for some, but not for all

To Addam, it was obvious. Had been, anyway. The three years between moving into Aletta and being kicked summarily out by force (force majeure, that is) had solidly planted in him the seeds of wanting a simple life, a farmer's early rise and early slumber, sunsets over the Titan's wings with Flora by his side and the taste of home-grown food on his tongue.

And they had had all of that, in their roam over the golden country, to a certain extent. They got going while the sun was still rising, and their tasks were straightforward enough, and they cooked what they found the best way they knew how, and watched each other in the campfire's glow...but it was certainly bound to be different. That much was assured.

Was success assured? Was his dream really set in stone to pan full out? Why, how, when could he ever have thought it so?

In 3560, he was twenty years old. His father warned him that the Lord of Aletta was in poor health, and that the most sensible move for public relations' sake was to install Addam there - and with a wife, to boot, because even as the bastard child he had no choice but to fall in and make up for Khanoro's incipient infidelity.

In 3561, he was twenty-one years old. Addam Origo and Flora Hentisane were wed in a secondary throne room off in the east wing of Aureus, with the only delegation consisting of the king himself and...Amalthus, of all people. Zettar turned up his nose at the whole affair, despite the Quaestor's presence, and forbade Chaghan and Ashigu from attending as well.

In 3562, he was twenty-two years old. Change started coming faster: some time quite early in the first year, he brought home Milton from a triage mission in Gormott, and many months after that, the Aegis, Malos, was awakened. Yet, even with all of this, the life of Addam in particular was quite simple. Unfairly simple. Wholly uncomplicated.

In 3563, he was twenty-three years old. Yes, we've well learned to count along, and just as they were considering conceiving a child of their own to teach numbers and letters and sums and sentences to, Addam was gifted the dread responsibility of driving Mythra, the other Aegis, on to beat the destruction back from whence it had come.

And now...now we can't summarize things so plainly. You'll notice we haven't mentioned Hugo - Addam lost more frequent contact with his old bosom companion sometime before his second decade came to a close. Called to rule at sixteen, the young emperor stood as tall as he could before the world - yes, the entire Architect-blessedamned world - and the brooch tucked behind his ear never slipped, never faltered, even when he threw himself before certain destruction to save dear, dear Addam.

Dear Addam. How are you, this year? Are you happy with what you've gotten? Is this what you wanted, truly? How do your crops grow? Are you proud, are you glad, when you kill them, scaff them down with death's own scythe? It's what you said you wanted, so why aren't you happy? You must be! You must be.

(He takes the scythe in the one hand and the rake behind his back in the other. They cross above his shoulder; the sword is still sheathed. But if he has chosen peace, why does he see violence, pitchforks in the wheat, all around him?)

Sometimes, Addam is happy. His daughter is born, she says her first words and learns when he's made a good joke and when he's too sad to do so, and she is beautiful. Sometimes, Addam is sad. Minoth doesn't stay - what stories are there to tell about a farmer? And of course Addam would prefer it that way. Of course.

He dresses the same every day, just as he did for that fateful year with Mythra and Milton by his side. But before, where there was chainmail and a fitted piece of pewter that exemplified a musculature that befitted only the greatest of heroes, now his shirt, plaid flannel, is loose; he hides in it, shrinks away. His shoes are beaten and scuffed, and he does not shine them. He hardly even thinks the polish would take.

The sun beats hot, and his hair, though gray (prematurely? not so?), is still a great insulator, so his crown yet burns. With shame, with hatred, with loss. The royals of Torna have never worn crowns - Zettar's circlet was even a bit much for his station, pretended above Khanoro's simple chain lain across his forehead - so why should Addam wear a hat now? Why should he cover his shame? Why should he get to?

Every year more and more of his belt hangs loose past the buckle. Eventually he has to start punching new holes. Flora hides the bore; he finds it anyway. But we're not here to cast sympathy upon Addam, are we? Because he's the one who did everyone else so wrong. Right?

Evelyn, five years old, has a bob of thin but wavy dark brown hair, on its way to one day be full and lustrous. Addam sweeps her bangs to one side, absentmindedly, and there stands Pyra. Pyra who was born, at the end, and then died, functionally, so soon after.

Oh, god. How am I still alive? Why am I still alive? Why aren't you dead too?

Is that why you fought? For some, but not for all?

Farmers grow things. Farmers make things come to life. Farmers take care of all that's around them. Every last sterling starling seed.

A farmer is a failure if he lets his surroundings and those in them, those he feeds, die. So who ever let you think you'd be such an awesome steward?

And, too, when one thinks of farmers, one thinks of stooped old men, crooked from their work. Addam feels it. He feels it, he feels it, he feels it. But he is not even thirty yet. He walks up over the hill (back home but it's not home, not home), and he wishes he could up and die.

He was born in Leftheria. So he'll die in Leftheria, only...he doesn't even feel like he's left Aletta. Insistently, the Armus plod, and Addam insists that the landscape is the same. I saw some Vangs out in the Ossum Magnum today, he thinks, there were eleven of them and they kept so close together. Weren't there? Didn't they? The Fliers fly away.

In Torna, he grew Barbed Tomatoes. They were awake, alive, fresh and free. Now, they whisper. They send flirtations of agony to his ears and to his eyes, and the scarecrows up on their stakes, on their crucifixes, shine in the golden likenesses of Mythra, of Milton, of Hugo. They're looking down, necks fully noosed - aren't scarecrows supposed to look straight forward? Is that why the Puffots, perched so proud like they belong, they belong, they belong, never keep away?

(Thrice, the bell of belonging rings. For Hugo didn't, in his brother's eyes, and Milton didn't, because there was no one left to belong to, and Mythra was never meant to be here at all, but now she and Pyra are all but chained to the mortal world. It's not fair, not fair, not fair. We do not strike that bell on the behalf of Addam.)

Why don't we scare you away, Addam? Why do you come back, day after day? It can't be because you think yourself equal to our task, now. It can't be because you think you could ever make up for what you've done. What have you done? What haven't you done? Oh, Addam, Addam, Addam, what on Alrest have you done?

He'd said something, oh, so fateful to Hedwyn, back before Malos's first attack on Auresco. Told him to take it easy, to give him time to grieve for his lost wife. And Addam, thank the Architect, had not lost her, nor his daughter, but Mythra's words just after still rang so dreadfully true.

"You too, Lord Addam," the Gormotti man had said. "I know you're the type to put your life on the line for others, but do take care of yourself." And Mythra had cut in, "He'll be fine. He's got all of us here doing his work for him. I'd say he'll be taking it plenty easy." So of course Addam cannot, does not, will not, never even entertains the notion.

No, he must work. He must never stop working. Until his legs and arms are ground down to stumps, until he physically cannot ply the hoe or the shovel anymore, he must keep at it. It's what he said he dreamed of, late at night when naught but the rattiest of trail blankets kept him from the cold, hard ground. He chips away at the years; they never lessen their ceaseless march.

He sees colors, he sees shapes. Miasma before his eyes, the scarecrows dance. They aren't happy to do it. They never got to have that celebratory ball in Mor Ardain. If there was one thing Hugo had cherished about being emperor, it was being able to spoil his guests. Addam had liked that too. But...but no one ever comes around to their house anymore.

The sky is blue, but the earth is purple. The sunset scorches in Ardainian indigo. Never mind the cresting scrape above; in Torna, it had been gold.

The tomatoes are red. Red like blood, like fire, like honesty and brutality and courage. But none of those who Addam saw pass even bled. And so there again, how's that for your closure? He never even saw his father bludgeoned to death, but what's an orphan to an old man? It's all the same. Fairly awful, all round. And ain't that just the truth?

His nose drips, runs, stops, stuffs, every couple of days now, and in between when it clears up it bleeds just the same. In Dannagh, the air used to be dry and thin, and that was why. He doesn't know quite why, now. He just knows that every day the Belloat Grass grows taller, and the most beautiful of its shoots are those most jagged, most again barbed, and they scratch and cut at the facets of his face, and he's stopped bothering with bandages.

He still needs to keep the blood off the ground, though. It wouldn't do to taint the crops. So he scrubs raggedly at his cheeks with his gloves, old thin nylon things nothing like the fine leather and sheepskin pieces that served him in his warrior prince's not-quite-regalia. The brown turns burgundy, maroon, crimson, bright bloody bloody red, and Addam looks at it and thinks dazedly, there. That's more like it. That's more like what I deserve.

He is satisfied, at last. His suffering will never be comeuppance, but it's something, at least. And then he goes in for supper, and Flora greets him with a worn smile, Evie clutching mutely at her skirt, and grasps his hands, and Addam says, don't you need to wash those? She gives him a peculiar look - no, why on earth should I? Not right now, we're eating.

Addam looks again. Is the blood there, or is it not? Does everyone see it, or only him? Was it really his fault? Or is he only chasing after a role greater than his station? Quite unlike him. But war changes everyone.

(They tell Evie to smile for pictures. She frowns, doesn't do it. The rare things are like the most precious blossoms. "Daddy, will I ever see you smile again?")

One day, he is too old to farm entirely. He wakes up, sees the sun not yet risen but closer to it, for his circadian rhythm has ceased to treat him so well, so efficiently, and then stops halfway between up and down, propped on his elbows.

(He used to see the sun in Aletta this way. It's no coincidence that the house the Origos now occupy sits exactly the same in the landscape. Still, Addam's corpus refuses change. They all did. But wasn't he first?)

"Flora?" His voice is hoarse.

"Yes, Addam?" Hers is still perfect; he loves her, he loves her, he loves her.

"I'm very tired."

"I know, love."

"Do you think we could rest, today?"

"I think so," she allows. She doesn't say that he's earned it. Not that he deserves it, either. But Addam gets up anyway. Obviously, he does. There is no rest for the wicked. You reap what you sow. Peace is for some, but not for all.