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My name? What's in a name? I can think of no good reason to give you my name. That's mainly because I'm not even certain of who I am anymore. Once I thought I knew. Long ago. Until I had forsaken my name. Bah! My name isn't important. Forget I mentioned it. Just know that I'm no common man. I was born of kings and I'll die of rags. But through no choice of my own. I take that back. It was a choice of my own. Though my hand was forced. If I could have a second chance to choose, I would. Believe me. I would.

12 December 1521

The troubled young teen, dressed in the most noble of garments took a seat upon the lesser throne that was his own and opened the journal before him. Taking a fresh quill, he began to scribe his thoughts. Each word was supported by a fresh tear that caressed his noble cheeks and came to line the royal parchments in the book.

They did it today. All that my father once stood for has been forsaken by me. His only son, rendered incapable of continuing his legacy. It places great burden upon my heart to know that the one thing he ever wished of me, I cannot do. Those who call themselves the nobles have gathered this afternoon to ask me that ear-piercing question once more. Again, when I had little choice but to answer no... They took action. As of today, I no longer hold any divine right to my father's throne. I write this as I sit upon my throne for the last time. What am I to do? Where am I to go? I've had it made quite clear to me that I'm no longer welcome in the homes of my friends. Nor would I wish to be in many of them. My dear father, laid to rest for the good of our people... My father, whom I, his son, avenged when none would... Forgotten. How quickly the nobles who did not have to battle our revolution forget my sacrifice. May the gods bless you father. I am very sorry. Please forgive me!

The young man wrote, before slamming the book rather hastily and standing. One hand began to wipe at his dampened eyes as he looked around the room with a heavy heart. A deep sigh was forced from within his chest as he approached the crown, in it's glass case, that was once placed upon his father's head. He bowed his head in respect as he touched his dampened fingertips to the glass. Two royal guards then approached, one clasping each of his arms before they would together remove him from the castle grounds. On the way out, his cousin, whom had right to assume the throne now cast him a wink and an evil smirk. The young man tried to fight, but the guards were far too strong.

28 December 1521

The young man sat in a rather used Inn bedroom. His clothing was a simple dark green cloak, and worn leather boots. Upon his side was a rather rusted bastard sword. The journal, which looked like it had far much more value than the boy himself, was in front of him. Opening the book to a fresh page, he gathered a small piece of wood, a splinter, and dipped it into some ink, before he began to write upon the pages again.

I can't believe I've been so blind. I'd never once thought life beyond the castle walls could be so harsh. I was wrong. Out here, people fight for the mere excitement of feeling another man's blood upon your knuckles. Clothing is hard to find with little gold, and if you don't have a weapon visible, folks find it keen to take your belongings. Most of what I was allowed to take with me, has already been stolen. This winter weather has been harsh. Nights are long and lonely. I wish that I had someone to talk to about things. Anyone. My friends have all forsaken me. All that I've loved is gone now. But I'm not bitter. I asked for this. I did. I really did.

He wrote upon the pages, before slamming the book closed and laying his forehead on his arm. He began to weep silently to himself. So much loss was an overwhelming thing to endure. The young man of most noble blood was having a hard time adjusting from the most noble of blood to just a common street rat.

21 January 1522

Very troubled at the new information he'd discovered, the young man sat down at his usual place in the tavern and reached into his leather pouch to recover his journal and a typical scrap of wood, to dip into ink and begin jotting his new worries on this evening.

Something has happen to her. I'd heard rumors and I had to have a look for myself. My findings have proven the rumors to be correct, but I'm frightened now. She used to be my age. But now, she's quite a bit older than me. She has children now. Not just one child, but children. I don't know how it happened. But she is the very same woman. Older. I'm not certain how this came to pass, and I'm not certain why. But I am very confused. Is this the work of the curse upon her lands? Perhaps, but unlikely. Another magic, maybe. I don't know. Maybe time will hold the answers.

Said the young man, as he closed the journal and bit upon his bottom lip, both brows furrowing in thought. He couldn't figure out for the life of him why he was so troubled about this. But, he knew for a fact that he was troubled. And he believed that he would be troubled until he found some answers.

7 April 1529

After so many years of having been settled into his "new life" the once noble man hadn't felt the need to write in his journal for a long time. But after some unsettling news had reached his ears, he set off for a land he'd not visited in quite a long while, to seek the truth. He also brought his journal along with him on this venture. Once he'd found the answers he sought, the man, dressed in worn leather pantaloons and a simple tunic, with a light blue robe over it, sat down at the base of a tree and began to scribe with tears in his eyes.

She's dead! I can't believe it. She's really dead. They say she gave her life in order to save others. When I was told that for the first time, I couldn't help but thinking about when I first came to her lands injured and she'd healed my leg. It drained her to just do that. But death? Does that mean that I've contributed to the death of someone I cherished so? The very thought puts an aching in my heart to think that if she'd only not healed one person, she'd still be alive today. Whether or not she'd have me, I still enjoyed admiring her and her work from a distance. Quite a long distance, but still. That creature had cost me her, and now he and his worthless kin are to claim her lands. What of her children? That creature had best pray he never exposes his back with no witnesses to be found. My heart weeps for you, m'love. Rest well.

Once his words had been scribed, the man clenched his book to his chest and sat there for a moment thinking. Though, he stood and dashed off into the forest as the mourners had begun to pass. He'd never allow himself to be seen by these citizens. Never again. Not so long as they bowed before the one that had crushed every dream and goal he'd ever had in life.

19 February 1544

The man, very worn from a hard day of labor, came walking into his little cottage and settled down at his desk, gathering his journal and a piece of small chalk, as he began to record what had happened to him today. It was obvious that something he felt the need to talk about had happened, as he'd not written about much since he'd become settled outside of his past life in the castle.

I found a job today. I told my puppy, Isa, about it. She didn't seem to care much though, so I'm writing it here, incase anyone decides to care one day. I haul large crates of wine from brewers to taverns, and it pays fairly good. Though, I am quite sore when the day comes to an end. Other than that, I was given Isa from a local tavern owner. Suppose he knew that it was my birthday when he caught me buying a cake for myself. She's a cute little puppy. One day I'm told that she'll grow up to be a good watch dog. I doubt that though. She's such a tiny little thing. Ah well, it's nice to have someone here when I get home at night to care about what I have to say. But tonight all she wanted to do was sleep. That's why I'm writing this. Alright, I'm done now.

Gently closing the book, the tired man set it aside and walked over to his bed, where he began undressing and he'd climb right in there with his little beagle pup and sigh before he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

7 April 1544

With a sigh, having finished his deed, he placed the massive headstone back into place, glanced at the flowers he'd placed at the base of it, and then leaned back against it, as he dusted some stray pieces of the stone from his trousers. He then reached into his pouch and recovered the journal he'd kept for all these years. Taking out that familiar piece of chalk, he began to write once again.

Fifteen years. She's been out of this world for fifteen years to the day. And god, not a single day or night passes that I don't think about those afternoons in her throne room, staring out into the sunny skies across the ocean to my homelands. I can't believe it. After fifteen years, it would seem that every trace of her is gone from this world. Her children are nowhere to be found and that creature roams her lands freely. She gave her heart to him and yet he's not even placed a single flower upon her grave for fifteen years. She's not dead though. She never will be until I am. In my heart, in my mind, and always in my dreams... She will live. But I am no one. I can't spread her memory to those that have forgotten or never knew her. I no longer have that ability. But now, she lives for me. In my heart. Till my death, she is never forgotten. I turned her headstone tonight and carved our initials in a heart upon the bottom. She knew how I felt. Once. I hope she remembers, even in her death.

Giving a sigh, he stood, closing the journal and turned, placing his lips upon the cold rock headstone, before he turned and walked quickly from the scene. He'd then head to the shore, so he could depart for his home.

7 August 1544

Slinking back into his home after another long night on the seventh, he sat upon his chair, giving his dog Isa a pat to the head, before he grabbed his journal. He flipped the pages until he came to one of the pages near the back. A blank one. There he began to write something that was beginning to concern him very much.

Something must be wrong with me. A woman that I loved with all my heart died in a land far from my current home. I hadn't spoken to her in years prior to her death, but now I speak to her on a monthly basis. Sometimes more. But I made it a point to be there on the seventh of every month. On the anniversary of each month since her death. There's rumors all about her lands over the flowers that keep appearing on her grave. But I don't care. I couldn't show her or tell her nearly as much as I wanted to in this life how I felt about her... So I'm taking each chance I can get now to make up for it. I tell her that I love her every night. Even when I'm not there. The only regret that I'll take to my grave with me, is that even in my dreams, I can't fathom her saying it back.

Nodding his head gently, he looked toward Isa with moist eyes and wiped his nose, pushing the journal back into place upon his desk. Then he stood and moved toward the bed, to undress and climb under the covers to try and sleep.

23 November 1544

After another long day at work, he came slinking in the door, handing Isa a bone that he'd brought her, he moved over to his desk and sat down. After writing up a few parchments that he'd need to deliver to some various people in the morning, he moved his hands to gather his journal. He then sat there for a moment and debated on whether or not he should write in it. Giving a sigh, he nodded to himself and opened the book.

Today was pretty much a typical day. I went to work and I had to deliver to the Johnson Tavern again. They keep ordering that Oshennan wine like crazy. They come in crates that are a bit larger than the ones I'm used to. But, it could be that time is just making me frail and I can't lift as easily as I could when I was younger. Anything is possible, I suppose. Sometimes I sit here and I just wonder what my purpose was in this life. Well, no I don't. I know what I was intended to do during my time on this earth. I suppose I wonder more along the lines of what could have been and why I've made my life so miserable. It's just not very motivating to know that when you wake up the next morning there's no chance you'll ever have everything you wanted in this life. It's just impossible. Ah well, I suppose babbling about what causes my old heart ache won't help relieve it. In fact, it's done nothing to relieve pain for quite a while. Maybe this journal has shifted from a pain reliever to a record of my pain since she died. Who knows?

And he finished his writing upon the page, before taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it. Giving a shrug to try and loosen his worked and stressed muscles, he stood and began preparing for bed, which he'd ultimately climb into and relax as much as possible. Then he found sleep.

12 December 1544

Today just had a depression aura written all over it. Memories had found their way into his mind all day and he just wasn't thinking clearly. With a sigh, he came in sore as usual from work. Gathering his journal, he tossed another log into the fire heating his cottage and then sat down upon the edge of his bed as he began to scribe this time.

There seems to be no salvation. No matter what I do, or how dramatically I change my life, I just can't forget where I come from. Believe, I do try hard. But every time I feel like I've finally lessened the burden from my chest, something restores it. Today when I was delivering crates, as I do every day, the King decided to pay our village a visit. I just couldn't stop thinking about his crown and all the golden rings he was wearing. Even that blade that he carried with him. Then I really got to thinking when I was given my lunch break. Turns out, it's the anniversary of the day I was removed from divine rights. I sat there, thinking mostly. My father's image haunted my mind then. All I could see, over and over was that smile upon his lips when he put his arm around me and motioned out over the balcony. He told me that one day, it would all be mine. There was such pride in his eyes when he told me that. It feels like someone is gripping by heart at both ends tugging it viciously every time I think that I can never deliver to my father that sense of pride after his death. I am a failure. As a son and as an heir.

When tears splashed upon the pages, he closed the book and stared at the fire. Hours passed without the man moving a muscle. His face remained emotionless, save for the tears that continued to roll down his cheeks and drip onto the closed book in hand.