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The grave lay unmarked. That was to be expected. She still knew it was his.
It hadn't taken her long to find, surprisingly. Crimson One couldn't be anywhere else but on Cascadian soil, and he couldn't be buried far from the ones he flew with. Most of the trouble in finding him again was that what remained of Crimson Squadron had already been laid to rest in Federation-occupied Presidia by the time Crimson One had performed his final, most destructive act. For their memorials to be rebuilt there was no longer an option.
In a way, he had been laid to rest there, too. But Monarch wasn't looking for his place of death. She had been there herself, after all.
Crimson Squadron's small funeral monuments lay in the foothills of Wensleydale, nestled unassumingly among other gravestones in the large cemetery there. Something inexplicable had pulled her here, toward the mountain range that lined the border between Cascadia and the Dustlands to the east. By sheer coincidence, it worked out — at least two of the squadron members' families had lived nearby, which made this the most likely location, and she had been pleased to find her intuition was correct.
The graves were in a semicircle formation, with a small red flag jutting out on a stone dais in the center, motionless in the silent and biting air. Seven headstones, for seven pilots. Aside from the names on each stone, the flag was the only evidence of who this memorial was for. Overall, an ideal location for Crimson Team — far enough away from major cities to avoid vandalism and hatred, but close enough that it wouldn't be strange for someone like her to be there on a random winter afternoon, where the falling snow caught on airborne cordium particulates and left a strange, gossamer layer upon the graves.
She had found them at last. If he was also here, he would have to be close by.
She had been calculating about this, as much as she could be. Many people wanted to use her for their own gain; too many more wanted her dead. It was impossible to tell from appearances alone. This was the price of what she had done, no matter her own thoughts on it — she knew this well. So she had picked a specific day and a specific time for her visit, and, once she was certain the few other visitors of the cemetery didn't care for her presence, had begun to look at what lay nearby Crimson Team's formation that might indicate their leader's final resting place. The cold weather had assisted her in this regard, letting her wander around weathered gravestones and wilted flowers unnoticed, concealed in layers of thick, dark clothing, as if just another poor soul in mourning. And maybe she was mourning. She still wasn't sure what to make of him. She wasn't even sure if it was all her fault, like he said. Ultimately, she didn't know how to feel about it. Just that the whole thing seemed like a tragedy.
What she was sure of was that she wanted to see his gravestone. The last concrete proof of his life that remained on this earth. She was drawn to it, compelled to see it. Even then, what was she looking for? A morbid indication that someone else cared enough to do this for him? Someone must have cared. I cannot possibly be the only one.
It was depressing, thinking that there might be no one else. It seemed that everyone turned away from Crimson One after his death. The Federation was desperate for it, to the point where they'd publicly stated that the rest of Crimson Squadron, and the Peacekeepers as a whole, weren't on the hook for what he did. "Crimson One acted alone," their spokespeople always repeated in international press statements. An effortless pill to swallow. It was easier for everyone to place all the blame on a dead man. Someone who could no longer fight back.
Because of this, she was unsure if he would have any grave at all. After all, who would commemorate their biggest disgrace, the one who sullied the name of the Federation in their darkest hour? Even his name seemed struck from every record. His actions irrevocably left their own marks, but his entire self was gone — erased from history.
Still, he had been somebody in this life. Perhaps just a stepping stone for the Federation, but a strong stone nonetheless.
And if the Federation would not follow his last words, then she would.
It had taken nearly half an hour of searching. In frustration, part of her had contemplated the possibility of moving a gravestone here herself when, finally, she'd found it — past small clusters of conifers, there stood an ugly and unevenly-carved slab of stone, close to the edge of the cemetery where a river ran gently down the foothills, marking the furthest border of the graveyard. No name was upon it. Hardly anything indicated its status as a grave at all, except for the shape and position of the slab being generally correct for a headstone — and, on a closer look, barely chipped into its surface, some marks that could be interpreted as a mangled version of the emblem he had maintained up until his death.
Finally.
I found you.
She stared for another minute, then stepped closer, as if pulled by a thread.
Hello again, dear Crimson.
The earth beneath her feet didn't seem very disturbed for a grave, with clumps of yellowed grass poking through a thin layer of snow, just as short as the grass elsewhere in the foothills. It could have been that the newest Calamity had scorched the grass to a degree such that they all had to start from nothing. Of course, it was its own question as to whether there was actually anything buried there at all.
What would have there been to bury, after what she had done?
Her hands curled into fists.
I hadn't wanted to do it. Did you ever think about that? I hadn't wanted to kill you.
That was the other thing about dead men — they couldn't forgive anyone for anything. Maybe he had thought about it. And maybe he hadn't. She could extrapolate as much as she wanted, and it would only ever be conjecture. In the end, she had never really known him, so she could never know the answer.
The thought made her feel bitter, and sent an ache through her insides. There was great difficulty coming up with the words to describe exactly how she had felt in their final moments together. She had learned long ago to disregard words spoken in anger. And all of his words had been angry, and it would have been so easy to ignore them, except that he had been trying to tell her something, had been trying to reach into her mind and change what was there so that she could finally see things as he did. A desperate bid for connection with the only other person who could possibly understand, and even then, she didn't understand at all.
Would it have been different if she could answer him?
But for as long as she'd known, she could never speak. In the absence of a voice, bullets and missiles had spoken for her. And when they had finished the battle, when he was at the end of his rope, he had sounded almost regretful. Somber, resigned to death. Saying her name. Monarch. And in the space between his words, she had mouthed his name in return. Crimson One.
He'd spoken to her so familiarly. He saw her for what she had become in the course of that war. Recognized something in her. It was in this strangely intimate tone that he shared his last message with her, as if, at the end of his life, they'd finally reached some sort of shared understanding.
When you hear the thunder... when the storm comes for you...
She was not completely sure what he meant. Its meaning evaded her, like a phrase dancing on the tip of the tongue. Still she clung to the feeling behind those words, even now. She wanted to understand, wanted to be understood. Was it care? Was it love? It didn't seem to qualify as either.
But she had often heard that it was those who loved her who were supposed to see her for who she was. And the ones who claimed to love her never did. No one really did. Except him. Despite the fact that his ability to comprehend something about her had sent him into a rage deep enough to fulfill his own downfall, it was only Crimson One who had actually understood what her victory would mean.
Only him.
Monarch knelt down in front of the stone, snow soaking into her knees and leaving an odd tingling against her skin. Around her was nothing but the quiet of snowfall, punctuated by the distant hark! hark! of gathered crows.
It all seemed so unfair. That the only one who would recognize her would be so quick to die. Her gaze swept across the surface of the stone. Rough texture, hastily hewn. Probably cheap rock from some nearby quarry. Eventually her eyes landed back on that series of chips in the surface that could be his emblem. It didn't even look intentional.
The entire thing was an insult.
No one would be meant to remember him with this. But she saw it for what it was. Just as he had seen her. Here I am, then, she mouthed, doing as you asked.
A breeze arrived, nipping at her skin. It felt as if it was pushing her hand forward, and with slightly shivering fingers she reached in the direction of that emblem, something tugging her towards the sharp angles of his memory. In the snow-muffled wind, she swore she could almost hear him again, just as one would hear nameless songs in ambient noise. A faint string of words, whispering through branches and blades of grass: You use the name of a king, but what do you rule over?
She closed her eyes. She would have mouthed his next words, just to feel her lips curl around his words and think about what it would have been like to be him — if she hadn't heard, behind her, the unmistakable sound of a boot crunching into the snow.
She leapt to her feet, whirling around, eyes snapping wide open.
There was a man.
"Pardon," he said quickly, lifting his hands in a show of neutrality. "Didn't mean to interrupt." He took a slow step towards her, nodding at the blank headstone. "I just didn't think he'd have any other visitors."
Monarch stared at him, keeping her face carefully indifferent. Already she had started collecting information on this stranger — most notably that, somehow, he knew this thing that was barely a grave was meant for Crimson One.
He began to walk forward. She studied him closely. It didn't seem like he intended to kill her, or like he knew who she was. But, she noticed, he moved like a hunter. Slow, deliberate steps that betrayed a calculating mind. Perhaps he was a soldier, but no roundel or indication of allegiance was present anywhere on him.
The rest of him was interesting too. His long hair was half-up, and caught errant snowflakes that glinted against its dark color. The outfit he wore was all black, with a high-collared shirt layered beneath a thick coat which cinched with a belt about his hips and draped down to his calves. Everything about him seemed so carefully tailored to the point where something about him seemed fabricated. But through it all, he exuded power. With every step closer, he cut a sharp, elegant silhouette. Somehow his appearance reminded her of seeing a fighter jet from below, all straight lines and hard angles, blackened against an overcast sky.
He hadn't spoken Cascadian; in fact, he had spoken the lingua franca, and not with a Dustlands accent, which she took to mean he was likely from the Federation. But aside from that, and the barest unsettling feeling she had near him, she couldn't tell anything else about who he might be.
By now, he had reached the spot next to her, and stared down at the pathetic grave with an inscrutable expression. It was hard to tell if he was even satisfied being here — although, Monarch thought to herself, people were hardly satisfied being in cemeteries. Herself included, even as the victor to a fallen rival.
After another moment, he reached into his coat. From an interior pocket he withdrew a long box, and deftly flipped open one end to shuffle out sticks of yellow incense. "To pay respects, and honor him," he explained, taking a bundle of three sticks between his fingers, then offering the open end of the box to her. "You can join me, if you like."
She'd seen this before. Robin — the mercenary who had served as her WSO, before she too had fallen victim to her and Crimson's final fight — used to do things like this sometimes. With a sudden pang of guilt, Monarch realized she had been so focused on finding Crimson One that she had never taken the time to remember Robin. Another pilot who had followed her to the end.
Might as well do it now, she thought. Perhaps she could at least honor them both with the gesture, while keeping under the radar with this stranger.
She nodded at the man with reserved gratitude, taking a bundle of three incense sticks as he had. The yellow powder left residue on her fingers, and she moved to hold them by their skinny red bases instead.
He stowed the box away back in his coat and stepped forward, crouching down directly in front of the gravestone. Then, he took each stick and pierced its end into the earth, all three in the same place, so that they looked like they were all sprigs from the same plant. Monarch followed suit. It was a bit difficult, with the ground as cold as it was, but like needles, the thin red ends of the incense sticks eventually slipped together into the dirt.
With this done, the man took a lighter from his pocket and gently lit his three sticks of incense to a smolder, then handed it to her for her to do the same. She glanced at its design as she did so, and tried not to look too intrigued — on the metal surface, there was the embossed flag of Ulaanbaatar.
She passed the lighter back, and they returned to their original spots, standing over the stone as the incense began to let off strings of fragrant smoke. All the while, Monarch eyed the man in her peripheral vision. If he was from the Federation, here in Cascadia, then he could be dangerous. He didn't seem armed, but there was no way to be sure. Subtly, she adjusted herself, as if trying to warm herself from the cold, but in actuality she was scanning him up and down for any sign of weaponry, readying her stance for any sudden movement.
Then he spoke.
"You must have known him, then? Since you're still standing here?"
She glanced up at his face. He was looking at her expectantly. It was probably mere small talk to him. To her, whether or not she knew Crimson One was one of the biggest questions she'd kept asking herself, even on the way here. It was easy to get lost in. But he was expecting a response, and there was only one clear answer that made sense. She nodded.
"Me, too. Although I only worked with him occasionally. Peacekeeper business." He spared her a polite, if highly reserved, smile. "Do you know much about the Peacekeepers from the Federation Core?"
She shook her head truthfully.
"Heh. I wouldn't expect you to. Cascadia is an ocean away from there, after all. And is independent, now, to boot." He chuckled dryly. "Even for me, it was difficult to come here. But if you know the right people, you can manage just about anything."
So he was from the Federation. His talk of Peacekeepers and knowing people made her think of Crimson One's final aircraft. That wondrous, terrible thing. He had flown it beautifully. Arcing around her like a moon in orbit, sending out railgun fire like falling stars. She always wondered how he'd acquired it. Who he had to ask. What strings he had to pull. Certainly only the highest-ranking pilots could even afford to know of something so experimental. Another thought followed this one: in the world's current, war-torn state, only those highest-ranking would be able to safely travel from the Federation to Cascadia. It had her thinking — was this man one of the Peacekeeper commanders? Or perhaps a Peacekeeper himself?
Compared to another Peacekeeper, someone who knew that kind of life inside and out, who probably had actually spoken with Crimson One themselves... she hadn't really known him, then. More and more she doubted what right she actually had being here.
"I find it interesting that you chose to honor him, as well," the man added. "It makes me wonder who he was to you. Though perhaps some bonds are harder to describe than others."
She didn't move in response to this. Partially, she hoped he would take the hint and stop speaking to her, since she couldn't meaningfully answer — but the curious part of her that could never be quieted kept trying to figure out who he was, especially in relation to the pilot whose grave they both stood at now.
This curiosity must have been eating at him, too. "Are you a... distant relative?" he offered. He just wouldn't give up, would he? "A friend? A... lover?"
At the last suggestion, she nearly laughed. The man sounded so uncertain. Crimson One's obsession and last words had been intimate, yes, but...
She frowned, responding with a shake of her head and a shrug of her shoulders. An empty gesture for a question with no real answer.
The man narrowed his eyes. "Rather keep things to yourself, hmm?" Then, as if something occurred to him, he started again. "Ah... you can't talk, can you?"
She was surprised. It usually took people a lot longer to figure that out. She glanced at the grave and shook her head.
"Hmm." Some glint of recognition flickered through his gaze as he rubbed his chin. "Do you know FSSL? Federation Standard Sign Language?"
She hesitated. Though Sicario had always stayed away from Federation-related contracts during her time there, she'd learned enough FSSL to be fairly proficient, mostly because it was one of the most common kinds of sign language out there, and because barely anyone else knew Cascadian Sign Language. Beyond this, it usually helped her blend in a little better. That flicker of recognition in his eyes worried her. Maybe if she used FSSL, it'd get him off her back. And besides, she still felt curious about who he might be. It would be easier to keep him talking this way.
"I know some," she signed, mouthing the words along with it.
"I see. I only know some as well. It will have to do." He sighed. "You don't seem interested in answering this particular question, though. I'll take that to mean 'it's complicated'. That sound about right?" He looked at her again with a tiny smirk.
Well. He wasn't wrong about that. She nodded, pursing her lips.
They turned back to the grave, watching the yellow incense whittle away into six trails of smoke that climbed lazily into the air. She expected him to ask another question. But instead he remained silent, as if deep in thought. She remembered that Robin used to do the same thing. Silent contemplation of the deceased, she'd said. It was common over there, in the Federation. Might as well give it a try.
How strange, that I was not the only person drawn here. I wonder if you knew him. I wonder if you knew me. Would you laugh if you saw me standing here, burning incense on your grave, "honoring" you, when I never really knew you? Then again, you spoke to me like you knew me. What could you have meant? What did you want from me?
What did you see up there, dear Crimson, that I did not?
"I don't like this."
She nearly jumped, even though the man's voice was quiet and even-toned. She looked at him and put on a puzzled expression.
"This gravestone. This type of rock. Sedimentary. Not meant to last." He sighed, clearly disappointed. "It seems a deliberate offense, putting him here with this kind of stone, isn't it? And look," he said, pointing past the grave to spots in the riverbank's side where the roots of nearby trees were exposed, jutting out over the running water. "The river has begun carving its own path. This part of the cemetery is on uncertain ground. Nothing else is buried near here. Just him."
He was right. Along the stretch by the riverbank, there were no other graves. Behind them lay the rest of the cemetery, protected by small copses of trees and brush. Even Crimson Squadron's memorial, the closest nearby set of graves, was only somewhat visible through the thicket, the little red flag peeking out in between sparkling whites and moody greens.
The man crossed his arms. "I get the feeling the Federation wants the grave to erode away... for the widening river to eventually break the ground and sweep what's left to sea. To wash their hands of him, once and for all." He looked upwards and sighed, plumes of mist escaping his mouth. "At least they had the decency to leave him in view of the sky."
When he next looked at her, she signed a question. "He needs to see the sky?"
"Yes. It's important — well, where I come from, it's generally important for everybody when they die. But for him, it's what he deserves. No one can contest the facts of who he was. The ace of aces. King of the skies. It's only right he remains in view of what was his domain."
The title he'd given Crimson One bothered her, but she couldn't pin down why. "Did you really call him that?" she asked, trying not to seem judgmental. "King of the skies?"
"Oh, yes. He never called himself that, but he knew we all did. And he liked it too, I'd wager." He let out a curt laugh. "Put him at odds with me once or twice. People often assume the person with the highest ranking is the best, and you cannot get much higher than being a Khan. But he was the best pilot, and I had to let him have that title. I cannot be king of everything, after all."
Saying this, he eyed her closely. Monarch noted it, even as she hung on every word. It was generally unlike her to dissect someone's words so thoroughly, but it was giving her a glimpse of Crimson One she never knew about, and also served to give her more information on who this stranger was. A fellow pilot, and... a bonafide king? From the Federation Core? Didn't Robin once tell her of the legendary Khan of Ulaanbaatar, a ruthless man, who led the first Peacekeepers to war against the mercenaries of Oceania...?
Pieces were falling into place. Silently she cursed herself for not having the foresight to bring a gun. It just didn't seem right to be armed in a graveyard, when her whole purpose today was to remember the dead, not send more to join them — maybe her sentimentality would be the death of her, then. She had definitely revealed too much already. He was catching on.
She smiled politely to hide her thoughts, then turned back to the gravestone. In her peripheral vision, she saw him, still looking at her. Eyes trained on her like a predator identifying prey.
She briefly considered running — but the foothills were sparsely forested, and the cold was poised to kill. He must have known what he was doing, hinting at his identity, watching for her reaction as she connected the dots. Whatever she did in response would tell him everything. Fear was as much a part of warfare as the propaganda that had propelled her to this point — she knew this all too well now.
The wind blew. Familiar, biting words at her ears. You can't run. You can't hide. You made this decision long ago. You can't back out of this Deal.
There would be no escape from this.
But she would not be afraid. So, as she did over Presidia, and countless times before, Monarch steeled herself. The battles never seemed to end. This was simply another in a long line. She would face this fight with dignity.
The man spoke again. His tone was light, despite his body language. "Don't get me wrong. It was a coveted title, to be king. People kept trying for it. In a way, I think, every Peacekeeper wanted to usurp him, or see him usurped."
He fell quiet, then suddenly he was in front of her, blocking her view of the grave. She forced herself to meet his eyes.
His next words were a growl.
"It just wasn't supposed to be one of you."
There it was. His challenge, his accusation of the truth. A sensation like a rush of blood to the head, her heart increasing in tempo. She tried to hide it. But she had always been hidden behind her helmet and her aircraft. Now, on the ground, face to face with another Peacekeeper, there was little she could do, except stare defiantly at him and refuse to take a step back.
The Khan lifted his head in appraisal. "Ah. So it is you... the Crown."
Monarch was certain he was not armed. If he wanted to attack her, injury or death for either of them would be slow and painful here. She imagined dashing his head against the sharp edges of the gravestone. Coloring the chipped-away emblem with proper crimson, as the dead pilot beneath them would have deserved. She thought of her own skull being crushed against it, of slowly bleeding out in the glittering snow on the grave of her enemy.
But instead of attacking her, the Khan snorted. "Hmph. I expected someone more imposing. But I suppose for every story, there are... falsehoods."
Attacking her character then. With the truth out in the open, whatever politeness he had was gone, and the feeling of power he gave off turned what had been unsettling into stark intimidation. Still, she stood her ground, and stared at him.
"You're as quiet as he said you'd be," he remarked. "It always drove him mad... and it all turns out it's because you can't say a single word." A tsk. "What a waste."
He was seeking weaknesses, trying to provoke her. It would never work, and she knew it — he was just like Crimson One. Just like any other pilot obsessed with their self-image. They hated the lack of response, the silence where they demanded answers. If she stayed silent, she was certain he would keep talking.
And he did.
Predictable.
"Funny that you're here, of all places. Was it not enough disrespect to kill him yourself? Must you find his grave so you can spit on it, too?"
This, she felt compelled to argue against. She shook her head, gritted her teeth. "No," she signed quickly. "I came here to remember him. I wanted to understand."
"You wanted to understand," he echoed, and she nodded. "What is there to understand, Crown? He was the best of us. A king in all but name. And you killed him. By the laws of power and succession, you have come to occupy his position. Isn't this what you wanted? Are you not pleased with this outcome?"
"I am." She said this with a forceful motion, ignoring the creeping doubt that rose with the statement. "But I am not doing anything wrong by being here. You all keep thinking my every action is malicious. I only wanted to see him. I wanted to understand what he told me."
The Khan scoffed. "You're just like him. He wanted to understand you, too." Gradually his face betrayed a certain distaste for the dead pilot. "He was... obsessed with figuring you out. He wanted to know what it was you were really doing here. What you were fighting for. And after all that, he didn't realize the answer was right in front of him. Money. Power. Mercenaries have always been simple creatures. And you have proved this right."
No. That wasn't quite it; she could feel the truth of that in her bones. But there was hardly any way to explain, nor a way to defend her position. Certainly, she was a mercenary, but she did not ask for this outcome. She had only done what was expected of her, and found herself alone with nothing.
And just like Crimson One, the Khan was blaming her for all of it.
You, solely, are responsible for this.
"I performed my job," she signed angrily, "as everyone else did. It was war. It's not my fault that neither he nor your Federation could handle losing."
The Khan's face twisted into a look of contempt. "If you really think this isn't your fault, you must have an interesting understanding of responsibility. Your actions don't occur in a vacuum. They have consequences."
"A pilot doesn't fly in order to change the world. A mercenary doesn't take money for loss of life unless there are no paths left. Not all of it is because we want to see the world burn down. Some people have no paths left to find a better life. Surely seeking a life, any life at all, is not a sin?"
It was a sentiment she admitted to being a protective measure of sorts. A way to distance herself from what she had done. But he didn't respond, and his disdain couldn't cover up his confusion — evidently she had now reached a part of FSSL vocabulary that he didn't know. An unfortunately common problem.
She let out a sigh, signed again. "I'm not here to argue. I'm just here to remember him."
"You're here to remember him, as am I. But we will remember two very different versions of the same man."
"Does it matter anymore? The memory is all we have left."
The Khan shook his head in an almost defeated way. "And that's why you're here, is that it?" he muttered. "Had I known it would be this easy to lure you in, perhaps I would have demanded Crimson One receive a proper resting place sooner."
Monarch was poised to argue further, to counter his latest jab — but stopped, eyes widening.
It was him.
He was the one who had done this. Given Crimson One the only marker left on this world of his humanity. The Khan was the only other person in the world who cared enough.
Finally, after everything. She was not the only one.
They had come here for the same reason: compassion for a life cut short, and for a legacy left to the Dust. To remember who he was and to keep that memory safe within them. Whether it was as vengeful rival ace or famed king of the skies — it didn't matter anymore. The once-beloved pilot Crimson One was dead, his body and memory shattered into nothing, and each had their own reasons to hang on to the shards of who he had been when he lived.
The Khan must have recognized some part of this, because he finally stepped back, returning to stand beside her, and sighed heavily. Monarch, too, let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"You honored him," he said quietly. "Unlike everyone else, who were so quick and willing to forget, you came here to remember him. I suppose, even from someone like you, this is as much respect to his life as he will ever get."
She wasn't sure what to say to this, since she didn't feel like arguing further. She stayed motionless.
"Don't worry," he added. "I won't tell anybody I saw you here. After all... it's not as fun without a fight."
There was something chilling about the way he said it. Monarch glanced at his face, and he met her gaze in turn. He looked almost pleasant, except she had been around people like him for a long enough time now that she detected it instantly — a wolfish grin hiding underneath his features, an almost eager tone in his voice. The visage of a man who yearned for the hunt, who was staring his desired quarry right in the eyes.
But no sooner had she registered these things than they disappeared, and with a wistful look, the Khan turned to the bare gravestone again. "And besides," he added, sighing. "They say you shouldn't bring harm to another while you're still grieving."
Grieving. She supposed that really was what they were doing here. Remembering him properly, feeling the shape of his loss, before returning to the lofty positions reserved for them.
Monarch motioned to get the Khan's attention, and when he finally turned his grief-weary gaze back to hers, she signed in simple words. "Why are you sad?"
The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry expression. "Why am I grieving? I could ask you the same thing."
She hesitated. She cared somehow, felt some deep and persuasive connection that could be confused with love — but it was not love. How could she ever properly explain?
Instead, she decided to repeat what she had said before. "I felt understood by him, but I don't know why."
"Hmph. I see." He looked at the grave. "I grieve him the way I would grieve any distinguished Peacekeeper. But his circumstances were... unique." A sigh. "I should have listened to him. Made sure he didn't feel alone in his fight with you. Then perhaps all of this would not have come to pass."
"Calamity would occur regardless. Thanks to the Federation's special weapons."
It took him a second to understand the word "calamity". When he did, his face soured. "Perhaps. That... incident... weighed heavily on him. Past a certain point, he was willing to do anything. I guess we all saw that. But it is hard not to imagine the small things we could have done to try to prevent it."
There wasn't anything to say to this. Monarch knew exactly what he meant. She had mulled over every reflex, angle of attack, trajectory, and engagement she had taken in the course of that war, yet it seemed nothing she could feasibly do within the bounds of her ability could change the course of history.
The Khan spoke again. "He had no proper funeral. That's what I heard, anyway. The least I could do was to come here. It was what I had to do." His tone became dismayed, like a dog holding back from devouring fresh meat. "And sparing you now, despite the lengths he went to stop you, and despite you having made enemies of all of us in turn... this, too, is what I must do. It is a time of mourning, and we are not a lawless land. Traditions have a place."
He seemed to mean this in contrast to the perceived lawlessness of Cascadia. She saw through this insult, though — at the end of the day, he was bound by rules that he didn't dare break, tethered to inaction by rituals of ages past. Another way in which he and Crimson One were alike: the unwillingness to bend, the inflexibility to adapt to a changing status quo. The resistance against the transfer of power.
"I know what you must be wondering," he continued. "It's been months, yet I claim to be in mourning." Just to get him to keep talking, she nodded. "As far as I'm concerned, mourning lasts until the dead are properly buried. I'm of the mind that we should hold to some traditions like this, even as part of the Federation. Honoring the dead, and remembering them."
The wind blew. Remember me.
She nodded again, wondering to herself if Crimson One had ever done this for his fallen wingmen, too, or if his life moved too fast for things like that.
"Needing time to mourn never stopped the Federation, though, did it? We have all had to fight through our pain — consequences and superstition be damned." The Khan cast a contemptuous glance at her. "You'd understand, wouldn't you? It never stopped you, either. Assuming you cared enough about your fellows to bother mourning at all."
He was consistent with the jabs, she'd give him that. They were easy enough to ignore. "I cared," she signed, a bit subdued. "People cared. When you have nothing to live for, you find love where you can."
The wording was a bit stilted — she wouldn't have preferred to use "love", but didn't have anything better that she knew how to sign in FSSL. He tilted his head curiously as he comprehended what she said. "Love. Hmph. This is where you are wrong. Your fellows must have known how good you were, didn't they? Even before the Cascadian Conflict?" She nodded hesitantly. "Then, for those in your company, you were already their king of the skies, long before now. You should know: no one can truly love a king. When you wield power over others, they can never really love you. They will always wish to use you." The semblance of a sneer. "I have learned this, time and time again. It is a heavy burden to bear. Are you new to your hard-earned royalty, Crown?"
Truthfully, she was under no illusions to the contrary, but by now she understood that these Peacekeeper types always wanted to be smarter and hated being told they were explaining something she already knew — and she was painfully aware that, with his willingness to kill her barely held back by the binds of tradition, it was best not to provoke him — so she resisted rolling her eyes, and instead stared at him.
"Hmph. If you don't already know, then you will learn. A true king's work is never finished."
"Of course," Monarch signed back, unable to resist prodding him. "I know this well. For I am a true king."
With satisfaction, she saw that this irked him. But he did not continue.
By now, the sticks of incense had mostly run their course, leaving small red spikes in the ground. Only a thin trail of smoke remained from a nearly finished stick of her cluster, its frail gray stem crumbling into ash at the base of the gravestone.
The Khan sighed and spoke quietly. "I will remember him."
"So will I," she signed. "I will remember him." As she said it, the wind blew in frigid silence.
After another minute, the Khan stepped forward. "There is one last thing to do." Turning back to her, he held out his hand. "Care to join me?"
It was an odd gesture. Monarch looked at his outstretched hand, gloved in black leather. It seemed like it could be a trap, but he also didn't seem the type to go back on his word — there was too much honor involved in his definition of kinghood to be able to do that. Still, she didn't want to feel his grasp, or what she might be pulled toward afterwards.
He seemed to note her hesitation, because he withdrew his hand without another word, and began circling the gravestone in a clockwise direction. It was as if he was unwinding the last of a long thread from a spool, like unbinding himself from grief.
"We have a belief. Passed down to me from my father, to him from my father's father, and so on." He completed one circle and kept going. "The spirit may want to stay here, or follow the ones he knows out of the graveyard. Spirits are attached to what is familiar. But there is nothing here for him any longer. We want him to move on." A second circle. "Some say the best way is to forget. To discourage the spirit from staying here so much that he will finally depart to be reborn into a new life."
He completed a third circle, and he returned to Monarch's side, facing away from the grave, so that they were side by side, but oriented in opposite directions. She could feel the human warmth coming off of him, like standing near a jet engine.
"That's what superstition says, anyhow. I don't think I could truly forget him. But I must honor these beliefs. And thus I will not return."
He turned to look at her again, studying her face. She stared back into his eyes, unmoving.
Avoiding looking back at the grave, the Khan spoke quietly, the smallest edge of sympathy coloring his expression. "Best not visit him again, Crown. You don't know who you may find waiting for you next time."
There was nothing to do but nod.
Then the Khan stalked away, his footsteps crisp on the grass and snow. Monarch took note of the number of steps: one, two, three, four — then they stopped again.
"I look forward to hunting you, dear Crown," he called back. Then, something like a low snarl. "Don't disappoint me."
Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, and then the sounds of rustling trees. She glanced behind her. His sharp figure was barely visible through the copses between them, growing fainter with every step. He did not look back. By tradition, he probably couldn't.
She considered trying to kill him. To nip a threat in the bud, as Crimson One himself had tried to do to her over Yellowstone. She had advantage, not following any traditions as he was. If he could not afford to look in the grave's direction, his actions would be predictable.
But, she reminded herself, she was not what they made her out to be — she was no lawless tyrant. She simply operated on rules that were different than theirs. This seemed enough for them to think of it as lawlessness. A typical feature of people as proud as Crimson One or the Khan of Ulaanbaatar. The sheer intolerance of differences.
What the Khan had said to her also fell in line with her observation. Did they all have to have the last word like that? Was it a mere symptom of being king? She gradually exhaled, felt the absence of voice in her breath. At least, for her, this wouldn't be a problem.
Once she had lost sight of the Khan, and was certain he would not come back, she faced the headstone again with bemusement.
If I had to see you again, I'd bring a gun.
Then she sighed.
How silly I was, to think I was the only one. To think I could ever be truly safe, even at a time like this.
She swallowed the rising lump in her throat.
I probably can't visit you anymore.
Thinking about never seeing Crimson One's final grave again sent a pain through her heart. Even so, she didn't exactly want to test the validity of the Khan's threat. Many places were now off-limits to her. She supposed this was just another on that list.
For a moment longer she stood still, thinking of the conversation held there minutes before. Leaving the spirit alone, such that nothing remained in this life for them. Forcing his ghost to move on out of sheer loneliness. Dooming him to an afterlife of solitude, or cursing him with rebirth into this world on fire.
Either option seemed so cruel in the face of his last words. Remember me.
Was it not enough to keep his memory? To allow his legacy to persist, however tarnished? She understood the plea the longer she thought of it.
Remember me. For to be forgotten is my final death.
As long as she lived, she would remember. And she would live a long time; she felt some truth of it within herself. In that way, he would only truly die when she did.
You were already reborn, she thought, staring at the etching in the stone that mocked his emblem. Weren't you? When you yielded to let me take your place?
It pulled her. Beckoned to her. She walked forward slowly. One step after the other. Reached out to the crystalline emblem like another hand outstretched, and brushed her thumb against him.
The wind blew.
Suddenly she froze with a start, clutching the headstone. Something — something was happening, something forming in her throat. Like fingers made of nothing wrapped around her windpipe, curling their thumbs into her flesh, digging, seeking. Choking her around an ever-widening pain. The wind picked up. She could breathe, she knew this logically, there was nothing obstructing her throat, but she gasped for air, chest heaving. No one was there. No one was attacking her. She was alone. Nothing changed it. She grasped at her throat, at the neckline of her clothes. Breathing in deeply, never seeming to get enough in her lungs. A strange and deep-seated fear: there would not be enough air. Not enough air in the whole world.
It grew. An impossible pressure mounting on her shoulders, her back, the top of her head. She doubled over, grabbed the stone with both hands, trying not to collapse. Snow was whisked into her hair and landed in her scalp like tiny thornpoints of ice. Heavier, heavier. Almost unbearable. She forced herself to suck in a breath, just like forcing herself to breathe at high altitudes. The snowflakes stung at her throat. She could breathe. She could breathe. Another inhale, forced and full of ice. The stinging culminated someplace in the base of her neck, into a sudden and excruciating pierce as if a long nail impaled through skin, and she shrieked in agony, loud and shrill and anguished, and the crows in the trees flapped away in a deafening flurry.
It was heavy. It was all so heavy...
But the wind calmed somewhat, and the pain lessened, and it was only after another minute of coming back to her senses that she realized her labored breathing and the echoes she'd left across the foothills held a strange sound within them.
A voice.
Her voice.
The breeze picked up. Hisses in the wind. Say it.
She had never had a voice. She had never spoken in her life. But she curled her lips and tongue around the words, and her first decree spilled from her mouth as easily as breathing.
"A King is a slave to history. And I am a true King."
In the words, something shifted. In the words, Monarch understood the truth in her bones that had settled there the moment she had ended Crimson One's life.
And she began to laugh.
First it was a breathy chuckle like an engine coming to life, then she sputtered out a guffaw, then a choked laugh that clawed its way out of her into full sound. She saw it all with so much clarity now. Saw who she was in the grand scheme of the world and its cycles. Crimson One, her predecessor. Shoulders heavy with the burden of kinghood, and with the weight of every sin he had committed in the name of snuffing out any possibility of a successor. And Monarch now, the successor in question, who had inherited the same burden. The string of her life, tethered neatly to the end of his rope. Merely the latest in an unbroken chain, spanning countless lifetimes, wrapping around the world like endless twine. And she laughed, and laughed, and laughed, even as she finally understood, and the new rules of her position made themselves known in her mind.
I am King. I dominate heaven and earth. I shall defend my hard-won position, for as long as I can muster. When the time comes to abdicate my throne, I will know. And at the end, my successor shall stand at the grave meant for me, and realize what they have become.
Just as the one before me, just as the one before him. Just as it has always been, in this lineage of Kings since time immemorial.
I will know.
Crimson One had known. A doomed prophecy, a foregone conclusion. Saw her walking the same path as he had so many years ago, unable to see her destination, unable to prevent her from reaching it. Fate had played them all for fools. She laughed, laughed, laughed. Fell to her knees in the snow, clutching her stomach, tears stinging her cheeks in the frigid air. All this time, she had unknowingly followed in his footsteps, pulled along by this invisible leash until she'd reached his grave, to take his place in this grand cycle.
Lifetimes of a role reborn. There would never be an escape for her now.
She did not know how long she lay in his grave, curled fetal upon the ground, caught in fits of uncontrollable laughter and sobbing. Only when she had come back to herself, and her new voice was nearly spent, did she realize the sun was setting. It glinted off the untouched snow around her, catching the pearlescent light like a shimmering vigil.
Shivering, she slowly returned to her feet, letting the sound of her laughter die away, replaced with the sounds of crows that had regathered in the trees behind her, letting out the occasional caw. Hark! Hark! One looked down upon her. Hark! Hark!
New knowledge swirled around in her head. He had been right. Her path was no longer her own. The wind blew, and with it came the smell of smoke and ash — from the remains of incense, or from elsewhere, she did not know — and it spoke.
Either way, your life ends today.
How tenuous a position it was, to be King. No longer bound by the same rules, but bound nonetheless to something much more ancient. The divine right to rule had only ever been borne out of sheer force and violence. She had demonstrated her ability to rule. And so she would be granted her well-deserved reign, until the next King arose to take her place in history.
And she knew now — the Khan was no threat. She had not met her successor yet. She would know when it was them.
She would know. Just as he knew.
As she turned her back to the grave to leave, shaking and weak and nearly blind with newfound prophecy, there was a sensation not unlike the one that brought her here in the first place: a tug, as if her hand was held fast by another's.
Remember me.
Of course. Resistance to the transfer of power.
She smiled despite herself. She could never bring herself to forget the one who understood her. It was not love. After all, it was not possible to truly love a King. But that had only been true from the viewpoint of a role she no longer held. Now she could do anything, and it would be so. A law laid down by the strength of violence.
And so, she loved him, all the same.
"Come with me, then, dear Crimson," she rasped to the pitiful tombstone. "For you were King. And a true King's work is never finished."
His resistance loosening. Curling around her like a ribbon. The wind blew, grazing her ears. Remember me.
She nodded, whispered reverently. "For as long as I live."
Finally, she turned. He trailed behind her, like a memory at the corner of her vision, echoing her movements, or perhaps she echoed his from many years ago.
The pull she had followed here went elsewhere, now. There was no escape. But she would face every fight with dignity, as she always had. All of them, one after the other after the other, an endless gauntlet of brutality, until the storm finally came for her.
Until that day, she would be King.
With a final glance at the headstone, she walked away, step by burdened step. Past the trees where the crows let out their final cries, past the monument of forgotten Crimson, past shriveled flowers left behind by mourners long gone. Drawn as if with a leash to her next fated destination, leaving behind an empty grave.