Marked by the Gods

MARKED BY THE GODS A Myth in Eight Parts

by ThePhallocrat

PART EIGHT

Everything had stopped making sense, or maybe, more precisely, everything had started making sense for the very first time. Rannell Kent was no longer questioning it either way. He no longer worried about anything other than the cold burning purpose that blazed in his very core, the purpose that he had taken upon himself so long ago at the command of a God and which now he would die for even without the God's direction or commandment, a purpose that had become a religion unto itself that needed no outside deity to make it holy. Protect Tytus. That was all he had ever been called upon to do, and he had done it to the best of his skill, glad of heart, for it aligned with his own desires. To discover now that perhaps, just maybe, the passions of his heart, the love that had appeared as if out of nowhere between the Guardian and his Chosen, yes and even the lust that had ignited inside him for his charge had served the greater purposes of the God they served... This very thought sent Kent reeling with awe and joy.

But no time for that. The Prince must be kept safe until it was all over, until it was time for him to play his part. Kent turned the corners one by one in the darkness of the tomb, knowing now exactly where he had to go. There was a movement in the shadows, a figure shifting, preparing to attack and defend itself.

"Tytus," Rannell Kent said, "It's me."

And then the figure attacked indeed, throwing himself into his Guardian's arms in a gasp of relief, and they squeezed each other tightly and kissed, and Tytus ran his hands through his love's hair and said, "I was so worried."

"You were worried?" Kent said, laughing, "How do you think I felt?"

Tytus kissed him again. "Thank the Gods," he murmured, "Thank the Gods."

"Indeed," the Guardian replied, tight lipped. "Come, we must find someplace safer to wait." He took Tytus by the hand and pulled, leading him into the tombs.

"Wait? Wait until what?"

"Until it's over."

"Until what's over? What's going on?"

Kent squeezed the Prince's hand. "The remainder of your father's forces arrived last night. The siege has begun in earnest, and they will attack the walls in full force immediately. Your father is not content to wait."

"But we'll never take the walls in the first push, not with the enemy rested and at full strength."

"He knows this. He seeks only to weaken them, hasten the end, but at the cost of many of our soldiers. In his mind, we have more than enough to spare."

"How do you know this? Kent... what's happened?"

"The war must end. And end it will, today. You must be ready. Our hope for future rests with you."

Tytus stopped, sticking out his lower lip. A hint of his old petulance returned to his voice, just enough so that Rannell Kent could remember the spoiled child he had so recently been, and remembering, he smiled. "Guardian, I'm not going another step unless you stop being so cryptic. What in the name of the Gods is going to happen today?"

"Many things," Kent replied, "and in the name of the Gods indeed." __________________________________________________________________________

He was exactly where Damek had expected him to be, naked and wet and curled up on his side in a little ball, shivering from the cold and looking pale, so very pale. The old commander knelt at his side and wrapped his arms around him in a warming embrace, but the naked man jerked in alarm and tried to pull away.

"Joren," Damek said, "It's me."

Light-headed, confused, Joren furrowed his brow at his commander but said nothing. Damek tore off the sleeve of his shirt and began to bind the wound in the man's chest which was leaking blood furiously. Joren tried weakly to stop him, but the grizzled commander easily fended off the attempt.

"Let me die," Joren growled, barely able to form the words.

Damek laughed, a short bitter bark. "Not likely. You really want to die like this, man? Naked and drenched in self-pity? By the Gods, I expect better of you. We have work to do, boy, and no time for this nonsense."

"What are you doing here?"

"Saving your scrawny ass, Captain Joren, I should think that's obvious. I need you. The war must end. The siege will begin today and it's up to us to stop it. Well, and a few others, but never mind them. We have our part to play and we're not going to fail, are we?"

"But why? Why save me? Why do you care?"

Damek finished tying off the bandage. "That wound will need seeing to when we can, but you won't bleed to death now. Stand up and let's get some clothes on you. Do you think the soldiers will want to see all your dangly bits? Because I sure to the Gods do not. Get dressed, Captain. That's an order."

Slowly, with lots of help from his Commander, Joren found his feet and began putting on his clothes. He said nothing, finding that the task required all of his concentration. Then, that done, Damek put the Captain's arm around his neck and all but carried him through the tunnels towards the surface above.

"I'm not worth saving," Joren mumbled.

"Allow me to disagree," Damek said. __________________________________________________________________

From the top of the walls as the day dawned it was an all too-clear view of the enemy army, laid out in perfect formation with various siege weapons already constructed and being brought to bear against Kadnaris and her defenders. From the disposition of the attacking forces, it was clear the Emperor was planning for nothing less than a direct assault that would rely on sheer numbers. It would likely work, eventually, days or weeks from now, but there would be a slaughter first.

"He's a madman," Mouse said to himself, but then realized that much had been obvious all along. As mad as his brother, the two Emperors were two-of-a-kind, twins through and through.

"Friend Mouse!" shouted a familiar voice, and Salor approached looking geared for war, "As much as I appreciate your company, I do not think this is the best time to be here. I cannot vouch for your safety in the coming siege, please, return to the palace and to your duties."

Mouse shook his head. "There will be no siege."

Salor laughed as usual, and turned to look at the enemy, "I suppose our friends are here for tea, then."

"The war must end. The fighting must stop. This has been decreed - do you understand me?"

Salor's smile faded and his eyes widened in reverence. He nodded.

"Do you know where our catapults and other weapons are being deployed?"

"Certainly."

"Have the Woodsmen disarm them. We will not be the first to fire. But you come along with me, I have a few things to say to Kadnaris' defenders. And then perhaps," Mouse said, smiling broadly, "I will play them a song."

"It will be done as you say," Salor said, saluting, and then hurrying off to distribute orders. Mouse readied his instrument and plucked a few notes. He had a few perfect tunes in mind that would be just the thing. But first, to get everyone's attention. He began to play and to sing, and was amazed at how loud a single note could be, how it could fill the air like a gathering storm. ____________________________________________________________________________________________

Supporting most of Joren's weight had winded Damek, who was not young, and so he didn't have the breath to argue any more with the guards at the gate. But still he had to try.

"Let us out of the city," Damek said again, "We can stop this war before it starts."

"Just the two of you? Against the whole army? Come on, old man, you know I can't open the gate. It's a siege for crying out loud."

"You will need to open the gate only briefly to allow two men through."

"It's not going to happen."

Damek opened his mouth to speak when suddenly a new sound caught his attention. Music, distant and faint, along with the sound of a young man singing. Commander Damek smiled. It had begun already.

"What in the name of the Gods is that?" the guard said, craning his neck to look up at the walls.

The sky was suddenly fill with birds of every size and description, many of whom began landing on the city walls, on buildings, on soldiers, and refused to budge when the men shooed them away. The guards were staring at each in panic, but Damek could only laugh. The men barring their exit were a bit too busy to notice what the two men did next. Damek placed one hand on the gate and shook it, grunting in annoyance that it should be in their way when he was so close to his goal.

"They'll never raise it for us, not during a siege," Joren said, sounding defeated.

"No," Damek agreed, then ran his fingers over the metal in a sort of caress. "We are in luck today, though, Captain. This gate is made of iron."

"That's lucky?"

"Iron," Damek said, with clenched teeth, "Is of the earth."

When the guards thought to look up from their efforts to get rid of the winged newcomers, they were horrified to see a large man-sized hole in the middle of the gate and no sign of the old man or his wounded friend. _________________________________________________________________________________________

"I am waiting for an explanation, Sergeant," the commander of the gate watch said. "We have a siege starting any second, and there's a bloody hole in my gate!"

The sergeant of the guards was sweating profusely. "I have no explanation, sir. It just appeared."

"Not good enough."

There was a flash as somebody ran past the two bickering men and out the gate.

"Stop!" the seargant called out, far too late.

"Who was that?" bellowed the commander, "You see? Enemy spies slipping out left and right. This is gross incompetence."

One of the guards on duty shuffled forward nervously. "I don't think it was an enemy spy, sir. Just some blind beggar boy. Hardly seeemed worth stopping him."

"I will be the judge of that. Now repair this gate, immediately! And somebody help me chase off all these bloody birds!" ______________________________________________________________

"Did you hear that?" Tytus asked in a whisper, "Somebody is coming."

Kent was already aware of this fact, had his sword at the ready in front of him. "Stand back."

"No, I will help fight," the prince insisted.

The Guardian of the Flame hissed. "Have you learned nothing? It all depends on you. Stay back, stay safe, and let me protect you. It's what I was born to do."

But Tytus pretended not to hear him, readying his sword and adjusting his stance as though he truly intended to fight.

"A slave gave me this sword," the Prince said, not even looking at his guardian, "A slave who I banished to the mines in a fit of rage. He didn't think I recognized him, but I did. I remembered. I remembered how I treated him like an animal, like something worse than an animal, and yet still he rescued me and gave me this sword."

Finally Tytus turned to face his Guardian. His cheeks were red with shame. "I must fight. If I am to be Emperor I must learn to fight for what is right, to defend my people, all those who depend on me. You have taught me for many years, my love, but now you must let me live your teachings. I cannot be a student, a boy, forever."

The noise of the approaching men was growing louder. The mad Emperor had sent many men after his escaped prize. There was no more time to argue, and Kent had nothing to say. His heart was bursting with pride. "So be it, Your Grace. Take my left flank. Clear your mind and trust your instincts. And may the Gods protect us."

"Amen," said the Prince, and then the first soldiers burst into view. ____________________________________________________________________

The scouts brought word to Captain Bryant, but he could hardly believe it. He commandeered the first horse he could lay his hands on and galloped to the front lines.

But there they were as reported. Commander Damek and Captain Joren, the latter leaning on the older man for support and looking pretty bad. Without a moment's hesitation Bryant ordered a nearby soldier to bring a cutter and see to Joren's wounds.

Damek waved away the order with a casual brush of the hand. "Gather the men around, Captain," he said, "and listen close. What I am going to tell them should then be relayed to every other unit in this army, squad by squad, you got me?"

Bryant nodded. He couldn't speak.

"I left you all and abandoned my duties, and I'm sorry for it. But I had to go. I thought it was to carry out a special mission for the Emperor but there was a bigger reason, and for somebody even more important. Captain Joren here is my son. Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm not a likely father figure. But I realized something. So I knocked up my wife all those years ago and made the Captain, but that's not what makes me his father. Not really. I'm his father because he depends on me, and I have responsibility for him. Well the same goes for all of you. You are all my sons, every one of you, and the Gods help me but I will not see a single one of you die today. Spread the word. The siege is over. Send our best scouts through the army, have them disable our catapults. Should be a walk in the park to them. Tell the other squads, and to hell with their commanders. The men will understand. The war is over."

There was a general hush. The men were stunned. Finally, Captain Bryant cleared his throat and found his voice. "It will be done as you say, sir, of course. But... what about the Emperor?"

Damek smiled grimly. "The Emperor," he said, "is about to have a change of heart." _______________________________________________________________________________________

The final council of war before the siege was a short affair, for there was not much more to add from any of the generals present. There had been no word on the location of the Prince nor of his traitorous Guardian who had led him so far from the fold of the true Empire. There had been no change in the disposition of the enemy's defenses in Kadnaris. Those present who believed it would be wiser to wait until the enemy was weakened by a long siege without resupply, rather than simply attacking outright, kept their silence. The opinion of their Emperor had been made clear and they did not dare question him further. The loss of life on both sides would be catastrophic, but none of the military leaders present could deny that in the end their own side would prevail.

But what would be left of the Empire after such a battle? Nobody spoke of this doubt, but it lingered in the air.

One by one the generals filed out, each ready to oversee their portion of the attack to come. The Emperor himself remained, drinking wine from a golden goblet. His pulse was calm and even. He had no concern for the battle at hand, whose outcome was all but certain. Instead, he thought on his son and how best to disinherit him, and who to nominate in his place. There was certainly precedent for such things in the Empire's history... he'd have the historians and lawyers dig up some example to justify his actions. The idea caused him less grief than he would have thought. Perhaps, he thought, he should have done it long ago. That boy had been born a thorn in his side. Chosen of the Flame, indeed.

He had thought it almost dawn, for there had been a steadily growing light peeking through his tent, but all was dark out there now. The attack would begin at first light, but until then there was only time to kill. He took another drink of wine.

The candle on his table sputtered out suddenly, followed by two other torches which, set into sconces on long iron bars driven into the ground, had illuminated the command tent. Suddenly the tent was as dark as the murkiest night. The Emperor sighed and waited for one of his servants to come and relight them. As the seconds ticked by and nobody came, his impatience grew. At last, he bellowed to get their attention. Any servant of the Emperor knew that if their Master had to call for them, they had already failed, and could only expect a whipping if he was feeling merciful, and the mines or the headsman's axe if he was not.

Still no one came. It had been a long time since the Emperor had faced such incompetence. He would have risen himself and relit the torches, a lowly task for a man in his position of power, but he could not see and his eyes had not yet adjusted.

"I bring greetings, Your Grace," somebody said, and the Emperor's hard nearly leapt out of his chest.

"Who are you?" The aging ruler attempted to summon all his indignation and rage, but found he could not. Instead, an icy blackness had gripped his heart. "An assassin?" As he spoke the word, he knew. He looked about him for some sign of the intruder's presence, but there was nothing but the void. "How did you get past my guards?"

Still no response. The Emperor's hand went to his sword. When he spoke again, his voice was low and sober, and had lost all hint of command. "Who are you?"

"I am nobody," the voice replied. It seemed to come from a different side of the tent than it had at first. "Merely one of the many victims of your war."

The timbre of the voice was that of a child. The Emperor scoffed. "You'll get no pity from me. Is this some kind of trick?"

Silence.

"You said you bring greetings. From who?"

"From the Gods."

"Is that so? What do they want with me, then? Do tell. I shall answer for you. Nothing. They want nothing of us, they demand nothing from us, we owe them nothing nor they us. They have abandoned this world, if they ever existed. Else they would have ended this madness long ago. So tell me, boy, enlighten me. What do you think the Gods have in mind for me?"

"You may soon ask them yourself."

The threat was absurd, but somehow the man who called himself the Emperor knew.

"So this is how it ends," he said. He stood quickly, drawing his sword, but it was too late. There was a sudden pressure on his back, his shoulders, someone was climbing him, and then there was something cold and sharp on his throat. __________________________________________________________________________

Inside his throne room, the mad Emperor raved. His servants had abandoned him. The siege was imminent, the final defeat, and the man would soon have no more power left to wield. The servants who once had waited on him hand and foot were gone, seeking to save themselves, jumping this ship before it went down. The Emperor bellowed and shouted, but heard only his own echo in the empty halls in reply. It was over, the end had finally come.

And he'd lost the Prince. His only chance at vengeance. The thought destroyed whatever remained of his sanity. He'd pulled troops away from the defense of the city, troops that were desperately needed there, and sent them combing through the city and into the catacombs to find Tytus. That was all that mattered now.

The door at the end of his throne room opened, causing him to stop his rants in the middle of a nonsensical sentence. He cocked his head in curiousity.

"Who comes?"

The figure came closer, and the Emperor recognized him.

"Your musician," the lad said.

"No music can save me now," the Emperor said, in a moment of lucidity. His eyes were bloodshot and wild. He thought about jumping forward and killing the boy, just for fun, just to feel his hot blood on his hands, just so he could take revenge on something, on someone.

"I have come for you, Your Grace," the musician said, "You have suffered long, but your suffering is over. Your pain ends this moment."

The madman threw back his head and laughed for a long time. "You think a song can end my suffering?"

"Not just a song, Your Grace," Mouse smiled sadly, "But a lullaby. A final one."

And he began to play. __________________________________________________________________

There were many of them, far too many. Kent almost allowed himself to lose hope, to be convinced they'd be overrun in the first instant. But then he let go of his fear, let go of all thought, and lost himself in the sword.

Rannell Kent, the Guardian of the Flame, had studied the martial arts since he could walk, and as long as he could remember he'd always been good at fighting. The best. But in that moment he was better than he could ever have guessed. There was no pause between thought and action, his hands moved his sword into position before he could even formulate the idea in his head, and he moved with speed and precision he had never before possessed.

He was a whirlwind of death. The enemy soldiers, confident in their superior numbers, threw themselves forward in a surge. Kent swiped, lunged, ducked, spun, parried, and with every movement he sent a spray of blood flying through the air. By his side, the Prince fought too, but Kent had no luxury to spare a thought for his lover other than to verify that he was still alive, still fighting.

He was. Bless the boy, he was still fighting.

The soldiers' frustration grew. This should have been an easy fight. They grew more desperate. Kent was wounded in a dozen places and his lungs gasped for air, but the thought of backing down even one degree did not cross his mind.

He had already realized he would not survive this fight. The thought did not frighten him. It was what he had trained his whole life to do, and he did it willingly. I love you, Tytus, he thought, Remember that. Rule wisely, and love another one day.

Rannell Kent went on the offensive, advancing step by step and forcing the crowd of soldiers to retreat or perish. His sword severed limbs from bodies, cut ligaments, broke blades, but not without cost. An enemy's strike had rendered his left arm useless, but he fought on one handed. Another low cut made his right leg give out, and he sunk to his knees, still fighting. Finally, his blade was batted out of his hand, where it cluttered onto the floor. He was defenseless, and half a dozen swords raised to strike him down.

But there was a sudden burst of light from behind the Guardian, the source of which he could not see. The soldiers gasped and threw up their hands in front of their faces, staggering backwards.

A loud voice boomed from behind Kent, saying, "Drop your weapons."

Whose voice was that? Powerful, calm, authoritative, manly, regal... It could not be Tytus. It could not.

The men obeyed, instantly.

"My father and my uncle are dead," the voice continued, "I know not how I know. But I know. By the Grace of the Gods, by the authority of the Lightbringer, I am Emperor. This war is over."

The room still glowed with light, light that emanated from one man. Kent wanted to turn to see him, to see his glory, but he couldn't. He was too weak, too tired, he had lost too much blood. He didn't need to look. He knew now that Tytus had always been the one and only source of light in his life. He wept in gratitude and in joy.

"Kneel before your Emperor!" Rannell Kent managed to say. His voice was hoarse and weak, but they all heard him.

And they all knelt. ________________________________________________________________________________________

The time had come. Commanders on both sides, having heard no word otherwise from their superiors, ordered the attack.

But nobody moved. There was silence.

The war was over. _________________________________________________________________________________________

EPILOGUE

They decided the coronation should take place immediately, in Kadnaris. In fact, Tytus spoke enthusiastically of moving the Empire's capitol to Kadnaris officially, and in a way Rannell Kent saw the sense of it. But none of that was up to him. That was the Emperor's job now, his right to make those kind of decisions. Kent trusted that he'd make them wisely.

He looked at his Emperor and smirked. The lad's coronation robes were the definition of gaudy, and the monstrosity of a crown upon his head threatened to topple off at the slightest movement. The oversized ornaments, crown, and robes gave the overall impression of a boy playing dress up in his father's clothes. He is still just a boy in many ways, Kent reminded himself. He has need of me yet.

As if reading his Guardians thoughts, the Emperor caught his glance and scowled. "These clothes are ridiculous."

Kent tried not to laugh, and not just because he would offend His Grace. With his wounds still in the process of recovery, laughing hurt quite a bit. "They are the traditional garb of the Emperor at coronation," Kent lectured, as if Tytus wasn't very damn well aware of that.

"Tradition can go fuck itself," the Emperor said, in a most un-Emperor fashion, "I've half a mind to strip this all off and walk down the aisle to be crowned as naked as the day I was born. What do you think they'd all say to that, eh?"

"Some of your vassals are quite elderly, Your Grace. Their hearts couldn't handle such a sight." Kent couldn't repress a chuckle, then winced at the pain of it. "Others might like what they see too much. And I couldn't allow that."

It seemed to be what Tytus wanted to hear. "Perhaps a private reenactment of a naked coronation, tonight? Just you and me?" His grin was impish, the same old Tytus that Rannell Kent had always known. He could not help but laugh again, even though it hurt like hell.

The Guardian responded with a shy nod, felt himself stiffen with desire at the thought. "Just be gentle on me," Kent said.

Tytus snorted. "No promises," he quipped.

There was a brief knock on the door, and then the musician stuck his head into the room, looking impatient. "Are you two lovebirds done 'preparing' yet? Everybody is waiting for you!"

"How dare you speak to me that way!" Tytus said, playfully, "I could banish you to the mines, you know."

Ammon came fully into the room, shaking his head. "Didn't work so well the first time, did it?"

The grin on the Emperor's face fell as he thought of it, and then he quickly grabbed the muscian and pulled him into a hug.

"Careful, don't get your glitzy dress all dirty," Ammon said, his voice muffled in the cloth of the Emperor's garb.

They hugged for a long time, but eventually the Emperor pulled away. "You sure you won't stay at court?" Tytus asked, "I'll make you the most famous performer in the Empire!"

Ammon smiled but shook his head. "Naw, that sounds awful. I'd rather stay with my brothers. Don't worry, I'll come to visit sometimes."

"You better," Kent said meaningfully, then placed a hand on his Emperor's shoulder, "Your Grace, it is time."

Tytus nodded. "Tell them we are coming, Ammon."

Kent helped the Emperor adjust his robes where they had been unsettled by the embrace. "I'm nervous," Tytus admitted in a whisper.

"The ceremony will be over before you know it."

"Not of the coronation, silly, of ruling. I want to rule well, but something tells me that won't always be easy. What if I don't know what to do? What if I don't do all I can? What I mess up in a big, big way?"

The Guardian cupped his liege's face in his hands. "You will not have to do it all alone. That, Your Grace, is why you must always keep me close."

The young man's face lit up like the sun. "I will, my love. I will." ______________________________________________________________________________

Joren was awake, even though he desperately wished he could sleep. It was the middle of the night, but the celebrations in honor of the new Emperor were going strong outside. Through the open window in his room Joren could hear the shouts and laughter of thousands of people who had not expected to live this long. There was a sense of a relief, of having been saved, of having been spared. The coronation was just an excuse, really. Everybody was alive, and so they were happy.

All except for Joren. He didn't deserve good fortune. He was supposed to be dead. The fact that he was still alive while so many others had perished in the conflict made no sense to him. There was nothing to live for.

Damek said otherwise. Damek said he was Joren's father, that they were a family now and that they had each other. He said that was enough to keep on living for. He even wanted to take Joren to visit Calla before she grew too sick, the whole family back together one more time. Joren found he hardly cared.

The war was over, but the reality of it, the horror of it, still lived on in Joren's heart, just as it would live on inside each and every man who had been forced to endure it, forced to witness and commit horrible acts. Joren knew he would never be the same.

A breeze blew into the room from the outside through the window. It was an unseasonably warm night, so the cool air was appreciated. But then Joren thought about that window. He thought about how high up it was, and how far away the ground was below it. He thought about how easy it would be to end his suffering, and to rectify a mistake the Gods had clearly made.

It all made sense. Joren rose from the bed and walked to the window, every step easier and lighter than the last. It was inevitable. He could see the city now, lit up in celebration and joy. He smiled. He put a foot up on the window sill and prepared himself to jump.

A hand grabbed his shoulder. Somebody was standing next to him in the darkness.

"No," Calder said. Joren fell into a heap at his feet and wept, unable to speak.

"The Gods have marked you, for they have given you life," the boy continued, "The world is yours. You are free. You have will. You have choice. You are alive. Do not spurn their blessing."

"It feels more like a curse," Joren said.

Calder laid a hand on his friend's head. "You and I both know," he whispered, "to be marked by the Gods is both." _________________________________________________________________________________

"It is well-known and yet little discussed amonst historians just how little we actually know, how many elements that make up our past were unrecorded or unobserved and thus how any attempt we make at constructing our history will be lacking. Historians are logical men, and as such we do not like to admit that some problems can simply not be solved.

In undertaking a history of the War of Two Emperor, this fallacy in the science of history cannot be ignored. In this volume, I have laid out the causes for the conflict as best we know them, discussed each battle and laid out the strategies involved, detailed the personal biographies of many of the key figures and offered analysis into their motivation. But all this is nothing.

What even the most logical historian cannot ignore is that the war ended in a single day in what is probably the most singular and baffling incident in Imperial history, ushering in the reign of Emperor Tytus I, whose legacy still dominates Imperial life and politics today. The stories that have come down to us from that day are almost too fantastic to be believed, and indeed at the onset of this project I considered them nothing more than retroactive propaganda for the new Emperor.

I am no longer sure of anything, save of one thing: that we will never fully know nor understand everything that happened that day, the day the Empire was saved, the day the course of history was changed. Even a man of logic such as I can admit that there are some things that simply cannot be known. And perhaps (and for a man of logic, this is heresy indeed) it is better that way."

-- Postcript to "The Time of Madness: The War of Two Emperors" by Kendveric, Imperial Historian, published 128 years after the Siege of Kadnaris at the behest of Emperor Tytus IV. _____________________________________________________________________________

And so the saga is finally over. My apologies that this final chapter took much, MUCH longer to finish than expected. E-mail me at thephallocrat@gmail.com. Thanks for reading