The Evils of Truth

[Eryane 3698]

Spoiler

 

 

THE EVILS OF TRUTH

"Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth." 

~

 

1862

“We must speak,” uttered the aster-clad woman, of onyx hair and distinguished scarred features. Across from her, a broadly built soldier-like man inclined his head. The two whose reign started with chaos continued with it, and their faces told the story of it: the occasional greyed hairs that fell in front of the empress's eyes, or the wrinkles that collected on the emperor's skin. It is always an interesting question: how does someone sleep at night, knowing all of the deaths on their hands? How can a person make such decisions, knowing hundreds will be sent to their end? For good or for evil, no matter, the decision weighs heavily. 

 

The two departed from the echoing chamber of the throne room and across the hall. Servants passed by, rushing with platters as quietly as a mouse. They were meant to be left unseen, twisting and turning through the crevices of the palaces unknown yet the empress took particular notice of them that day. 

 

There, at the table in the room opposite the great hall, the Archchancellor had been sifting through a large stack of papers in front of him. There is no stop, only work, continuous work, only work. Joseph had taken brief notice to the imperial pair as he nodded them along. There was no need to practice such formalities in the comforts of a secluded room, where no lingering eyes could watch their interactions as researchers to their subject. 

 

It had been some years into their reign; greyed skinned of exhaustion was a common cosmetic of all officials who had been following the Aster monarchs through their tumultuous reign, like when a courtier would color their lips red and blush their cheeks. Schisms, war, death, betrayal. Assassinations and their attempts. How many times had it been now that she dodged death? At first, the weight of the world's eyes upon her had caused such intense convulses of pain in her heart that she could barely manage enduring a public speech without intense panics that controlled her way of thought. To see the people devastated without any internal reform left them all in a losing game pulled by a string - a string of international relations and the whims of foreign influence. Would there ever be peace in her time, as the youthful her had desired? As Anastasya Ruthern desired, yet Anastasia I was forced to resist? 

 

As the two climbed the stairs of the Tower of Sir Walter, a singular word rang in her head akin to a mother's lullaby to a sleepy child. Abdication. Abdication. Abdication. Abdication. Anastasya, why do you not abdicate and save thousands of lives? Why do you bring so many to early graves? Do you care not for what the nuns taught you, the values you were raised with? You fight religion. You fight your God. You fight yourself. 

 

She shook off the thought. Already, she had gone too far to look back, and had no assurance from the enemy nations that abdication would do much of anything besides boost their egos. Perhaps years ago, she could have trusted Sigismund III when she was still friends with Moliana, too. Yet now, after having begged him for peace and seeing him ignore it, she knew his words and promises meant nothing but more death and turmoil for her people. To abdicate would only satisfy him, and do nothing for her people. She could not think of herself, her salvation. She had to consider the well-being of her people. Likely she would be damned to hell, to a fiery or freezing eternity, but they would not. 

 

You are evil, cruel, ruthless, a voice so similar to her own whispered from the depths of her consciousness. Her reflection looked back at her, a shimmer in the pane windows. A scarred woman stared back at her with resentful eyes. Were they wrong to compare her to the demons of the Scrolls? To think of the remarks from John VIII, who claimed her to be the spitting image of Saint Julia many moons ago, was so silly now. 

 

Beyond the edges of the tower, Orenian peoples and perhaps foreign and local merchants went about their daily business. Courtiers crossed the small bridge leading towards the imperial palace, and their escorts were close behind or flanking near their side. The sea of buildings, particularly their colorful roofs, painted a picture before her very eyes. The air was colder, although not too much so, this high. Philip had also been watching the passerby, and what itched his thoughts brought such curiosity to her. Anastasia focused on every inch of otherness besides her thoughts, besides the very reason as to why she climbed all those steps and ladders to a place of utter solitude. For if someone was to hear this, all would be doomed. Or perhaps she had been hoping to have a beautiful sight of what they had built before she was killed.

 

"It was me," she said. “We never spoke of what happened in those haste months. We only acted, without speaking often to one another. Yet I admit it. Perhaps you knew. Perhaps you assumed. It was me who ordered the death of your father, and me alone.” Philip did not turn to her, nor question what she had meant by that. There was only silence from the two, and the wind filled the emptiness between them. "Although it was a letter to Mary, the governess. As far as I am aware, Olivier was not involved. I do not know what happened beyond the letter's delivery, who was spoken to, who was there." 

 

Metal smoothly crept out of its resting place and a cold weight brought shivers across all her skin. Her eyes laid on the city as she thumbed a pocketed letter; this letter which had been worn until the script was almost unreadable. A particular corner of the paper had been rubbed a strange tint as her fingers used it as solace for her nerves. The paper was unsigned, unfinished, yet addressed to "Victoria" - a little girl with an unwanted first name by her mother and bestowed by her stubborn father. 

 

Anastasia turned, and moved until the point of the sword pressed gently to the soft skin of her throat. Without saying, she beckoned him to do it. To end it. To send her to the place where she would be, one day, whether it was now or in several months, years. Yet it was not regret that she felt in her heart. She had never regretted writing the letter, for the future she forged for her children and the Orenian people mattered more than her guilty conscience. Guilt, disgust, resentment - yes. Regret? No. Death would be sweet in this moment, her life taken by the blood of who she took from. Eye for an eye, perhaps some may call it. 

 

Do it, she wanted to shout, Kill me. The thought alone brought her relief, as her shoulders dropped and her heart no longer raced. What happened from then on would no longer concern her, and Philip would reign as a monarch greatly as he had before. It was not the leaders, after all, who made things run, who made the economy stable, who housed the people. The leaders only inspired, and the empire had a spare. Inspiration of the masses didn't need to come from a duo, it never did before. Even under the reign of Joseph II and Anne I, they managed to uphold the country on their own. 

 

The sword was sheathed, and all of her relief left with the sound of the metal slipping into its scabbard. She wanted to scream, to rise further anger in him to lash out and strike her down, yet the subtle anger that was left in his eyes subsided. He hadn't anger in him at all; it was duty and necessity, perhaps knowing that the past was unchangeable and the future was where all value should lie - only speculation. 

 

His movements were slow, calculative, and he had no intent on avoiding eye contact with her either. He made certain to meet her eye, as she did his, with no hate or resentment as she had imagined in her nightmares when she admitted the truth to him again and again in an endless cycle with thousands of different endings. There was a mutual understanding that remained between them then, but the feeling of love and a joyful marriage was gone. This was not unfamiliar, however. They had let go of this feeling willingly, together, when they stepped on the ship to send them to Almaris. As they discussed the potentials and plans of revolution and the ship gently rocked closer to their homeland, the happiness sucked out of the room like clean air in an enclosed space. These were the sacrifices for changing the course of an entire nation to be that of something it never was before; of an empire whose foundations were so deeply rooted in slow bureaucracy and gentle military, in calculative actions and subtle outspokenness - especially in relations abroad. 

 

Philip climbed down the ladder and into the tower, where she could see him no longer. She followed soon after.

 

"Are you well, Your Imperial Majesty?" Joseph asked as she passed by the table. This time, he stood from his place of work. Anastasia opened the letter from her hand, and stared down at the disappearing script of her mother's cursive;

 

Dearest Victoria,

 

Childe, you know I was remiss upon hearing of your betrothal - I do not blame you for failing to tell your poor mother, however, given my reaction when I did learn of it. Please, though, think of your own future - with Philip, you shall be shackled by the bonds of my relatives - and I fear you shall find yourself damaged in the process. With

 

The letter was unfinished and unsigned.

 

"Yes," she affirmed with a nod. "I am well, thank you." 

 

Spoiler

another fun piece of writing I wanted to do & share, hope you all enjoy - feel free to respond in any way that fits your character if you'd like, I'm again just enjoying some creative writing 

 

also if you're curious, yes it is a buddha quote