Death can easily be administered to anyone regardless of how successful they were in life.
A god agrees with the nihilist in this story.
There are many tragedies in this story. Many fortunes arising, too.
But the god and the antichrist don't car...
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The Crow's Message
Syoto Palace, Seakey, The Lakelands
At first, opening his eyes in the blueness of the curtains about his bed, he could not think why the dawn seemed different from any other. The palace was still except for the faint, gasping cough of his old father, whose room was a couple of doors down the hall. Every morning old man's cough was the first thing to be heard in the palace.
Rolerio sprang up and pushed aside the curtains of his bed. It was a dark, ruddy dawn. He walked to his father's room carrying a kerosene lamp and letters. Although he came to his father's room regularly, he made sure to knock on the door a few times before turning the handle.
King Stravos was never in the best condition to be a king and he constantly had to be watched by a healer or a regular nurse. He had hemophilia, something that many healers in the past have successfully treated only for it to get worse again. Not only that, but he began blinding in his left eye a year ago.
"Who are you?" he asked bluntly.
Rolerio's heart started to ache a bit and break into pieces as he saw how his father blinked cluelessly at him. He held the light up so that his father could see in the dark. "The only one who comes to visit. It's me, Rolerio."
Stravos nodded absently at his son and sighed. He squinted to see his son clearly as Rolerio set his lamp in a niche by the window and set his letters on the nightstand. Rolerio walked out of the room and then came back in with huge bowl of water. The summer had ended which meant that the cold winds would dry the old man's airways. Then he lit the fireplace.
Rolerio had lit it every morning since his mother died six years before. He had lit the fire, boiled water, and poured the water into a bowl and taken it into the room where his father sat upon his bed, coughing and fumbling for his shoes on the floor. Every morning for these six years the old man had waited for his son to bring in hot water to ease him of his morning coughing. He didn't want Rolerio to take up this task. He had already made his son the Prince Regent. His son had things more important to take care of, and this was a job for the servants. But Rolerio still chose to do it.
He was coughing and spitting and he gasped.
"How is it that there is not water yet to heat my lungs?"
Rolerio sighed. His father only acted so demanding to pressure his son into letting the servants take the task.
The old man continued to cough perseveringly and would not cease until the water boiled. Rolerio dipped some into a bowl, and then, after a moment, he opened a glazed jar that stood upon a ledge of the stove and took from it a dozen or so of the curled dried leaves and sprinkled them upon the surface of the water. The old man's eyes opened greedily and immediately he began to complain.
