[PK] Karl III: A Crown of Scars

[GMRO 5249]

KARL III:

A CROWN OF SCARS

 

 

 

Spoiler

 

 

---

 

Karl of Haense woke from a dreamless sleep.

 

With raspy, surprised breaths, it took a moment for him to get his bearings - to shake the shroud of sleep, and remember where he was, and who he was. He lay alone in his bed, beneath heavy quilts and furs that slicked his skin with a cold sweat, and a thick medicinal incense hung in the air. Windchimes sang in the window, and, instead of the usual dreary grey light characteristic of the Haeseni spring, it was a soft  amber light that filled his bedroom and gleamed against his quilt’s gold frills, and the blades, mail, and other trophies on the walls.

 

His room was not empty, however. As he craned his head to the side, he found Amadea sitting on the bedside chair, her caramel face framed by the snow-white silk of her kokoshnik, and a quill moving between her ringed fingers as she wrote in a book. Despite the weariness and the dull pain that had clung to Karl for months, the sight of his wife scribbling in her book brought with it relief. That’s right, he reminded himself with a sad smile, I … am not alone. 

 

“You shouldn’t get up.” Amadea tutted without moving her eyes from the page. 

 

“I haven’t moved, Amadea. What gave you the idea I wanted to get up?” 

 

The Queen wore a slight smile of her own as she continued her usual jottings. “I can just tell.” Her smile faded with a sigh. “I can also tell that you’re not going to listen.” 

 

“You know me far too well, Amadea.” His leaden remaining arm ached, and a muscle spasmed in his chest, as Karl dragged himself out of bed, gripping the side-table. He sat on the edge of his breath, breathing through his teeth as he watched the noon sun flash against a blade of dull, charred gold on the ball. Vutcimez, the infernal blade of a demon prince who invaded my realm with an army of otherworldly Inferi, now a trophy on my wall. As he coughed and hacked, his body having ached at just rising from his bed, he had still found himself surprised that this husk had been once able to wield warhammers or slay the master of that cursed blade.

 

“So, for what reason will you be ignoring the doctor’s orders to stay in bed this time?” Amadea asked, not with disapproval, but with a weary acceptance. 

 

Karl watched the light flash on Vutcimez as the wind chimes rang in the window. “It’s a nice day outside. I’d like to see the city.” He met Amadea’s eyes as the Queen finally looked up from her writing, and he saw the concern in them. “What are you writing, anyway?” 

 

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Seems there will be no changing your mind either way.” Even as she spoke the words, though, her smile returned. She offered Karl her hand. 

 

As Karl took her hand, soft and smooth in contrast with his scars and calluses, he felt the same invigorating tenderness he had when they were married thirty-six years ago. With her help, he rose from the bed, and draped his elk-hide fur cloak over himself to trap in the heat. He sighed shakily, and looked towards the door. “Let’s be off, then.”

 

“Karl.” Amadea began hesitantly, “Are you sure about this?” There was a weight to her words that went beyond asking if he was sure about getting out of bed. Her eyes shimmered. 

 

Karl’s tired eyes flit from Vutcimez back to Amadea, and he mustered the most reassuring smile he could. “I’m certain, love.” 

 

There were no second-guesses or doubts from Amadea. Unshed tears gleamed in her eyes as she linked her arm with her husband. “Let’s be off.”

 

From his bedside flask, Karl drank a swig of Carrion, and passed it to Amadea for her to do the same. As he felt the familiar burn in his throat, he and Amadea opened the door, and made their way through the royal apartments of the Morrivi Palace. It’s amazing what a bit of sun can do to this place, he thought as they walked down the hardwood floors, laden with Ruskan-style carpets that, together with the sun, filled the halls with life and colour. 

 

For all his sudden appreciation of the beauty of a sunlit Haense, though, it was not an easy journey through the apartment. As they moved through the parlour, with its dozens of bookcases, tapestries and a small blaze cackling in the marble fireplace even though no one sat in the cushioned armchairs. His free hand shot out to grab one of the chairs as a jolt of pain lanced through his left leg, he hissed through his teeth. “I’m fine.” he forestalled Amadea’s concern through gritted teeth. He was well used to the pain in his left leg, it had bothered him for years, ever since a sword had first cut him, many years ago, when he had aided an old friend in his quest to claim the throne of Savoy.

 

Karl could almost picture him there, Lucien, sat in one of the armchairs, with that same smug smile on his mischievous face as always, as if all the world was a game and he was the best player. Karl missed that smile, and he missed the man who wore it. Despite the pain that had wracked his leg ever since he helped Lucien win his throne, lost to time, now, much like Lucien himself, he did not regret it for an instant. I'm glad you were with me at the end, he told the ghost in the armchair as he led Amadea forth into a slow walk once more. Look after my children. He made a quiet final message to Lucien.

 

They passed through the corridor that branched off into the study and library, and Karl had to remind himself to steady his breathing. It was not just from his sickness that his breathing was erratic: ever since the Battle of Eastfleet, the climax of his father’s war against the Orenian Empire ever before Karl took the Crown, his lungs had never felt as strong in his youth. The memory of the bloody tide at Eastfleet, of losing his footing and almost drowning in his mail amidst the hundreds upon hundreds of corpses, sent a shiver through him that chilled his very lungs. Only the euphoria of the great victory that Haense and her allies won that day quashed that traumatic sensation of drowning. He remembered the taste of the wars victory upon his lips as he stood alongside famous knights like Ser Flemius, Ser Grigori or Ser Viktor and ferrymen alike having aided in the capturing of Philip III in that fatal battle in Vienne. A fitting burden for my first war, he thought wistfully as he brought his breathing back under control, and continued with a renewed vigour. 

 

The dining room doors stood open as they passed. The gilded table and its high-backed chairs were empty, but Karl could recall all the faces who had sat in those chairs over the years as they smiled, cried, laughed, and raged. Instinctively, his free hand reached to trace his forehead; sometimes, he still suffered headaches from his betrothal dinner to Amadea, when his mother’s cooking (which would have been considered a war-crime to feed anyone) had caused him to faint, and bash his head against the floor. That memory brought with it all the other times his family had danced around telling Queen Emma her cooking was more lethal than a warrior’s blade, all to spare her feelings. My family… For a moment, his flickering memories formed more ghosts at the table: Maya, her plump cheeks bouncing as she ate without regard to the chaos around her; Klara, lecturing his twin Sergei on how to cut his meat with all the grace expected of the Royal House; his father, lounging his seat as if relishing the chaos of those dinners; and his mother, watching with sparkling, delighted eyes as her family enjoyed her food. Karl missed her cooking, and he missed his mother. He missed them all. 

 

“Do you remember?” he asked faintly to Amadea. He did not specify what. 

 

“I do.” She replied without needing to ask, and gave his arm a squeeze. Even Karl’s arm was a living scar, a living memory, for it was an iron cast that had replaced his actual arm lost in a duel with Siegmund, who came so-very-close to felling Karosgrad with his malflame and unholy legions. 

 

But you failed, Karl thought solemnly as he and Amadea continued. You lost. He had Vutcimez on his bedroom wall to prove that, and Karl knew, without a doubt, he would have sacrificed as many limbs, and lives, as it took to keep this city from the hands of the infernal invader. As he recalled that duel with the demon prince, surrounded by cheering Haeseni soldiers whose voices were hoarse from screaming and their armour soaked in blood, sparks flew as Siegmund’s Vutcimez clashed with Karl’s Blade of Jophiael amidst the embers and smoke drifting through the battlefield, and Karl knew that duel almost had cost him everything. 

 

Karl slipped his flask to his lips with a weary drag, tasting the black nectar once more. Nothing had felt the same since the battle against the Inferi Prince in which he lost his teeth. That burning fist striking forward to smash his teeth out from his mouth. They had been replaced, but that scent of pitch, sulphur and the sickly sweet taste of metal that came to his mouth often as of late. Carrion was the only resolve against it. He took another swig. It left him deformed, at a point unable to speak, yet he wore it as a badge of pride. That everything had not been lost. That it had been worth it.

 

“Not much further now, love.” Even Amadea’s voice, normally and unflappable, seemed to crack. 

 

“Not much further.” Karl agreed as they ascended the steps that would lead them to the grand balcony overlooking Karosgrad. 

 

Climbing was no easy feat for the old King, though - even besides his stiff leg from his time in Savoy, his right knee twinged with each step up the stairs. That was another souvenir, this time from the Battle of Acre, the climax of the Successors’ War. The anxiety of that memory was far from painful that the old wound on his knee where the edge of a pike had sheared his flesh; he had followed his father into war at Eastfleet, but Karl had been the one to wear the crown in the Successors’ War.  Nobody to take responsibility for his actions or to spend lives for what he believed was right. Before he died, Karl’s father had often spoken of the eyes of the dead, looking down from the Seven Skies to see if their King had given meaning to their sacrifice, but Karl had never understood that sentiment until the Battle of Acre.

 

Well, I’m content I gave the dead a good show, Karl thought as they reached the top of the stairs. Haense and her allies had triumphed at Acre. They had won the war, conquered the Silver Isle, and fanned the flames of rebellion in Oren that had eventually consumed it. The floorboards creaked as the elderly royal couple continued, and Karl spared a content smile at the map of Almaris spread on the wall at the top of the landing, and the expanse of the Haeseni borders. 

 

They passed a few courtiers and servants who dipped into bows and curtsies, shooting the King concerned looks, but Karl paid them no mind. I have Amadea for looks like that. Yet, as he glanced to her at his side, he abruptly stopped at the sight of a single, silvery tear rolling down her slender cheeks. That sight was almost as frightening as thinking back on the eve of his first battles at Eastfleet and Acre. “Amadea?” 

 

“It’s just…” Her voice was a frail whisper, now. “It’s not fair, Karl. We’ve come all this way, endured all these trials, accomplished so much only for you to end up like this? For God’s sake, Karl.” she exhaled softly. Unshed tears glistened in her eyes. “You can barely walk with all these scars.” 

 

That might have bothered Karl, once. He was not sure what had changed within him, but he shed no tears of his own as he looked down, as he felt, his own broken body. Satisfaction? Love of one’s country? That thought harkened back to his father once more when he lay on his own deathbed, and when Karl had been left unsure whether to think of the man more as father or King. Yet, as Sigismund III lay dying, his greying locks matted by sweat, he had repeated the same mantra he had all throughout Karl’s life, the power of the Crown was so immense that a mortal man could not possibly withstand it: they could not withstand the pressure of their decisions; could not withstand the consequences of thousands of lives being snuffed out from a single mistake; could not withstand that, even despite their power, there was some things they could not change, some people they could not save.

 

No. He decided at that moment. It was not satisfaction or patriotism that brought him this sense of peace and contentment. He was simply tired. Spent. Exhausted. He had withstood all he could for one lifetime. These scars were his crown, and it had grown far too heavy. 

 

“Yes, Amadea,” he said at last as he reached up to wipe that tear off her face. “It is not fair.” He did not weep, nor even frown; instead, he just smiled.

 

That was all he could do.

 

A birdsong greeted them on their final steps to the balcony, and Karl sighed in deep relief as he felt the sun on his skin. In a blue sky marred only by a few stray streaky clouds, the sun bathed the city of Karosgrad in light below him. The streets thronged with fur-clad burghers and cloaked travellers, the tiles of the onion-dome glistening in the sunlight, and the flapping of the dual-banners of Hanseti-Ruska in the wind from atop towers and walls. 

 

“Amadea.” Karl did not realise his own eyes had finally teared up until they had blurred his vision. “It’s such a beautiful day.” 

 

Amadea gave his arm another squeeze, as if to assure him she was still there. Her eyes continued to shine wetly. “Never could one view tell such a story as this one.” She still spoke in that teary whisper, but there was an iron edge of determination, of resolve, to her voice, now. 

 

As a crow took flight and cawed overhead, Karl’s gaze drifted beyond the red walls of Karosgrad, walls which had endured attack from Trolls, to Orenians, to Ferrymen. The city rebuilt below that Crow that had been accomplished with might. To the north, the arsenic white of the Rimeveld dominated the horizon, so pristine and picturesque that it was utterly deceiving of the dangers that lurked within. Eastward, a patchwork of fields surrounded Karosgrad, stretching out into the old boroughs of Honeyhill and the newly-christened Queenswood, home to the descendants of the monkey Mobu the Ambassador and his monkey brethren. Past old Honeyhill, his eyes followed the fortress of the Order of the Crow, renewed and rebuilt by Ser Walton under him, the strength of his right hand secured. His eyes drifted further past the rushing waters of the Staal Eada as it snaked south-west, towards the rosen fields of Reinmar and the Lost Woods of Krusev where the Beast of Dobrov had plagued him and forged his friendship with the Barons of Acre. He could faintly make out the billowing sails of ships along the river heading south, to where he had settled the Hyspian colony on the Silver Isle after his great victory in the Successors’ War.

 

As he now overlooked the Kingdom upon the balcony and the bustling streets below, he could not help but crack a wide smile between a few stray beads of water down his cheeks. The story of Hanseti-Ruska had continued with him, he had made his mark alongside all those that had taught him, that had protected him, that had worked for him, that had died for him. All had worked hard to forge and renew the kingdom that he had led. He wiped his face and thought of his family around the dinner table that final time. His siblings, Sergei and Klara. His children; Georg, Marius, Nikolas, Analiesa, His grand-children. His nieces and nephews. All his kin gathered together one final time to leave the fruits of his labour for. That Amadea and himself had worked for. That all those who passed had worked for.

 

There was still more to do, but he was tired. They would do fine without him now. He sipped a last gulp from his flask. He squeezed the hand of Amadea beside him a final time then, cracking that same old grin towards her as his eyes closed and his grip loosened. 

 

He sagged against the balcony, his breathing faint and rapid. As the sunlight beamed down on Haense - on them - he turned to give Amadea one final look.

 

“It goes on.” 

 

And with that, he was gone.

 

---

 

Spoiler

And with that, it was done.

 

It's been an incredible experience being the King of Haense, and an absolute pleasure helping a community I've grown to love. The creation and reading of stories has always what's driven me in role-play, and the amount of stories that I've been able to hear or have been told or interact with on some level has been amazing. There's honestly so many people to thank and there's no way to name them all. Even with there being downs, there's always been someone being a light in the dark that has kept me calm when I know I can sometimes go a little crazy. Thanks to all the people who put work in whether it be to help me or help the kingdom grow. We wouldn't have been able to get anywhere without a belief in the nation Hanseti-Ruska.

 

I want to first of all thank my incredible Queen, @shay. Without doubt, she has kept me stable and going crazy with her logical but sometimes mean words. You're the best that I could ask for to help me along on the ride, and I hope that you did manage to have fun. Throughout my reign I dealt with so many issues and I doubt I could have done it without @LouisGY@Mio@gusano@Xarkly @PerfectlyPeachy You were like five musketeers (I know its normally three) for me dealing with all the issues and helping me out on all issues. Thank you to all of you for your amazing efforts.

 

There's also so many others, I just want to list a few for helping me, being my friend or doing some other unnamed thing which no doubt contributed to me feeling so proud and happy. @Eryane@Zaerie@SethWolf@Xx_BloodStalk_xX@DahStalker@FlemishSupremacy@Dyl@ReveredOwl@tcs_tonsils_@Greehn@Milenkhov@itdontmatta@liz@sarahbarah@ColdestPepsi@Coolcod77@Buffsanta@Demavend@ItemVendor@squakhawk@JuliusAakerlund@Werew0lf@Dogged@livrose@Capt_Chief26@poki

@zuziee@crazedpudding

@Nolan_

Catch you on the flip side!!!

 

 

 

[shay 2200]

“It goes on”

 

His voice seemed to echo for ages, Amadea stood motionless upon the balcony after Karl drew his last breath, his final words replaying in her head. There is no telling how long the aged woman stood upon the ledge, whether minutes or hours had passed, she was unsure.

 

What had started as a beautiful day had turned quicker than one could take a breath. As if God had decided to play a joke upon the woman, as the King fell, it so seemed that the sun followed suit, the clouds closing in upon the sunny sky as snow rapidly began to fall. The cold, that could not be ignored. The cold, the cold would sink in, but the passing - his passing, would not.

 

Spoiler

lots of love, you actual schizo x

 

[garentoft 8352]

An outstretched hand, reaching for something, but unable to grab it.

 

And so that hand, unable to find solace in the father, returned to the warmth that it had made in the cold darkness, where it had managed to foster a flame in spite of everything.

 

A heavy winter had befallen Haense this year, and the snow stood in heaps outside of old Richtenburg, a worn castle which could barely withstand the frost. As was customary for this season, the Kusoraevian Household began its yearly migration back to Karosgrad for the winter, delayed this year by Esfir’s pregnancy, which had given them a third child, a baby boy, born amidst the castle’s frozen walls.

 

And while the rest of his family, as well as their attached courtiers and servants, had decided to travel to Karosgrad by carriage, as they usually did. Georg, who felt uneasier in the cold than anyone else in this northern Kingdom, had decided to walk the considerable distance between the capital and the castle he had been permitted to make his home in.

 

As morning struck the northern roads, a gentle winter sun lit up the path ahead of the Grand Prince, and chilling flakes of snow landed in his glowed palm. Though he did not take much time to investigate them, he believed that every one of them was different - and while one may resemble another, something would still make them unique from one another.

 

“What do you think it is?” He mumbled aloud, to no one but the open air, as his boots dug their way through the winter snow, “That makes us so different?” He pondered further aloud, bringing his hand together to mash the snowflakes together into a tiny clump of snow, which he knelt to place gently into the heaps of it that surrounded him. “I should not let you melt in my hand,” he murmured apologetically, “You’ve an entire winter to live - until summer washes you away and into the soil, where you will be reborn as flowers.”

 

In his eyes, there had always been inherent beauty in the world. If you took the moment to stand back, in which you surely let the living world around you envelop you, you would experience a beauty that not even the poets could replicate within their written worlds. However, there was a beauty in the world greater than that of nature and all such, and that was that of the beauty of people. Once he had realised this, he had devoted much of his life to getting to know people, to see the beauty which they held within.

 

And even then, there were times where he had failed.

 

Another hand stretches itself through the darkness, grasping to the other.

 

Though it is pale, and devoid of life, and it pulls, and it pulls, and it pulls, and it pulls.

 

The red walls of Karosgrad finally came within sight after some hours, and behind those came the spires of the Morrivi piercing into the sky. He opted to circle around the city, not approaching through the back gates, but taking a walk through the memorial gardens of Krusev, before making his way past Reinmar, where he greeted local farmers with a smile and a wave, before he finally came to the gate on the docks, peering up at it.

 

It had been a couple of years since his father had gotten sick, his body failing him; whether it was by some device of GOD, or simply the result of his own vices, it mattered little to Georg, for it were entirely cruel no matter its cause. The two, as far as Georg were concerned, held no spite for another, despite how different they had turned out, though they were not close– distant, at best.

 

And that was one of the times in which he had failed in his dreams.

 

But his hand is stronger, grief cannot take it.

 

It pulls itself back, and releases itself from the pull of the father’s death.

 

Sickness now ailed him, and Georg felt that he had never truly gotten to know his father. It was little that they got to bond when he was a child, and as he had, as well as his father, had grown older, their relationship transitioned into one that felt more professional than anything else. They worked together, as two bureaucrats would, but not in the way that a father and son should.

 

Perhaps it had been that he had never tried hard enough to reach his father, to get to know the man underneath the Crown, the man who was Karl Sigmar, and not Karl III. Or perhaps it was some matter of destiny, that the paths upon which they embarked in the world simply were not meant to cross one another.

 

The steps up towards the Morrivi felt heavier than usual, and he felt truly exhausted once he had reached the door and managed to finally enter the home he had grown up in, only to be greeted by a quiet and empty hall, only his Esfir there to greet him with a meagre: “I’m sorry.”

 

The dreamer would continue to dream.

[Mio 3771]

Marius Audemar wept, for his father was gone.

Had  it  been  so  long?  Since the times of his father burying him beneath the powder-snow of the Rimeveld along with  his  sister  to  teach  the  Princeling  discipline.  Since the times of drawn out politicking, upon the matters of foreign affairs, the management of the Kingdom. Since the times of Warfare where his father stood tall among all, as a beacon to remind each soldier valiantly that the fight goes on, that the battle was not lost- victory was ahead.

He wondered if all had been in vain, if all had been for naught. His father gave him life, education, his father gave him fight.
It was he who crafted him from a young boy to a prospering man, meticulous in his lessons and word. He battled the thought of if life would continue, if it could all go on, if he could continue to be the man his father expected of it. The final words between Karl and Marius offered the boy closure, words he would look back upon: "Live without me, Marius. That is all I shall say. Your legacy is your own."

Marius was his sword, his ears, his advisor.
Trumping everything, Marius was his son.

This life of his, goes on, so Marius smiled.
"Rest now, father. Your final triumph."
 

Spoiler

it was so good. would absolutely relive the past 8 months of your reign without hesitation. one of the best i've seen mister jim rowe.

 

[Fionn__TWG 2616]

The clock ticked in the office of the Barclay Bargains office, where Wilheim Barclay had spent many hours of late. An unfinished catalogue, lists of the current stock, as well as many diagrams of potential weapons to forge all lined the establishment's desk, though all works were buried under the missive announcing His Majesty's death. His eyes lingered on the words, though none went through to the man, his mind blank as he simply stared at the paper before him.

 

Rather than words, his mind turned to memories of himself in the Morrivi's meeting room with the King, specifically the time his advice was requested once or twice. He never knew if Karl took the advice to heart or if he simply asked for the sake of it - Wilheim never could read the man, no matter how hard he tried - though the request from the ruler had done much to raise the young Duke's confidence after that day.

 

Eventually, he then stood up, taking a bottle from one of the desks's drawers, labelled Duchess' Secret Whiskey. The cork was removed from the top before he'd open the window of the top floor, then flipping the bottle upside down as he allowed the contents to empty on the streets below. Whether he committed a crime or not, he didn't know, and perhaps it might not have been a grand gesture, but it was the only way he could think to honor his late liege in such a short time. The final drops of the whiskey were spared from a fall onto the streets below, and instead they lined Wilheim's throat. A grimace befell his lips, before he'd finally speak on the matter; "Wer Rastet, Der Rostet. Und GOTT knows du didn't do either."

[tcs_tonsils_ 2829]

The sounds echoes off the mossy walls of the stairway, as he slowly crept down into those tombs of ancient kings long past. He skanned those names that he had seen a hundred times, not only on the metallic plaques, but also racing across his innermost thoughts. 

 

Borris had remembed talking with Karl during Lifstala... his cousin that had now fled back into the darkness. With age and sickness there comes death. "My friend- It was an honor to write for you... your wedding, your coronation, your great deeds and your legacy... I will miss you, cousin, for I fear it shall be a long time pass before I join you in the skies. Farewell my King,, Karl."

 

---

 

Iulius Vernhart, the long since departed scholar sat with a soft smile upon a hill just outside of the entrance to the Seven Skies. Iulius just smiled as he saw his first pupil- that once young boy that the King trusted him with teaching. "Vy did quite well, Vyr Majesty. Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life."

[HogoBojo 3968]

"May vy rest in peace vyr Majesty and rest well in the Seven Skies." Stanimar Kvazyev would murmur beneath his breath as he signed the Lorraine Cross and gave the now deceased Monach a few moments of silence as a sign of respect.

[SethWolf 1378]

An orderly ran to inform the Lord-Captain as he sat in the hall of the BSK keep with his children. 
The young man had tears in his eyes. Felix took the missive and scanned it. Quickly, the man fell to his knees on the floor. 

"Nie - nie, he was getting better.." He muttered. He slammed his eyes shut. 
In that moment, he remembered the first day he'd met his old friend, and everything he had done for Felix's family. 


And he wept right there. 
 

[Dogged 2128]

Branimar Kvazyev mourns the death of his favorite monarch.

[livrose 1594]

From the Seven Skies, Queen Emma likely had begun a new enterprise of bakeries in order to feed the wandering souls who rotated through her doors. With Haeseni delicacies, attempts at childhood favourites as well as home-crafted recipes, one needed only to follow the wafting smell of burning to pinpoint the Queen’s efforts. With a sixth sense only a mother might possess, as Karl expelled a last breath a small smile etched itself into her expression.

 

That night, one more place was set at their table. They were to welcome a son, a brother, a friend, home.

[liz 962]

The Morrivi was cold – colder than usual – and though she sat before a raging fire, Ophelie could not keep herself from trembling. Honesty was all she ever sought in this world, but the practice of that showy ideal was more than she could bare. “I know my son,” were the words echoing through her mind, a cruel taunt and a divine kindness all the same, as she sat rigidly still in one of the palace’s myriad antechambers. 

 

This place was her home – Karl had said so himself – but it felt distant and chilly. She scarcely recognized it now that the truth had so shattered the illusion she had created for herself. The King spoke out of kindness, not cruelty, but there existed an unshakeable feeling inside of her that the ailing man had acted out of malice – that he left her thusly as a wicked method of ensuring he was remembered. She knew it was nonsense, but what was she to do other than rebuild the fortress of delusion she had once sat so loftily atop? 

 

“You are Haeseni,” the King had said. It was all she ever longed for: an admission that, although her blood was Orenian, her heart beat along with the drums of Haeseni war. And though the words should have brought her comfort, they brought only the familiar sting of shame the woman had known all her life. She was a coward and a fake, relying on the kindness of others to prop her up: Georg, Valdemar, Marius, Karl. Each of them had provided fleeting comfort – fleeting warmth – but perhaps she would never quite recover from that frigid trek from Guise to Karosgrad all those years ago. Perhaps no amount of warmth could sate her. 

 

She knew that Karl would be dead within the day, and even that she tried to deny. He is strong. He is mighty. He is King. But even the mightiest among men must die, and no one, not even a King, was God. Karl had assured her that God would be merciful to both of them, but something in her wished it were not true. Karl certainly deserved His grace: he had created something beautiful, he had strengthened Haense, and he left behind a family who loved him dearly. What had she done? She wished, perhaps a sign of her lingering naivete, that she could take his place. She wished she could die in his stead -- face God's wrath for all her sins -- and that he could go on living and ruling. Marius could live without her, but not without his father. She wished that she were strong enough to do it – to spare her love the pain she knew so well – but she knew in her heart of hearts that she was not. King Karl III died a matter of hours after their last words were spoken: "Krusae Zwy Kongzem," and Ophelie lived on.

[xMuted 2459]

Sigrun Ireheart was shocked as he had talked to the man just a couple hours prior. "Yeh wereh good son, real good, maybeh even taeh best."

Wilfriche Sigismund cried. "May the king rest, long live the king." He said through wet eyes and shallow breaths.

[ronin_champloo 5951]

"Karl-dono is dead.. horry shittu. Must be elven spy." The man stated with a dour tone, sharpening a piece of wood.

[Greehn 1828]

Wolfgang de Vilain stood alone atop the old hills of Acre, watching over the silent town. He smiled, reminiscing about his time there, then looked up and watched the sun go by. 

     "You gave me a chance to fight for my land. Something I never would have had if you never bothered to hear out this young Heartlander. And even when that did not go to plan, you still welcomed me and my family with open arms into your home when we had no where else to go. I wouldn't have been the man I am today if you did not share your kindness with me, and I am forever grateful for it all."

Wolfgang let out a heavy sigh. As if this was something he was wanting to get out for a while.

     "I will not let your kindness go to waste. I have decided to care and fight for the nation you once ruled. The one you let many call home, even if they were not born in it. I will protect the thing you fought so hard to build up."

Wolfgang got up from his spot on the hill, taking one last glance at the setting sun and flashing it a smile. He reached to a pouch on his belt, taking out a Carrion Black. He popped open the cork, looking at the bottle. 

     "If only we had met sooner. Maybe we could have shared more drinks with each other."

The man took a swig of his drink, then pouring some out for his friend.

 

"Rest well, King Karl III."

[crazedpudding 2119]

Klara Elizaveta set forth a sigh she had been holding since the first announcement of her brother's ill health. Staring up at the terribly blue sky of Jerovitz, she did not weep. She had not said goodbye when she met him last, could not bring herself to think of spending years without the assurance of his presence in the world.

 

There were no words, nothing she could say. Nothing she could do, in the end. It seemed her siblings, one by one, were determined to leave her as the last of them. With a soft, almost wretched gasp, she penned in one word next to Karl's name in her private papers, redistributing items as needed. 

 

"Ea promised Ea would niet say dravi. Ea promsied." With that, the aged woman spoke no more for quite some time.

Josefina Barclay bowed her head in prayer, both for the old king and the new, and for her dearest sister, Esfir.