A few rays of the mid-morning sun managed to scrape by through the open window-door, highlighting a few dust particles in the air, and hitting the wall of a small study. In the room, an albino griffon sat at his desk, across from three others. The four of them silently watched the radio, listening to a griffoness speaking out from it.
“I can only hope that my dear cousin will be remembered fondly by history. His last words reflect this. As he lay there, he mustered the last of his strength to ask, ‘Boreas… did I do good?’”
One of the three wiped an eye, and muttered a few words in respect.
“Truely, I think he did. He might not have been the greatest kaiser - or the healthiest, - but I can assure you, Grover’s heart was set on helping his people. Fate was not kind to him, but he made the best of it, and so we shall remember him in the best of lights that we can afford.
“So too, has fate not been kind to his son, Grover - now the sixth. Right now, the regency council is being assem-”
The albino took a deep breath, and reached for the medal around his neck, an Iron Cross. He turned away, towards the window-door, and walked out onto the balcony. The sun was warm, fighting against the chilly weather of the north in March, although the position of the southward-facing balcony meant that it was shielded from the cold northern winds by the manor. He took off the Iron Cross, and gazed at it as he cradled it in his claw.
One of the three broke from their stare at the radio. “Ferdinand?”
Ferdinand was silent, standing there in the sun for a moment. After a bit, he returned to the desk, just as the griffoness was wrapping up her speech.
“I, Gabriela Eagleclaw, promise to do my best to keep this regency from falling into the same pitfalls as the last one. I will help the empire to recover from this tragedy, and I will train Grover - help Grover - to be a good and just ruler, so that the empire may continue to carry on into the new millennium.”
The radio slowly transitioned into playing a somber orchestral arrangement, a tribute to the late emperor.
“That’s all there is, turn it off.” said Ferdinand.
None of the three made a move, too deep in thoughtful respect.
“I said… Turn. It. Off.” Ferdinand hissed. The three looked at him, but did nothing, confusion on their faces. Ferdinand reached across the desk, and switched off the radio. The atmosphere of sadness and respect pivoted into one of uneasiness.
One of the three took a pace back, while another stared Ferdinand down. Ferdinand himself passed his eyes over the three, obviously with anger, but nothing explicitly surfaced. After a moment of silence, one of the three - a griffon with yellow/green colouration - spoke.
“Ferdinand… what has gotten into you?”
“Can you not see!?” Ferdinand’s voice raised dramatically.
“See… what?”
Ferdinand opened his beak, but no words came out. After another moment, he turned, and walked back out to the balcony. The sun resumed bathing him in warmth, as he gazed southward towards the heart of the Empire, far out of sight, but not out of mind. He leaned his upper body over the railing, leaving him standing only on his hind paws. He held out his right claw and dangled his Iron Cross by its ribbon as it glinted in the sun.
“It’s all going to come crashing down, just like in ‘78.”
“Ferdinand…” another of the three said, “maybe this time it’ll be different. Most of the original council died in the revolution, that corruption was purged ages ago. It’s not like we can do anything anyway, so I’d stop worrying about it.”
Ferdinand turned from the balcony again, a single tear running down his beak. “Yeah… yeah… you’re probably right; I overreacted… Ready a memorial service, full magazines. Call up the field guns, make sure they’re using blanks. After that, we need to get back to preparations.”
“Yes sir.”
After a moment, the three filtered out of the room, Ferdinand sat back down at his desk. They were right… right?
“It’s just paranoia, it’s going to be fine.
“It’s going to be fine.
“It’s going to be fine.”
…
He meditated for a moment, becoming lost in his own thoughts. However, the longer he sat there, the more clear it became to him: it wasn’t going to be fine. His Iron Cross was still in his claw, and he appraised it one more time.
But what could he do?
Then, it came to him. At first, he pressed it down, but as he sat there, it seemed more and more likely to be his only option. Soon, he was writing a letter, addressed to a friend of his in Griffenheim…