Writing. Culture. Politics. Wandering.
In a scarlet, blue and green procession sovereigns of polities walked in rows of three the central avenue of Calmoral, splendid capital of the human polity of the Realm, in full ceremonial armour donned with crimson sashes, gold and jeweled orders flashing in the sun. Behind them, at suitable distance, came some sixty more royal masters of men, their queens, heirs apparent, a band of special ambassadors from uncrowned territories and envoys of Houses in exile. A view that in its passing left vast crowds attending unable to keep back gasps of admiration. A spectacle presenting all nine polities, some 70 nations and established territories in an assemblage and display of ranks of royalty and great houses in what would turn out to be the grandest – though the last – gathering of such in one place. The time was early in a morning, with the sun coming up over the central avenue casting shadows of grandeur ahead of this assembly of lineage on their quietly contained way towards the noble cemeteries, symbolic of the history that was to follow.
In the center of the front row walked the new sovereign of the realm, a girl not yet of age stubborn in her persistence and sorrow, flanked on the left by the late king’s sole surviving sister, Duchess of Caern, and on her right by a man who by lineage at least – of all those present and noble – was closest to this pained family, the only person with his armour’s visor closed, sovereign king of the Premis polity now the de facto strongest hand in affairs of the chaotic and often uncivilised territories. A man referred to by bloggers that day as “the most prominent of mourners” but also as “the sovereign freed by the passing of the king”, both statements equally grave and true.
The night before the grand funeral, quartered in the apartments once belonging to his mother in Calmoral Keep, he wrote in a dispatch to his wife “Pride I have, as a part of this royal family, with my uncle’s departure freedom I now receive, a freedom deserving of my vision, and not his”. While his stride was grave and firm this king had come to bury his scorned uncle, the man who in his dominance among polities he had proven unable to either bully or impress. His mother’s brother, perpetually casting shadows over his vision and domain. A king now seemingly free to impose his will on others, who twenty years before his uncle’s passing had changed his sigil to display the words “we bide our time”.
While countless others that very day found their own resting place throughout the polities and territories of man, two other funerals, none receiving much or any attention beyond those present, would turn out to be of equal significance in time. The first a secluded burial on a dark and captured comet soon to be released from its hold towards the darkness of the void, attended solely by a handful of brothers and sisters of the Order with thoughts overshadowed by concerns of choice of succession. The second less than a burial, with family and friends in hiding taking their own moment of mourning to celebrate a beggar of carefully hidden lineage. A man who in his life of pain had stirred the beginnings of a sentiment only strengthened by his burning execution, an event turning sentiment towards message of conviction. It would be years and years later that a next generation born from ash and dust would look back at this day to remember lines of ancient poetry, so ancient the story itself forgotten.
When beggars die there are no comets seen;
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
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