The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 819: Chapter 380: The Non-Standard Hero, The Non-Standard Reactionary (5K4)_3

Holy! Holy! Lord of hosts!

Holy! Holy! The great Prophet and Messiah!”

By a carriage at the street corner, having just witnessed this impactful scene, Tennyson couldn’t help but be moved to tears. It was only then that he understood the meaning behind the words Arthur had once said to him.

—I’d rather you not become a great poet, for the heavenly poems have all been written by priests, so poets can only depict Hell.

And now, here, this was his Hell.

Overwhelming emotions filled Tennyson’s mind. The inspiration he had long sought for over the past year without any response now resonated fervently at this moment.

Tennyson felt countless repressed emotions accumulating in his chest, as if they could tear him apart and plunge him into the deepest abyss of pain at any moment.

“Many worlds, many deeds,

Chasing the wind in this life, predestined,

How do I know it is not the other worlds that need you?

For you are strong, as you are pure.

The fame I foresaw for you has vanished,

Your head missed the crown of this world,

But I do not curse nature, nor curse death,

For nothing deviates from the law of nature.

We merely pass through, that small path of human life

Overgrown with weeds, or ending in thorns,

In the endless years,

What kind of fame can human deeds retain?

It depends on God.

Oh, the hollow illusion of fading fame,

Completely gone at this moment, and the soul’s ecstasy,

It strives to gather great strength,

This strength might forge the name of humanity.”

A mouthful of fresh blood spurted out, Tennyson’s eyes still held tears. He looked at the now quietly closed-eyed Arthur, wanting to remain silent and look at his friend one more time, but the verses of famous poems wouldn’t let him refuse.

“In the eyes of those persistent viewers,

The faces of the dead, sometimes reveal,

A previously indiscernible,

Similarity among the species:

Likewise, dear, now that your brows have cooled,

I too discern your being,

I understand your resemblance to the wise ones who have passed,

And your kinship with the ancient masters.

But there is more beyond my sight,

And where I see, I stop from speaking,

And do not discuss, because I understand,

Death wants to use you, to make his darkness beautiful.”

Dickens leaned helplessly against the carriage, his legs weak, unable to stand, his mind a blur, and the streaming tears almost suffocated him.

“For the ingrate to the first benefactor of youth, and the creator of life’s fortune, retribution is deserved. In your life, never breach four things: trust, relationships, promises, and hearts. For when they break, they make no sound, but the pain is immense. Now, I see trust, relationships, and promises rebuilding, but my heart is shattered.

Indeed, there is darkness on this earth, but compared, the light should be stronger. One must be kind but not foolish enough to be easily deceived. When encountering issues, discuss in detail with your most trusted person. Arthur, you were right, life is a story, and now, how I wish you could continue writing this story.”

Dickens collapsed weakly to the ground, his body powerless, and the hat he had treasured for so long fell into a puddle, getting soaked and dirtied.

Standing beside him, Louis remained silent. The noble Bonaparte merely turned his head and glanced at Great Dumas beside him.

He saw Great Dumas insert his handgun into its holster, his face expressionless, his eyes filled only with memories, and he heard Great Dumas’ hoarse voice.

“In politics, there are no people, only ideas, no emotions, only interests. So, even if one kills in politics, it cannot be said that a person is killed, only that an obstacle is cleared. Arthur, you were right, even implementing it yourself.”

Louis felt a tightness in his chest, wanting to say something but finding he had nothing to say.

So, he could only throw the question to his friend. He turned to Great Dumas and asked, “Alexander, do we…still seek vengeance against him?”

Great Dumas glanced at Louis: “Vengeance no longer has meaning. For I see neither a paragon hero nor a perfect reactionary. Most importantly, he has already made his self-accounting for his wrongful acts. Although he was not a republican, despite differing stances, I nonetheless deeply admire his actions. For I see a true man.”

Relieved, Louis took a deep breath, struck a light, and took a fierce drag. Along with the rising smoke, his voice and arm lifted.

Louis raised his hand in salute: “Sir, though I have been ordered to retire, I still wish to report to you, I am pleased to see you perfectly executed the tactical manual and ‘police regulations.’”

…

In the French Embassy at Westminster, Talleyrand continued his card game.

Suddenly, the doors of the recreation room were pushed open.

A military officer, pressing a hand to his chest, bowed and reported: “Mr. Talleyrand, we have just learned that the Tower of London uprising has been quelled. But…your card mate, Officer Arthur Hastings, has been shot in the chest, perhaps…”

Madame Jersey, seated opposite Talleyrand, covered her mouth upon hearing the news, looking both uneasy and frightened. She couldn’t help but ask Talleyrand: “That young Officer Hastings, he…Mr. Talleyrand, isn’t this a crime?”

Talleyrand calmly responded: “No, it’s worse than a crime.”

“Worse?”

Talleyrand gently gathered his cards and said: “Yes, this is not a crime, but a mistake, an irreparable mistake.”

…

London was still raining, but the rain had calmed compared to the initial storm.

At the tower peak of the Tower of London, where no one could see, Agares stood there.

Within his scarlet range of vision, he could see specks of light rising from the crowd below, with six of these lights being the most dazzling.

They gradually ascended, floated, until they were suspended in the canvas-like dome, forming the mysterious shape of a hexagram.

“A seasoned national leader, a saintly angel envoy, a poet whose works have endured for ages, a Shakespearean successor, a French literary giant dominating the continent, and a destined Emperor…”

Agares looked up at the resplendent hexagram, his words imbued with anger, yet seemingly tinged with jealousy: “The dead cannot be restored to life, that is an immutable law of nature. But, to say the least, Arthur, you are quite fortunate, for you have gained so much.”

Under the pale full moon, his wings spread abruptly, countless ravens with scarlet eyes flew from behind him, gathering the heavens-high hexagram into Agares’ hands.

Agares looked down upon the earth, gazing at the carriage carrying Arthur’s body away: “However, the only question now is, why even I have to do this for you?”