fffA cacophony of slurred words and muffled utters emerged from down the dim hallway, voices bouncing off of stone walls and catching the ears of no one, as such was vacant as vacant can be. Emptiness was the decoration here, and warm bodies, servants, and people were evicted by a owner with diametrically different tastes in decorating. Rather than a grandiose hallway like the ones of the Loiree river palaces, this one was small, cramped, and lonely. Save for some voices, one would imagine the place was abandoned, what with its upturned tables and strewn about trinkets. A lone reverend made his way down this long, narrow, choking tunnel of a hallway, his robes seeming to never catch on any of the mess upon the floor, but rather flowing as water over rocks with each step. The third doorway on the right, this wooden, unmentionable door was perhaps the real irony of the current era. Unnoticeable and unremarkable in every way was this wooden, iron hinged object, probably having had been installed by a low-class peasant artisan generations ago. But it was important to one man, the man whose voice had such an attraction to carrying and bouncing along granite and stone.
fffWhen the reverend opened the door, without even as much as a warning knock, a pacing man of darker attire stepped around the room. He possessed that stalking posture of a bird of prey, gloved hands barely visible underneath heavy robes clasped behind his back, shaking very subtly as if this man could never shake a chill only he could feel. A glint of firelight would catch on the man's face every so often, but the orange glow was not ricocheting off of flesh, but metal instead. This man was masked, with a golden crown fashioned to resemble laurels tightly beset atop his hooded head. Royalty was an aroma on him, nobility and privilege and vestiges of power leaked out of his very essence, but a pungent sadness stunk about him as well, fouling the visage the reverend could see. It was something many could pick up from the masked man, he carried death with him like a pilgrim of St. Agatha totes a bag, holding it close to him, afraid of life without this looming fear. His talking quieted upon noticing the reverend, sunken and irritated eyes of cold blue finding the holy clergyman. The sockets were foul, irritated and an angry red that looked locked in purgatory between burned and scarred. These eyes were cursed, and emotions of sadness dripped as dry tears from them as the two moved to converse.
"Your Majes--"
fffCut off, immediately, not allowed a word in edgewise before the masked man interrupted.
"Is it time for treatment already. I'm skipping today's, far too busy."
"May I ask with what, my King?"
"Why you call me that is beyond me."
"Because you are my king."
fffSilence.
"This is the third treatment you've skipped my lord… Would it be--"
"It's over, Reverend. I feel the end. My mind is away from these matters now."
"Since when were you the quitting type?"
"I'm tired of fighting this battle. I had hoped for longer. A few years, maybe, get things right. But plans change."
"What plans? My lord, what are you inten--"
"My death will destablize the country again. We need someone better than Jean-Luc. Talent, experience, it's irrelevant. The Hinterlands needs something fresh, alive, and optimistic. Not more of the same."
"Your mind is already on the succession? My lord, if we buckle down, surely we can get a few more years out of this. You can't be se--"
"I'm done. It's over."
"Who then, sire. If you're so certain."
fffA good question. The masked man truly dug deep for an answer, as he'd been for hours now. His prolonged silence permeating the room was an unspoken command for the Reverend, though, who ended up vacating the premises after the wordless order was issued. The room went quiet once more, the crackling of fire spitting and burning wooden logs filling the ears of the masked man. Now alone again, he reveled in just how tired he was. Standing was awful, he could feel weakness in his knees once more now that he was focused back on his thoughts, and the constant feeling of his lesioned skin making friction with his clothing returned. He needed to sit, he needed to sit. But there was too much to think about, too much at stake. If he couldn't mend the Hinterlands in life, he would do so in death. But who?
fffIt was at the moment, the masked King noticed a ginger-haired knight standing at the doorway. He was handsome, old and weathered, with a still-youthful burning in his eyes despite apparent age. Viridian colours hugged his cloak and the plume atop the helmet he held under his arm. The leper's robes flicked against the air as its owner turned this way and that, discovering new faces appearing one after the other. A young, fire-haired general was sitting at one of the chairs, and the sight itself was appalling. The juxtaposition was enough to make the leper's head spin. This regal general was dressed in Hinterlandic armour, decked with honours of war and service, but the most notable feature was the simple fact his head was not on his body, but rather resting on his own lap. Turning around, the King looked to the fireplace, seeing a grisly, spindly man before it, knelt at prayer. His grey-ginger hair reached down to his own waist, fingernails caked with dirt and long past due for a trim, and surrounded by books of theology and study. More men appeared. A young boy, scared and thin, with brilliant blonde hair and dressed like that of the richest revains. So much sadness was in his eyes, and death hugged him just as it did the Leper King. Off near the bookshelves, a stern man of apparently high culture was weighing two things on a scale. One a sword, the other what appeared to be a pen. Equally balanced was the scale, and the stern ginger Revain's face looked satisfied with his work, and jotted it down.
fffMany more men and boys appeared over time, all great Hinterlandish Revains of the past, all either ignoring the leper, or watching him with sad, expecting eyes. The masked man sat down upon the nearest chair. While his face was covered, there was an unmistakable fear in his eyes, his blue eyes telling the tale of a madman who shouts of spotting ghosts. He was wordless, startled, and intrigued, all at the same time, and slowly coming to a profound realization.
"I beg you. Lend me your years, your wisdom. Tell me what it is I must know to make the right choice, before it is too late for me."
The men and boys looked around at each other, saying nothing at all.
fffThe young boy, not seeming to be older than ten, was playing rather disinterestedly with the dagger so startlingly lodged into his heart cavity. He spoke up, sad and emotionless.
"Not me, for I am too young, and too oblivious. I would miss all, and react to little."
ffffAn elderly man, far past his use in his age, stepped forward. He was decked in purple and red garb, looking exceedingly extravagant with various medals and honours pinned to his sash.
"Not me, for I am too old, and too predictable. I would wish for unchanging, and not innovate."
fffThe Leper king thought on this for a while. All eyes were on him as he pondered this rudimentary and riddle-like advice, before being roused by the words of another. This one was eccentric, with an almost fox-like appearance in facial hair and sharp features. He procured a money bag, and singular silkworm from thin air, holding each in different hands as he held them out in his palms.
"Sometimes, the most bizarre ideas, yield the most results."
fffThe Leper leaned back in his chair, looking to the next man to step forward. This one was too recognizable for him, but the man would not shame himself by shedding any tears. The Viridian from before stood tall and proud, but betrayed himself with sad, pitying eyes, and spoke strongly to the masked man.
"You were robbed of a lifetime, son. But you can make the pain you caused to others count. Look to those who only wished for happiness, not harm. The greatest wisdom I can impart upon you, is the one I learned from, and you must too. In learning from our mistakes, we must confide in the people who would never repeat them, but do it better than we could."
fffEvery eye in the room was on him now. What did they expect, the leper wondered. This masked man was tired, sick, and worst yet, ready to die. He knew the terms, it likely would be the last night on this beautiful land for him, and he'd come to be alright with that. "Is it too late? Can I make the right choice for my people, just this once?" He'd spent hours working on a formalized will, which rested gracefully upon the long table in front of him now. White-gloved hands picked up the parchment, inspecting his own words scrawled over it.
"...And so I formally submit to Pro Tempore Constance Rosamund Ravenstad, and the entire Elder Council, my nomination of Jean-Luc Ravenstad as my heir of body and mind. Upon my death, all I own will pass to him, and he will be tasked with the charges of defending the Leutz people…"
fffXavier thinks he knows what to do now. The night grew on, darkened, and blackened outside. And like a flickering candle, the Leper King had one last light to cast on the world as he wrote new ink upon the paper, replacing what was there before, before he was permanently snuffed out. And when he folded up the parchment, and retreated to his chambers with the help of Ser Robert Vaardenwood, he was finally at peace. All would be well, this was the right choice. Nobody would understand. They would maybe call him a madman. But in time, he knew, people would see the merit in the choice. All would be okay. As the dying leper laid down in his bed, exhaling sheepishly, he briefly saw the first drops of rain splash against the large window ahead of him.
"This would be a good time to go, I think." - He thought, and his blue eyes finally closed. The death that clung to him so often now didn't feel so apparent. There was just peace, and hope, for perhaps the first time in a long time.
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