Xarkly 12618 Popular Post Share Posted May 9, 2022 The Final Act Spoiler Sigismund, King of Haense, found his way to the throne room once more. The cloudless, frigid night let the crescent moon flood the empty hall with silver light. At the far end of the throne room from where Sigismund stood, down the illuminated aisle flanked by bannered pillars, the throne of Hanseti-Ruska stood atop its dais. Even alone, the quiet wooden throne radiated a humble pride beneath the massive stained glass window, depicting a stern Lady Haense with sword and scale in hand, which admitted the winter night’s light. With a rumbling sigh, Sigismund began the slow walk down the abandoned aisle. This was not the first time he had found himself alone before his own throne in the early hours of the morning. Often as of late, he found himself taking to walking the Nikirala Palace at night, where it was tranquil enough to think clearly without the drone of the city to distract him. Of course, he could not escape the vigil of his Knights, but they had reached an arrangement; he knew Ser Walton - the Wall - was a little way back in the foyer, protecting the King from a distance, but otherwise Sigismund was blissfully alone. With a limp - a reminder of his defeat in the Grand Tourney - he passed the first set of pillars, his hard stare fixed on the throne. Before he could limp another step further, though, the coughing came again. He, theatrical as he was, imagined the sensation like a snake rustling through dead leaves as the dry twinge in his neck transitioned into coarse, hacking coughs. Unphased, he raised his kerchief to his mouth in time to catch the splatters of blood that came out. He was not sure how long had passed - whether thirty seconds, or five minutes - but the coughs died down, as they always had … and yet the fit had grown longer, more painful, as it always had with each bout. “Tsch,” he grunted as he balled up the kerchief, stained from many past coughing fits. “Rotting lungs.” Inhaling a sharp, shaky breath, he continued his slow walk to the throne, and as he did, the Surgeon-General’s uncertain diagnosis echoed in his head for the umpteenth time. It could be just age, and the Rimeveld cold … He passed the second set of pillars, from which the banners of Hanseti and Ruska hung in the moonlight, facing each other across the aisle. … Or it could be a blockage in the lungs. With a wistful smile, he recalled from his childhood when he used to believe that the Royal Line was cursed. At the time, he had had good reason to believe it: his grandfather had been a young man still, driven to death by gluttony; his great-grandfather had taken his own life while his wife was pregnant with his fifth child; and his great-great-grandfather had died of wounds he took from a battle with marauders, all to save his wife. Of course, as his tutor had explained to him one day, it was no curse -- it had been the weight of the Crown. Well, perhaps that’s a curse in and of itself, he thought as he continued towards the throne. He had come to realize that himself, as he was sure all his forebears had; the weight of the Crown, the power it bestowed upon one man … the chilling, soul-gnawing knowledge that all the realm’s problems, and indeed some of the world’s, rested upon his shoulders, and that each judgment could mean hundreds of lives snuffed out … The knowledge that it fell to him - and only him - to give the lives, and deaths, of his countrymen meaning … “Well …” he mumbled to himself as the throne drew closer. “Maybe after thirty years of that, death is no curse at all.” He paused abruptly, staring at the transparent visage of Lady Haense above the throne. Do … Do I really mean that? Guilt swelled up inside him. His wife, his children, and a proud Kongzem, all remained as the product of the life he had led. The notion of leaving that behind … Well, he thought it would fill him with fear, that he would be petrified of actually dying. … And yet he was not. The coughing roiled up again, bringing Sigismund to a halt as he muffled the wheezes with his kerchief. He was certain this bout went on for longer, and when it finally abated, his breath was left raspy, and his legs wobbly. “You are a miserable prick,” he croaked as he glared into the Hussariyan Cross, carved into the high-back of his throne. “After all you’ve had me do, this is what I get?” But for all his disdain for God, for all the trials he had subjected Sigismund to, the vitriol of years past was gone. Now, it felt oddly like he was teasing an old friend. He suspected God probably did not see it like that, though. With his legs weak, he growled under his breath as he unbuckled the scabbarded blade - Aeternus, a work of the Ironclad Knight - at his waist. With an echoing tap, he pressed the scabbard to the floor, and used it as a walking stick as he limped forward once more. With slow, painful steps, the moonlight-shrouded throne under the judging eyes of Lady Haense drew closer and closer. The tap of the gilded tip of his scabbard resounded loudly off the wooden steps, like a pebble dropped in a cavern, as he finally heaved himself up the steps, and onto the dais itself. He met Lady Haense’s glass expression one last time, before he sagged unceremoniously into his throne, his legs and lungs aching from the exertion. “Ah…” he sighed as he looked down the throne room, in which moonshadows were the only courtiers. He remembered when he stood facing this hall at the age of thirteen, on the day he was proclaimed as his father’s heir before all the Kingdom. He had gotten sick with nerves both before and after. Now, even though forty-three years had passed, it still felt as if that fateful day had been just yesterday. How many times have I sat here? How many times have I passed judgment? He remembered the captives of House de Rosius brought before him during the war, and he remembered the Orc chieftain that had raised steel against Sigismund’s retinue, and died by his command. How many times have I delivered good news? So too did he remember proclaiming the birth of his heir, Karl, and his twin Sergei, after his firstborn had died at birth, and he remembered declaring victory of the long-fought war in Oren. He remembered that, and so much more. He remembered it all. And so, he also remembered those he had lost -- he remembered those whose deaths had delivered him to this moment, as an old man alone on his throne. Another coughing fit seized him, though this one was not so severe. As he blinked away strained tears, he could imagine their faces in the moonlit galleries of the throne room. He could picture Petra, his elder sister, standing there, resplendent in the moonlight, wearing that warm smile that had always made Sigismund’s worries fade as a boy. She had her arms around Marus, wearing his own goofy smirk, who had never outgrown his endearing immaturity, and whose laugh haunted Sigismund to those day. Beside those two, his half-siblings Anastasya and Andrik, only recently passed, stood astride each other, both of them wearing mischievous looks if they were about to make a smug comment. Then, of course, his mother and father stood behind his siblings, watching on. Sig managed a shaky, tearful laugh at that image. Of his whole birth family, it was only Sigismund himself that remained. The faces, however, did not stop there. Unbidden, others joined the benches of the throne room. Standing alert at the pillars leading up to the throne, shining in their mail and gold-worked cloaks, were his Knights, those who had lived and died for him. Dame Lynette, resolute until her last, stood facing Ser Cedric, the man who had been Sigismund’s closest protector as a boy. Even now, Sigismund could remember the old Knight Paramount acting as his chaperone when he went to a soirée in Oren as his first real social function, and had to counterbalance Aleksandr Ruthern’s advice on how to speak to ladies. At the next set of pillars, Ser Erwin the Headhunter stood. So often had Ser Erwin counselled Sigismund, and he had had such ambitions for his family, and yet he sacrificed all these ambitions to die in Sigismund’s service. He stood facing Sigmar Mondblume, Sig’s own nephew, at the opposite pillar, and Sig felt the tears tug at his eyes again as he remembered standing atop a tower in Richtenburg, overlooking the lake, and promising to serve as a father-figure to the young Sigmar, who had just lost his own. At the final set of pillars, Marie Ruthern, so recently perished, seemed to radiate pride at her post, as she had as a young energetic squire he seemed to want nothing more than to stand among the number of the Knight’s Table. Lastly, of course, there was Ser Ailred Steelheart -- the soldier that had taught Sigismund to fight, to strategize, to win, and the men upon whose shoulders Sig had stood in achieving victory against his enemies. As the tears silently rolled down his cheeks, he smiled through them, and the throne room continued to fill with the faces of the dead. Molia Luceafaru, her arms crossed dignantly, watched Sigismund with that small, slight smile of hers, as if she knew something no one else did. At the sight of her, the tears blurred his vision further, but he did not need to see to imagine those with her. There was Jan Kortrevich, the father in law that had made him promise to love and protect his wife, Emma, no matter what; a promise Sigismund intended to keep until his dying breath. There was Igor Kort, who had tutored Sig and his closest friend Kaustantin, and the first man that Sig had watched die. There was Henrietta, one of the first friends he had ever had as a child, and to whom he was eternally grateful for wedding his brother, as difficult as it had been. Then, of course, came Eleanor Baruch; learning that he could not marry her in spite of what he wished had been the first hard lessons Sigismund had ever had taught by the Crown. He even saw John Aurelian, who had died on Sigismund’s own sword, wearing a smile as bittersweet as Sig’s own. The throne room was filled to the rafters, now -- not just with those he had loved, but with faceless soldiers in Brotherhood gambesons and Knights in platemail. Weakly, Sigismund coughed again, staining the kerchief with more red. Old age … or a lung blockage. He did not wonder which, for in his heart, Sigismund knew. The summer had come and gone, and the fits had not. He knew. But he was not scared. No, for he was done being scared. He had taken the mantle of the Crown, and endured its trials. He had ridden to battle half a dozen times, when no other King in a hundred years had. He watched his son, an infant babe, die helpless in his arms mere minutes after his birth. He had declared war, and paid hundreds of Haeseni lives for justice, a cost which he still questioned he ought to have paid. He had seen people die for his choices - for him. He had loved, and lost, and mourned, and lived. In the face of that … there was nothing that could frighten him. No, now he only felt oddly at peace. A serene sense of … acceptance. He stood at the cusp of the new generation, and he was the last of the old to remain. It was the final act of his play, and he was the lone actor left. Smiling through his tears at the ghosts filling the throne room, Sig slipped his silver-worked flask from his breast pocket. He flicked open the lid, and raised the drink to them. 59 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
sarahbarah 5023 Share Posted May 9, 2022 Petra waited for Sig, her beloved younger brother, to join her in the Seven Skies. She hoped and prayed that he would get to rest soon. 10 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
CanadaMatt 689 Share Posted May 9, 2022 John Aurelian can't wait to have talks again with Sigismund, and forgives him for the execution. 3 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Seuss 491 Share Posted May 9, 2022 A large old man stared down from the seven skies. "Your family carries a heavy burden. Even after all this time, the future kin of yours still struggles to wear such a heavy crown." He exclaimed to two previous Kings who stood on either side of him. Both much smaller than he was. 3 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
xMuted 2466 Share Posted May 9, 2022 Kronk 'The Grand' Stormheart would find himself locked outside of Sig's emotional memories, at which he commented. "Yeeh cockfaced, longnosed cuhntt. Yeeh an' yer sad goateeh." 6 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
HurferDurfer1 2584 Share Posted May 9, 2022 The butler Candle still roams the countryside of various places, lurking and hungry. He would entirely forgo cleaning the palace and making sure Sigismund wasn't too sweaty or parched in his years of absence. 4 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
zuziee 3223 Share Posted May 9, 2022 Maya rested her head on the railing of her balcony. She never mentioned it to anyone, feigning ignorance out of fear, but she was always watching everything unfold. A keen gaze and a silent mouth. The soft croaking from her newest pet frog slowly lulling her to sleep. 8 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
crazedpudding 2125 Share Posted May 9, 2022 Eleanora Amador née Baruch smiled softly at her lifelong friend, Petra, from her spot just a bit away before turning back toward the earthly plane. The man she had loved, and the man she had lost, stood there. Her husband could never replace the man upon the throne, nor could Sigismund occupy the place Isaak held in her heart. She had gone to the Seven Skies much earlier than those she grew with, the grief of her father's death pulling her with him, but now, as she looked down upon what was once her home, she felt happiness instead of the despair the end of her life had been plagued with. "Vy have done so wonderfully, Sigismund, so wonderfully." @sarahbarah @Pureimp10 (ooc: one of y'all don't play anymore, but I'm still gonna mention you :D) 8 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Gandhi 2712 Share Posted May 9, 2022 “Ein fair monarch - might the future generations look upon the Koeng gleefully.” Ser August affirmed quietly - looking back on his own younger days with the Koeng, those trips into Oren for Prinzenas Henrietta and her kin. 3 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Da_Emperors 1986 Share Posted May 9, 2022 Constantine Malenos would sign the Lorianne Cross as the news would be brought to him. He would remain within the Cathedral as he looked towards the altar. "God, shall you take your beloved son within your arms into the seven skies. For the little time I have known him, he has been nothing but kind and cordial to myself and our kin." He remained within the Cathedral for hours on end. 2 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
satinkira 5942 Share Posted May 9, 2022 A Black Rider rode towards Haense, quest in tow, and all the consequences and dangers following. Surely, there will be one brave enough to take my quest.. 2 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
CopOwl 1668 Share Posted May 9, 2022 Dame Lynette 'The Resolute' stands tall before the dais - the crowd of friends and family forming that of a personalised tableau for Sigismund to see. She may be old and greyed, but nothing prevents her from her duty, and she soon finds herself in guarding posture; backed up against the pillars between the entrance archway into the court room. Nevertheless, a smile is set on her wrinkled features as she watches him. "You have come so far, my Liege, but you deserve to rest." She remarks at merely a whisper as the illusions of the dead whistle away into the night. Adrianna Darkwood sits holed up in her office, paperwork covering the entire large desk and large portions of the floor. Reports of patient treatment, her new policies, her rewriting of the new policies, AMC papers, bills to pay, correspondence, and at the bottom of it all there are a few papers detailing her conversation with Sigismund himself - she keeps a private record of all treatment. As she comes across these couple of papers, she grimaces sorrowfully... "Ich wish..." She murmurs to herself in her sleeplessness, "Ich wish there wast more Ich could do fur du, Konig.... I'm sorry." She reflects on their conversation, remembering the tears she prompted him to spill when faced by his own death, and then her tired eyes glance up. They flicker over to a glass filled with water, and land on the wilting red petals of the rose which he gifted to her upon the conclusion. 2 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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