Quoted By:
"Have we already a physician to oversee my health on the field, should I require it? I would prefer there to be one."
"Well, the <span class="mu-i">Santo Cor</span> tends to have travelling field medics for such occasions. I doubt your quartermaster hasn't already sent for one, but i'll remind him."
"Thank you, Joan. That'll be all." you say, as Joan bows curtly, before leaving you alone again in your room. In truth, you already suspected that a physician would be of no issue; you had something else to do. After several minutes of slowly and methodically taking off your armor and switching into your regular clothes, you grab some parchment and a pen, and begin putting some words to note. It may be silly, foolish even to put your 'final words' when you have not so much as begun to set out to the field, but you'd prefer not to take a risk on this, however small it may be.
You write three letters; the first is to your brother, telling him to do what he must with whatever you leave behind to pursue his life, and to worry not about infermities or thrones. The second, to your mother, is an apology, curt and precise. The last is to Joan, your maid, admitting to all that you felt and admonishing your unwilligness to act on what you did. When you are done, you hand the letters to August, trustworthy as he is, and tell him to deliver them only should your death be confirmed. You know he'll not so much as think of looking upon them, even one being addressed to his daughter as it is.
This process is..grim, but in the end, you are left with a sort of levity, knowing that even if you were to fall from your horse and break your kneck upon the ground, your life would not be left without its last words.
Finally, the day of your departure has arrived.
You wake up a fair bit earlier than you do on most days. The sun has yet to even rise. You put on your riding clothes, thankful that armor would not be necessary until you were on marching grounds proper, and eat your breakfast; a far heartier meal than usual, with beans and venison, sausage and cow's beef, a strong side of wine accompanying it. You attend a sermon, quicker than most, and the chaplain blesses you for your journey forwards. With some pomp and courtesy, you give your last goodbyes to your family, before mounting your horse and trotting forth.
As tradition dictates, you are the first to move from within the castle walls, flanked at your sides by your retinue of knights, moving through the mishaped stone bricks of the city streets. Following you are the soldiers, company by company, moving through the streets; it is no parade, but the mood is joyful, soldiers singing marching songs as curious children watch them from the windows and families wave off their sons a last goodbye. When you finally leave the city gates and are faced with the wider ground of the island where Portblanc lays, you take a long breath.
The long march has only begun.
