Emperor of Seria

Imperial Year 1173
To my dear beloved Kaleia,
I heard our children were born three moons ago, under the auspice of Lysandra. The fact that you gave birth to twins greatly delights me - beyond the need for an heir, it warms my heart to hear that we have created life together. If I were not bound to the throne, how I would love to leave this decrepit palace behind and run away into the woods with you. I know it's a lovely building, but there are eyes and ears in the wall, and in my failing health, I feel as though I am a dying animal being surrounded by vultures.
I love you, Kaleia. When I recover from my illness, I will make you empress. I will have you by my side on the throne. And I will make those opportunistic pigs understand that it is you, not them, that is my closest confidant. I have no one but you, Kaleia. So please, stay strong, because I will have to stay strong in here too.
Also, is it true that the boy was born with the Celestial Stigmata?
May Dyeus grant us his wisdom.
Your love, Ely

Elysius au Atrean watched the thousands upon thousands of eyes gazing at him as he rode by, his royal guards up ahead pushing aside the mass of commoners who came at him with gifts and prayers. The young emperor rode upon a majestic white steed, the grandson of a great stallion his father had supposedly ridden. Serians were warriors, invincible on horse and on the high seas. They were innovators, builders of culture, philosophers, and scientists, yes, but first and foremost, they were the most proud of their military.

Elysius was no soldier though, and as he pushed onward to the temple, he felt himself feeling the urge to curl up and lay down. His joints hurt as if he were an old man, despite his tender age, and he felt weak and lightheaded. As a boy he had always been an excellent duelist and had mastered marksmanship on both bow and arquebus, but now, in the legendary freezing winter of the capitol, he could feel his physical strength getting sapped away. He had always admired the soldiers, the warriors of the empire, but alas, it was not to be. His dreams dashed, he settled for his fate as a bedridden emperor. But even then he wanted to stretch his legs a little - and show his devotion to the skies above.

The morning meetings were brutal - something about yet another skirmish from the southern hinterlands, where the Jadanians had broken the peace treaty yet again, about spies that had found evidence of contact between the Karawakites and the Empyrean (because of course they did), famine in the Principality of Caelistra, rebellion in...somewhere in the west, bandits on the roads all over, and beyond that he had zoned out because frankly, he felt like vomiting (which he did, fortunately after the meeting was adjourned). Elysius wasn't sure which of the crises were genuine, and which were fabrications by the nobles for their nefarious deeds. Knowing the court, either was possible. There were probably a ton of crises they were covering up too, intentionally or not too. Incompetence or malice, you name it.

"How pious! Your majesty! We the people are in your servitude!" 

No they weren't. No one was.

The people cried out as the horse carrying the emperor passed by them. Elysian gave them the mark of the prayer of Dyeus, the great skyfather. Elysius scanned the crowd to see if his beloved, Kaleia was anywhere in the crowd. But amidst the throngs of faithful patriots who lined the roads all around him, those at the sides and rear following his procession to the temple, he could not identify if she was there.

~~*~~

The shrine of Saints Elyon and Alotte stood proudly over the rest of the city, rivaling the palace itself in height, if not in width. Within was the enshrined ashes of the Holy Fallen, the martyrs of the War of Light and Dark. The solemn gaze of a great marble statue of Dyeus shone over Valor Company, the honor guard in charge of protecting the sacred sites of the city. Their gilded plate armor, with it's brass-bronze highlights glistened in the midday sun, and they stood, almost as if they themselves were statues. Elysius smiled. He always liked the look of their armor - they were the reason for his now long-dead dreams of being an adventuring soldier.

"Soldiers! Attention!" As the guards of the emperor met the guards of the temple, the two forces faced one another, the standard greeting between two royal guard units. After a quick shuffle, the forces all knelt before the emperor, their swords and halberds on the ground as they gave the Serian salute - two arms over their shoulders, once with the left arm over, then once with the right arm over. Elysius saluted back, then left his horse as the gates of the temple opened up.

The coffins of the martyrs of Valor Company towered over the frail boy as he walked down the narrow corridor. Gold and silver embellishments lined the walkway to the central crypt where the two heroes were said to lay. Two life-sized statues of the martyr saints stood, as if guarding the coffin of which their originals lie. Elysius knelt before the statue of Saint Elyon, the martyr prince, and gave his distant relative his greetings. The statue did not respond back. Elyon was clad in great armor - similar, but not identical to the ones the soldiers of Valor Company wore. The handsome saint wore plate armor upon chainmail, and a great cloak, while he held his helmet upon his left arm, leaving his hair to blow upon the wind - or it would have flown, had it been the real man and not a statue. In his hand - not a part of the statue - was the Glaive of Eados, one of the great Sacred Weapons, blessed directly by the gods. The polearm had become an heirloom of the imperial family following the death of Elyon, and now it lay in the hands of the statue. 

The second statue was the Statue of Saint Aerlotte, the would-be princess in marriage to Elyon, had the final battle not consumed them both. Her armor was far more slender, even than that of the famously graceful armor of Elyon, and her helmet lay upon her head, for it covered not her face nor disallowed the tresses of her hair to blow freely in the wind (or, that is how the sculptor had imagined the breeze to be interpreted). She held the Sacred Weapon, the Blade of Hresvelgr upon her hands, a determined smile upon her equally beautiful face. Truly, a perfect heroine for a perfect hero. And upon her right hand was the Celestial Stigmata - the mark of one who came from the otherworld.