The tremble in his hands would not subside with time it seemed, all-encompassing and relentless it was; it allowed no obstinacy, however strong it was, to defy it. It all seemed to matter but so very little in that moment, “Father’s advisers will be in my ear all night,” It was a verbal outing to cling to, however haphazard it was; an utterance to hopefully overcome the voices beyond the door, the only separation between brothers and the turmoil within Court, ‘The King is dead!’ Were they no longer echoed, he would still hear them, ‘Long live the King!’ Oh, for how they rang in his ears; ghosts they were, relentless and utterly agonizing.
It remained so unsteady, his breath, which was as uncontrollably laced with trepidation and anguish as it first was upon his departure from his father’s side, his quarters— as it still was upon his refusal of his brother kneeling to him in bow. No, get up, never kneel for me, you are my brother. He would have sought him out, had he not been there then; not Mary, not his mother, but Sebastian. In that moment, he needed his brother, as he still did now. And so, seated, his own hands clasped tightly as if one, a futile attempt urging the shiver in them to relent (though its failure obvious); his gaze befell him, however bare; for the endeavor was proven ever so difficult. How could it not be? Patricide— “I’m sorry, brother.“ He was your father, perhaps even more than he was ever mine.
@leocoeur agreed to perish in an ocean of feelings with me.
