Way to Fall
The Fool of Chizan returned to Fasnakyle. But there was no celebration, no joyous occasion. No marching bands, no colorful confetti and the trumpeters who blared the Confederacy’s anthem. No crowds of civilians who welcomed homed their heroes, who sought out those who never came back.
The disembarkation from the shuttles was a brooding affair. Soldiers singled out of the shuttles without excitement. No bouquets from young charming maidens, no crowds at all.
It was the Fool’s turn out of the shuttle: He was blasted by a wave of summer heat, the onslaught, the barrage tougher than the stresses of any combat, the fear of laz guns javelins his ship. Was it hotter than before? It couldn’t be. But he endured it, the sorrow for Victoria, his long-gone princess, reduced to atomized, her loss, her stubborn sacrifice weighed heavy on his mind like a boulder. Not even catching up on Dama steered his mind of grief. And yet, all the same, he remained a cool composure. The exhausting heat a minor convenience to him, his world utterly numb.
Dutifully, the Commodore summoned a air-car. He made way for the heart of Fasnakylepolis. It was a summons, a immediate one he had no time for prepare for. The whole process felt like a bullet, but he couldn’t object. It was a official order and he had no choice but to abide; the sooner he got it out of the way, the better.
The air car ride was uneventful. Hands tucked into his jacket, his gaze over the labyrinth of skyscrapers. Not once did he bother turning on the console to watch, say, even Dama. He was plagued by a mind fog, and no fantasy escapism was going to pry him out of it. As much as he had enjoyed the books and the show, there was no time to indulge in them now.
The air car began to descend, and before long he stared at the presidential palace, its post-modern exterior flanked by a garden of eden.
The Fool of Chizan left the car, setting it on standby despite the overcharge on the marking spot. He made his way across the busy street, and with heavy steps, climbed the stairs. The sentries saluted him, and he did likewise with casual flare. They creaked open the large bronze doors for him.
It was a long, narrow hallway. Creamy whites with burnished tile flooring. Wordlessly, he stepped inside, taking steps weighed down by balls of regret and torment. Each long step he took, he only heard the echoes of Victoria’s voice, her lone mystical figure in his mental arena: ‘It's okay to be a coward, and you don't need to be called brave, but I just want you to survive for decades to come and protect as many people as possible.’
He reached the end of the hallway. He reached for the golden knobs, and turned them slowly. The doors creaked open, the sunlight basked him in. There were no shortage of politicians. Chief among them, Minister of Defense Ronald McCarthy, and the Supreme Chancellor himself, Bern Hamilton. He spotted Camille O’Riley. A few photographers amidst the crowd. They all clapped for him. He stood there, motionless, the barrage of snapshots by the photographers of the living legend, of the Fool of Chizan, hero of Azincourt. Savior of millions.
He took several steps, several of the cabinet members at first reached to shake his hand, but he ignored them. They rescinded in his advance.
He stood shoulder to shoulder with Camille. The crowd hushed when Bern began to spoke, but the Commodore wasn’t listening in, he had no appetite for his PR word salads. It was noise whenever the old Supreme Chancellor opened his mouth, beaming with a facade, acknowledging the two’s contributions of saving the Seventh Coalition. A adjutant near Bern opened a small oak case, and procured from them two silver stars: Congressional Silver Stars. Another round of applause as Bern listed off their feats, their accomplishments. It was all recycled words which the Fool of Chizan cared little for. Camille saluted the Supreme Chancellor, shook his hand sternly. Another barrage of snapshots from the photography posse.
Bern stepped in front of the Commodore. He reached for the oak container and pinned the Congressional Silver Star.
“I bestow upon you, Commodore Mengde . . . Hero . . . Of the Confederacy,” Bern said. He smiled, it was no doubt a politician’s smile. Bern extended a hand.
The Fool only stared at him. He raised his hand not to grip it, but to salute.
There was a touch of awkward bewilderment from the head of state. He presented his hand again, and only then after a second stretched into eternity did the Fool lower his salute to grip it. It was a firm handshake.
Bern patted the Commodore’s back with his other hand, and pulled himself closer to the officer, facing the cameras. The Fool of Chizan couldn’t bring himself to smile. Camera flashes, snapping, blinded him, muted him. The Supreme Chancellor stepped away, the applauses never let up.
Ronald stepped up to the plate and reached to shake the Fool’s hand. He only glanced at him, then walked briskly out of the room, back into the hallway which stretched itself into a marathons length.
Lawrence never stopped. His legs like logs, his boots lead. It only made a simple hallway walk a stairway into his ascension as the Fool of Chizan.
He reached the end of the hallway, he was at the entrance now. Staring out across Fasnakylepolis, and the Fool came to realize he hate this megalopolis. It was nothing more than a container, a nest for the politicians inside. While they enjoyed the theatrics of war from the safety of Fasnakyle’s shores, he fought to enable them being parasites on society. There was nothing left on Fasnakyle for him to come back to, nothing meaningful now. Only pain, and suffering.
He lowered his gaze, down to his shadow. Her voice echoed in his mental arena: “The next time I see you---you better be a wrinkly old prune. And . . . even if my life was only that of a shadow, as long as you at least can live on and remember that I was here, that the Yellow Typhoon . . . No . . . that Victoria Schwarzenberger existed in this world, then I can depart with no regret. Those are my only parting wishes from you, Lawry... I expect you to uphold them... goodbye.”
There was one thing that remained for him on Fasnakyle. Victoria’s grave.