Earth. Off the Canary Islands, 2018

No man is an island, so they say. Not even on an Assault Carrier's top-deck, surging across the Atlantic. Not even an Emperor, gazing on the heavenly curve of his wife's back. She looks away at the ocean spray below us, bright as fire. Stares desperately up towards heaven.

"So pure."

"My Queen?"

"Back then...it was such a pure blue. That's all."

I've had time to read about Rayleigh scattering in three years. Along with optics, meteorology, the changes nuclear war and regret make to the colour of the sky. But she barely asks me anything, now. I (almost) don't mind. Nothing I could tell her would be free from the Lie.

A pillar of smoke hangs over Tenerife, like the angel of death. The black spirit that seized my darling's destiny in that terrible week three years ago. One year later, as Emperor, I ended the war with Terra. Whenever the Terrans rebelled, I ended them. Then I built my Empress of Terra and Mars a castle on her favourite island. The rebels blew them both to ash.

I feel cold, even in my cloak and red jacket. But I grew used to the cold of Martian nights, and the loneliness, worse than Cruhteo's hardest blows. My only dream of warmth was in my Princess, back then. To dwell in her gentle beauty, bring a smile of joy to her perfect lips...her golden hair will always be a wonder, but she hardly smiles at all, now. No matter what I do.

"You came for me again, Slaine. You'll always be with me, won't you?"

She still can't break free. I still can't save her. I don't speak.

Her favourite gown trembles with her body, as the boom of anti-missiles drifts over the water. I had a full wing of Sky Carriers and a dozen Kataphracts ready to protect her. When they've destroyed these terrorists, I'll announce another purge in North Africa. I can picture the reprisal bombings and counter-reprisals, as if every miserable report were already waiting in the throne room of New Washington. I don't feel hate for them. Anyone I ever hated is dead now. But I can never show mercy. Not while a Terran who could conceive of harming Asseylum is left alive.

Like ripples in pure water, worry lines embrace her eyes. No hurt ever crept there in the lost days of our childhood; only the bright pain of compassion, for even a worthless Terran boy. Stabbed with contempt by every eye on that red planet. Restored to life each morning by her smile of grace–she was my saviour, from the hour we met. Even if the Martian boys, then Cruhteo's soldiers, beat me every night–I had to protect her. Smile for her, be strong. Say everything was fine. Never pain her gentle heart with knowledge of Martian hate.

I still don't tell her anything about the bombings, the purges, or the labour camps. We haven't even slept together since my night terrors started. I try to count the innocents I've killed, or the hatred for Mars I've bred, and I can't stop until I scream and weep. It's my punishment, the hell I deserve, because I showed Asseylum's enemy the mercy she would have shown, and he shot her in the head and chest.

Every morning, I see anxious fear defile her eyes; the Aldnoah revival tank that saved her couldn't cure that. And I know I would do all of it again. The guilt of murder is nothing like that agony of failure. Failing her. Watching her fall, in her blood…no mercy. Never again.

"Slaine? Do you still believe we might ever have peace?"

Another question? I was too surprised to answer at once.

"Of course, my Queen; I promised you! The world will have peace and so will you‒"

"No. Until you have peace, Slaine, no one will. And I know…for three years…you haven't believed you'll ever find it. I'm sorry."

I was searching for an answer, when my wife looked straight at me. The silver pistol, my own pistol, always within reach, shone in her hand.

"Slaine, I know. You killed Inaho-San. You lied."

I stare at her. Raise one finger, and carefully tap my forehead.

-0-

-0-

(Inaho draws his handgun.

Slaine shoots him.

He falls dead, beside Asseylum and Saazbaum's bodies. Slaine kneels between Inaho and the Princess)

Slaine: For love, the best of Earth and Mars are dead,

For nothing did I in hate, but all in love.

And pity, Orange. For how could you live?

With Mars and Earth's sweet light snuffed out in blood?

My Princess, fallen in the arms of death,

My sun, my heaven, broken in my sight!

Weep blood! Descend to hell with this vile world!

Or make your heaven, Slaine, in these faint breaths,

That nothing can guard, but royal power of Mars.

Now, love, this word that old men call divine,

Drive shame and mercy from my ice-locked heart!

Make bloody my mind, cast me to hell alone,

If only I might seize a blood-red crown.

And keep my love, more precious than two worlds,

In fortresses of paradisal peace.

Until I have the crown I shall not rest,

And count myself but bad, 'til I be best.

I'll guard my love within a secret room,

Then triumph, Orange, in our day of doom.

(Exit, bearing Asseylum)

‒from Slaine Troyard: the Last Emperor, a Martian stage play first performed in 2055