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Epitaph of Anguish: By Noble Decree

The Black Lord enjoys his newfound health, and yet finds himself still wondering about the odd Wandsman whom cured him. Luckily, he doesn't have to wonder for long.

Warnings: Shakespearian English, Very long Flashback, Gratuitous French

_-_-_

Life went on. The Anguished Lord returned to his seat within the Court. His fellows, appalled as they were by his reappearance (apparently, he'd simply vanished for a full fortnight) and sudden recovery alike, were naught but forc'd to accept that none of his holding within the fine Hang'd Court should be dispersed at any nearer time. His own subjects, at least, seemed somewhat relieved to no longer be under the threat of the Lord of Red's constant partying and drunken decision-making, the Lord of Yellow's fixation on military and over-taxation, or the Lady in White's enforced religious devotion to her King and overburdening laws, a stark Contrast to the replaced Lady in Green. Not that he thought they'd have been all that excited for her either. She'd been an utter wretch. 

Still, it was nice to feel so wanted. The Black Lord had even gone so far as hosting a party at his own manor. Still, he found it utterly lacking what without the source of his newfound wellness present to enjoy the festivities. He still longed greatly to repay what had been given to him, even if he new not what the cost of his own life and health would be.  The days seemed to go right back on to dragging again after the initial excitement brought on by the new lack of looming death. Instead there was exhaustion. A lack of anything other than the occasional pang of guilt whenever he thought back to the odd doctor to which he owed his very life.

A fortnight passed. The hope that the Wandsman had simply disappeared off to another surgery finally began to fade. He'd begun requesting that his peons keep an eye out and bring the stranger to his manor if, by chance, the doctor was found. Another week, and he'd damn near given up, retreating back into the familiar dredges of hopeless melancholia. His order grew lax, nigh neglectful, and yet that only made him feel more terrible. Each ounce of motivation he'd managed to work up dashed all over again with each fleeting thought of his new obsession.

The court of the Anguished Lord was dark. He liked it that way, the sole light filtering through the vast dome of glass which made up the ceiling, casting the floor in deep blue with swathes of casted, shadowed black from the intricate muntins, the spiraling, swirling shapes like the  tentacles of some great, vicious beast. It was a cold place. an island within a vast, empty sea, far from the bustling town by the hill which was darkened similarly by night, and silenced by the oppressive shadows, all life lacking save for the cheery, distant music that echoed up the towering hoodoos of volcanic tuff to the sprawling estate. 

Seated upon his throne - draped was more like it, really. His position could hardly be considered sitting, the Black lord rested, tired eyes tracing across those stretching, swirling shadows like they may bring some form of desperately needed entertainment. It was late. Extremely so, and he would have gone to bed were he not so utterly aware that he'd have to come right back to his spot in the morning. What was the point of it all, then? To leave his chair only to lie around and stare at a different set of shadows before the cycle of migrating from grand, important seat to grand, slightly more important seat and back again started over? To have his health restored only to be sheerly incapable of enjoying it? It was... perplexing... Not to mention bothersome. He'd clung to life so desperately, only to go right on back to sulking in his own misery once it was returned.

Yet...

There had been a laugh. There had been a... a... smile? Simply an uplift. An uplift to his anguish if only for a moment. 

He needed to find that Wandsman. To thank him, of course, but perhaps to welcome him into his own Lower Court, as well. He was sure he could pay well enough for a doctor, after all, and if he kept the Wandsman around simply due to that one singular instance of... of... (Joy. Mirth. So many words for that simple little concept.) whatever that was then that was nobody's business but his own.