Al-Duhaba, Gragastavia
Covered with only a thin muslin burial shroud, the earthly remains of what was once inhabited by King Friedrich VII of Gragastavia were illuminated by a faint light casting through a small circular window near the rear of the temple. Underneath, his fingers clutched a small silver dagger with gemstones encrusted in the hilt and crossguard that he held vertically on his chest, a piece that would become his personal relic as he was venerated into sainthood, and the one item he would carry with him to present to Polatilus upon entering the afterlife. Huddled around his body were seven Polatilian clerics, recognizable from their gold-embellished vestments and their characteristic white hoods, as well because they were the only ones in the temple who were not wearing their traditional white robes of mourning. They hummed prayers in a hushed tone and marched counterclockwise around the dead king’s body, each of them holding a holy relic over him as they did, in hopes that they might cleanse the impurities in his aura before he ascended.
Set back from this procession on a pedestal overlooking the entire temple and congregation, the prelate - second in the faith to only King Friedrich himself - read another set of prayers aloud, although he did not speak with any measure of power, as the words were not meant to echo through the temple.
Although the temple was built to hold over two-thousand people, the congregation consisted of fewer than a hundred. Before his body was to lie in state, the prelate had recommended a private ceremony for the consecration. Each of them had already been up and to pay their respects, and now, as the attention of the ceremony was turning from earthly affairs to divine affairs, a few mingled, albeit quietly, on the temple floor. Family members, close colleagues and advisors, and some high-ranking clerics that had been invited to attend exchanged memories of the late king, condolences for the loss that they all shared, but there was still a tone of hope and relief among them, as the man who had led their nation through some of its most tumultuous years would finally know peace and be relieved of the pain that had haunted him in his last months of life.
The king had been in complete decline for months by then, and he had been in and out of the hospital for almost three years. The scorns of leadership had certainly taken their toll on his almost skeletal body, but it was a stroke that ultimately killed him. The doctors said that he died immediately, and that he passed peacefully in his sleep, but one of the palace staff that had discovered his body reported to the media that it looked as if he had been struggling against his bedsheets and that he had a contorted look on his face. A report of that nature instantly led to speculation among the tabloids and the darker corners of the government that there had been an intruder, though there was no corroborating evidence. If the king’s death was truly an assassination, though, there was only one man who would benefit: his nephew, Siegfried.
For the first time in Gragastavian history since the Great Revolution, a woman had been made heir to the throne, and this led to upheaval both in the royal family and the Polatilian clergy. Precedent dictated that the king held both the Gragastavian throne and the Grand Patriarchy of the Polatilian Faith, the latter an office that was exclusive to women and non-clerics, of which Josephine, Friedrich’s granddaughter, was both. Siegfried, however, was male and an ordained chaplain at that, and was thought by many to be the obvious choice for ascension to the throne.
The nomination of his successor was Friedrich’s final act as king, and the news of his decision came hot on the heels of the news of his death. Neither Josephine nor Siegfried had spoken prior to the funeral, but as Siegfried slid behind Josephine, he made his position very clear. In a very terse tone of voice, he whispered to her, “I hope you don’t plan to press your claim.”
Keeping her attention fixed on the prelate, she replied, “It’s what His Eminence decreed.”
“His late Eminence.”
Pleased that he had hit a sore spot, considering Josephine’s limited response, Siegfried continued. “Regardless of his decree, you know as well as I do that I am the rightful king. I trust that you’re not naive enough to realize that unlike you, I am in a much better position to put myself on the throne than you are.”
“I will abide by the wishes of our king.” She turned around to look into Siegfried’s haggard face. “The people are with me, and you’re not the king yet.”
“And neither are you,” Siegfried said. “A lot can happen between here and the throne room.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No,” Siegfried said, smirking. “The people are fickle. Very few of them have any real loyalty, and they will always choose the winner. I recommend you play your cards right.”
Josephine watched as Siegfried merged with the rest of the crowd. She knew that he was absolutely right: all things considered, there really was no chance for her to assume the throne. She had the law on her side, but Siegfried had the army. And historically, the side with the more guns usually wins. If President Al-Farsi sided with her, and there was no doubt in Josephine’s mind that she would, then the army would be even further divided than it already was with the civil war.
Josephine rolled her eyes as she half-heartedly watched the prelate. The Gragastavian Regular Army, she thought, Why fight our enemies when we can fight ourselves?
Her thoughts were not far from the truth. The army was one crisis away from crumbling in on itself, and this conflict would severely weaken the fragile stalemate at the front, and maybe even give the South Gragastavians the upper hand. Years of fighting, corrupt and inept leadership, supply problems, and pay backlogs had haunted the army since the outbreak of the war, and well before it. Even Josephine, a captain in the air force, was still owed three months’ back pay before she was put on permanent leave when she had been named for succession. Amid these difficulties in administration, however, Siegfried rose to prominence.
While initially commissioned as a chaplain, Siegfried was transferred (at this request) to infantry command when the Falko-Gragastavian War broke. He distinguished himself in combat and was fast-tracked for a generalship after the war when many of the army’s senior leadership were purged for their affiliation with the Hassanites. Now in charge of his own division, Siegfried became one of the most popular commanders in the entire Gragastavian Regular Army, often using money from his own pocket to pay his men when the normal payroll was backed up. Siegfried’s division had become one of the most effective in the entire army, earning a reputation for aggression in the early days of the conflict, being the last unit to withdraw from South Gragastavia.
By all accounts, Josephine was in over her head, and she knew it. If she stood aside, she would be violating her grandfather’s - and her late father’s - wishes, but if she decided to press her claim, she would plunge the country deeper into its current quagmire.
“In life so as in death shall we be freed from our perils. Our lives are neither ours to give nor ours to keep. In truth, in faith, in triumph, in anguish, in life and in death, there is no more for us than what we are lent, and what we can know is only that which must be known,” the prelate announced to the congregation of mourners. “As Polatilus wills, then so shall it be done.”
“As Polatilus wills, then so shall it be done,” the congregation repeated in unison, before bowing their heads and quietly shuffling out into the sun.
