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A cascade of blood arched across the sky; the head of the fallen king was airborne, as if screaming up every last curse of the Earth up to Heaven, then fell into the dirt with all the grace of a sack of fat.
Christian Rosenkreuz had, through sweat-soaked bangs and blurry eyes, seen the blow dealt firsthand. He couldn’t have done much more than that, not without his dragons. They had been by his side throughout the entirety of the battle, as any Deck Leader ought, but the true fatal blow had come before the decapitation of the Yorkist king. How could it have all gone so sickeningly wrong? There had been a moment where it felt as though time had stopped - the world was nothing more than a chorus of agonized screams, louder than any battle could drum up in the throats of men. And in those screams, his dragons simply were no longer. And it wasn’t just him - everyone’s Deck Leaders, their faithful duel spirit companions, were just gone.
Rosenkreuz had been sure the battle would have ended at that point, but to his horror and disgust, it raged on nonetheless. And what could he do but die? His whole body felt like it had been torn apart, and he, unable to stand the sudden and shattering loss, fell down to the Earth, no different than the corpses around him. ‘What monster had found such power to decimate the duel spirits of hundreds of people?’ Christian couldn’t help but wonder as he laid in the blood-soaked grass. ‘Who would do such a thing? And what blackest magic could have made it possible?’
The truth was that it could have been anyone with enough ties to the old ways with enough desire to try and turn the tide of battle. That Druid, perhaps? Christian shuddered to think that it could have been one of his own Rose Crusaders, but the possibility still existed… Hot tears pricked at his eyes as the pain persisted throughout his body, and for the first time in his life, Christian knew intimately what it was to be truly alone.
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When Rosenkreuz realized that he was in fact not dead, every inch of him knew he had to run. Richard III had promised he and the Rose Crusaders sanctuary from the Catholic Church, and, given the day’s events, it was only a matter of time until they would all be executed for heresy.
“Somehow, I doubt our new king will honour the agreement set by his predecessor.” He had told the crusaders. As soon as they were able, they would all need to leave England and get the hell away from this cursed place. But things weren’t so easy - many of them had suffered terribly, and plans to get out of the country kept being replaced by plans to lay low in sympathetic towns and Yorkist territories. The sense that they were being pursued only rose in Christian’s gut; when he was finally confronted by Lancastrian, no, royal troops, it took a lot of careful negotiating (and a few veiled threats) to ensure that the Rose Crusaders would be left unharmed.
Rosenkreuz had been told that this was, by no means, an arrest. “Not yet, anyway.” They had said. Rosenkreuz wondered how much they knew. When he finally found himself having an audience with the newly crowned king, Christian found himself putting on the same forced smiles, and giving the same half-truths and platitudes that he had given to his predecessor. Yesterday it was Richard III, and today it was Henry Tudor. Though, of course, Christian barely knew a soul who called Tudor by his given name. Everyone had always addressed him as Tenebris. Christian wondered how many people were educated enough to know the etymology of such a nickname. He assumed that perhaps it would not have caught on had more people known they were referring to him as ‘darkness,’ but then again, the man’s deck leader (may it Rest In Peace) had made the nickname more than appropriate.
“We are prepared to offer official pardons to you and all of your Rose Crusaders in exchange for swearing fealty to the crown.”
Tenebris’ voice sounded softer than Christian remembered. ‘He must be just as weary,’ - the thought raced through Christian’s head faster than he could stop it.
“With all due respect, your Grace, I believe the Rose Crusaders and myself will still be departing England at our first possible convenience.” He noticed the pointed stares and leering guards. Wrong answer. Time to switch tactics.
“While your offer is more than generous, and your capacity for forgiveness truly great, I’m afraid that with the death of the old king, my brotherhood is no longer safe from the long arm of the Church.” The hissing whispers were expected, but Christian knew their danger all too well. ‘Heretic’ slithered out of covered mouths and bore into him from countless eyes.
Tenebris, however, remained silent.
“Can you offer my brotherhood, the Rose Crusaders, the same protection, your grace?”
He had expected a quick dismissal on the part of the newly crowned king, so he was visibly surprised when his question was met with more silence. Was he actually considering it…?
“…We’ll see.”
“Y-your grace, are–” Christian stopped himself; he couldn’t simply accuse the newly crowned King of England of lying in a room full of his guards and supporters.
“That is, thank you for considering our circumstances.” He spoke through gritted teeth.
The new king (and Rosenkreuz bit back bile at that, mind further than the English channel) nodded at him, satisfied. Rosenkreuz smiled a tired smile at him, before standing. His business was done here and he’d prefer to be anywhere else at the moment, honestly. He collected his things, ignoring the various aches and pains in his body, before a strange noise from Tenebris drew his gaze. The man was wheezing for air, desperately coughing like he was about to die.
When the hand lifted from Tenebris’s mouth to reveal thick black blood running endlessly down his face and palms, Rosenkreuz swallowed his heart back into his chest. He tried to show nothing but polite alarm as guards and attendants rushed to the king’s side, but internally, Rosenkreuz’s brain was screaming. ‘It was him, had been him all along! ‘Murderer, monster, tyrant!’ he shouted in his head. He was the one murdered everyone’s duel spirits; he cut them clear out of their souls like rot from an apple. And by the look on his face, he has no idea what he’s done, not really, because what could anyone do except bawl if they really understood? Disgusting. To sacrifice part of every single human being’s soul for mere political victory is disgusting. The way he cracks a pained smile at the others and wipes the black blood off as if nothing’s wrong is disgusting. Rosenkreuz’s fingers twitched – he wanted to yell, scream, choke Tenebris until he went still and finally knew the breadth of what he had done, but he didn’t. All he could do was stand there maddeningly still until he finally found the strength to will himself to move again.
He nodded to the new king and walked out, leaving him to his cursed fate.