Before awakening, Ophelia suffered another migraine, the fifth this month in fact. Perhaps it was some injury she obtained from her fighting, or maybe it was the weather, or some other humor related diagnosis a few of her friends told her. Either way, the migraines felt worse and worse, to the point she felt as if she lived with headaches and migraines constantly nowadays. Even her dark room would not offer peace from her wife, Verona, continuing to plague her existence with questions about whether she needed food and water or company, or her brother Gallus asking whether she was able to move, or Catherine, or Tarquinius, or Robard, or Bellatrix, or the other thousand people it seemed to be at the estate. She prayed to the Spirit that she might be in peace this night.
Ophelia could tell by the sound of walking it was Verona going to check on her again. Ophelia could not stand the presence of Verona sometimes. In truth, she could not manage to stand anyone's presence, but it seemed Verona's vexed her the most. On her wedding day, Ophelia dreamed of her only love, Stanley Carwell, would ride on her a horse and become her husband. She instead married the last person she would have thought of marrying. It was a blessing in a way. She could never stand the sight of men as much as women besides Tarquinius and Thomas after her love's death, but even so, she wished Verona would not trouble her.
She won't trouble me. I know she won't. That is my fault however. Ophelia thought to herself after she remembered what had happened before she fell asleep. Verona walked in to talk with Ophelia as was their routine, but Verona vexed her more than usual. Ophelia started to curse at her wife and say words she dare not remember. All she could remember was Verona's tears as she ran out of the room. She will not forget. Verona never forgets what I say, I know it. I am monster, aren't I? All she has been doing is to help me. You are a monster, Ophelia Tyrannian. It was nothing new, really. She treated everyone poorly as her life went on. She never knew why, and tried to fight these new feelings she had about people, but it was no use. She did not stop these feelings anymore. All of hate was in her constantly.
If it was not Verona, who was it then? The knocking on the door caused the throbbing in her head to intensify. "Who is it?" Ophelia asked to the person behind the door. A response came, "It is Gottfried. I heard from Verona about you. I want to come in."
Ophelia opened the door to her uncle, Father Gottfried. The man had deep cold eyes that pierced through her and messy black hair unlike the rest of the Tyrannians. He was an odd creature, Gottfried. Ophelia could never tell what his mood was, as the man was often described as bipolar by anyone he would meet.
"Verona said you called her some words no true Unionist would call their spouse. No- do not deny it. Verona does not lie. What is the reasoning?" Gottfried stated. His voice was emotionless, clearly an attempt to mimic his nephew's, Gallus Tyrannian.
Ophelia nodded slowly, rubbing her forehead with her left arm, replying, "My migraines, uncle. They are worsening, I fear. I barely can think to myself anymore without feeling pain." She rubbed her forehead again in attempt to make it seem more of a valid reason, though retracting her hand soon after due to her feeling guilty about the lie.
"And that is a reason for cursing your wife, your blood, so wrongly?" Gottfried said.
Ophelia Tyrannian rushed her response, "It is not a reason- but I just- I cannot deal with this pain anymore Uncle. It is unbearable. Every day now I feel a throbbing in my head and I want to be left alone. All I want, and yet, Verona continues to pester- not pester- Uncle, you understand, surely?"
Gottfried took a long stare through the door, seeing the room amess with glasses of water all on the desk across from him. His response was more careful."I do not understand, niece. Ophelia, we all have problems. Some more than others. That does not stop you from treating your wife respectfully. She is your blood, your family. Treating a head swelling as an excuse to demean her is a laughable excuse. I expect more from you, especially. You have been turning more-"
"I am sorry-" Ophelia interrupted before Gottfried continued, waving his hand at her.
"You have been turning more into someone who uses excuses. You are a knight, of all people. Ehren is taught into you, modelled into you. You may think migraines are an excuse, but they are not. Verona was acting with love when she was there for you, even if you thought she was being a 'pest'." Gottfried stared down into her eyes. She felt a warmth instead of the cold she was used to.
Gottfried continued once again, "This speech is not solely because of Verona. I have noticed a behavior in you that is saddening. People do not take responsibility for their behavior. They push it off as new cultural norm. Not you niece, you mustn't. Ophelia, there will be days when you have to choose to do good, and choose to do bad. Good actions mean a good person. Remember this. Treat Verona kindly. I expect it from you, because one day the Spirit will need you, and you will need to choose righteousness. Again, Ophelia, we all have problems, and I expect you to not let your head swelling affect your relationship with Verona."
Before Ophelia could respond, her head began to throb and Gottfried left without a follow-up. Ophelia went to lay down and thought of Verona. She looked briefly to the water glasses. Verona may not be who I wanted, but she is who I got. I owe her my thanks, even if I do not love her. I will apologize to her in the morning. That makes me a good person, right? Apologizing? With my migraines, and my excuses? Ophelia slept through the night, dreaming of Verona.
Gottfried walked out of the estate, through the garden. The night was dark, more so than Ophelia's room she hid in from the Sun. When he walked, he could hear them speak more and more, a deafening sound. The voices told him to check corners of his vision, that what he was doing was right, that the group would betray him, that the Emperor was right. The voices kept coming and coming. He eventually saw the route he took to find the fire. He always remembered the route. He took the same route every time to the fire. He traced his previous footsteps and as followed it.
As he approached the bonfire, he could see the group huddled around it with his chapel looming behind it. He saw all kinds of men. Men of the stallions, wounded sparrows, sickles, jackals, dredgers, eyes, suns, and men who lacked any symbol of their own.
Two men stood up, a tanned man with short black hair and a fair skinned man with black hair and a red cape. The tanned man stood tall, a sword at his side with a frown on his face. It was the fair skinned man who spoke first.
"So, what will He have of us?"
Gottfried listened to the voices.
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