PRAETORIAN!: The Last Praetorian
Freya and Tarion
The Empress was in the habit of giving a very brief address after the coronation, but this time she waited until the silence became palpably uncomfortable. She looked over the nobles, elves and the generals and said, “It has been an age since I first took up this tasking and every day since I fulfilled my father’s wishes and the Imperium’s need. Not so today, for I perceived a need to flaunt convention even to the point of disregarding the wishes of the Gods.”
Tarion’s brows drew together in stunned consternation. A hush settled over the temple. What could she mean? He glanced at Ancenar but the elf was equally puzzled.
Minerva smiled at the new vitality of doubt in the guests. She soaked it in for a moment, and announced, “I will take a different path than that appointed for me in the past. I will take a husband this day and right the wrongs of my father.” She looked directly at Tarion and held out her hand. “Tarion Praetorian, come and take the hand of your Empress! As my father the Emperor promised so shall you receive. Come hither!”
“My Empress,” Tarion began, but she cut him off.
“I will take no counsel on this. I will, if necessary order you; come to me my husband!” She held out her hand to him again. Tarion felt his heart caught in his throat, but he had no choice. The Empress gave him a tasking and he was by Imperial law and tradition bound to accept it. He stepped forward.
Thunder rumbled. The shaft of light pouring through the dome went dark. Torches fluttered in a sudden wind. Minerva ignored it all and said imperiously, “I defy the very earth if necessary! Take my hand Tarion and so shall the Holy See of the Creator bind us together as one flesh!”
Tarion straightened his purple cloak, set his already square jaw and reached for her hand.
“Do not touch her Tarion Praetorian!”
It was a woman’s voice that rang through the temple, punctuated by thunder, accentuated by lightning. It was deeper, more poignant, more powerful than that of the Empress, steeped in vivacity and enchantment. The assembly stared behind the Empress. Furious, Minerva stomped her foot and whirled to face the voice that stopped her wedding. A swath of darkness stood between two pillars at the end of the hall. From the darkness emerged a great silky-bronze horse with a golden mane and tail, a Pegasus with wings folded. Astride the stunning creature was a beautiful and imperious woman. She was wild, a daughter of the storm, perilous and enthralling. Long tresses of hair framed an alabaster face at once beautiful and haughty. Eyes of sapphire blue sparkled in the gloom. Her hair cascaded like a mountain waterfall from beneath her helm, tumbling like frothing waves of sun bronzed wheat over her shoulders. A cloak of dark green edged with black fox trailed behind her. She was clothed as a huntress with tall boots, leather raiment edged with gold, and a black dragonscale vest and gloves. She was wondrous to behold in a voluptuous mortal manner unlike the slender elegance of the elves.
“Lady Freya,” the Bishop gasped.
Tarion’s breath stopped, his tongue clove to his pallet and his limbs froze. The blood rushed to his head. He didn’t want her to see him thus, but she looked right past Minerva and her dire blue eyes locked on his.
“Hello Tarion, it’s been an age since we last met,” she smiled. Goddess that she was, Freya didn’t hide her feelings; rather she enjoyed the effect she had on the great of the world—especially one specific Praetorian, Tarion. The lusty possessiveness of her smile was at once coquettish and sincere. The goddess did indeed love Tarion in her own way. She paid him a level of attentiveness that few earned; yet she demanded absolutely that he return that attention with boundless adoration.
The Norse Goddess of the hunt moved so that her Pegasus looked down upon the little Empress of Roma, snorting at the monarch and pawing at the marble. Freya looked Tarion up and down brazenly. With an expression equally appreciative and scathing, she observed, “The armor of the Praetorian and the years of strife have worn you well, but what are you doing? You know you cannot marry another; fate and fame curse you to be in love with me!” She laughed and dismounted. As she did so, a black cat leapt from her lap to the marble floor. When it landed, it transformed into a large black panther. It stayed on her heel as Freya approached the Empress.
Minerva’s fists formed trembling balls of rage. “I am Empress here, Lady Freya,” she exclaimed, her pride overcoming her wisdom. “This is not Asgard but the world of men. As long as it remains our world I will have who I wish as husband! I will have Tarion!”
“Hush child!” Freya ordered, but her voice carried less anger than her eyes, which were fiery darts directed at the Empress. She walked forward and her boots rang on the marble. She stepped up to the dais and tapped the floor with the butt of Gungnir. It was but the slightest touch of the burnished brass upon the marble but the Pantheon shook. Outside thunder rolled and lightning flashed. Freya glanced at the lightning and cocked her head to the side. “Beware, my brother Thor loans me his favor. I warned you that this was not to be; Tarion is not to be yours. This is not his destiny.”
“I do not bow to the barbaric Gods of Asgard. His destiny is for his Empress to decide!”
Freya struck Gungnir on the pavers again and this time the lightning split the air with a sharp, painful crack! Tarion stepped up to his Empress, urging her not to tempt Freya’s fury but it was too late. Freya’s eyes grew instantly wide. A wind sprang up around her. The Goddess’s voice became wild, almost fey, “So you would defy me, defy Odin and defy all of world to have your way. That is the crux of this, isn’t it child?”
With haughty disdain Freya strode to the doors, flinging them open to reveal the ruins of Roma. “You are Empress, but Empress of what—this? The Imperium has all but passed away. Despite the nobility of this Praetorian and his sire the Imperium crumbles because of the arrogance of unwarranted pride and the depravity of men who believe themselves answerable only to men! What do you think the Destructor preyed upon? Look at the result! Look well Minerva; you can complete the Destructor’s tasking by sinking into self-service like the men of the lost duchies of the Imperium. Do that, Minerva and even the memory of Roma and the Imperium will disappear. That will be a black day even amongst the Gods!”
“You blame men for your own failings, is that it?” Minerva said defiantly. Her features became hard and imperious. “Oh that Olympus is gone and civilization with it! Are the timber houses of the Norse Gods the only example we have to live by? What’s the matter Freya? Has Asgard become bereft of Gods to entertain you, or do you no longer find pleasure in the company of dwarves?”
Faster than the eye could follow Freya was back on the dais, Minerva’s slight chin cradled in the black scaly glove of her hand. Tarion moved to protect his Empress but the point of Gungnir was instantly at his breast. “Stay where you stand Praetorian! Do not bring my wrath down upon you!”
The Praetorian knelt before the wrathful Goddess. “Lady Freya, you have ever been the champion of men,” he pleaded in the tongue of Asgard that only she and Ancenar could understand. “Do not put the blame on the Empress; place it on me. Take your wrath out on me. Do not take the last sovereign of men from us.”
“Peace!” Freya replied abruptly. “Peace Praetorian; trust your Goddess!”
Freya turned her frosty gaze to Minerva, raising the Empress to her toes. “I should repay your insolence with eternal damnation,” she purred with quivering fury and the Pantheon quaked in her anger. A long moment passed and Freya released the Empress.
The anger faded from her eyes as quickly as it came. Turning away from Minerva, Freya approached Tarion and raised him to his feet. She smiled, glancing back at Minerva and straightened her gloves. “Fortunately for our Empress her words carry the ring of truth, don’t they Praetorian?” She slapped his armored chest with the gloves, laughing again. “I won’t damn anyone for that. Besides you are right; Midgard needs the Imperium and the Imperium cannot afford to lose two rulers in a single day.”
Whirling quickly on the Empress, Freya admitted, “It would not please Tarion in the least if I were to take me righteous anger out on you. My Praetorian has a great deal of affection for you little Empress. In fact, left to his own devices, Tarion would wed you simply to save you from the humiliation of being slighted—wouldn’t you Praetorian? You are so deliciously duty bound.”
She patted him on the cheek and once again turned back to Minerva. Then the Goddess sighed and shook her head. Her expression took on a gravity that displayed the goddess’s momentary sincerity. “You do not lack courage or some level of wisdom Minerva. I lament the loss of Olympus no less than you. That part of me that was Athena is as lost to me as your namesake Minerva. For better or worse Freya is what remains. So it is for all of us. We must endure regardless of the loss; for if we fail we fall—all of us.”
Freya touched Minerva’s crown with the tip of Gungnir. The crown glowed momentarily. “You have what little blessing Freya still has to bestow. Alas, there is little enough power left in Gods, men or elves. The Imperium will not survive the Destructor’s dominion nor will the elves, as Ancenar knows only too well. Therefore, we must do all that we can to avert it. No cost is too great; do you understand? We must have faith though, faith in each other and faith in the Prophecy—that is why Tarion Praetorian cannot wed you Minerva.”
“I don’t understand,” she replied. “What possible difference could the Prophecy make?”
Freya sauntered up to Tarion again, smiling. She patted his cheek once again. “The Praetorian is not for me, Empress, don’t worry your head on that account. However, he cannot love you; he still worships me—don’t you Praetorian? That might become a problem if he’s married to the Empress; he’s got such a strong resolve for right and wrong the dilemma might very well destroy him!” The panther rubbed against his armored legs, purring.
Tarion growled back.
“Goddesses, especially this one, need to be worshiped,” she laughed.
“You speak of sacrifice but it all comes back to you, doesn’t it Freya?” the Empress said with scorn.
Freya sighed and suddenly seemed a shrunken woman bereft of glory, feeling the long slow years with a well of deep sorrow in her beauteous eyes. She shook her head and said sadly, “Even Freya tries to mask her disquiet with a cloak of jest and bravado; but no, Minerva the times call for even me to lay aside my selfish motives. The Prophecy plays no favorites; it dictates more than our own wants and desires. The Prophecy dictates to elves, men and Gods alike.” She looked from Tarion to Minerva and then to Ancenar. “Two of you had a hand in the Dragonheart curse—that is now ended. It is time for the Prophecy to move forward.”
“Then the Wanderer has returned to battle the Destructor,” Ancenar exclaimed. “As Alfrodel told the Destructor before his death, If your doom is met it will be at the hands of the Wanderer, the Twain and none other. So shall he seek you out and challenge you for the mastery! At long last the Wanderer has come forth!”
“No!” Freya told him. Everyone fell silent, everyone knew the tale. Freya explained, “The Wanderer has not returned, at least not in a palpable sense, there is no sign of him—not yet. However, he is not in Limbo—the mournful bell of that land signaled his departure—but he has not come forth in Midgard either.”
“Where is he then?”
Freya smiled and walked up to Tarion. The sharp nail of her finger tapped the imperial eagle on his breast, making a ringing sound that made all within the Pantheon stand upright with anticipation. “That is why Tarion must be unencumbered. The Wanderer now wanders lost and alone. Plutarch the Seer foretold this. When time stands still, the Wanderer will wander the world, lost and unaware of his Twain, taken from himself by the Dread Lord’s hand. The hero of the age must seek and bring back the Wanderer, the Dread Lord’s bane. That is why Tarion must not marry you or me. Indeed, he must leave Roma this very day!
“What does that have to do with me?” Tarion asked incredulously. “The hero of the age was my father and he has passed on.”
“Your father would disagree with you on both counts Tarion,” Freya told him sternly. “You are the hero of the age. Tarius challenged the darkness—true. Yet what would be left of men, elves or dwarves had not Tarion Praetorian held the dark forces at bay?” Silence fell, and Freya stroked his cheek. “You esteem your father and rightfully so. Yet Tarion what of Tarius, what became of him?”
“What do you mean,” he asked in amazement. “I watched him die! Ancenar was there.”
“We saw him flung into the mountains by the Destructor,” Ancenar corrected.
Freya nodded, and said, “So shall you find him, Tarion.”
“Are you telling me he is still alive?”
Freya looked at him with steely eyes.
“Where shall I find him; is he still trapped in the darkness of Gorthronor?”
“No, for the Destructor flung him far and wide, but Tarius flew to where his heart pulled him,” she told Tarion. “You must find your father Tarion. That is your first quest, though it will not be the last. That unfinished thread is the beginning of your tale.”
“He would return to my mother, to Norrland,” Tarion exclaimed. He turned to Minerva and on his knee begged her leave to journey to Norrland.
Minerva was shocked at the idea. “You wish to journey a thousand miles in search of your dead father with my realm thus? Look about you, Praetorian. Your place is here, at my side, maintaining the Imperium.”
“There will be no Imperium if the hero of the age does not go forth and gather in the Wanderer,” Freya reminded the Empress. “Tarius is not slain. It is a clear indication that is where Tarion’s journey must start. His quest will not be accomplished in Roma. If he fails to find the Wanderer before the Destructor does we will all fall.”
Ancenar stepped up and told the Empress, “Give him leave Minerva; there are no more armies to threaten Roma. Tarion has kept his promise to the Emperor; he has given you peace. You must give him the freedom to make it a permanent peace.”
“This is madness,” Minerva snapped, stomping off the dais. “The Praetorian’s place is here in Roma.” She stamped her foot. It echoed through the Pantheon. “Since the curse is over we need not be rushed. I want the city cleansed and restored for our wedding. Roma will be as splendorous as it was in song. Then, on the Creator’s Day when the snows glisten on the marble avenues and all the world is clear and white we shall be married. We will forge a new Imperium; one that will last to the ending of the world!”
The Empress strode out of the Pantheon and climbed into her carriage, shouting to the driver. The horses ran down the Palatine hill, the clatter of their hooves fading in the direction of the palace. The rest of the assemblage left after her. Tarion remained in the Pantheon with Freya and Ancenar.
“She has a stubborn spirit to her and is worthy of my name, I’ll say that,” Freya sighed. She looked at Tarion. “What will you do?”
“I’ve lived my life by the requirements of duty,” Tarion said with gravity. “The Empress has spoken, therefore the Praetorian must obey.” Tarion took off the medallion signifying his command. It was a heavy gold disk bearing a crowned golden eagle in a field of purple enamel. Across the top were the words “Semper Fidelis Imperium.” Below the talons, that held twin silver thunderbolts was the title: “Praetorian.” The title was synonymous with the General of the Legions; the Captain of the Praetorian Guard; and Steward of the Praetorian Council which elected the Emperor. When he added the title to his given name, becoming Tarion Praetorian, he became as singular as was the Empress. Now, as he placed the medallion on the altar of the Creator. It was clear to him, at least in his heart. He’d done all he could for the Imperium as the Praetorian. He removed his Praetorian armor, laying it beside the altar. Finally, he laid his gilt-edged cloak and its eagle clasp over the medallion. “It is over. I am no longer the Praetorian; I am simply Tarion. I will go to Norrland.”
“Good luck, Tarion and the blessings of the elves go with you,” Ancenar told him softly. “If it means anything, if you need a place to go, Irevale will welcome you; I will welcome you.”
“I don’t expect to live so long, but thank you.” He offered his hand automatically before realizing it was no longer there. The aborted action brought a grim laugh from his lips. “Perhaps I’ll have time enough to repay Johaan for this scratch.” He clapped Ancenar on the shoulder with his good hand.
Freya embraced him. “Follow your instincts Tarion. As you are the One destined to find the Wanderer and set him on his path, you may ask advice, but follow your own counsel.” She looked at him with sparkling blue eyes and a smile as radiant as the sun off winter snows. “Remember also that you love me and adore me. That thought will keep me happy when your road is long and dark.”
Freya kissed his cheek and mounted her Pegasus. “Farewell, and remember, the more you think of me the easier your road shall be!” She galloped out of the Pantheon and up into the blue sky.
“She’s been doing that to me for almost thirty years,” Tarion murmured.
“Be thankful she adores you Tarion,” Ancenar told him. “Think of the men she doesn’t esteem!” They both winced.
Tarion’s brows drew together in stunned consternation. A hush settled over the temple. What could she mean? He glanced at Ancenar but the elf was equally puzzled.
Minerva smiled at the new vitality of doubt in the guests. She soaked it in for a moment, and announced, “I will take a different path than that appointed for me in the past. I will take a husband this day and right the wrongs of my father.” She looked directly at Tarion and held out her hand. “Tarion Praetorian, come and take the hand of your Empress! As my father the Emperor promised so shall you receive. Come hither!”
“My Empress,” Tarion began, but she cut him off.
“I will take no counsel on this. I will, if necessary order you; come to me my husband!” She held out her hand to him again. Tarion felt his heart caught in his throat, but he had no choice. The Empress gave him a tasking and he was by Imperial law and tradition bound to accept it. He stepped forward.
Thunder rumbled. The shaft of light pouring through the dome went dark. Torches fluttered in a sudden wind. Minerva ignored it all and said imperiously, “I defy the very earth if necessary! Take my hand Tarion and so shall the Holy See of the Creator bind us together as one flesh!”
Tarion straightened his purple cloak, set his already square jaw and reached for her hand.
“Do not touch her Tarion Praetorian!”
It was a woman’s voice that rang through the temple, punctuated by thunder, accentuated by lightning. It was deeper, more poignant, more powerful than that of the Empress, steeped in vivacity and enchantment. The assembly stared behind the Empress. Furious, Minerva stomped her foot and whirled to face the voice that stopped her wedding. A swath of darkness stood between two pillars at the end of the hall. From the darkness emerged a great silky-bronze horse with a golden mane and tail, a Pegasus with wings folded. Astride the stunning creature was a beautiful and imperious woman. She was wild, a daughter of the storm, perilous and enthralling. Long tresses of hair framed an alabaster face at once beautiful and haughty. Eyes of sapphire blue sparkled in the gloom. Her hair cascaded like a mountain waterfall from beneath her helm, tumbling like frothing waves of sun bronzed wheat over her shoulders. A cloak of dark green edged with black fox trailed behind her. She was clothed as a huntress with tall boots, leather raiment edged with gold, and a black dragonscale vest and gloves. She was wondrous to behold in a voluptuous mortal manner unlike the slender elegance of the elves.
“Lady Freya,” the Bishop gasped.
Tarion’s breath stopped, his tongue clove to his pallet and his limbs froze. The blood rushed to his head. He didn’t want her to see him thus, but she looked right past Minerva and her dire blue eyes locked on his.
“Hello Tarion, it’s been an age since we last met,” she smiled. Goddess that she was, Freya didn’t hide her feelings; rather she enjoyed the effect she had on the great of the world—especially one specific Praetorian, Tarion. The lusty possessiveness of her smile was at once coquettish and sincere. The goddess did indeed love Tarion in her own way. She paid him a level of attentiveness that few earned; yet she demanded absolutely that he return that attention with boundless adoration.
The Norse Goddess of the hunt moved so that her Pegasus looked down upon the little Empress of Roma, snorting at the monarch and pawing at the marble. Freya looked Tarion up and down brazenly. With an expression equally appreciative and scathing, she observed, “The armor of the Praetorian and the years of strife have worn you well, but what are you doing? You know you cannot marry another; fate and fame curse you to be in love with me!” She laughed and dismounted. As she did so, a black cat leapt from her lap to the marble floor. When it landed, it transformed into a large black panther. It stayed on her heel as Freya approached the Empress.
Minerva’s fists formed trembling balls of rage. “I am Empress here, Lady Freya,” she exclaimed, her pride overcoming her wisdom. “This is not Asgard but the world of men. As long as it remains our world I will have who I wish as husband! I will have Tarion!”
“Hush child!” Freya ordered, but her voice carried less anger than her eyes, which were fiery darts directed at the Empress. She walked forward and her boots rang on the marble. She stepped up to the dais and tapped the floor with the butt of Gungnir. It was but the slightest touch of the burnished brass upon the marble but the Pantheon shook. Outside thunder rolled and lightning flashed. Freya glanced at the lightning and cocked her head to the side. “Beware, my brother Thor loans me his favor. I warned you that this was not to be; Tarion is not to be yours. This is not his destiny.”
“I do not bow to the barbaric Gods of Asgard. His destiny is for his Empress to decide!”
Freya struck Gungnir on the pavers again and this time the lightning split the air with a sharp, painful crack! Tarion stepped up to his Empress, urging her not to tempt Freya’s fury but it was too late. Freya’s eyes grew instantly wide. A wind sprang up around her. The Goddess’s voice became wild, almost fey, “So you would defy me, defy Odin and defy all of world to have your way. That is the crux of this, isn’t it child?”
With haughty disdain Freya strode to the doors, flinging them open to reveal the ruins of Roma. “You are Empress, but Empress of what—this? The Imperium has all but passed away. Despite the nobility of this Praetorian and his sire the Imperium crumbles because of the arrogance of unwarranted pride and the depravity of men who believe themselves answerable only to men! What do you think the Destructor preyed upon? Look at the result! Look well Minerva; you can complete the Destructor’s tasking by sinking into self-service like the men of the lost duchies of the Imperium. Do that, Minerva and even the memory of Roma and the Imperium will disappear. That will be a black day even amongst the Gods!”
“You blame men for your own failings, is that it?” Minerva said defiantly. Her features became hard and imperious. “Oh that Olympus is gone and civilization with it! Are the timber houses of the Norse Gods the only example we have to live by? What’s the matter Freya? Has Asgard become bereft of Gods to entertain you, or do you no longer find pleasure in the company of dwarves?”
Faster than the eye could follow Freya was back on the dais, Minerva’s slight chin cradled in the black scaly glove of her hand. Tarion moved to protect his Empress but the point of Gungnir was instantly at his breast. “Stay where you stand Praetorian! Do not bring my wrath down upon you!”
The Praetorian knelt before the wrathful Goddess. “Lady Freya, you have ever been the champion of men,” he pleaded in the tongue of Asgard that only she and Ancenar could understand. “Do not put the blame on the Empress; place it on me. Take your wrath out on me. Do not take the last sovereign of men from us.”
“Peace!” Freya replied abruptly. “Peace Praetorian; trust your Goddess!”
Freya turned her frosty gaze to Minerva, raising the Empress to her toes. “I should repay your insolence with eternal damnation,” she purred with quivering fury and the Pantheon quaked in her anger. A long moment passed and Freya released the Empress.
The anger faded from her eyes as quickly as it came. Turning away from Minerva, Freya approached Tarion and raised him to his feet. She smiled, glancing back at Minerva and straightened her gloves. “Fortunately for our Empress her words carry the ring of truth, don’t they Praetorian?” She slapped his armored chest with the gloves, laughing again. “I won’t damn anyone for that. Besides you are right; Midgard needs the Imperium and the Imperium cannot afford to lose two rulers in a single day.”
Whirling quickly on the Empress, Freya admitted, “It would not please Tarion in the least if I were to take me righteous anger out on you. My Praetorian has a great deal of affection for you little Empress. In fact, left to his own devices, Tarion would wed you simply to save you from the humiliation of being slighted—wouldn’t you Praetorian? You are so deliciously duty bound.”
She patted him on the cheek and once again turned back to Minerva. Then the Goddess sighed and shook her head. Her expression took on a gravity that displayed the goddess’s momentary sincerity. “You do not lack courage or some level of wisdom Minerva. I lament the loss of Olympus no less than you. That part of me that was Athena is as lost to me as your namesake Minerva. For better or worse Freya is what remains. So it is for all of us. We must endure regardless of the loss; for if we fail we fall—all of us.”
Freya touched Minerva’s crown with the tip of Gungnir. The crown glowed momentarily. “You have what little blessing Freya still has to bestow. Alas, there is little enough power left in Gods, men or elves. The Imperium will not survive the Destructor’s dominion nor will the elves, as Ancenar knows only too well. Therefore, we must do all that we can to avert it. No cost is too great; do you understand? We must have faith though, faith in each other and faith in the Prophecy—that is why Tarion Praetorian cannot wed you Minerva.”
“I don’t understand,” she replied. “What possible difference could the Prophecy make?”
Freya sauntered up to Tarion again, smiling. She patted his cheek once again. “The Praetorian is not for me, Empress, don’t worry your head on that account. However, he cannot love you; he still worships me—don’t you Praetorian? That might become a problem if he’s married to the Empress; he’s got such a strong resolve for right and wrong the dilemma might very well destroy him!” The panther rubbed against his armored legs, purring.
Tarion growled back.
“Goddesses, especially this one, need to be worshiped,” she laughed.
“You speak of sacrifice but it all comes back to you, doesn’t it Freya?” the Empress said with scorn.
Freya sighed and suddenly seemed a shrunken woman bereft of glory, feeling the long slow years with a well of deep sorrow in her beauteous eyes. She shook her head and said sadly, “Even Freya tries to mask her disquiet with a cloak of jest and bravado; but no, Minerva the times call for even me to lay aside my selfish motives. The Prophecy plays no favorites; it dictates more than our own wants and desires. The Prophecy dictates to elves, men and Gods alike.” She looked from Tarion to Minerva and then to Ancenar. “Two of you had a hand in the Dragonheart curse—that is now ended. It is time for the Prophecy to move forward.”
“Then the Wanderer has returned to battle the Destructor,” Ancenar exclaimed. “As Alfrodel told the Destructor before his death, If your doom is met it will be at the hands of the Wanderer, the Twain and none other. So shall he seek you out and challenge you for the mastery! At long last the Wanderer has come forth!”
“No!” Freya told him. Everyone fell silent, everyone knew the tale. Freya explained, “The Wanderer has not returned, at least not in a palpable sense, there is no sign of him—not yet. However, he is not in Limbo—the mournful bell of that land signaled his departure—but he has not come forth in Midgard either.”
“Where is he then?”
Freya smiled and walked up to Tarion. The sharp nail of her finger tapped the imperial eagle on his breast, making a ringing sound that made all within the Pantheon stand upright with anticipation. “That is why Tarion must be unencumbered. The Wanderer now wanders lost and alone. Plutarch the Seer foretold this. When time stands still, the Wanderer will wander the world, lost and unaware of his Twain, taken from himself by the Dread Lord’s hand. The hero of the age must seek and bring back the Wanderer, the Dread Lord’s bane. That is why Tarion must not marry you or me. Indeed, he must leave Roma this very day!
“What does that have to do with me?” Tarion asked incredulously. “The hero of the age was my father and he has passed on.”
“Your father would disagree with you on both counts Tarion,” Freya told him sternly. “You are the hero of the age. Tarius challenged the darkness—true. Yet what would be left of men, elves or dwarves had not Tarion Praetorian held the dark forces at bay?” Silence fell, and Freya stroked his cheek. “You esteem your father and rightfully so. Yet Tarion what of Tarius, what became of him?”
“What do you mean,” he asked in amazement. “I watched him die! Ancenar was there.”
“We saw him flung into the mountains by the Destructor,” Ancenar corrected.
Freya nodded, and said, “So shall you find him, Tarion.”
“Are you telling me he is still alive?”
Freya looked at him with steely eyes.
“Where shall I find him; is he still trapped in the darkness of Gorthronor?”
“No, for the Destructor flung him far and wide, but Tarius flew to where his heart pulled him,” she told Tarion. “You must find your father Tarion. That is your first quest, though it will not be the last. That unfinished thread is the beginning of your tale.”
“He would return to my mother, to Norrland,” Tarion exclaimed. He turned to Minerva and on his knee begged her leave to journey to Norrland.
Minerva was shocked at the idea. “You wish to journey a thousand miles in search of your dead father with my realm thus? Look about you, Praetorian. Your place is here, at my side, maintaining the Imperium.”
“There will be no Imperium if the hero of the age does not go forth and gather in the Wanderer,” Freya reminded the Empress. “Tarius is not slain. It is a clear indication that is where Tarion’s journey must start. His quest will not be accomplished in Roma. If he fails to find the Wanderer before the Destructor does we will all fall.”
Ancenar stepped up and told the Empress, “Give him leave Minerva; there are no more armies to threaten Roma. Tarion has kept his promise to the Emperor; he has given you peace. You must give him the freedom to make it a permanent peace.”
“This is madness,” Minerva snapped, stomping off the dais. “The Praetorian’s place is here in Roma.” She stamped her foot. It echoed through the Pantheon. “Since the curse is over we need not be rushed. I want the city cleansed and restored for our wedding. Roma will be as splendorous as it was in song. Then, on the Creator’s Day when the snows glisten on the marble avenues and all the world is clear and white we shall be married. We will forge a new Imperium; one that will last to the ending of the world!”
The Empress strode out of the Pantheon and climbed into her carriage, shouting to the driver. The horses ran down the Palatine hill, the clatter of their hooves fading in the direction of the palace. The rest of the assemblage left after her. Tarion remained in the Pantheon with Freya and Ancenar.
“She has a stubborn spirit to her and is worthy of my name, I’ll say that,” Freya sighed. She looked at Tarion. “What will you do?”
“I’ve lived my life by the requirements of duty,” Tarion said with gravity. “The Empress has spoken, therefore the Praetorian must obey.” Tarion took off the medallion signifying his command. It was a heavy gold disk bearing a crowned golden eagle in a field of purple enamel. Across the top were the words “Semper Fidelis Imperium.” Below the talons, that held twin silver thunderbolts was the title: “Praetorian.” The title was synonymous with the General of the Legions; the Captain of the Praetorian Guard; and Steward of the Praetorian Council which elected the Emperor. When he added the title to his given name, becoming Tarion Praetorian, he became as singular as was the Empress. Now, as he placed the medallion on the altar of the Creator. It was clear to him, at least in his heart. He’d done all he could for the Imperium as the Praetorian. He removed his Praetorian armor, laying it beside the altar. Finally, he laid his gilt-edged cloak and its eagle clasp over the medallion. “It is over. I am no longer the Praetorian; I am simply Tarion. I will go to Norrland.”
“Good luck, Tarion and the blessings of the elves go with you,” Ancenar told him softly. “If it means anything, if you need a place to go, Irevale will welcome you; I will welcome you.”
“I don’t expect to live so long, but thank you.” He offered his hand automatically before realizing it was no longer there. The aborted action brought a grim laugh from his lips. “Perhaps I’ll have time enough to repay Johaan for this scratch.” He clapped Ancenar on the shoulder with his good hand.
Freya embraced him. “Follow your instincts Tarion. As you are the One destined to find the Wanderer and set him on his path, you may ask advice, but follow your own counsel.” She looked at him with sparkling blue eyes and a smile as radiant as the sun off winter snows. “Remember also that you love me and adore me. That thought will keep me happy when your road is long and dark.”
Freya kissed his cheek and mounted her Pegasus. “Farewell, and remember, the more you think of me the easier your road shall be!” She galloped out of the Pantheon and up into the blue sky.
“She’s been doing that to me for almost thirty years,” Tarion murmured.
“Be thankful she adores you Tarion,” Ancenar told him. “Think of the men she doesn’t esteem!” They both winced.
