“i’m afraid you’re deluding yourself.” conall to hernando!
the magic mountain
“O INFIERNO,” HERNANDO SCOFFS, not looking up at the brit, his gaze instead remaining on the map before him. a letter lays with its face pressed down on the balearic. its seal, broken and bright red, is still legible, and just as damning as if the letter itself were face up. the count - duke of olivares is not a particularly unpredictable man. if anyone here is deluding himself, it’s the count, whose delusions scream as loudly as a grifter even though olivares himself is far from here. “for once, i am saying no war. let el holandés be, for the sake of keeping france from iberia.” hernando would never admit it, but spain is losing its ability to aggress this issues, and must now look to acquiesce, or stay neutral at the very least. spain is not what it once was. “alas philip is not concerned with what i have to say.”
hernando’s jaw flexes as he cuts off his own words. it’s difficult to hold his tongue when his frustrations have been simmering in his blood like boiling water with the lid left on. but steam released is not unseen, and its best for vultures like conall to never know how much hernando boils. and truly, he burns scalding. damn that wretched beast of a man whose raving insanity had seduced the ear of the king ! damn the king as well. damn it all to hell. hernando has half a mind to side with the dutchmen himself, if only to prove olivares wrong as spain is cremated.
