A King Must Stand Alone
---THE FOLLOWING IS OF DUBIOUS CANON FOR ITS SHEER OUTDATEDNESS; IT'S BEING INCLUDED MOSTLY BECAUSE SO MANY PEOPLE HAVE SEEN IT THAT IT WOULD BE CONFUSING TO OMIT. IF THERE IS A POINT OF CONFLICT RE:CANON, ACCOUNT OF THE DAMNED TAKES PRECEDENCE---
My name is Arturia Pendragon, though you’ve likely surmised as much. Until recently, the Equerry to the High Inquisitor of the Second, Her Holiness Gertrud von Egisheim, and known by and large as Her Majesty the King, though it refers not to the country as such, or any country in particular, so much as it implies a certain Divine Right; to be the King means to carry the blood of a Ruler of Men, who stands above the authority of all but God and the Lady.
My bloodline is not the subject of this story, for now, though in some time it will be. This is a story instead of Heresy most foul, of a veil obscuring the hearts and minds of the finest magical girls in the world. Of a foolish young woman who, in her pride and naiveté, averted her eyes from the Truth for far too long to stop its inevitable march.
This is my story, and the story of my honored sister, and of the Blessed Lady and the Holy Second Inquisition. I would like to say it began quite a while ago, with my sister’s ascension to the head of the Holy Fourteenth Officio – the claiming of her birthright as Emperor – but for brevity’s sake, I will begin much later than that, with the Heresy of the Ninth Warmaster under the looming of Walpurgisnacht. Looking back now, even before that wretched night, it was the stone in the pond that would send out ripples for months to come.
I was discussing her most recent Heresies with the Ninth Equerry, the Culexus Malal…
---
“I apologize. I apologize on behalf of Kharn, and on behalf of the Ninth Officio. But there’s really only so much I can do.” Her voice-disruptor made her apology sound halfhearted, casual. That could have been the seething, foaming rage that I had barely kept contained, however. It wouldn’t do to get angry at an Angel of the Blessed Lady, and though she dismissed Her Grace’s torment so casually, she was hardly at fault.
“It was inevitable. It’s kind of something Kharn does. It…I’m sorry, do you…need to use the bathroom?”
My sword hand clenched reflexively. It was not ‘inevitable’. Her Grace was, until she was violated some hours ago, a pure maiden – the very model of a magical girl. For a second-long eternity, I simply bit my lip (nearly hard enough to draw blood, I would say), torn between the duty of defending my lady and respecting the authority of an objective superior in the ranks of the Blessed Lady.
The Culexus just stared impassively at me through blackened visor.
I set my jaw as my eyes flicked toward where I could only assume hers were, and as calmly as I could, I began to elucidate the Angel on Her Grace’s virtue, and the importance of vigilance and care in our daily lives as magical girls, so as not to cast ourselves from the razor-thin line on which we walked. Surely, she knew this better than even I did, but the Ninth Warmaster clearly needed more than a simple reminder. She walked a Witch’s path already, and even in the event that she did not fall, surely her distinct and unsettling lack of virtue would-
After a scant few phrases, thirty seconds at most, something reflected in Lady Malal’s visor caught my eye – a flash of a girl with pale-gold hair, shorter than even the Japanese in front of me, chest puffed out and mouth moving silently in time with my speech.
It was Raleigh, of course. Raleigh Alondight, the High Marshal of the Black Templars, known to most simply as the Black Knight. She was Her Grace’s most trusted friend, myself aside, and held the distinction of being the most distinguished low-blooded magical girl in the Second’s illustrious history, dating well before the Officio Assassinora were officially sanctioned. She was also quite determined to test my already terribly thin patience today, it seemed.
I resisted the urge to backhand her as I whirled around – an urge that came up unreasonably often with Raleigh, and one I truly believe only a noble-born woman could resist so often. She gave me a wide grin and a little wave, though judging from the look in her eyes, I suspect that for whatever unfathomable reason, this was calculated. Raleigh was not often a fool, despite repeated evidence to the contrary.
“You know she was the one that invited the Warmaster into her chambers, don’t you?” her quiet, lilting voice sang a song that seemed to be designed specifically to get under my skin. “You weren’t protecting her, Arty. You walked in on her.”
My sword hand twitched again.
“She hasn’t left it, you know. Thankfully, the Warmaster was there to comfort her. It’s great, she does this thing with her tongue…” As she stuck out her own tongue and began trying to imitate some arcane motion, I found myself oddly hypnotized by the prospect. I could nearly grasp what she was trying to do, but…that wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be, not even Elizabeth – not even Elcarys – could perform such an act.
…Maybe Elcarys could have, but I wouldn’t want to be the one to find out, and were I to ask Raleigh, I was certain I would hear in excruciatingly uncomfortable detail just precisely how far that tongue could go.
(Neither of those are people you need yet concern yourself with – all will be explained in time, though not today, and sooner rather than later. It would be rude to simply toss names about with no promise of explanation.)
It occurred to me all too late that I was in the middle of an important clarification, but when I looked to the Culexus, she was well on her way down the hall, attention wholly absorbed by the electronic assistant she carried. Raleigh gave a snigger and a shout, a ‘You’re welcome!’ that echoed through the halls of the Officio. I tried to wither her reckless enthusiasm with a glare, but she laughed all the harder.
“Arty. Arty, you really haven’t got a clue, have you? Well, don’t worry. I’m sure she didn’t really think you had to use the bathroom. Kings don’t poop, and all.” We do so-Why is this even up for discussion.
I adjusted my glasses, my hand drifting without pause to my temple to fend off an oncoming headache. I didn’t expect professional behavior from the High Marshal without direct Witch involvement, but she could have at least taken pains not to make us look even worse than this ridiculous scandal already had, thanks to the heretical mongrel leading the Ninth Officio Assassinorum. Why Lady Malal isn’t simply leading the Officio-
“You’re doing that thing again. Where you talk to yourself.”
I was talking to her.
“Well. I wasn’t listening, because you were doing that thing again. No disrespect intended, Your Majesty, but you need to calm down. They’ll be gone tomorrow, then you’ll have only one superior to tiptoe around again, and we can put this particular bout of minor heresies behind us. Speaking of tiptoeing around superiors…” She turned stiffly toward the hall opposite where Lady Malal had gone, and began to march, pausing after a moment to beckon me after her. “She needs to talk to you.”
…Ah, Milady is finally in a condition to speak?
“No, I’m going to get her to unlock the door, and you’re going to shove in before she can close it. May want to strap your armor on, Her Grace is still quite handy with the lightning.”
This boded well already.
---
“Imbecile! Fool! Dastard! Deviant! Heretic!” I was grateful, I supposed, that she only had a few pillows to hurl at me, when she saw my face, though with the tone she used, her words hissed out through cracked and broken voice, I expected divine lightning instead. Her voice squeaked as the parade of insults moved on, the High Inquisitor’s face glowing a bright red, as though her head threatened to explode at any moment.
Though she had elected to remain outside, I could swear I heard Raleigh laughing through the door.
Her Grace – just Gertrud, in our younger days – had always been temperamental. She is, despite that, one of the cleverest and most charismatic people I’ve ever the privilege of knowing, to be sure, and…certainly, she is among the people I care for the most in this world.
That said, I have met nobody since that could throw such a tantrum over nothing as Gertrud, when she was so inclined, which seemed to be most any time we were alone. I suppose how angry she seemed was a measure of trust, in a way; only recently had she allowed herself to show her anger in front of Raleigh, having previously only done so in front of my sisters and I. Never in front of the other knights, not even when we were trainees, and certainly not in front of the Lady’s Messenger.
One would be hard-pressed to believe that under her smooth and graceful countenance was the heart of an incorrigible, offensive, pillow-hurling brat.
“WHAT?” She squeaked so loudly that I was certain the window-glass cracked. …I repeated myself, louder. Perhaps she hadn’t heard it.
“How…how DARE you! HIGH MARSHAL! RALEIGH! I know you’re out there! Throw this foul, perverted heretic in the dungeon!” I breathed a sigh of relief, exaggerated…mostly out of pettiness, I admit. It was only the dungeon, she couldn’t have been that upset.
At that, she made a noise, one for which I had come to know her – a high, unexplainable sound, a combination of a cracked scream and a squeak. A small buzz began to tug at the edge of my senses as Her Grace crackled, her hair standing lightly on end. Like a cat’s, come to that.
If Raleigh WAS out there, she had (wisely) deemed it safer not to get involved, and for that I was grateful.
I strode over to Her Grace’s – to Gertrud’s – bedside, as she crackled and squeaked, and as she raised her hand to smite me, I took it in both of mine, then dropped to a knee. She had my sincerest apologies for the misunderstanding. I had only feared the worst, with the Warmaster Valnikov’s continual heresy.
Her fury seemed to dissipate all at once, though her face still carried a cherry-red color. Her hackles dropped, and the numb, buzzing sensation in the depths of my heart was… …Well, at very least the electricity seemed to subside. Gertrud stared down at me, seemingly unsure how to respond.
…This was the real reason I was grateful Raleigh had left. This expression was one reserved for me, and one I would gladly claim for myself.
“…I don’t…need you to come running whenever you believe something may happen to me. I’m a Warmaster, you know. The High Inquisitor of the Second. The voice of the Blessed Lady’s will. I have no need of foolish kings that play at gallantry.” She squeezed my hand as she answered, her eyes flicking toward a distant corner of the room that was no doubt extremely heretical at that particular moment.
Of course, Your Grace.
---
The rest of the day passed without incident, mercifully, and we spent it in discussion of personal matters, a rarity as of late. The next few weeks would have us tied up in meetings, thanks in no small part to the Ninth Officio’s recent and extremely unusual fascination with Siberia, to say nothing of the looming Walpurgisnacht.
Almost worse, so I thought at the time, was the inevitable diplomatic mission to the Palace of the Holy Emperor in Rome, to request their aid as a second line against the flood of Witches that would pour from the Akashic Points scattered around the country. It would be yet another chance to see our officers poisoned with hedonism, to see my sister tear Her Grace from her sacred mission for the sake of vanity and sloth, and, though I would never have admitted it then, another opportunity for Nero to highlight my own inadequacies in a feast of gold and excess.
In light of that…it felt as though Walpurgisnacht could not come soon enough.
