“Technically," (Patreon)

Meadow sighed, "the Mouse Queen answers to no authority except Fuma herself. However, out of respect for you personally, I will drop it. For now.”

Burnside rolled over in her sleep, and Meadow hopped off and stood up.

“I also know you well enough," Meadow continued, "to know that, despite the rumors, you wouldn’t have willingly assassinated your brother. Tell me what happened.”

I took a moment to cast my mind back to that dreadful day, then began: “While my slightly unprofessional - and very gluttonous - troops were camped outside the city, I disguised myself and infiltrated Albric Tor with the purpose of warning my brother of the impending danger. It’s true, I did intend to usurp him, and can you blame me? The Empire was falling apart! However, I still believe that I could have convinced him to peacefully abdicate the throne. The Vulpitanians had done their dirty work; Estmere was no longer qualified to occupy the throne, and all of his support was gone. His primary concern was partying with floozies. I’m sure I could have given him a station to his liking, and he could have lived out the rest of his days in contentment. However, the Sisterhood anticipated my move, and had agents dogging him. I tried to create a diversion, but Queen Edessa herself pooked Estmere away to the Hall of Ancestors. She's a powerful magick user; did you know that? Very Unseelie too. She tried to assassinate me, and she basically led Estmere directly to his doom. If I could only have whispered one sentence to him, all of this might have been averted. According to my Ixies, Edessa was with him in his final moments, but did nothing to stop his destruction. Alice Chetsweeks, that Vulpitanian automaton with a Scuti pilot, was also there. I'm not sure what her role was, but knowing Alice she most likely had a hand in my brother's demise. Somehow Estmere found out (probably he was told) that the Vulpitanians had altered his lineage so he was lowfolk, no longer an elf. He refused to believe it, and brashly sat down on the Coronation throne to prove he was still King. That’s what killed him. When I finally arrived there was only his charred corpse and some Ixies to tell me what had happened.”

"That must have been awful," Meadow muttered softly.

"I was," I nodded. “I wanted revenge after that. Abandoning all attempts at stealth, I barged out of Albric Tor and rejoined my army. I was determined to take the city and tear through the capital's ruling class until I had everyone responsible for Estmere's death at my mercy. But… Grand Marshal Theronmyathus made his defenders skip a meal, and they attacked my forces while we were still preparing.”

“They skipped a meal?” Meadow exclaimed in shock. “A very underhanded tactic!”

“What happened after was a confusing mess. Burnside got my sluggards on their feet and the battle began. I remained on the parapet of the scry tower with my bow. At first I was reluctant to shoot anyone, but then an enemy arrow narrowly grazed me and I entered into a sort of battle trance. I didn’t want to use the Plague of Battles, and yet, when I returned to my senses the field was covered with a bank of noxious green fog.”

I buried my face in my hands in shame and horror at the recollection.

“I could hear them fighting and dying inside the cloud. One of my Ixies told me that I had idiotically thrown the bottle away as a gesture of refusal when she reminded me to use it. In my defense I can only say that I wasn't myself ... but perhaps I was more myself in that moment, a pure unfiltered ball of rage and stupidity. One of my troops found the bottle on the ground, thought it was a potion, and drank it. He went instantly mad, then exploded into a deadly cloud.”

Everyone was silent as the horrible recollection washed over me.

“I didn’t want to use the Plague of Battles," I repeated miserably, when it became clear that nobody else was going to say anything. "It was a dreadful, Unseelie weapon, and all I had to do was keep it in my pocket. Why then did I THROW THE DAMNED THING AWAY?? It really doesn’t matter that the Duchess gave it to me. I deployed it. The entire blame falls squarely on my head. It would at least make some sense if I was an evil arch-schemer making grand plans, but no! I destroyed the Empire completely by accident! I am SUCH AN INCOMPETENT FOOL! I’ve tried rationalizing it, you know. During all the years of isolation I kept thinking back on that moment. Was it destined to happen? Was it entirely because of my aptitude for bungling that I was chosen by Fuma for this destiny? Why else would the Lady pick me? She must have known that no sane and competent elf would ever do what I did! All I am is a bumbling fool with a never-ending list of failures to my name! There’s no way I’d make a better Emperor than Estmere, and he was terrible! I’d probably be even worse! All the resources I have were either given to me or fell into my lap by accident! Maybe my destiny is to completely destroy Faerie? If it is, then I want no part of it! But how can I or anyone resist the will of Fuma? It will still happen, because maybe Fuma isn’t as benevolent as I thought she was! The goddess of passion and destruction is using me as her instrument, just twisting a knife in my guts for her own sick amusement.”

Rebecca let out a little gasp of shock at my blasphemy.

Meadow stood patiently gazing at me with an unreadable expression.

“Maybe I should abdicate the throne and give it to someone else. Meadow, you’re the Mouse Queen, you’d make a better Emperor than me. Rebecca would make a better Emperor than me. NETHERHELLS, even Burnside would probably be a better pick than me! Everything is in ruins and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with the ashes.”

I fell silent, realizing I had said more than I should. Great. More proof of why I was not fit to rule: Having a complete meltdown in front of my subordinates.

Meadow walked toward me and I silently cringed, expecting a stern tongue-lashing from the Mouse Queen. “I think I understand,” she stated quietly. “I wasn’t given a choice about being the Mouse Queen. I was told in no uncertain terms that this was my destiny, and I had to like it. The Regalia and the responsibility were dumped on me with next to no explanation. I was pushed into this role with no instruction on how to do it or even where to go. I messed up a lot in the early days of my tenure. Most times, I wound up not helping anyone. I usually just made things worse. Over and over I asked myself: What cruel joke was Fuma playing on me with this destiny she had forced upon me? I was tasked with the well-being of everyone, and I had to watch them all suffer and cry out for help while having absolutely no idea what to do to save them. We’re not in some fairy-tale of the Long Ago where we can just clap our hands and everything will work out. Failure is part of living, and as long as you're still alive you have the opportunity to change. The most important lesson you must learn from your mistakes is how not to repeat them."

“Tragedies are tests Fuma gives us to find out if we are heroes, villains, or just cowards,” Rebecca said, putting her hand on my shoulder. "A wise teacher told me that."

I stared at the ground and thought hard. A rapid stream of stale motivational platitudes ran through my head. When life gives you green persimmons, throw them at lowfolk. When the going gets tough, chew harder. Grit your teeth, face the wind, and go to bed on time. A bird in the hand can get pretty messy. A fool and his money will have a fun night out in Persoc Tor. Fate is what you make of it, so why not make pudding? A spoonful of honey helps the medicine go down when you swallow your pride and eat your words. Was there actually some deep truth to all of these corny old sayings? Had I been passively expecting things to work out just because I was chosen by Fuma? Perhaps instead I needed to man up, grab the ant by the antennae, and let the chips fall where they may, be it the frying pan or the fire or anywhere else between a rock and a hard place! Fuma helps those who help themselves to the old four-finger discount!

“Gimme sum more barbecue sauce, Adler honey,” Burnside mumbled dreamily, derailing my train of thought. “I ain’t nowhere near crispy enough.”

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