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The boy sits secluded at a table of the grand dining hall of the Pacator—one of the few remaining torchShips of the once imposing fleet of the Republic—a fitting name for our purpose and the populus we carry.
I watch him play chess against himself—he plays it with the same unwavering determination as his mother used to solve puzzles in the rare occurrence of some spare time—and his fingers display the same dexterity as his father in the way they type in the commands to the computer.
Another lifetime the boy could've grown up with me as his uncle or godfather. I could've been there for him—protected him and cared for him—maybe even prevented him from being abducted. I know there is no chance of getting that time back—to get to know him, to watch him grow up—all too well do I know that I can't reverse time.
I’ve wished for that ability my entire life, searched for ways to recover what is lost—the disappointment of knowing the inevitability of it all is my constant companion, of lost time—or lovers—or opportunities.
I found out the way everyone else did—through the holoNet, he was the favorite topic of the news broadcasts for months—I knew she must've kept him a secret for a long time—that she had birthed him while simultaneously fending off the Sword Armada—and that she had carried him when the news of Darrow’s false execution reached her.
That evening, when the need reached me I was nearly crushed by a deep shame—all I wanted was solitude, to run away from the shame of my part in putting her through the loneliness and despair she must've surely felt—back then I was in the Asteroid Belt with Lysander.
We had just resupplied the Archimedes, and Lysander wanted me to train him in the Silent Art of Kravat. Instead of instructing him like I should've—I was overcome by shame and a seething loneliness—I shut him out for weeks before eventually returning to him like nothing had happened. By the way he looked at me—after emerging from my room—he knew the reason for my sudden absence and resented me for it.
After that something shifted in our dynamic, he kept more to himself, talked less. Something broke between us.
Looking back I feel a sharp pang of remorse for my treatment of Lysander. The boy looked up to me—especially in those fateful months after the Fall—for guidance and for something that could fill that emptiness in his heart.
I wonder if I killed any hope of a sincere and burden free bond between us in that moment. He might've realized then that I can't give him what he needed—can't be what he wanted—that I am not enough, to replace the empire that resided in his heart before it was broken.
Once again I had chosen the people that changed his life over him, my solitude was proof of that. I wish I hadn't been forced to choose, either way it doesn't matter. After the decimation of the Rim, I now know he wouldn't choose me over an empire, and he knows I would choose Darrow over him. My decision is evident by my presence on this ship, and the purpose of our mission.
Our mission–
Free Mars. Restore the Republic. Defeat the Society.
And the mission Darrow put on me…
My mission.
When we arrived on Mars he told me of my mission. I didn't believe him and I still can't believe him now. That he would entrust me with this after my failure with Lysander.
And yet he had chosen me for this. Judged me for this and deemed me fitting, deemed me enough for such a task.
Deemed me worthy to protect his son—and in case of his failure in defeating the Society—to raise him.
Should the Society prevail and Atalantia win, then the boy would become target number one. They all would be after him—trying to kill him and with him the hope of the Rising—because the danger he poses could potentially one day rival his father. Already the myth of the Rising’s Son grows, already tales of his genius spread across the worlds.
Back when I found out about him I pitied the boy.
Expectations were put on him before he grew a consciousness to understand them—exceeding any that were put on me or my numerous kin—now that pity only grows as I begin to understand that he will be our last hope.
The Reaper’s son. Son of the Rising. Son of Lionheart.
The child has golden hair like his mother but the face is shockingly similar to his fathers. Everything about the boy screams Darrow. The solitude, the brooding, the eyes—golden irises but ringed with a rose hue—just like his fathers.
And the most notably, sigiless hands. No golden wings or red rings grace his hands. The first child in 700 years to be born without sigils. In every way the boy is a miracle and a danger to Lysander’s or Atalantia’s rule.
Though he’s sigiless, his body displays the propositions of a homo aureate—already he’s taller than Reds and his body is packed with lithe, yet visible muscles—and his obvious display of intelligence suggests the natural born genius of Gold. He will grow up to be an amazing razormaster and an even better Imperator.
“Are you done appraising me?” He asks, without looking up from the chessboard.
“Yes.” I reply evenly, trying to hide my shock at being perceived by him despite the distance between us.
“And what is your conclusion?” Still he refuses to lift his head. Stubborn as his father.
“You’re good at this game. I played it with my father quite often, never was any good at it but it seems to come to you naturally.” My father was the best chess player of the Society—defeating anyone with ease like it wasn't even a challenge—but in the end it didn't help him win the war. Betrayal by your own people isn't something the game teaches.
“It's fun but too easy. I don't like playing against myself much, but no one on here can really challenge me in this game. Except for my mother and father, but they’re too busy right now.” I expected them to be good at this. Virginia always struck me as someone that would enjoy the tactical aspects of the game—manipulating the pieces and her opponents to her own advantages is something about her I’m very familiar with after all—Darrow, however, I didn't expect to have the patience for it, but I guess there is still a lot about him I yet have to discover.
“They will eventually have time to play with you, once this is all over.” I say and try to put as much confidence into my voice as I can, yet the words still come out more shallow than I hoped.
And he seems to notice because he halts his game and looks up at me. “You don't believe that, and neither do they.”
“I know why you’re here.” He says, sadness evident in his voice. His words weigh heavy on me. I should've known that the boy is smart enough to put two and two together.
“Darrow is going to win. Nonetheless he wishes to protect you, and have someone to take care of you should things go wrong. I wish to honor this.” My voice is a quiet thing, full of sorrow, and lacking the hope the boy surely wished to hear.
Nonetheless, it seems my words have a different effect on him than I expected. His confidence grows—tension falling from his shoulders and the earlier sadness fleeing his face—and a little smile builds on his lips.
“Even if my father doesn't win, humanity will win. I’m heir to his mission and I will finish what he started, if I must.”
All at once I’m reminded of Lysander again. I recognize the similarity between their positions with daunting certainty—Lysander was 11 years old as well when the burden of his family's legacy was thrust upon him—two children compelled by their upbringing to resist and fight, charged with the hopes of their people.
And just like Lysander, Pax recognizes the responsibilities and expectations weighing on him. Lysander, however, lacked the mythical influence Pax possesses; they are similar in the way that they suffer for their kin's sins.
Otherwise they seem to be polar opposites—where Lysander was always restless and emotionally charged, Pax displays a calm and confidence that seems too old for his young face—and dearly, I hope, that Pax doesn't have to suffer the same fate Lysander suffered.
The realization pulls at my heart. Darrow must win, for them all, for himself and most importantly for his son.
“Darrow will win. He always does, at this point it's like divine law.” And the confidence grows in me as well.
Thinking back, there are only two times where Darrow lost, and in both he was severely disadvantaged and wounded—I can almost feel his judgmental eyes on me, as he laid in the snow all those years ago, however, the darkness of that moment is drowned out by the light, which radiated from Darrow, after I rescued him on Mercury—and even in defeat Darrow always finds a way to claw himself back to victory.
“A lot of people believe my father is a god, when I was younger I thought so too—as any son does of his father—but the older I grew, the more I saw the injustice done to him by that claim.”
“I didn't take you for someone that believes such a sentiment.”
Under his gaze I feel suddenly exposed—like he can dissect my thoughts with one look at me—but now that he's looking at me I get a better look at his face as well. The striking similarity to his father is almost uncanny—to the point that, if I was told he's Darrow’s clone, I would believe it—even his gaze feels the same.
Already, I feel a rift growing between us, like my words offended him.“I’m very much aware of Darrow being mortal, trust me on that my goodman.”
“His resilience is merely something unseen in history, no one else has managed what he has, it’s admirable. Nonetheless, worship should be out of question.” Though I wouldn't decline a different kind of worship.
He pounders over my words a little, until his eyes return on me and shocks me with what he says.
“You love my father don't you?”
The words hit me like a punch to my guts—reverberating through my body and finding its course to my heart—and for a long time I stand there, staring at the son of the thunder to my lighting, the sun to my moon, and the salvation to my soul.
Eventually I say “How do you know?” Refusing, however, to directly admit to the truth.
“Everybody does.” Simple as that. ‘Everybody does.’ and I know the truth of it, I’ve seen it in the way everybody is pulled into his orbit—if they want it or not, doesn't matter, they all look at him with adoration in their eyes—even his enemies. Apollonius, Atalantia, even Octavia. They all love him in their own twisted ways—the ways they were taught and raised in—but I was taught to love with compassion and kindness. Julian taught me that and Darrow showed me how.
But my love is all for naught, because he could never love me the way I want—he loves us all, even despicable me—and sometimes I want to resent him for that, but I can never summon the resentment. Through it all, the one decision I understood best, is him choosing Virginia over me, over anyone else.
Pax still watches me, I don’t know if he knows of the turmoil happening in me, his face is an impassive mask—like Virginia used to give me every time I mentioned Darrow to her—and he doesn't give me a hint at what he’s thinking.
“My father loves you. I don't think he knows yet how much, but he truly loves you.” I don't comprehend what he's said, because that surely can’t be true, right?
“When I was a child, he always talked about you. He told me stories of many people, Fitchner the Visionary, Eo the Dreamer, Roque the Poet or Ragnar the Protector but most were of you. About your courage, honor, kindness, integrity and your love.”
He giggles and suddenly I’m reminded again of his tender age. “One time he talked for two hours about your hair and I was starting to resent you for taking up all my time with my father.” Mischief twinkles in his eyes.
“I don't resent you.” And it comes out almost shy, like he's scared of offending me now.
“You saved my father. Not just in body but also in mind. I will always be thankful to you for that.”
He sighs—like all the strength’s leaving his body—a sigh too old for his age. For a moment he stands there—eyes fixed on the floor in shame? or something else?—before he eventually speaks again.
“When he left I told him he's not coming back. Thank you for bringing him home.” The admission is so quiet I could've missed it, the shame of it is adamant on his face, and as I watch him wrestle with it I spot tears forming in his eyes.
Without thinking about it I rush forward and close my arms around him—he's enveloped completely by my body, little shocks go through him, distinctively I begin panicking, thinking I’m suffocating him but I quickly realize he's begun crying—I hug him like I wished someone hugged me as a kid. I give him the security that no one gave me as a child, but badly needed, the security I failed to give Lysander.
I prepare to face the guilt of disappointing Lysander but it never comes—in that instant all I feel is an all-compassing fulfillment—the gratitude in Pax’s voice keeps it at bay and I feel almost weightlessness as I hold Pax in my arms, we stay like this for what feels like forever.
Before long I release him, his eyes are tainted by spilled tears and ringed in an angry red, despite the disheveled look he looks relieved—like a weight dropped from his shoulders that was close to crushing him—and my resentment for this cruel world only grows.
“Thank you.” His voice is still quiet but it carries a new strength in it that seems to grow each passing second.
He's already such a strong boy—too young for his burden and yet he bears it with a fortitude that resembles his father—once he's an adult I’m certain he’ll be a good man. Not great, but good.
“There are no thanks due, goodman. I will always be there for your father, always.” And I mean it. Confidence in my unsaid promise spreads through me, I will not disappoint Darrow and I will not disappoint Pax.
“Promise me.” And his desperation almost breaks me. This is not about legacy or inheritance of a purpose, but about a son and his father.
“I promise.” And my oath is not for honor, not because Darrow wishes it of me, but because I choose this life. I want this. I want to stay with Darrow, and I want to protect Pax, and I want to get to know them both in peace times. The man that Darrow is when there is no noose tightening around his throat, when no one is threatening liberty anymore.
I choose to believe in a world, where children like Pax, are allowed to grow up, without the burdens of a color or the honor of the family.
Where Lysander would've become a good man—a man of love and peace—not what he was indoctrinated to be.
Darrow told me that it's not my fault Lysander turned out to be the way he did. And I don't regret my decision to leave with him, but in moments like this I mourn the missed opportunities. All the years I spent with Lysander in solitude, I could’ve spent with him. He and Lysander could've grown up together—as peers or brothers like his mother grew up with the Telemanus’—maybe then Lysander could understand the gift the Republic offers. And I could've been with Darrow—cared for him through the years of war and protected him from his enemies or himself—but I know why I left.
Deep down in the core of my heart courses the reason—I told him I left because I was tired of politics—but I buried the treacherous truth, unable to face it. I thought I would never be able to face it, admit to it.
One day—when this is all over and we can both discover who we are in peace—I will tell him, I will summon the courage and live with the rejection if I have to.
At the end of my life I want to be able to stand proud, and claim that I lived my life to its fullest potential. That I did not cower in fear of rejection, that I dared to reach out for the light and grasp it in my palm and kept it alight in my heart.
Darrow is our light, he shines for all of us and through him we shine. He saw something in humanity that we could not see without his light. He saw something in me. And now, if there is no light to guide us, we shall be that light.
“Pax, we will win. I have faith in humanity, I have faith in your father and mother. Hope will prevail. I refuse to believe in a world where that isn't the truth.”
And my words are not a simple reassurance, nor is there any doubt in it, I say it like it's an undeniable truth and begin to believe it.
Pax wipes the tears from his eyes and nods—reassured of our prevalence and hope visible in his face—I have faith, not in gods or divinity but in ourselves, in humanity.
“We will.” A boyish smile—more fitting for his age spreads over his face—and it fills my heart with joy I’ve never felt before. I think I’ve found my path as well, the one Darrow babbles about, and I will never stray from it again.
Pax looks almost composed again—his eyes might still betray what happened but the red spots will soon vanish—he's just like his parents in that, always quick to recover composure and continue forward with determination and purpose.
This was always the difference in us, I never felt that sense of purpose—always wandering through the worlds, hoping that one day it would just reveal itself to me, and in a way it did, just not on the path I thought—but now I feel that purpose.
I will protect Darrow, for Pax, for myself, for humanity and most importantly for himself.
Soon Atalantia will arrive and the battle begins, he will lead part of the fleet as Legate—making him the youngest Legate to date—and then soon, after that, we will be free.
The boy apparently has proven himself worthy of that title in the defense of Mars—singlehandedly destroyed a torchShip, if the stories of the soldiers are to be believed, and they about it with almost the same reverence as they talk about Darrow—and now he will further prove himself worthy of being a child of peace.
In his eyes I see the same fire burning that I saw all those years ago in the Institute, back then I couldn't place it, but now I can, it's defiance through love.
Suddenly he takes a step away from me, appraises me for a moment, and then– “You are a good man, Cassius Bellona, Morning Knight of the Solar Republic. I know it, my father knew before anyone else, it's time that you know it as well.” Now I can feel tears pricking at my eyes, but I quickly wipe them away, this is a moment of happiness and not for tears.
“Thank you, my goodman.”
And quickly I add. “Your father loves you, you know? He cares, he cradled your gravBike key every night. I think, partially, it led him back to you.” It seems to be the right thing to say because he begins beaming with joy. It reminds me of Darrow when we stole Minerva’s cook in the Institute, back then I was surprised to see that he could smile like this, look so carefree.
“I know.” At this point he's almost giddy and it's a relief seeing him act his age, and through that, knowing that despite what's already happened, there is still joy to be had.
Eventually the giddiness subsides—but it never completely leaves his features—and he returns to the composed boy–man I met when I entered the hall, but he seems to stand lighter now and his eyes twinkle with a brightness that I didn't see earlier.
Again, I’m reminded of his similarity to Darrow, not just his face is kindred to Darrow’s but also his mannerisms, but I can also see Virginia’s calm demeanor in him—where Darrow’s calm is forced on him through sheer will, Virginia’s calm seems natural—though I think his calm is honest, whereas I’m not so certain about Virginia’s.
“I will have to leave now, my father demands my presence in the hangar. I’m thankful for having met you. Hopefully, when we meet again it will be in victory, and you will stay with the Republic. I know that’s what my father wants, but please know, it’s also what I would want.” He smiles at me and—in a fluid motion that resembles a dancer—walks past me.
“Goodboy, Pax. Victory to the Republic.”
“Goodbye, Morning Knight. We will meet again. Our faith shall be answered.” With that he leaves me alone in the hall—the great walls of the dining hall dwarfs me, and the lack of noise, safe for the buzz of the electricity, reminds me that I’m alone now—but I don't feel small nor do I feel alone.
No, for the first time in 13 years I’m surrounded by family. For the first time in 11 years I’m surrounded by friends, and for the first time in ever I have purpose.
The truth of that spreads through me, what began blooming on Mercury is now fully materialized.
Julian.
I understand now.
The beauty in life.
The freedom of choice.
I will be the shield that protects liberty–
–protects peace.