I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty;
I woke, and found that life was Duty.
- Ellen Sturgis Hooper
Cornelius Comstock had never been a talkative man, never one for easy courtesies and polite conversation. He said what he had to say, bluntly and honestly, but when he was done, he kept quiet. He didn't talk for the sake of talking, but Abel never minded the silence between them. There was something comfortable, almost intimate about the evenings they spent together. They would often share dinner, talking about the matters of state, but as the evening grew longer and darker, the words became fewer, and they often spent hours just sitting together, sometimes over a glass of wine that Cornelius so rarely indulged in, but more often not.
Cornelius was staring into his empty glass, lost in his thoughts, but Abel's presence did not seem to bother him. Abel took the opportunity to study his elder brother, the features he’d come to know so well. Life had not been kind to Cornelius, he looked older than his fifty-three years. He had always been solemn and serious, even more so after his wife had died. Back then his face had been gaunt from fasting and grief, but now it was deeply lined with bitterness and worries, even more so than a man his age. When Abel had learned that Cornelius was to be named heir apparent, he had expected that the news would bring smiles to Cornelius’ face, light into his eyes. But this acknowledgement had, if anything, been more cruel to him than obscurity: Their father's ingratitude was a constant source of humiliation, and his beloved friends were growing into strangers.
A blind man could see how much Cornelius hated his Kingship, the court, the nobles, the schemers and flatterers, and Abel could not help but admire the determination with which Cornelius ignored his own desires and steadfastly did his duty to a realm who practically hated him. Abel was sure that Cornelius wished his older brother had lived, despite the bastard of a King he would have become. In the end choices were not really choices at all. A mirage at best. He had not been forced onto the throne, but the notion that he might have refused it was preposterous.
Suddenly he felt Cornelius looking at him, that piercing gaze out of eyes as deep and blue and intense as the sea.
“It's growing late” Cornelius stated matter of factly.
That was his own peculiar way of telling Abel it was time to retire for the night. But it was true, and Cornelius had a long ride ahead of him tomorrow. A nearby petty warlord had sent a messenger telling of his coming to Hudsonia. The message had spoken of peace, but Cornelius was a careful man, and the border lords had been called to arms. The Hudsonian host would meet the Punxsutawney host on the very edge of Hudsonia’s borders.
“So it is” Abel said in reply. He stood and made his way to the door.
“May God be with you, brother” Abel said in parting. Cornelius nodded several times, but made no reply. And with that, Abel stepped out the door to return to his own quarters.
In Good Company
Cornelius held a very different view of America than most. He likened it to a terminal patient on life support, with no hope of recovery. What was once the grandest of nations on earth, rivaling even the likes of Rome and the Mongols, was now a fractured expanse littered with the ruins of steel skyscrapers and a sad menagerie of survivors who called them home. King Cornelius, ruler of everything the eyes could see looked out upon his realm and lamented that it'd forged him into the man he was today. More than a decade had elapsed since he’d irrevocably been changed, and yet so little had changed in the backwater that stretched out before him.
Cornelius had long since left behind his capital of Albany. He’d left his capable, if inexperienced son in charge of things. It was a test of the man, if nothing else. It was always good to have capable men that were also loyal, but rarely did those two things coincide. Any number of men had tried to test Cornelius in the past, especially when he first ascended the throne, but each of them had failed in their endeavors.
And now, on this most blessed day he sat across the table from a man who also came to test him. Perhaps not in the same way as other men in the past, but that was his purpose nonetheless. And yet, Cornelius wasn’t particularly impressed with his new adversary. King Koser had given little notice of his impending arrival. Implying a marriage between one of Cornelius’s own flesh and blood and some backwater Princess. He had no doubts that hundreds of rumors were being spread in every corner of his realm, but It still was an intriguing proposal Cornelius had to admit. He’d been furious when he’d first been given word of Koser’s trespasses, but the days in the countryside since then had subdued his distaste. Koser may not have been well versed in courtly etiquette, yet ignorance was no excuse.
Seated within a pavilion across the table from the interloper, Cornelius regarded Koser for a few moments, his face impassive. The King had long since learned to hide his emotions, giving an opponent any edge was unforgivable to Cornelius. Finally, Cornelius spoke,
“I hear you have a proposal, Your Majesty.”
A Crown of Ashes
Thud.A corpse, wicked arrows protruding from it’s lifeless back, struck the cobblestone floor. The doors to the great hall lay broken on their hinges. Their great oaken frames shattered. Dark figures entered, with all the grace of a feline, directly towards the King’s own chambers. The alarm had been sounded, but they would be too late to be of any help now.
The King of Deitscherei was old, but certainly not weak. As the darkly clad figures mounted the stairs that led to the Royal apartments a blood curdling war cry resounded throughout the scantily lit hall as Abram, the seventh of his name, Lengacher rushed around a corner towards the dark assailants. He was flanked by a handful of Deitscherei’s finest swordsmen. Abram’s mind almost unconsciously recognized its cue just as the familiar hiss of a blade shot through the air at him. With the robotic precision of a finely tuned machine, Abram’s own saber came to his defense, rising effortlessly to intercept the steel that would have meant death, ricocheted harmlessly off his own blade. In the next instant, Abram brought his saber to bear on the would be assassin
Abram came crashing in on the next hired blade, like a meteor streaking through the atmosphere. His saber clutched firmly in a two handed death grip, the lustrous blade came from left to right in a vicious streak of polished steel aimed at the killer’s midsection. In that one fluid motion the saber made a clean cut through his opponent’s belly.
He shifted his gaze, looking for his next enemy. To his dismay he saw that his best swordsmen hadn’t survived the onslaught. Two assassins remained.
“Very well” Abram said,
“I can kill two of you just as easily as one.” The two figures began to close the distance. Abram readied his sword and repositioned himself into a defensive posture. Time wasn’t on their side, but like trained professionals they stalked closer to him carefully, all too aware of what had become of their comrades. They got within a dozen feet of Abram, and through some non verbal cue, they lunged at almost the same instant. He would take at least one more of these bastards if he was to meet his maker tonight. The King let out one final warcry as he surged forward to meet them.