July 2021
There isn't much time, Red knows it. An inescapable feeling of dread has settled in their stomach where they stand, back unnaturally straight, fidgetting in a way that does not befit their station. The monarch stands by the gallery window, looking out over the city.
The plaza in front of the palace usually glints in the light of the sun reflecting off polished decorative tile and bronze fountains. The sun's rays, today, are fractured by the cold metal of their subjects' pitchforks and axes as they crowd into the plaza by the hundreds. The sky is filled with plumes of dark smoke from the pyres the peasantry has lit - a warning, or a promise.
The people want their freedom, and they want their leader back. To replace one ruler with another, this one molded from one of their own, sitting on the same throne under a different flag? It hardly matters to Red, soon they won't get to have a say in the fate of their country anymore.
And it is very much still their country - whether their subjects realize it or not. Their family has shaped this land for generations, and they will not be so easily uprooted, their legacy not so easily drowned in the blood of the nobility.
Most of their allies had the good sense to flee, and it is too late for those who did not. Now it's just them and their knight. Messier has not said a word about the goings on, and this worries the monarch. Is she wavering in her beliefs? Planning to betray them at the last second? This line of thinking will get them nowhere; there is only two outcomes, now, as the revolutionaries set to work on the palast doors: either they die, or they escape now.
They've still got an ace up their sleeve that they hope will buy them enough time to see to their survival: Tump Pimann1, the rabble's elevated figurehead, who is currently being dragged out of the damp cell that has housed him for the last week. Knight Messier is bringing him up to the palace's main floor to face them.
When they enter, Tump's gaze is cast downward and he is stumbling trying to keep up with their knight's brisk pace. As they turn to face the pair, they have to stop themselves audibly scoffing. A peasant who flew so high, clawing his way up to challenge the divine right of kings, brought so low before them.
Then he looks up, and the sweet taste of superiority sours in Red's mouth. His eyes burn with something that isn't quite anger, not even resentment. It's pity. The reality of their situation crawls its way down their spine with ice cold hands. Here they stand, alone, in the centre of the uprising, nay, its target. People, hundreds of them, calling for their head in the plaza below them, and in front of them, pushed to his knees but far from defeated, the man who will deliver it to them on a silver platter.
The inevitability of it all, the tragic conclusion to it all. When they begin to speak, the words come out shaky at first, but gain in resolve.
"Tump Pimann1, you stand in front of your quing accused of stirring unrest and poisoning my people's minds. Your dear friend Messier will strike you down at my command without hesitation. This is your end."
He jerks his head to the side to move a lock of shaggy hair out of his eyes and grins up at them.
"It matters not! It's already too late for you to stop us. We are many, and we are driven by a righteous anger, and you... you are alone on your toppling throne."
They take an involuntary step back and Mess rams a knee into the revolutionary's side. He hunches over in visible pain, his hair falling in front of his face again, but he isn't done.
"These people were never yours to lord over, and now they know it you can never enslave them again. This is their story now, not yours. They do what they want, and what they want means your death."
Again he looks up to meet their eyes, and they realize that despite the pain and threat of imminent death, he is revelling in this moment.
"Look at you. You're scared aren't you? It won't be long-"
"Messier!" Red forces out in as commanding a tone as they can manage before he can finish his sentence. They had planned to execute him on the balcony, but arranging his body for the rabble to find when they breach the palace will have to suffice.
Without much preamble, Messier brings the handle of her axe down on his head. In doing so, she briefly releases him enough that he can attempt to throw himself out of the way of the blow. He does not manage to evade it fully.
The sound Tump's head makes on impact rings in their ears as shards of porcelain spill onto the ground from a jagged gash that covers nearly the entire left half of his face.
Instinctively he attempts to bring his hands up to the wound, but their loyal knight again grips onto the rope binding his arms behind his back to jerk him back.
His one remaining eye regards the monarch scornfully, and they begin to feel a little nauseous.
