The capital of the Bull Kingdom looked much the same from the air as it had when Leon had lived in it. The details were different, and many neighborhoods had been rebuilt, but the noble district was still there with most of the same palaces, the Naga River still bisected the city, the Royal Palace was still on the capitol island in the center of the great lake, and even Leon’s old villa was still there on the riverbank south of the lake.
However, as he and Serana approached the city from the northeast, he noted that the Royal Palace was larger, having expanded further up into the old palace region of the capitol island. The city had also expanded, reaching further north and south along the Naga River, pushing many of the farms irrigated by the river further afield and swelling local fishing hamlets into proper villages.
Some manner of relief shot through Leon like lightning—a brief flash, and it was gone. The Bull Kingdom was doing well—better than well, even—with a growing population and greater prosperity than Leon had remembered. But the people he’d known in the Kingdom were mostly gone by now, and after taking August’s words into account, Leon doubted any aside from Asiya and Cristina would still be around in another two centuries.
‘Wealth and safety,’ Leon thought, his internal voice morose. ‘Trajan would’ve loved to see this.’
Leon steered himself and his mother towards the palace. He had some business on the capitol island, and after hearing what it was, Serana wanted to accompany him. Fortunately, both Julius and August had made it clear that he was always welcome, but frustratingly, the guards outside of the palace hadn’t seemed to have gotten those orders as they brandished weapons and began shouting at him and Serana when they landed in the palace’s forecourt.
Leon rolled his eyes as guards poured from nearby guardhouses, and the nobles and bureaucrats who were in or near the courtyard cleared out or stared in shock at what was happening.
“Identify yourselves!” the strongest of the guards, a sixth-tier Legate, shouted once Leon and Serana were surrounded. His voice was steady and assured; Leon would’ve been impressed had he not been holding in his aura.
He glanced around at the guards, noting that they numbered just under a hundred. A company of good warriors that he would’ve gladly led in his younger days, but which now posed no threat to him at all. He let his aura spill forth, freezing them all in place and making it abundantly clear who he was. For those slow on the uptake, however, he said, “Leon of House Raime. Does that name mean anything to you?”
The guards paled once his aura hit them, and all would’ve collapsed were he not also holding them upright. They were terrified at this show of power, even though it was easily one of the least showy things he could do.
It was his name that sent true tremors of fear running through them, however.
With a brief scowl, Leon released the guards, noting that none of them recognized his face, but all of them recognized his name. He supposed he could appreciate that the guards were being professional; he couldn’t hold that against them.
“T-The P-Prince will be informed!” the leader of the guard company shouted. He looked like he would’ve loved to be the runner since it would get him away from the courtyard, but he sent another instead.
Leon, however, didn’t just stand there, and instead started walking through the palace, heedless of the guards following him and of those in his way. He hadn’t come to the palace to play nice with these people; he had a purpose for being here.
He didn’t set that quick a pace as he emerged from the palace mere minutes after arriving. The path to the Royal cemetery was more luxurious now, but he still knew the way.
“They’re following us,” Serana said with a dark look cast over her shoulder.
“They’re guards; that’s their job,” Leon whispered back.
“They know who we are now; they should leave us alone.”
“They do know who we are; that’s why they can’t leave us alone. Not until August or Julius or Roland gets here, anyway.”
Serana clicked her tongue but followed Leon in silence until he stood before his destination.
Trajan’s mausoleum was well-maintained, with not a hint of cracking or discoloration in either the huge stone casket itself or in the memorial statue. It was a peaceful place, with no chance of looters or vandals getting to it, but it was still outdoors, which could’ve eroded the statue’s features or weathered the huge sarcophagus. But it was still perfectly maintained, looking like it could’ve been built only yesterday.
The same couldn’t be said of the other mausoleums around, which painted a grim picture for the sarcophagus and statue when the last people who remembered Trajan in the Bull Kingdom died. Leon hated the idea of there being a time when he was the only one who remembered his old mentor, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Trajan was gone, and all who would now come would only know him second-hand.
The same was true, he supposed, for all the others in the surrounding mausoleums, too. He didn’t know them, and he spared them no thought. Five thousand years of Bull Kings and their families lay here, the vast majority forgotten to their people save for those few dedicated historians who kept their stories alive.
“Was this ‘Trajan’?” Serana asked as she examined the stele beside the mausoleum that gave a glowing summary of Trajan’s life. The runic script of the Bull Kingdom was legible to those familiar with the modern runes, at least in most cases. For the mausoleum of a Prince, however, the language grew more formal and flowery, so Leon understood if Serana didn’t immediately understand anything on the stele.
“Yes,” Leon said. “A man of honor, gone before his time…” He would’ve continued if he hadn’t taken himself by surprise with his own comment.
Trajan had been old for a sixth-tier mage. Hardly one-foot-in-the-grave old, but he was no spring chicken. He’d lived two and a half centuries before meeting his end at the Earthshaker Paladin’s dishonorable hand.
Leon was almost older than Trajan had been. He’d had centuries to come to terms with the fact that he was older than his father had ever been, but it wasn’t until he stood before Trajan’s mausoleum that he realized the same was almost true for him as well.
After a silent curse, Leon silently wondered, ‘One stele. Two and a half centuries.’ He scanned the monument, quickly reading all that it had to say about the man. It was entirely devoted to Trajan, leaving no room for any words for Minerva, Constantine, or Aquillius. It even barely mentioned Julius, though Leon wasn’t sure how much of that was on the graver who made the stele or on Julius himself, who had idolized his older brother.
He almost audibly scoffed when he noticed that it mentioned him, even though he’d known Trajan for a comparatively small amount of time. His couple of years with the man apparently made him more important to mention on the man’s record next to his sarcophagus, but there was no room for Minerva, the woman who’d been closest to Trajan in life.
‘And now they’re both gone…’
Time passed, and there was nothing he could do about it. There were no do-overs, no way to go back. He could only hope to reunite with these people when he finally went to his Ancestors, but that thought was only a small comfort. Still, though he was technically ‘immortal’ after achieving Apotheosis, he would one day die and join them in the afterlife. He’d just have to give his people more to sing about, more to engrave, more to tell their children about, and their children, and so on until the end of time.
“How long is a dragon’s memory?” Leon wondered aloud, the silence between him and his mother having stretched to the breaking point after his short bout with existential dread. It certainly wasn’t over, but dread at least needed a breather before coming back to batter him further.
“Hm?” Serana responded, clearly not quite understanding the question.
“How much of your lineage do you know?” he clarified.
“I’ve memorized it,” Serana stated. “My father, Fargrim, and his father, Andoral. Narin came before him, and before him was my Clan’s last Matriarch: Terya. I can list every leader of my Clan all the way back to the Great Black Dragon himself, as well as their consorts and their children. I know their deeds; as my father’s heir, it would’ve been unseemly for me not to. Twenty years, I studied my Clan’s history, and for two hundred years, I had little else save for our records and my library to keep me company. My Clan doesn’t let anyone be forgotten.”
Like heat from a flickering candle, appreciation warmed Leon from within. Such commitment to history was admirable, though he imagined that their records weren’t perfect. That was impossible over the great span of time between the beginning of the universe and now.
However, before he could respond, he sensed a hurried approach from the palace.
“Leon!” August called out as he and Cristina drew within comfortable calling-out range. “Apologies for that unpleasantness at my door!”
“Think nothing of it,” Leon said with a wave of his hand. He caught his mother giving a light sneer, but she turned away and said nothing, leaving it to him to interact with the Bulls. “Cristina, how are you?”
“Well, now that you’ve finally brought Elise and Val back home,” the Princess laughed. Her smile faded as her eyes slid from him to Trajan’s mausoleum, and then from his mausoleum to others close by. “Have you looked around?”
Leon noticed August tense up as he followed Cristina’s gaze, and when he did the same, his heart sank. He’d been focused almost entirely on Trajan’s sarcophagus and spared those around him little mind, taking it all in as a collective rather than looking at the individuals. In a way, he’d committed to forgetting those interred here just as much as anyone else, as he’d barely spared any single sarcophagus a thought.
‘Antonius’, one of the sarcophagi close to Trajan’s read. ‘Stefania’ read another. ‘Herculanus’ read a third. Three of Julius’ six children. The fourth and final sibling Leon knew to be dead, having located the man’s body during the campaign in the Serpentine Isles. It was fitting that Octavius wasn’t buried here—at least as far as he knew—but that was small comfort in the face of so much other death.
“I… hadn’t…” he admitted guiltily. “My condolences.”
“Thank you,” August said politely as he joined Leon. “Herculanus was the first of my siblings to die. The first real sibling, anyway.”
“Octavius, you traitorous bastard…” Cristina venomously hissed.
With a sigh that was more visible than audible, August continued, “His heart gave out during a ritual to settle the spirits of the dead. I… was never close with him, to my regret. I always wanted to know why he gave up his claim to the throne, but after so long in my position, I think I have some understanding why…”
“It’s a terrifying responsibility.” The words came to Leon like metallic blood, sticky and reluctant to pass his lips.
August closed his eyes and sucked air in through his nose. It took a moment after he breathed out for him to speak again.
“Antonius was next. He was always more taken with artifacts than with maintaining his health and growing his power. He didn’t long outlive Herculanus.”
“Age?”
“Aneurysm. He was old, yes, but he’d stayed up for three nights straight translating an old scroll. Something… something gave out in his head.”
A deep frown spread across Leon’s face. He’d liked the scholarly Prince a fair amount, Antonius having given him what help he could in learning about what happened the night that Serana had been taken by Ryker and Fain. Though it hadn’t shed that much light on the event, Leon didn’t hold that against Antonius at all.
“He knew who he was,” Leon remarked, his tone saturnine. “Too few people are able to follow his passion as he did.”
“He’s probably having the time of his death,” Cristina said with a mournful smile. “Now, he can pester all of our Ancestors for answers to all of his questions instead of trying to find those answers buried in ancient scrolls, tablets, and other artifacts.”
“Heh. Knowing him, the Ancestors will kick him back into the land of the living just to end his bombardment of questions.” August laughed, but the expression was quick, and replaced again with melancholy as his eyes turned upon Stefania’s mausoleum.
Silence fell, so heavy that Leon was almost afraid to break it, as even Cristina turned glum. He felt a hint of killing intent ripple through her aura, something he couldn’t remember ever feeling from the normally cheery Princess before.
“Our sister,” August finally choked out, his tone wobbling despite his clear effort to maintain his composure, “went to the arms of our Ancestors in a…” He trailed off, leaving himself open for Cristina to jump in.
“She was taken from us! One of her concubines grew jealous of her relationship with her husband and poisoned her!”
Leon’s heart skipped a beat, the mere thought of such treachery sending such a burst of righteous fury through him that it suddenly became a titanic struggle just to stand still.
Still struggling to speak, August said, “My father… received his confession. The man had… been bold in his admittance of guilt… Evidence supported it… My father had his arms, legs, and manhood hacked off. Then he was blinded and had his tongue torn from his mouth. He was forced to live like that for nearly a month before the headsman finally earned his keep.”
“Even that was too quick…” Cristina’s hatred could almost be physically felt, but Leon didn’t blame her in the slightest. If anyone harmed his family like that—and people had—he’d make them suffer as much as he possibly could.
“She was a good woman,” Leon remarked diplomatically. “She deserved better; I’m sorry to hear that this was how she went to the Ancestors.”
“Too few get what they deserve,” August murmured as he cast his gaze around the cemetery. “Too few here lost their lives unnaturally. This is the curse of Royalty, I suppose. Tends to attract the murderously ambitious.”
“And the suicidally stupid,” Cristina quietly added.
Their attempt at humor did little to lighten the mood, with even Serana seemingly drawn into their somber atmosphere. No one, not even her, was immune to time.
The silence couldn’t last forever, no matter how long it felt, though.
“It is… surreal. Being here, with you.”
A surprising statement, and Leon gave August a strange look for speaking it.
Laughing, August explained, “For the past century, we have lost many. Friends, family… We’ve gained some, but the world will never be the same. I could never expect my Aelia to replace my mother, nor her Trajan to replace his grand-uncle. They have been bright spots in what has felt like a constant streak of loss after loss. Ever since our father took a turn for the worse, we’ve been getting ready for yet another loss… And then you arrived, looking almost exactly as you did all those years ago. Do you remember when we first met?”
“You’d come to the Horns with reinforcements during the war with Talfar,” Leon said. “You met with Trajan, and Trajan wanted me there.”
“How old were you then, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Eighteen.”
“Eighteen… You don’t look more than a few years older than that, I must say. I look at you, and it’s like I’m staring at the past.”
Leon averted his gaze, his eyes falling once again upon Trajan’s sarcophagus. “A fleeting illusion,” he said bitterly. “The past is over and never coming back, no matter how much we want it to.”
The conversation didn’t last much longer, but it was in that moment that Leon felt his heart start to harden. He would always remember Trajan, and his father was the single most influential person in his life. Paying respect to them, and to everyone else he’d known and left behind on Aeterna, was always worthwhile…
But he wasn’t sure that he wanted to keep coming back if all that awaited him was more death.
“Leon,” August said after a prolonged pause. “Before you go, could I ask you to meet with my grandson? Young Trajan has grown up hearing stories about you. You’re a bit of a hero to him, you know…”
“Me?” Leon asked skeptically. “You’re not overselling this, are you?”
August laughed. “You’re one of his heroes, yes! But please, it doesn’t have to be long—”
“Fine. I can do that. A short meeting.”
August looked happy, though Leon kept a more neutral expression. He wasn’t inclined to get more attached to this place, not if it forced him back here too frequently. But meeting with the young boy named after Trajan couldn’t hurt, he supposed…
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