Lucius scuttled above the wobbling, shaken Ganelon whilst he lurched through the castle’s halls. Dear, oh dear… the High Tribunal was a complete mess. His withered face, his sunken posture: This and all he wore, battered after countless days of setback after mistake after utter disappointment. The man could feel it, his grasp over this city loosening. His pawns moved not as he expected anymore. Yet, no matter how he tried to investigate, the gentlemanly Lucius was always one step ahead of him, always skulking just out of sight before he could arrive.

  Nonetheless, the spark of hope within him had still refused to dim. If he could just carry out this last plan, replace the Archbishop and instate his lackeys to gain control over a majority of the castle’s political powers, then there might be a path out of this mire. No one would bother him anymore. No one would be capable of stopping him.

  Lucius smiled, silently watching as he always had. Hope was such a terrible thing. It gave comfort in one’s darkest hour, encouraged them to persevere no matter the difficulty faced, and yet… there existed no deeper, no more gut-wrenching a horror, than when it was pulled away at the last moment. Could Ganelon withstand it? Would he remain his ever arrogant self?

  There was no point in asking such questions, for soon Lucius would have the chance to witness the answer himself.

  Eventually, the High Tribunal entered the priestly district of the castle and met up with a few paladins belonging to Sir Pinabello’s faction. They were ordered to guard the premises and allow none through - no one, not even the Peers. Such meagre forces would have little capability of stopping the empire’s finest warriors if it came to a scuffle. However, they didn’t need to prevail; they weren’t expected to, their only purpose being to delay and buy as much time as possible.

  Of course, such a scenario was but a precaution. Ganelon didn’t actually expect anyone to intrude, for this meeting of his was organized in utmost secrecy, with only those of his inner circle and the Archbishop privy to the exact time and location. Unfortunately for him… a certain gentleman had already bribed the very candidates he would have made into a puppet.

  Those same, shady priests now flocked to Ganelon’s side and accompanied him to the arranged meeting point. Lucius had a most delightful tea party with them just a few days before. Now, it was time to see whether they’d keep their loyalty… or repay the gentleman’s ‘friendship’.

  At last, the group arrived at their location. Ganelon walked up, cleared his throat, and then knocked on the door. It soon opened, revealing the elderly face of Archbishop Turpin.

  “Ah, Ganelon! I did not expect you to come so early.”

  The High Tribunal bid him a strained grin and kept a cordial tone. “My business concluded sooner than I thought. May I come in?”

  “Of course, of course! Though I know not why you requested so sudden a meeting, my company shall always be available for an old friend.”

  Ganelon brushed past the elderly priest without a word and made himself comfortable on a worn chair. Unlike the gilded crystals and decorations of the Venerated Sanctum, the branch situated within the castle was of much humbler furnishing. This was where Turpin spent most of his day-to-day activities; and true to his oath of Chivalry, he cared not for wealth or struggles over power. He was the very picture of a model priest.

  Yet it was because of his faith that he did nothing in the midst of Pepin’s rule.

  The other priests soon followed after Ganelon, as well as Lucius who managed to sneak inside, unseen, before the entrance was shut.

  “Hm? Oh my, I thought this to be a private meeting,” Turpin said, glancing at his fellows in robes. “Whatever has brought you fine folk to this simple old man?”

  Ganelon made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t mind them. Just some people worried about your health. You haven’t visited the Sanctum in some time, yes? The council of elders are worried that you might be pushing yourself due to this whole demon affair.”

  “I see, I see. Who am I to turn away my brothers and sisters of the cloth? Bishop Remigius, Bishop Petra, even Aldric of Burgundy… I give my warmest welcomes to you all, though it does puzzle me why those who’ve spoken against my policies the most would now care about my health.”

  The leader of the shady priests, Aldric, bowed before the Archbishop. “We are all servants of the Lord, Turpin. Though I may disagree with your views, it changes not that we wish for the continued prosperity of the empire.”

  Turpin let out a satisfied guffaw and stood up, preparing refreshments for his guests. “Well said! We mustn't be divided during these troubling times. It pleases me to see my brethren now in a more agreeable mood; but where are my manners? Sit, sit! I was just brewing a nice cup of tea. Sir Lucius taught me the recipe, and I must say the gentleman knows his blends. I’ve felt like a man ten years younger after he introduced me to this Maghrebi Mint. Who knew the Saracens grew such fascinating plants?”

  After setting a few cups down, the Archbishop took a seat in front of Ganelon and slowly sipped his drink. He sighed, savoring the refreshing taste, and glanced up with eyes blurred in recollection.

  “It has been quite a while since we last had a casual chat, hm?” he said. “We’ve both been busy men ever since his late Holiness’s death. No, perhaps even farther back.”

  Ganelon’s expression didn’t change. He cupped his hands and humored the Archbishop, flattering him until the elderly man’s guard was all but gone. “Yes, responsibility often leaves no room for pleasantry. I don’t think I’ve spoken to you in private like this since I was still in the academy.”

  “Hoho, you were so young then, so bright and precocious. Having a smart boy like you in my class was the greatest gift a teacher could have.”

  “You were much sterner, then. That I clearly remember. All you needed was to flaunt your flail for the students to behave.”

  “I, too, was once brash and full of spirit. Now I simply wish to spend my days quietly and rest these aching bones.”

  The Archbishop raised his wrinkly hand, the palm littered with blisters and scratches, before grabbing Ganelon’s own. “Ah, how the years pass by. Before I knew it, you became just like this old man, your eyes heavy with weight. I daresay your will is even more stubborn than mine. Why don’t you be more lenient with the younger Peers, hm? Such stress must be because you fight and bicker with them so often these days.”

  “I’m just doing what I believe to be right. If Roland and his retinue can’t accept that, then bicker longer we shall.”

  “Now, now, don’t be like that. There must be some common ground betwixt your differing stances. How could such an excellent mediator as you be unable to compromise? Why, during Pepin’s time, you handled the nation’s affairs all by yourself—”

  “Turpin,” Ganelon uttered, his voice threateningly sharp. “Not another word.”

  The Archbishop opened his mouth as if to protest, but in the end he merely sighed and reclined into his seat. “How long will you allow the past to haunt you, my boy? You cannot act so prickly whenever one is to mention his name.”

  Ganelon’s veins practically bulged out of his head, his smile moments away from devolving into a hateful snarl. He managed to reign his frustration in and took a long, deep breath, before continuing. “Haunt me? It does no such thing, Turpin. Those years are my motivation, in fact! It reminds me of what I must do and the reason I toil so laboriously for it. Unlike you, who pretends to have had no part in that monster’s rule, I choose to acknowledge it.”

  “Ganelon, you cannot call a former emperor of Francia a monster—”

  “Then what would you call him?" Ganelon challenged. “Our beloved ruler? The avatar of the Lord? If that’s truly how you see that thing, then you are no less responsible for the massacre he caused.”

  The Archbishop had no retort to give, no excuses he could cry. Even a man so devout in faith as he could not deny the horrors committed by the one he was to treat as fully divine.

  “Even so, we have our traditions,” the man replied after a somber moment. “The Lord is not perfect. The Eagle, the Blade, and the Holy Star… God divided itself into three, for it knew the power of an absolute One would inevitably cause it to err. Then They gave unto us the rule of law, of Chivalry, and constructed the foundation of what would become the church and the Order, so that Their child’s descendants could always find guidance if they ever lost their way.”

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  Ganelon scoffed. “Well? How did that work out for us, hm? Both the church and the paladins did nothing.”

  “That is not true. We maintained discipline and kept the people’s faith strong.”

  “At the cost of those we clamped with shackles.”

  The Archbishop sadly nodded. “And that shall forever be our sin to bear. But remember, Ganelon, it is religion that comforts the people in times of need. It is what keeps us whole, what encourages us to be our betters. Had we allowed that loyalty and trust to falter, then it would grow over the years, turning small cracks into gaping splits, until this land our Lord so kindly bequeathed to us would fracture in a storm of rebellious dissents. How could we ever face our descendants in Heaven, if we were to be the cause for this empire’s fall?”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Turpin. There is no we. It wouldn’t be our fault. The blame lies solely on the shoulders of one man.”

  “But it cannot; or rather, must not.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he, too, was once the direct incarnation of God, and it is the duty of us subjects to bear his faults, make up for his wrongs, so that none shall ever have cause to doubt the sanctity or legitimacy of the emperor’s right to rule. Such perceptions would also encourage rebellion. We must believe that the emperor was swayed because of our lacking guidance, rather than his nature being set from birth.”

  The other priests agreed with the Archbishop, spouting the importance of maintaining the church’s strength, its influence over the masses… though their concern lay more with consolidating power rather than for the people’s benefit. The only one who didn’t agree was Ganelon.

  “It’s always about faith with you priests…” he began, voice deep as a bitter irony crept onto his tongue. “And really, haha, I’m quite tired of hearing about it. All of it. Religion this, religion that, the insistent need to slobber over scripture just to come up with an excuse for everything that goes wrong in this damnable nation! It’s all just so exhausting.”

  The Archbishop stood up and furled his brow in shock. “Ganelon! You must know the implications of—”

  “I know full well the weight of my words. A less important man would have already been thrown into the gaol, but me? I’m smarter. I clawed my way to this position, did all of the former emperor’s dirty work, so that I could be free from hypocrites like you.”

  Ganelon threw his head back and laughed. “It’s amusing, it really is! How a cowardly and indecisive old fool could ever think so highly of himself, when all you’ve ever done is lick the emperor’s boots. I have not a morsel of respect for you, Turpin. I never have. In all the times I’ve deceived and took advantage of your blind faith, all I could think about was how sweet it would be to silence your constant, never-ending babbling.”

  The Archbishop’s face turned pale, and he soon moved to run away, only to be stopped by the very priests he thought fellows shared in faith.

  “Y-you’ve gone mad,” Turpin said, tripping over his words.

  “Mad? No, I’m furious.”

  Ganelon sank into his seat and rubbed his sore, aching shoulders. “I’m furious at the priesthood, for hiding behind their gilded church as Pepin slaughtered as he pleased. I’m enraged at the paladins and the Peers, for never once entertaining the thought of raising their blade against their debaucherious liege. I’m mortified at myself, that I could not kill that man sooner, and that it was by the intervention of another rather than with my own blade. I want to curse it all. I want to get rid of it all; but, I suppose I’ll have to settle with you first.”

  “You mean to kill me?”

  Ganelon chuckled. “Well, not at first. Really I was just going to encourage you to step down and whatnot, but you've changed my mind, Turpin! Isn't that just fun? If it wasn't for your constant, constant need to spew all this inane nonsense, I would've made the mistake of letting a miserable wretch like you live. That's my bad. I forgot how truly disgusting you are."

  “This is sheer insanity, Ganelon. You would defile your own soul, and for what? What provoked such drastic change—”

  The Archbishop suddenly stopped. He looked at Ganelon, and then he looked at his own, decrepit hands. Grief soon smothered his voice. It wasn’t because he felt his end was near or even because of Ganelon’s betrayal. No, it was because he knew exactly when and why such fury had corrupted his once-treasured pupil.

  “Ganelon,” he whispered. “It is not you, or anyone’s, fault that Gisela—”

  The High Tribunal rushed up to Turpin and grabbed his collar, before screaming directly into his ear, “Don’t you utter her name, you gutless whoreson! How dare you. How dare you even think about using her against me!?”

  The Archbishop wheezed and struggled amidst Ganelon’s grip, yet nonetheless he persevered and tried to bring the man back to reason. “It was a tragedy, a horrible, terrible tragedy which none could have ever expected.”

  “No. Don’t feed me those lies. If you actually cared, you would’ve done something, anything, to stop him after that day. Even when I begged, groveled at your door, and pleaded for you to help me slit that bastard’s neck, you turned me away and said I wasn’t of sound mind. You abandoned her and refused to acknowledge her very existence the moment she died.”

  Turpin sucked in his breath, guilt worming into his heart. “And what would that have achieved? We of the priesthood protested in the proper manners. We tried to make our voice known—”

  “You should’ve picked up a weapon and swung! You should have gathered every priest and paladin in Francia and attacked him until not a shred of his flesh remained.”

  “Ganelon, you know that could never be a possibility.”

  The High Tribunal choked him even harder. “Say it, I know you will. Say the same excuse you’ve spat over and over for all these years. Why couldn’t you stop him?”

  The Archbishop sputtered, his eyes turning red as blood rushed up and darkened his face. “Because… because…”

  Ganelon looked at the elderly man, and for a moment there was no hate, no spite or loathing whatsoever in his sunken expression. Instead, he was only hollow, unfeeling.

  Ganelon released his grip on Turpin and watched as the priest fell into a pained, gasping mess on the floor.

  “Is it because he was God’s chosen?” he said. “Is it because attacking him would doom your soul to eternal damnation? No, not even close. The true reason… is because you were afraid. When on that precipice of life or moral obligation, you chose to serve and abandon your integrity. That is why I despise you, Turpin. And that is why you must die here, alone, helpless to watch as the light in your eyes slowly dims. You know why? Because that is exactly what she had to suffer.”

  Ganelon descended onto his knee and, ever slowly, manifested a blade of wind into his hand. He held it to the Archbishop’s throat, bringing it closer, deeper, until the edge drew blood.

  “She was only twelve,” he muttered, a tear dripping down his cheek. “No matter your principles, no matter what you thought, you should have helped me take him down; but you didn’t. So, goodbye, Turpin. May you rot in your beloved paradise, forever.”

  The Archbishop winced and closed his eyes, accepting his death. Ganelon deliberately and sadistically leaned forward, tensing his arm, until—

  Until he was pulled back by a sudden jerk.

  “... What?”

  He turned around, only to see the visage of the three senior priests he thought on his side. One rushed forward to grab the Archbishop before taking him safety.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Ganelon said, stunned by their sudden actions. “Oh for Stars’ sake… didn’t you fools want this as well? I was going to make you Archbishop! So why, haha, put on this useless display now?”

  The priest called Aldric nervously took a step back; yet nonetheless he confronted Ganelon and spoke back with a harsh tone. “Perhaps your words be true, but only one of us can inherit Turpin’s title. After slaving away under your command, what would become of those not chosen? For what reason should we continue to serve when the Archbishop’s seat would already be taken?”

  The High Tribunal stared at them, incredulous. “Oh dear, I underestimated just how greedy you lot are. Is the promise of comfort and influence not enough? It’s just a damn title. I hold all the power. I… agh, forget this. I don’t want to waste another word on you parasites. There’ll always be someone else willing to take your place.”

  A violent squall of wind tore through the room, cutting the walls, the furnishings, and battering all those inside with little cuts and nicks. Despite Ganelon’s clear hostility, however, the priests remained firm in their ways.

  “You are surely powerful, yes,” Aldric grunted, shielding himself against the storm. “But we know of someone greater - someone even a man like you can only cower before.”

  “Haha! That is ridiculous. Just who do you think’s coming to help you? I already scoured the vicinity. The paladins will stop anyone from interrupting us—”

  Ganelon froze.

  Just a second ago, he had been entirely in control, everything was in his favor, but the moment his ego had reached its highest point… he heard a sound. A familiar hum.

  The jolly tune of a most distinguished gentleman.

  “Do pardon me, my dandy friend, but I must ask that you stop.”

  He turned around, his face devoid of color, and he trembled. He stumbled away out of fright and held out his arms; for there, standing elegantly before him, was the good Lucius in the flesh.

  “No…” Ganelon murmured, unwilling to accept Lucius's presence. “It can’t be.” He wished to believe the gentleman was just an illusion, some blur of light or a trick of the eye caused by stress, but there was no denying the reality—he was there. He was waiting.

  Lucius let out an amused chuckle, before tipping his top hat out of greeting. “Good evening, Sir Ganelon. I believe we have much to talk about.”

  The Esteemed Gentlepeople of the , to whom I am forever grateful

  [The Distinguishedly Dandy Gentlemen Hall of Fame]