Date: Mon, 7 Apr 2014 15:19:25 -0400
From: M Patroclus <thephallocrat@gmail.com>
Subject: Marked By The Gods, Final Part

MARKED BY THE GODS
A Myth in Eight Parts

by ThePhallocrat


PART EIGHT

Everything had stopped making sense, or maybe, more precisely, everything
had started making sense for the very first time. Rannell Kent was no
longer questioning it either way. He no longer worried about anything other
than the cold burning purpose that blazed in his very core, the purpose
that he had taken upon himself so long ago at the command of a God and
which now he would die for even without the God's direction or commandment,
a purpose that had become a religion unto itself that needed no outside
deity to make it holy. Protect Tytus. That was all he had ever been called
upon to do, and he had done it to the best of his skill, glad of heart, for
it aligned with his own desires. To discover now that perhaps, just maybe,
the passions of his heart, the love that had appeared as if out of nowhere
between the Guardian and his Chosen, yes and even the lust that had ignited
inside him for his charge had served the greater purposes of the God they
served... This very thought sent Kent reeling with awe and joy.

But no time for that. The Prince must be kept safe until it was all over,
until it was time for him to play his part. Kent turned the corners one by
one in the darkness of the tomb, knowing now exactly where he had to
go. There was a movement in the shadows, a figure shifting, preparing to
attack and defend itself.

"Tytus," Rannell Kent said, "It's me."

And then the figure attacked indeed, throwing himself into his Guardian's
arms in a gasp of relief, and they squeezed each other tightly and kissed,
and Tytus ran his hands through his love's hair and said, "I was so
worried."

"You were worried?" Kent said, laughing, "How do you think I felt?"

Tytus kissed him again. "Thank the Gods," he murmured, "Thank the Gods."

"Indeed," the Guardian replied, tight lipped. "Come, we must find someplace
safer to wait." He took Tytus by the hand and pulled, leading him into the
tombs.

"Wait? Wait until what?"

"Until it's over."

"Until what's over? What's going on?"

Kent squeezed the Prince's hand. "The remainder of your father's forces
arrived last night. The siege has begun in earnest, and they will attack
the walls in full force immediately. Your father is not content to wait."

"But we'll never take the walls in the first push, not with the enemy
rested and at full strength."

"He knows this. He seeks only to weaken them, hasten the end, but at the
cost of many of our soldiers. In his mind, we have more than enough to
spare."

"How do you know this? Kent... what's happened?"

"The war must end. And end it will, today. You must be ready. Our hope for
future rests with you."

Tytus stopped, sticking out his lower lip. A hint of his old petulance
returned to his voice, just enough so that Rannell Kent could remember the
spoiled child he had so recently been, and remembering, he
smiled. "Guardian, I'm not going another step unless you stop being so
cryptic. What in the name of the Gods is going to happen today?"

"Many things," Kent replied, "and in the name of the Gods indeed."
__________________________________________________________________________

He was exactly where Damek had expected him to be, naked and wet and curled
up on his side in a little ball, shivering from the cold and looking pale,
so very pale. The old commander knelt at his side and wrapped his arms
around him in a warming embrace, but the naked man jerked in alarm and
tried to pull away.

"Joren," Damek said, "It's me."

Light-headed, confused, Joren furrowed his brow at his commander but said
nothing. Damek tore off the sleeve of his shirt and began to bind the wound
in the man's chest which was leaking blood furiously. Joren tried weakly to
stop him, but the grizzled commander easily fended off the attempt.

"Let me die," Joren growled, barely able to form the words.

Damek laughed, a short bitter bark. "Not likely. You really want to die
like this, man? Naked and drenched in self-pity? By the Gods, I expect
better of you. We have work to do, boy, and no time for this nonsense."

"What are you doing here?"

"Saving your scrawny ass, Captain Joren, I should think that's obvious. I
need you. The war must end. The siege will begin today and it's up to us to
stop it. Well, and a few others, but never mind them. We have our part to
play and we're not going to fail, are we?"

"But why? Why save me? Why do you care?"

Damek finished tying off the bandage. "That wound will need seeing to when
we can, but you won't bleed to death now. Stand up and let's get some
clothes on you. Do you think the soldiers will want to see all your dangly
bits? Because I sure to the Gods do not. Get dressed, Captain. That's an
order."

Slowly, with lots of help from his Commander, Joren found his feet and
began putting on his clothes. He said nothing, finding that the task
required all of his concentration. Then, that done, Damek put the Captain's
arm around his neck and all but carried him through the tunnels towards the
surface above.

"I'm not worth saving," Joren mumbled.

"Allow me to disagree," Damek said.
__________________________________________________________________

From the top of the walls as the day dawned it was an all too-clear view of
the enemy army, laid out in perfect formation with various siege weapons
already constructed and being brought to bear against Kadnaris and her
defenders. From the disposition of the attacking forces, it was clear the
Emperor was planning for nothing less than a direct assault that would rely
on sheer numbers. It would likely work, eventually, days or weeks from now,
but there would be a slaughter first.

"He's a madman," Mouse said to himself, but then realized that much had
been obvious all along. As mad as his brother, the two Emperors were
two-of-a-kind, twins through and through.

"Friend Mouse!" shouted a familiar voice, and Salor approached looking
geared for war, "As much as I appreciate your company, I do not think this
is the best time to be here. I cannot vouch for your safety in the coming
siege, please, return to the palace and to your duties."

Mouse shook his head. "There will be no siege."

Salor laughed as usual, and turned to look at the enemy, "I suppose our
friends are here for tea, then."

"The war must end. The fighting must stop. This has been decreed - do you
understand me?"

Salor's smile faded and his eyes widened in reverence. He nodded.

"Do you know where our catapults and other weapons are being deployed?"

"Certainly."

"Have the Woodsmen disarm them. We will not be the first to fire. But you
come along with me, I have a few things to say to Kadnaris' defenders. And
then perhaps," Mouse said, smiling broadly, "I will play them a song."

"It will be done as you say," Salor said, saluting, and then hurrying off
to distribute orders. Mouse readied his instrument and plucked a few
notes. He had a few perfect tunes in mind that would be just the thing. But
first, to get everyone's attention. He began to play and to sing, and was
amazed at how loud a single note could be, how it could fill the air like a
gathering storm.
____________________________________________________________________________________________

Supporting most of Joren's weight had winded Damek, who was not young, and
so he didn't have the breath to argue any more with the guards at the
gate. But still he had to try.

"Let us out of the city," Damek said again, "We can stop this war before it
starts."

"Just the two of you? Against the whole army? Come on, old man, you know I
can't open the gate. It's a siege for crying out loud."

"You will need to open the gate only briefly to allow two men through."

"It's not going to happen."

Damek opened his mouth to speak when suddenly a new sound caught his
attention. Music, distant and faint, along with the sound of a young man
singing. Commander Damek smiled. It had begun already.

"What in the name of the Gods is that?" the guard said, craning his neck to
look up at the walls.

The sky was suddenly fill with birds of every size and description, many of
whom began landing on the city walls, on buildings, on soldiers, and
refused to budge when the men shooed them away. The guards were staring at
each in panic, but Damek could only laugh. The men barring their exit were
a bit too busy to notice what the two men did next. Damek placed one hand
on the gate and shook it, grunting in annoyance that it should be in their
way when he was so close to his goal.

"They'll never raise it for us, not during a siege," Joren said, sounding
defeated.

"No," Damek agreed, then ran his fingers over the metal in a sort of
caress. "We are in luck today, though, Captain. This gate is made of iron."

"That's lucky?"

"Iron," Damek said, with clenched teeth, "Is of the earth."

When the guards thought to look up from their efforts to get rid of the
winged newcomers, they were horrified to see a large man-sized hole in the
middle of the gate and no sign of the old man or his wounded friend.
_________________________________________________________________________________________

"I am waiting for an explanation, Sergeant," the commander of the gate
watch said. "We have a siege starting any second, and there's a bloody hole
in my gate!"

The sergeant of the guards was sweating profusely. "I have no explanation,
sir. It just appeared."

"Not good enough."

There was a flash as somebody ran past the two bickering men and out the
gate.

"Stop!" the seargant called out, far too late.

"Who was that?" bellowed the commander, "You see? Enemy spies slipping out
left and right. This is gross incompetence."

One of the guards on duty shuffled forward nervously. "I don't think it was
an enemy spy, sir. Just some blind beggar boy. Hardly seeemed worth
stopping him."

"I will be the judge of that. Now repair this gate, immediately! And
somebody help me chase off all these bloody birds!"
______________________________________________________________

"Did you hear that?" Tytus asked in a whisper, "Somebody is coming."

Kent was already aware of this fact, had his sword at the ready in front of
him. "Stand back."

"No, I will help fight," the prince insisted.

The Guardian of the Flame hissed. "Have you learned nothing? It all depends
on you. Stay back, stay safe, and let me protect you. It's what I was born
to do."

But Tytus pretended not to hear him, readying his sword and adjusting his
stance as though he truly intended to fight.

"A slave gave me this sword," the Prince said, not even looking at his
guardian, "A slave who I banished to the mines in a fit of rage. He didn't
think I recognized him, but I did. I remembered. I remembered how I treated
him like an animal, like something worse than an animal, and yet still he
rescued me and gave me this sword."

Finally Tytus turned to face his Guardian. His cheeks were red with
shame. "I must fight. If I am to be Emperor I must learn to fight for what
is right, to defend my people, all those who depend on me. You have taught
me for many years, my love, but now you must let me live your teachings. I
cannot be a student, a boy, forever."

The noise of the approaching men was growing louder. The mad Emperor had
sent many men after his escaped prize. There was no more time to argue, and
Kent had nothing to say. His heart was bursting with pride. "So be it, Your
Grace. Take my left flank. Clear your mind and trust your instincts. And
may the Gods protect us."

"Amen," said the Prince, and then the first soldiers burst into view.
____________________________________________________________________

The scouts brought word to Captain Bryant, but he could hardly believe
it. He commandeered the first horse he could lay his hands on and galloped
to the front lines.

But there they were as reported. Commander Damek and Captain Joren, the
latter leaning on the older man for support and looking pretty bad. Without
a moment's hesitation Bryant ordered a nearby soldier to bring a cutter and
see to Joren's wounds.

Damek waved away the order with a casual brush of the hand. "Gather the men
around, Captain," he said, "and listen close. What I am going to tell them
should then be relayed to every other unit in this army, squad by squad,
you got me?"

Bryant nodded. He couldn't speak.

"I left you all and abandoned my duties, and I'm sorry for it. But I had to
go. I thought it was to carry out a special mission for the Emperor but
there was a bigger reason, and for somebody even more important. Captain
Joren here is my son. Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm not a likely father
figure. But I realized something. So I knocked up my wife all those years
ago and made the Captain, but that's not what makes me his father. Not
really. I'm his father because he depends on me, and I have responsibility
for him. Well the same goes for all of you. You are all my sons, every one
of you, and the Gods help me but I will not see a single one of you die
today. Spread the word. The siege is over. Send our best scouts through the
army, have them disable our catapults. Should be a walk in the park to
them. Tell the other squads, and to hell with their commanders. The men
will understand. The war is over."

There was a general hush. The men were stunned. Finally, Captain Bryant
cleared his throat and found his voice. "It will be done as you say, sir,
of course. But... what about the Emperor?"

Damek smiled grimly. "The Emperor," he said, "is about to have a change of
heart."
_______________________________________________________________________________________

The final council of war before the siege was a short affair, for there was
not much more to add from any of the generals present. There had been no
word on the location of the Prince nor of his traitorous Guardian who had
led him so far from the fold of the true Empire. There had been no change
in the disposition of the enemy's defenses in Kadnaris. Those present who
believed it would be wiser to wait until the enemy was weakened by a long
siege without resupply, rather than simply attacking outright, kept their
silence. The opinion of their Emperor had been made clear and they did not
dare question him further. The loss of life on both sides would be
catastrophic, but none of the military leaders present could deny that in
the end their own side would prevail.

But what would be left of the Empire after such a battle? Nobody spoke of
this doubt, but it lingered in the air.

One by one the generals filed out, each ready to oversee their portion of
the attack to come. The Emperor himself remained, drinking wine from a
golden goblet. His pulse was calm and even. He had no concern for the
battle at hand, whose outcome was all but certain. Instead, he thought on
his son and how best to disinherit him, and who to nominate in his
place. There was certainly precedent for such things in the Empire's
history... he'd have the historians and lawyers dig up some example to
justify his actions. The idea caused him less grief than he would have
thought. Perhaps, he thought, he should have done it long ago. That boy had
been born a thorn in his side. Chosen of the Flame, indeed.

He had thought it almost dawn, for there had been a steadily growing light
peeking through his tent, but all was dark out there now. The attack would
begin at first light, but until then there was only time to kill. He took
another drink of wine.

The candle on his table sputtered out suddenly, followed by two other
torches which, set into sconces on long iron bars driven into the ground,
had illuminated the command tent. Suddenly the tent was as dark as the
murkiest night. The Emperor sighed and waited for one of his servants to
come and relight them. As the seconds ticked by and nobody came, his
impatience grew. At last, he bellowed to get their attention. Any servant
of the Emperor knew that if their Master had to call for them, they had
already failed, and could only expect a whipping if he was feeling
merciful, and the mines or the headsman's axe if he was not.

Still no one came. It had been a long time since the Emperor had faced such
incompetence. He would have risen himself and relit the torches, a lowly
task for a man in his position of power, but he could not see and his eyes
had not yet adjusted.

"I bring greetings, Your Grace," somebody said, and the Emperor's hard
nearly leapt out of his chest.

"Who are you?" The aging ruler attempted to summon all his indignation and
rage, but found he could not. Instead, an icy blackness had gripped his
heart. "An assassin?" As he spoke the word, he knew. He looked about him
for some sign of the intruder's presence, but there was nothing but the
void. "How did you get past my guards?"

Still no response.  The Emperor's hand went to his sword. When he spoke
again, his voice was low and sober, and had lost all hint of command. "Who
are you?"

"I am nobody," the voice replied. It seemed to come from a different side
of the tent than it had at first. "Merely one of the many victims of your
war."

The timbre of the voice was that of a child. The Emperor scoffed. "You'll
get no pity from me. Is this some kind of trick?"

Silence.

"You said you bring greetings. From who?"

"From the Gods."

"Is that so? What do they want with me, then? Do tell. I shall answer for
you. Nothing. They want nothing of us, they demand nothing from us, we owe
them nothing nor they us. They have abandoned this world, if they ever
existed. Else they would have ended this madness long ago. So tell me, boy,
enlighten me. What do you think the Gods have in mind for me?"

"You may soon ask them yourself."

The threat was absurd, but somehow the man who called himself the Emperor
knew.

"So this is how it ends," he said. He stood quickly, drawing his sword, but
it was too late. There was a sudden pressure on his back, his shoulders,
someone was climbing him, and then there was something cold and sharp on
his throat.
__________________________________________________________________________

Inside his throne room, the mad Emperor raved. His servants had abandoned
him. The siege was imminent, the final defeat, and the man would soon have
no more power left to wield. The servants who once had waited on him hand
and foot were gone, seeking to save themselves, jumping this ship before it
went down. The Emperor bellowed and shouted, but heard only his own echo in
the empty halls in reply. It was over, the end had finally come.

And he'd lost the Prince. His only chance at vengeance. The thought
destroyed whatever remained of his sanity. He'd pulled troops away from the
defense of the city, troops that were desperately needed there, and sent
them combing through the city and into the catacombs to find Tytus. That
was all that mattered now.

The door at the end of his throne room opened, causing him to stop his
rants in the middle of a nonsensical sentence. He cocked his head in
curiousity.

"Who comes?"

The figure came closer, and the Emperor recognized him.

"Your musician," the lad said.

"No music can save me now," the Emperor said, in a moment of lucidity. His
eyes were bloodshot and wild. He thought about jumping forward and killing
the boy, just for fun, just to feel his hot blood on his hands, just so he
could take revenge on something, on someone.

"I have come for you, Your Grace," the musician said, "You have suffered
long, but your suffering is over. Your pain ends this moment."

The madman threw back his head and laughed for a long time. "You think a
song can end my suffering?"

"Not just a song, Your Grace," Mouse smiled sadly, "But a lullaby. A final
one."

And he began to play.
__________________________________________________________________

There were many of them, far too many. Kent almost allowed himself to lose
hope, to be convinced they'd be overrun in the first instant. But then he
let go of his fear, let go of all thought, and lost himself in the sword.

Rannell Kent, the Guardian of the Flame, had studied the martial arts since
he could walk, and as long as he could remember he'd always been good at
fighting. The best. But in that moment he was better than he could ever
have guessed. There was no pause between thought and action, his hands
moved his sword into position before he could even formulate the idea in
his head, and he moved with speed and precision he had never before
possessed.

He was a whirlwind of death. The enemy soldiers, confident in their
superior numbers, threw themselves forward in a surge. Kent swiped, lunged,
ducked, spun, parried, and with every movement he sent a spray of blood
flying through the air. By his side, the Prince fought too, but Kent had no
luxury to spare a thought for his lover other than to verify that he was
still alive, still fighting.

He was. Bless the boy, he was still fighting.

The soldiers' frustration grew. This should have been an easy fight. They
grew more desperate. Kent was wounded in a dozen places and his lungs
gasped for air, but the thought of backing down even one degree did not
cross his mind.

He had already realized he would not survive this fight. The thought did
not frighten him. It was what he had trained his whole life to do, and he
did it willingly. I love you, Tytus, he thought, Remember that. Rule
wisely, and love another one day.

Rannell Kent went on the offensive, advancing step by step and forcing the
crowd of soldiers to retreat or perish. His sword severed limbs from
bodies, cut ligaments, broke blades, but not without cost. An enemy's
strike had rendered his left arm useless, but he fought on one
handed. Another low cut made his right leg give out, and he sunk to his
knees, still fighting. Finally, his blade was batted out of his hand, where
it cluttered onto the floor. He was defenseless, and half a dozen swords
raised to strike him down.

But there was a sudden burst of light from behind the Guardian, the source
of which he could not see. The soldiers gasped and threw up their hands in
front of their faces, staggering backwards.

A loud voice boomed from behind Kent, saying, "Drop your weapons."

Whose voice was that? Powerful, calm, authoritative, manly, regal... It
could not be Tytus. It could not.

The men obeyed, instantly.

"My father and my uncle are dead," the voice continued, "I know not how I
know. But I know. By the Grace of the Gods, by the authority of the
Lightbringer, I am Emperor.  This war is over."

The room still glowed with light, light that emanated from one man. Kent
wanted to turn to see him, to see his glory, but he couldn't. He was too
weak, too tired, he had lost too much blood. He didn't need to look. He
knew now that Tytus had always been the one and only source of light in his
life. He wept in gratitude and in joy.

"Kneel before your Emperor!" Rannell Kent managed to say. His voice was
hoarse and weak, but they all heard him.

And they all knelt.
________________________________________________________________________________________

The time had come. Commanders on both sides, having heard no word otherwise
from their superiors, ordered the attack.

But nobody moved. There was silence.

The war was over.
_________________________________________________________________________________________




EPILOGUE


They decided the coronation should take place immediately, in Kadnaris. In
fact, Tytus spoke enthusiastically of moving the Empire's capitol to
Kadnaris 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 kind 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 Guardians 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," he quipped.

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 muscian 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 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 sense of a 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 said.

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

"It is well-known and yet little discussed amonst 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 Emperor, 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 Imperial life and politics today. 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 of one thing: that we will never
fully know nor understand everything that happened that day, the day the
Empire was saved, 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."

-- Postcript to "The Time of Madness: The War of Two Emperors" by
Kendveric, Imperial Historian, published 128 years after the Siege of
Kadnaris at the behest of Emperor Tytus IV.
_____________________________________________________________________________

**And so the saga is finally over. My apologies that this final chapter
took much, MUCH longer to finish than expected. E-mail me at
thephallocrat@gmail.com. Thanks for reading**