Archminister Grinwald continued on to the library hall, with quick short strides. It's been three days since the final frame-work discussions of the Border-tribes Peace Treaty, since he last saw Her Highness. She had played the cards spectacularly in the private court the prior week, persuading the Duke of Dermowth with minimal words. There were reports about an Order of Swords meeting, and possible attempts at sabotage, just to undermine the Queendom. But those fears never materialized, confirming Grinwald's original assumption. That the Order of Swords had turned toothless.
Protests were frequent in the market square, mainly from the Herdsmen tribe, but nothing the guards couldn't quell with little effort. However, what bothered Grinwald presently was the sudden shift in protocol. Recently Her Highness had been refraining from core meetings, communicating only through short notes and trusted aids. A very uncharacteristic move, considering how strenuously she had worked on the Treaty, for months. Grinwald himself was asked to cancel all personal plans of travel, and to work alongside the ministerial staff. There was also that specially assigned security team, following his every move closely. His wife would joke that it almost seemed like being held a prisoner, which didn't amuse him at all.
But wait.. Am I looking it wrong? What if this isn't about me.
The overall security has been intensified, from the past two days. Maybe the Queen knows more.
But why not simply share then? Highness had always valued my opinion, even in trivial matters.
Unlike the impression given by the constant policy debates with the Queen, Grinwald had a soft spot for Elanor, way before she got crowned as the ruling monarch. He had always wanted a daughter, and being childless, he saw her more like one. A sentiment shared by his wife as well, since she is originally from Vankenbraum. So the sudden distancing was bothering him more.
Has she fallen ill or something?
Why else would she deny an audience?
**
*
Author's note:
Be sure to check the story tags before proceeding, for the themes explored could be unlike your usual cup. Turn ons are turn offs are mercurially subjective, and this chapter may prove an unusual blend. When in doubt, just skip ahead.
**
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The Royal Unmaking
Maxim Rachetty walked past the pillars excitedly, leading the couple behind.
"This way, His Lordship."
"I hope you haven't tired her out, Maxim. I want her conscious, enough to play along. Else the deal is off."
"Oh no Lordship, she'll play along. Haven't met a maiden so insatiable, truth be told. Please convey our gratitude to the General. She's a real treat.!"
Maxim said sheepishly, taking quick glances at the scantily clad stout woman behind the nobleman. A stark contrast to the fit, firm and flexible Proxy-Queen from earlier, her odd looking mask adding to the mystery. Lord Klavin, the young Viscount, cleared his throat.
"Eyes up here, Maxim.! Show my prize, and you may have yours.."
He slapped the maiden's large behind, resounding enough for her breast-mounds to jiggle. As Maxim replied, his eyes couldn't help but bulge. Such shamelessly proud globes she got.
Stout is fine. Stout is handful and more.
"Apologies, His Lordship. She's right round.. I mean, around the corner.. Her Highness is, ahem.. The decoy, I meant. Umm.. Have you met her in person.? The original.??"
It seemed like the maiden just muffled a chuckle. As if she was laughing at the Viscount. Or rather at the mention of the Queen
. Something didn't add up.
Even the Viscount wasn't too pleased, as he answered.
"The original?! Why, you haven't??"
"Once Sir! If you count the giant portrait by the Capitol Hall, that is.. Never in the flesh. The girl tonight have a decent likeness, I'd say. Though I swear, King Bard himself haven't seen her slut-out like this.."
Klavin said, sounding like a soliloquy, deeming the low-born unworthy of his attention.
"Well, well.. I admire the General's guts, pulling this off, this close to the capitol. Now about that likeness, I'd be the judge."
"So you have met then, in person."
Maxim turned again, clearly to take another peak at the heavy harlot behind.
"Indeed. We even exchanged words.."
Voice trailed off as the Viscount remembered the embarrassment. Of a woman, a mere Queen consort by all qualifications, his true ruling monarch in effect, humiliating him to an audience of peers. Men who'll never look up to him again. That mockful grin of the Archminister as she hinted at the rumors around his pregnant wife. The truth of which made it all the more hurtful.
"Here we are!"
Maxim said, stopping by the small storage barn. He continued, sliding open the door.
"An hour into it she started acting weird, convulsing like a bucking bull, like being possessed by the Goddess of Lust. Grinding back to the men, near-violently. Like I said, an exceptional slut, but.."
"But.?"
"Well, we would have played along, but Billet stopped it. He said she could use a break, and I jumped on the chance, to make room for His Lordship, as per our arrangement. We have an hour, before the men gather again so.. Mind the time. Billet kept her here. Bound, of course. She was acting erratic, after all."
There she was, on her knees, her head hanging down. Her both hands hung from the ceiling panel, tied at the wrist. Her hair disheveled, the room reeking of damp discomfort.
"Maxim, don't tell me she's done for the night."
Klavin sounded unusually serious. He needed this, especially after that encounter in the royal court, leaving him utterly disgraced. There was no way of quipping back, not at your Queen, not if you valued your life.
But the thought of somehow unleashing all my disrespect, my rage... Right back at her, even if its a mere likeness..
Klavin needed this, desperately. Something he must do, not just for his bleeding ego, but the very honor of his wedded wife. It was so foolish of him, to miss her upstairs earlier, but he could hardly blame himself for losing sight, in a room full of wanton wenches. He had heard tales of the royal double Gertha, and her spectacular stag night performance for Prince Axon, with King Bard himself in the audience. He was hoping for her to make it to this party as well.
As he tilted up her face by the chin, the hair falling to sides, a strange mixture of disgust and disbelief engulfed him.
That's not Gertha, but moreover..
"What the..?! That's not.."
Chuckling maliciously, the clansman said.
"Far from the likeness, ain't she now??"
Despite all the anger, there was an actual look of concern in his eyes, which surprised even the Queen. Pushing Maxim against the wall by the collar, he roared.
"THE FACE, MAXIM..!! What have you done to her..?!!"
**
*
Eighty minutes earlier.
The role of a King is uniquely symbolic.
Distinct from that of the Clergy, the Ministry and the Military, even the combined power of all subjects. The symbol to which all men bow, as he bows to the Greater Kingdom. The one, whose sake all are prepared to die, as he is for the Greater Kingdom. And it is the King's duty, to uphold the symbolic greatness, even if the kingdom inevitably falls.
Symbolized in his even keel. In his harmonious health. Even his unblemished visage.
But the one behind the ideal, is just as fallible as the rest. Just a man who can be broken, beaten. Who'll need enough of a break to return to form, to re-ignite the driving spirit of the Greater Kingdom. Breaks that are beyond foresight. Breaks that should be managed, in shadows, leaving the symbol undisturbed. Even as a momentary illusion.
It could be a great defeat, a deep trauma, a tragic accident, or even a cursed disease, leaving the King in an unpresentable state of body, if not mind. Wolkenshire is no stranger to such fates, and there are plenty of protocols in place, ranging from propaganda to temporary switch. A King may take absence, absolute seclusion, up to six months for recovery if needs be. During which period, the public appearances would be reduced to bare minimum, with the royal double attending in his stead. The administrative duties shall be distributed amongst the Archminister, the General and a trusted aid to the throne. The aid will remain the sole contact of His Highness through out the break. At the six month point, the King must summon all three, and let them witness his progress or lack thereof. The protocol could be extended for three additional months, if all concur.
This is the Castling Protocol.
At the end of nine months, regardless the progress, the King must convene the royal court, and reveal the entire truth. The sincere shall remain unshackled, as it says in the Holy-Writ. And if the King finds this difficult, for reasons of vanity or lacking mental fortitude, meaning, if he finds it hard to come to terms with the truth itself, he must name the successor and vacate the throne immediately.
The same applies for a ruling Queen.
Knowing all this well..
What in the world made you think, Nora.. That a clan-brand to the face could be healed spotless, in six months?
What in the world?!
The thought occurred too late, as she knelt before an angry Frederich, with his bright branding iron inching towards.
It's a good thing, that time slowed in such instances,
for the enormity of her foolhardiness would have surely been crushing else. It could still be. She had suffered enough practice injuries to know the magic of adrenaline, its effects on time and perception. This vigilant numbness wasn't strange to her at all. She knew, though delayed, the pain will eventually come. And she kept waiting.
Only, it didn't.
Elanor noticed, that it had become offly quiet all of a sudden. Her eyes squinted up, as her sanity sobered. Before was Fred, then Billet, the other cousin, and the rest of the bunch cowering behind. A mixture of guilt, terror and reverence, in all their eyes. For a moment it felt, as stupid as it sounds, that her natural Queenly aura had driven them petrified. That her officious magnanimity had finally dawned on them.
Officious, as she prostrated, lacking even a modesty patch on her pronounced rear.?!
What a joke!
