The Emperor was dying.
Herzogin Gabriela Eagleclaw stood attentively outside the Emperor’s personal chambers. There was no one else besides a few ministers and top generals and the Archon who eyed her hostily from the other side of the room.
Nogriff was under any delusions about the state of the Emperor, but what had caught them all by surprise, was the swift deterioration of his condition. The Duchess herself had prayed for at least another year at the very least. No such luck. Seems even the best of wishes prevails little against such grim intractableness.
Such as he was, the Emperor would soon be departed from them. In truth, he should have never been Emperor; neither his constitution nor his character was suited for it. He had always been a sickly bird; fragile and dependent on others; never able to make up his own mind and prone to vacillate on important matters. Despite all this, he had led his Empire, not for some grandiose sense of self-glory or fame, but because he sincerely believed in his royal prerogative and his duty to do so. And maybe, in that regard at least the Duchess pondered, that made him more suited for the position than many others who would fancy the title of Kaiser.
The door to the chambers opened and a rather thin-faced physician stepped forward. Everygriff gathered to hear the doctor’s prognosis. It was Generalfeldmarschall Elias Bronzetail who spoke first.
“How is he, Herr Doktor?”
Dr. Rosenkreuz shook his head.
“Eure Lordschaften, I confess it is beyond my power. We have tried every cure and magical remedy that is known. I think there is very little that can be done for him. I have given him a sedative to try to make him as comfortable as possible”
“How long?” the Archon asked.
“I don’t expect him to live through the night.”
There was a stir among the generals and ministers as they began to whisper.
“Then we must consult with him immediately,” Bronzetail stated.
“I would not advise that,” the doctor replied. “Too much excitement may hasten his departure. We must tread lightly. Now is not the time for political squabbling.”
“Agreed,” the Archon stated, his face brightening as he stepped forward. “I think a proper confession is in order. I will gladly see that-”
“In due time” he stern doctor cut him off. “Right now, his Majesty has specifically summoned the presence of the Duchess.”
Gabriela felt an inner moment of joy as she saw the fall in the Archon’s expression as she stepped forward. Let the old prelate wait. As much as he no doubt wished, he wasn’t the only one who possessed his ear. The Duchess carried herself into the chambers, the double doors closing behind her.
The Emperor was a frightful sight. Lying in his bed, he looked almost like a corpse already. His cheeks were pale – almost colorless – and his eyes seemed distant and still, the sounds of his labored breathing lingered in the air.
As she approached him, however, his grim countenance seemed to abate, if only for a moment, as a small smile crept over his beak.
“Ah, Gabby, you made it.”
The Duchess smiled too. That was a name she had not heard in many years. It brought her back to a time, as distant as a dream; back before titles or procedure dictated the interactions between them and their only political decision was who was it during their next game of tag.
“Heya Grovey, how are you doing?”
There was a strain in her voice. A flood of emotions suddenly caught in her throat.
“I’ve been better,” he replied, a tittering chuckle stirring in his chest that was soon replaced by a violent cough. “I think it’s rather serious, Gabby.”
The Duchess approached him and sat by his side on the bed, tenderly running her claw on his forehead as they stared into each other’s eyes. She could still see that old fire there, though just barely. It was the same intrigued look of his youth; that curious expression that had never seen limitations, only potentials. It was fading fast.
Something stirred in the Duchess’s heart. Life at court had made her learn to be cold and detached – to see things clinically and with a clear mind. But the site of her childhood friend approaching his end made such a façade impossible. She leaned her head on chest and felt a sob escape from within her.
“Gabby, are you crying?”
The Duchess wiped her eyes, trying to smile and carry a stiff upper beak. She wasn’t doing a very good job.
“Do you remember,” he continued. “When we were young? I didn’t want to sleep alone because I was afraid of the dark. You told me there was nothing to be afraid of and you were right. I’m not afraid. Not anymore.”
She admired his courage in the face of inevitable. Would that all Griffs displayed such courage at all times, she thought, the Empire wouldn’t have been in the state it was today.
“You have stood by me through my darkest hours, Gabby. I’m glad you’re here now. But I have one last thing to ask of you.”
“Anything, Grovey.”
“Look after my son. If the Empire has any chance of surviving, it will be because of him. If anything should happen to him…”
“Perish the thought!”
“You must protect him, Gabby. Give him the right guidance – the kind I never had. See him grow into a fine young griff that can restore the Empire and succeed where I have failed so miserably, may Boreas forgive me.”
“You’ve done more than anyone ever expected of you,” the Duchess said in a comforting tone. “You’ve proven all the doubters wrong.”
“We proved them wrong,” he corrected gently. “There would be no Grovey without his Gabby.”
Tears. Hot tears. She couldn’t hold them back anymore. Neither could the Emperor. They wept together and stained the others’ cheeks as they rested their foreheads together.
“Promise me,” he choked, “That you will see to the Empire. Do what is right before Boreas, safeguard the griffons, and above all: keep your honor and protect those who cannot protect themselves. Gabby this is my command to you: look after my son. Let no harm come to him. And when I am gone, do not rest until our banner flies over Griffonstone once more, or else my spirit will find no peace.”
“I promise, my lord.”
He nodded.
“I have faith in you, Gabby. I know Boreas will favor you. Now let me make my soul right before I go so I can meet my creator unashamed. Ein Kuss für mich, Gabchen, bis wir uns wieder sehen.“
The Duchess planted a kiss on Grover’s forehead and bid her last farewell, knowing well it was for the last time.
She exited the doors as the Archon was beckoned forth, heart heavy and soul downcast. The end was not long in coming.
The Emperor slipped into a coma a few hours later and never reawakened. He muttered incoherently as she and the closest of his companions stood by. At a little after midnight, he muttered what many have disputed to be his final words:
“My country, what will become of my country?”
Several minutes later he was declared dead, having thrown off the fetters of this mortal coil and ascended into realms unknown where only the stars and the Gods kept vigil. The Empire mourned. Spire bells rang non-stop. Thousands of griffs lined the street when the imperial funeral procession came by, many of them despondent, not a single cheek unstained.
He was taken to the Imperial Crypt, where the guard announced his presence to the monk who stood by the door and listed off his many titles and honors.
“We know him not,” was the Monk’s stern reply.
Again the guard entreated, with even higher glories and achievements, possessions and styles, lands ruled over and subjects who called him Kaiser.
“We know him not,” came the Monk once again.
Finally the guard entreated one final time: “Grover, a poor, mortal griff.”
“He may come in!”
And so Grover was laid to rest among the remains of his forefathers. He had reigned in a time of turmoil and upheaval, but had never wavered in his commitments. And as his coffin was laid beneath the stone, many griffs wondered if his Empire would long survive him…