“Is life fair?”

A silly question, I know better than most. She’s a cruel mistress who feels immense pleasure in the suffering of those of us lucky enough to glance upon her. Even for the briefest of moments.

The planet I was born on, the planet that I will die on, may orbit the sun one hundred times in my moment… I may have had a century if I were born lucky. 

Instead, I shall not reach twenty.

Born with autoimmunity, I’ve always known it’d be the death of me, even though I have never wished it. But that’s life. You’ve got to be able to take the hits, wade through her uncertainty, and pray not to be dragged under. Reach the other side of that malignant bog, and fight with body, spirit, and anything else you can muster up, to drag yourself up onto that unsteady bank. Disregard all that is left behind you, because you never needed it anyway.

That holy suffering, such beautiful suffering that will cleanse you of all sin. A reward to all those brave and faithful fighters.  As my hour comes to its close, I can’t help but think.  A single question battered on my weary mind, prickling my senses awake for their finale.

Why wasn’t I allowed to fight?

Everyone keeps telling me that life is unfair, but then they go home to their families, to play games that I have never experienced. I fear nothing more than leaving my business unfinished. They get to look forward to sequels to things I never knew existed, because I was so scared of enjoying myself that I refused to engage with anything or anyone that might be important.

I didn’t want more reasons to fear my upcoming death. In the end, I wasted my final days reading the old and forgotten books of history, left unused on a bookshelf in the hospital corridor. It was nothing more than a bin for people who couldn’t think of another way to rid themselves of their unwanted libraries.

Those books full of historical rulers and their battles were forsaken, as I was forsaken.

The clock strikes midnight, and I am alone… Woe is me, but don’t let there be pity in the end. The anxiety is great, but in the end, let there be peace.

Please just let me be at peace.

…

…

…

If there is one thing I am sure about in this life, it’s this. Life itself is uncertain. You’ll never be able to pin it down, and it will lead to places you never imagined, and it will steal you from places you never wanted to leave. She is uncertain.

The only certainty I have known is death, that one certain thing at the end of everything uncertain, for that I was certain.

But I shouldn’t have been, because life has one more trick up its vast sleeves. I have come to learn that it is stubborn and can, in fact, refuse to end, or perhaps even start anew behind your back.

I don’t suppose it matters anymore. I am alive, but not as I was or who I was or even where I was.

This may surprise you, but I don’t actually remember a lot from my past life. I remember the end and the bitter feelings I felt as I lay dying, I remember those books that filled my head with warfare and adventure, and I have kept my intelligence to a degree.

I know all the words I once knew; it’s the same with maths and the sciences, along with some practical knowledge of worldly things. But other than that, it’s very hazy. I don’t remember the name I once had or even my gender; I am not even aware of how old I was when I died in my past life. The only clue I have is the bitterness that I had not reached my twenties.

I refer to those memories and beliefs I held in my past life as the old me, though that may be a little misleading. There is only one me, and that is me as I am now. I do not consider myself that person reborn, although that may be true to my current knowledge; instead, I am very much the person born to this world, that’s who I consider to be the true me.

I just so happen to remember a bit from before I became me as I currently am.

Alfred Oliver George Caster is my full name; that being said, Alfred Caster is an appropriate usage. But most of those around me refer to me as young lord Alfred. My father, Oliver Caster, is the duke of Caster, the smallest duchy in the kingdom of Cellen, but a duchy, nonetheless.

My mother, Isolda Caster, was young, a lot younger than my father, anyway. She was twenty-four years of age, and I had seen six summers. However, such a duty is expected of a young woman from a noble society; my mother is expected to bear as many children as possible to ensure the survival of my father's dynasty.

I am the firstborn, after me came my younger sister Aleysia, and my mother is currently pregnant with my youngest sibling. The country of my birth, Cellen, is an island ruled by an aristocratic and clerical caste, to which I myself belong in a small way. I was a distant relative of the current King, but such things alone do not carry favour or indeed protect you from his ire.

As a six-year-old, I have not been up to much in my short life. I have learned my letters, which came easily enough due to memories of such things. My mother would dote on me, calling me a genius, and my father would speak to me about my responsibilities as the primary heir, often. But I have yet to pick up a sword, let alone one in anger; instead I focused most of my studies on theology and philosophy.

My father took great care to explain to me that a great ruler was learned, prudent, fair, and, of course, all great rulers must be able to understand and defend the faith.

We do not speak the name of our Lord; it is far too revered for our worldly tongues, though they are a just and fair God who teaches equality and charity for all, along with warnings of the evil of money and power. In that way, I think things were similar to religion in my old world, though it is all a bit hazy. I do at least remember that I wasn’t religious then, but given my circumstances, perhaps I have become more open to the idea.

Though the preachings of my father and other nobles do ring a bit hollow, they talk of charity and equality, but never do anything that isn’t superficial fluff. My father justifies this with his teachings to me sometimes, “Listen, Alfred. We nobles are a chosen lot, chosen by our Lord to live in luxury compared to our fellow man, but with this gift comes a great responsibility. To lead our countrymen and, even more importantly, defend them in war. Always remember, Alfred, that a noble's true place in war is the frontlines, leading from the front for his faith, his cause, and his country.”

He was a flawed but heavily principled man; perhaps unsurprisingly, such things had gotten him in trouble before. But none quite as dire as the situation that had enveloped my family and, in fact, the whole country.

To my admittedly limited understanding, when the young King Charles IV was even younger than he is now, about a decade ago, a faction called the Saviours of Cellen rose. It was made up of powerful families headed by Michael, Duke of Rosensted, Richard, Duke of Delbridge and John, Duke of Falpeak. Their mission was not to dethrone the King, though discussions were naturally held.

In the end, their stated demand was thus: to remove from the King's side the corrupt men of influence whom the King, in his youth, relied on. It was a techy time, the country was at war with our closest neighbour across the sea, Varyur, such was the mismanagement at the time that the idea that an invasion force might breach our shores was not disregarded.

However, the young King was rather fond of his closest allies, many of whom helped raise him. This culminated at the Battle of Hawksmouth Bridge, where the faction was victorious and sent all the King's corrupt advisors to their deaths. Installing a temporary emergency government led by the faction before King Charles IV returned to his throne. This is the story as my father tells it.

Why is this important?

Because at the time, my father threw his weight behind the faction, and now, a decade later, King Charles IV seeks his revenge. The three leaders of the faction have already been imprisoned, and the first council for many years has been called. Normally, a place for free debate among the nobles about the running of their dominions, a chance to reform unfit laws and keep the King’s power in check, a privilege granted in exchange for allowing the King to raise taxes, which requires a majority vote.    

But everybody is aware that no fair debate will be had at this council; instead, all that awaits us is a theatrical stage for the King to enjoy his revenge to the maximum. The men are to be put on trial, but there is no doubt about their outcome. As a collaborator, my father is expected to be there, of course and as his primary heir, I shall be attending this council also. It shall be my first trip to the capital, and it may well be my last.

What will be, shall be.

But I won’t go without exercising my divine right to fight for my life, not this time.