WHERE PONCE DE LEON FAILED…
Chapter Ten: We All Fall Down
***
Disclaimer:
Disney owns all the Pocahontas jazz, ladies and gents. History makes up a good portion, as well - my eternal inspiration - however, admittedly, there are SERIOUS anachronisms and inaccuracies. (I have to make it all work somehow!) I make up the rest and it's all mine. ^_^
***
A/N: (Really long, but necessary. Sorry folks!)
IMPORTANT --- I botched up big time last chapter!!! I almost removed it altogether to rewrite and… well… I eventually WILL. For now, we'll just carry on with the correction. My plot still works regardless. The problem? Governors are appointed NOT elected. APPOINTED! Ouch. I feel seriously stupid, people. Sorry! Again, I promised you major inaccuracies, so hey, it's all good. Just coming through. ^_^ Um, ya… we'll ignore it for now and I'll change the effected parts of Chapter 9 before I write Chapter 12. (I've got 10 and 11 already now and I wanna get them posted!) RESEARCH people - I didn't research until AFTER the fact. Serves me right… But, MAN, even my CHAPTER TITLE is wrong… LOL!!
Secondly, just so you know, Count Wexford Smyth wasn't acting strangely at all last chapter. He was acting like people apparently acted in that society towards insanity. It was entertainment. Bethlehem Hospital (Bedlam), an asylum much like a prison, was like a human zoo. People went to watch the lunatics, hoping to observe abnormal behavior. They had their fun in various ways and even bought souvenirs. Totally normal to them. IN FACT, get this - Court Jesters were crazy (or just pretending to be crazy for a cushy job). The king kept a lunatic on hand for entertainment. It was a HUGE thing for these people. Anywho, to clear up any further doubt - Wex visits Ratcliffe for entertainment. He WANTS the guy to talk to himself and pitch fits. He's not weird - though he IS a half wit. ^_^
I recently watched Pocahontas II again and realized all this amazing stuff I could'a done! I mean, come on - that line about hanging! You know… Ratcliffe, Smith, ledge, beginning… MAN! Hm… maybe I can work it in somehow later… probably not… drats! The opportunity was absolutely missed! Seriously, people: DRATS! (BTW, That movie kills everything Ratcliffe for me. Like, he had a good strategy with the bear baiting… but… he just wasn't the same guy to me. I DUNNO. I really shouldn't talk. I mean, I have him different - but that's only because he's lost his mind. LOL! Chapter One was like Ratcliffe, IMHO. He was sane then. Anyway, you'll have to keep reading to see how he ends up…)
OH, one more thing! (Ya, I'm STILL going, folks.) Ralegh was a real guy. An explorer. Heavily involved in the Virginia stuff. He was in the court's inner circle until James took the thrown and, well… he spent 12-13 years in a tower. I don't want to ruin my story, but I will say this = he was executed for treason.
LAST THING, I promise! My take on history may be different from yours. My sources may be different from your sources. There are so many opinions on everything out there! Everywhere you look there's different facts. It's difficult to even define 'fact' when it comes to this stuff. History is just one of those things - you never ever know anything for sure. You've got no proof of anything. You weren't standing there. Almost all history is only testimony anyway. How do we know these people didn't embellish in their journals, gents? AND THEN… don't even get me started on BIAS on all levels - primary, secondary… Alright, alright! So you have to build enough of a case to ASSUME… (I'm mean, we've gotta figure out SOMETHING!) BUT HEY, whatever. I could go on all day about Collingwood and Carr, it's all good.
K, NOW I'm done. FINALLY. Thanks for your patience, guys! We can start…
***
"Chris, how could you do this to us? … Chris!?"
***
King James had been pacing for hours, his advisors watching uneasily. Hours. The guy had been at it for hours - an utter wreck over the fountain of youth crisis. Insiders had managed to spin doctor a great deal of the situation, but everything public was impossible to erase. Again and again he kept kicking himself for not accepting the gift when it was offered freely. Ratcliffe, the idiot, had offered him the fountain. He'd offered him some water on the spot. Hadn't he?
Muttering to himself, frustrated, James circled, flaring his arms occasionally. "Of all the years of lies… all the LIES… that insolent ass had to pick THIS time to tell the TRUTH! Blast him, blast him straight to the pits of Hell! How could ANYONE have known? He was the type to lie about the weather just for the sake of it! How could anyone have been expected to believe such a tall tale?… especially from HIM… I wouldn't have believed an honest man! How… he… ERRR… DAMN IT!! He's a liar… Why'd he have to be telling the truth THIS time? WHY?…"
Stopping, he turned on his men, fuming, "Don't just STAND there! Think of something! SAY something! For the love of all that's HOLY, gentlemen, what am I favoring you for?! To watch me squirm like half dead prey!?!"
Startled, his advisors exchanged ruffled glances, lost for words.
Cooling a little, James added, "I suppose we've covered the situation well. The public doesn't realize he was telling the truth. That he really WAS John Ratcliffe after all. To them he was just some important foreigner who refused to hang. I'm sure some myth about foreign, savage hangings will shut them all up…"
An older advisor risked his head - "Pardon, your grace, but… the public is a scattered mob. A crazed mass of a thousand voices, a thousand thoughts, a thousand backgrounds and a thousand biases. They all have their own take on the situation. They all think something different."
Following him up, a younger enthusiast added, "They all have their own personal takes on everything we ever tell them about anything! We can't paint them all with the same brush and think the situation is all over. We can expect anyone, let alone, EVERYONE to believe what we tell them."
After a pause, the older man resumed, "Your grace… I can tell you right now… the majority believe in the fountain. They may not know much about the Ratcliffe scenario… but they want to believe in eternal youth. It gives a downtrodden public some hope, sire. Whether they understand his predicament or not… they know he's in that tower. That idiot Wexford-Smyth visits him."
"Sire…" a third voice entered, a charming Spanish accent. "Agreeing with all previously stated, I must reinforce - The people don't think collectively. It's impossible to predict the reaction of a mob. They demand satisfaction."
"I get it, I get it, I get it!" James was impatient. "Tell me something worthwhile, Martinez!"
The charming, former Spaniard, smiled… "Excellency, our spin doctoring was not in vain. It will keep the people at bay while we act…"
"Act?" James blinked.
"Yes, sire, we must act." he insisted diplomatically. "If we don't find the fountain, you can rest assured the Spanish will."
***
Ratcliffe sat in lonely silence. The room seemed darker and colder these days. He didn't even bother to light a fire anymore. Half the time he wondered if the fire had even been real… the times Walter had lit it…
He shook his head. Why did everything always fall back to that?
Sighing, he sipped dusty water, realizing how much he missed his old friend. There had never been dust or cold stone walls when he'd lived with Walter. Lived in the fantasy. He hadn't lived in a prison then. He'd lived in a lush suite. Several days ago, Wiggins had delivered the crushing blow - Walter Ralegh was dead. His presence in the tower wasn't real. It just wasn't real. Since he'd learned the truth… Walter had never returned. He was all alone, the place deserted… a dusty prison room… nothing but a bed, a bench off the far wall, a little table and chairs, a fire place… very primitive. Not like the wonderful three room dream. Nothing like it. That had been beautifully furnished. Wall paper, carpets… the food had been the only thing real. He could remember taking the suite for granted, knowing every detail by memory, having been there a month. He still knew it all. He could see it in his mind's eye even now. LORD, how he missed it. He wanted it back. He wanted the Raleghs back!
The Raleghs' bedroom wasn't even there. He stared at the cob webbed stone wall. There was no longer a door. There was nothing. He sat on the dirty floor all alone, broken hearted. It hadn't been real. Any of it. When had he lost his mind? How had it happened? When did the fantasy start? Had he always seen the room that way? As far as he could remember - wait, when did Walter first come? Had he always…? He didn't know. He had no answers. None. The beginning was haze. He just didn't know.
Walter Ralegh had been his friend for years. Walter had stood by him through thick and thin… naturally he'd create his dear ally in his imagination to stay with him through his misery. Yes, it was all perfectly logical. He'd created the fantasy as some sort of comfort. Now that the illusion was ripped away… he was utterly alone and utterly depressed - MISERABLE. So miserable he was losing the will to live. Yes, Walter had provided the will to-
Sitting in sheer silence for a few moments, he whispered, "Walter?"
Nothing. He was alone. All alone. Even to sit with Ralegh in the dusty, stone tower would be wonderful. In truth, the perks had been nice… but all he really wanted was his friend. He didn't want to rot away all alone in prison. Forgotten. He wanted his friend…
His friend was dead. Gone forever. FOREVER. What if he really did live forever? He'd be all alone in his wretched tower forever… all alone and forgotten… unloved… ALONE… forever…
"Walter?"
He sat, hoping with all he had that perhaps… perhaps… Oh, to be crazy again… how he would do anything to be crazy again… forever with a friend… the delusion was a GIFT… he'd do anything… insanity… forever…
He snapped. Shrieking, he hurled his glass across the room. It shattered against the opposing wall, the sound echoing in the dirty darkness. Continuing to screech he slammed his chairs… slammed them to bits… the table went next… he shrieked again and again… beating the life out of ANYTHING he could get his hands on! Finally, he hit the floor on his knees crying - REALLY crying - loudly, racked with pain…
***
Darkness… Voices… invisible little girls… their voices singing…
"Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posies…"
Darkness. Such terrifying, burning darkness… death everywhere…
"…a tissue, a tissue…"
***
Wiggins stumbled up the stairs, arms filled with groceries. Still nervous, he was again recalling Jerry's opinion of towers. He couldn't help but wonder - WAS it insanity? Perhaps there was more to this Walter Ralegh business then- He shook his head. No, he didn't believe in ghosts.
Walter Ralegh may have been executed after spending many, many years in that very room… but… surely…
Sighing, the young man unlocked the old door, trying to recall if he'd witnessed any evidence of another presence in the room…
Entering, he expected more of the same. Instead, he screamed.
There was blood EVERYWHERE.
***
"…we all fall down…"
***
The beautiful gelding was so red he appeared black, yet, certain lights caught his metallic glory magnificently. A gorgeous specimen. How the count loved to watch him run wildly about the paddock. He'd been unreachable as a stallion… practically a Spaniard's mustang, yet now he was the finest hunter on the field.
Racing, proud as pleasure to be the Huntsmen, Wexford-Smyth blew his horn. The hounds raced onward, rushing through hedge after hedge after a hare… The rabbit, small and light brown, skimmed under the bushes quickly and lightly… so much for one little hare… yet, he wouldn't have it any other way.
Unexpectedly, a fox burst out from the fence line, startled. The hounds, forgetting their originally target, turned on their heels, surprising the vixen and Smyth alike.
His precious horse, equally startled, semi-reared as it turned about, racing after them. He went to blow his horn, when suddenly, more surprising still, a dappled gray pony rushed up to the fence from the far field.
"Master! Master!" a boy panted. "It's Wiggins. Something's wrong. He-"
Without hesitation or a single word, the noble broke from the hunt, leaving his fellows bewildered. Something was drastically wrong for the likes of Count Wexford-Smyth to brake away from a social without an explanation…
***
"Why would anyone leave a lunatic with glass?"
Wiggins wanted to just fade away. The doctor would NOT shut up. He kept pressing the issue again and again. Yes, it was all his fault. It couldn't be more clear and he couldn't possibly feel more terrible for it. Lip quivering, he wondered who he'd have to answer to.
"A glass…" the professional repeated, packing his bag in the hard, rushed way people do when their emotionally charged. "It was just a matter of time before he broke it and went at himself… A bloody glass, for the love of Saint Pete…"
Wiggins grimaced as the doctor slammed the door, gone. His head down, he realized Wexford-Smyth was watching him. The count found it all so fascinated. He wanted the story. He sat waiting for something - anything - to be said…
Finally, Wiggins muttered, "There was blood everywhere, yet he was perfectly conscious. He just sat there… like everything was fine. Normal. That didn't rattle me though. Not really. We've been through a lot together, so… that was nothing. What got me was… when they took him, he put up such a fight. It was so unexpected. He'd been so dazed before, just sitting there, he'd been calm and… I don't know - passive…" Not sure where he was going, he continued to narrate. "It's just wild, sir… His own blood just EVERYWHERE and he still had fight in him. After all his wailing about the tower being stuck in the tower, especially after he lost Ralegh… and, I mean, after taking such means to escape it… he… he didn't want to leave it. He clung to that doorway… his hands… they pulled… and… good LORD… He didn't cry for Walter. I thought he would, but he didn't. When they dragged him away… he was kicking and screeching for someone else. Someone called Chris."
Wexford-Smyth looked away, thinking. The story was pretty good. Wiggins has rambled and mumbled, but the melodramatic was great…
Risking a glance, Wiggins ventured, "What's going to happen now?"
Smyth smiled, "The entire scenario is nothing outrageous, dear fellow. Suicide's common among prisoners. Especially those lacking sanity. Besides, tower prisoners are typically unwanted. I'm sure no one cares one way or the other. In my opinion, his violent demise is inevitable. He'll be executed somewhere down the road, believe me." Seeing Wiggins wasn't convinced, he added, "It matters very little either way."
***
"WHAT!?!" James bellowed, slamming from his throne.
"Sire…" a startled Smyth fell to his knees. He'd never seen the king in such a state. Alarmed he began to stutter, but what was he to say?
"Count, shut up, shut up - just SHUT UP!" James nearly stuck him.
The enraged monarch froze, however, thinking. After a long, frightening pause, he turned away and instantly back again, directly into the young man's face. "You have NO idea how close - no idea how CLOSE - we just came to disaster!"
Turning away again, shaking and sputtering, he began to pace in his frustrated way. He rubbed his temples, his pace quickening. Quickening still, a twitch entered his expression. As the young aristocrat watched… he realized his ruler had serious issues…
Shaking his wrists, as though having a serious spasm he was unaware of, the royal finally spoke. "He can't remain in that tower any longer. After much advising, my best have informed me we have to make him happy. Comfortable. This shocking episode confirms it. They're right. He's… a danger to himself in that unhappy place. He must, absolutely MUST, return to himself. Recover his sanity. We have very important questions he must be capable of truthfully answering."
Now confused, the half wit felt he was being exposed to information unmeant for him. Why was the king divulging-
"I'm bringing you into the fold because… well, frankly, your man servant has a special connection with him. Living with you and your attendant will straighten him out."
Smyth nearly bit his tongue off. Eyes wide, he could say nothing.
"As we speak he's being relocated to your Estate, Count. The best doctors of the civilized world will be coming and going, working with him constantly. I want his mind back and I want it back NOW. Every moment we wait the Spaniard's get a little closer. They've conquered all the territory down there. My people tell me there isn't much time…"
What… the hell… is he talking about…?
The noble, still on his knees, watched his sovereign pace, helpless. As much as he loved the idea of a personal jester… he knew it wasn't going to be like that. Not at all. Firstly, this wasn't a fun, comical madman. No, no - this was a miserable, suicidal, DANGEROUS madman. Secondly, he would be VERY high maintenance. He had to be kept not only healthy, but HAPPY. Entertained. His every whim met. He needed constant, intense attention. He needed all the best of everything - first class treatment. He would absorb Wiggins and eat up a lot of funds he tended to blow betting Equine… Lastly, people would be coming and going. Unwanted people. Doctors and such. It would all seem so scandalous. Such negative whisper would arise. It would be dreadful, just dreadful! His life was about to get seriously complicated. In an instant he'd turned from a carefree fool… to a man with serious responsibility to his king. To a man pulled into the inner circle, the lime light. The dangerous game. Damn.
Though he was a cheerful, good natured, generally optimistic fellow, Wexford-Smyth went away that afternoon in quite a mood. Down on himself and the world. Though he wasn't blessed with an abundance of common sense - he wasn't STUPID. Even a half wit has just that, half the average wit. So he was careless, ditzy? He wasn't TRULY stupid. He knew the extreme complication and danger surrounding him now. Court was a delicate balance. A dangerous game. One day you're in favor, the next you're disgraced. He'd managed to stay outside it all until now… now he was pulled out front and center. He had to play the game. He could lose it all in an instant. He could lose his very life in an instant. He could end up like Walter Ralegh… destroyed…
He'd watched them live in fear for years - the aristocracy of court - most there through ambition, some forced like himself. He'd watched them live in fear, knowing they couldn't slip up; they had to do everything just right. Pretension was ran rabid like… like plague…
Plague…
***
"…a-husha… a-husha… we all fall down…"
***
"I'm dying, Chris. I'm dying and I can't tell you…"
***
Awaking in warm, comfortable surroundings, the former Governor snuggled deep into his comfiture. It felt heavenly. Smiling, he rolled, burying his face. It was wonderful not to feel the pain of his wounds anymore. He hadn't expected it to leave so suddenly… but, now that it was gone, he was grateful.
Time passed slowly and finally he snuck a peek out into the world. A strangely furnished room. VERY old fashioned Italian décor of the middle to lower class variety. Yawning, he rubbed his eyes, starting to call out to someone. His stopped, mid-utter, a blank slate. What name was he to say? Where the hell was he?
Confused, it dawned upon him that the fantasy had returned. He loved the idea… yet, at the same time was almost unhappy, for he knew it wasn't real. There was an awkwardness about it that had never been there before… a grounding sense of reality…
He heard whispering in the hall. Two voices - one male, the other female. The Raleghs? He strained to make out their muffled conversation, but couldn't catch a single syllable. Tired, he dropped back down into his bed. Forget it. Whatever.
Suddenly, a phrase was crystal clear - "No, you mustn't! He's not ready! He's not-"
The door burst open and a short, smiling blond sprang into the room, his very presence screaming silent energy. "Barty!" he cried, his smile enormous and extremely cheerful. "Barty, my brother, how are you?"
Perplexed, Ratcliffe said nothing. He stared blankly, unsure.
An older woman, clearly Italian, loomed behind, irritated. "I told you he wasn't ready. I told-"
"Yes, yes, yes…" the young man gestured for her to leave him alone, not hearing a word. He returned his focus to the bed, eyes bright, "My brother, you look well! How wonderful! How do you feel?"
"Fine." Ratcliffe was honest. "The pain's gone."
"Brilliant!" the fellow was all the more excited. He began to speak quickly, "I've made all the preparations, just knowing you'd come through. Everything's set. You leave first light tomorrow. I'm sure you remember. The king doesn't expect you, but I've handled that as well. I have SUCH a plan, my friend. SUCH a plan! Everything is set, I promise. I promise you, Barty, this time we'll get it! This will ensure our adventure! The adventure of a lifetime! I can't tell you how excited I am! I can't tell you what this means to me! To us! To the civilized world!"
Who the hell are you, buddy?
Yet, he couldn't ask. As usual, he had to play dumb until the delusions passed. However, this was different. He wasn't feverish. He truly felt fine. Perhaps this was a new Walter. He'd often felt fine with Walter. Regardless, he was clueless as to how he should treat the situation…
The blond was still flailing his arms, pacing quickly in small circles, extremely excited. He was practically shouting, his gestures wild - eyes on fire. His smile was so large… it was… amazing. He wasn't really attractive… yet, somehow, through his energy - his ENERGY - he was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
"I know you…" Ratcliffe whispered, the haze taking form. "I know you…"
The other froze mid-stride and flail, taken aback. He found his voice, "Of course, Barty. I'm you're brother…"
"He's still delirious. He STILL doesn't recognize you. I-"
Both brothers ignored the woman, gazes locked. Ratcliffe searched himself, knowing he knew the man. Knew him well. Loved him like a brother.
His eyes widened with realization, remembering his name…
"Chris?"
***
Chapter Ten: We All Fall Down
***
Disclaimer:
Disney owns all the Pocahontas jazz, ladies and gents. History makes up a good portion, as well - my eternal inspiration - however, admittedly, there are SERIOUS anachronisms and inaccuracies. (I have to make it all work somehow!) I make up the rest and it's all mine. ^_^
***
A/N: (Really long, but necessary. Sorry folks!)
IMPORTANT --- I botched up big time last chapter!!! I almost removed it altogether to rewrite and… well… I eventually WILL. For now, we'll just carry on with the correction. My plot still works regardless. The problem? Governors are appointed NOT elected. APPOINTED! Ouch. I feel seriously stupid, people. Sorry! Again, I promised you major inaccuracies, so hey, it's all good. Just coming through. ^_^ Um, ya… we'll ignore it for now and I'll change the effected parts of Chapter 9 before I write Chapter 12. (I've got 10 and 11 already now and I wanna get them posted!) RESEARCH people - I didn't research until AFTER the fact. Serves me right… But, MAN, even my CHAPTER TITLE is wrong… LOL!!
Secondly, just so you know, Count Wexford Smyth wasn't acting strangely at all last chapter. He was acting like people apparently acted in that society towards insanity. It was entertainment. Bethlehem Hospital (Bedlam), an asylum much like a prison, was like a human zoo. People went to watch the lunatics, hoping to observe abnormal behavior. They had their fun in various ways and even bought souvenirs. Totally normal to them. IN FACT, get this - Court Jesters were crazy (or just pretending to be crazy for a cushy job). The king kept a lunatic on hand for entertainment. It was a HUGE thing for these people. Anywho, to clear up any further doubt - Wex visits Ratcliffe for entertainment. He WANTS the guy to talk to himself and pitch fits. He's not weird - though he IS a half wit. ^_^
I recently watched Pocahontas II again and realized all this amazing stuff I could'a done! I mean, come on - that line about hanging! You know… Ratcliffe, Smith, ledge, beginning… MAN! Hm… maybe I can work it in somehow later… probably not… drats! The opportunity was absolutely missed! Seriously, people: DRATS! (BTW, That movie kills everything Ratcliffe for me. Like, he had a good strategy with the bear baiting… but… he just wasn't the same guy to me. I DUNNO. I really shouldn't talk. I mean, I have him different - but that's only because he's lost his mind. LOL! Chapter One was like Ratcliffe, IMHO. He was sane then. Anyway, you'll have to keep reading to see how he ends up…)
OH, one more thing! (Ya, I'm STILL going, folks.) Ralegh was a real guy. An explorer. Heavily involved in the Virginia stuff. He was in the court's inner circle until James took the thrown and, well… he spent 12-13 years in a tower. I don't want to ruin my story, but I will say this = he was executed for treason.
LAST THING, I promise! My take on history may be different from yours. My sources may be different from your sources. There are so many opinions on everything out there! Everywhere you look there's different facts. It's difficult to even define 'fact' when it comes to this stuff. History is just one of those things - you never ever know anything for sure. You've got no proof of anything. You weren't standing there. Almost all history is only testimony anyway. How do we know these people didn't embellish in their journals, gents? AND THEN… don't even get me started on BIAS on all levels - primary, secondary… Alright, alright! So you have to build enough of a case to ASSUME… (I'm mean, we've gotta figure out SOMETHING!) BUT HEY, whatever. I could go on all day about Collingwood and Carr, it's all good.
K, NOW I'm done. FINALLY. Thanks for your patience, guys! We can start…
***
"Chris, how could you do this to us? … Chris!?"
***
King James had been pacing for hours, his advisors watching uneasily. Hours. The guy had been at it for hours - an utter wreck over the fountain of youth crisis. Insiders had managed to spin doctor a great deal of the situation, but everything public was impossible to erase. Again and again he kept kicking himself for not accepting the gift when it was offered freely. Ratcliffe, the idiot, had offered him the fountain. He'd offered him some water on the spot. Hadn't he?
Muttering to himself, frustrated, James circled, flaring his arms occasionally. "Of all the years of lies… all the LIES… that insolent ass had to pick THIS time to tell the TRUTH! Blast him, blast him straight to the pits of Hell! How could ANYONE have known? He was the type to lie about the weather just for the sake of it! How could anyone have been expected to believe such a tall tale?… especially from HIM… I wouldn't have believed an honest man! How… he… ERRR… DAMN IT!! He's a liar… Why'd he have to be telling the truth THIS time? WHY?…"
Stopping, he turned on his men, fuming, "Don't just STAND there! Think of something! SAY something! For the love of all that's HOLY, gentlemen, what am I favoring you for?! To watch me squirm like half dead prey!?!"
Startled, his advisors exchanged ruffled glances, lost for words.
Cooling a little, James added, "I suppose we've covered the situation well. The public doesn't realize he was telling the truth. That he really WAS John Ratcliffe after all. To them he was just some important foreigner who refused to hang. I'm sure some myth about foreign, savage hangings will shut them all up…"
An older advisor risked his head - "Pardon, your grace, but… the public is a scattered mob. A crazed mass of a thousand voices, a thousand thoughts, a thousand backgrounds and a thousand biases. They all have their own take on the situation. They all think something different."
Following him up, a younger enthusiast added, "They all have their own personal takes on everything we ever tell them about anything! We can't paint them all with the same brush and think the situation is all over. We can expect anyone, let alone, EVERYONE to believe what we tell them."
After a pause, the older man resumed, "Your grace… I can tell you right now… the majority believe in the fountain. They may not know much about the Ratcliffe scenario… but they want to believe in eternal youth. It gives a downtrodden public some hope, sire. Whether they understand his predicament or not… they know he's in that tower. That idiot Wexford-Smyth visits him."
"Sire…" a third voice entered, a charming Spanish accent. "Agreeing with all previously stated, I must reinforce - The people don't think collectively. It's impossible to predict the reaction of a mob. They demand satisfaction."
"I get it, I get it, I get it!" James was impatient. "Tell me something worthwhile, Martinez!"
The charming, former Spaniard, smiled… "Excellency, our spin doctoring was not in vain. It will keep the people at bay while we act…"
"Act?" James blinked.
"Yes, sire, we must act." he insisted diplomatically. "If we don't find the fountain, you can rest assured the Spanish will."
***
Ratcliffe sat in lonely silence. The room seemed darker and colder these days. He didn't even bother to light a fire anymore. Half the time he wondered if the fire had even been real… the times Walter had lit it…
He shook his head. Why did everything always fall back to that?
Sighing, he sipped dusty water, realizing how much he missed his old friend. There had never been dust or cold stone walls when he'd lived with Walter. Lived in the fantasy. He hadn't lived in a prison then. He'd lived in a lush suite. Several days ago, Wiggins had delivered the crushing blow - Walter Ralegh was dead. His presence in the tower wasn't real. It just wasn't real. Since he'd learned the truth… Walter had never returned. He was all alone, the place deserted… a dusty prison room… nothing but a bed, a bench off the far wall, a little table and chairs, a fire place… very primitive. Not like the wonderful three room dream. Nothing like it. That had been beautifully furnished. Wall paper, carpets… the food had been the only thing real. He could remember taking the suite for granted, knowing every detail by memory, having been there a month. He still knew it all. He could see it in his mind's eye even now. LORD, how he missed it. He wanted it back. He wanted the Raleghs back!
The Raleghs' bedroom wasn't even there. He stared at the cob webbed stone wall. There was no longer a door. There was nothing. He sat on the dirty floor all alone, broken hearted. It hadn't been real. Any of it. When had he lost his mind? How had it happened? When did the fantasy start? Had he always seen the room that way? As far as he could remember - wait, when did Walter first come? Had he always…? He didn't know. He had no answers. None. The beginning was haze. He just didn't know.
Walter Ralegh had been his friend for years. Walter had stood by him through thick and thin… naturally he'd create his dear ally in his imagination to stay with him through his misery. Yes, it was all perfectly logical. He'd created the fantasy as some sort of comfort. Now that the illusion was ripped away… he was utterly alone and utterly depressed - MISERABLE. So miserable he was losing the will to live. Yes, Walter had provided the will to-
Sitting in sheer silence for a few moments, he whispered, "Walter?"
Nothing. He was alone. All alone. Even to sit with Ralegh in the dusty, stone tower would be wonderful. In truth, the perks had been nice… but all he really wanted was his friend. He didn't want to rot away all alone in prison. Forgotten. He wanted his friend…
His friend was dead. Gone forever. FOREVER. What if he really did live forever? He'd be all alone in his wretched tower forever… all alone and forgotten… unloved… ALONE… forever…
"Walter?"
He sat, hoping with all he had that perhaps… perhaps… Oh, to be crazy again… how he would do anything to be crazy again… forever with a friend… the delusion was a GIFT… he'd do anything… insanity… forever…
He snapped. Shrieking, he hurled his glass across the room. It shattered against the opposing wall, the sound echoing in the dirty darkness. Continuing to screech he slammed his chairs… slammed them to bits… the table went next… he shrieked again and again… beating the life out of ANYTHING he could get his hands on! Finally, he hit the floor on his knees crying - REALLY crying - loudly, racked with pain…
***
Darkness… Voices… invisible little girls… their voices singing…
"Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posies…"
Darkness. Such terrifying, burning darkness… death everywhere…
"…a tissue, a tissue…"
***
Wiggins stumbled up the stairs, arms filled with groceries. Still nervous, he was again recalling Jerry's opinion of towers. He couldn't help but wonder - WAS it insanity? Perhaps there was more to this Walter Ralegh business then- He shook his head. No, he didn't believe in ghosts.
Walter Ralegh may have been executed after spending many, many years in that very room… but… surely…
Sighing, the young man unlocked the old door, trying to recall if he'd witnessed any evidence of another presence in the room…
Entering, he expected more of the same. Instead, he screamed.
There was blood EVERYWHERE.
***
"…we all fall down…"
***
The beautiful gelding was so red he appeared black, yet, certain lights caught his metallic glory magnificently. A gorgeous specimen. How the count loved to watch him run wildly about the paddock. He'd been unreachable as a stallion… practically a Spaniard's mustang, yet now he was the finest hunter on the field.
Racing, proud as pleasure to be the Huntsmen, Wexford-Smyth blew his horn. The hounds raced onward, rushing through hedge after hedge after a hare… The rabbit, small and light brown, skimmed under the bushes quickly and lightly… so much for one little hare… yet, he wouldn't have it any other way.
Unexpectedly, a fox burst out from the fence line, startled. The hounds, forgetting their originally target, turned on their heels, surprising the vixen and Smyth alike.
His precious horse, equally startled, semi-reared as it turned about, racing after them. He went to blow his horn, when suddenly, more surprising still, a dappled gray pony rushed up to the fence from the far field.
"Master! Master!" a boy panted. "It's Wiggins. Something's wrong. He-"
Without hesitation or a single word, the noble broke from the hunt, leaving his fellows bewildered. Something was drastically wrong for the likes of Count Wexford-Smyth to brake away from a social without an explanation…
***
"Why would anyone leave a lunatic with glass?"
Wiggins wanted to just fade away. The doctor would NOT shut up. He kept pressing the issue again and again. Yes, it was all his fault. It couldn't be more clear and he couldn't possibly feel more terrible for it. Lip quivering, he wondered who he'd have to answer to.
"A glass…" the professional repeated, packing his bag in the hard, rushed way people do when their emotionally charged. "It was just a matter of time before he broke it and went at himself… A bloody glass, for the love of Saint Pete…"
Wiggins grimaced as the doctor slammed the door, gone. His head down, he realized Wexford-Smyth was watching him. The count found it all so fascinated. He wanted the story. He sat waiting for something - anything - to be said…
Finally, Wiggins muttered, "There was blood everywhere, yet he was perfectly conscious. He just sat there… like everything was fine. Normal. That didn't rattle me though. Not really. We've been through a lot together, so… that was nothing. What got me was… when they took him, he put up such a fight. It was so unexpected. He'd been so dazed before, just sitting there, he'd been calm and… I don't know - passive…" Not sure where he was going, he continued to narrate. "It's just wild, sir… His own blood just EVERYWHERE and he still had fight in him. After all his wailing about the tower being stuck in the tower, especially after he lost Ralegh… and, I mean, after taking such means to escape it… he… he didn't want to leave it. He clung to that doorway… his hands… they pulled… and… good LORD… He didn't cry for Walter. I thought he would, but he didn't. When they dragged him away… he was kicking and screeching for someone else. Someone called Chris."
Wexford-Smyth looked away, thinking. The story was pretty good. Wiggins has rambled and mumbled, but the melodramatic was great…
Risking a glance, Wiggins ventured, "What's going to happen now?"
Smyth smiled, "The entire scenario is nothing outrageous, dear fellow. Suicide's common among prisoners. Especially those lacking sanity. Besides, tower prisoners are typically unwanted. I'm sure no one cares one way or the other. In my opinion, his violent demise is inevitable. He'll be executed somewhere down the road, believe me." Seeing Wiggins wasn't convinced, he added, "It matters very little either way."
***
"WHAT!?!" James bellowed, slamming from his throne.
"Sire…" a startled Smyth fell to his knees. He'd never seen the king in such a state. Alarmed he began to stutter, but what was he to say?
"Count, shut up, shut up - just SHUT UP!" James nearly stuck him.
The enraged monarch froze, however, thinking. After a long, frightening pause, he turned away and instantly back again, directly into the young man's face. "You have NO idea how close - no idea how CLOSE - we just came to disaster!"
Turning away again, shaking and sputtering, he began to pace in his frustrated way. He rubbed his temples, his pace quickening. Quickening still, a twitch entered his expression. As the young aristocrat watched… he realized his ruler had serious issues…
Shaking his wrists, as though having a serious spasm he was unaware of, the royal finally spoke. "He can't remain in that tower any longer. After much advising, my best have informed me we have to make him happy. Comfortable. This shocking episode confirms it. They're right. He's… a danger to himself in that unhappy place. He must, absolutely MUST, return to himself. Recover his sanity. We have very important questions he must be capable of truthfully answering."
Now confused, the half wit felt he was being exposed to information unmeant for him. Why was the king divulging-
"I'm bringing you into the fold because… well, frankly, your man servant has a special connection with him. Living with you and your attendant will straighten him out."
Smyth nearly bit his tongue off. Eyes wide, he could say nothing.
"As we speak he's being relocated to your Estate, Count. The best doctors of the civilized world will be coming and going, working with him constantly. I want his mind back and I want it back NOW. Every moment we wait the Spaniard's get a little closer. They've conquered all the territory down there. My people tell me there isn't much time…"
What… the hell… is he talking about…?
The noble, still on his knees, watched his sovereign pace, helpless. As much as he loved the idea of a personal jester… he knew it wasn't going to be like that. Not at all. Firstly, this wasn't a fun, comical madman. No, no - this was a miserable, suicidal, DANGEROUS madman. Secondly, he would be VERY high maintenance. He had to be kept not only healthy, but HAPPY. Entertained. His every whim met. He needed constant, intense attention. He needed all the best of everything - first class treatment. He would absorb Wiggins and eat up a lot of funds he tended to blow betting Equine… Lastly, people would be coming and going. Unwanted people. Doctors and such. It would all seem so scandalous. Such negative whisper would arise. It would be dreadful, just dreadful! His life was about to get seriously complicated. In an instant he'd turned from a carefree fool… to a man with serious responsibility to his king. To a man pulled into the inner circle, the lime light. The dangerous game. Damn.
Though he was a cheerful, good natured, generally optimistic fellow, Wexford-Smyth went away that afternoon in quite a mood. Down on himself and the world. Though he wasn't blessed with an abundance of common sense - he wasn't STUPID. Even a half wit has just that, half the average wit. So he was careless, ditzy? He wasn't TRULY stupid. He knew the extreme complication and danger surrounding him now. Court was a delicate balance. A dangerous game. One day you're in favor, the next you're disgraced. He'd managed to stay outside it all until now… now he was pulled out front and center. He had to play the game. He could lose it all in an instant. He could lose his very life in an instant. He could end up like Walter Ralegh… destroyed…
He'd watched them live in fear for years - the aristocracy of court - most there through ambition, some forced like himself. He'd watched them live in fear, knowing they couldn't slip up; they had to do everything just right. Pretension was ran rabid like… like plague…
Plague…
***
"…a-husha… a-husha… we all fall down…"
***
"I'm dying, Chris. I'm dying and I can't tell you…"
***
Awaking in warm, comfortable surroundings, the former Governor snuggled deep into his comfiture. It felt heavenly. Smiling, he rolled, burying his face. It was wonderful not to feel the pain of his wounds anymore. He hadn't expected it to leave so suddenly… but, now that it was gone, he was grateful.
Time passed slowly and finally he snuck a peek out into the world. A strangely furnished room. VERY old fashioned Italian décor of the middle to lower class variety. Yawning, he rubbed his eyes, starting to call out to someone. His stopped, mid-utter, a blank slate. What name was he to say? Where the hell was he?
Confused, it dawned upon him that the fantasy had returned. He loved the idea… yet, at the same time was almost unhappy, for he knew it wasn't real. There was an awkwardness about it that had never been there before… a grounding sense of reality…
He heard whispering in the hall. Two voices - one male, the other female. The Raleghs? He strained to make out their muffled conversation, but couldn't catch a single syllable. Tired, he dropped back down into his bed. Forget it. Whatever.
Suddenly, a phrase was crystal clear - "No, you mustn't! He's not ready! He's not-"
The door burst open and a short, smiling blond sprang into the room, his very presence screaming silent energy. "Barty!" he cried, his smile enormous and extremely cheerful. "Barty, my brother, how are you?"
Perplexed, Ratcliffe said nothing. He stared blankly, unsure.
An older woman, clearly Italian, loomed behind, irritated. "I told you he wasn't ready. I told-"
"Yes, yes, yes…" the young man gestured for her to leave him alone, not hearing a word. He returned his focus to the bed, eyes bright, "My brother, you look well! How wonderful! How do you feel?"
"Fine." Ratcliffe was honest. "The pain's gone."
"Brilliant!" the fellow was all the more excited. He began to speak quickly, "I've made all the preparations, just knowing you'd come through. Everything's set. You leave first light tomorrow. I'm sure you remember. The king doesn't expect you, but I've handled that as well. I have SUCH a plan, my friend. SUCH a plan! Everything is set, I promise. I promise you, Barty, this time we'll get it! This will ensure our adventure! The adventure of a lifetime! I can't tell you how excited I am! I can't tell you what this means to me! To us! To the civilized world!"
Who the hell are you, buddy?
Yet, he couldn't ask. As usual, he had to play dumb until the delusions passed. However, this was different. He wasn't feverish. He truly felt fine. Perhaps this was a new Walter. He'd often felt fine with Walter. Regardless, he was clueless as to how he should treat the situation…
The blond was still flailing his arms, pacing quickly in small circles, extremely excited. He was practically shouting, his gestures wild - eyes on fire. His smile was so large… it was… amazing. He wasn't really attractive… yet, somehow, through his energy - his ENERGY - he was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
"I know you…" Ratcliffe whispered, the haze taking form. "I know you…"
The other froze mid-stride and flail, taken aback. He found his voice, "Of course, Barty. I'm you're brother…"
"He's still delirious. He STILL doesn't recognize you. I-"
Both brothers ignored the woman, gazes locked. Ratcliffe searched himself, knowing he knew the man. Knew him well. Loved him like a brother.
His eyes widened with realization, remembering his name…
"Chris?"
***