. As strange as it was. 

 

She looked up from her desk at the unfinished letter to the book across from her. Her memoir.

 

"I hope you remember the words we exchanged, Anton. For you, for everyone, I'll reveal the truth.... I will find justice." 

 

[Taketheshot 3834]

Joseph d'Azor sat within his office rapping his fingers upon the desk in methodical fashion, he had dispatched investigators of his own to track down his supposed attacker, the man peeled through report after report, which all detailed the same, nothing. It was as if the man had up and vanished, a thousand marks spent and nothing to show for it. "Where have you gone Anton d'Amato..." The man mused out as he let out a sigh stacking the papers upon one corner of the desk he leaned forward onto the polished mahogany his throat irritated by an incoming cough, reaching his handkerchief up the man continued to cough hoarsely before clearing his throat. Joseph was not a boy anymore, time moved ever onwards, but a thought continued to burn in his mind upon the location of the fugitive who had sought to do him harm, Anton had spoken of Josephs sister and about justice and more questions flooded to the mans mind. Joseph looked to the picture of his wife and children upon the desktop letting out a puff of air as he somehow knew Anton would most likely never be found. Yet the thought continued to burn clear, where was the man who was perhaps the only one to know where his sister had gone... Joseph d'Azor blew out his candles as he rose. "Perhaps some questions, lead to merely more questions." 

[Criala 728]

Natalia read a new book given to her, an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

 

[Reserved]

[valecu 2017]

Valent Philip smiled as Anton entered the Seven Skies, extending his arms in offering of hug.

[PyroAlt 49]

James Madron punched at the desk. "Where might you be hiding Anton?" His brows furrowed further, the overwhelming stress collasped onto him. "When will I see the day when You, George, Ernest, and myself can be back together again. When can I feel the warmth of this cold organization." Grasping onto his face, he'd wipe down trying to warn off the depression from his long years of service.

Edited August 29, 2021 by oryP

[BogsBinny 125]

"So he escaped?" a certain elder Raevir croaked in reply to his cousin. "Da. I do not know of his current whereabouts." his compatriot replied simply. "I'm proud of that boy. May he come visit one of these days." The man would lift his thin frame from the shoddy desk, a strange feeling in his gut, unaware of the demise of his only son. He would brush it off, returning underneath the looming shadows of a suspended skeleton thrice his size.

Edited August 28, 2021 by BogsBinny

[Dinochad 453]

The recently departed Adeline d'Azor greets the fallen male in the seven skies. She smiles kindly, moving to embrace him before uttering in the softest of voices.

 

" I've missed you. "
 

[Mannyy 934]

       "...Actually- I don't care where he went! I hope he is happy with his decision!" The pale figure would lament loudly, pacing back and forth "It is no matter. I won't think about it a second longer!" Elijah turned to face the person he'd been speaking to, though when he turned there would be no person. Instead it would be a tombstone, upon the front would be the hollow letters engraved to read Vespira Angelica Ruthern nee d'Emyth. 

 

       The aging man lets out a soft sigh after the briefly loud words, his expression softening "Though... I do hope he is alright..." He pondered, perhaps frowning as he sat before the grave, bringing his knees up to his chest as he continued to speak. "Perhaps he is alright... Perhaps- Perhaps it will all be fine." Elijah turned somber as he spoke, then pausing for a moment, as if to listen for a response. "What do you mean?" He paused once more, looking over 'Vespira' "Hmm, perhaps you are right. Maybe he will be back, but what makes you so sure?" The seemingly confused man queried to the dirt "Hmm... it is... certainly something to think about." He listened once more, quickly he stood upward at that, dusting off his coat in an almost frustrated or offended manner "No- No I don't know what you're talking about... I don't want to hear it!" He covered his ears with a loud huff, hiss brows furrowing deeply "No I didn't! He left because of what happened- Not-" He stopped as if he was cut off "Perhaps that is why you are in the ground." He let out a forced, mocking laugh, though it quickly disappeared as he waved a hand dismissively, pacing away.