Scene 3
Merciful Mathieu
The throne room of Dijon Castle had seen its share of coronations, but never one quite like this. Velvet drapes and banners of crimson and gold lined the walls, shimmering in the cold light filtering through stained glass. The nobles stood stiff as statues, resplendent in their finery, faces as rigid as if carved from stone. They clutched their cups and their rosaries, careful not to fidget, not to glance too long at the empty throne—or the bloodstains that had stubbornly resisted every attempt to scrub them clean.
Ah yes, it was a coronation of the purest sort, the kind meant to distract from the awkward fact that the previous king had been murdered by some of the very people in attendance.
Not that anyone was going say it outright, of course.
The assembled nobles and courtiers, to a man, made great show of bowing and scraping before the new king, even as they exchanged furtive glances. Each tried to gauge the mind of the young man they had conspired to crown. What would he do with his newfound power? Would he wield wrath like a weapon—or would he be as pliable as fresh dough, waiting to be molded by their hands?
Then, there was Margerita, the empress-widow, standing at the shadows of the scene like a specter that everyone pretended not to see. Her face was a mask of serenity, but her fingers gripped the hem of her gown like a lifeline. After all, the boy they were crowning was her son—and she, his father’s murderer.
And in the center of this charade stood Mathieu, every bit the awkward figure in a borrowed mantle that was far too big for him. He wobbled up the walkway, each step as stumbling as the somber song that echoed through the hall. His eyes darted, dancing from face to face, and he could feel the weight of their gaze like a noose tightening around his neck.
The crown, Léon’s dented crown—accessory of murder, as some wits had taken to calling it—gleamed dully in the torchlight where it rested upon a velvet cushion. Its twisted, bent edges hinted at its rather unique role in the final moments of the previous king’s life. One particularly popular account claimed that, during their assault, a conspirator grabbed the dying man's crown and used it to bash their skull in, as if to force some heavy-handed metaphors upon history.
The d’Ardres dynasty had always prided themselves on their iron will and unwavering ambition, wielding power with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
Mathieu, however, was more like a finely-crafted lockpick—delicate, hesitant, and not entirely certain he wanted to open the door in the first place.
As Mathieu neared the throne, he accidentally stepped on the foot of a courtier. The man winced and raised his hands reflexively, expecting a strike that would certainly follow. For the merest instant, the specter of Léon loomed between them—a phantom of harsh sentences and violent hands. But instead, Mathieu turned a shade of scarlet that clashed horribly with his ermine-trimmed mantle and mumbled a flurry of apologies, bending slightly as if he might gather the spilled dignity back into place.
The courtier, surely stunned, stayed still and silent, kept his pose, giving the monarch an empty, wide-eyed look. Mathieu straightened, cleared his throat, and tried to continue up the aisle with some semblance of poise, all while cursing himself for being so clumsy.
As Mathieu reached the throne and knelt, and the bishop of Dijon stepped forward, lifting the crown high as he began the sacred rites. The ceremonial words rolled through the room like the droning hum of bees, the bishop’s voice steady and solemn. But if one looked closely, they might see the beads of sweat gathering at the man’s temples.
Mathieu, for his part, wasn’t listening to a word of it. His mind raced with a litany of anxieties: What if the bishop accidentally drops the crown? What if one of the courtiers suddenly accuses Margerita right in front of everyone? What if someone tries to assassinate me right here and now? What if the throne’s legs give out under me and I break my nose on the marble floor? What if...
If one were to gauge the passage of time from Mathieu’s perspective, one could imagine that a painter could easily set himself in front of the scenery and paint it in immaculate detail, such eternally long was the moment.
And if one were to take his fears as fact, it could be presumed the painting would depict a scene of tumbling torches setting clothes alight, wanton murder, servants of Satan snatching courtiers, and a shattered floor sending straight to the latrine.
And yet, through it all, he maintained that same serene expression, the one that all young kings learn to paste onto their faces. He wore it well enough to fool our imaginary painter—but hardly well enough to fool a court full of men who had spent the last years reading the little tells of neurotic rulers.
At last, the bishop lowered the crown onto Mathieu’s head. It wobbled slightly, as if unsure whether to stay there. He couldn’t help but wonder if the crown had been properly cleaned. Could you remove the residue of regicide with just soap and sacred water?
The nobles applauded, as decorum demanded, but the sound was as thin, barely filling the cavernous hall. The very moment the bishop stepped back, the pretense of enthusiasm evaporated.
The courtiers began to scatter like bugs beneath a lifted rock, slipping towards the exits and side doors with all the dignity they could muster. Some still managed to offer stiff bows and strained smiles as they backed away, but most made a beeline for the nearest shadowy corridor, eager to flee this suffocating charade.
Mathieu watched them go, and a thought crept into his mind—a thought that turned his stomach to ice. If I wanted to, I could have them all brought to justice. I could hold the threat of execution against them, a Sword of Damocles wielded to force them to bend to my will, make them pay for what they did to my father...
The thought lingered, cold and tempting. But Mathieu shuddered at the very idea, a chill of fear running through his veins. He imagined the whispers, the rumors—Léon’s son is just like him after all.
He swallowed hard and called out, his voice cracking slightly in the cavernous silence. “HALT!”
The word echoed in the hall, and the nobles froze mid-step, turning back with expressions of apprehension and dread.
The next moments were obvious, playing each person’s head at once, he would now order their summary execution for their crimes. The royal guards even began to draw their swords, ready to massacre the traitors at the king's command.
Mathieu took a shaky breath. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, but he forced the words out, his voice wobbling like a poorly-tuned lute.
“I—I know there are... grievances. And I wish to begin my reign with a gesture of mercy. Therefore, I pardon those involved in... recent events. The past is past, and I seek to move forward.”
The stillness that followed was as solid as the stones of the castle walls. The bishop blinked, his mouth gaping. A few courtiers cast uncertain glances at each other, as if waiting for the punchline of some cosmic joke.
Then, like a cork popping free from a bottle, the nobles burst into jubilant praises, bowing and scraping even more fervently than before.
Mathieu, for his part, took this as a sign that his magnanimity had been well-received. He even managed a small, self-satisfied sigh of relief, a wise and benevolent ruler he certainly was.
As the nobles filed out through the grand, sweeping staircase that led down from the castle’s entrance, one man paused, closing his eyes and adopting the pious pose of a praying priest. “Oh, praise be to God, so kind and merciful, for He gave us such a magnanimous and...
forgiving liege,” he intoned. As he finished his theatrics, he opened his eyes and found himself exactly where he wanted to be—just behind his most despised, loathed rival.
Leaning in close to his ear, he whispered with a smirk: “This is for calling my cheese passé at the feast of Saint Remigius, you cur.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, he gave a firm shove.
The poor man tumbled down the stone steps, screams growing fainter with each flip and turn. When he reached the bottom, the final crunch silenced him—forever.
The remaining nobles stepped onward, perhaps not even noticing.
Except for one, who kicked the cooling corpse for daring to bleed all over his new boots.
Thoughts and notes
Here is our new king. Quite the change is it not?
In this scene i wanted to introduce our two main players in this ruler's narrative arc.
- First, obviously, himself, compassionate but a bit cowardly.
- Second, the nobility, who will be all characterized as scheming bastards. As demonstrated from the last paragraph, depicting their attitude whenever they belive they can get away with it.
Presume the guy died in the family guy death pose.
Anyhow, i hope the return of the previous format and tone is well liked, i spent quite some time rereading old parts to truly grasp what made them so fun.
