Post Scriptum
Young Dawn retired for the night, her all-encompassing skirt no longer gracing the face of all of Fasnakyle. In her stead, dusk bathed the hospital ward with an auburn tint as the day of mortals came to a close.
The double glass doors slid open as Lawrence pushed the occupied wheelchair outside. He glanced up, wordlessly, at the canvas with its limitless glitter. Feeling the gentle breeze brush him. It was quiet, the flurry of activity on the compound long subsided. Visitor hours were nearly over, or were over, but the staff gave him permission for the occasion.
With careful consideration for the passenger, Lawrence strode the wheelchair through the rich green garden, down the masterly crafted cobblestone paths and put more weight as he pressed on with the chair up a slope, toward a hilltop overlooking the hospital complex behind him, and the sprawling mass of lights in front of him. It was the outskirts of Fasnakylepolis.
A single mulberry tree occupied the hilltop, and Lawrence parked the wheelchair next to it. He took a deep breath, looking back at the hospital before turning his attention back to his ward—his princess.
Victoria sat there in the chair, idly, seemingly disinterested in the scenry, but Lawrence knew deep-down she appreciated it.
He squatted next to her, using one of the fenders as support. He learned in closer to Victoria, wrapping his right arm around the catatonic woman. He rested his head on her shoulder, taking in the moment with her.
Lawrence couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He cleared his throat. Stroking her grown-out silly golden hair. He yearned for her touch, but knew deep down their shenanig ans were now fleeting nostalgia.
The guilt tugged at him. Tore him to bits, and it was all his fault—his failure to stop her. His weakness to disrupt her fate led to this. It didn’t bother him if she read his mind—to deny his guilt. Her entire brain waves were scrambled; the doctors told him she has no real good chance of ever recovering. Whatever horrors Jonathan von Churchill inflicted on her has stumped her path to recovery. She is, and will always be from now on, a pure vegetable.
It was the price to pay... he gazed upon the bustling swathes of the megalopolis capital. But was it was a price he could’ve avoided? The question clipped him endlessly. No amount of pitying won’t change the fact he didn’t. Cowardice stripped him of his ability to take fate by the helms and smash it to a million pieces. He was no Luke, no brave man a league of his own.
The Zeta crisis came to pass, and this was all Lawrence could do for her. To give her some fresh air, to spirit her away from her small, mimalistic room. Lawrence went above and beyond to provide her company, to be by her side. And he did this as much as he could whenever duty didn’t demand it.
But now these days were coming to an end. Lawrence looked into Victoria’s eyes, her once shining, vibrant eyes. Now dim, shallow, devoid of agency. No longer was there a endless reservoir of her spunky energy, her tendency to look away in embarrassment whenever their gazes locked.
It pained to be torn from her. Anxiety gnawed him, gave him sleeplness nights on deployments, never to know of her condition—could she improve? Will she remain the same? There was always a chance she could... Neo sapiens have only surfaced a generation ago and to this today there is no understanding of their mystical godlike powers. Are they truly a new meta form of Homo sapiens? Nobody can say for sure.
No matter how many times he would open the door to her room, it was always the same blank stare, the same sad expression, solemnly never changes. She couldn’t smile, she couldn’t laugh. He’ll never hear her snort or cry tears of joy ever again.
He looked over the horizon of Fasnakylepolis. He had no personal love for the the city, for this den of wretchedness that dwells within its nonsensical politicans. Whenever he came here, all that flocked to him were paparazzi and politicians all too eager to gain a handshake for the cameras with him. His love—their love, was for their own homeland—Chizan. A pretty little gem of a planet hundreds of light years away. Of course, keeping your best pilot, vegetable as they are, on a frontier planet bordering the Imperium directly isn’t a sound idea... and Lawrence is at least relieved senior leadership here on Fasnakyle is smart enough to realize this.
“But still, I wish we could’ve seen Chizan together... at least one more time,” Lawrence said. He had no idea how long it’s been since he was last back home. Nine years ago, their fairy tale life ended where the war began. His extraordinarily deeds since have left him full and even so much as to say, now more than ever, his exposure to dangers has left him contempt for this terrible conflict.
But that was nine years ago. Now, neither of them could come home together, in one piece. Away from this carnage, divorced from this nightmare. What was once his past is now an unattainable nostalgia.
His heels gave out and he slumped, gently as he could, to his knees, to a better sitting position. His head in Victoria’s lap now. Her legs felt so frail, nestled as they under her bundle of clothes and heavy blankets. He was just too scared of causing her strain.
Lawrence’s guilt truly knew no bounds, no end to his suffering. It was no less his fault this happened to her, and it always proved too hard for him to cope with her fate. All his past accomplishments, his great hurdles, his toughest missions... all of his never-stepping tower of steps leading to leading his comrades on the wings of his Hoshiga, triumphing over his foes... none of it mattered now. It all acculmated to this. He wanted Victoria dvorced from this war, and in a way, he got his wish, disturbed as it was by a monkey’s paw no less. It was inevitable. The golden scales of Gods determined Victoria’s fate. One Neo sapiens must live, and one must die.
He cursed the Gods. He swore under his breath, lamenting why it’d have to be Victoria, the love of his life to suffer misfortune for their amusement, or it’s perhaps because they could not intervene in the mortal realm that led to this. Either way, his grief was limitless.
He felt a gentle touch on his head. His vision blurred from tears, he shifted careful to see Victoria pet him, carefully, very slowly. The corners of her mouth very gently radiating a reassuring smile. Her touch so angelic, so soft. Lawrence wept. His chest tightened, roped by grief. Her bony fingers moved, moved gracefully, elegantly and so slowly across his threads of hair.
And at least for these everlasting moments Lawrence enjoyed the final recesses of his evergreen golden summer. He wanted Victoria to have the best parting memory he could ever had with her, a remainder of what they accomplished, of what she desired—the safety of Fasnakyle and the billions of lives who reside in its megalopolis.
Lawrence lifted his head, looking into her ever gloomy eyes. He cupped her head, holding it between them on her lap. He looked once more out along the horizon line, past the bustling and flashy outskirts to the grand bronze statue of Winston Fasnakyle, the forefather of the Confederacy. It had gotten dark, but the majestic yet humble statue of Winston stood definitely overlooking the city, arms raised to the heavens above.
He heard the rustle of leaves behind him, and Lawrence saw a few of Victoria’s attendants. Their time together was at an end’s end. Lawrence hugged Victoria, delicate as she was. He whispered into her ear, stroking her long, golden locks of hair: “My assignment this time is further away, Vick... so please wait for me, okay? I’ll make it back alive, I promise.”
He leaned in, kissing her on the forehead. He enjoyed for a few seconds, the sweet nectars of their afterglow, of their triumph over Zeta. Just outside the compass of his vision was the movement of the nurses inching closer. Back to her room of soltitude, her high tower to await her prince, lonely as she’ll be. His heart struggled to imagine the sheer emptiness of her lonliess, of his detachment to her.
“Goodbye, Vick,” Lawrence said. He wiped away a stray tear from her eyes. Another kiss on the cheek as he stepped away. He gestured for them to take Victoria away, and watched alone under the mulberry tree of memories, their sanctuary, as she was wheeled away down the hill’s beaten dirt path to the paved sidewalk leading to the hospital ward. Further away from him she went, until she was no more than a dot. Then, she was gone.
Lawrence glanced back at their collective effort, the thankless, heroic job of saving billions of innocent lifes. He couldn’t prevent the unfrogiving action of the Black Prince gassing Island Sidon, nor its subsequent colony drop on Ben Nelvis’s megalopolis, but he raged a life’s worth of wrath to prevent Fasnakyle’s destruction.
Lawrence lingered there for a while longer, before he left the premises and hailed a air car. After getting in, he inputted coordinates for the nearest military spaceport near Allied Strategic Operations Headquarters. After landing the craft, he stepepd out of it, stretching from the dull ride. He glanced back in the direction of the hospital, at least for a while until it came to his attention his military shuttle craft was preparing to launch. His gaze shifted to the attendant and he dismissed him. Then, his gaze drifted along the flights of shuttle craft heading for space, for the fleet overhead.
Lawrence began to board his shuttle. Upon reaching the peak, he looked back, saluting Fasnakyle, and the grand statue of Winston some leagues away, sending off the warriors of justice as they sallied forth for a new deployment.