Chapter Text
In the centuries that followed, the memory of Marcia, Lady of the Nova Marks, grew beyond the woman herself. To her contemporaries, she was equal parts scholar and sovereign, lax in manner yet unwavering in principle, ruling the West more by scroll and stubborn laughter than by sword. But to posterity, she became Saint Marcia, matron of the Nova people, her life recast as an exemplar of modesty, virtue, and celibacy.
Her death by the River Mouille remains one of the most told scenes in Nova hagiography. Chroniclers describe her lifting her voice to her twin, Saint Nicephore the King Rogue, across the waters that had long divided them. Both are said to have wept for their separation, yet Providence decreed the river wide and the winds restless, and so their words scattered. In myth, she became a star, and he a torch in the sky, forever distant, forever together. Some sources claim her final words were ffortun da, the blessing she gave to her knights and priests.
Later scribes softened her humanity. Her letters with Saint Soline of Telassdros, once giddy, lovesick things, were reinterpreted as pious modesty and lofty friendship, a symbol of the enduring bond between two nations separated by the Great Meridian Sea. Modern readers note the ardour that commentators of the time chose to overlook. Whatever its nature, the affection remained her joy, and the people counted that joy as her miracle.
Marcia’s legacy endures as the patron saint of stubbornness, scholars, and celibates, not because she ruled with an iron hand, but because she insisted that wisdom and laughter could outlast despair.
—
Her chief counsellor, Minister Margh, survived her. Grey, weary, and forever exasperated, he was declared Marcel by Marcia’s own hand, entrusted to continue stewardship of the West. Though he accepted with tears, he did so faithfully. His grim, practical, unyielding private ledgers always end with a simple line: “If she laughs, the realm endures.” Posterity named him the Defender of the Saint, and his descendants would form the House of Marcel, the sovereign line of the Nova Marks. His life offers the counterpoint to Marcia’s: a reminder that even doom has its place, for without his weight, her flame might have burned unchecked.
—
The Order of the Flame endured through the deeds of its first companions.
Rheidyr Aberfa, the first knight, lived to train new generations. She laughed at her own missteps, most famously, a soup spilled at Rollo Rocks, and so taught that strength lay not in pride but in serving even at one’s most foolish. Her sword was preserved as relic, though she herself swore the ladle was the truer symbol.
Minister Macneil, remembered as the Sermon in Armour’s Shadow, left writings blending Providence with pragmatism. His call to compassion, “Do not harden your heart; compassion softens what is rigid,” was once central to Nova thought, though later centuries ignored its plea for harmony in favour of isolation. His sermons endure long after the swords he marched beside.
Marchog Abercastle became the fiery exemplar of determination, famed for shouting “No detours, no delays!” to apprentices. His grave overlooks the western cliffs where the Wicked Conjurer’s tower once stood. Though later scholars question whether sorcery or simple storm lay behind the tale, the moral remains: determination cuts through storms, tempered by faith in companions.
Minister Macewan, the Breaker of Staffs, carried her teachings far beyond Nova shores. Her words, “Do not curse what you cannot control,” entered common proverb, from Calderul to Telassdros. She died quill in hand, her last record ending in mid-sentence with “… and yet, hope.”
Marghek Abernant, called the Blade Who Endured, trained his squires even after losing an arm. His humour, preserved from early banter with Aberlour, softened his iron rule. At his death, his sword was said to glow faintly, as if Providence touched it once more.
Margoghes Aberlour, sharp-tongued and unyielding, fought to her last breath in defence of the West against a failed Rogi incursion. Her smile at death was said to be brighter than her blade, and children long repeated her quip: “Better friends than walking logs.”
Minister Macdowell, whose genderless identity later became revered as a sign of Providence’s balance, made a life with the reformed knight Iohannes at Carmeine. Their final record closed with: “Community is not built of hollow things.”
Iohannes, once the cowardly Blood-Red Knight, died a defender of Carmeine during a flood. His line became the Barons of Carmeine, remembered in parable as the Beggar Knight turned Flamebearer.
The legacy of Marcia and her companions is not the tale of a militant conquest, nor of flawless governance. It is the story of flawed, human figures who chose service, laughter, and stubbornness in the face of despair. History trimmed away their contradictions; reverence burnished them into saints, parables, and proverbs. Yet their true strength lay in their humanity.
Thus Saint Marcia endures, ink-stained, book-buried, stubborn, joyous. A Lady who ruled not by law nor by sword, but by refusing to yield to gloom.