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January 3rd, 1800.
I am George III.
I am perfectly fine.
I have always been perfectly fine. The stars still call out to me. The grass still feels soft underneath my fingers. The sun still greets me with a smile. My George still speaks to me.
They found me a few days ago. I am perfectly fine. They did not need to find me, for I was doing just fine without them. Without… him.
But that is nonsense. He is here. He has been here. He won’t leave as long as the stars still shine. He promised me that so long ago. My dearest George promised me that. Under the stars we both came to adore.
He said when he dies, he’ll always be in the sky.
But he has died, and he is still next to me. He still plants kisses on my forehead each night. He still calls me his own. He STILL treats me like the king I was born to be. I STILL see him in my room.
So why do they say he’s not here?
I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine. I have always been perfectly fine.
Perfectly. Fine.
His Majesty’s writings have been archived at the permission of the royal physicians. This archive catalogues all three months of his medically-ordered solitude. He was provided a notebook and quill upon his request. We have made sure to keep everything as accurate to the notebook as possible.
Thank you,
His Majesty’s Medical Staff
January 14th, 1800.
I am George III. I am perfectly fine. I know I am. I have to be. How else would I still write so eloquently? How else would the stars still shine like they used to?
It has been a month.
A month since the star of my sky was taken from me. That is, in the flesh. His soul, his spirit, his very being still screams my name when I begin to forget his face.
I know he’s here. I know he’s here.
He’s here.
He has always been here.
I know he’s here.
I KNOW HE’S HERE!
SO WHY ARE THEY TRYING TO SILENCE HIM?
WHY ARE THEY TRYING TO MAKE HIM LEAVE ME?!
Oh, Georgie… Never leave me.
Please don’t leave me.
-George III
After he finished writing, he refused to let us see the notebook despite our attempts to soothe him. Will try again later.
January 31st, 1800.
I don’t know where he is.
My name is George III.
I’m fine. I’m…
I’m so sorry, George. You whisper things to me in the darkness. You cry out to me when I plead for you, but… your voice gets quieter every day. Are you there?
Are you there, George?
You don’t have to respond, my dear. I know you’re there. You’ve always been there. Even before your pesky revolution, you’ve always been there for me. Even when you hated me, I knew you were there for me. You’ve always been there for me. Even if I can’t hear you. Even if I’ll never feel the warm, rough touch of your calloused hands again, I’ll still have you by my side. Always, always, always, always by my side. Even if you go quiet, I know you’re here with me. And you’ll never leave me.
Right?
Surely you can’t be gone…
-George III
His Majesty’s mental state only spiraled from this point. On February 6th, His Majesty fled the palace to the nearby woods. What he did in those woods is unknown. While he has since returned, we can only speculate what he did during those weeks he left.
February 6th, 1800.
My George has commanded me to leave the cage of the palace by any means necessary. I have fled to the woods like he told me to. I’m doing everything I can. But the voice still slips away. George still slips away. Was it him who told me to leave my gilded jail, or was it someone else? George? That wasn’t you talking, was it?
I haven’t heard from him in a while if it truly wasn’t him who commanded me. He hasn’t spoken to me.
I will not stand for that.
I will grip onto him until my fingers wither and rot. I will cling to his leg like a dog until I’m put down like one.
They will not silence him.
They will not restrain me.
These woods, they call to me. They call both of us. I sit under a tall English Oak and stare up at the night sky I live under.
And his voice grows louder.
“George…”
My head shoots up from the grass as I hear him call my name. I see naught but the landscape before me.
“George!”
I look in every direction and stand up, stumbling around.
“George!?” I cry out, “George, are you there?!”
I feel a cold chill slink down my spine. Cold fingers slide up to my shoulders and press down.
“What the devil…”
“George.”
A slow turn of my head reveals the horror of what I see.
It’s George. There’s no flesh or bones to be found before me, but a spectral visage of him from the war ages ago. His trifold hat still has that singular red feather in it. His translucent form still carries itself with grace and strength.
I whip myself around onto my knees and raise my hands to grip onto him.
They slide right past him.
“Oh, my love, George, how?! How can I… see you…?”
His voice is cold and detached.
“Let go, George.”
“What…?”
The ghostly visage of him draws his saber and points it to my throat.
This isn’t the George I remember.
“The colonies. The people. Me. Let go. They’re gone.”
What? WHAT? LET GO?
“No… No, George, it’s not you… The George I know would never hurt me! He’d never hold his saber to me! Ever! What are you?!”
His eyes stare into my soul as a force yanks my neck back. I don’t know how he can move me. He crouches down next to me.
“I’m dead, George. Washington is dead. I am gone. Forever.”
I pull myself away from the force and grip onto his saber. It feels like a real saber would, even if it’s not real. The blade still slices even if I don’t feel the metal.
“No, no, my love! I’ll follow you to the edge of the earth! I’ll make the sky fall for you! I’ll waste myself away for you! You’re here! You’re still here!”
He shakes his head.
“Washington is dead. Forever. You’d do anything for him, right?”
What kind of question is that!? I’d do it all for him! He knows that!
“YES!” I cry, “yes, George, you know I would! Anything! Just come back! Speak to me! Tell me you still love me!”
He steps back, and the blade slices my hands again. I hiss in pain as he points his saber to my forehead.
“Forget me. I’m never coming back. I’m not real. Let. Go.”
I lunge forward to grab onto him, and he vanishes.
I look down at my hands.
I’m holding my own sword in my hands. I’m covered in my own blood.
I’m staring at a random grave in a cemetery. It’s the middle of the night.
He wasn’t there. He isn’t there. He’s…
He’s really gone.
…
…
I am George III. I am perfectly fine. I have always been perfectly fine.
The stars still call out to me.
The grass still feels soft underneath my fingers.
The sun still greets me with a smile.
My George…
He said when he dies, he’ll always be in the sky.
We stargazed together.
Oh, George…
Which star must I travel to to meet you? Which star did you become?
Let me burn in its center, my love.
Let me burn in its core lit aflame.