The halls were dark. The torches had been snuffed out hours ago and none had come to light them. Only the wind whistled through the cracks in the castle's window panes, its mournful cry the only sound—at first. Any that continued into the gloom would soon hear the heaviness of labored breathing and muffled cries. Down, down, down the hallway, the breeze would drift, carrying with it the scents of the outside world: that of spring, of the market, of the stillness before war.
Within the king's chamber, Daphne cried. She sat beside her husband, a cracked bowl of water beside her along with a small heap of moss. As if a part of broken clockwork, she would soak a ball of moss, press it to her husband's forehead, dab a couple of times, see him fail to get better, then sob again. No matter how she cared for him, he would not rise to greet, hug, or kiss her. Instead, he just lurked in the depths of his fitfull slumber, struggling to breathe.
Daphne looked to the small cup by his bedside, now empty. Each morning, it was full with a medicinal antidote parliament had ordered for the sick king. And, dutifully, each morning she'd give him more, yet he continued to only worsen.
Now, Julianis Forthrun had been elected to rule in her dear Adamh's stead—merely to give the country guidance while he was ill, of course. No commoner would know that the king was sick. Parliament would just act as Adamh's mind and heart in the meantime. They were all praying fo his quick recovery... of course.
Of course.
She shouldn't be suspicious.
ROYALIST
no posting here — vignette I of IV
Within the king's chamber, Daphne cried. She sat beside her husband, a cracked bowl of water beside her along with a small heap of moss. As if a part of broken clockwork, she would soak a ball of moss, press it to her husband's forehead, dab a couple of times, see him fail to get better, then sob again. No matter how she cared for him, he would not rise to greet, hug, or kiss her. Instead, he just lurked in the depths of his fitfull slumber, struggling to breathe.
Daphne looked to the small cup by his bedside, now empty. Each morning, it was full with a medicinal antidote parliament had ordered for the sick king. And, dutifully, each morning she'd give him more, yet he continued to only worsen.
Now, Julianis Forthrun had been elected to rule in her dear Adamh's stead—merely to give the country guidance while he was ill, of course. No commoner would know that the king was sick. Parliament would just act as Adamh's mind and heart in the meantime. They were all praying fo his quick recovery... of course.
Of course.
She shouldn't be suspicious.
no posting here — vignette I of IV
