Lancaster's Inferno - Cocytus (Circle IX - the Ultimate Destroyer
- Part III)

Scene I: Wessex, England - ancestral estate of Robert Lancaster II - Tuesday, June 24, 2003

I sat with my head leaning against my hand, in my favourite of the leatherback chairs in the Grand Library, that which my father used to call his own, listening to the minutes tick away on the large, stoic, grandfather clock.  

My father gazed down upon me with condescending eyes near the fire place, from his portrait, disapproving, I know, of the recent foul publicity I've received.  I stared at him, trying to commune with him, apologizing, and trying to convey my true feelings.

As per usual, I got nothing back but the same steely gaze I received when a young man.  Everytime I see that portrait of my father, dressed in his military garb, I realized that I could never live up to his expectations, nor be half the man he was.  Cliched bullshit, but true nevertheless.

Oh Shit.

I didn't need this.  I cast my eyes away from the portrait as Simkins stood beside me, silent, staring into space, ready to receive my soon to be ex-wife here to formally close the book on our marriage.

I did not want this.  I never expected this, nor thought the shit would just pile up into an avalanche.  However though, this was best for Edward, and best for me too.  I cannot hold onto any dreams, for they are just that.

I can't help but feel that someone, something...helped accelerate this process and hell, set it in motion.  That journalist from those few weeks back who interviewed me for some wrestling site on the Net, knew far too much too easily.  Those stories in the Sun, especially the one about Christine, were remarkably detailed and accurate to the point of incredulity.

Perhaps someday all will be revealed.  

For now, I must wait.  Wait for her, wait to sign those damnable papers, and then that will be it.  Then I must to London.

Christ I'm more nervous about that than anything else.  

The letter that was packaged in with the goddamn Sun with the Christine exposee was from the Palace.  I knew from Steph that they were getting exceedingly perturbed by the headlines in the papers.  But what they wanted with me there, face-to-face, whomever I was to, well, face, was beyond me.

I did not want to think about that either.

My only diversion was life in the ring.  I had been handed a chance by the CSWA brass to team with Seamus again, and much to my delight, with Jeff as well.  Our opponents are perhaps the hottest thing in the CSWA today, and perhaps the CAL. Unfortunate that such talent must be marred by such idiocy as Murray Monroe.  

Murray Monroe, Tommy Mullholland, and even some Italian twit named Corrado I've heard Seamus mention once or twice. All men of the air, of ego and brazen stupidity at times, but they got the job done, whatever it may be.  Their genius (save for Corrado) is not to be taken lightly.

The men they manage, in this instance the former, Monroe, were men of quick speed, talent, with a flair for the unorthodox and extreme.  And I don't put anything past Monroe, I know we shall keep a keen eye on that fecker for damn sure.  He'd love nothing more than to have his force get by us in a contest.  To defeat three men who have been friends for so long, who should know and breathe every move the others have, and anticipate every step they all make in the ring - would be a priceless victory. Particularly, in light of the fact that one is a former CWF World Champion, and the other two, multi-time singles champions, and let alone former CAL World Tag Team Champions.

The wrestling world would not hear the end of that victory for ages to come.

But then again, I cannot underestimate the factors that are in our favour.  Jeff will be more than ever ready to unleash his frustrations and energy, now that that rubbish he faced is behind him, into the ring, as he aptly showed last week against three men.  He's the best of men outside the ring, and despite our past feud, I know no better friend than he, but inside it, he will show no mercy to anyone.  Seamus, likewise.  The Irish Assassin does just that.  He has to be able to do that if he can defeat me in a scotch drinking contest.  

Myself?  I can only hope that I'll be sharp and on edge in this match, able to anticipate any and everything they can throw at our direction.  I hold no grudge against any of the men we will face, and I will be sure to enjoy our tangle.

I ancitipated the contest very much so, and know I'll get more of a challenge than I did from my previous opponent.

I wonder how he's faring.  I can only hope better than I, but then again, if he's facing as much shit as I am - although I find it hard to believe that anyone could be going through as much shit as I - then the bottle seems to be his best friend.

I would love to hold a benefit sometime to support, oh, Mothers Against Drunk Driving for example, or Alcoholics Anonymous, here in Wessex, black tie only event, of course.  I wonder if he'd be interested in attending.  Something I'll have to ask him face-to-face.  And a rematch for that lovely gold belt of his too, while I'm at it.

I smiled to myself when at last, a knocking at the door.

The smile quickly vanished.

"I shall see who it is Your Grace."

Simkins moved from being a statue to a man in motion as he exited the Grand Library and headed towards the front foyer.  I shifted uncomfortably out of my chair and in front of a small oak table that I had brought in from the study to sign the divorce forms in person with her.  My solicitor had gone over the terms Stephanie requested, and I had absolutely no desire to argue or debate them.  She could have as much fucking money as she wanted per month, just as long as I could see Edward consistently.

From what I understood from her, she planned to move back to England and raise Edward near her parent's home outside London.  I am glad.  I want him to grow up in Britain rather than America.  At least that way he will grow and learn and appreciate the country that wrought him.

I stood and waited.  Finally.  Simkins stood in front of the door.

"Her Grace Stephanie Erin Lancaster, Duchess of Wessex."

A formal introduction did not seem out of place seeing as I felt I knew not the woman I once swore to love until the demise of Time.

Stephanie walked in, looking lovely as ever, in high heels, a black skirt just long enough to keep the chill away in rural England, and a white blouse covered by a black business jacket.  That it was.  All business.

She looked at me.  I could tell immediately there was no love in her eyes remaining.  My heart cracked at that very moment.  I resisted tears, and maintained my composure.

I held out my arm and showed her over to the table, where the forms rested.  I picked up the fountain pen, and pulled off the cap.  I wrote deliberately, slowly.  

Lancaster.

With one pen stroke I erased the past two years of marriage, and years before then of engagement, and courtship.  With one pen stroke I demoted her from Duchess to Lady, and removed her hand any further from the destiny of the Duchy of Wessex.

I looked at her again.  No emotion crept across her face.  I tried to break the ice.

"Congratulations your Ladyship, you're a free woman."

Nothing.

She took her required pieces of the forms and slipped them into her purse.  She turned from me and left.  I heard the door close.  Simkins returned, with what seemed to be a small look of contentment on his face.

I knew not where forth it originated from.  I accepted it as is, and made final preparations for my trip to London, to see whomever awaited me.




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