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The trek back to camp felt long and arduous. The rain beating down on their backs didn’t help matters. Yet the freezing downpour felt appropriate. Even the sky seemed to weep at the loss of Judith von Daphnel.
Upon arrival Claude immediately sent a courier to House Daphnel to tell them the news. He opted to wait until the rain subsided before having her body delivered. In the meantime, he made up a bed for her in the infirmary where she could be kept dry. With all that settled, he was left with only one more thing.
Entering his personal tent, he attempted to get himself settled for the night. He changed out of his wet armor and into some dry clothes. Dressed in plain linen night clothes, he looked nothing like the king he was. It made sense to him. After everything that transpired that day, he didn’t much feel like a king either.
Sitting down at his writing desk, he pulled out a piece of parchment and his inkwell. His pen hovered over the parchment for a moment before he found the words. He began to write:
Dear Mother,
I regret to inform you that Judith von Daphnel was slain in battle.
No, that wasn’t right. This was far more formal than a letter to his mother should be. Not only that, but such wording gave off the impression of an uncaring lord who was trying too hard to sympathize.
He crossed out the words and tried again.
Mother,
I’m sorry that I have to be the one to tell you this, but it’s better if it comes from me.
No, now he sounded way too casual. He crumpled the piece of parchment in a huff and threw it behind his shoulder.
He hung his head, covering his face with his hands. How was he supposed to explain to his mother that her best friend was dead thanks to his poor decisions? How could he possibly find the words when the remorse he feels goes so far beyond them? Normally in a situation such as this he would go to Judith for advice.
“What would you have me do, Judith?” he muttered to himself.
He could almost hear what she would say, her voice ringing out within his mind. She’s your mother, she would say. Speak to her in a way only a son could.
He heaved a sigh. Grabbing another piece of parchment, he dipped his quill in his inkwell. He hesitated for only a moment before he began to write in a shaky script.
Mom,
I’m so sorry. I screwed up, and now something horrible has happened.
His vision blurred. He could just make out the words on the page. His tears mixed in with the ink, smudging the letters slightly. In the end the missive was still legible enough to be understood. He only hoped he was able to properly convey the sorrow he felt in his heart.