Alsatian Island
TNPer
- Pronouns
- he/his
- TNP Nation
- Alsatian Island
The date is March 10, 1949.
The King is in hospital. No, not Richard. Llywellyn the Third.
He looks in the mirror. The man who is supposed to be King... reduced to a husk of grey, balding, white-haired, wrinkled skin and bones. He watches the doctors rush about beside him, one coming up to him. The King notes how nervous he looks, and although he clearly knows it's bad news, he's too numb from a mix of drugs and just a complete indifference to his eternal suffering and pain.
"Your Majesty, I'm afraid... it's not good news. Your fracture is severe. When you fell over, you severed your ankle completely. For example..."
He points down at the King's ankle.
"I probably shouldn't be able to see your bone and a massive wound around it."
The King, ignorant to his own pain, glances up at the doctor in a mix of understanding and downright anger.
"I don't care. I want to see my son. He's got cancer, and I don't care if it kills me, I want to be there with him. I can't just die here slowly while my son is in pain." And that's with the expletives withdrawn.
The doctor just looks down at him, unable to really tell him that he can't go and see his son, or that his wound is infected.
"You have not quite understood the severity of what we're talking about. It's infected. Your wound, it's infected."
The drugs instantly wear off from the King's hubris, and he goes from anger to sober solemnity.
"Will it get better?"
The doctor hesitates and trembles.
"Out with you!"
He finally speaks up. "No. You have... about two weeks to live." And he leaves, just like that. He leaves a shattered King looking at his dying body in a small, broken mirror, with his increasingly pained and concerned thoughts.
No, he couldn't die like this. Not when his son was ill. Not when he hadn't seen his grand-nephew's birth. Not when he hadn't seen his grandson get married. Not when he'd just missed his brother's funeral.
It hit him that the next funeral in his family would be his own. At least he'd be able to attend this time.
The morphine wore off. A sudden, sharp sensation stabbed at the old man in the ankle, but this was nothing compared to his mind. And that's when he realised two men were coming towards him. One... that's Richard? That's his grandson? And Elizabeth, the woman he married? To think they were children... twenty years ago? Ten years ago? Who knows anymore. And the sad looking elderly man slumping towards them... that's his son. His son was elderly and decrepit.
He and his son first exchanged looks. They were both looks of intense inner pain masked by intense outer pain, both looks of nearing death, both looks of suffering and perhaps even... was that a longing for death? His son... longed for death? That wouldn't go away.
And with that, he closed his eyes. He didn't want to close his eyes. But he wasn't in control. He wanted a new body, one that worked properly, one that wasn't in intense convulsion...
He felt a sensation on his hand. The voices of his grandson and son.
"It'll be alright, Father."
"You'll pull through, grandfather, won't you?"
"No, he won't."
The words "No, he won't." rang through his head. The doctor arrived, at least presumably, as he no longer had his eyes open, and softly told them that he was in the final stages of dying. The dying man's breath rattled as his body slowly shut itself down, the abhorrent noise ringing in his ears and sending his mind into a frenzy. The death rattle.
His son sat next to him, and he only really knew it was his son when he started speaking.
"I'll be fine, Father. You know I will. You know our family, you know how when I was diagnosed, I didn't give up. I promise to you, as your legacy"... the word "legacy" reminding the old man that he was on his deathbed at this point... ", that I'll always stand up for you and what you believe by making sure that I fight against this horrific disease. I know you won't be there with me, but you will in spirit."
The voice of the doctor. "Yes, he will."
His grandson just held his hand - and noted how cold it felt - and whispered "Goodbye, grandfather. I wish I had gotten to know you better. I love you. We'll make you proud...", and then the sound slowly drained out. Goodbye. I guess this is what death feels like. A slight mumbling as the doctor probably notes his time of death, and then a complete absence of sound. His life slowly flashed before him. All the memories, his family, many of whom had passed years prior to him... Anne. Not Anne. Please, not memories of my loved one. When a bullet... when it passed through her hair, when she slumped onto my shoulder all those years ago, the blood, the whispering "please" before her complete absence of response, the chaos both inside and outside the automobile... why does his brain have to torture him like this? He's dying after all, but why? Will his final legacy be one of a pathetic pained look on an old, cold, blue man's face, one of suffering and incessantly remembering the passing of someone else? Is that his final goodbye, to say goodbye to someone else, to trouble his relatives, not to be able to say goodbye...
he hadn't said goodbye. He tried to get up to say goodbye, but no feeling came back. His eye flickered for a moment, but nobody noticed. It was hopeless, meaningless, he could never truly say goodbye to people who would probably forget him in a year's time. Why bother? Why go through more pain and suffering to achieve something? Why can't I say goodbye to my family? He just told himself that he'd say it mentally, and hope that it reached them. Then he collapsed back, gave in to Death, and passed on.
Time of death, six thirty-seven pm.
The King is in hospital. No, not Richard. Llywellyn the Third.
He looks in the mirror. The man who is supposed to be King... reduced to a husk of grey, balding, white-haired, wrinkled skin and bones. He watches the doctors rush about beside him, one coming up to him. The King notes how nervous he looks, and although he clearly knows it's bad news, he's too numb from a mix of drugs and just a complete indifference to his eternal suffering and pain.
"Your Majesty, I'm afraid... it's not good news. Your fracture is severe. When you fell over, you severed your ankle completely. For example..."
He points down at the King's ankle.
"I probably shouldn't be able to see your bone and a massive wound around it."
The King, ignorant to his own pain, glances up at the doctor in a mix of understanding and downright anger.
"I don't care. I want to see my son. He's got cancer, and I don't care if it kills me, I want to be there with him. I can't just die here slowly while my son is in pain." And that's with the expletives withdrawn.
The doctor just looks down at him, unable to really tell him that he can't go and see his son, or that his wound is infected.
"You have not quite understood the severity of what we're talking about. It's infected. Your wound, it's infected."
The drugs instantly wear off from the King's hubris, and he goes from anger to sober solemnity.
"Will it get better?"
The doctor hesitates and trembles.
"Out with you!"
He finally speaks up. "No. You have... about two weeks to live." And he leaves, just like that. He leaves a shattered King looking at his dying body in a small, broken mirror, with his increasingly pained and concerned thoughts.
No, he couldn't die like this. Not when his son was ill. Not when he hadn't seen his grand-nephew's birth. Not when he hadn't seen his grandson get married. Not when he'd just missed his brother's funeral.
It hit him that the next funeral in his family would be his own. At least he'd be able to attend this time.
The morphine wore off. A sudden, sharp sensation stabbed at the old man in the ankle, but this was nothing compared to his mind. And that's when he realised two men were coming towards him. One... that's Richard? That's his grandson? And Elizabeth, the woman he married? To think they were children... twenty years ago? Ten years ago? Who knows anymore. And the sad looking elderly man slumping towards them... that's his son. His son was elderly and decrepit.
He and his son first exchanged looks. They were both looks of intense inner pain masked by intense outer pain, both looks of nearing death, both looks of suffering and perhaps even... was that a longing for death? His son... longed for death? That wouldn't go away.
And with that, he closed his eyes. He didn't want to close his eyes. But he wasn't in control. He wanted a new body, one that worked properly, one that wasn't in intense convulsion...
He felt a sensation on his hand. The voices of his grandson and son.
"It'll be alright, Father."
"You'll pull through, grandfather, won't you?"
"No, he won't."
The words "No, he won't." rang through his head. The doctor arrived, at least presumably, as he no longer had his eyes open, and softly told them that he was in the final stages of dying. The dying man's breath rattled as his body slowly shut itself down, the abhorrent noise ringing in his ears and sending his mind into a frenzy. The death rattle.
His son sat next to him, and he only really knew it was his son when he started speaking.
"I'll be fine, Father. You know I will. You know our family, you know how when I was diagnosed, I didn't give up. I promise to you, as your legacy"... the word "legacy" reminding the old man that he was on his deathbed at this point... ", that I'll always stand up for you and what you believe by making sure that I fight against this horrific disease. I know you won't be there with me, but you will in spirit."
The voice of the doctor. "Yes, he will."
His grandson just held his hand - and noted how cold it felt - and whispered "Goodbye, grandfather. I wish I had gotten to know you better. I love you. We'll make you proud...", and then the sound slowly drained out. Goodbye. I guess this is what death feels like. A slight mumbling as the doctor probably notes his time of death, and then a complete absence of sound. His life slowly flashed before him. All the memories, his family, many of whom had passed years prior to him... Anne. Not Anne. Please, not memories of my loved one. When a bullet... when it passed through her hair, when she slumped onto my shoulder all those years ago, the blood, the whispering "please" before her complete absence of response, the chaos both inside and outside the automobile... why does his brain have to torture him like this? He's dying after all, but why? Will his final legacy be one of a pathetic pained look on an old, cold, blue man's face, one of suffering and incessantly remembering the passing of someone else? Is that his final goodbye, to say goodbye to someone else, to trouble his relatives, not to be able to say goodbye...
he hadn't said goodbye. He tried to get up to say goodbye, but no feeling came back. His eye flickered for a moment, but nobody noticed. It was hopeless, meaningless, he could never truly say goodbye to people who would probably forget him in a year's time. Why bother? Why go through more pain and suffering to achieve something? Why can't I say goodbye to my family? He just told himself that he'd say it mentally, and hope that it reached them. Then he collapsed back, gave in to Death, and passed on.
Time of death, six thirty-seven pm.