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🜍 Für Elise;
Für Elise.
The Second Great War had been brewing for a while. It was only a matter of time until the Kingdom of Rondon became involved. The order for conscription came swiftly and you were—of course, being young, healthy enough, and able-bodied—eligible.
It didn't matter that you were riding the highest point of your life, having just married the beautiful daughter of a Baron, the love of your life with the blessing of the lord who was now your father-in-law. It didn't matter, not to the Kaiser who ruled the Bremen side of the war.
What do they say about such things? That what goes up must come down?
Perhaps that was why it was only natural that it could only decline from there.
You had a decent grasp on medical knowledge from everything the Baron taught you. Perhaps you lacked a proper practicing license, but it was enough for the higher-ups of the army. You narrowly avoid joining the infantry in favour of becoming a field medic. You see horrific scenes and gruesome wounds of blades, bullets, and injuries otherworldly, but at least you're not the one on the doctor's table at the end of the day. Alll-mer bless them, though, knowing that you were going to be the one holding the scalpel to cut them open so you could stitch them back together.
Your only reprieve from the horrors are the letters from home. Your dear Elise who tittered about in her long-winded letters about this and that. Mundane things, mostly. These letters were your lifeline, the only thing that tied you to sanity in this godforsaken war. You sleep every night in a number of cots of varying comfort, but at least you always have a photo of your wife with you. You dream of going home, back to her arms, to trace her dark hair, to have her laugh beautifully, to tell you she loves you and have it feel honest, wholesome and sweet.
Then the letters stopped. Abruptly at that.
You know very well that letters are often lost, especially when they must be delivered to an ever-moving battlefield. You pray desperately that this is the case, even if the nagging feeling in your lower gut whispers else-wise. The soft purr of dread in your heart...
You were freed, eventually. The very moment Kaiser made a breakthrough in his occupation of parts of Bohemia, he ceased all operations and began talks for peace. You didn't care about the reason as long as you could leave. Perhaps not with the same sanity as you once had, but that was already on thin ice before you arrived to the battlefield. You know the remedy and you head home to Rondon without hesitation.
Nobody greets you as you enter the magnificent gates. The entire mansion is bare and lifeless, in a way that sets the hairs on the back of your neck on end. You would have doubted yourself, that perhaps the von Dutches had moved manors in your absence, but the Baron's prized collection of tomes still lined the shelves, Elise's belongings still in your once-shared chambers.
You find someone, eventually. Not in the way you'd hoped. You venture down into the basement last and walk into a horrible crime scene, the stench of blood, sulfur, and rot meeting your nostrils. Some manner of sacrificial rite lies in the basement, the rune of a god unknown to you drawn meticulously on the floor, immaculate and expensive candles snuffed out before they could fully burn. You narrowly avoid tripping over the corpse of your late father-in-law, the great Baron Eihner von Dutch. His body, upon your later inspection, is covered in cuts and stabs that seemed more self-inflicted than not.
Oh, but the centerpiece of the ritual...! You lose all strength in your legs as you stumble forward to the dismembered body of your beloved in the center of the sigil. The rotted crimson still shines too stark against her pale skin, spilled dark over the ritual lines. Lacerations line her body, their traces eerily similar to the shape of the blade the Baron's cold hand still held.
Though you couldn't bear to go as far as to call upon the Great Mother Sylvian, you dare enough to call upon Her lesser lord Vitruvia. You bite back your nausea as you pay the price, heaving before the mirror with one less eye than you had the day prior, incisions and stitches lining your torso. Not that that helps you, with the corpse of your wife not fresh enough for your payment to suffice. You keep trying with what you can spare, but it doesn't work. You recite any number of prayers you could remember or find off the Baron's shelves until you feel like a madman chanting mantras in the slaughterhouse.
Nothing works.
Days passed and you were still there in the estate, lying defeated in a cold and empty bed. Blood stains the sheets from where you never bothered to clean yourself off after your rites. 'Beloved child of Sylvian', you think bitterly to yourself, 'yet nothing to show for it'. Gods be damned; Elise was gone, and resorting to true necromancy would not only be pointless, it would only tarnish her.
You bring yourself together enough to stare into the papers you scrounged from the Baron's office, your blurred, halved vision focusing on the single word that repeated itself over and over across multiple pages.
"Prehevil". You knew it to be the capital of Bohemia.
There was nothing for you here in Rondon. The new life you had carved out for yourself was taken from you in some freak offering to the occult, marking the second time you had lost family in this manner. You almost want to laugh, but all you can manage is a heavy sigh.
If you couldn't have your life back, perhaps... you could at least have some answers.
You clean up. You redress in nice clothes your father-in-law once paid for. You affix a patch over your barren eye-socket. You almost look human again. You gather just enough supplies to carry comfortably and leave to buy a train ticket.
You set forth, unbeknownst to you, for Termina.
It didn't matter that you were riding the highest point of your life, having just married the beautiful daughter of a Baron, the love of your life with the blessing of the lord who was now your father-in-law. It didn't matter, not to the Kaiser who ruled the Bremen side of the war.
What do they say about such things? That what goes up must come down?
Perhaps that was why it was only natural that it could only decline from there.
You had a decent grasp on medical knowledge from everything the Baron taught you. Perhaps you lacked a proper practicing license, but it was enough for the higher-ups of the army. You narrowly avoid joining the infantry in favour of becoming a field medic. You see horrific scenes and gruesome wounds of blades, bullets, and injuries otherworldly, but at least you're not the one on the doctor's table at the end of the day. Alll-mer bless them, though, knowing that you were going to be the one holding the scalpel to cut them open so you could stitch them back together.
Your only reprieve from the horrors are the letters from home. Your dear Elise who tittered about in her long-winded letters about this and that. Mundane things, mostly. These letters were your lifeline, the only thing that tied you to sanity in this godforsaken war. You sleep every night in a number of cots of varying comfort, but at least you always have a photo of your wife with you. You dream of going home, back to her arms, to trace her dark hair, to have her laugh beautifully, to tell you she loves you and have it feel honest, wholesome and sweet.
Then the letters stopped. Abruptly at that.
You know very well that letters are often lost, especially when they must be delivered to an ever-moving battlefield. You pray desperately that this is the case, even if the nagging feeling in your lower gut whispers else-wise. The soft purr of dread in your heart...
You were freed, eventually. The very moment Kaiser made a breakthrough in his occupation of parts of Bohemia, he ceased all operations and began talks for peace. You didn't care about the reason as long as you could leave. Perhaps not with the same sanity as you once had, but that was already on thin ice before you arrived to the battlefield. You know the remedy and you head home to Rondon without hesitation.
Nobody greets you as you enter the magnificent gates. The entire mansion is bare and lifeless, in a way that sets the hairs on the back of your neck on end. You would have doubted yourself, that perhaps the von Dutches had moved manors in your absence, but the Baron's prized collection of tomes still lined the shelves, Elise's belongings still in your once-shared chambers.
You find someone, eventually. Not in the way you'd hoped. You venture down into the basement last and walk into a horrible crime scene, the stench of blood, sulfur, and rot meeting your nostrils. Some manner of sacrificial rite lies in the basement, the rune of a god unknown to you drawn meticulously on the floor, immaculate and expensive candles snuffed out before they could fully burn. You narrowly avoid tripping over the corpse of your late father-in-law, the great Baron Eihner von Dutch. His body, upon your later inspection, is covered in cuts and stabs that seemed more self-inflicted than not.
Oh, but the centerpiece of the ritual...! You lose all strength in your legs as you stumble forward to the dismembered body of your beloved in the center of the sigil. The rotted crimson still shines too stark against her pale skin, spilled dark over the ritual lines. Lacerations line her body, their traces eerily similar to the shape of the blade the Baron's cold hand still held.
Though you couldn't bear to go as far as to call upon the Great Mother Sylvian, you dare enough to call upon Her lesser lord Vitruvia. You bite back your nausea as you pay the price, heaving before the mirror with one less eye than you had the day prior, incisions and stitches lining your torso. Not that that helps you, with the corpse of your wife not fresh enough for your payment to suffice. You keep trying with what you can spare, but it doesn't work. You recite any number of prayers you could remember or find off the Baron's shelves until you feel like a madman chanting mantras in the slaughterhouse.
Nothing works.
Days passed and you were still there in the estate, lying defeated in a cold and empty bed. Blood stains the sheets from where you never bothered to clean yourself off after your rites. 'Beloved child of Sylvian', you think bitterly to yourself, 'yet nothing to show for it'. Gods be damned; Elise was gone, and resorting to true necromancy would not only be pointless, it would only tarnish her.
You bring yourself together enough to stare into the papers you scrounged from the Baron's office, your blurred, halved vision focusing on the single word that repeated itself over and over across multiple pages.
"Prehevil". You knew it to be the capital of Bohemia.
There was nothing for you here in Rondon. The new life you had carved out for yourself was taken from you in some freak offering to the occult, marking the second time you had lost family in this manner. You almost want to laugh, but all you can manage is a heavy sigh.
If you couldn't have your life back, perhaps... you could at least have some answers.
You clean up. You redress in nice clothes your father-in-law once paid for. You affix a patch over your barren eye-socket. You almost look human again. You gather just enough supplies to carry comfortably and leave to buy a train ticket.
You set forth, unbeknownst to you, for Termina.