• Let death mock us all in our sitting thrones, and hell bestow upon us in the afterlives of tomorrow.

    "Reinforcements, militant weapons, tactical strategy-" Matthew's lips are pressed tight. The boy is paler than a ghost, a shade whiter than winter's snow. "The Rebellion stands naught a chance against the Empire."

    "Do not be ridiculous." His sister replies -oh, but he sees the depth of weariness and insecurity in her blue eyes- as she rolls up the scattered parchments littering the table. "Get some sleep, Matthew. Tomorrow will be a long day."

    "Sister-?"

    "Yes?"

    "Will we survive this war?"

    Francesca pauses. "I do not know, my dear boy. Only time can tell if our determination proves stronger than violence. We will fight against the imperialism of the Empire, regardless of the sacrifices we must make."

    (I have killed so much, injured so much and threw away so much that it doesn't even hurt anymore).

    "But the Federation-"

    "The Federation does not concern us anymore, brother!" Francesca snaps. "We are the Rebellion- outlaws; fugitives wanted by the government! With bounties worth millions on our head, Matthew! Grow up! An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!"

    All by the man whom I once loved and will continue to love.

    Dreams are different from reality, and reality hurts-

    Then, in a more controlled, but tighter voice. "Sleep, brother. Tomorrow, we march for freedom and independence"

    She blows the candle, and all is silence.

    ---


    Lord, save us. His people pray, with their mourning dark veils and rosaries that have rusted beyond despair. Save us from the madness that is the world! Save us!

    And he watches with cold eyes, with madness barely lurking on the surface and says, There is no God that can bring salvation in such times. The Empire must be brought to its knees before we can be saviors.

    No god, no god, no heaven, no Eden on earth, not the tales that I have dream of.

    "Arthur?"

    He blinks. Lights. Yes, lights. Fine eyes. Black hair. Who?

    "Arthur? Please, wake up."

    And said man does wake up. Francesca is bent over him, and he feels her chilled hand against his forehead. Cold. Yes. Reality. This is reality.

    Arthur glances around warily, seeing the candle which has been reduced to wax, the only light source being the paper lantern that the girl has set on his stand. His bed is rumpled as usual, and the blueprints, the abandoned strategies- they are piled high enough to rival a small mountain.

    "How long have I been asleep?"

    "I do not know." his subordinate confesses. "Perhaps an hour or so. You needed the rest, Arthur sir. The lack of sleep is not good for your health."

    He frowns; an hour- that long?. "I know, but I cannot leave this unsorted. Tomorrow-"

    "Is the deciding day, yes. But you must sleep too." she murmurs kindly, taking his hand into hers. He feels the roughness around the edge, from the months and years of wielding weapons unsuitable for a female. And Arthur feels sick to his gut, that he has brought such an innocent girl into battle, for dragging in civilians who had to fight for their food and water and their lives every single day-

    This is their choice, he reminds himself, this is what they wanted.

    I love Lance, Arthur recalls Francesca saying wistfully. I love him. But my loyalty lies with you. I will follow you to the ends of the earth.

    Foolish child.

    But then, he is a man of utter idiocy after all. A pot could not call the kettle black. His life and Francesca's- they were intertwined the moment he saw her by the station, reading Great Expectations. There is a bond there, Arthur knows. Not of love, but of devotion, of loyalty. Something that his foolish Emperor would never be able to understand.

    The Willow Wren by the river- the fleeting slivers of a moon by the lake- that is our history. That is the red string of fate that binds us.

    There is a tapping on the window and despite Arthur's jump, the girl only murmurs quietly as she opens the panes. "The falcon brings us news."

    "Good tidings, I hope."

    The bird perches on Francesca's arm and carries within its beak a small roll of paper. It is instantly removed and Arthur is scanning the contents, his eyebrows furrowed with wonder and scarcely-concealed excitement. He cannot even hear the messenger bird departing. "It is from Vashka."

    "Has he promised military aid?"

    "Yes, at Belwistck Hill. Should we be forced to retreat, the Kushakns will secure our safety. This is indeed beneficial to the Rebellion." A fleeting still, then, "But the Triad Union has yet to reply our request. What do they have to fear? They have already failed, thrice." He adds the last part bitterly, and a memory from the years he served the Empire, of him leading armies against the Union themselves is still crystal clear.

    "Trust takes time to breed." She says wisely. "They will know of your intentions. Of your wishes to make this world better and just. And the Empire will fall to their own treachery and corruption one day. Until then, we will wait. And we will fight."

    Will it truly fall? The Great Empire, ruler of the golden seas, the imperial monarchy that united the eighteen lands within a decade? Will it?

    -The seams are falling apart, the Emperor is withering and his sons, his sons are-

    Lance. Francesca's lover. The poor boy. Faithful to his royal blood, but with a heart that raged against the injustice condemning his people.

    Luther. A man made of ice and rock, a ruthless prince who had no qualms about his captives and his kills.

    Lexus. The youngest, and a fragile child, barely fifteen. And the unnamed stillborn, who's eyes were not blessed to see the rays of gold of the sun.

    It is the world that has gone mad, and to fix it, we must first fix ourselves. But can we fix something that was never broken in the first place? It just grew and grew until they were slithering vines and porches stained with a bloody history-

    And he feels nothing more but contempt.

    "We'll win this war." He says, "We will. For the sake of them all, we must."

    Francesca nods, "We will."

    It sounds hollow, empty and echoes of a broken promise to Arthur's ears.