The sword was no longer his wield.
His armor no longer his to wear.
The dark-haired noble stared down at the oak desk before him. It was a desk he'd looked at often, truly he'd stared at it for his whole life but always from the other side. He never stood in this place with his fingers tracing over the parchment that rested before him crisp and clean, waiting to be written upon.
Raphaiel's eyes closed as he drew in a sharp breath and sat down in the leather chair heavily, those bright blue eyes still remaining locked on the parchment. He knew the words he'd have to pen but it didn't mean he wanted to pen them.
Very slowly, as if he was in a fog, he reached for the elegant quill pen he'd seen his father twirl between his fingers often. With a sad smile, the man mimicked the gesture he'd seen throughout his youth before dipping the tip in the open inkwell and beginning to write.
The scratch of quill on parchment filled the large study for several moments. It paused often as Raphaiel frequently found himself incapable of penning the words. He'd fought battles upon battles, seen the very face of death itself, yet this? This was the hardest thing he'd found himself doing.
As the movement of his quill came to it's final rest, the man's gaze didn't even bother sweeping over the words before he sprinkled sand over the ink to dry it before folding it thrice over and pouring the heated crimson wax over the seal.
Raphaiel reached for the signet of his house next, his jaw clenching as he pressed it into the wax. It was finished.
Slowly he stood and left the the study. He passed through the large halls of his family's estate as if in a haze. He barely remembered handing off the letter to a runner for it to be delivered swiftly.
The path he walked was one that he had never thought to walk, not this early, not with so little time. It was with a strained smiled that the man gently rapped his knuckles on one of the doors before peaking inside.
His father glanced at him from his bed, a worn and tired smile on his lips. Where there had always been a vigorous and lively man, even in his waning years, there now just laid one that was grayed and sickened. There was still the glow of life in his eyes, but even that seemed to be fading.
"Father," Raphaiel murmured as he crossed the room to sit at his father's bedside. "It's done. All the letters are sent."
Quietly the old man chuckled. "I'm glad." His words were quiet, lacking the strength to be much beyond a whisper. "I'm proud."
Field-Marshal Rosewood
I trust this letter will get to you quickly, I sent it with our best runner in hopes of him being able to find you where ever you find yourself
My father has fallen ill and we're not sure how long he'll be bedridden or if he'll truly ever rise from it. On this note? My duties have fallen first to my family and the continuation of my line. I will no longer find myself knowing battle, my friend.
Fight strong and well.
Signed,
Raphaiel de Laurentis















