As man sows, so shall he reap. In works of fiction, such men are sometimes converted. More often, in real life, they do not change their natures until they are converted into dust.

As You Sow

PAST

TO GIVE THE REPUBLIC CREDIT, Marcellus thought, the political difference between Imperial and Republica methods of succession had been debated over for a long time.

One side called the other barbarous and cruel; the other would retaliate by writing about primal nepotism. The Republic would accuse the Empire of searching for a crude meritocracy (where the merit was being able to kill people) in the name of religion, and the Empire would argue back by saying the Republic’s militaristic culture meant basically the same back, except worse.

It was less of a vicious cycle, and more of a series of whispers done behind closed political doors. Ever since the Skirmish, there’d been a lot of change in Imperial-Republica relations: the Angelian Reforms on the Empire’s end, as one; but the Republic had experienced a mighty blow to the, quote, “gut, and the ego.” It wasn’t something you could classify as just “change.”

Marcellus had been taught about Keto, the Stronghold—Fort—that was now more commonly known as Notus. It had been a source of borderline flaunting (of military might), and, as the tutors taught it, a symbol of how the great Republic Roma stood against the Empire and their Chosen.

Apparently.

But that didn’t change the fact that the Republic’s wariness had turned into fear. As the years prolonged, some people forgot, but that “some” never became “all.” Patricians preached that the current Anothen-Kato population living in harmony meant that the Republic was tolerant to differences in religion, some even portraying the Empire as Anothen zealots (with the Slaughter as an example), but just because there wasn’t a problem in that aspect on the surface didn’t mean there wasn’t one.

The Forsaken population in the Republic, many of whom were Kato, swelled whenever the monsters grew in the winter. It was an open secret that the Republic shared an agreement with the Union to carve away at the border together with Gloria, but common knowledge didn’t erase the fact that it was a turbulent relationship.

Hypocrisy.

There would always be those patricians who said that they were concerned about population this and resource that, as if they didn’t hoard more than the rest. “They’ll waste our current supply,” they would argue. “More people means more mouths to feed.”

It wasn’t pity that Marcellus felt for the Union, it was a strange emotion. Like you were watching a person from another group get beaten up by a person you were on the same side with, but you couldn’t do anything about it, because those people you were taught to have a bond with.

It was his country—it was as simple as that. Even if the people around him were idiots, they were his idiots—without endearment or affection. His burden. He couldn’t run away from it—this would be his role until the day he died. And he deserved to live: why would he die for his honor, when he could die for the country’s?

He just needed to suck it up.

All that hypocrisy, all that foolishness, all that cowardice.

It was simple, living out something predetermined.

This is my destiny was too poetic.

This is my burden, would be more accurate.

Whatever embers of a dream at a normal life would die out, because there was no point in thinking otherwise. It wasn’t complicated:

Live.

“To live is to die,” he said aloud now, to Evander. Yes, Evander. The Romus scion he supposedly needed to compete with in the Senate. The boy with the too-dry smile and too-suspicious eyes. Valerius Evander Romus was very, very charming when he wanted to be, Marcellus had realized very early on. And very, very smart. Charismatic under that straightforward demeanor. A person who was deceptively honest.

“Is that a reference?” Valerius raised both eyebrows. “Sounds depressing.”

“No,” Marcellus responded, “at least, to the reference part.”

This was their...third deployment together, if Marcellus remembered right. They practically lived together—trained together, shared a room together, got drinks together; to the point where there were whispers about whether or not the next heirs of Romus and Romanus would need to get adopted.

(The last word was always said with scandal. The importance placed on Hero blood didn’t help the non-nepotistic rebuttal.)

Valerius was easy enough to get along with.

“My mother told me that,” was all Marcellus began with. “If a person is made up of their dreams, hopes—ambitions—then, eventually, some of them will change as their experiences do: because, well, experiences shape what you want to do, and who you want to be.” He reached for a glass, fingers reaching shy of the handle before Valerius’ hand closed over the grip. It was casual, but caused the then-primus pilus to look up before continuing to speak.

“As they change, and as they die, she said a little part of ourselves die too, on the inside. But that’s life—experiences change who you are. There’s nothing wrong about it—there’s nothing wrong with living.” The alcohol had loosened Marcellus’ tongue.

“And?” Valerius’ hand was still there, more of a silent move than anything else. This was a political play, Marcellus realized: when that sharp edge to his friend came, it was with the intent to cut. “What about dying? Is there nothing wrong with dying?”

Eyes met.

“There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with it,” enunciated the Romanus scion. “Things disappear. People die. The world changes—but there’s no way to tell people what to feel. They can reach for false hopes, they can despair—but what’s it to us?”

It wasn’t disgust that made Valerius pull away at that second—it was revelation.

“Aren’t you fighting for your country? Your people?” The Romus scion didn’t sound repulsed, just confused, and perhaps that was repulsive in itself.

Like a person who’d thought they solved a puzzle, realizing they solved it wrong.

Marcellus gave a wave. The motion was sluggish. “Can I claim the people to be mine? Once you get into that hole of belonging, there’s no going back—this is mine, that’s not yours. There’s always the takers, and never the givers. I’m a part of this country, I’m a member of the people here—they’re not mine. You don’t have to own something in order to defend it, but being a part of a group makes you care about its survival. Pragmatism, practicality—call it whatever you want, but it all boils down to what you feel in the end. Emotion.”

His vision was hazy, just a bit.

“I don’t care about this country, or its people, or whatever hogwash they spout. What I care about is myself, my honor, my—”

It was the alcohol.

“If I don’t care about something,” Marcellus whispered, “they can’t take it away from me.” The primus pilus drove his hand into the table, the glasses on it twinkling and clinking as they pushed against each other. If this had been in the open, maybe he would’ve held his tongue, but—

“I don’t care about this country.”

And he never would.

Valerius opened his mouth, about to say something—

— “Monster,” Claudia said.

She lay battered on the floor of the tent, arms pale and bare but back criss-crossed with angry scars, glass weaving a bloodied tapestry of skin. She wasn’t angry, she had something brewing in her that was far worse than that. She was beginning to hate him.

Marcellus somehow knew that doing something—anything: apologizing, rescuing her, loving her—wouldn’t erase this story. He could try: he could sing to her flowers after this, plant a garden and watch their son run around descretating it, but at this moment, right now, this was a story and he was the villain. He was the husband who had left her to rot in the pits of Tartarus, who let her be tortured and humiliated and broken. He was the monster—a monster—and maybe she was right.

He could offer a hand right now.

There had been a hope once that he would’ve taken care of Claudia. Loved her. Cherished her with some form of loyalty. She was his burden—an unwanted one, but then again all burdens were unwanted—but he was hers too. He couldn’t love her, but he could try.

That hope—that dream—died in this story.

She wanted him to die, there was no doubt about that.

Villains—monsters—were supposed to die.

As she fell unconscious, hurling that last accusation, he felt his subordinates behind him look at him: with not pity, but disgust.

Yes, everyone knew.

The story of the honorable general and his beautiful wife and loyal son?

It was dying, even—

— “After all I’ve done for this country.”

He’d heard that phrase many times.

“After all I’ve done for this country,” they would scream, after getting forgotten and outcast.

“After all I’ve done for this country,” they would weep, at the graves of their families and friends.

“After all I’ve done for this country,” they would say in indignation, laying their sacrifices bare.

And what have you done for this country? the others would ask.

The angry ones would show their wounds and scars, their losses and betrayals; the weeping ones would name their loves lost and battles won, old memories and depict haunting dreams; the indignant ones would embellish their sacrifices and claim shallow waters deep—and, funnily enough, it was always the indignant ones that won at the end of the day.

A sob story of the past was nothing more than a consolation prize from war, a prize that scored you nothing but pats on the back from “patriots” and pity from bleeding hearts. A true patriot wouldn’t be angry at the country they served, wouldn’t they? Why should a true patriot cry for something that wasn’t their country? Why should patriots believe in anything but their leaders?

Marcellus looked towards the sky.

And what have you done for this country? they would ask him, and he wouldn’t show him scars or people: the world had enough of anger and sadness and pity.

Enough, he would claim.

I have done enough. Because he had—

—The boy who was his son.

Julian.

He didn’t stare at Marcellus’ medals as much as the former glanced at them when he thought Marcellus wouldn’t notice.

The Consul had to give it to the boy: Marcellus didn’t know what exactly Julian was staring at until the fifth-or-so time. And then it was obvious.

It was the award he hated.

The one that had been given to him because the Senate had slacked off and managed to get his wife kidnapped. It was prestigious, yes, but it had been the accumulation of years and years of lesser awards that he’d given up for political advancement.

The Star.

“Do you want it, boy?” asked Marcellus one day.

The boy was hesitant. “Yes—Your Consulship.”

Everything in moderation, except cruelty in war.

His son would need to know.

“Hand.”

Marcellus turned and lowered himself to the ground, detaching the star from his chest and pressing it into his son’s awaiting palm.

“You need five things to survive in this world, like the five points on this star, Marius.”

The Consul put his hand on one point.

“Honor.”

Honor to yourself.

He moved it to another.

“Loyalty.”

Loyalty to those you promise it to.

Another.

“Prestige.”

Prestige in the eyes of all.

“Bravery.”

Bravery to act.

“Trust.”

Trust who you are.

That would be the only piece of advice he would need in this life and the next.

Marcellus opened his mouth as the boy met his gaze—

—and, decades later, a man woke up from his dream, sweating with the taste of long-gone alcohol on his tongue. His back burned, searing with pain and he remembered a collision and an explosion, muttered orders and a dead friend, a wife that hated him and a country that needed him—and, most of all, a star under his fingers.

It was his turn now.

His son, the patriot.