In the distance there was a great city, one that went by many names, such as La Dominante, the Queen of the Adriatic, the City of Masks or the Floating City. With names like these he expected the crowning jewel of the Republic of Venice to be beyond compare.

“There’s certainly a… bouquet to this place,” Marc confessed.

Marc never had the pleasure of taking in the scent of the sea at low tide, let alone in a city with its extensive network of rivers and canals that doubled as a sewer. This heady bouquet of decaying sea life, piss and excrement shattered his childhood ideals as Venice.

Warning, oxygen levels at 11.2% and rising. Proceed calmly to the nearest emergency shelter.

“We drank the tavern dry,” Marc finished.

Tired, dehydrated, and suffering from a nasty headache, he said goodbye to Cornay and even hugged him in front of his men. No one dared say anything…

Marc and his Adjudant were the first to arrive in town. It was their time and effort that turned a dilapidated fortification filled with green troops into a fighting force that beat the odds.

“Once again I was faced with a journey into the unknown… towards Susanna.”

“After the garrison was turned to rubble, I disbanded the men. By the time the Spanish arrived, there was nothing left to lay a claim to. Lastly, I invited my men to celebrate our time together.”

He remembered the evening at the tavern being a bittersweet moment. They had taken heavy casualties and were victorious despite the odds. That was in no small part due to the townspeople. Who were betrayed by both sides of the conflict…

“They expected us to die, so the King of Spain could lay claim to a victory before signing a peace accord,” Marc added.

If not for the intense cold, Marc would have spit on the floor, just like he wanted to back then. However, the harsh environment of space was just as effective as duty and honour was as the time. I had to maintain decorum…

In the end Marc reversed the sequence of the orders. He threw open the gates of the garrison to the townspeople. They cleaned their stores of provisions within an hour, compensation for the land and crops contaminated by the battle they fought the vanity of a king. Without our supplies, they may not have made it through the winter months.

Next they set up charges throughout the garrison. At sunset, they lit the fuses, turning what was once their home into a fireworks display. 

Marc shook his head, causing some dry ice to break free from his neck. The cold challenged him to function, but he was not about to give up on telling his story, even if no one was alive to see them… The world was a mess before we were cut off…

“Shortly after my return to the garrison, we received orders from the Maréchal to surrender the town to the Spanish and disband.”

He remembered the bitter taste in his mouth as he acknowledged their orders. Marc wanted to cut the man down for betraying this town and those who died defending it… Killing the messenger would’ve accomplished nothing…

In the end, he would bear the penance for her actions. He dispatched the garrison’s only literate soldier, Charles Garnier, to escort Émilie back to the Keep. On his orders, they issued him a horse, supplies, and enough sols and deniers to make the journey in comfort.

Once there, Charles would relay a letter to Bertrand. Marc’s wishes were that the child be raised by their mother, educated, and treated as a proper heir. The only difference was that Émilie would never become his wife or be formally acknowledged. Other than a small monthly stipend, a staff of four, and quarters within the Keep, she would be left to her devices.

“Evelyn would kill me if she found out about Émilie,” Marc said. I’ll save those details for later…

Émilie betrayed him in the worst possible way. By taking what she wanted, she violated what mattered most, his trust. However, Marc was certain the child should not suffer for the actions of its mother.

While honourable, he also realised that setting eyes on that porcelain skin, golden locks of hair, and blue eyes again would be problematic. Émilie would forever remind him of her betrayal. I once believed that my father had the worst possible relationship with the Comtesse…

Warning, oxygen levels at 11.2% and rising. Proceed calmly to the nearest emergency shelter.

Marc’s writing filled two-fifths of the bulkhead. Even after centuries, it surprised him how much emotion that single moment in time could elicit. His jaw muscles tensed until his teeth were on the verge of shattering, all because of her.

Had she shown patience, Marc would have made her his bride. While her family tree was free from blue blood, that did not prevent him from forging her legitimacy. She could have been the cousin of a distant baron, and no one would dare confirm the details. It would take no more than a couple of carefully placed bribes to make it happen…

“Head… hurts”, Marc whispered.

“Oh,” Emilie said. “I… Let me get you another pillow.”

As judged by the sound of wood sliding over the floor, Émilie must have gotten up from a chair. Where she normally wore a bustier, this morning it was just a slip. As Émilie headed towards the doors, she walked into the sunlight.

With the sun shining through the sheer material, showing him the outline of her exaggerated hourglass figure. He smiled at the sight of her, but that smile faded when she turned. Her normally flat tummy was rounder and enlarged.

It had been three months since he saw Emilie last. She had no clients, nor had they ever been intimate. So his mind took the path of least resistance. A bit of weight looks good on her…

“How did—” Marc asked.

His eyes were better able to focus on Émilie. He narrowed his faze on those dimples, her rosy cheeks, those blue eyes, and her welcoming lips. Had it not been a Herculean effort, he might have leaned forward for a kiss.

“He also said that several townspeople helped in getting you here safely,” Émilie added.

That was good news. While commendable, he would have been disappointed to hear that they left their posts to help him. He was just one man, and battles were a question of numbers…

“Head… hurts”, Marc whispered.