From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe

I have never been a particularly capable fiction writer; my work has generally been in nonfiction and copywriting. I’ve always chosen to leave the fiction stuff up to more capable hands. At the same time, it has been increasingly difficult to roleplay my namesake, The Imperial. I feel as if I have characterized him into a dead end as the world weary old man still emotionally married to his deceased wife. Which is a shame, really, as I have become quite attached to the character over the past several years.

This is my attempt to kill two birds with one stone: the terrible & dread stone of fanfiction! Your comments and constructive criticism are definitely welcome and appreciated.

First Posted: 4 June 2007

Prologue

How the girls can turn to ghosts before your eyes And the very dreams that led to them are keeping them from dying And how the grace with which she walked into your life Will stay with you in your steps Pace with you a while So long, so long.

She was beautiful that day they met on the university campus in the fall of ‘33. The reds and the yellows of the turning trees framed her face with timeless grace the first time his eyes met hers, and he knew in that moment that she was the one would be one day be his wife.

She looked like Heaven.

The snow was falling softly in the winter of ’35 the day they wed. Everyone knew it was bad luck for the groom to see his bride before she was presented by her father, but that didn’t stop Alistair and his Ellie. She was radiant in a gown of white. It was as if she could have blended in with the snow that was accumulating on top of the hedges and trees of the park near the church. It was as if she could have just blended in and disappeared altogether: like an angel.

She tasted like Heaven.

The snow was falling softly again in the winter of ’49, and maybe that bad luck had caught up with the couple. The war had been won, and the world was safe again. The Imperial fought with valor and defended the helpless, always knowing there was one woman at home, praying and hoping and encouraging the man underneath the burgundy and gold costume. And yet, fourteen years, one month, and thirteen days after their wedding day, there the beloved wife laid racked with pain. She looked like an ethereal specter: gaunt and melancholy. She was as white as the snow again, but on this unfortunate occasion it was her ashen skin and not a wedding dress that matched the weather outside.

The cancer had spread; the doctors told him there was nothing more they could do. There was nothing the great and mighty Imperial could do to save the one he loved more than life itself. All the tears, all the prayers to God Almighty, all the bargains offered to more sinister powers: they all went forth in vain.

She would soon be in Heaven, and Alastair doubted if he would ever make it there to see her again.

Chapter I

Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it.

The incessant ticking of the grandfather clock and the intermittent shifting of an old, worn, grey haired man in a old, worn leather wingback chair were the only sounds heard in the master apartment of the Cromwell Estate. The chair, normally kept as part of a pair facing the double doors leading to the balcony, had been drug across the living room. Conspicuously in the way of anyone needing to walk anywhere in the room, it seemed to stand guard of the noticeably large photo on the wall three feet away from the chair and it’s occupant. And there, on that makeshift throne, a solitary king held court with fond memories for the third night in a row.

Slouching low in the chair with feet extended so far as to almost touch the wall, the muscular man held up his index and middle fingers to his temple as if to support his weary head. It made little sense, he knew, to stay up until the wee hours of the morning pondering the same question for hours on end. The facts were not going to change.

Ellie died fifty six years ago. Fifty seven when December came around. She has been dead four times longer than they were married. And yet, regardless of the facts, Alastair still couldn’t find the strength to let go. The monolithic photograph on the wall and ancient leather-bound scrapbook in his lap were testaments to that simple fact. He knew how utterly nonsensical the whole proposition must seem to the world around him. He knew, because the handful of friends he had left from so long ago were gracious enough to refuse to pull punches when Alistair slipped quietly into one of his somber moods. His bouts with melancholy and self-doubt would arrive surreptitiously with increasing frequency as the years progressed. They would come, and they would go with the reliability of the ocean tides.

It’s just that this somber mood came in with the tides four years ago and never left. It just kept rising.

Four floors below, in the highly guarded security rooms of the second basement, the various pairs of shirts and trousers from the iconic burgundy and gold costume were all neatly folded in two drawers. The boots were there, too, all collecting dust. The Sceptre of Kings, so symbolic of the man himself, laid gently in its case next to the massive set of shoulder armor known as St. Michael’s Golden Paldrons. All the accoutrements of his crimefighting career hadn’t been touched in months; the brightly colored costume was traded in for a bespoke suit and tie when he was asked to appear at various governmental and multinational events.

Back on the third floor, the first rays of sunlight began streaming over the rooftops of Founder’s Falls. Shafts of light poked through the windows, dotting the room with radiance. Alastair closed the old scrapbook and placed it down on the hardwood floor next to the chair. Leaning forward in his seat, he looked again up at the old photograph of his dear Eleanor.

Taken during their European honeymoon, Alastair had managed to capture her right before the newlywed couple went out to dine and dance for the evening. She was positively the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her slim evening gown almost matched her raven hair. The velvet shawl protected slender shoulders. A string of pearls ringing her neck almost matched the shining look of surprise in her large doe’s eyes. She wasn’t expecting him to take the picture, and the vulnerability showed. She was always the strong one of the pair: quiet and resilient yet shyly feminine all at once. Publicly stoic, it was her heart that had overtaken him in more private moments.

For all their fourteen years together, it was that single, quickly taken photograph of his bride that remained his favorite.

The morning sun had had finally made its appearance in the still dim sky, cutting through the haze of the early fog and illuminating the apartment. Smiling slightly, the old man rose from the chair and paused at the photograph. He traced the knobby surface of the picture frame, and all at once - all over again - he was overcome with curiously conflicting states of deep love and painful loss.

“Goodnight, Ellie,” muttered the dejected old man as he turned out of the light and left the room.