…
…
"We all have to decide for ourselves how much sin we can live with."
Nucky Thompson, from Boardwalk Empire.
…
…
Madame Karin Desiree de la Valliere.
Bravo!
You are very bold to think that I would be so easily toppled by that little stunt of yours, as if I wasn't subject to political fracas before my current station now. But do continue your attempts to undermine my reputation and my dear correspondence with my partner, the Grand Marquise Louise Francoise. Your tenaciousness amuses me, and I will do well to use whatever contretemps you sling at me to my own advantage.
Madame Valliere, you remind me of another acquaintance of mine from Paris, France: a certain Madame de Rémusat, Lady-in-waiting to my first wife the Empress Josephine—God bless her however she is now. You are in every concern an esteemed noble, more so than Mme. de Rémusat—Quite unfortunately however, you only seem to exhibit short of half the intellectualism, and none of her grâce personelle. Do not take this severely; I've always thought of you as a good-looking woman, but that is where most of my admiration ends.
Au revoir, BONAPARTE.
At the town of La Fere, in a stone mansion which had been transformed into the temporary headquarters of the Valliere Loyalists, at her desk the Grand Duchess sat.
When she finished reading the letter, her face was black with shame and fury.
She slammed the letter flat on the oak desk violently. The table cracked.
Lady Karin was fuming.
"THAT'S IT!" Karin roared. "I've had enough of that wretched familiar! I don't care if my dear daughter has formed a pact with that blackguard emperor," she said angrily. "I'm going to kill him! I'll do it, by Brimir- !"
"Temper, Your Highness, your temper," Marshal Gramont said gently.
The old Marshal reclined in his wheelchair, having awoken from the terrible outburst in the room. Actually, he hadn't been napping at all, considering that only several minutes ago another letter had arrived, before this one right now had finally set off the duchess.
At this point, having worked with the Valliere family for a long time now and sharing an extensive history of cooperating with them since the reign of Queen Marianne, Marshal Gramont was already used to these kinds of violent outbursts from Lady Karin. It hardly surprised him. However it still amazed him sometimes how prone the duchess was to the smallest japes at her ego. The fact that such a petty letter could send Lady Karin into a steaming frenzy was something the Marshal would have gotten a laugh out of, if it weren't for the fear of old age (not death, it was inevitable for him anyway) and his lung giving up on him right there and then. So he kept quiet.
The contemptuously mocking letter from the French Emperor was the last straw. The first report that had reached them that morning since Lady Karin's secret operation the other night was the alarming upheaval from three villages nearby up north. The villages themselves rose in revolt and threw out their garrisons. Loyalist guards. Now, rebel troopers occupied the villages which meant their alliance had just lost access to three extremely useful roads, and territory which they seriously needed to control if they were to reclaim the capital and the kingdom of Tristain from the rebellious faction of the fraud which was the Grand Marquise and her "emperor" familiar.
The cause of the revolt? Someone had spread leaflets to the townsfolk, just like the ones they had been printing in La Fere for the purpose of outing the Grand Marquise and her familiar, but this time they were rebel leaflets. It contained slanderous claims, in particular: That the Loyalists are planning to destroy the right of the commoners to own their own property. This was something that was ostentatiously promulgated by the new ragtag government in Tristania as part of something they called a 'Civil Code', and it had taken the public by storm. At the cost of many old nobles losing their land titles, commoners began to purchase and claim plots of land for cheap, which was outrageous.
This was only one of the many variations of the highly seditious propaganda spewed by the rebels. The worst accused the Vallieres, the Walloons, the Montmorencys and all of the Loyalist faction of being tyrants, patrons of the death penalty against commoners without fair trial, slavery and serfdom, and even insurrection against the Crown, the Church of Brimir, and prejudice against the lower classes.
"That's exactly what Bonaparte wants you to do," the marshal reminded. "Anger is like dragonsblood; in small quantities, it can give you the resolve to beat your enemy. Too much of it however will blind you. You cannot bite into everything that Bonaparte throws at you."
Karin remained silent, though her face was still red. She paced back and forth around her desk mechanically.
"We know that there's also a riot happening in Tristania right now," Marshal Gramont said. "So for now, we can say that your plan worked, Your Highness. However, I am still adamant upon saying that this may not be the most prudent decision, taking advantage of a loophole in our signed armistice."
"Why shouldn't we?" Lady Karin retorted sharply. "It's what Napoleon would've done, isn't it? He's been slandering us too. He is a scheming bastard - two can play that game! There is no reason why we should allow him to freely corrupt Tristania, while the Grand Marquise doesn't know any better," she emphasized the latter title with a sardonic tone.
"Grand Marquise… Ha! Clearly, they are masquerading. It won't fool a peasant if Louise Francoise claims any sort of noble title, so what do they do? They invent titles now! How trite!"
Karin continued to muse. She often looked down into an open palm, as if examining her fingernails, and clenching it. The Marshal noticed this was often a sign of unrest from the duchess. If Napoleon was tenacious, then Lady Karin even more so would not let up. The two were the worst sort of nemeses.
Marshal Gramont sighed. "But it's working…"
The duchess continued. "Our flying operation over Tristania shall sow discord and weaken the inclination of the people to keep eating the lies their treacherous governors cook up. And by the time the armistice ends in three weeks, we will be in a position to inflict a serious defeat on the rebel armies from Tristania. One resounding victory, Marshal," Lady Karin said coldly, lifting a finger. Her eyes were afire like embers.
"One resounding victory is all we'll need to begin the reaction of the entire kingdom. If we achieve this, I am confident- sure that we'll gain increasing support as we march closer to recapture the city. And if so, then the city will surrender perhaps even before we lay siege on it."
"Well there's only one issue there, Your Highness." Marshal Gramont clasped his bony hands together. He spoke slowly. "If."
Lady Karin stared off into the windows of the drawing room. Outside, the Royal Army, thirty thousand professional warriors of their Tristanian nation, was under her control. They awaited day by day, sitting here in La Fere. All along the southern and eastern regions of Tristain, thirty to forty thousand more Loyalists were converging, columns led by both young and veteran commanders sworn to fight for her, all within days' march of each other. They all awaited the call to march upon Tristania.
Still, Karin could not help but feel more and more concerned. The sudden revolt up north was a bad surprise for her and the Marshal - things could turn worse if this was how swift Napoleon Bonaparte could react. They suspected he was probably in Tristania again, though even that also seemed unlikely; spies had informed them that Louise and Napoleon had left the capital two days ago, going to La Rochelle for some parade or festival. There was no way the two could have traveled back so quickly unless it was a literal tour de force. Now it seemed like the rebels were planning to try and use their leaflet-strategy against them as well. But there was another increasingly dire matter rearing its ugly head from the mire.
Marshal Gramont cleared his throat. He spoke again. "There is Germanian movement along the eastern borders. Military movements. Since the Valliere and Halle estate are the practically the only forces buffering Tristain from Germania, this is very concerning, Your Highness.
"And if we do defeat Napoleon Bonaparte and Louise Francoise, what will be the cost to pay for? Will it be worth it still, if it means facing the full might of Germania? Germania will invade soon. They will find a reason. Maybe they'll say they don't recognize Louise Francoise's government. They'll find a reason…"
The old Marshal sighed, and also turned his eyes towards the light of the window.
"Albrecht has always wanted an opportunity such as this," Marshal Gramont said quietly. "I've defeated his father, his grandfather and uncles… Now I am old, I shall die soon. They'll cross the Beuand again. Halle may once again become a Germanian state, and Madame Brigitte de Arc Dupuy, Brimir bless that woman's name, is sadly no longer around to fight alongside me. Though her granddaughter, Brigitte de Maillart is a strong ally you can count on. You, my lady, will have to defend Tristain now. Do you remember how you used to hunt fire dragons in the mountain ranges of Romalia, to save the Apennine villagers, Your Highness?"
Lady Karin glanced at the Marshal.
"Yes. It was such a long time ago," she muttered. "When I was still a young knight, the same age as my daughter."
"Then you should know. To take down a dragon, you must first let it bleed. Germania is watching us bleed ourselves. Your Highness, I beg you to help me end this war on the best terms as soon as possible."
…
The spring season has always been beautiful in Tristain. And the fourth month of the year, Feoh, was warm and fresh. The days were becoming longer, the nights shorter.
Even though the country of Tristain and the various principalities, free cities and communes surrounding the kingdom in the east and south were in a geographic region considered to be the Lowlands, with most of the land beneath the sea level, the climate had always been agreeable. There were thousands of windmills all over the Lowlands, used to systematically drain large swamps and marshes, keep the river levels in check, and prevent flooding. It ensured the fields were arable, and communities sprouted. For one, the Duchy of Walloon had the most powerful windmills used to drain their rich silver mines in the mountains and keep it from collapsing with water. Mostly, around the country, the mills were used for processing timber, textiles and grains.
Only a hundred years ago, the Lowlands, including Tristain, were often embroiled in endless series of conflicts between noble clans and families. Not full-out wars, but it was essentially a series of territorial feuds between nobility. Principalities, duchies and baronies fought one another from duels to with personal levy armies, and drew different claims. Free cities and communes often had to fend for themselves, resisting marauding soldiers and trying to keep a semblance of peace and autonomy. Even the Germanian frontier communes also had to deal with the same problems, and sometimes sought alliances with their Tristanian neighbors. After Tristain defeated the Germanian Empire's last attempt to cross the Beuand, everything became relatively quieter as borders and territories finally settled down.
Halle was a march state. It was located north of the massive Valliere estate. Together, they separated Tristain from Germania. A long time ago, Halle had changed sides and allied with Tristain during the war. The Grand Dame at the time swore allegiance to the Tristanian king. And the Grand Dame and the Order of the Halle Knights assisted Marshal Gramont in holding the Germanians at the Beuand river.
Miss Dupuy sat on a low wall, watching the paper mills outside of La Fere spin in the warm winds. She wondered how soon they could return to Halle.
How soon would the fighting end? It hadn't resumed yet, not for another three weeks, but she felt ill about the whole thing. They were fighting fellow Tristanians. She hadn't fought Tristanians before, hadn't killed soldiers she considered countrymen. Fighting Germanians was one thing - they were loud, vicious, and they were hell-bent on crossing the great river and invading Tristain. That was what her grandmother told her. Miss Dupuy had fought Germanian bandits on the border dozens of times. They were indeed vicious. She wondered if the rebels wearing green uniforms across the fields of La Fere, to the west, occupying the capital city were just as vicious.
They often saw the Iron Duchess during the morning reviews. Miss Dupuy's peers thought she was scary, and her aide-de-camp Lianne described Lady Valliere in a humorous sort of allusion: "If Her Highness's face were a clock, I wouldn't dare look at it to tell the time!"
There was a lot of talk about what would happen after the war. Who would get what, who would kill who; it was the sort of malicious soldier-talk she couldn't stand, so Miss Dupuy kept quiet for most of the time. Everyone expected the Iron Duchess to murder her rebellious runt of a daughter after she was through with the treacherous nobles who sided with the Grand Marquise. Miss Dupuy herself pondered if it were to prove true. It was a frightening possibility. If Louise Francoise weren't the daughter of Lady Valliere, there was no question about it. Everything was hanging by a hair and a trace of blood now.
Something was severely ironic about a nice day, and soldiers preparing for a violent battle.
Everyone else seemed happy and in high spirits. Her fellow knights sharpened and wiped their lances. Her aide-de-camp practiced with fire spells. Gramont battalions drilled daily in their fierce pike-and-shot formations on the fields. This was only La Fere and the Valliere's Royal Army. There were six more columns positioned all along the south, turned against Tristain.
Last night, Miss Dupuy watched as their riders and airborne cavalry prepared to carry out an ambitious operation to fly over Tristania. Dragoons, knights and mages led their mounts and beasts onto the grassy field. She watched the men and women load bags full of leaflets printed from the mills onto the dragons, griffons and manticores. The viscount, madame Mallorie de Bayreuth commanded their Griffin Guards. Baron Grandjean led the army's Royal Dragon Knights. And the Grand Duchess Lady Karin de la Valliere herself led her elite Manticore Knights in person.
Miss Dupuy on the other hand sent her lieutenant and aide-de-camp Lianne to stand in for her. As her manticore couldn't fly, Miss Dupuy chose to stay on the ground while the rest of the Halle knights brought out their trained manticores and griffons. It was also due to the fact that she secretly felt sick of high altitudes. Besides, this was one precise operation.
Every evening, there was always one or more young nobles fleeing alone down the road to La Fere. Weeks before, entire households were leaving Tristania after the Grand Marquise issued her ultimatum to purge out the nobility and secure her political power. Miss Dupuy wondered what was going on in the capital. Surely, there couldn't be any noble officers or pilots left on the rebel side? There had been a lot of young men and ladies, many of them had brought their dragons and griffins along to the Loyalist side.
There was not a lot of sense if you were a noble and decided to side with the rebels, unless you were in favorable circumstances and agreeable to the new laws of their makeshift government. Pilots and riders deserted to La Fere in droves, Miss Dupuy noted this. They haven't seen a single rebel griffon, not a wyvern, much less a rebel dragon in days.
But if the rebels had already lost nearly all of their officer corps, and practically all of their airborne cavalry, why would they still be resolved to face the Royal Army? A fully supplied and mobilized one at that? It was puzzling. Obviously, the Grand Duchy of Guldenhorf supported the rebels with their powerful 56-ship air fleet; they had man o' wars, frigates and corvettes, and plenty of smaller gunships for attacking the ground. The Loyalists had 27 remaining, having lost one already, and another eight Gramont ships undergoing repairs in another city. But still, this was a war that would be decided by ground forces.
Maybe a few stayed. Maybe some nobles genuinely believed and trusted the Grand Marquise. Did they love her? It could be that they adored her. She was a Valliere too, despite being exiled. Perhaps they actually accepted the new Tristanian Assembly, and their three Dignitaries. After all, it seemed very plausible. The Grand Marquise represented the remaining nobility. The General represented the public. The Third Dignitary was the Cardinal, who represented the church. It occurred to Miss Dupuy that the Loyalists didn't have any significant heads of the Church of Brimir on their side. It could be a bad omen, she thought: God not being on your side.
…
That evening in Londinium, the Grand Marquise had visited the Prince again in his palace, of her own volition.
Louise fondly thought back on her conversations with Prince Wales. She decided that despite what everyone liked to think, despite her partner's teasing, there wasn't anything romantic going on between her and the prince.
Both of them shared feelings of loneliness, perhaps that was why they could talk so freely with each other for the first time. When Louise was younger, she would play with princess Henrietta in their summer house outside the capital, and on the holidays the Albionese prince would visit the country and be around to join them. Henrietta had a crush on the handsome prince. Louise was mostly indifferent to him then, even shy. Louise had never been close with Prince Wales until circumstances now brought them together.
The Prince had been nothing but kind and courteous to her. Obviously, he was quickly growing fond of her, and Louise wanted to stay that way. She was too shy to admit to becoming his friend, the farthest she had ever gone was to agree that they were both "close acquaintances." Allied monarchs. A relationship that was in the best interests of their nations.
Still, Louise wanted someone to talk to.
Sure, Napoleon was wise and in spite of his cruel sense of humor, he was sometimes incredibly affectionate with her, almost like a father. Her aide-de-camp and artillery lieutenant, Antoni Decrest, was a polite young man who was always there to assist her on the field - today, he had bought Louise a gift; a pair of milk-white calfskin gunner gloves. Her servant Matilda also kept her company and was someone she could confide with. Yet still, Louise felt as if on some days, she felt gloomy for some blank, melancholic reason.
That evening, as they walked together in the orchid gardens, the Prince asked, "Louise Francoise, do you still feel anything for Francis de Wardes?"
Prince Wales said quietly, "I know he was your fiance. I understand that you may still be sensitive about the subject, since he did- "
"No."
Louise answered shortly. She laughed a little, though it was a dry kind of gesture.
"I don't. He betrayed the Queen, he deserted the kingdom and his duty to it, and he did try to kill me and hurt the people I cared about. I would certainly kill him if I saw him again, something I've failed to do before."
In a way, maybe Napoleon was correct. The ones we love can grow to become the ones we hate. And if she hated Jean-Jacques Francis de Wardes, then maybe it was true that she had once loved him. Louise thought of it again.
What did she feel about Prince Wales? The truth was that Louise liked him. But there was a certain discomfort that she could not put a name on every time she was with him.
The way Prince James Wales was always smiling at her, trying to amuse her, sometimes with his nonsensical humor that never failed to make Louise roll her eyes, or the way he would nonchalantly wrap his arm over her and pull her closer. Each time, afterwards, when Louise would inevitably think of her best friend Henrietta, she felt sick. She felt fake, like a charlatan.
Her best friend, the Queen.
The Queen was everything she looked up to. She was everything she wanted to be. Tall, strong, confident, beautiful. A good mage. A good leader. Henrietta had been a kind friend to her. Henrietta was honest and courageous, but above all she would've never betrayed her friends. Her sacrifice in Saxe-Gotha proved that. And now, this… it made Louise feel drowned with guilt.
Would she be betraying Henrietta if she were to fall in love with Prince Wales? Would it be a sin to fall in love?
Somehow, Louise knew that was one of the subconscious questions that had been bothering her since last night. Right now, it wasn't something that worried her. The Prince is a good person, and she had made a friendly acquaintance with him. For the first time in a while, everything seemed to be turning out well and normal for her. Louise honestly couldn't imagine herself falling in love with the Prince, not now, not anytime soon, maybe not ever. Maybe she could assure herself that she had always been as good of a friend to Henrietta as she had been hers. But what if the Prince fell in love with her?
Before Louise Francoise left Hampton Palace that night to fly back to Tristain, Prince Wales gave her a parting gift. It was a narrow rectangular box wrapped in red paper. It felt heavy in her hands. Louise thought it could be a wand, and she couldn't wait to open it. The prince waved at her.
"Louise Francoise! I do hope to see you again."
Prince Wales flashed her a happy smile. Louise blushed noticeably. She laughed it off coolly.
"Yes my prince," Louise replied. "Maybe you should follow me if you are so enthusiastic!"
"I will!"
From a distance, Napoleon stood outside of their carriage and watched as Louise made her way down the stairway, just like the other night.
Napoleon could not help but be amused at watching this.
It pleased him to see that his partner had quickly developed a correspondence with the Albionese prince. Not just that - it was good that Louise was finally associating with fellow nobles, and someone of her own age.
She was a young girl, and a young girl needed peers to talk to and keep her company. It would do her good, Napoleon thought.
Napoleon didn't want to take away Louise from what every youth deserved to experience. She needed friends, she needed to experience affection, and Louise deserved to live a normal life despite this daunting journey they had set upon. It was necessary for her development. He would know. Napoleon after all knew what loneliness can do to a young student. He wanted Louise to grow into a strong, decisive individual like him, but seclusion in a study room, being ostracized by classmates, and passing the days of youth through volumes of books all alone by herself was something Napoleon did not want for Louise.
He had been there. He will not send her down the same line. It would be a severely arrogant notion, but Napoleon determined he had the choice to possibly raise Louise better than the Iron Duchess could.
It was time to return again to Tristain.
Napoleon opened the door of the carriage for Louise, and they climbed in together. "So," she said at last. "It seems our journey has been cut short…"
The Emperor nodded. "Yes. We will have to return. We have much to do in Tristania. We don't want another rebellion now, do we? And also, we'll have to head down south and survey a rather serious problem. There's been reports of a strange, possibly supernatural phenomena going on in the Lagdorian Lake. The lake's waters are rising dramatically. My secretary read out the letter to me this afternoon. It's not just that - marshes and wetlands all over Tristania are flooding over or drying up erratically, and the weather is also growing unnaturally violent, sometimes with rain occurring during a hot shining day. The windmills are failing to keep the lowlands drained. All the priests say that it must be that the Water Spirit is displeased."
"We have to find out, then," Louise said confidently.
Napoleon nodded. "And also," he said, "There is more. Gallia seems to be moving large numbers of troops along our borders. They haven't crossed yet, but they're marching along eastwards. Now this is something we must definitely confront. If we take a string of horses from Tristania, we'll reach the lake and the border in two days. Two birds, one stone."
They took a skyship at port Rosais outside of Londinium instead of traveling back down to Dover so that they could get up in the air earlier. By midnight, they were ten thousand feet above the Albionese Channel - or, Napoleon thought, what would have been the sea separating Tristain from Albion if the latter hadn't floated away from the continent millenniums ago.
This wasn't his first time flying on a skyship anymore, but the experience never failed to thrill and even slightly unnerve Napoleon. The air at this altitude was noticeably thinner and it made him lightheaded. During his first time boarding a Tristanian royal skyship, he mistook his shortness of breath for a bout of asthma. Napoleon soon learned to appreciate flying. He decided it was the finest way to clear one's head; to travel, to fly across the skies and reflect.
He remembered the books from the French aircraft at Tarbes, which he had Louise blow up so long ago in order to keep them from enemy hands. The obsolete flying machine was from the future, that he completely knew. The fateful evening Napoleon stepped into the plane for the first time, he only found one piece of evidence which he deduced was the year the plane was magically transported to Halkeginia. A yellow square of paper stuck on the dashboard of the pilot's cockpit, with a number scribbled on it:
05/10/54
May 10th, 1954. Napoleon eventually guessed that it must be the date denoted. Napoleon did not know if it was the date that the French aircraft had left wherever it was encamped at, or if it was the date it had landed in Tristain. But that wasn't as important.
1954, Napoleon thought.
A century and a half had almost passed since his era. Since his time. The mere thought of it was daunting to the point that it silenced him for nights on end. He had spent a rather unhealthy number of days doing nothing but being bunkered inside of the mystical aircraft, furiously searching for answers.
What happened after he had disappeared? Napoleon wondered if posterity still remembered him. Or, at least, if his wife and son missed him. He remembered the memoirs of himself again.
Louise lay on the bed in their cabin while Napoleon sat at the desk, reading a Halkeginian history book by the guttering light of a gas lamp. Once Louise closed her eyes and seemed fast asleep, Napoleon got up and exited the cabin. The deck was deserted and all of the crew were bunkered down below. There was one lookout perched high up on the main mast. Skyships were incredibly steady at this altitude and for the next few hours until sunrise, they would cruise through the black, frigid sky smoothly.
Napoleon traipsed along the starboard of the ship. He walked in the bluish darkness, feeling only the cold railings with his left hand. The hollow between his jacket and heart ached a little, as the silence and the rain left him to his own thoughts.
A part of his heart still was a child's heart - in it still was the dream of every youth from his time. The dreams of greatness and conquest, and a classical affirmation of everything good, hopeful and fantastic about life and the world. An adventurous dream. A heroic dream. Now, Napoleon was soon turning forty-six.
In forty six years, that dream had turned into a washing nightmare.
Tonight on the ship back to Tristain, the rain fell. It was the gloomy kind of rain, slow, devoid of the thrill of a real torrent. It was the kind which took an hour before it soaked into your skin and depressed your spirit. Napoleon hated the rain - he wanted a storm. A storm always had a life of its own. The way he saw it, as in life, it was either fair weather or the wrath of the sea to choose between. The same with fate - to be, or not to be? He chose to be.
Napoleon reckoned he would be spending his forty-sixth birthday not in his world, but here in Halkeginia.
The kind of rain that Napoleon was used to was heavy rain. The kind that got into your face, burned your nostrils and carried away your breath. The kind which drowned you, pouring, like the suspense before a titillating battle. You didn't feel alone in a storming rain because it hounded you and made you fight.
When it poured, Napoleon was the master at holding his breath. That was how he won. That was how he beat Emperor Alexander, Francis, King Frederick William. He crushed Alvinczy, Kutuzov, Archduke Charles. All of them could not withstand him. The storm drowned them. It always drowned the old and the established. And Napoleon raised the greatest storm Europe had seen in two thousand years.
The Emperor continued to stand there in the slow rain until he was whisked away in another dream.
As the sun sank over the dark, raining battlefield of Dresden, the Emperor sat on a calfskin drum near a fire. His hands were violently shivering. Death kissed him behind his ear - he felt paralyzed. Fortune was bidding him goodbye. His intestines felt frozen stiff. Twenty long years he had been in the stormy rain. He was cold, he was running out of breath, he was drowning now, and the fire seemed to bear no heat. He had won the battle of Dresden against insane odds, but did it matter?
Last year, in this same city, he held the Conference of Dresden. It was the greatest feast that had been thrown since the rule of the great Mongol Khans, an international coalition of grandiose proportions. The Emperor and his Empress were both witnesses when Europe met at Dresden. Austria, Prussia, Poland; Saxony, Bavaria, Wurttemberg; Italy and Naples. Even Spain, if only momentarily, was brought to her knees that month. The Confederation of the Rhine worshiped their protector, the Emperor of the French. The Austrian Emperor recognized him as his own son-in-law. More than ten kings and dozens of princes bowed to the Emperor of the French. Even the new Ottoman Empire begrudgingly gave a symbolic nod by sending their envoys to observe the grand conference. Over half a million soldiers converged to form the greatest, final Coalition under Napoleon. They would declare a war that would bring about the Pax Romana of their era.
"The bottle is opened—the wine must be drunk!"
In 1812, he was the Emperor of Europe. In 1812, he declared war on Russia. In 1812, he would finally master Spain, Russia, Britain, Asia, the world, and emplace himself among the stars.
One year had passed. Now it was 1813. Now, he got off his horse just as the carnage was wrapping up in Dresden, found a dead boy steeping like a bag of tea in the mud, and he had dragged away a drum still attached by a belt to the lifeless body. The child was the drummer of a fusilier company; nameless, young, expendable, only the title of his regiment would be remembered. Saint-Cyr's division, the Emperor recognized.
The Emperor used the boy's drum as a stool. A burning piece of cannon charge served as his hearth.
He remembered the physical games he and his peers at Autun used to play. In those days, as a rail-thin Corsican boy with a scrawny disposition, he often butted heads with his classmates. He got into squabbles and fights. The headmaster took the birch cane to him, as he was always scapegoated for every riot. The worst episode was during one winter when a snowball fight happened in the courtyard. Upon joining the game, Napoleon soon placed himself as captain of the third-graders. Within the next minute he was balling up snow encrusted with gravel stones. "Grapeshot," he humorously thought at that time.
Napoleon still chuckled at the memory. He made enemy students from the other classroom scatter and cry, with one boy catching one of his conglomerate snow-rocks square in the forehead. The headmaster gave him twenty spanks then in the corridor, and he was black with shame.
Napoleon would have it no other way. In a class of boys, he could either choose to be the top dog or the lowly hound. He had already been the hound once. He would have it no other way again. So he was punished. He garnered a naughty reputation. But the way he saw it, every boy needed to take a beating sometime eventually.
Thirty years later, now, crouched on a drum over a burning powder bag in Dresden, with the rain silently dripping down on him, Napoleon thought the same thing as he did as a boy.
The Corsican chewed his teeth inside his cheeks. His lips were quivering, but one thing he would never do is cry. Never! He made a promise. He was taking a beating now, and it was only a matter of time before all the dogs turned on him.
They all hate me! Massena, Davout, Jourdan; Rapp, Reynier and Ney, my Eugene - even Berthier, and all the rest of them, they hate me! I'm not entitled to make a mistake. I'm not entitled to lose. If I lose, that gang will betray me. They could even kill me! I'm the one they have to thank for their fortunes and it's as though they resent me! They feign loyalty, but the only reason they follow me is to amass gold, power, estates and women!
They hate me, and I love nobody. Not even my brothers and sisters. No, perhaps Joseph. From habit, and because he's the oldest. Everyone else behaves like imbeciles! Jerome ruined me in Russia. Lucien wasted his intelligence and fled to America. Elise, Pauline and Carolina - the sisters, three of them were harpies, jealous and poisonous to the extreme.
Can anyone be relied upon? Where are my friends? What about the Duke of Ragusa, Marshal Marmont? He is my friend - where is he? Why isn't he here? What if Marmont hated me too? What will I do then? Marmont is the only one left. Mon Dieu; gratitude is dead!
Napoleon's slew of thoughts went still. There was a sad hollow feeling in his chest. His lip keeps quivering.
Of course, Marmont would betray him too.
Marmont betrayed him the day he surrendered Paris to the Coalition, which finally forced Napoleon to capitulate unconditionally.
That was the day at Fontainebleau.
The day he was summoned away.
Now, nearly all of the Emperor's friends are gone.
Lannes: dead. Junot: dead as well. A month ago, Jean-Andoche Junot left Illyria, tore himself up and committed suicide. Napoleon always knew Junot to be incredibly sensitive, especially after he was smashed in the back of the head at Lonato, long ago, fighting for him; At Smolensk, Napoleon stormed at him cruelly and swore never to give Junot a baton. It was an incident that haunted him forever.
Out of deep regret which he never admitted, until his heartbroken friend killed himself out of despair, Napoleon did not open up to anyone else from that point on.
Dresden continued to rain. The Emperor's heart continued to break. Dreams and memories were strange—you behaved differently, and felt differently. Right now, as he sat there in Dresden, Auguste de Marmont was the Emperor's remaining friend. Marmont had not yet betrayed him or left him then.
The dream was slowly becoming increasingly depressing to the Emperor. Honestly, he hated Germany. He thought Dresden was cursed. He didn't like the bears and the forests here, he didn't understand the language, he didn't know why he vigorously spurned the generous Metternich, who tried so hard to persuade him that abandoning Germany was the sensible course of action. He pretended for a long time to be an Alexandrian liberator, fighting for the German states - no, fighting for Europe. Fighting for these people cost him his friends and his beloved officers and generals. And what did he get in return? Ingratitude! They were mutinous and rebelling against his rule! Imagine making such a sacrifice for people, only to be spat upon. At least, if nothing else was left of Europe, the ever-so loyal Poles were still faithful…
The Emperor sighed.
Geraud-Christophe-Michel Duroc was the most beloved. Why? Duroc is level-headed, resolute, and a good friend, Napoleon thought. Duroc never cried, he thought.
Duroc was gone. Duroc had been gone since three months ago. Napoleon shuddered as the memory washed him over and over again, like a tragic play.
That May, the two-day confrontation at the battle of Baützen was wrapping up. At seven o'clock in the evening of the 22nd, the Grand-Maréchal Geraud-Christophe-Michel Duroc, Duke of Frioul was on a small hill talking with the Duke of Tréviso Marshal Mortier and artillery general Kirgener, all three of them dismounted and out of gunfire range.
One of the last of the enemy's cannonballs ricocheted off a great big elm tree and grazed Marshal Mortier, split open the lower abdomen of the Grand-Maréchal, and killed General Kirgener instantly.
Mortier, stunned, tried to climb on his feet but could not; his hip was numb. He saw the Grand Marshal spilt over, on the grass with both hands over his belly, bathed in blood.
"Geraud!" The marshal crawled over, crying.
The Grand Marshal let out a breath. He gave a pained smile.
"I'm quite alright." Duroc winced. "Help me up."
But he never got up and had to be collected by the nurses on a litter, maimed permanently. The Duke of Frioul immediately sensed that the blow was mortal; he died twelve hours afterwards.
As soon as the posts were placed and the army had taken to their bivouacs, the Emperor went to see the Duke of Frioul. He found him fully conscious and showing the utmost self-control.
The duke took the hand of the Emperor, which he brought to his lips.
"All my life," Duroc said, "All my life has been devoted to your service, and I only regret that, to you, it cannot be of any further service!"
"Duroc," said the Emperor, "in another lifetime! It is there where you will wait for me, and there where we will meet again."
"Yes, Sire, but this will be in 30 years time, when you will have triumphed over your enemies and carried out all the hopes and desires of our homeland. I have lived as an honest man; I have no regrets."
Duroc's lips quivered terribly. For the first time, the Emperor saw tears in his stoic friend's eyes.
"Napoleon," Duroc said softly, "I leave a daughter. Your Majesty will treat her as your own."
Emperor Napoleon, after taking Duroc's hand, stayed a quarter of an hour with Duroc's head resting in his lap amidst the most profound silence.
"Oh, Napoleon! Go! This sight troubles you!" Duroc cried, looking up at the Emperor from His Majesty's lap and was the first to break the silence.
The Emperor, leaning on the Major-General Marshal Berthier and the Grand Equerry Caulaincourt, left Duroc unable to say anything else. Napoleon called in a broken voice: "Farewell, thus, my friend!"
His Majesty pushed out of the tent. Marshal Ney, Saint-Cyr, Mortier, limping with a crutch, and a dejected Prince Murat were all in front of the Emperor. They turned their eyes down, unable to console their Emperor, unable to face him. His Majesty went back to his tent, and received no-one throughout the entire night.
Napoleon tore himself out of his thoughts, away from Bautzen, away from his lost friends, away from the dead boy in the rainy city of Dresden. Two horrific dreams in a row. He snapped back to the present.
As he stood in the black rain, Napoleon's lips held a cold, tragic smile.
All my life my heart desired for a thing which I cannot name.
He remembered the passage from a long-forgotten Roman saint his mother, Madame Letizia Buonaparte had read to him as a child.
What do I want?
What do I think of myself now? Do I detest myself?
Napoleon found himself and his thoughts paralyzed.
Ultimately I have no opinion of myself. I know that a force drives me and nothing can restrain it. I must proceed in spite of myself and the rest of them.
Napoleon sniffed.
The icy sheets of rain bearing down from the stark black skies were beginning to pick up strength. He rubbed his eyes with one hand. In the rain, no one knows whether one wept or not. A stabbing pain in his side was picking up as well, but he ignored the colic.
He closed his eyelids for a long while until he felt numb. Napoleon turned around and walked back to the stern. It was unhealthy for the Emperor to stay in the rain. He went back into the cabin.
Louise was sitting upright on the edge of the bed.
The Emperor looked at her. "You're not asleep?"
"I couldn't lie still," Louise mumbled.
She hunched over and rested her chin on her palms, watching him. Napoleon took off his hat and stripped his dripping coat. He pulled out a handkerchief from his waistcoat and wiped his face dry.
"What were you doing out there, Napoleon?" Louise raised an eyebrow. "You shouldn't be standing out in the rain. It's freezing up here in the skies, and you could get sick…"
"It doesn't matter," the Emperor said quietly.
"It concerns me." Louise sighed. "So you can't sleep as well, huh…"
"In such cases, it is always better than nothing to commit the mind at work. Anyway, I shall try to catch some rest."
"You look sad, Napoleon."
He glanced at her. Napoleon started to smile a little, as if he had just heard something funny. But since Louise looked visibly affected by him, and her lips were pursed anxiously, he sat down listening.
"I'm your friend, Napoleon…"
Napoleon stared at her. Then he smiled sincerely.
"Don't laugh," Louise ordered, her face reddening.
"I'm not."
"Well? What do you think?"
"I don't think so, Louise."
"Don't be such an ass! What do you mean?! you said I was!"
"When?"
"Countless times! Or when you need something and must butter me up to go with your outrageous plans! You said I. Was. Your. Friend!" Louise huffed frustratedly.
"It is an expression of how I feel about you."
"Exactly!" Louise shouted.
Napoleon chuckled. He shrugged.
"But in any way, Louise. I do like you, and appreciate you more than you know. You are my partner. But I don't really have any friends in this world, and you are the only person closest to me."
"Well?"
"If I became your friend, that would ruin this powerful dynamic we have already cultivated between us. I am your partner, your mentor, and that is more than enough."
Louise laughed, incredulous at what she was hearing. "That makes no sense to me!" she protested.
Napoleon was about to say something, but Louise interrupted him. She said, "You're still acting like an emperor, huh."
"Bueno, it is the only thing left of me now," Napoleon quipped dejectedly.
"That's not true," Louise insisted. "You're still Napoleon - the magic-less man I knew since I summoned you that day. And I know how much you hate being called a commoner… but I'm sure at one point in your life, well… you're just like me. Right?"
"Like you?" Napoleon asked. "Like how, Louise? Elaborate."
"Well," Louise began, thinking hard. "You know. Adventurous? Maybe ambitious?" She tried tentatively.
"Indeed, ambition is the mark of a great character," he nodded.
Louise could not help the worrying sense that she was having.
Several long months ago, when Louise met her former professor Jean Colbert upon returning to the Tristain Academy of Magic, she had used the opportunity to clear up a few more questions as well as further master her skills with the Void. She spent a few days training her magic and talking with the professor. One discussion led to another, and Professor Colbert informed her that there were some side-effects she should be aware of that came with the familiar contracts.
Since summoning a human person as a familiar was unprecedented, not even the wise old principal Osmond had any knowledge on what it entailed. But Professor Colbert had an inkling on what it meant, and so he told Louise.
A long time ago, Professor Colbert had a snake familiar that had died; He simply hadn't chosen to summon another one. Mages could choose to summon a different familiar once the sacred contract was broken, either by the death of the familiar or the master, or by deliberately dissolving the contract. This was to ensure that a mage can always have a familiar available at her side.
Some familiars are strong or sophont enough to consciously resist the binding contract, or the Mark of the familiar. Dragon familiars in fact were notorious for being very difficult to master. Therefore, Professor Colbert theorized, it was likely going to be the same for Louise's summon, which happened to be Napoleon.
A human was sophont, more intelligent than a dragon. It would resist, conspire even, and could consciously harbor opinions and prejudices against its master. And intelligent familiars always retained memories of their former lives. Familiars could experience longing, nostalgia, or even an urge to rebel and escape. The familiar contract suppressed much of these emotions, but it could never completely control how a familiar felt about itself.
"Sometimes, you'll have no choice but to simply summon another one."
Her discussion with the professor was cut short as Louise urgently needed to return to Albion at the time due to an alarming development. But Louise wished she had stayed and found out what else Professor Colbert had to say. He had promised to explain more about it.
Louise worried. It was rare to find Napoleon in such a depressive mood. It almost always seemed that way whenever he had nothing to exhaust himself with or when he was away from the chaotic din of battlefields and military reviews. It's like he needs work to distract himself from something, she thought.
She was afraid that Napoleon wanted to leave. Where to, she didn't know, but the certain vibe he was giving off seemed that way. Maybe Napoleon wanted to get away from her. Maybe he would leave her and go back to his world as soon as he had the chance. It frightened Louise. She couldn't lose Napoleon. Her professor warned her that it has happened before with familiars.
Still, she hoped Napoleon wouldn't do that. He wouldn't - partners didn't just abandon each other. She considered him a partner. You didn't simply summon another partner just because the first one was rebellious to boot. She had treated him fairly, and so she expected to receive the same from him.
Napoleon looked at her for a long while. Louise interrupted her train of thoughts.
"To be my friend," he said, "I'm afraid I'll desire nothing but everything of you."
"W-Whaaat?"
Louise was red in the face. She was stunned as if she had been hit. It was unbelievable - sometimes, the way Napoleon spoke ever so bluntly frustrated her to no end! But she saw that her partner remained serious, so she listened very quietly.
Napoleon spoke. "I had a friend once, Louise. Before I was the greatest emperor of my era, I was a nobody. I've said it before. I was made a sous-lieutenant of my artillery regiment upon graduation, true, but still, I had been posted to some mundane deployment that would never see action. For a few years, I took a leave from my regiment to return home to Corsica and re-evaluate my life…
"I returned eventually to my regiment. One day in Valence, as we were practicing with the cannons outside the city, I asked for a sergeant who could write, for my own hand is terrible and given my nature, I preferred to have someone else work as I dictate. A sergeant then made himself present - his name was Jean-Andoche Junot."
Napoleon began to give that rare smile Louise knew she was the only one privy to.
"I said 'write,' and so he did. And as we were firing the cannons a cloud of dirt got blown into his face. He remarked then, 'Excellent, sir! Now I won't have to throw sand on the ink!' It was a little joke, but his humor caught my attention, and the intelligence of our conversation enthralled him, and we became friends. Sergeant Junot became my second best friend, alongside my colleague from the Brienne Academie, named Auguste de Marmont. When it was time for me to leave, Junot stuck, and Marmont insisted on following despite not being allowed a leave of absence.
"So there we were, the three of us in Paris, me without a job, Marmont without any formal permission, and Junot attached as aide-de-camp to an artillery captain, whom nobody wanted to employ! I was twenty-three, Junot was twenty, and Marmont was nineteen!... We were just young men passing our time at the Palais-Royal and at the theatres, flirting with actresses, having very little money and no future."
Louise saw that Napoleon seemed to be smiling sincerely for the first time in a long while. He explained to her that a few months later, they would accidentally join the siege of Toulon. They were originally guarding a convoy on the way to Nice, and he had stopped to say hello to an old mentor politician he was friends with, and before he knew it, one thing led to another.
He continued. The dull look and tone returned to Napoleon's eyes and voice.
"Twenty years later, Junot would die and Marmont would betray me and surrender our capital to the Austro-Russian hegemony. Marmont was the last straw! I believed in trusting the best in people, Louise. You must trust, trust, trust… You must learn to live and let live. Have a little joie de vivre. But I have no more friends by the time I came to this world, Louise."
"I'm… sorry."
Louise breathed. Napoleon frowned and waved her off.
"Don't be. To be honest, I will admit that every now and then I have been extremely cruel and heartless towards people I'm supposed to cherish as friends. I asked too great a many favors from them, I abused their grace, and hurt them. And then there's also our duty to our nation, our people and the empire. Our friendships are conflicting because friendship is an inherently jealous thing. It is envious and passionate, and it wants everything that which you will not be able to give."
"If you are my friend, Louise," Napoleon said quietly, "I must be the most important thing under your eyes, and your heart will be mine. Nothing, save blood, could be compared to me, because I will be your friend, and you will be mine."
"Just like a familiar, then," she whispered.
Napoleon shook his head slowly. "No. A familiar couldn't ask you to burn the world for him. But if I ask you to fight the world with me, you must stand with me and do it with me."
Louise was stunned. She stood still for a while, rubbing her fingers together at her sides. She had every bit the demeanor of a very frightened little girl.
"That's… a little e-excessive, don't you think?!"
Louise stared at her with big eyes. Was Napoleon insane?! Of course, you could not expect any less from a French emperor from another world… but if he was serious…
"It's a figure of speech," Napoleon said blandly, assuring her with a wave of his hand. "French people love to exaggerate, like you wouldn't believe. But I hope the point comes across to you. Now, you know why you shouldn't ask someone to become friends with you out of a whim. Choose your words carefully, Louise Francoise. Say what you mean and mean it. Nothing comes for free, you understand that."
"Ooh, I think you're very twisted, emperor!" Louise said sulkily. "Don't worry, I'll show you. I disagree with that definition. I beg to differ."
"You do? I'm actually glad."
Napoleon gave a pleased look. He felt quite more relieved now, observing Louise Françoise Le Blanc de La Vallière's growing resolve. Young people always cared so much, didn't they? Indeed she still had the heart of every idealistic youth.
…
Compiegne city was once a walled fortress depot. Years of neglect had rendered much of the outer walls irreparably ruined, and poorer people who could not afford to live in the tenements in the inner districts began building plank and mudbrick houses right up to it. At the centre of the city was a granite fortress. Legend has it that it was where a Gallian prince was once held hostage during a hundred-year long war in antiquated times.
Now, the Mad King of Gallia himself was present, and he was standing in the antechamber of the fortress' inside keep. As soon as he had handed over a heavy casket of golden écus to one of the four mage siblings standing eagerly before him, he impatiently shooed them away.
The magenta-haired lady professed her gratitude before she lastly disappeared out the doorway. "Thank you so much, Your Majesty!" she chirped.
King Joseph grunted. He wheeled around and hurriedly marched down into the underground cell room of the keep. The King ran past Jacques de Wardes, who was serving as the king's bodyguard now. Wardes kept his mouth shut as he watched the scene from the corner of his eyes. The captive girl he had pushed into the cell had stared at him for fifteen minutes without fail, with deadly accusative eyes.
"Oh, my niece! My dear niece!"
The King let out a cry which was both excited and sickeningly sweet. He rushed over to the barred cell and fell to his knees, leaning close to peer inside.
Joseph had a twisted, angelic look on his face. His fists and elbows rested on the extremely rusted bars enclosing the open end of the dark cell. Inside was a mage girl with a short Gallian-blue head of hair.
"I missed you so much," he exclaimed. "You haven't been writing back to your uncle! I wrote and I wrote, asking for you, but you did not even send a letter back! I was worried you had gotten yourself hurt or something worse," Joseph smiled. "I asked you to return… Almost twelve months ago. It turns out that you ran away to Tristain. So when I heard that you were coming back, I wanted to welcome you home myself. So welcome home, Charlotte."
Charlotte slowly tilted her head up from her knees. Even in the dimness of her cell, her sky-blue eyes shone as coldly and serene as it always had been.
King Joseph relaxed. "You have the same eyes as your father," he remarked softly. "And you're giving me the same dirty look he had on… well, except you know, it's only half as good because you can't beat the originals right?"
Joseph giggled. He leaned closer into the gap between the rusted bars to squint at her. Charlotte was disarmed. Her sword was hooked on the wall across the room, and her staff was locked away in the old armory. They had stripped her of everything, save the dirtied Tristanian Academy uniform she was wearing. She could fight no more.
"You're my finest Chevalier, Charlotte. You used to be far more capable than the Elemental Siblings. But then again… too much frolicking about has made you weak, hasn't it?
"Don't you remember the last of the labors I've bestowed upon you? I remember the first one, of course… You slew the Hydra of North Parterre, which killed all nineteen students that have already gone and tried to defeat it. And the last one—you journeyed to the Black Forest and purged the vampires plaguing the tribal villages there. Don't you know that Gallia has become known to the Germanian communes there as the protectors of every people? You even saved the 'Winged People', whatever those creatures are. It's been over nine great missions already… I will admit it now, you're a Chevalier, Charlotte."
"Serve me again," Joseph said in a kind voice. He tried to look at her with a beckoning look that attempted no menace. "Serve me as you once have. If not me, then serve your country and your dear people, Charlotte. Fight for Gallia."
Charlotte slowly looked up at her uncle. Her cold, blue eyes gazed icily.
"You want me to serve you. To kill for you. You do not care about Gallia, or our people."
His eyes widened. Slowly, as if he had been spat on in the face, Joseph trembled. This had been the first time in years he had heard his niece speak to him with her full voice.
"HA!" King Joseph laughed. He jumped up, spun and and beamed at a surprised Wardes.
"Look at this kid! Hasn't she wisened up?! Ohh, Charlotte~! If only your mother was conscious now, she would be very proud!" he exclaimed.
Joseph sighed. He returned close to the cell to torment his niece even more, gave a contented kind of grin and leaned his cheek on his palm, gazing at Charlotte as if she was some kind of caged animal.
"You blasted king! Leave the girl alone!"
The sword, Derflinger, wriggled violently from its display on a wall.
"If only your brother were still around, you'd have been a cold piece of crust on a bloody town sidewalk already!" the sword snapped.
"What an annoying sword," Joseph chuckled. "Don't you ever SHUT UP?!" he roared.
The Mad King whipped around and brandished his wand. In the next second there was a deafening explosion, and the room was choked full of smoke. Everyone coughed, the nearby prison guards and Wardes. The king did not.
When the smoke cleared, Wardes saw that the wall was black with soot. The sword remained hooked onto the iron holders on the stone wall, unbroken and unharmed, though the leather scabbard covering the talking sword's blade was completely torn apart.
Derflinger coughed a little.
"So, you're a void mage of course… I've taken a harder beating from confronting an orc's arse than your little magic trick," Derflinger coughed out spitefully.
King Joseph grinned.
"I'll be back," Joseph turned towards Charlotte. He flashed his perfect white teeth in a big contemptuous smile.
"And if you don't submit to me by then, you're gonna regret it so badly, my dear nephew! This is not a threat. Here, have a political lesson from your uncle: Threats are words used to scare people into doing what you want. This is called a promise: I'll have Lord Bidashal here poison you, with the same poison that rendered your mother insane ten years ago, and then maybe I'll kill her. Or you. Who knows? If I can't use you, what else shall I keep you and her for? I cannot leave you alive, as you threaten to cause all of Gallia to revolt against me! But also, you do not want to help me bring glory and prosperity to Gallia. I want you to know that I've loved you, and it pains me, truly, that this is how you've chosen to go about everything! So, my dear nephew, what's left between us?"
Charlotte glared up at him. For the first time, her eyes could not be described as cold. It was glittering, livid like a hot blaze.
Joseph walked away from her cell. Right then, without glancing behind his back, he knew someone had dared enter the cell room.
"Sheffield."
The King spoke quietly. His familiar bowed her head.
"I see you have returned."
Sheffield looked regretful. She opened her mouth, raised her hand slowly to ask for permission to speak, but the king waved her off.
"No need to apologize or explain anything. With that sort of look on your face, I can tell that you haven't been able to convince that faker Bonaparte to give up Fouquet's elven girl."
King Joseph turned his back on her and walked towards the other end of the cell room. Wardes had already noticed something earlier on: he couldn't quite recognize who it was, but in the shadow of the torchlights, there was a silhouette standing and watching everything in the room. The King proceeded to converse secretly with the shrouded figure standing at a dim corner of the room.
Sheffield also watched. Sheffield could only barely make out fragments of the conversation taking place. One thing that she knew was that the figure was an elf. She could sense it. It seemed very serious, whatever the king and the mysterious elf was talking about. Sheffield, being the Mjovitnir, could sense that elf or not, whatever the shrouded figure was, it possessed a massive influence of powerful mana.
Sheffield carefully followed Joseph's voice.
"Yes… we'll have her soon… if you want her turned over… this doubles her value!... No! If you want the girl… being cared for by Mathilde de Sachsen-Gotha… halfblood… say she is also a royal… the Pope says so… then you will give me what I want."
The king seemed to stand straight and brush himself off.
"Very well, Lord Bidashal. We almost have ourselves a deal."
The shrouded figure was suddenly gone, as if it had melted away in a flickering shadow from a torchlight.
King Joseph walked back towards Sheffield. He stood in front of her now, and looked down on her. Sheffield swallowed. He was gazing at her with piercing eyes that seemed to stare through her. Then he spoke, nonchalantly, as if continuing on some kind of tangent of a scandal which he had left on from another moment ago.
"You know… when I slit Lady Molliere's throat," he said, "As I ravished her again and again, I could see the shock in her eyes. Oh, there was the pleasure too, but… then came fear. An emotion so raw, so unadulterated that I could almost taste it, share it. For a moment I wanted to feel what she was feeling. That pleasure, that fear. There was blood and then there's the smell of raw fear. Alas, such things do not move me anymore."
Sheffield merely tilted her head and gave a sympathetic smile.
King Joseph sighed, his sullen eyes empty once more. "Nothing moves me, Sheffield. Why is it that even you do not understand? Not power, not sex, not even death. And I know, because… I've tried again and again. I've tried being a good king, a bad king, a mad king. All I ever wanted was to feel something, even if it means watching the whole world burn to the ground. I'm the king now. People adore me, don't they? So why do I still feel so empty? Is it because this is all a pretentious illusion? I do not understand why the most miserable urchin in even this filthy city learns to laugh and finds an opportunity to play! Play! How can a mere beggar's child find happiness, while I, the king, have everything and yet still am satisfied by nothing?!"
Sheffield reached out with her hand to touch him, but the king recoiled from her like a snake.
"Enough, familiar. Do you think I am deliberately playing dumb with your advances? Get a hint, woman," Joseph said in an ugly voice, and cackled to himself. "I don't like you. As a matter of fact, I have no opinions about anything. If I were sure that nothing on earth can change this emptiness in my heart, I would have blown my brains out long ago."
The king sighed.
"Well, tell me to my ear what it is you have to say!"
Sheffield did so at once. King Joseph remained still as stone until Sheffield broke away from his ear.
"He said that?" The king mumbled. "He really said that? Good god!..."
The king began to pace across the floor.
Joseph began to smile viciously.
"I said that it's as if nothing can change this emptiness I feel, haven't I just now? But him… This may just change everything. He may have the answer I've been longing for. He may have everything I want."
He stopped.
"Oh, Napoleon, Napoleon, Napoleon! What are you planning to do next?!..."
The Mad King stormed off, leaving his familiar alone while laughing jubilantly to himself. Sheffield could only watch, a frown drawn on her pale face, beneath which lied her breaking emotion. No matter how loyally or faithfully she served her master, he spurned her again, and again, and again. He called her a familiar as if it was something below the level of an insect. What would it take to make someone begin to love you? What will it take to make the Mad King feel?
.
.