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Marcassin was eight years old when he started to suspect something was wrong with his brother. It wasn’t any of the things everyone else thought was wrong with his brother like his lack of magical ability or his disregard for authority or even his arrogance. No, Marcassin had nothing but love for even those unfortunate aspects of his brother. Marcassin’s concern was simply this: that his brother was unhappy living in Hamelin.
Clearly, Gascon’s situation wasn’t perfect. Marcassin was young, but he wasn’t oblivious to the fact, lately, that his brother and father argued more often than they spoke civilly. Still, he seemed happy enough when it was just the two of them, and his brother had always had a bit of an irritable disposition as long as Marcassin could remember, so he didn’t really see any cause for concern until he started disappearing for hours on end.
At first, Marcassin assumed he was simply off in some part of the palace by himself, but when one of the guards, appearing obviously flustered, asked if Marcassin had seen the crown prince around the castle lately, he knew he was mistaken. So Marcassin did something that he rarely did.
He lied and said, yes, of course, his brother was just in his chambers, didn’t you check?
When Marcassin finally found his brother an hour later, he was curiously out of breath, and his boots were muddy, but since Gascon didn’t say anything, neither did Marcassin, except to politely inform him that one of the guards had asked after him earlier.
“Oh? And what did you tell him?”
“I told him you were in your chambers. That’s where you were, weren’t you?”
Gascon grinned and ruffled his younger brother’s long dark hair. “Yeah. ‘course I was.”
Marcassin thought maybe that would be the end of it, but the same thing happened again a few days later. So Marcassin resolved to keep a closer eye on his brother. If his brother was doing something against the rules, he wanted to know about it! And possibly, he wanted to take part in it, depending on what it was.
“Alright, what’s going on?” Gascon asked him, crossing his arms, after a few days of Marcassin following him around the palace.
Marcassin looked up at him seriously. “I could ask the same of you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his brother replied, glancing about the room. It was, thankfully, empty but for the guards outside the door who were too far away to hear much. They weren’t as concerned with what the princes were up to as they were with appearing imposing and keeping intruders out.
Marcassin crossed his arms back and continued to look up at his brother with the most stern expression he could manage. It was not terribly stern, as he was eight years old with large bright blue eyes, and his brother couldn’t repress a smile.
“Alright, alright, I’ll tell you,” Gascon relented. “Better yet, I’ll let you in on the action, if you want.”
Marcassin’s eyes lit up. “Yes, please!”
“Tomorrow then. We’re getting out of here,” his brother said with a twinkle in his eye.
And they did.
The following day, Gascon showed Marcassin how to sneak out of the palace without any of the guards or, most importantly, their father noticing. Marcassin enjoyed it, getting to walk about Hamelin unsupervised and relatively anonymous, but his brother seemed to thrive on it. Gascon’s entire attitude seemed to lighten once they left the palace behind. He smiled more than Marcassin had seen in what felt like forever.
All of this was such a pleasant change that Marcassin nearly forgot this was against the rules until several hours had passed and he started to worry they would be missed.
“Gascon?” he said. “Do you think we should be getting back soon?”
“Not particularly. Why? Aren’t you having a good time?”
“I am, but… Won’t someone notice that we’re missing?”
His brother let out an irritated puff of air. “What does that matter?”
“Well,” Marcassin began hesitantly, “won’t Father worry if he doesn’t know where we are?”
Gascon scuffed his foot against the cobblestones. “He might worry about where you are. Not sure he especially cares where I am.”
“Oh,” Marcassin said in a small voice, looking down at the ground.
His brother was silent for a minute, but when he spoke again, his voice came out softer. “Maybe we should think about heading back soon though. It’ll be time for dinner soon, and I’m hungry.”
“Y-yeah, me too,” Marcassin said, relieved.
But Gascon’s mood seemed sour as they made their way back into the palace, and the fight that followed when their father found out they had gone was explosive. Gascon was sullen and irritable for the rest of the evening, and Marcassin worried that the next time he went out, he wouldn’t come back.
Marcassin resolved not to let his brother sneak out without him. If Gascon was going anywhere, Marcassin was coming too.
Marcassin was twelve years old when he realized he needed help if he was going to run the Hamelin Empire half so well as his parents had done. Yes, he had advisors, but the big decisions still needed to be run by him, even if he wasn’t going to be officially coronated until he came of age. What he really wanted was his parents’ advice, but since that, unfortunately, wasn’t an option, he would have to settle for the next best thing: learning as much about how they had ruled Hamelin as possible.
He decided to start at the beginning with his father’s coronation to see how much experience his father had when he took the throne, since he had obviously done a good job. He found details of the coronation in an old newspaper, and he was surprised to learn that his father hadn’t been as old as he would’ve guessed. The previous emperor had been in his mid-twenties when he’d ascended the throne, which was still much older than Marcassin, but not as old as Marcassin had pictured. In his head, his father was perpetually careworn and middle-aged, even if he was now coming to understand that his father hadn’t been so old as he had imagined him.
He learned something else interesting from the newspaper. His father had had considerably more support during his coronation. He was already married by that time, and his mother was still alive. Marcassin wished his mother were still alive. His regent, the chief advisor Alistair, was doing his best to guide him, but he would’ve appreciated all the help he could get. Really, he would’ve appreciated anything from his mother. All that he knew he got from her for certain was his eyes.
He continued searching through the newspapers. He found a piece commemorating the birth of the crown prince, and another memorializing the late dowager empress, Marcassin’s grandmother. She’d passed only a few years into her son’s reign. Then he found an article announcing the birth of the emperor’s second son–that was him!
It was a short piece, but its tone was optimistic, detailing the prosperity the emperor’s reign had so far brought to Hamelin, and the hope that his two children would follow in his footsteps. It mentioned that the new prince had been named Marcassin, and he and his mother were doing well and would appear in next month’s royal procession, should Fate continue to bless them with good health.
This was all well and good, but Marcassin had been hoping to hear words from one of his parents. So far this was just other people’s opinions of them and news items.
He continued digging, and then stopped almost immediately as a headline caught his eye.
EMPRESS DIES AT AGE 30–THE EMPIRE MOURNS. His stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to read that, but he couldn’t turn away. Below the headline was a portrait of a woman with a kind face and long dark hair, and he realized with a start that he had never actually seen his mother before–all images of her were kept in parts of the palace that Marcassin hadn’t been allowed in while his father lived, and since his father had passed, Marcassin had done his best to honor his father’s wishes.
Curiosity won in the end. He read the obituary. It described a beloved empress, a devoted wife and mother, and–to his surprise–a skilled engineer. It also said that the emperor was in mourning and had declined to comment. This was not a surprise to Marcassin. His father had been reticent to talk about his wife’s passing even to his sons.
He kept digging. He wanted to find something in his father’s voice. An interview, perhaps, or even just a quotation. He found a brief piece that noted the emperor had gone abroad to attend the wedding of another Great Sage, but no comments from the emperor himself.
Then he found the newspaper he had most been dreading. He didn’t bother to read it. He remembered when his father’s obituary was published distinctly, and he didn’t care to relive that experience.
But that meant he had hit a deadend. Nothing in the old newspapers his advisors had brought him had anything close to advice. He knew more about his parents than when he had started, but in a way, he felt further from them than he had before. All his research had accomplished was reminding him of how little he actually knew about his parents.
He sighed and put his head in his hands. Maybe if he tried history books next, or if he dug deeper into foreign affairs, or–
There was a knock on the door to his study.
He straightened and folded his hands together. “Yes? Come in.”
It was his chief advisor, Alistair, and he was holding a small, worn leather bound book in his hands. “Prince. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I heard you were researching the previous emperor, and I thought this might be of interest to you.”
Marcassin perked up. “Oh, yes. What is it?”
The regent set the book on the table, and it revealed itself to be a journal, full of very neat, very small handwriting.
“This belonged to the late Emperor,” Alistair said gravely. “It was his private journal, and he didn’t allow anyone to read it, so it was in storage after his passing. But I thought if anyone should be allowed to read it, it would be you, Your Highness.”
Marcassin let out a soft gasp and touched the smooth worn leather of the journal. “Thank you,” he said as seriously as he could. “I believe this is exactly what I was looking for.”
Alistair gave a rare smile. “Then I’ll leave you to it, Prince. And for what it’s worth, I believe your father would be very proud of you.”
Marcassin was eighteen years old when he was officially coronated as emperor, and by that time, he thought he had gotten the hang of running the Empire. A large part of it, he thought, was knowing when to rely on others and when to handle things himself. Another large part of it was listening to his subjects and not assuming he always knew what was in their best interests.
These were things he’d picked up in part from reading his father’s journal, which lived in Marcassin’s bedside table as both talisman and guidebook, and in part from trial and error. One of the very few benefits of being forced into a position of authority so young was that he had plenty of time to make mistakes and learn from them. And he certainly had made mistakes, but he wasn’t going to dwell on them today because today was his coronation, and he needed to put on a strong and confident face for his people.
They needed it now more than ever as Shadar’s influence was being felt more and more. There were rumors he was planning to make a move on Xanadu. If he did, it was entirely possible he might move on Hamelin next, and Marcassin couldn’t allow that.
When Marcassin stood before his people and swore to serve the Empire and honor its constitution in all that he did, he told them he did it for their sake and to follow the path his father had laid out for him, and this was true. But it was not the only reason, or even the main one, and the reason he didn’t share with his subjects was this:
The newly crowned emperor still believed his brother was going to come back one day, and when he did, Marcassin intended to show him just how fine a job he had done as ruler in his absence.
The chief advisor turned to the crowd and spread wide his arms. “Do you, the citizens of Hamelin, recognize Marcassin, former prince of Hamelin and son of the late emperor, as your new emperor and swear to obey him as long as he shall serve you?”
“We do!” chorused the crowd.
“Long live the emperor!” Alistair shouted.
“Long live the emperor!” the crowd cried.
Marcassin was twenty years old when he started to lose faith in his ability to see Hamelin safely through this. Xanadu had been destroyed, in one of the bloodiest and deadliest massacres since the Wizard Wars, and though Shadar had yet to make any overt moves towards Hamelin, the number of broken-hearted was increasing by the day, and Marcassin was powerless to stop it.
To make matters worse, the other leaders–the Cowlipha, King Tom, even the other Sages–had all gone silent. No one had heard from Khulan since the fall of Xanadu, and what scant news made it to Autumnia from the Summerlands was not reassuring. It seemed the other leaders were more concerned with protecting their own kingdoms than uniting against Shadar–not that Marcassin could blame them. Look what had happened to Xanadu for daring to oppose him.
No, Marcassin couldn’t allow that to happen here. He had to keep Hamelin safe at any cost, or it would all be for nothing. He had to believe that his brother was still coming back–
“Your Majesty,” a guard spoke, bringing him out of his dark thoughts. “I have a report on the numbers of broken-hearted in the Empire.”
Marcassin sighed. “Please, leave it on my desk. I’ll look at it later.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the guard. “Also, I was told to inform you that your presence is requested in Magical Research & Development.”
“Very well. Any particular reason?” He had a hunch.
“Well, sir, as I understand it, there was a slight issue with the prototype engine for the Porco Grosso Mk. 1, and it…well–”
“Did it by any chance, explode?” Marcassin asked, standing up and heading towards the door.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Marcassin quickened his pace, and the guard hurried to follow him. They made their way as quickly as possible to the Magical Research & Development laboratory which was easy enough to locate due to the overwhelming smell of smoke and metal.
The emperor pushed open the door to find a large room full of twisted pieces of singed metal and equally singed researchers and engineers who all looked quite at a loss. To his displeasure, nowhere among them did he spy Porcious, the chief engineer, which explained why no one knew quite what to do.
Marcassin took charge. “Report! Casualties? Wounded?”
A harried-looking engineer with bright red hair spoke up. “No casualties. Eight wounded. Mostly singes and scrapes, but Kyo here got hit in the head. Might have a concussion.”
Marcassin nodded briskly. “Bring him here.”
The red-haired engineer helped her coworker limp over to the emperor who took out his imperial scepter and cast Healing Hand. Kyo glowed and blinked and perked up, his eyes snapping back into focus and the swelling on his head fading away.
“Thank you, Your Majesty! I feel much better now!”
“Good. Please assist your coworkers in heading to the infirmary so their wounds can be tended to,” he said as politely as he could.
Kyo left, and the red-haired engineer started to follow, but Marcassin stopped her. “Please remain. I need your report of what happened.”
“Oh. Of course, Your Majesty.”
“First of all,” Marcassin began in a voice that barely concealed his frustration, “where was Porcious? As Chief Engineer, it’s his job to handle these catastrophes, and to answer for them.”
The engineer coughed. “Well, sir, he didn’t show up for work today. No one is quite sure where he is.”
“Very well. Then I don’t suppose you could explain to me what went wrong? These sort of accidents aren’t supposed to happen. Our technological prowess is known throughout the world. Surely, we can handle a prototype engine of our own invention.”
“We can!” the engineer said hurriedly. “It’s just that, well, the Chief has the blueprints for it, and we thought we had the specs memorized anyway so no big deal, except maybe we got a few of the details mixed up and—”
Marcassin held up his hand. “That’s enough. I’ll discuss this with the Chief Engineer if he returns to his post. See to it that this mess is cleared up, and get yourself to the infirmary.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Marcassin turned and left, head spinning. What a mess. Hamelin’s finest making amateurish mistakes. His Chief Engineer away without leave. And another report on the broken-hearted crisis waiting for him on his desk.
He returned to his study and picked up the report, thinking that it was the perfect thing to complement his already foul mood, and there, right at the top of the report, was a familiar name.
Chief Engineer Porcious–suspected lack of enthusiasm .
Well. That explained everything. And there was nothing he could do about it.
As the emperor sat there, staring at the report on the broken-hearted, a curious and all-consuming sensation overcame him. It was quite simply this—that he couldn’t put his faith in any of his people, not his advisors nor his guards nor his subjects, and that worse still, he couldn’t put any faith in himself or his ability to see them through this. In that moment, everything felt quite hopeless.
He waited for the moment to pass and was surprised to find that it didn’t. This was it then. This was how it ended. He told himself that he had to keep going because his brother would be coming back one day, but he found he didn’t believe that either.
Marcassin was twenty-three when his brother returned and Shadar and the White Witch were defeated. His brother–who went by Swaine now for reasons that were not entirely clear to Marcassin–had played a rather significant role in defeating Shadar while Marcassin himself had helped defeated the White Witch which solidified his belief that everything had worked out for the best.
“Come along,” Marcassin said to his brother. “I have to show you everything that you’ve missed.”
“What, everything?” echoed Swaine. “It’s been fifteen years, Marcassin! We’re hardly going to cover everything in one afternoon.”
“No,” he agreed, “but we have to start somewhere.”
“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Swaine said with a crooked grin. “Where to, Your Majesty?”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Well, I told you to stop calling me ‘Gascon’ and you haven’t quite managed that either, so I’d say we’re even.”
Marcassin sighed. “Very well. And our first stop is the engineering division, of course. We’ve radically expanded our Research & Development departments into both magical and non-magical areas of research. We’ve also worked hard to increase the safety of the researchers.”
“How many explosions did it take before you found something that worked?”
“Too many. Moving on, we’ve also expanded our research library to include works from across the continents–” Marcassin continued with the tour, and Swaine continued to interrupt him with quips.
After they finished in the engineering division, Marcassin introduced Swaine to the new captain of the guard and gave him a rundown on all of the improvements they’d made to the functioning of the royal guard and their equipment.
“Yeah, I like the new look of the armor,” Swaine commented. “It’s not quite as ugly as it used to be.”
“Thanks,” Captain Hogarth deadpanned. “That’s exactly what we were going for.”
“Actually, we were going for increased mobility and range of vision,” Marcassin explained. “It is, however, a work in progress, and we’re always looking for ways to improve.”
Much of the palace had remained the same, as Marcassin was pleased to inform his brother, since it was, after all, a site of considerable historical significance, but he showed him the few renovations that were being made, mostly just repairs from the recent battles.
By that point, much of the afternoon had been spent, so they agreed to have dinner and pick this up again later.
Swaine insisted on as little formality as possible, and to be honest, Marcassin found that a welcome change of pace, so the brothers ate in Marcassin’s quarters instead of the formal dining room.
“It looks like you’ve done pretty well for yourself,” Swaine said with a teasing grin, looking hopelessly shabby amongst all of Marcassin’s fine things. Even so, Marcassin was surprised he hadn’t recognized him right away. Perhaps he would have if he’d been in his right mind when they’d met again.
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Marcassin replied. “I often told people that I was determined to be a good and just ruler to follow in our father’s footsteps, but to tell you the truth, I was more so doing it for you.”
For a brief moment, Swaine was speechless, something Marcassin scarcely knew was possible, but he recovered quickly. “Guess I wasn’t such a bad influence on you after all.”
Marcassin smiled. “Our father was right about many things, but he was quite wrong in that respect. But enough about what you missed. Tell me what I missed.”
Swaine paused. “Okay, but remember what you just said about me being a good influence, because you might want to change your mind after this–”
Marcassin laughed. “Don’t tell me you broke more rules without me.”
“Yeah, well, maybe a few,” he admitted. “Oh, where should I start?”
“The beginning?” Marcassin suggested.
“The beginning?” Swaine repeated. Then he shrugged. “Sure. Why not? We’ve got time.”
“That we do, brother,” Marcassin said. “That we do.”