Post by Jacques de Layne on Jun 23, 2011 0:23:39 GMT -5
The estate ran smoothly. Then again, when did it not? For fifteen years I'd been involved in its administration, developing relationships with farmers and hunters, establishing systems to prevent poaching and theft, to increase the harvest's efficiency. I worked hard. Riding along the estate's roads from one end to the other, I was harsh, but fair in settling disagreements and negotiating compromises, all in my brother's name.
And that was all that made me miserable. All in my brother's name. All I did was under Marcel's seal. My birthright, taken from me to throw him to the highest responsibilities. My little brother, the irresponsible prat who'd fallen for our stepmother. The drunkard. His dissolute ways had earned him the throne while my hard work had earned me a stewardship which I hated more and more every day.
I loved the people, and I loved their land. I would have shed my own blood to keep it safe, but I was unable to look at any of it further without feeling the bitter taste of anger in my mouth. I woke up grumpy, broke my fast with little taste, worked with a sour face and went to bed angry every day. No maiden made me smile any longer, nor did the stout peasants in the fields, or their hard work, or even the growingly solid numbers of our wealth.
And yet the war was almost a relief, as well. I called forth all men of battle age, exhorting them to follow the call of duty. It made my heart bleed, and part of me feared that Marcel's warlike past had caught up to him, that he was going to war in anger, or out of boredom. I didn't trust him not to do such a thing, not when he'd set our own family asunder so selfishly. And yet duty was duty, and the King had set the drums of war in motion. There was nothing else to do, but obey, regardless of my own opinions. (Had they ever mattered to anyone? I didn't think so.)
They came, the serfs and common folk and artisans, they came and they listened, and Eisande was close enough to the border for some to choose to defend our land. Some stayed to that effect, others travelled to Marsilikos to join the naval effort, and some, again, would sail with me to the City of Elua, to join their forces to those who went to Camlach. Those who did not ride, or sail, those who did not care were left in peace. There was no draft to enact – that alone was odd to me.
I would have sooner ridden. There was something liberating about the gallop of a horse, the frantic effort of a steed, and I took pleasure in the wind that gave me air, I who had felt so very unable to breathe, this past year.
The estate left in my assistant's capable hand, I set my eyes north, a letter in hand for my brother the King, to tell him what I thought of all this, to demand reparations, and to resign from my duty as his steward. I could no longer be his servant. It all grated with who I was, deep down, I, the Comte de Layne by birthright, I, who knew how to rule with more practicality than any soldier could.
As the ship started its flight north, I predicted the aftermath of our interview. If all else failed, I would resign and go to Camlach. I was tired. I was tired of this life, tired of being taunted on a daily basis with what should have been mine by right. I was tired of feeling that all I ever did, or ever was, amounted to nothing ultimately. I was tired of feeling unworthy when I knew it was not so.
Looking at the wind-filled sail, it occurred to me that I didn't care if I died. In fact, I wished for it, somewhere inside, wished for deliverance from a fate which I deemed unfair, and in which I'd found no true reason to live. I was expendable, that had been made clear to me by our father himself, and likely, I was expendable to Marcel as well, nothing more than a pawn on his giant chess game.
The only thing I feared to incur was infamy, and so I would beg leave to resign from the King, and enlist, and go die in battle. It would end it all, at last, and I'd follow the trail on which our father had set us, taking for myself the death which Marcel might have earned. The irony seemed fitting enough, and I accepted it.
The sun was setting, and I was calmer, though my eyes stung. I stared west into the play of oranges, reds and fuchsia which marred the sky like our battlefields would soon be ripe with blood. Alone at the prow, I sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted with it all. My heart ached with something more, and for a time, I couldn't have told why.
As night fell on Terre d'Ange and on the Eisande, and stars started populating darkness, a truth came to me. Regardless of everything, regardless my resentment, anger and disapproval, bonds of the blood were stronger than hurt, and Marcel was my brother.
Dying in his stead was an acceptable death. Heh. Maybe he'd make me a hero post mortem.
I didn't count on it.
And that was all that made me miserable. All in my brother's name. All I did was under Marcel's seal. My birthright, taken from me to throw him to the highest responsibilities. My little brother, the irresponsible prat who'd fallen for our stepmother. The drunkard. His dissolute ways had earned him the throne while my hard work had earned me a stewardship which I hated more and more every day.
I loved the people, and I loved their land. I would have shed my own blood to keep it safe, but I was unable to look at any of it further without feeling the bitter taste of anger in my mouth. I woke up grumpy, broke my fast with little taste, worked with a sour face and went to bed angry every day. No maiden made me smile any longer, nor did the stout peasants in the fields, or their hard work, or even the growingly solid numbers of our wealth.
And yet the war was almost a relief, as well. I called forth all men of battle age, exhorting them to follow the call of duty. It made my heart bleed, and part of me feared that Marcel's warlike past had caught up to him, that he was going to war in anger, or out of boredom. I didn't trust him not to do such a thing, not when he'd set our own family asunder so selfishly. And yet duty was duty, and the King had set the drums of war in motion. There was nothing else to do, but obey, regardless of my own opinions. (Had they ever mattered to anyone? I didn't think so.)
They came, the serfs and common folk and artisans, they came and they listened, and Eisande was close enough to the border for some to choose to defend our land. Some stayed to that effect, others travelled to Marsilikos to join the naval effort, and some, again, would sail with me to the City of Elua, to join their forces to those who went to Camlach. Those who did not ride, or sail, those who did not care were left in peace. There was no draft to enact – that alone was odd to me.
I would have sooner ridden. There was something liberating about the gallop of a horse, the frantic effort of a steed, and I took pleasure in the wind that gave me air, I who had felt so very unable to breathe, this past year.
The estate left in my assistant's capable hand, I set my eyes north, a letter in hand for my brother the King, to tell him what I thought of all this, to demand reparations, and to resign from my duty as his steward. I could no longer be his servant. It all grated with who I was, deep down, I, the Comte de Layne by birthright, I, who knew how to rule with more practicality than any soldier could.
As the ship started its flight north, I predicted the aftermath of our interview. If all else failed, I would resign and go to Camlach. I was tired. I was tired of this life, tired of being taunted on a daily basis with what should have been mine by right. I was tired of feeling that all I ever did, or ever was, amounted to nothing ultimately. I was tired of feeling unworthy when I knew it was not so.
Looking at the wind-filled sail, it occurred to me that I didn't care if I died. In fact, I wished for it, somewhere inside, wished for deliverance from a fate which I deemed unfair, and in which I'd found no true reason to live. I was expendable, that had been made clear to me by our father himself, and likely, I was expendable to Marcel as well, nothing more than a pawn on his giant chess game.
The only thing I feared to incur was infamy, and so I would beg leave to resign from the King, and enlist, and go die in battle. It would end it all, at last, and I'd follow the trail on which our father had set us, taking for myself the death which Marcel might have earned. The irony seemed fitting enough, and I accepted it.
The sun was setting, and I was calmer, though my eyes stung. I stared west into the play of oranges, reds and fuchsia which marred the sky like our battlefields would soon be ripe with blood. Alone at the prow, I sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted with it all. My heart ached with something more, and for a time, I couldn't have told why.
As night fell on Terre d'Ange and on the Eisande, and stars started populating darkness, a truth came to me. Regardless of everything, regardless my resentment, anger and disapproval, bonds of the blood were stronger than hurt, and Marcel was my brother.
Dying in his stead was an acceptable death. Heh. Maybe he'd make me a hero post mortem.
I didn't count on it.