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“My emperor,” Grian bows to Martyn, “you called for me?”
Today is a day of celebration within the Empire of Rubrum Veneficorum, for it’s the anniversary of the defeat of the wicked Harenae Terran Empire. The people light lanterns in the streets, snack on treats, and tell exaggerated war stories.
Grian could not stomach walking the streets where the story of him and Scar was distorted. They called him a hero for killing a man who did not fight back.
“Ah, welcome, General. Please rise, this is not a formal affair.”
“Is something the matter, your majesty?”
“No, no… just. How have you been adjusting to your new position?”
“Fine, completely fine,” Grian says quickly.
Grian has been living in riches and glory ever since the end of the war. Scar was right, the people love a good underdog, a war hero, the slayer of evil.
He was gifted a manor that belonged to a dead Heranae Terran general who was a loyalist. Grian was placed in Emperor Martyn’s court and now has more money than he’s ever seen in his life. He walks alongside nobles.
He doesn’t enjoy it as much as he dreamed he would, with a dead man’s ghost hanging on his shoulders.
“Yes… fine. Today marks one year since I killed Ren.”
That startles Grian. The puppet shows on the streets have been reinacting Martyn slicing down his corrupt king, but he didn’t expect Martyn to bring it up with him of all people. Grian wasn’t on their side of the war when all that went down, he never met Ren in person.
Martyn continues, “He remains with me at all times, but even more so today. King Ren… he may not have been perfect, but he didn’t senselessly throw us into war. A drought had devastated our countryside and the war meant giving the farmers out of a job a mission, an enemy to put a face to their pain. Ren always knew their anger could rebound back to him, but I… I never did. I knew Rubrum Veneficorum would win, but I thought we’d win with Ren still on the throne.
“And you’re telling me this all… why?”
Martyn sighs, “Because this is too ridiculous to take to my most trusted advisors. My most trusted was Ren. I suppose you know what that’s like?” Martyn’s words seem like a question, but he speaks like he already knows the truth.
“... Prince Scar was idiotic, wasteful with money, and a horrid leader. I killed him for the well-being of the empire.”
“Yes, yes, and I never mentioned Scar’s name, yet you knew I was talking about him.”
Grian shuffles his feet. Ah.
Martyn says, “I know you earned your title because of him. General qui Vigilat, the general who watches. You marched by his side for months, you could’ve killed him whenever you wanted to and one of the elder princes would’ve rewarded you.”
“That would’ve been treason.”
“Listen. I- I miss Ren, and no one will ever understand that. Yes, I killed him, but only because he told me to.”
Grian looks Martyn in the eyes and really sees him, the grief that lives there.
It’s the one-year anniversary that Grian killed Scar, too. He misses him and his dumb smile every day.
“It’s hard to mourn when everyone else expects you to rejoice,” Grian says in acquiescence.
Martyn stands from his throne, the beads on his crown covering his face, and he crosses the room past Grian, and he opens a panel in the wall. It reveals an altar with a bowl of fruit already set out upon it.
“Come sit with me,” Martyn gestures to his side.
Grian moves to kneel by him, sitting in front of the simple altar.
Martyn moves to light incense, “No one will remember him, so I have to. It’s my burden to bear alone. Why don’t you light one, too?”
Grian’s hands shake for a moment. But he accepts Martyn’s offer, burning a stick for Scar.
“History may not remember, but it remains true: the best of us die before they make it to the finish line.”
Grian did not expect to find such a kindred soul in Martyn, but here they were, remembering the forgotten. Grian decides to send a prayer Ren’s way as well as for Scar.
Outside, they hear fireworks, cheering, and singing. The men they swore loyalty lay in their graves, scorned by their people. No one will ever know the truth, for their deaths are what thrusted Grian and Martyn into power.
Martyn looks over his altar before standing up again. Grian follows and watches as his emperor closes the hatch in the wall again.
“I may not have known him, but feel free to tell me what Prince Scar was like in life. I doubt much of what the rumor mill spits about is true.”
“Ren, too, then. I know little of him, but I remember hearing my soldiers whisper about how they thought he was a wizard.”
“A wizard?” Martyn laughs, “If only. He was one for theatrics, but if he had any magic, there were plenty of times he should’ve used it. He always… got into so much trouble.”
“Scar was always trouble as well. He was an actor, charismatic, and he always put himself at the center of problems. He was my constant headache, but also… my only companion, who saw me in my entirety when everyone else saw a peasant.”
Martyn pulls Grian along out of the grand hall, “Let’s reminisce over some tea, shall we?”
Grian nods. Talking about it all still hurts, but there’s something cathartic after keeping this all held up in his heart for a whole year. He can understand why Martyn couldn’t hold it in any longer, too.
He didn’t used to believe in good emperors, but talking with Martyn has restored some of his hope he thought long dead. Maybe there lies brighter paths in the future for them all, along the roads lined with the sacrifices of those who should’ve gotten to see the fruits of their work.
Grian thought he might’ve just drunk away his sorrows with a jug of pear blossom wine today of all days, but instead, he drinks osmanthus tea and has some snacks while laughing over old war stories with Martyn.
It’s not a happy day, still, not festive like the people celebrate, but it makes the weight in his heart just a little bit lighter.