Day Three-Hundred-Nineteen: nooooooo

Allow me to clarify what I meant yesterday, diary. I bet what I said at the end had you worried.

King Jeffrey was a dickhole. He sentenced people to death most every day, he ordered the construction of traps that worked on his subjects as often as they did on baddies, he engaged in secret, apocalyptic projects without the consent of ANY of his (human) advisors (though that wasn't so much his fault, I'll give him that), and, by and large, he treated everyone around him like toys. A kid wearing the crown of a king, with all the power, prestige and authority to match.

Jeffrey should have been opposed from the start. There should've been someone like Robert, or Driscol, or ANYONE, building up opposition to such a horrifying man. But there wasn't, because people feared the consequences. They feared Jeffrey because they didn't know what he might do to them. That's what I need now, a bit of that fear to keep people in line.

But just a smidge! The teeeeeensiest bit. Hell, I don't want Jeffrey's brand of fear so much as I want Captain Cedric's brand of fear. Gruff, unforgiving, kick-you-in-your-ass-'til-you-do-your-job fear. Cedric was an asshole, yes, but he was the kind of asshole who got results, because people feared saying no to him. You say no, you get a punch to the face. If Cedric was my enforcer, so to speak, I'd have no trouble pushing people to get along, because they'd have a common enemy to unite 'em. Cedric himself. He'd probably love doing it, too.

This is why bosses aren't supposed to be friends with their workers, I guess. Hard to make the tough calls if you feel personable towards a soul. Better to keep 'em at arm's length.

But Cedric's dead. Unpopular, brutal, wonderful Cedric got killed following me into the abyss, or at least I think he did. Preeeeeeetty sure he got ripped in half. I can't rely on him to be my enforcer… but I know who's probably the next best thing, perhaps even better than ol' Ced.

I didn't want to admit it. I avoided addressing the man's identity for most of the day. I tucked it safely out of my mind, a dirty, terrible thought that I refused to acknowledge until somebody else brought it up. 

"Hey, why don'tcha bring in dad to help ya run this joint?" Robert suggested idly as he filled a mug with mead. "He'd make a hell of a bailiff. Or sheriff. Or whatever job you wanna give him."

My eyes bugged, and I groaned, not because it was a bad suggestion, but because it was the perfect suggestion. "Fuck me, Rob, why would you say that? You don't want them living here, do you?"

He shrugged. "I don't mind so much. Mom's a good cook when I want a day off, 'n dad treats me well enough." 

I lightly banged my head against the countertop, nearly burying my hat in a plate of deep-fried grass and eggs. "Gee, I wonder why. You're kinda the favourite of the family, Rob. Dad HATES me."

"Well, you are pretty crap, Drago," he retorted with a smirk. "Seriously, though. Whole time I was livin' there they kept sayin' they were thinking of moving, 'cause 'ol Cannonbottom's getting a mite trigger-happy in his old age. Mom's afraid he'll put a cannonball through her front window onea these days. Could let 'em set up a farm here. They'd be great for getting' all the other homesteads up and running. Whaddya say?"

I wriggled against the countertop, resisting, struggling, my head a tight knot of pain and aggravation. "You only want 'em 'cause you're sick of cooking with grass."

Robert smiled, reached under the counter, and pulled out a piece of parchment, a quill and inkbottle, and a battered envelope. "Get writin', bro."

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Doomed