How It Begins
Madrid, July 14th, 1657, 6:35 AM
As with all bad omens, it began with a brilliant, illuminating blue flash in the sky, followed by a rumble of clouds.
Woken from his fitful slumber by multiple demonstrations of God's frightful majesty and power,
el Pacificador coughed once, then twice, then three times. Each subsequent cough became more ragged, each one causing a metallic taste in his mouth; each one flecking his sheets with blood from violent expulsions. They cease, as they always do. Drained after that last convulsion, he sighs heavily. The fits -- and more importantly the unholy pain -- have stopped, but for how long? He has no answer. His doctors have no answer. His confessor has no answer. Worst of all, God Himself has no answer.
Collecting himself and his thoughts,
el Pacificador,
no, maybe I truly am el Hechizado he bitterly thinks, starts a simple prayer to both God and the Blessed Virgin. One he has often repeated in private for the last year and a half since this wicked illness came upon him, sapping him of his strength, his willpower, his determination, his self-control, almost all of his mental facilities. If you listen closely, one can hear it.
Did you hear it? No? You couldn't?
He asks God and the Virgin to cure him of this affliction completely, so he may continue to stay the hand of his beloved and cherished grandsons, both named Enrique, the beloved children of his precious(and only living) daughters: the Queens of England and France. For he knows if he dies, nothing will stop the rivalry of the Enriques and their supports at his own court and around the empire from ripping apart the bonds of peace, right adherence to Holy Mother Church, friendship and most importantly, family, he and his father, and grandfather and great-grandfather before them strove so hard to forge over the last century and a half. Such is their hatred for one another. Both wanted to impress him so hard, doing whatever they felt necessary to show him they should be chosen to succeed him.
He prayed for an hour amidst the din of the thunder and flashes of lighting. Over and over, he kept at it until even the act of simple prayer for healing left him exhausted.
Almost, as if on cue as a response from God Himself, another bout of coughing begins. Worse than before, the pain is so intense, as if the knives of Caesar's assassins are repeatedly stabbing him. Blood. Blood starts dribbling down the corners of his mouth and upon tasting it, he breaks out into unabashed tears and starts to panic. In another time, another place, a learned man(or woman) might claim he also begins to hyperventilate from fear.
Please, God, not now! I still have so much left to do! So much left to teach my Enriques! You cannot do this to me! What have I done so displeasing in your eyes to deserve an ignoble end? Wasn't the loss of my only son and heir fighting the Turk in Hungary to aid my brothers in Christ in the Commonwealth and cousins in the Empire in your name and glory enough to humble me? Did I not do my best to curtail and contain the malignant, lingering wickedness of Luther and Calvin and all their insidious heresies for you? Why, I put pikemen in Flanders and won the Netherlands back for the true faith! My father and grandfather couldn't! I did! Were my laws not righteous enough? The Cortes accepted them without too many complaints and peace and prosperity flowed forth ever since!
Don't let this happen. It isn't my time.
Yes! I understand I've spoiled my Enriques more than any man should... pampered them more than most. Looked the other way....Let their countrymen....do crimes against those I swore to you on my coronation to protect. But isn't an old man allowed lavish love and affection on his grandchildren? Between myself and their mothers, we curtailed the worst of their excesses. Can't you see if I didn't, they would have continued in the sins of their fathers? I had no choice but to try approaches out of love! I would not, will not, wage war on my Enriques! Did You Yourself not handle Jesus' youthful indiscretions with kindness? Did You not spoil him when You could?!
I beg You, please allow me to live awhile longer. I must. If not, we stand to lose everything built in Your Glory. The Turk has been humbled but still eyes Hungary with covetous eyes and a wolfish appetite; the heretics, stubborn to the end, cause discord despite being chastised almost everywhere......there is so much left to do.....
Don't let this happen......
Sadly for
el Pacificador, begging, pleading, compromising and offering to finally and fully rein in his grandsons' gross behavior and acts did nothing to move God. In His infinite wisdom, he allowed
el Pacificador to pass after another few hours of extremely painful hours on this planet.
He was officially pronounced dead at 3:45 PM, July 14th, 1657.
His body was still warm as the clouds of another far more lethal storm gathered on the horizon. It first started in the halls of his palace, then swept outward like a virulent plague to encompass most of the know world...
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It was said by future historians that the day
Felipe IV, (known as el Pacificador during his reign, and later as el Hechizado to those very same future historians trying to make sense of what happened after his death) of the House of Habsburg, Rey de España, Rei de Portugal, Re 'e Napule, Re di Sicilia, Re di Sardegna, Ducato di Milano, Heer der Nederlanden, Duc de Bourgogne and countless other minor titles and honors, died, the torrential downpour he passed away during signified the first of countless tears all of the peoples of Europe, the Levant, Africa, Asia and the Americas would shed in the days, weeks, months and many, many years to come.