| Subject: Mon Roi - Chapter 42 Long |
Author:
Loveroy
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Date Posted: Saturday, September 18, 02:41:14am
In reply to:
Loveroy
's message, "Mon Roi - Chapter 36 and forward" on Thursday, August 12, 02:40:15am
Michael worked uninterrupted on the projects that would restore some semblance of normalcy to the devastated community. He hardly slept or ate as he struggled purposely to finish the social reintegration of the 1,000 in as short a period of time as possible and before more lives were lost. At the end of the first week of labor Michael had made great strides, but the commonwealth’s loss was a staggering 25% of its citizens and countless others would not be making it to the end of the second week.
The handsome Monarch left his post at the laboratory only when Jones called him to his side while he lay on his deathbed. Michael learned from a not so healthy Chandler as they walked to the older man’s chambers, that Jones’ health concerns were reaching a critical point and so Chandler begged the Prince to come up with the necessary cure. The distinguished nobleman told the handsome Sovereign that he would divulge all the essential Intel Michael would require for saving the populous only if the information were necessary to find a cure.
Michael didn’t want anything other than to take Nikita and the test tubes holding her memory, to the safety of his kingdom to recuperate. He was not going to discuss his affairs or his needs with an underling such as Chandler, but would surely do so when he faced Jones. As he entered the room kept extremely warm, Michael alarmed watched Jones who looked like the walking dead, move around with great trouble in spite of his cane.
Knowing that extreme temperatures, especially heat incubated the virus further, Michael rushed to the air conditioning unit and brought the temperature to a chilly 50ºF. The Prince then ordered Chandler to do the same in the rest of the space. Michael quietly approached the man who lay serenely on his bed after having struggled to get into it and listened for signs of pulmonary edema.
Jones spoke, his voice aged and faltering, “Prince Michael I need to speak… cough… to you Sire, it is my duty as your loyal… cough… servant, to confess the truth before I die.”
Prince Michael, who before anything else was a benevolent ruler, hushed the man by requesting of him, “Save your energy Sir Jones.” Furthermore Michael thought that the man only owed an explanation to his daughter Nikita.
The man whose eyes were glassy from the fever and whose skin was clammy from the sweat nodded his head slowly in understanding. Michael took a prepared syringe from his biohazard-suit pocket and injected the older man in the clavicle; Jones fell immediately into a peaceful slumber. Making sure that Jones’ vitals were regulated, Michael ordered Chandler to follow him as they prepared enough of the antidote to inject the remainder of the population of the small enclave.
Next Michael inoculated Chandler and the man in gratitude explained the process of restoring Nikita’s memory as tantamount to replanting a winter garden. Of course Michael understood that the most important ingredient to this ‘horticultural’ methodology for undoing the erasure of memory would be hope and faith. Needless to say Michael was in a panic at the prospect of recuperating his beloved’s soul and immediately immersed himself in an unfamiliar state of doom after learning the troublesome approach.
----
Prince Michael, at the end of the second week oversaw a recuperating society. Jones not able to make a complete recovery died peacefully in his sleep a couple of days after receiving the serum. The antitoxins were manufactured at great speed, but too late to save another 25 % of the infected subjects who expired shortly after Jones.
A tireless Sir Chandler succumbed to the virus eventually and passed away without being able to advise Michael further about the secrets he took to his grave. Prince Michael would not abandon the remaining recuperating 500; saving these people was his duty, a badge of honor that he would not forsake. Michael also knew that taking them uncured into his realm would be catastrophic, so he waited for their full convalescence.
Sir Walter came running once Michael took command and assisted with the help of his handpicked entourage in administering the necessary health-care to lift these people from the dark ages. Those constituents who could help in the rebuilding of the society did so with enthusiasm and hope. What property needed to be condemned was boarded up and burned, and the rebuilding of the borough continued, to be adjoined eventually to Michael’s realm.
Prince Michael brought to this region from his dominion his personal royal physician to study Nikita’s physical and mental states. The question posed to the scientist was how and when could her memory be restored so that Michael would live happily ever after with the fair maiden. The Prince also brought the Birkoff twins to work on restoring the infrastructure of the domination and to lend Michael his moral support; something the Prince desperately needed. The twins’ wives, Carla and Terri also came to help Nikita once she recovered completely and to aid in the blonde’s integration back into society.
Carla whispered at her first look at Nikita while standing with Michael and Terri outside the glassed-in room that housed an inert blonde, “Will the recuperation be complete?”
Terri always the more diplomatic and optimistic of the two friends, piped in reassuringly, “Of course it will.”
Prince Michael moved towards the wall of windows closer to his beloved’s bed and noted surprising the women with his fatalistic and out of character remark, “A crap shoot.”
That was the last time Michael spoke that afternoon or for a while and his obligation was perceived as having to be near Nikita at all times. He had entered the chamber properly attired and sat next to the sleeping woman only leaving her side when he deemed it completely essential. This was an exercise in futility because Nikita was not aware of her surroundings and subsequently his presence, but this intimacy was enough to abate Michael’s discomfiture.
When Their Royal Highnesses King Paul and Queen Madeline first arrived at their son’s side and visited inside the chamber Nikita slept in, a concerned Paul asked Michael why he was rooted to the spot. The Prince shrugging his shoulders, eyes fixed on the beautiful sleeping woman’s face answered as if the question was trivial, “Nikita is here.”
Angry and if truth be known anxious as all hell for his son’s wellbeing, the King turned to his wife and stated, “Madeline, do something about your son.”
The Queen smiled for it was as it had always been in times when the independent Michael was insubordinate to the Monarch; in the eyes of the King Michael became ‘her’ son. Madeline answered, “He is correct, where else should he be?”
Michael didn’t even flinch at the discussion between his parents; he was immersed in his own world, a world that included a dependent Nikita. Paul on the other hand was instantly aware that his lack of emoting would get him in trouble with his wife. Madeline as expected, gave Paul a look as if saying, ‘wait until we get home.’ And Nikita - eyes closed, body shrouded in a heating blanket and breathing through the aid of a device, flinched for the first time in three weeks.
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