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Fitzroy hates feeling powerless. He thinks it's his least favorite feeling in the whole wide fucking world.
It's always been like that. He remembers the first time he felt it, one of his most vivid memories from his childhood. His youngest years were frankly uneventful. He was, by all accounts, normal, until intermediate school. That was when all the other kids in his little town started to get their magic. And he didn't. That meant he got left behind. Or worse, he got noticed.
The first time Fitzroy remembers feeling completely, utterly powerless, he'd been pushed into a wall, some kid twice his size demanding to know what he thought he was doing. He didn't know what he thought he was doing. He didn't know what he did, why this kid was so mad at him, he only knew that he was scared and that there was nothing he could do.
He'd been fine, nothing worse than a bruise here or there and a panicked lecture from his mother while his father stood in the corner and nodded along. He never forgot the feeling though.
It stayed with him through his tenure at Clyde Nite's Night Knight School. Every day that he walked those halls reminded him just how much more control his classmates had, with their money and magic. His parents had done everything they could to put him in that school, and it killed him to know that even with all of the effort he'd put in, his richer classmates would still come out ahead.
And then he got his magic. And he'd tasted what it was like to be powerful. It was good. There was something hiding beneath it, a bubble of shame like static that spread from his gut into his hands and feet and head, his mind so, so foggy as he stumbled out of his dorm for the last time and into his father's caravan. He felt numb. He'd blamed his lack of magic for every time he'd ever been picked on or made fun of, and then he had it, and he didn't feel any better.
When the letter came from Goodcastle, it felt like a second chance. He thought he could pull himself through Knight School, and it hadn't worked out, but somebody had noticed. Somebody wanted him to make something great of himself. Wiggenstaff’s certainly wasn't his first choice—despite its esteemed reputation, it had come in his mind to be a place for washouts who couldn't hack it in the big, laser-focused academies. Which, he guessed, described him pretty well.
And through all of it, through Wiggenstaff’s, through the brutal, devastating war he'd helmed—gods, he'd lost so much—through his coronation and the shredding of the last remnants of the rebellion, he's carried with him that feeling, that hatred, of being completely unable to change his situation, the worst feeling he's ever had in his life.
Except for this. This is worse.
Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt stands on the address balcony of his palace in Prosperity. He has his best dress on: a sleek blue vest, floral pattern like every other one he owns, over a black dress shirt with matching slacks. His classic burgundy cape weighs heavy on his shoulders, as his crown weighs heavy on his head. Rainer dressed him. Rainer has done everything, despite her vehement opposition to the whole affair. She even wrote the address, though he had plenty of input on that himself.
He's giving it now. The address. There's a crowd of Nua's people standing below him, packed into the plaza below him like sardines. He's saying the things Rainer wrote for him, the things that he agreed to say, but they're twisted truths and half-lies and he doesn't want to listen to himself say it. Every now and then he can hear the people below him cheering, jeering, he can't parse whether or not they're happy, if they're convinced by the things he's saying or if they still believe the narrative he constructed so carefully for so many years. It doesn't matter. This isn't for them. This is for him. Only for him.
Everything always was, wasn't it? Or—no. That was the half-truths again. Not one written by Rainer to ease the minds of the masses but one constructed by Fitzroy, to ease his own mind. Of course he cared about Nua. He wasn't mad. Mad people don't crusade continents for reasons other than personal gain. But no one crusades a continent and gets nothing out of in the end, either. All he wanted was to be strong, for someone to notice him. Never powerless again. Empowering the people of Nua along the way was a bonus.
He couldn't, though, wouldn't let himself believe that he was doing it for Argo. After all, if he was, he would be here. They would address the crowd together, tell them that the fight is over, that they would never have to worry again. Instead, he's here, powerless again even with the world at his fingertips. He chokes up on some throwaway line. He's run over this speech so many times in the last weeks that he knows it better than he knows himself, and this has never happened before. He grips the railing of the balcony. Someone cheers/jeers. He presses on, ignoring the sound of his own voice again. Rainer is close by, he knows, and she's watching him, and he knows she's judging him. Maybe one day, a long, long time ago, she would have understood.
Regardless, she has been indispensable. The end of the address is rousing thanks to her, and by the end of it the crowd is definitely cheering. None of them are close enough to see him, but he makes an effort to look pleased, then turns with a flick of his cloak and heads back inside.
As expected, Rainer waits for him there. She immediately launches into the things that still need to be taken care of. The two of them make their way down to the ground floor and out to the side entrance to the palace, where a carriage is waiting for them. Fitzroy doesn't say anything, just listens idly, nodding along as she talks. She's right, of course, these are all things that need to be taken care of, but he thinks they can wait just a little bit longer. He gently takes her hand and helps her climb the small set of stairs and settle into the carriage. He slides in after her as the driver secures her chair, and then they're off.
She stops talking as they depart the palace. Fitzroy isn't sure if she's actually done or if it's only a courtesy, but he appreciates it nonetheless. The cemetery isn't far, he knows, and he needs some quiet before then.
He hears the place before he sees it. It's packed. The carriage pulls to a stop at the front and Rainer puts a hand on his knee, telling him to wait. Fitzroy has a pit in his stomach. Even here, just a dozen feet away from his people, he can't tell what they're thinking. The crowd goes quiet as Rainer pulls her way out of the carriage and settles back into her chair. There's a path through the crowd right outside, straight from the entrance of the cemetery through to the mausoleum, lined with royal guards. He is, thankfully, safe. Rainer exchanges quick words with the herald outside, who looks surprised, but nods and takes a step back. Fitzroy takes a deep breath and steps out.
It's quiet still. The herald doesn't announce him, and he thinks to thank Rainer for it when they get inside. He doesn't think he could listen to it. He offers her his arm, and she takes it, and the two of them make their way up the drag.
There are people whispering now, as they head towards the mausoleum. He hears the quiet din, rolling through the crowd and towards him and he doesn‘t know what they're saying but he knows, he's certain that they're judging him. Their faith is faltering. Rainer squeezes his arm and pulls him back to reality. He isn't sure what he's thinking anymore. Maybe he is mad.
The gravel road gives way to marble stairs as they step up into the mausoleum. The chamber inside is somber. A few guards stand at the edges, watching carefully, and two more step into the doorway as Fitzroy and Rainer pass inside. The interior is bigger than one would expect, with high vaulted ceilings and a wing extending on each side. A few groups of people are gathered here and there. Nobody that Argo knew. Those people are hiding somewhere, fearing for their own lives at the hands of the people in this room. Fitzroy would give anything for those people to be in here. Rhodes, Buckminster, Leon. The firbolg. Suddenly he's choking up again, and Rainer digs her nails into his arm. He's so grateful for her, one last tether to the life he used to know, even if she's different now. And he's grateful that she's different now, too. He'd probably be dead if she wasn't.
At the head of the room is a cleric, waiting patiently as the two of them approach. Fitzroy hasn't met them before, he thinks. One of her people maybe, from the symbols on their robes and tome. He's momentarily wary—he’d made it exceptionally clear to her that there would be no necromancy involved today, but he trusts her to heed his wishes. They look kind, anyway. He's grateful for her again. The cleric stands behind the open casket, a wooden thing, expertly crafted like everything else he owns. He won't be buried in it, only a formality. There's a more distinguished place waiting for him after this is done.
Chaos is here too. Fitzroy is surprised at how long it took him to notice; they're easily the tallest and, well, brightest being in the room. He wonders if they came in through the front. How many people saw them. What they thought. He knew they'd show, though. Chaos wouldn't miss this for the world. Actually, maybe they would, Fitzroy decides dryly, but it doesn't matter, because they already have the world. He'd done the dirty work, and handed it to them on a silver platter.
They look impeccable. They'd always been the best dressed in any room, and today was no exception. They wear an ornate corset stitched with gold, with a velvet half-cloak attached at the shoulders and wrists. Beneath it is something sheer and sparkly. Their skirt is sleek, high at the front and perfectly floor-length at the back, the ruffled edge a bright gold contrasting the deep purple of the garment and matching the shining gold of their heels. Their shimmering hair is expertly tied into a bun with a chained hairpin connecting back to their temples. They're smoking something from a long, thin pipe.
They stand towards the head of the casket, seemingly studying its occupant. Fitzroy thinks it's fortunate. It means he can't see inside, not yet anyway. Chaos meets his gaze, bright white eyes fixed in a satisfied stare. They say nothing, only smile, and move on from the casket. Fitzroy stops. He still can't see inside. Rainer stops with him, looking back somewhat urgently, like there isn't time for his hysterics. She's right, like always. There's a crowd of people outside. Fitzroy can't remember what they're waiting for. Are they waiting for something? Rainer must know what it is, must have planned something, definitely told him but he doesn't remember it. He feels eyes on him, of all the people in the room. Officers, mostly. Advisors. Fitzroy’s people. He wishes they weren't here. They don't understand. He just wants them to go away.
Well, he's the king, and what he wants is what he gets. He whispers to Rainer, a command, maybe the first one he's given in weeks. Her expression is carefully composed, but the look she fixes him with and the briefest second of hesitation tells him she's annoyed. She does it, though, letting go of his arm and ushering these people out of the mausoleum and into the crowd outside. Fitzroy doesn’t spare a look until Rainer rejoins him. Then he scans the room. The only people left are himself, her, the two guards blocking the door, and the cleric, waiting patiently. Even Chaos has left. He wasn't sure if they would. They're the only being he can't tell what to do. He thinks he's owed this one, though.
He still can't see. He just can't do it. Rainer moves ahead a little ways, pulling on his hand, trying to coax him forward. It won't even be the first time he's seen him like this. Still, his feet are glued to the floor.
He must stand there like that for minutes. Rainer lets go of him, approaches the casket herself. To her credit, she does look upset. Of course. She didn't want this either. She has the world's best interest at heart. She has his best interest at heart.
Finally, finally, he takes a step forward. Then another, and another, until he's next to Rainer, looking down at his friend.
He still looks good. It's been a while, but Rainer’s people are good at what they do. Fitzroy can only bear to look at him for a few seconds before he screws his eyes shut, trying to fight the prick of tears he feels there. He searches his mind for a memory, something from when Argo was with him, but all his mind supplies is the feeling of his blade sinking into his friend's chest. He feels like he's going to be sick.
Rainer puts a hand on his back, grounding him again. Gods, he's grateful for her. He thinks briefly of the letter he got in the dream Chaos gave him. It feels like lifetimes ago. He never got that letter. He never saw that man. Whatever Argo saw in his own dream, he didn't get that either. Chaos had said he was a privateer, leading Fitzroy’s own Navy. Wouldn't that have been something. Admiral Argonaut Keene, captaining his own fleet in service of the crown. The two of them, together, tearing down the world and building something new, somewhere they could be happy.
He's crying now. He's not sure when he started, but he's braced on the edge of the casket and Rainer is rubbing small circles in his back and his shoulders shake with sobs.
They stand like that for a while. Rainer is patient, occasionally exchanging quiet words with the cleric. Fitzroy almost feels foolish, he can't believe Rainer's actually doing this for him, but he doesn't think she would if she didn't see the merit. Maybe after this he'll actually be able to fucking focus.
He takes a deep breath, as deep as he can without choking on it, and wipes a hand down his face. He takes a step back and nods at Rainer, who's smiling. He thinks it's sadly, but she might just be glad his hysterics are over. She grabs his hand and pulls him up behind the casket, next to where the cleric is standing. Then she heads back out to the front and brings the guards back inside. They return to their posts around the room, now with two to either side of the casket, and then the doors out of either wing are opened, and people start to move.
Oh. Right. The viewing. That's what he forgot. He can't believe all of those people are here just to look at his dead friend. He wonders how bad he looks, if they can tell just from looking at him how terrible he's doing. Most people who pass through don't pay him much mind, though—Fitzroy makes public appearances often enough. To see the Admiral up close was a much rarer opportunity, especially considering he would be encased in stone by sundown.
Even more surprising was the atmosphere. Rainer had told him, he remembered now, to be ready for anything. There was certainly a sect of his people that held some hatred for Argonaut Keene. The people like Fitzroy, who couldn't find a way out in the old world, set free by the things he created. These people though, they're… somber. He watches them, in through the east wing, past the dais, out through the west. A lot of them look sad. Maybe Rainer’s speech worked. Maybe they understand, even if it was necessary, this loss of life is tragic.
Was it necessary? He doesn't know anymore. His mind is starting to feel like static at the edges again. There's an arm over his shoulders now. It's… Chaos. Fitzroy isn't sure when they got there, and Rainer is eyeing them warily. She isn’t the only one. Fitzroy makes plenty of public appearances, but he can't remember Chaos ever being seen outside of the palace. The steady stream of people briefly slows as they try to get a good look at them. Fitzroy feels something wash over him—jealousy, he thinks eventually. They had to know that their presence would be noticed, how much attention they would pull away from the actual event. Then they're leaning down to him, and… they congratulate him. The fucking nerve. It knocks the wind out of him, tears threatening to spill again at a moment's notice. And then as quick as they were there, Chaos steps down the dais and out the front door.
Fitzroy is reeling. A few people are watching him. The guards are ushering them to keep moving, and they do, but slowly. Fitzroy turns, half-facing the wall and half-facing Rainer. He tries to compose himself. It doesn't work. He's done, and he tells her as such. Within minutes the room is cleared out, save for the guards and a few of his stray military officers. He can't bring himself to care. They've seen him worse. Maybe. Not really. Fitzroy doesn’t think he's ever been worse.
Rainer and the cleric exchange a few short words, and then… oh. They're looking at him. Waiting for him? Oh. Right. Okay. He steps down the dais, back to the front of the casket. Barely spares a glance as he pulls Argo close to his chest and lifts him out of the wooden casket. He thinks he might start crying again if he gets another good look. There's too many people here for that now.
He carries his friend up the dais and past the cleric’s podium. Behind it are two stone coffins. The one to the left is open, empty, waiting. The other is closed, but he knows it's empty as well. He hopes he lays there, one day. If Chaos ever lets him.
He gently lays his friend into the coffin. The cleric gives a short sermon of some sort. He's sure it's lovely, and he's thankful that Rainer organized it, but he just doesn't care to listen. He watches, detached, as they do some sort of blessing or something, and then the two guards who used to be standing astride the casket step up and push the lid into place.
And it's over. All of it. The whole thing, from the minute he stepped foot into Heironymous Wiggenstaff’s School for Heroism and Villainy—the name puts ash in his mouth and he didn't even say it—through the rebellion and the war and this godsforsaken day.
Rainer is next to him, taking his hand. It's… grounding, he thinks. He can't really tell. He equally feels sick. They stay there for a while, as the cleric delivers some closing remarks and the mausoleum clears out. Fitzroy hopes the crowd has thinned out. The thought of that many people, or anybody for that matter, seeing him like this, it makes him nauseous.
The cleric excuses themself as well, and then it's just Fitzroy and Rainer. Just like it has been. For years. Decades. And it will be. Always just them. He thinks, somewhat grimly, that even if Chaos really doesn’t let him rest, at least Rainer will be there with him. She's ready for her unnaturally long life, she always has been. He would hate it, but it would be better with her.
His mind wanders to all of the things Rainer reminded him of on the walk to the carriage. With the head of the insurgency cut off, the rest of them will die out soon enough. He wonders how many of them are people he used to know. It doesn‘t make sense to him, really. He supposes it's the same way Argo felt—whatever stopped him from understanding what Fitzroy was doing is the same thing that's stopping him from understanding them. Maybe he'll give the Guard a list. Tell them that he wants them brought straight to him, if any of them are still there. Maybe it's a bad idea. He'll ask Rainer. She has a much better mind for running an empire.
She squeezes his hand and it pulls him back to the ground. He decides to think about those things later, not because his head is too foggy for it anymore, but because he just doesn’t feel like it. It's time to go, he knows it. Rainer is drifting towards the door, not letting go of him. He feels cemented to the floor. It really is over. She tugs on his hand again and he looks at her. She's smiling. There's still a certain sadness in her eyes, and Fitzroy has never been the best at reading people—he has people for that now—but he thinks she looks happy for him. Should he be happy? It doesn't matter. It's time to go.
He moves, finally. Squeezes her hand back and takes a deep breath as the two of them step out of the mausoleum. He was right, the crowd has thinned out substantially. A lot of them were there for the viewing. But a lot of them are still here, and they look happy too. Maybe he should be happy. Isn't that what he told them in Rainer’s speech this morning? They were cheering by the end of it. He doesn't remember exactly what he said to make them do that. He practiced that speech for so long, and now that it's done, it's vanished from his mind. Probably for the best.
A few people call out to him as they make their way back down the main road. He doesn't respond, just serves a polite smile. The carriage is still in the same spot. They repeat their earlier actions, Fitzroy helping Rainer into the carriage and the driver settling her chair into its place. He climbs in next to her. She's taking slow, deep breaths, gaze trained on the floor. He takes her hand again. Her grip is tight.
It's not surprising. The few steps into the carriage used to be easy, but they're older now, and even necromancy can't stop the pain sometimes, even if she's wont to try. They're quiet on the ride back, Rainer continuing to take breaths and Fitzroy keeping a hand on her back, rubbing small circles. She's good at handling this, but it still pulls at his chest to see her hurting.
The carriage pulls to a stop and she moves to stand, but Fitzroy hooks an arm under her legs and lifts her off the seat. She looks surprised, but accepts it as he ducks out. Her chair is already there—his staff are professionals, of course—and he sets her down gently. She smiles at him. He smiles back, not even convinced by it himself, and they head inside.