Uno
VictortheMonarch
Victor the Crusader
24/09/1888
Bellas Vistas, Madrid
When I had died, I expected to wake up in front of pearly gates, or in front of a burning hellscape. What I had not expected was to find myself staring at the decorated walls of the Royal Palace of Madrid.
I remember it as if it was Yesterday, as it was the day my ‘new’ mother had died, and I was welcomed into this world. My mother, Queen María, died on Oct. 26, 1879. My father said that the doctors were surprised I had lived, seeing as my mother had been struggling with Typhoid Fever on and off ever since marrying my father, King Alfonso XII.
Of course my father remarried on the first of July 1880… just barely two months after my mothers death. Of course it was expected of him to remarry, just not as quickly as he did! I couldn’t blame father, he was expected to, but I instead blame that whore, Maria Christina.
My ‘step-mother’ was a solid bitch. She had apparently been a guest to my mothers funeral, and hadn’t spent long trying to woo my father. I’ve even heard from some of the maids that she slept with him a month after my mothers death. Either way, she had wormed her way into my fathers heart.
She was ignorant of me during my younger years. More than likely because of my fathers presence, but that hadn’t stopped her from turning the nose to me. It was only after my father’s death in 1887 that things took a darker turn.
While a hand hadn’t been raised, rumors began to spread. And a whole five months after my fathers death, my mother went to the Cortes with a ‘last will’ that was suddenly ‘found’ in his office. In this will my younger brother Alfonso was named my fathers successor, and I was to be fostered out of Spain. I was as the ‘will’ stated, disinherited from the House of Bourbon.
It hadn’t taken long for me to be tossed to the curb. I originally was supposed to go and live with some wealthy family in León, but instead found myself fending off the cold in an alleyway in Madrid.
I missed my father, even that ugly beard that he called ‘Spain’s finest’... more importantly, I miss the lifestyle of being a royal. Oh sure, I had lived in a poor household at one point in my previous life, but I had died somewhat wealthy and eight long years of having everything I ever wanted given to me at a momentary glance. I was not ready to be dropped from the top of the world to the lowest of trash. The first thing to happen to me was having my clothes stolen from me, as well as my only painting of my father that I had in a pocket watch.
I had slowly gotten back on my feet, getting clothes within a week of running around in rags, I even got myself a wooden crate I used as a home, with some straw as a bed. I could get food rather easily, as all I needed to do was pick some poor fool's pocket and a loaf of bread was but a moment away! Oh sure I had nearly been caught on several occasions, but I had always escaped. There was a reason some of the locals called me ‘el pié rápido’! The police couldn’t catch me, and if they happened to be on horseback, there were always places they couldn’t fit through.
“Charles.” I heard to my left. Ramirez was a friend, an older gentlemen who gave me the box I live in. He was a Peninsular War Veteran, and owned a fruit shop. When I say that Ramirez is old, I mean that he is old. Man is 96 years old to be precise, in other words ancient compared to the average spaniard. “Do you mind if I have an Apple Ramirez? I promise to pay you back.” I asked, and Ramirez shook his head. “Why sure. Get me a céntimo and it’s yours.” he said, and I smiled back, handing him one. “Just one?” I asked, and he shook his head. “Yes. I don’t need that money as much as you do.” I nodded, and left his story munching on an apple.
It was good that he only wanted one céntimo, as I only have about four left. If I need to I can break into my stash, but I’m saving that up, fifty more real and i might even be able to get a ticket out of Spain. Perhaps I could go back to America? I know Tennessee wasn’t the best place, but Sharecropping couldn’t be the worst experience.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see a carriage rolling down the way. It was an open one, and its occupants seem to be a wealthy family. There was really only three occupants, an elder gentlemen, with a nice beard, one that even I could envy, a younger man, clean shaven and with blonde hair, and a plain looking woman, who was studded in a beautiful dress, one that could even make that bitch jealous.
Suddenly the carriage stopped in front of a rather pleasant looking building. One obviously made for the wealthy. I’m sure that woman wouldn’t be remiss if she were to lose her handbag. Carefully I draw near, looking as normal as I could be on the street. Whistling the Marcha Real, I near closer to them with each step, watching them.
Steadily as I get closer the woman is open. It doesn’t take long before with both hands I grab the purse, and take off. The woman tried to pull it back, but it was too late, and it slipped off her arm rather easily. It didn’t take long before I had rounded the corner, dodged into an alley, and hid behind some crates. After a few moments, I heaved a sigh of relief.
I had thought that the younger blonde gentleman would at least take off after me, but after two minutes of waiting, he did not come into my sight, so I decided to look through my purchase.
There were some papers written in French, a few… cigars, a thirty reals, featuring my infant brother and some jewelry. It is the perfect thing to sell. Some of this stuff could go for a couple hundred reals! America, here I come.
As I walk out of the Alleyway, I put the purse in my knapsack, and start walking towards the closest shop. I’m sure I could probably sell this stuff to a pawn, and have just enough to get my ticket to New York, but I am a greedy bastard. The more cash I have on hand, the better my chances of getting out of that danger pin are. Suddenly a hand comes to my shoulder, and I halt. “Excuse me, young man.” I hear in an accented voice. Whoever they were, they knew Spanish quite well. “I would like it if you could return my wife's bag.” He said. I’m sure that I could get away from him, but the man’s grip was solid, I don’t think escape is an option.
I reached into my sack and handed it to him. “You aren’t going to call the Civil Guard are you?” The man shook his head, looking through the bag. “No, not unless you give me reason to. Say, my boy, what is your name?” “Javier, Javier Tramistre” I say, not batting an eye.
“Come now boy, I can spot a lie. Your real name.” He said. I move to escape, but his hand holds me in place. “Your name?” He says, looking down at me. “Charles… it’s Charles.” I said, looking him in the eyes. “Just… Charles?” He asked, his grip getting tighter. “I’m sure you’ve a last name, boy.” He said, glaring at me.
“I don’t have one, I’ve apparently been disinherited.” I said, looking around for a distraction. “Disinherited? From what family?” He asked. Looking around there wasn’t much, not unless I kicked him in the balls, but then he very well may turn me into the guard. “Borbón… My father apparently disowned me on his deathbed to leave way for his second son to take the throne. I was tossed to the side.” I said. Of course I knew my father would never disinherit me, but this is the public truth of it at least.
“Bourbon…” the man said. “Un autre parent éloigné…” he said with a sigh. “Come now young Charles, you will be coming with me.” he said, and I think that was when I let the fear show on my face. “No, I will not be handing you to the guard. You are coming home with me.” He said, and all that I could ask was…”why?” He looked down at me, and rather calmly said what wasn’t obvious “I’m related to you. Rather distant, but still related.”
“Who are you?” I asked, and all that I gout was a simple but firm answer. “I am Prince Louis Philippe Albert, of the royal house of Orleans, and I am taking you in as a part of my family.”
___
Yes, he is going to be king of Spain, as is obvious with the title. There’s going to be rather roughly, ten or so chapters in England for young Charles. I plan to have him be a mediator between political parties, and to push for progress. Not rabid progress like some modern political parties strive for, but progress to what alot want.
And yes, this will indeed be a monarchy wank, bite me.
Some information as to who stars in this chapter!
Prince Philippe, Count of Paris Served in the American Civil War!
Alfonso XII and his first wife, Maria de las Mercedes, both die later than they usually do. Alfonso dies of tuberculosis and Maria dies in childbirth.
Queen Maria Christina was said to be a bit of a bitch, and looked after her children fiercely. Nothing got infront of her, or it risked being torn to shreds.
Bellas Vistas, Madrid
When I had died, I expected to wake up in front of pearly gates, or in front of a burning hellscape. What I had not expected was to find myself staring at the decorated walls of the Royal Palace of Madrid.
I remember it as if it was Yesterday, as it was the day my ‘new’ mother had died, and I was welcomed into this world. My mother, Queen María, died on Oct. 26, 1879. My father said that the doctors were surprised I had lived, seeing as my mother had been struggling with Typhoid Fever on and off ever since marrying my father, King Alfonso XII.
Of course my father remarried on the first of July 1880… just barely two months after my mothers death. Of course it was expected of him to remarry, just not as quickly as he did! I couldn’t blame father, he was expected to, but I instead blame that whore, Maria Christina.
My ‘step-mother’ was a solid bitch. She had apparently been a guest to my mothers funeral, and hadn’t spent long trying to woo my father. I’ve even heard from some of the maids that she slept with him a month after my mothers death. Either way, she had wormed her way into my fathers heart.
She was ignorant of me during my younger years. More than likely because of my fathers presence, but that hadn’t stopped her from turning the nose to me. It was only after my father’s death in 1887 that things took a darker turn.
While a hand hadn’t been raised, rumors began to spread. And a whole five months after my fathers death, my mother went to the Cortes with a ‘last will’ that was suddenly ‘found’ in his office. In this will my younger brother Alfonso was named my fathers successor, and I was to be fostered out of Spain. I was as the ‘will’ stated, disinherited from the House of Bourbon.
It hadn’t taken long for me to be tossed to the curb. I originally was supposed to go and live with some wealthy family in León, but instead found myself fending off the cold in an alleyway in Madrid.
I missed my father, even that ugly beard that he called ‘Spain’s finest’... more importantly, I miss the lifestyle of being a royal. Oh sure, I had lived in a poor household at one point in my previous life, but I had died somewhat wealthy and eight long years of having everything I ever wanted given to me at a momentary glance. I was not ready to be dropped from the top of the world to the lowest of trash. The first thing to happen to me was having my clothes stolen from me, as well as my only painting of my father that I had in a pocket watch.
I had slowly gotten back on my feet, getting clothes within a week of running around in rags, I even got myself a wooden crate I used as a home, with some straw as a bed. I could get food rather easily, as all I needed to do was pick some poor fool's pocket and a loaf of bread was but a moment away! Oh sure I had nearly been caught on several occasions, but I had always escaped. There was a reason some of the locals called me ‘el pié rápido’! The police couldn’t catch me, and if they happened to be on horseback, there were always places they couldn’t fit through.
“Charles.” I heard to my left. Ramirez was a friend, an older gentlemen who gave me the box I live in. He was a Peninsular War Veteran, and owned a fruit shop. When I say that Ramirez is old, I mean that he is old. Man is 96 years old to be precise, in other words ancient compared to the average spaniard. “Do you mind if I have an Apple Ramirez? I promise to pay you back.” I asked, and Ramirez shook his head. “Why sure. Get me a céntimo and it’s yours.” he said, and I smiled back, handing him one. “Just one?” I asked, and he shook his head. “Yes. I don’t need that money as much as you do.” I nodded, and left his story munching on an apple.
It was good that he only wanted one céntimo, as I only have about four left. If I need to I can break into my stash, but I’m saving that up, fifty more real and i might even be able to get a ticket out of Spain. Perhaps I could go back to America? I know Tennessee wasn’t the best place, but Sharecropping couldn’t be the worst experience.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see a carriage rolling down the way. It was an open one, and its occupants seem to be a wealthy family. There was really only three occupants, an elder gentlemen, with a nice beard, one that even I could envy, a younger man, clean shaven and with blonde hair, and a plain looking woman, who was studded in a beautiful dress, one that could even make that bitch jealous.
Suddenly the carriage stopped in front of a rather pleasant looking building. One obviously made for the wealthy. I’m sure that woman wouldn’t be remiss if she were to lose her handbag. Carefully I draw near, looking as normal as I could be on the street. Whistling the Marcha Real, I near closer to them with each step, watching them.
Steadily as I get closer the woman is open. It doesn’t take long before with both hands I grab the purse, and take off. The woman tried to pull it back, but it was too late, and it slipped off her arm rather easily. It didn’t take long before I had rounded the corner, dodged into an alley, and hid behind some crates. After a few moments, I heaved a sigh of relief.
I had thought that the younger blonde gentleman would at least take off after me, but after two minutes of waiting, he did not come into my sight, so I decided to look through my purchase.
There were some papers written in French, a few… cigars, a thirty reals, featuring my infant brother and some jewelry. It is the perfect thing to sell. Some of this stuff could go for a couple hundred reals! America, here I come.
As I walk out of the Alleyway, I put the purse in my knapsack, and start walking towards the closest shop. I’m sure I could probably sell this stuff to a pawn, and have just enough to get my ticket to New York, but I am a greedy bastard. The more cash I have on hand, the better my chances of getting out of that danger pin are. Suddenly a hand comes to my shoulder, and I halt. “Excuse me, young man.” I hear in an accented voice. Whoever they were, they knew Spanish quite well. “I would like it if you could return my wife's bag.” He said. I’m sure that I could get away from him, but the man’s grip was solid, I don’t think escape is an option.
I reached into my sack and handed it to him. “You aren’t going to call the Civil Guard are you?” The man shook his head, looking through the bag. “No, not unless you give me reason to. Say, my boy, what is your name?” “Javier, Javier Tramistre” I say, not batting an eye.
“Come now boy, I can spot a lie. Your real name.” He said. I move to escape, but his hand holds me in place. “Your name?” He says, looking down at me. “Charles… it’s Charles.” I said, looking him in the eyes. “Just… Charles?” He asked, his grip getting tighter. “I’m sure you’ve a last name, boy.” He said, glaring at me.
“I don’t have one, I’ve apparently been disinherited.” I said, looking around for a distraction. “Disinherited? From what family?” He asked. Looking around there wasn’t much, not unless I kicked him in the balls, but then he very well may turn me into the guard. “Borbón… My father apparently disowned me on his deathbed to leave way for his second son to take the throne. I was tossed to the side.” I said. Of course I knew my father would never disinherit me, but this is the public truth of it at least.
“Bourbon…” the man said. “Un autre parent éloigné…” he said with a sigh. “Come now young Charles, you will be coming with me.” he said, and I think that was when I let the fear show on my face. “No, I will not be handing you to the guard. You are coming home with me.” He said, and all that I could ask was…”why?” He looked down at me, and rather calmly said what wasn’t obvious “I’m related to you. Rather distant, but still related.”
“Who are you?” I asked, and all that I gout was a simple but firm answer. “I am Prince Louis Philippe Albert, of the royal house of Orleans, and I am taking you in as a part of my family.”
___
Yes, he is going to be king of Spain, as is obvious with the title. There’s going to be rather roughly, ten or so chapters in England for young Charles. I plan to have him be a mediator between political parties, and to push for progress. Not rabid progress like some modern political parties strive for, but progress to what alot want.
And yes, this will indeed be a monarchy wank, bite me.
Some information as to who stars in this chapter!
Prince Philippe, Count of Paris Served in the American Civil War!
Alfonso XII and his first wife, Maria de las Mercedes, both die later than they usually do. Alfonso dies of tuberculosis and Maria dies in childbirth.
Queen Maria Christina was said to be a bit of a bitch, and looked after her children fiercely. Nothing got infront of her, or it risked being torn to shreds.
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