The very first structure to be rebuilt amongst all the rubble and collapsed passages littered about the city was the castle. It once stood at the very center, towering high over the citizens from atop the tallest hill, and so it would be that those spires of glittering marble be remade, polished, given even greater worship. The people labored restlessly to clear their holy site. When given the order to gather, they did so willingly and without pause. It was only natural. To them, the castle and its splendorance was what represented the spirit of Francia.

  These people needed comfort, and so they found it in the familiar embrace of the Lord they so cherished all these years. They gave up their riches, their sweat, their blood and tears. They did this all so that the castle would shine once more, illuminating the path that which they should next follow.

  Piece by piece, stone by stone, until the halls were lined with gold once more. After weeks of effort, they had finally done it. They stood under the shadow of the mighty palace and the strength it represented. It rose grandly above as a monument to their hopes and the resolution they swore in their hearts: Francia would live. Even should they lose everything, even if their brothers and sisters were to fall, Francia would prosper.

  For the emperor still lived, and today he was to take his rightful place on the throne and inherit the crown of Francia.

  The people gathered in droves atop the castle’s courtyard. They were not allowed within for this momentous occasion, but nonetheless their spirits were bright, and they prostrated themselves, kneeling low, on the grass. They raised their arms up in reverence and waited for the conclusion of their lord’s ceremony.

  Deep inside, past the gates and closed off doors, a procession of priests somberly marched through the dimly lit halls. They raised aloft small wicks of incense and scattered its smoke to the far reaches behind, where many more priests, paladins, and figures of the faith walked on, their voices joining in a shared litany. “Almighty God, unto whom all grace be open,” they uttered. “Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts, that we may perfectly love thee, and worthily revere your holy will, through the avatar of your child. Sing his name, o’ Mother. Let all know he is good and cherished. Charlemagne, our beloved Charlemagne. Gold runs through his veins and touches his lips. Charlemagne, our dear Charlemagne. Let this land never forget. Let it be rung all through the starry heavens: His name is Charlemagne, the holy emperor.”

  At the very center of the group, there rested a figure veiled in delicate golden robes. Their face was covered and their features were masked. Onward, they shuffled as the sound of their steps were drowned by the deep, rumbling prayers of the masses. So dense was the procession around them that the figure’s tiny form could hardly be made out, yet there was a powerful air that lingered, settling within their quiet breaths.

  “Are you certain about this, my young friend?” a certain gentleman by their side asked, to which he received a soft laugh in response.

  It was soft but also subtly pained. The figure in the robe, the boy whose duty he knew had to be inherited, could not respond to the gentleman for some time. He lifted his fingers and touched his heart, feeling the chaotic beat hidden from all else. It was loud. It was nervous. But nonetheless, he had to continue.

  For in his veins ran a lineage of gold.

  “Thank you for being with me, Lucius,” the boy said. “But… this is what I have to do. What I was born to do.”

  “The one person who can decide your fate is yourself, Karolus. You will always have a choice.”

  The boy paused for a moment, reflective, but in the end his mind was set. These chains that bound him here, he chose to wear them willingly.

  “... You’re the only one who still calls me that name, now that Uncle Ganelon’s imprisoned,” he eventually spoke. “You should probably stop as well.”

  “That sounds quite silly, when it is undeniably you.”

  “Why do you say so?”

  The gentleman chuckled. “Because you still believe it so, my friend. Your words reek of surrender and relent, but in your bosom I still see a love desperately clinging tight, refusing to let go. You adore Karolus even now, don’t you?”

  The boy rubbed his hands, his expression ridden with guilt. “I can’t, Lucius.” He didn’t explain himself any more and kept his silence, perhaps fearing that if he talked further then the courage he worked to build would come helplessly tumbling down.

  Lucius as well spoke not another word. He simply remained there, by his side, and guided him to the site of the priests’ long march.

  Eventually, they arrived at a pair of imposing doors, which soon gave way to reveal a massive chamber filled entirely with expecting eyes. The judiciary, the priesthood, and all seven remaining Peers: they gazed upon the veiled visage of their lord and, without a word, prostrated themselves as the young boy strode into the room and basked in rays of filtered light. It was as if a rain of feathers had come daintily falling, and it surrounded Karolus in a cloak of white.

  He stayed there, silent, and beheld the sight before him. There at the far end stood a solitary throne. It peered from atop a flight of steps, ever perpetually looking down on the faithful below. It laid there, where none else could reside, the sole seat and legitimacy only one could hold.

  What did it look like, in Karolus’s eyes? To see that grand and mighty throne descended from countless ancestors he could never possibly know. Lord after lord, those who were kind, those were despots, the sacred and peerless rulers of yore: such immense glory and heritage that throne embodied, and now it was the boy’s turn to surrender himself to the tides of history.

  Were they watching him, now? The golden, gleaming eyes of Francia’s forebearers. The weight of their legacy and the fervent wishes of the people, they weighed down on Karolus, crushing him. He struggled to approach that lofty seat, for he knew the moment he claimed it for his own, there would be no turning back — the freedom he so desired would be forever buried, relegated to nothing more than a passing dream.

  And in those nights he would spend alone, coddled within this gilded cage, the words of his father would return to him. Those vile words, the curse he spoke during his final moments. “Charlemagne, mine Charlemagne,” he’d whisper. “The people will fear you. The people will envy you. You will never be one of them, for in our blood runs a stream of gold.”

  Perhaps this was his destiny from the very beginning, as it would be for his children and their children to come. Francia cared not about its ruler’s character. Karolus was nothing more than a vessel to pass on the empire’s divine posterity.

  Yet, even so, he approached the steps leading to his imprisonment. There was no grand reason why nor desire for doing so. Perhaps Karolus himself didn’t know. Right now, he was merely following the path expected of him, willfully allowing his strings to be puppeted by the agelessness and perpetuity of his noble line.

  When at last he stood at the base of the throne, Archbishop Turpin shuffled forth and bowed his head, before turning to face the audience.

  “My faithful brethren,” he began. “Today we have gathered all who love, and serve, and worship the Lord in Their endless love, steady in our belief no matter the tragedy, to honor this blessed occasion that we may welcome and adore the new rightful sovereign of the empire.”

  Thus did the people speak, “Grace be to His Holiness, the emperor.”

  “To you, who hath served this court, and to our undoubted liege: Wherefore all you who come this day to do your homage and service, are you willing to pledge your loyalty and undying allegiance?”

  Thus did the people reply, “We pledge our spirits and our blades, from this day hence and to our final days.”

  A loud bell clanged three times, the sound echoing all throughout the chamber as the people held their breaths and remained still.

  When Archbishop Turpin was satisfied with their answer, he brought out a bowl of golden oil and dabbed his fingers in it, before steadily approaching Karolus and anointing his forehead with the sign of the Frank’s God. Then, he lowered his head and raised his hands, arching them up in worship.

  “Lord Almighty God, the selfless Mother whom granted us with life, we entreat thee with devotion and humble prayer, that you shall grant thy child and most faithful servant the grace of gold, that no obstacle may impede his rule of the church and the people; but by the might of the Chivalric Blade and the wisdom of the Holy Star, he might love the people subject to him.

  “May our liege, Charlemagne, son of God, who was anointed by this humble priest with the oil of rulers’ past, by this infusion remember his responsibility and duty, and make it penetrate unto the depths of his heart, that our land shall prosper ever more whilst we await the fateful reunion with our Mother.”

  The Archbishop stood back up and walked toward the throne, where with careful reverence he picked up the crown, of which was encrusted in crystals of white and purest black. He brought it toward the young emperor-to-be and prepared, at last, to swear him into Francia’s historybooks.

  “Your Holiness, will you solemnly promise and pledge to rule, with compassion in your heart and benevolence in thy soul, over the people of Francia and its territories?”

  Karolus hesitated. This was what he had prepared for, yet it was in these moments that the boy couldn’t help but feel a bit listless. He could feel the crown beckon to him, whispering the voices of his predecessors. “Take it, Charlemagne. Sit upon the seat of our antiquity. Relish in it, give yourself up to it, for that is your duty. The way of the lord.”

  He stood there for a long while, drenching himself in his people’s pressure, their anxious murmurs wondering if aught was wrong.

  Yes, this was his destiny, what he was always meant to be — what the people wanted him to be. How could he possibly atone for all his father had done? How could he give these pitiful souls comfort, if only by extension of his existence?

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  Everyone had a choice. Some were difficult, whilst others were made without a thought. In the end, Karolus made his choice.

  He buried his dreams of freedom, the truth so desperately longing to be set free, and thus donned a new mask.

  The mask of the lord, the holy emperor Charlemagne.

  “I do,” Karolus swore.

  “Will you use your power, your divine given might, to maintain the laws of God and bring prosperity to wheresoever you walk?”

  “I do.”

  “Will you pledge to uphold the tenets of Chivalry, to lead the advance against the forces of evil and wickedness as a warrior of good and righteousness?”

  “I do. All this, and more, I will devote myself until my soul returns to the Mother’s embrace.”

  “Then let it be so. I, Archbishop Turpin, as proxy of the church and all of Francia’s faithful, hereby crown you, Charlemagne, as the empire’s new ruler. May you go with grace, to love and serve the Lord.”

  Thus did the people shout, “Amen.”

  Turpin raised the crown and, ever gently, placed it on Karolus’s head. The boy closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before stepping toward the throne and taking his inevitable place on its seat.

  So it was that this day marked the beginning of Emperor Charlemagne’s reign.

  Soon, the chamber filled with celebration and rigorous cheer. They congratulated young Karolus and moved to honor him personally, bringing him all sorts of gifts and treasures so that they might curry his favor. Through it all the boy tried to maintain a regal air, but Lucius could see the fatigue in his half-hearted words, his once bright expression now so very tired.

  Just as the last of the commotion quieted down, a tense mood began to sweep through the people. Festivities were all well and good, but there was another matter at hand that had to be settled, one that involved the gravest of crimes: treason.

  The shuffling of chains soon echoed amongst the chamber. Those of the judiciary moved to their respective places and nervously waited as the sound grew louder, deeper, until the doors were pushed wide open; and a disheveled, dirty man caked in grime shuffled forward, his appearance openly mocked by a few in the audience.

  His arms, legs, and even neck was chained in weathered cuffs. He wore only tatters for clothes and reeked of a stench so foul that those nearby had to turn away. Yet, despite how meagre he seemed, there was content in his eyes, or rather acceptance. He knew what would soon await him; but rather than despair, he held his head up high, sneered, and maintained the image of a dastardly scoundrel to the very end.

  “Haha, what’s wrong you lot?” he said, goading the people. “To think just a month ago you were all slobbering over my boots, begging for me to give you the tiniest scraps of power. Don’t try to look so dignified now. It’s unseemly.”

  The paladins standing guard had to stop a few audience members from descending into a fit. Lucius had to admit, the man was a master at riling people up, taunting them until they were reduced to no more than frothing beasts.

  But he wouldn’t have the opportunity to speak any further, for young Karolus held up his hand and ordered for everyone to calm down, silencing them with only his firm gaze.

  That gaze disappeared the moment he saw his uncle, how low he had fallen. Despite what Ganelon did to him, all the years he spent ensuring the boy would never see the outside, Karolus couldn’t bring himself to fully hate this man who once raised and, although twisted, loved him. Yet sympathy would do no good now that he was officially emperor. He had to act in accordance with Chivalry: to be fair, to be just, to never let one’s bias sway them from the unfeeling arm of the law.

  No longer were they bound in kindred relationship. Now, Ganelon was simply a sinner, one whose crimes had to be judged.

  “Ahem,” Turpin began. “Ganelon, you have been brought here on this sacred morn to be judged for thy heinous crimes of treason, in which you purposely planned the assassination of an archbishop, raised a rebel force to besiege the castle, and acted in heresy and sacrilege of the Lord’s teachings. Your sins are many, and your transgressions deep. This is your only chance to defend yourself, old friend. How do you plead?”

  Ganelon bid the Archbishop a wry smile and shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s not drag this out, hm? I think we all know what’s coming. You’re right, Turpin; I did all of that and more. I’ve spent the last five years doing my very best to make this nation as miserable and wretched as its citizens. There, haha, happy?”

  The Archbishop shook his head, disappointed. “So you plead guilty, then.”

  “Think whatever you want, gutless fool. I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Ganelon… why be so forward? Behind those wrathful eyes, I still believe there to be the boy who so innocently wished to better his people. You have sinned, of that there is no doubt, but if you continue to remain so bitter then it will stain your soul, and even the Mother shall not save you from your eternal damnation.”

  Ganelon scoffed. “Come now, whatever graces the Lord had for me has long since been cast away. Hell is inevitable for me. At this point, I’m just waiting to be first in line.”

  “And you are truly alright with so harrowing a fate?”

  “I’ve been ready for a long, long time.”

  Turpin sighed and hesitantly raised his gavel, before delivering his verdict. “I am sorry, old friend. By your own admission, you have pleaded guilty, and so all that remains is for His Holiness to announce your sentence. Do you have any parting words for the court?”

  To that, the dandy fellow enthusiastically replied, “Why, I actually do! Haha, it’s funny how you all wish to put the blame on me, but do you really think I acted alone? Of course not. If I’m going down, I’ll be bringing the rest of this nation’s rot with me. Lucius! Be a dear and help me, won’t you?”

  The gentleman leaped from his seat and did a dazzling twirl in the air, before landing gracefully right next to the Archbishop. The audience members whispered amongst themselves, confused, and Lucius even got a few dirty looks from his fellow Peers; but what was a fellow to do when asked so politely?

  “Here you are, my good sir,” Lucius said, handing the Archbishop a large sealed binder.

  “Hoh…? Whatever might this be?” Turpin asked.

  The answer to that, Ganelon would speak himself. “That, my incompetent little friend, holds a list of names detailing every greedy mutt who’s involved in my dealings, as well as documents, ledgers, and other evidence neatly compiled for your viewing pleasure. I didn’t force them to do a thing. Every person you see there aided me out of their own volition, some of whom, in fact, are in the chamber at this very moment!”

  Almost immediately, a guttural swarm of dissents and panicked cries rang out as those who once belonged to Ganelon’s faction attempted to explain themselves. Their tantrum wouldn’t last for long, for the Peers quickly flung to action, spreading themselves until not a space was left unattended. There would be no foolishness whilst in the audience of His Holiness.

  “Is that what you’ve been doing all this time, Sir Lucius?” Roland asked him. “I thought it strange how busy you were, but never did I imagine Sir Ganelon of all people to request your help.”

  “What can I say? I believe in the potential of everyone, whether they be hostile or amiable.”

  Ganelon let out a disgusted groan. “Creepy as ever, but that’s fine. You did good work.”

  Archbishop Turpin opened the binder and combed through its contents with a grave expression. “Indeed, indeed… such documentation offers little way of misunderstanding. With this, it shall not take long before Olivier and his administration can unravel the corruption rooted in our empire. For this, I thank you, Ganelon.”

  “Haha, don’t mention it.”

  “But it does not change the severity of your crimes.”

  “I wasn’t expecting it to.”

  “Then why?”

  Those few words held far more than could be spoken. Why did Ganelon help the priesthood, when all this time he despised them and this nation? Was it to get revenge on those who betrayed him? Was it a last, bitter accusal of how filthy the inner castle truly was?

  To that, the former High Tribunal replied with a simple laugh.

  “I hope you like my gift, Karolus,” he said. The spite and loathing he once wore as armor was no more, giving way for a much softer, more gentle, acceptance. “Don’t turn out like this old fool, alright? And don’t let those parasites out there get to you. Being the emperor is nice and all, but I’d rather you be happy.”

  The regal air Karolus had been putting forth momentarily cracked, and in its place came a mournful young boy.

  “Uncle…” he whispered.

  Ganelon leaned back, let out a yawn, and then lazily waved toward the door. “It’s time, my boy. You know what has to be done.”

  Indeed, the audience members were becoming all too fed up with Ganelon’s rudeness, and they implored their liege to be swift in his judgement. Turpin as well brought out a scroll and pen, waiting to write in history the very first command of His Holiness, Charlemagne.

  The boy stayed quiet, brooding in his seat. He was to be a fair and exacting lord. He couldn’t let past memories blind him from his duty.

  And so, Karolus opened his mouth, and he gave Ganelon the punishment he truly believed was right.

  “From henceforth, Ganelon Dordognes, you are sentenced to life imprisonment in the underground gaol, where you shall never again hold power, or influence, or sway over this nation. Your nobility will be revoked and your wealth redistributed to the victims of your schemes. That is my verdict, as the acting emperor of Francia.”

  The whole room fell silent, most of all Ganelon who stood rigidly in place, dumbfounded; but it wasn’t because he felt the punishment too harsh — far from it. He had prepared himself for death.

  “... Really?” Ganelon stuttered. “Life imprisonment. My boy, you can’t—haha—let yourself be so soft. You are the emperor. You have to be fair, and frankly as odd as it is to say from my own lips, you really should be putting my neck under the guillotine.”

  The audience members were left in quite a baffled state as they found themselves agreeing with Ganelon for once, but despite their protests Karolus remained firm in his decision. It wasn’t out of pity or altruism that he did so. On the contrary. This was the cruelest, and most suitable, judgement he could deliver.

  “You can’t die, uncle,” His Holiness said. “You need to live, so that you can witness with your own eyes that your choices were wrong. The people aren’t all filthy, or greedy, or selfish. While you rot behind those bars and think about everything you’ve done, the lives you’ve taken, how you could’ve changed, helped, or become a better person had you just tried to, for once, trust in someone beside yourself, I will be out there proving that you were nothing more than a cowardly hypocrite.”

  Karolus had to collect himself, lest he expose to his subjects a vulnerable, teary-eyed boy. “And sometimes, I’ll even come visit you. I’ll gloat in your face and talk all about the people I’ve met, how I guided them away from the wrong path, or maybe even about the new legislation I’ll pass so that someone like you will never have the chance to become so bitter again. Because they’ll be happy. Everyone will be happy, and even if they aren’t I’m going to do my best and believe that, someday, this land will be better; and in the end you’ll be the only villain left, shackled where you’ll never feel any joy ever again. I won’t let you run away so easily, uncle, and that’s why you have to live. For the sake of everyone you’ve wronged, live and suffer.”

  Ganelon was left utterly speechless. He stood there, frozen still, and struggled to wrack his brain over Karolus’s impassioned tirade. When the weight of his boy’s words finally caught up to him, the former High Tribunal chuckled to himself, and he faced Karolus with a bittersweet acknowledgement.

  “Impressive,” he said with all the sincerity of his heart. “You’ve become quite cruel, my boy. Quite cruel… as you wish, I’ll be writhing in agony to the last of my days.”

  Karolus bid him an awkward smile in response and nodded. “Goodbye, uncle. May your woes be many.”

  With that, the paladin guards hoisted Ganelon up, and they took him away. Before he left the room, however, Ganelon raised his shackled arm and shouted for everyone to hear.

  “It’s been a displeasure, you lot. Goodbye and good riddance!”

  The audience had wished to see Ganelon squirm, to jeer at him, broken and beaten, as despair and remorse filled his guilty conscious for having dared to blaspheme against their lord and nation. But the man they saw here was far from repentant. He lived shamelessly in his youth and he would continue to do so even now.

  He was a vile, selfish, and pitiable soul. He lived a truly despicable life, but even fiends like him had their pride, something they weren’t willing to give up. For Ganelon, that was his stubbornness.

  To the very end, he played a most entertaining villain.

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

  [The Distinguishedly Dandy Gentlemen Hall of Fame]