Chapter Text
Edgar stood in front of the two empty chairs in the throne room. Soon he would have to sit there and play the role he was born to play, but for a few more days, this would still be the most quiet place in the castle. It had been so since the previous king fell ill and stopped giving audiences. Since Dad succumbed to poisoning after torturous weeks of agony. Edgar shivered.
The image of his dad’s decaying health often consumed his thoughts, but suddenly he felt observed. Often, there would be eyes fixated on him; at times they felt intrusive and mostly unyielding. Other times, there was a contagious fear that threatened to infect and paralyze him, which was growing more common these days.
Are they here yet? Is the Empire ready to finish what they started and erase the entire Figaro lineage, here and now? Or are they learning me so they can take me out slowly, like they did my father? Will there be a chance to survive if I call for my guards?
Without making a move, he dared to ask, “Eldridge?”
“Yes, Majesty. Forgive my furtiveness; I only mean to be at your disposition,” the Chancellor answered.
I still think of Dad whenever I hear ‘majesty.’ “It’s fine. Did my father ever reveal to you why he kept the two chairs?”
Hearing no answer, Edgar turned to look at the Chancellor.
“Yes. But you are king now; you ought to make up your own mind.” Eldridge said.
“So you are not telling me. I respect you for keeping his secrets.”
“I did tell King Stewart that the extra chair discloses a vacancy. Or a lack.”
“My brother too inherited the throne; he can make his claim if he ever chooses to. The other chair is his.” Edgar smiled.
“Is that the message you want to send out? That when they face you, they’re only facing one half of the nation’s authority?”
Edgar grinned. “Maybe? Or maybe I am in such a desperate search for a queen that I put my neediness on display!”
“The latter works better with the Empire: manageable and unambiguous.” Eldridge said.
“Good. Should we work on my public image before shaking hands with those vultures?”
“With all due respect, Majesty, you don’t need to create this image, only to maintain it.”
Edgar chuckled. “That is why it works! The truth needs no explanations and no extra work.”
The Chancellor came close to speak lower. “King Edgar, these are sanguinary scoundrels who will either have us supporting their execrable bidding or destroy you as soon as they doubt your loyalty.”
“That is the most disdainful and accurate thing I have ever heard you say.” I couldn’t agree more!
Eldridge continued. “This should be the last time we speak ill of the Empire. We will be allies complying with their narrative until we find the way to set the nation free.”
Freedom… That is the ultimate goal, but for the time being, I need to be a very convincing lapdog. “I have been accused of being a good liar, you know?”
“I would not make such an accusation, Majesty. Regardless, lies are unsustainable: honest people smell them, and dishonest people know to expect them. Truths, on the other hand, can always be checked upon and reaffirmed.”
Edgar frowned. “What truths can we allow ourselves to speak about the Empire?”
“They lead in education and scientific innovation. Also, certain products are harvested exclusively on the southern continent. Those should be good for a start.”
“Right. Thank you, Eldridge.” Edgar looked down.
Eldridge placed his hand on Edgar’s head, causing him surprise. He removed his hand and straightened his whole body, inviting Edgar to mirror him. “We cannot allow ourselves to hate our enemies, but we are not obliged to love them.” Eldridge reminded him.
Edgar smiled and nodded. I guess this is the last time you set me straight. I already miss following your lead and looking to you for answers…
The following morning, Edgar ruminated about the man he was about to see.
The first to attempt what the Empire succeeded in doing. He is even worse than them—his own blood! Does he regret causing the death of my beloved Guinevere and good old Jeff? Or does he only regret failing to get Dad? Does he regret anything??
Edgar was good at keeping to himself, but his inner voice often became heavy with the disgust that would never come out of his mouth. Whenever he found himself alone, whether for a few minutes or several hours, he squabbled in his mind about those lowly scumbags who would attack his family. It was a problem, because it meant they owned him; they owned his peace of mind. He had to practice sustaining the pleasant exterior without driving himself insane, and his dad’s brother could help him with that.
Edgar was escorted to the deepest and most secluded area of the castle dungeon. Former Cardinal Francis was the only prisoner kept in there, with nothing but his own thoughts for company.
Francis was sitting on his bed reading. He didn’t react to the noise of someone approaching his cell.
“Francis Raban.” Edgar said, creating an echo in the dungeon.
As a member of the royal family, Francis’ middle name was kept secret, only known to other family members. It didn’t make a difference who was standing by his cell; Francis’ attention remained on his book.
“Uncle Francis!” Edgar said, gaining no reaction.
Edgar continued. “My father, King Stewart, has passed away.”
Still no reaction from Francis.
“I, Edgar, am your king now.” Francis kept reading. Edgar waited a little longer this time, but he didn’t fare well with the silent treatment. “It is all I came here to say.”
Francis turned to look at Edgar with eyes as empty as a doll’s. Edgar blinked repeatedly in the lapse that Francis did one very slow blink.
“I expect you to keep your word.” Francis said, sounding like he had sandpaper for vocal cords.
Edgar wondered what promise he had made. As if reading his mind, Francis raised his voice to clarify. “That this is all you came here to say! Nothing more!”
Edgar widened his eyes in a brief moment of surprise. He regained his practiced stoic expression and then smiled. “It is all. For today.”
He turned away, feeling Francis’ eyes following him until the guard escorted him out of the dungeon.
Edgar wasn’t entirely satisfied with the exchange, but it had been Francis, not him, who got irritated. A modest win was still a win.
The next day, Edgar went to see Francis at the same time. He found him like he did the day before: hunched over, with his nose in that thick, old book that was falling to pieces, yet it looked sturdier than the man who held it.
“Francis!” Edgar waited for a reaction, but he knew not to expect one.
“I would prefer Sabin.” Francis said after a moment, without removing his eyes from the book.
“What?”
“If I must deal with any of you, I would prefer to deal with Sabin.”
“I am not here to fulfill your requests, Francis.”
“THEN WHAT?!!” Francis threw the book to a side and stood up in a sudden move that could have torn apart the decrepit volume and his own scrawny body. The echo of the book hitting the ground had not yet faded when his voice filled the dungeon.
Edgar’s instincts forced him to step back, but otherwise he managed to maintain his posture. There was nothing to worry about; there were bars separating them, and Francis looked pretty fragile after all.
Francis took a deep breath. “A scared boy calling himself king. You cannot even face your prisoner.”
Edgar swallowed hard and forced himself to hold his gaze. “That book of yours looks worn. You would be losing your mind without it, would you not?” Edgar told him, taking relief in breaking eye contact to direct his eyes at the book.
Francis put his hands behind his back and raised his chin. He was about the same height as Edgar, maybe shorter due to his poor posture, but he stood proudly. They stared at each other until Edgar blinked and fixed his eyes on Francis’ one last time, then turned away to leave, moving as steadily as he could manage.
Edgar didn’t like this last performance. With no effort, and in front of no audience, Francis was able to show him off. Having the final word meant very little if Edgar still failed to remain unaffected, or at least to appear so. But keeping composure was only half of the work; he also had to be pleasant towards someone who reciprocated his disgust.
The next day, Edgar showed up with a brand-new copy of the book Francis had and slipped it through the bars. “You are welcome,” Edgar said. Then left without waiting for a reaction.
The following day, Edgar found Francis in the same usual position with the same old book. The book Edgar had brought yesterday was still where he left it, exactly as he left it, completely ignored by Francis.
Edgar stood in front of the cell and recited the first verse from memory: “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was formless and empty. Darkness was on the surface of the deep, and God’s Spirit was hovering over the surface of the waters.”
Francis gently shut his book and put it aside. He picked up Edgar’s book from the ground, opened it, and looked through some pages, then gently put it next to his old book. He sat on his bed facing Edgar.
“Do not speak the word.” Francis said between teeth.
“A prisoner does not give orders.” Edgar wanted to show more firmness than in previous days. He was above this man; all he had to do was give him constant reminders of that.
“If you are king, then that makes Sabin a nobody, like me. I prefer the company of my equal to some prideful, vain prick with unearned authority.”
“You are one to talk. You were vain enough to want this position, so much so that you turned into a criminal to have it without earning it.” Edgar smirked.
“Yes.” Francis breathed out the word while looking down. “We are equally unworthy.”
Edgar looked down. The comparison was insulting, but this twisted man could still be reasoned with and talked to. As long as he could find what made his enemy tick, Edgar should be able to deal with anyone. He took a deep breath. “Francis, your brother is gone. I could never stay the same if—”
“So that is it? That is your reason for being here? Stewart is dead, and Sabin is dead too?”
“N—no!” Edgar did not appreciate Francis’ lightness about Sabin’s hypothetical death. Again, Edgar was swallowing hard and avoiding eye contact.
“Ugh… As a royal, you don’t get to mourn your father; you get to succeed your king. The queen didn’t birth sons; she produced one heir and one spare.” Francis said. “If I have to explain this to you, it further proves how unfit for the throne Stewart was. And you are.”
“My father is the most celebrated king in the history of Figaro.” Edgar retorted.
“He died the youngest too. Maybe Figaro likes their monarchs dead.”
Edgar clenched his teeth and fists. Dad would have died even younger if it weren't for you, you scoundrel!
“I hope your miserable life is the longest known to man.” Edgar scoffed and then left the dungeon.
Edgar had hated Francis since he attempted to assassinate his dad. Prior to that, they hadn’t interacted much, but these exchanges were proving effective in creating an even lower image of him in Edgar’s mind.
Was he enjoying this? How miserable is someone whose only aspiration is to aggravate others? Not only is he a criminal, but he is resentful and belittling, as if he were owed something! He also considered Sabin to be his equal. Edgar shuddered. My brother? Equal to that man?!
Edgar was tempted to keep his mental rant about Francis, but he stopped himself.
The truth was that he had walked right into that man’s trap. Knowing of Francis’ cynicism and expecting it wasn’t enough. He had to learn to be undisturbed. He had to remain impersonal when his enemy tried to make it personal. It was a role to play, nothing more. Edgar had to grow into it sooner rather than later.
His father had said little about the way he and Francis were raised. He mentioned that his and Sabin’s mother wanted to raise them as children, not as functions.
Maybe Dad and Francis never saw each other as brothers. Sabin and I hated the idea of being mere cogs in the government machine, fulfilling functions, but that is how Dad and Francis were educated… Francis was an unsung one at that. The ‘spare’…
Edgar could never know what it was like for Francis. He could never know what it had been like for Sabin. What I know is that Sabin rushed to abandon this life as soon as he could.
Another day and Edgar was visiting Francis again. As soon as he stood outside the cell, Francis closed his two books to sit facing Edgar. They only stared at each other.
Edgar relaxed. “If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?”
“I am not some simpleton who cares for endowments. You cannot give me anything I want.”
“I did not think so. I want to know what kind of kingdom you were trying to create.”
“The same that everyone wants: a prosperous one.” Francis answered.
“And you thought you could create more prosperity than your brother?”
“Never.” Francis said, expressionless. Edgar’s face must have shown enough confusion, as Francis decided to explain himself. “It is not about the current state of the kingdom; it is about the path it follows. Stewart disgraced all traditions. His descendants, taking after him, will only bring more decadence, and with it, complete collapse.”
“If the royal line is so undeserving, then who would you appoint as king?”
Francis looked away and took a few breaths. “I do not know.”
“We are in a predicament, Uncle! There is no one around who can do a proper job, not even your unworthy self.”
“You say ‘Uncle’? Would you keep your uncle in a dungeon?” Francis didn’t give Edgar time to answer. “No. In a dungeon you put a criminal, not your uncle.”
“Your crime deserves the death penalty. You are in the cleanest, most private, and coziest corner of our dungeon—alive—only because you are my uncle—no! my father’s brother.” Edgar said.
“Exactly. None of you was ever capable of doing what you were supposed to; you half-do everything. At least I can make the hard choices.”
“Was it hard to try to kill your brother? Or to succeed in killing your cousin and her lover?”
Francis stared silently for a minute until his eyes twitched, barely perceptibly. “Inhabiting this wretched body is hard. Every day. Every minute.”
Edgar was immediately reminded of Sabin. Would his health deteriorate like Francis’s? Would he grow old to be just as bitter and cynical? Will he try to avenge Dad and get himself killed or captured? Stop! You are doing it again!
“It was not easy for Dad to keep you alive with so many important people asking for your head. It was not easy to love a peasant and marry her against the establishment.” Edgar choked up for a moment. “Dad made the hard choice of staying true to himself despite opposition.”
“Talking like the hedonist that you are.” Francis shook his head. “Being true to yourself is easy. Try being true to your nation, to God, to something greater than yourself. That is what it takes!”
“That is your excuse?!” Edgar grimaced.
“I do not need excuses.”
“You betrayed your own blood!!”
“I served God!”
Edgar stopped himself from arguing. Francis really thinks he was fulfilling a greater purpose. Isn’t that how Gestahl sees it too? How to tell? That despot would set the world on fire to light himself a cigarette and call it ‘the greater good’…
Francis took a deep breath. “The duty of the knight was to die for his lord, as he did; the duty of Guinevere was to live in celibacy and look after the land left by her late husband, which she did not. I claim no victims.”
Is duty all that matters? We fulfill our duties, then we are good people? “Tell me about your god.” Edgar asked with a calm voice.
“What for? You are irredeemable.” Francis said, his face unchanged.
“I do not look for a deity to pray to; I want to know what motivates you. You do not adore the gods of the nomads, right?”
Francis looked down and kept quiet.
Edgar pulled the golden bead necklace he wore around his neck. “For the coronation, I took vows and got baptized.” He brought out a large golden cross embedded with sapphires. “This is the symbol of your god, correct? The same that the first king of Figaro commended the nation to?”
“That drunken savage found the old forgotten scriptures and twisted their meaning to his advantage. I honor the scriptures.” Francis said, keeping his voice and head low.
“There is no pleasing you! We are on the same side and want the same things, but you chose to turn us into enemies when we could have collaborated.”
“The goal means nothing if achieved by foul means.” Francis said.
Edgar sighed. That is not wrong… But doesn’t he realize the error of his ways? “Uncle, what are the right means to pursue our goals?”
“Honor the tradition and follow its rules.” Francis said.
“Some rules are meant to be broken. Otherwise, how could we become better people?”
“The rules of men are meaningless. The rules of God make us better.”
“Your book was written by men. Chances are, the rules in it came from men.” Edgar said.
“Men make rules for their own satisfaction. The rules of God challenge us to relinquish satisfaction.”
Edgar took a deep breath and stood back. He frowned, letting his eyes wander as Francis’ words sank in.
Does he condemn every single thing that brings satisfaction? Those are the very things that make us human… He is such a miserable, pathetic, broken man…
“Sounds like you are on a mission to crush your own soul.” Edgar quietly.
Francis fixed his cold and immutable eyes on Edgar. “The soul cannot be crushed. If you feel crushed, that is just your conceitedness crying for mercy as it gets purged.” He said with a gravity in his voice that Edgar could only interpret as condemnation.
Edgar frowned and shut his eyes. He opened them to reciprocate Francis’ emotionless stare. “Did it crush you? When you betrayed your brother?”
For a fleeting moment, there was a spark in Francis’ eyes.
“Like you could never know.” Francis said quietly.
Edgar shook his head. “I am not sure I understand… I do not think I want to…”
After a while, Francis spoke. “Irredeemable, you are. I already said all that was worth saying.”
Those were Francis’ last words before going back to his reading. After this, he never talked again and spent his time immersed in his books, refusing to give attention to anyone.
Edgar had to acknowledge his commitment. Francis was depraved, but he was capable of incredible discipline and dedication. He is extremely loyal to his ideals. His process is solid, but his input is foul, so his output is also foul… No, that is not it. Other clerics live by the same ideals, and they do not turn out like that… Are his aspirations foul? He said he wanted prosperity, but not at the cost of our traditions…
The Chancellor knocked on Edgar’s office door before entering. “King Edgar, were your conversations fruitful? I am told that Prince Francis will not speak anymore.”
“It was an interesting exercise.” Edgar said, with some exhaustion in his voice. As king, I had the upper hand the entire time, and he still got to me; it was a major failure. I cannot let it get personal with Gestahl. If he brings up Dad or Sabin… I need to keep it together…
“Eldridge, I am trying to determine how much we can allow ourselves to surrender. Where do we draw the line with the Empire?” Edgar asked.
“Phrasing it in terms of ‘surrender’ is detrimental. As stewards of Figaro, we stand—even to the Empire—for the inalienable aspects that define the nation, namely its borders, its people, and its culture.”
Edgar sighed and lowered his head. Culture… including traditions and the rules that define them…
“Was it not what you wanted to hear, Majesty?” Eldridge asked.
“You make Francis sound sane.”
“Prince Francis always had a sound mind. But do not let a sound argument convince you of injustice.”
“Yes… Thank you, Eldridge.”
The Chancellor bowed and excused himself.
Is justice something mere mortals can achieve? The most we can strive for is a chance to get even—‘an eye for an eye,’ as Jeff used to say…
The satisfaction of laying my hands on the one who took Dad… … … …
The fire in Edgar’s chest craved for equal ground where he could do only as much harm to his enemy.
…It would only bring us closer to ‘making the whole world blind.’ Damn you, Francis; Jeff too is making you sound sane…
Edgar chuckled, betraying his righteous fury.
How would I ever be worthy of your love, my dearest Guinevere, when I keep failing at being as good a man as our incorruptible Jeff?