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transemacabreFor background on the 'Five Things' challenge, see here.
I.
It happens so quickly that there's no time to breathe much less scream, and what's a scream good for anyway? The blade slips in like a lover's tongue. His hands tighten on Richard's shoulders, his knuckles are white. Little brother, he tries to say, but instead he coughs and tastes blood, it tastes like betrayal.
He's on his knees now, looking down to see the blood blossoming on his chest. He has always hated roses. Richard is saying something, but he sounds so far away, muted, as though underwater. Madman, he thinks, as Richard snags the crown from his head. Murderer. Betrayer. Brother.
As King John dies, King Richard is born. Little brothers are bad for your health.
II.
When the gate slammed shut, Eleanor was left with the ashes of her dead rebellion, a few servants, an empty drafty castle, and the child. Her child, the youngest child. Left to her as a cruel joke, Henry had said something pithy about not separating a child so young from it's mother, and so Eleanor was left with her littlest Eaglet.
John was the runt of the litter, dark and undersized, nothing at all like her other sons, who had been born blond and roaring like lion cubs. He took to following her about, a chick sheltering under it's mother's wing. When she would read letters smuggled to her from France, or simply sit at the window and brood, John would be at her feet. Waiting for a scrap of attention, one kind word. The single mercy was that he looked nothing like his father, one might think Henry didn't father him at all, although she of course knew that he did. That unseasonably hot Easter, sweating under the full moon, followed by ripping labor at Christmas.
Sometimes John came to her whimpering, after a tumble or a scrape. He could be so quiet it was easy to ignore him, to forget that he was even there, when he went about on soft little feet and hushed whispers. Hooded and wary eyes, at even this young an age John understood too well the need to look behind him, to choose his words carefully. One morning she came and sat by his bed, and stroked his forehead. "My John," Eleanor said, staring into green eyes just like her own. "You are the only son left to me, now that he's turned the others against me. My son. My avenger." And John pressed his face into her palm, and she knew that he belonged to her, and to her alone.
III.
Slowly, deliberately, John lowered himself down to
his father's
his brother's
his nephew's
his stolen
his throne and looked into the eyes of
Richard's gaze could be fearsome and smoldering at the same time, and oftimes John didn't know WHAT his brother was thinking, but the way Richard looked at him made him think of skin and fire and for some reason the French king and he'd do anything to get away from that gaze because what it might mean was too much-
Waking up in the middle of the night seeing/imagining/dreading King Henry's bloodshot pupils, "you are my only son, the others are the bastards" and wondering if his half-brother Geoffrey had lied about their father's last words-
His mother looked right through him, to Richard and Geoff and Hal-
Isabelle regarding him through a tumble of silky-blonde hair, eyes half-lidded and hungry-
his queen and took his rightful place
I have fought so long and so hard for this moment
I have betrayed everyone I know
I have MURDERED for this
I will never forgive myself
as king of this realm of England.
King John sat on his throne, alone, scepter in hand, and wept uncontrollably.
IV.
*click, click, click* went the prayer beads in his hand, and Jean's eyes were clenched shut with the fervent dedication of the devout. His prayer finished, he rose to his feet and rubbed his sore knees. "Amen."
His father's hand touched his shoulder and Jean smiled softly, leaning into the touch. Jean had always had a special devotion to the Apostles, drawn to his namesake John. "Come now," Louis said, and Jean loved his father's voice, the rich tones and the gentleness. "We shall walk together." Louis always made time for their walk, just the two of them, Louis walking in front, Jean following slightly behind. Their special time together, something Louis shared with no one but him. "Papa," and Jean was the only one who called him that, instead of pere. "Papa, I have been thinking... I wish to join the priesthood. To serve God. Only with your permission."
Louis pulls him close, their foreheads touch, and Jean closes his eyes. "I am so proud," Louis says, and Jean feels a hot tear on his cheek, one that is not his, and he knows his father is crying. "Of course, my son. Of course." And Jean has never been happier.
V.
He's laying here, and he's dying, he can feel the life seeping out of him. His servants are laughing in the next room, mocking him. "King John lost his crown in the Wash," they say, and he wants to crack some skulls. That was his *grandmother's* bloody crown. Her Imperial regalia. The only one he never wore. The one he was never fit to wear.
Isabelle is miles away, and even though he's not dead yet he knows she's lost to him. She is so young, she'll remarry before his corpse is even cold, he's seen her wandering eyes around court. But their son! Young Henry, so sweet, so trusting, so... godly. Bizarre to see a boy so young love Mass so much. He decides that old Louis was probably the same way at that age. And he hasn't thought about old Louis in ages, it's always Philippe Philippe Philippe, just like from Richard's mouth, "Philippe Philippe Philippe", except that there's a new Louis in France now and one day Philippe will molder in the ground. Just like Richard.
He thinks about his mistresses and all his bastard children, and England, fierce England who got him but never wanted him. Henry's heirs -- if the new Louis doesn't murder him and take the throne, the conniving French bastard -- will rule England, a long line of them stretching forever, tall and strong and blond (not like him, small and dark), a long line of Plantagenets from HIS seed, not Richard's. Not that there was ever any hope of heirs from Richard, no matter what their mother had thought, and that one bastard had been a fluke anyway. He imagines a long line of Johns, John II and John III and maybe a John XIII, and manages to smile.
Now it's dark and cold, and he's so small and afraid. But then his sisters are here with him, Tilda and Ella and dear Joan, who died bearing that little boy with Richard's name. "I'd hoped you would come," he says, and takes their hands. He wonders if this is just a dream, if he's truly dead yet, because surely John is not fit to go anywhere his sweet sisters ended up. But they take his hands, and behind them he sees Geoff and Richard and Hal, and is surprised because he can barely remember what Hal looked like, but he's not afraid. Any more. And he thinks, what the hell, and takes the next step.
I.
It happens so quickly that there's no time to breathe much less scream, and what's a scream good for anyway? The blade slips in like a lover's tongue. His hands tighten on Richard's shoulders, his knuckles are white. Little brother, he tries to say, but instead he coughs and tastes blood, it tastes like betrayal.
He's on his knees now, looking down to see the blood blossoming on his chest. He has always hated roses. Richard is saying something, but he sounds so far away, muted, as though underwater. Madman, he thinks, as Richard snags the crown from his head. Murderer. Betrayer. Brother.
As King John dies, King Richard is born. Little brothers are bad for your health.
II.
When the gate slammed shut, Eleanor was left with the ashes of her dead rebellion, a few servants, an empty drafty castle, and the child. Her child, the youngest child. Left to her as a cruel joke, Henry had said something pithy about not separating a child so young from it's mother, and so Eleanor was left with her littlest Eaglet.
John was the runt of the litter, dark and undersized, nothing at all like her other sons, who had been born blond and roaring like lion cubs. He took to following her about, a chick sheltering under it's mother's wing. When she would read letters smuggled to her from France, or simply sit at the window and brood, John would be at her feet. Waiting for a scrap of attention, one kind word. The single mercy was that he looked nothing like his father, one might think Henry didn't father him at all, although she of course knew that he did. That unseasonably hot Easter, sweating under the full moon, followed by ripping labor at Christmas.
Sometimes John came to her whimpering, after a tumble or a scrape. He could be so quiet it was easy to ignore him, to forget that he was even there, when he went about on soft little feet and hushed whispers. Hooded and wary eyes, at even this young an age John understood too well the need to look behind him, to choose his words carefully. One morning she came and sat by his bed, and stroked his forehead. "My John," Eleanor said, staring into green eyes just like her own. "You are the only son left to me, now that he's turned the others against me. My son. My avenger." And John pressed his face into her palm, and she knew that he belonged to her, and to her alone.
III.
Slowly, deliberately, John lowered himself down to
his father's
his brother's
his nephew's
his stolen
his throne and looked into the eyes of
Richard's gaze could be fearsome and smoldering at the same time, and oftimes John didn't know WHAT his brother was thinking, but the way Richard looked at him made him think of skin and fire and for some reason the French king and he'd do anything to get away from that gaze because what it might mean was too much-
Waking up in the middle of the night seeing/imagining/dreading King Henry's bloodshot pupils, "you are my only son, the others are the bastards" and wondering if his half-brother Geoffrey had lied about their father's last words-
His mother looked right through him, to Richard and Geoff and Hal-
Isabelle regarding him through a tumble of silky-blonde hair, eyes half-lidded and hungry-
his queen and took his rightful place
I have fought so long and so hard for this moment
I have betrayed everyone I know
I have MURDERED for this
I will never forgive myself
as king of this realm of England.
King John sat on his throne, alone, scepter in hand, and wept uncontrollably.
IV.
*click, click, click* went the prayer beads in his hand, and Jean's eyes were clenched shut with the fervent dedication of the devout. His prayer finished, he rose to his feet and rubbed his sore knees. "Amen."
His father's hand touched his shoulder and Jean smiled softly, leaning into the touch. Jean had always had a special devotion to the Apostles, drawn to his namesake John. "Come now," Louis said, and Jean loved his father's voice, the rich tones and the gentleness. "We shall walk together." Louis always made time for their walk, just the two of them, Louis walking in front, Jean following slightly behind. Their special time together, something Louis shared with no one but him. "Papa," and Jean was the only one who called him that, instead of pere. "Papa, I have been thinking... I wish to join the priesthood. To serve God. Only with your permission."
Louis pulls him close, their foreheads touch, and Jean closes his eyes. "I am so proud," Louis says, and Jean feels a hot tear on his cheek, one that is not his, and he knows his father is crying. "Of course, my son. Of course." And Jean has never been happier.
V.
He's laying here, and he's dying, he can feel the life seeping out of him. His servants are laughing in the next room, mocking him. "King John lost his crown in the Wash," they say, and he wants to crack some skulls. That was his *grandmother's* bloody crown. Her Imperial regalia. The only one he never wore. The one he was never fit to wear.
Isabelle is miles away, and even though he's not dead yet he knows she's lost to him. She is so young, she'll remarry before his corpse is even cold, he's seen her wandering eyes around court. But their son! Young Henry, so sweet, so trusting, so... godly. Bizarre to see a boy so young love Mass so much. He decides that old Louis was probably the same way at that age. And he hasn't thought about old Louis in ages, it's always Philippe Philippe Philippe, just like from Richard's mouth, "Philippe Philippe Philippe", except that there's a new Louis in France now and one day Philippe will molder in the ground. Just like Richard.
He thinks about his mistresses and all his bastard children, and England, fierce England who got him but never wanted him. Henry's heirs -- if the new Louis doesn't murder him and take the throne, the conniving French bastard -- will rule England, a long line of them stretching forever, tall and strong and blond (not like him, small and dark), a long line of Plantagenets from HIS seed, not Richard's. Not that there was ever any hope of heirs from Richard, no matter what their mother had thought, and that one bastard had been a fluke anyway. He imagines a long line of Johns, John II and John III and maybe a John XIII, and manages to smile.
Now it's dark and cold, and he's so small and afraid. But then his sisters are here with him, Tilda and Ella and dear Joan, who died bearing that little boy with Richard's name. "I'd hoped you would come," he says, and takes their hands. He wonders if this is just a dream, if he's truly dead yet, because surely John is not fit to go anywhere his sweet sisters ended up. But they take his hands, and behind them he sees Geoff and Richard and Hal, and is surprised because he can barely remember what Hal looked like, but he's not afraid. Any more. And he thinks, what the hell, and takes the next step.
