Epilogue
1838
In the end, it took close to a year to convince Gwen to do something coronation-esque. In true Sarmatian fashion, Gwen had assumed that, now that the war was over, all would return to normal.
Of course, over the course of the past decade, all of the Sarmatian tribes had been united under one banner, the Magyar Lords had bowed to Gwen, and Veneda had been restructured into a free country of agricultural states loyal to Gwen.
Everyone looked to the Vanspag of Stasig, and they would continue to do so whether or not Gwen actually paid attention to them or ignored them.
So Piitros alternately begged, pleaded, explained, debated, sparred, explained some more, implored, argued, explained some more, and outright shouted at Gwen over the course of ten months.
Gwen’s scowled had grown more ferocious every time Piitros had made a point she couldn’t refute – and their children had gotten something of an education about what their parents did after a fierce argument.
At the end of it all, especially after constantly being consulted by messengers from the Magyar Lords and the new Venedans, Gwen had caved.
“I’ll do this ridiculous thing,” Gwen snapped, “Be Vanspag of all of the People and the Magyars and the Veneda, but we have to organize something so that I don’t have to live in a city or something.”
In Sarmatian terms, that was all there was to it – the Vanspag was leader by consensus, and everyone else had already agreed that Gwen was the Vanspag over all other Vanspagii.
In the terms of everyone else, though – Gwen was going to be a Queen, and that meant a coronation.
“They want me to what?”
Piitros smiled weakly. “Have a coronation. It’s a celebration that validates your position as ruler, with a symbolic ceremony that says that you are now in charge.”
“I know what a coronation is, Piitrik,” Gwen snapped. “The Venedans used to have them all the time. But they are in a capital city, which we don’t have, and they require dressing in impractical clothing, which I refuse to do.”
“The city of Menesca requested that we hold the coronation there, so we don’t need a capital,” Piitros said, “And you don’t have to dress impractically, just in clean and impressive clothing.”
Gwen pressed her lips tightly together. “Fine,” she hissed. “But I insist that there is a round of fighting afterwards. None of this fancy feast nonsense.”
So the coronation was set up. Gwen glowered at everyone from her position on the platform above the clearing near Menesca, armed to the teeth and wearing every piece of gold that she owned, but she had agreed to go without her leather over-armor and her helm (with much grumbling). The coronation was short – Maraaja declared Gwen the Vanspag and Queen over Sarmatia, Corona, Drugovia, Fulinia, Galinda, Ilmenia, Kravikia, Lithuania, Palotia, Prussia, Radmikia, Scalovia, Severa, Sudova, Viyanetia, Zegalia, Zelonia, and all of the peoples within those borders, painted bloody lines over the Vanspag-scars on Gwen’s face, and bowed to everyone.
Then, Gwen had divested herself of jewelry and had cheerfully asked who wanted to spar.
By sunset, the clash of steel on steel was still ringing over Menesca. Piitros just sat on a small hill overlooking the spar-turned-brawl, (everyone had wanted to join in, and neither Sarmatians nor mercenaries were particularly known for their patience,) chewed on something that one of the locals had put together to eat, and smiled.
“Isii?”
Piitros looked up, and swallowed his food. “Hello, Ben. Got bored of watching Mađva fight?”
Ben shook his head. “No! But one of the Little Mothers said that it was time for Miiria to go to sleep, and that she wouldn’t stop watching unless I did, so I did.” He sat down next to Piitros. “Isii, why did the co-ro-na-tion happen? Everyone knows that Mađva is in charge, anyway.”
Only eight years old, and already such a perfect little Sarmatian, complete with the straightforward blunt logic that Piitros loved in Ben’s mother. “It was so that everyone who isn’t Sarmatian – of the People – knows that, too. So that nobody like Justus Maximus ‘Veneda can claim that she isn’t in charge.”
Ben scowled. “It was still silly,” he said bluntly. “But I guess that some people are stupider than other people. That’s okay. Am I going to have to do that when I grow up?”
Piitros suddenly felt cold. Would Benhamanaag become Vanspag of Stasig, Vanspag over all Vanspag, and King over Sarmatia and Veneda? Did he want that for his son? Did he have a choice?
“That’s a question that doesn’t have a good answer,” Piitros finally said. “Maybe you will, and maybe you won’t.”
“Hm.” Ben nodded to himself, as if Piitros’ answer had actually helped him figure something out. “Am I also going to stare and drool at Maraaja when I’m older, like everyone did at the co-ro-na-tion?”
Piitros choked. Maraaja had dressed up for the event – which, for her, meant gold chains holding strategically placed gems in place, with four ceremonial daggers, and nothing else.
In short, she had been closer to naked than most Venedans ever got in public.
“That’s…” Piitros decided to take the coward’s way out, just this once. “That’s a question that doesn’t have a good answer. Maybe you will, and maybe you won’t.”
The worst part was, if he told Gwen about it tomorrow, (assuming that she wasn’t entirely hungover and sore from fighting all day,) she would just laugh.
-
A draft of a letter never sent to Grand Duchess Mei Loistavis Pirkkje of Finland, from Piitros Loistavis Pirkkje
My good aunt
Piitros Loistavis Vanapaghavuk Pirkkje, Duke of the Finns and of Estia and Livia, Lord Consort to the Queen of Veneda Gwenig who is Vanspag of Stasig and of all the Tribes of Sarmatia and Gyula of the Magyar Lords of Imenia and Kravikia and Viyanetia, Lord Commander of the Special Infantry and the Artillery, Lord Director the Royal Engineers and the Royal Clerical Service, greets you
The plains of Sarmatia are flowering red to match the teeth of their riders and the blood spilled in the war now behind us
The sea beyond Daghavn is blue like the sky this afternoon, and the ruins of the city are as scattered as the clouds
Unlike you, who are so fortunate in having three capitals, we here in Sarmatia must be content with none, and this
As I take my noon’s rest here at the reconstruction of Dvaghavn, I contemplate the congruence between the ruins of this old capital and the workers who labor to reconstruct it along the lines of all the best cities, such as the icy beauty of your own Revontulet Heikaal, and the ruins of my life upon which I have constructed something new and wondrous. In seeking to avenge the loss of family, I have gained new; in seeking to help those who needed it, I have acquired the leadership and responsibility you had always hoped to foster in me; in leaving Finland, I have found all that I wished to have there. But I also miss what I remember As your own people rallied to Finland in times past as a safe haven for those of the more blatant and inhuman mutations, here in Veneda we have built a country for all those who have been forced out or cast out or regarded as less human. Here in Veneda, under my wife, we have a home for refugees, for Sarmatians, for the Venedan tribes so long oppressed in slavery, for the Free Magyars, and even for Christians. I’ve given them space for one of their temple complexes with a worship space and a monastery and a hospital, they’re really happy about it Once was Dvaghavn the seat of a fractious and divided land that could barely claim the title of ‘Kingdom’, now it will be the ceremonial capital for those who hold royal splendor in the least value. Gwen didn’t like it when I told her she needed to have a real capital, but we need somewhere for the diplomats and have state ceremonies and headquarter the military and the bureaucracy
Please Aunt Mei, I know I didn’t save Uncle Ben and I ran away and ever since we got this kingdom together Estia and Livia have been kinda sorta maybe leaving you to join us and I know no one’s sent a delegation in my name I wasn’t sure if that was going to make it better or worse I’ve been telling people not to mention me to you because I know what I
I’ve got a wife and three children we named them Benham and Miiria and Lokimei and I still can’t write a good Finnish letter but I’m no good at being a good Finn I’m not even really a good Sarmatian but I found my place here with the Venedans they all need me no one here knows how to run a country and I do I helped them run their war and I helped get the refugee camp turned into a real town and I keep hearing people making half-serious jokes about renaming Dvaghavn Petrosburg after me since I’m totally redesigning it and I just want you to be proud of me, Aunt Mei, and I haven’t heard anything from you so I guess you hate me and I’ve been trying to come up with the right polite way to say I’m sorry but I can’t make it work I’m sorry.
Please I want to see you again.
Once we’re done rebuilding here I’m going south into the Haemos. I’ll be fine, I’ve got this guy Eithan who’s honestly pretty terrifying, he’s been guarding the kids, who’s coming with me. The Oiorpata threw in with us during the war, so really Tagimasiigsaila, who live down in those mountains, I didn’t know that there were any Sarmatians down there until they turned up during the war, is also beholden to Gwen. Anyway so it’s me, Eithan, and this Christian doctor Damaris I’ve made friends with, and we’re going to go talk to the clan heads in the Haemos about leaving Byzantium and becoming part of Veneda. I mean, it’s all warring clans down there, but the Sarmatians and the native Venedans were sort of that already, and look what we managed to do with them.
We might even go all the way to Byzantium. Incognito probably, if this works we’ve basically slid half of Byzantium out from under the Emperor and I don’t think they’ll be very happy with us. But we have Sarmatians. Damaris is going to ask for some sort of shipment of Christian things and they’ll probably send missionaries along, if the Haemos works out, and they’d have to come through Byzantium so we’d be meeting them there.
I guess I’ll try this letter again there. Maybe by the time we get the Haemos sorted out and get to Byzantium I’ll be in control of myself enough to write a proper Finnish letter, instead of spilling my guts out all over the page like this.
I’m sorry, I promise I’ll do the right thing and burn this later so I don’t disgrace myself by keeping it around and letting anyone else find out. I can be that much of a good Finn.