Marked By the Gods - 9. Epilogue

They decided the coronation should take place immediately, in Kadnaris. In fact, Tytus spoke enthusiastically of moving the Empire's capital to the ancient city officially, and in a way Rannell Kent saw the sense of it. But none of that was up to him. That was the Emperor's job now, his right to make those kinds of decisions. Kent trusted that he'd make them wisely.

He looked at his Emperor and smirked. The lad's coronation robes were the definition of gaudy, and the monstrosity of a crown upon his head threatened to topple off at the slightest movement. The oversized ornaments, crown, and robes gave the overall impression of a boy playing dress up in his father's clothes. He is still just a boy in many ways, Kent reminded himself. He has need of me yet.

As if reading his Guardian's thoughts, the Emperor caught his glance and scowled. "These clothes are ridiculous."

Kent tried not to laugh, and not just because he would offend His Grace. With his wounds still in the process of recovery, laughing hurt quite a bit. "They are the traditional garb of the Emperor at coronation," Kent lectured, as if Tytus wasn't very damn well aware of that.

"Tradition can go fuck itself," the Emperor said, in a most un-Emperor fashion, "I've half a mind to strip this all off and walk down the aisle to be crowned as naked as the day I was born. What do you think they'd all say to that, eh?"

"Some of your vassals are quite elderly, Your Grace. Their hearts couldn't handle such a sight." Kent couldn't repress a chuckle, then winced at the pain of it. "Others might like what they see too much. And I couldn't allow that."

It seemed to be what Tytus wanted to hear. "Perhaps a private reenactment of a naked coronation, tonight? Just you and me?" His grin was impish, the same old Tytus that Rannell Kent had always known. He could not help but laugh again, even though it hurt like hell.

The Guardian responded with a shy nod, felt himself stiffen with desire at the thought. "Just be gentle on me," Kent said.

Tytus snorted. "No promises.”

There was a brief knock on the door, and then the musician stuck his head into the room, looking impatient. "Are you two lovebirds done 'preparing' yet? Everybody is waiting for you!"

"How dare you speak to me that way!" Tytus said, playfully, "I could banish you to the mines, you know."

Ammon came fully into the room, shaking his head. "Didn't work so well the first time, did it?"

The grin on the Emperor's face fell as he thought of it, and then he quickly grabbed the musician and pulled him into a hug.

"Careful, don't get your glitzy dress all dirty," Ammon said, his voice muffled in the cloth of the Emperor's garb.

They hugged for a long time, but eventually the Emperor pulled away. "You sure you won't stay at court?" Tytus asked, "I'll make you the most famous performer in the Empire!"

Ammon smiled but shook his head. "Naw, that sounds awful. I'd rather stay with my brothers. Don't worry, I'll come to visit sometimes."

"You better," Kent said meaningfully, then placed a hand on his Emperor's shoulder, "Your Grace, it is time."

Tytus nodded. "Tell them we are coming, Ammon."

Kent helped the Emperor adjust his robes where they had been unsettled by the embrace. "I'm nervous," Tytus admitted in a whisper.

"The ceremony will be over before you know it."

"Not of the coronation, silly, of ruling. I want to rule well, but something tells me that won't always be easy. What if I don't know what to do? What if I don't do all I can? What if I mess up in a big, big way?"

The Guardian cupped his liege's face in his hands. "You will not have to do it all alone. That, Your Grace, is why you must always keep me close."

The young man's face lit up like the sun. "I will, my love. I will."

Joren was awake, even though he desperately wished he could sleep. It was the middle of the night, but the celebrations in honor of the new Emperor were going strong outside. Through the open window in his room Joren could hear the shouts and laughter of thousands of people who had not expected to live this long. There was a palpable sense of relief, of having been saved, of having been spared. The coronation was just an excuse, really. Everybody was alive, and so they were happy.

All except for Joren. He didn’t deserve good fortune. He was supposed to be dead. The fact that he was still alive while so many others had perished in the conflict made no sense to him. There was nothing to live for.

Damek said otherwise. Damek said he was Joren's father, that they were a family now and that they had each other. He said that was enough to keep on living for. He even wanted to take Joren to visit Calla before she grew too sick, the whole family back together one more time. Joren found he hardly cared.

The war was over, but the reality of it, the horror of it, still lived on in Joren's heart, just as it would live on inside each and every man who had been forced to endure it, forced to witness and commit horrible acts. Joren knew he would never be the same.

A breeze blew into the room from the outside through the window. It was an unseasonably warm night, so the cool air was appreciated. But then Joren thought about that window. He thought about how high up it was, and how far away the ground was below it. He thought about how easy it would be to end his suffering, and to rectify a mistake the Gods had clearly made.

It all made sense. Joren rose from the bed and walked to the window, every step easier and lighter than the last. It was inevitable. He could see the city now, lit up in celebration and joy. He smiled. He put a foot up on the window sill and prepared himself to jump.

A hand grabbed his shoulder. Somebody was standing next to him in the darkness.

"No," Calder said. Joren fell into a heap at his feet and wept, unable to speak.

"The Gods have marked you, for they have given you life," the boy continued, "The world is yours. You are free. You have will. You have choice. You are alive. Do not spurn their blessing."

"It feels more like a curse," Joren breathed out, barely able to form the words.

Calder laid a hand on his friend's head. "You and I both know… to be marked by the Gods,” he whispered, “is both."

"It is well-known and yet little discussed amongst historians just how little we actually know, how many elements that make up our past were unrecorded or unobserved and thus how any attempt we make at constructing our history will be lacking. Historians are logical men, and as such we do not like to admit that some problems can simply not be solved.

In undertaking a history of the War of Two Emperors, this fallacy in the science of history cannot be ignored. In this volume, I have laid out the causes for the conflict as best we know them, discussed each battle and laid out the strategies involved, detailed the personal biographies of many of the key figures and offered analysis into their motivation. But all this is nothing.

What even the most logical historian cannot ignore is that the war ended in a single day in what is probably the most singular and baffling incident in Imperial history, ushering in the reign of Emperor Tytus I, whose legacy still dominates life and politics today, long after the Empire itself has fallen to dust. The stories that have come down to us from that day are almost too fantastic to be believed, and indeed at the onset of this project I considered them nothing more than retroactive propaganda for the new Emperor.

I am no longer sure of anything, save for this: that we will never fully know nor understand everything that happened that day, the day a war that could have devastated our continent for generations was averted, the day the course of history was changed. Even a man of logic such as I can admit that there are some things that simply cannot be known. And perhaps (and for a man of logic, this is heresy indeed) it is better that way."

-- Postscript to "The Time of Madness: The War of Two Emperors" by Kendveric, Professor of Middle Imperial History at the University of Nathar, published 412 years after the Siege of Kadnaris