The Tragedy Of Frederick XIV

ONE. 

“The Gallows.”

The guards dragged a man through the gallows. His eyes were flushed and red and his face was swollen from holding his breath, for he refused to allow even a single tear to fall. The guards pulled the man up the stairs; the soddened and weathered wood creaked and bounced with each step. They carried the man across the stage of the scaffold to the Hangman, whose eyes were buried in the hollows of the hessian-burlap fastened to his face.

A crowd had gathered in the gallows. Among them was King Theobold, The Crown of the Northern Empire, who sat front and center of this spectacle. King Theobold raised his hand, and the crowd reduced its whooping to a whisper. “Centy Milione. You have been charged with, tried, and convicted of embezzlement and treason of the highest order. You packed your purloin-purse with pilfers, and compromised the integrity of our nation. You are hereby stripped of your duties as High Commander, and for your transgressions, you shall reimburse The Crown with your life.”

Centy drew a deep breath, but before the Hangman could cinch the rope, Centy coughed to the crowd. “I, Centy Milione, am a convicted man, and I maintain my innocence. But since my sentence is irrevocable, I have only one request that I wish, in my final moments of life, to be granted.”

King Theobold flicked his wrist, and the Hangman stepped away from the edge of the scaffold’s stage. “And what might that be?”

“Someone is missing from the crowd, and I would like for that person to be present. Seeing their face would comfort me.”

“Who?”

“Frederick The Fourteenth.” 

Rory, a Captain of The Northern Imperial Army, climbed out of the crowd and approached King Theobold. “I shall fetch Frederick for you, Sir.”

“Very well. We shall resume upon your return.”    

* * *

Frederick XIV stepped away from the window in his bedchamber. The spectators had gathered in the gallows below and they were jeering loudly as the Hangman held the nape of the man on the platform. Frederick threw his back to the wall near the window, working his thumb and pointer into the fissures of his forehead. “One moment I’m the Chief Officer, and in the next I’ll be High Commander! High Commander…I’ll likely be crowned tomorrow. I must prepare!” Frederick, at his desk, retrieved paper and a fountain pen, then began to write:

Dearest King Theobold, our Illustrious Crown, 

I am most truly obliged to you— 

An image twinkled in his periphery. 

Across the room, above the mantle, there was a painting: a portrait of three men of similar stature and countenance to each other, also to Frederick XIV but to a lesser degree. From on-high, they stared down at Frederick XIV as he crossed the room towards them. “Tomorrow I shall be named High Commander of the Northern Imperial Army, and I will follow in your footsteps. And maybe one day my personage will join yours in portraiture.” He received two knocks at his door. “Who’s there!?”

“Celia, sir. Captain Rory would like to join your company.”

Frederick opened the door to reveal Celia, the chambermaid, and Rory a step behind her. Rory: “Sir, there has been a request made for you.”

“What is the nature of this request?”

“Am I allowed inside?” Frederick ushered Rory inside. “King Theobold has granted Centy one wish.”

“Has he not been executed?”

“In only a moment’s time. But never mind that, Frederick. Centy’s wish is to see you.”

Frederick flew across the room and away from Rory. “See me!? For what reason!?”

“Frederick, you are but his dearest friend. What is the reason for your delay?”

Frederick turned his back to Rory. “There is no reason other than that I would not want to see a hanging in the gallows.”

“But you have witnessed your fair share of executions.”

“None of which have been dear friends.” Frederick said.

“So what shall I tell Centy…?”

“Tell Centy that my love is with him. And that his visage shall be forever reflected in my duties.”

“Of High Commander...?”

Frederick nodded his head. “I’ll likely be crowned tomorrow. His ill repute shall be absolved with me.”

“Ill repute!? Are you suggesting that you believe Centy to be guilty?”

“Centy was convicted.” Frederick kicked at the lint littering the floor. “Whether I believe that he is guilty or innocent matters not. His shadow will swing in the gallows inevitably.” 

“What am I hearing, sir? Have you not shed a tear at the thought of his absence?”

“Yes. Many times.”

“Then how could you dare allow him to leave without one final show of your affection?”

“I think that it is best, for both he and I, to not meet under such conditions, no matter how sentimental.” Frederick turned his back to Rory. The crowds below began to bellow beneath the cloudy sky. Rory sneered, slamming the door behind him. Frederick XIV to the portrait: “Father, Grandfather, Great-Grandfather, I hope that after the ceremony tomorrow, you’ll acknowledge me as one of your own; an aurora in the sky of our heritage. I hope that I will have proven myself worthy in thine eye.”

King Theobold belted out from the gallows. “Centy Milione.” Frederick returned to the window, but did not look out. “You have been charged with, tried, and convicted of embezzlement and treason of the highest order. You packed your purloin-purse with pilfers, and compromised the integrity of our nation. You are hereby stripped of your duties as High Commander, and for your transgressions, you shall reimburse The Crown with your life.” Frederick’s face twisted centripetally into his head, wringing out but one tear that trekked the contour of his cheek to his chin. King Theobold: “Hangman! Allow Centy Milione to pay his debts.” The wood of the gallows outside creaked. The lone tear from Frederick’s face croaked when it splattered across the floor. And the sound of Centy’s final grunt echoed.

TWO. 

“Patrilineage.”

The wind stirred recklessly, carrying waves of rainwater across the land. Lightning found Frederick's bedchamber and thunder clapped in his ear, waking him from his slumber. He held his aching head. “Celia…Celia!”

The chambermaid rushed inside with a candelabra. “Yes, sir?”

“I cannot see.” With the candle from her candelabra, she lit more candles, placing them at various spots throughout the room. “Fetch me a glass of water. My head is tender and sore.”

Celia left the room. Frederick laid on his pillow until he heard a voice: “Son.” Frederick opened his eyes, and standing at his bedside was his father, Frederick XIII. “We must go now.” 

Frederick could see his grandfather, Frederick XII, staring out of the window, and Frederick XI, his great-grandfather, admiring the portrait. “Father. Grandfather. Great-Grandfather. Why must you leave now? I seek wise counsel.”

“Your ways have offended us.” Frederick XI said. 

“There is no way that we could accept you as you are.” Frederick XII said.

“And we will not offer wise counsel. Your legacy is now your own.” Frederick XIII said.

Thunder hammered and lightning seemingly struck the center of the bedchamber, forcing Frederick XIV to shield his eyes from the blinding light. Frederick opened his eyes. “Father! Father!” Frederick searched the room, but they were gone. 

In their wake, he padded across the parquet floor to his mantle. He squinted at the portrait, and what he saw poisoned his heart. Only the three heads of his patriarchy remained; their bodies had disappeared entirely.

Celia handed him the glass of water. “Are you okay?”

Frederick kept his face in the fold of his elbow. He thumbed up at the portrait. “Tell me what you see, Celia.”

“Your Great-grandfather, Grandfather, and Father.”

“Can you see the whole of them?”

“Yes, sir, I can.”

“I must rest.” Frederick chugged his glass of water, and sent Celia away before climbing sluggishly into bed. He laid with his eyes wide. The torrent raged outside.

“I Declare War!”

Frederick snapped his fingers. “More spirits!” He reclined in his gilded chaise lounge with a glass in his fist which Celia refilled. Frederick finished the glass in one gulp, then dropped it; the thick crystal thumped across the varnished wood. He stumbled from the chaise lounge and grabbed a hold of two harlots, and they guided him to the bed.

Present were two Officers, Francis and Giles, each heaped with a pair of women, and spirits in their mitts. “How’s it feel to have an empire under your command!?” Francis jeered.

grand. 

“And the luxury to rest on your laurels in the lap of an impregnable Kingdom!?” Giles said.

swell. 

Frederick looked to the women. “Kiss me, will you?” The two women pressed their faces into his. He received a knock at the door. “Who dares disturb me!?” Frederick burped.

“Celia, sir!”

“Are you aware, Celia, that we are engaged in official military duties?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why do you bother our securing of this great nation?”

“The Chief Officer says he must see you now.”

“Allow the sap in.” Rory rushed in. “Mr. Rory, Chief Officer! Have you come to join in the luxuries afforded to our ranks?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why do you—” Frederick burped again. “Why do you dare interrupt our briefing?”

“The Southern Empire, sir.” Rory said. 

Frederick slurred. “Yyyessssss?”

“They have declared war!”

Frederick puckered up instantaneously! His eyelids spread wide, his pupils shrunk to little black dots, and his eyes receded far into skull. He folded his dressing gown across his chest and crossed his legs. “The South has declared war, you say!? What must we do!?”

“But you are the High Commander.”

“Right.”

“King Theobold rejected their demands and accepted their declaration of war. He has since issued a decree!”

“Very well.” Frederick stumbled to the center of the room. “Everyone out, save for the Chief Officer.” Only Frederick and Rory remained.

“High Commander, what is your plan!? Our nation’s security is at stake!”

“I know, I know!” With his arms crossed high on his chest, Frederick crept across the room to his mantle. He laid his head into his rested elbow. He looked up to his portrait; three silhouettes now stained the canvas. “Chief Officer?”

Rory observed Frederick’s constitution with a hawk’s eye. “Yes, High Commander?”

“Look up at the portrait and tell me what you see.”

“Your Great-Grandfather, Grandfather, and your Father. Why?”

“Do you see the whole of them?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Heavens. Gather the rest of our Staff. I will meet you all in The Hall Of Mirrors.”

“Yes, sir!” Rory exited the bedchamber.

Frederick to the emptied portrait: “How could you have abandoned me at such an inopportune time?” Frederick’s eyes were deep, dark portholes that revealed no soul. “Celia!?”

Celia entered. “Yes, sir?”

He raised his glass. “More spirits, please.”

THREE.

“The Soul Of A Man.”

Frederick, hunched forward while clearing the gown from his feet, tottered into The Hall Of Mirrors. In the center was an expansive table with fifteen chairs measuring its circumference. The Army Staff silently observed the High Commander’s disposition. Frederick looked them all over and pointed out an unfamiliar figure: a kimono-clad, ashen-faced woman. “Who’s she!?”

“Kitty.” She lifted her face, slightly peeking under her brow. “A medium.”

“Why should we need a—” Frederick burped. “A medium!?”

She will be of assistance as we plot the fate of our empire.”

“She couldn’t possibly serve as our wise counsel.”

“We, the Staff of the Northern Imperial Army conceded that neither of us but one is able to offer wise counsel.”

“But you are the best of the best. Are you not?”

“Our very best was plucked from among us.” Rory said. “Now, we must seek wise counsel elsewhere?”

“Where else?”

“From beyond the grave.”

Frederick waved his hand. “Under no circumstances shall we do such a thing!”

“High Commander, you must understand, lives are at stake. Your reputation is at stake. And since you cannot lead us, then we must source our dearly departed friend.” Frederick turned his back, observing the staff through the mirrors. “Centy Milione.”

“Centy. Milione. Cen-ty. Centy.” Frederick mumbled into the circle of fog on the glass.

“You remember him, don’t you, High Commander?”

“Right! Of course…why wouldn’t I? A great man!”

“Then there should be no objections.” Rory turned to the medium. “Kitty, if you will, please bring to us our dearly departed, Centy Milione.”

Kitty placed two, Japanese Taiko drums on the table before her and clanged them rhythmically. She left them alone, and the rhythm continued in her absence. She leaped weightlessly from the floor. With the fabric flagging from her frail frame, she raced across the polished mahogany from end-to-end, mumbling a chant. She stopped. On her back she convulsed atop the table, arching her body before falling to the floor. From the floor a figure rose; the soul of Centy Milione! The Army Staff could not believe their eyes. “Centy!?”

“Rory! It is I!” The two hugged. “Staff! What a pleasure to be in your presence once again!” Centy found that Frederick was huddled in a corner of glass. “Frederick, my dear friend! Join us!”

“How could—how?” Frederick crawled to the table side.

“It has been so long since I last saw your face. My final request was to see you, but you didn’t show.”

“I know.”

“How come?”

“I couldn’t bear to see you in that moment.”

Centy caressed Frederick’s head. “It’s okay.” Centy looked to the rest of the Staff. “So, why have you summoned me?”

Rory pounced. “Our great empire is at war!”

“There should be no issues then! A Frederick is amongst you.”

“We seek wise counsel.” Rory continued.

Centy looked down. Frederick XIV avoided Centy’s gaze. Centy jousted Frederick. “Have you spoken to your father…?” Frederick was silent.

“Well have you?” Rory barked.

“Yes.”

“And your Grandfather?” Centy continued.

“Yes.”

“Your Great-Grandfather, too?”

“Yes.”

“Great! What did they say?”

Frederick broke free and ran to a mirror across the room. “This cannot be.” He whispered to himself.

Centy followed. “What’s the matter!?”

Frederick broke free once more and darted to another mirror. “This can-not be. How could it be!?” Centy met him there as well. Frederick didn’t resist. “Centy, tell them how good of a friend you were to me.” Frederick brushed Centy’s ghastly complexion. “You were a good friend. But I was not.” Rory stood up at the table.

“What do you mean, my friend?” Centy asked.

Frederick looked up at the ceiling, but seemingly beyond it. “For my entire life, I walked the path of my predecessors, but I could never keep pace. And now, they have sprinted far ahead of me. They came to me in the night and informed me that they must leave my side. That I had offended their honor, and ripped my name from the annals of our history.” 

“What could you have done that was so abhorrent?”

Frederick wept until he regained control of himself. “When you called out for from the gallows, I was afraid to see you. You broke the chain that linked me to my Father, my Grandfather, and my Great-Grandfather. All I could see was their scorn and shame.” Frederick looked into Centy’s troubled eyes. “After the celebration, hosted in King Theobold’s honor, he had you arrested.”

“Right.”

“And you were tried.”

“Yes.”

“And subsequently convicted.”

“This is all true.”

“The punishment for the charges leveled against you — hanging in the gallows — was fair...but the evidence. It was fabricated.” The Staff gasped.

“I knew it!” Rory screamed.

“That evidence, in light of the celebration that you hosted…I knew it would be the perfect foil. That the pride of King Theobold would believe it. And he did. I told him that you had embezzled monies as well as colluded with another nation. And he accepted my word as bond.”

The Staffed sucked in all of the air in the room. Centy pushed away from Frederick with haste. “How could you!? How dare you? You knew how much that position meant to me, and how right I was for it. You had me killed to assuage your vainglorious greed!?” Centy was so heated that he could breathe fire. He beamed his scalding eyes at Frederick. “You fool! And because you are so, I wish for you to suffer a fool’s fate!”

Centy spun away from them all and reduced himself to a bended form. Kitty reclaimed her seat.

Hiding his face in the arm of his dressing gown, Frederick watched as Rory crept slowly to him. Rory rested a knee. “I knew from the beginning that you had something to do with it. But no one trusted my word. You call yourself a friend? I should spit upon your trifling head. You do not deserve anyone’s pity.” Frederick shielded furthermore; his face pressured to burst with tears that refused to fall. “You send a courageous man, an honorable man, a competent man, to the gallows to satisfy your own selfish pride? And then attempt to replace him with your pathetic inadequacies!? Well I hope you enjoyed yourself, because your time amongst our ranks has expired.” Rory stood over Frederick. “You drunken coward. You’ll believe anything. There is no war! The Southern Empire never declared war upon us.” Frederick’s face read of shame. “Carry him to a cell. He’ll stand before King Theobold in the morning, and the hellhounds will drag him from the gallows come nightfall.”

The Staff lifted Frederick from the floor, and he didn’t resist. He could barely lift his head as they carried his limp body towards the exit. All that Frederick XIV could manage was a mumble: “I…I…I—” Frederick relaxed altogether as the air hissed from his drunken lips.