Epilogue
In one of the largest halls of Chambert, hundreds of chairs faced a dais mounted between gorgathian columns sculpted with foxes and frogs.
Sitting at the edge of the dais, Pierre faced all those empty chairs. Blade of Nakamura, where had they found so many chairs? And marble vases with red veins, one on each corner of the dais.
Behind Pierre was a high chair made in rich red Anjarian wood; blue cushions, golden fringes. Too garish, athey should have used another white chair, like the ones facing the dais.
Vivianne found him sitting there. She was wearinf white, her long hair lose over her shoulders. High windows formed columns of light and Vivianne went in and out of the light, now bright like desire, then soft like a dream.
Pierre stood up for her.
‘How do you feel?’ she asked.
Pierre turned and looked at the dais, the blue cushions, the fringe, foxes and frogs, his own toes.
‘It feels like long ago when Gregoire and I would sit with a book and he told me stories of great Satironese heroes. Nakamura, Nastassjia, Sáeril Quepentorne and many others.
‘They were different from Líran’s stories. Somehow more innocent, less real. My childhood heroes always gave me the impression that, once a decision was made, all you had to do was follow it to the last of its consequences.
‘It is not so. Once you make a decision, the next step is a chance to change your mind. You can give up, turn around, forget everything. You have to make that decision again and again, every step you take.’
Pierre climbed onto the dais, standing before the throne.
‘I know all the trouble began because of an excess of sovereigns in Franária. Still, I would like, I mean, it would be a lot easier for me if there were someone by my side, sitting on a second throne.’
Slowly, he turned to face Vivianne. He swallowed and reached a hand for her. His arm dropped when Vivianne turned her back on him, but she picked up one of the white chairs and climbed up on the dais with him. She put the white chair beside the blue throne.
‘There’s no time to search for something better,’ she said. ‘The ceremony is about to being.’
SHe walked up to him and silently commanded that he hugged her. Pierre obeyed.
Neville was the first to arrive. He turned around, left the hall and closed the door.
‘Let’s wait a few more minutes,’ he said to Luc and Leonard. ‘The future King and Queen are not redy yet.’
Why was my brother a hero when so many others failed? The Story, some say. I wonder: was the story already with him when he crossed the Blood to the Land of the Banished? Was it with him many years ago when he saved Chelag’Ren’s life and demanded the dragon to be his friend?
I don’t think so. Nor is it with him now, at the beginning of his rule. The story is over. It has reached its purpose and is over. A book might end with, And then Pierre lived happilly for ever after with Queen Vivianne.
But this is no book. Forever lasts only until the next full stop. What surprises await, lurking, in the next sentence?
— Gregoire’s Memories
Fregósbor picked up the letter on the floor, massaged his lower back (he was old) and put the letter on a shelf with the others.
Dear father,
When I left home with Nuille, I didn’t know I would travel in time. I didn’t imagine I would witness your story; that I would be in it.
When I met Neville in the forest I realized how close to home I was. Fleeting memories that I didn’t even knew I had anymore flooded my minde in a typhoon of feelings and longins. It’s been so long since I left home that I gave up counting the years.
At first I missed home, every little bit of it, every person. With time I forgot details, the colour of a wall, the size of my room, the name of people.
I forgot your face. It was gradual, despairing. First you became a blurr with a few clear features: your nose, the small wrinkle near your left eyebrow. Your smile was similar to mine, so I kept smiling at myself in the mirror, trying to imagine your face around my smile, but I could only see myself. I tried to sketch you but I was never good at sketching.
I kept on writing you, wondering how you would read the things I saw, the stories I lived. Even when distance — physical, temporal and mnemonic — became unmeasurable, still I write to you.
I missed you, then I missed missing you.
I gave up much to be where I am. I frequently ask myself if it was worth it, then I remember I met my mother. She is sleeping by my side now. We talk little. Now I understand why Mysteries are so silent sometimes. I know the fear of revealing too much. To have spied futures and not be able to reveal them. What would she do if I told her who I am. She barely understands what I am.
Do I?
I often ask myself: Am I becoming one od them? A Mystery? My letters to you are the only thing that keep me human. If I lose you, if I stop being your daughter, then what am I?