NationStates Jolt Archive

I. The Priest

Over the ruins of Generia City, the once proud capital of the Empire, the smoke blotted out the sun. Flocks of birds circled the silent scar, directionless in the dark. In this void, dark as before the Almighty tamed the chaos, Time had come full circle. The wilderness of Generia had reclaimed what was rightfully hers, and the men and women below dwelt reverently in her shadow, giving in to the instincts that God had created in them and which Nature had beckoned that they unleash.

The Priest was Zinova, and in his frail body he carried the fire of the old traditions. Years later, those that knew him would say that wherever he walked in this dark time, it was as if from his eyes something immortal and supernatural illuminated everything before him and that those they followed his path breathed not dust and smoke, but the sweet aroma of flowers and perfume; that his worn shoes stepped not on broken concrete, but were carried by a divine wind; that a profound good in his soul stilled the violence that was so profound in men at this time and that women who had been corrupt and given to vice fell to their knees and wept before him, kissing the hem of his cassock.

Now, the Priest stepped into the Void; that writhing chaos so much like a beheaded snake. He kept his head bowed, breathing slowly, whispering to God not a prayer, but a promise. He swore that he would not flee from this place until his task had been completed, and that if it was God’s will that he fail he would make a tomb for himself out of the rubble and ruin that now engulfed him.

As he walked down the streets, deserted in the shadow of broken electric lights and cratered from the catastrophe of the war, few watched him from their dirty, broken windows. It was far past the point when it was safe to ask a man his business in this place. The Priest was as invisible to them as they were to each other.

He sought out the last remaining sanctuary within the ruined city; an Orthodox Church he had heard about when he was in the southern expanses. An honest man, a brother of the Order of Mercy, had kept it running throughout the period of chaos following the war. After his death, for he was an old man, his disciples had taken over. They served the needs of the impoverished, the weak, the sick, the hungry people who were without protection and therefore at the mercy of bandits, gangsters, and agents of the state that squabbled over the ruins and oppressed anyone who was not one of them.

The Church was a large, dilapidated cathedral; a relic of the 16th century that had withstood every crisis since the founding of Alexei’s Imperium all the way through to its fall into chaos. It dominated an old square in the middle of the city. Strangely, despite its decrepit appearance, while all the rest of the broken concrete jungle melted away, this place bloomed. Where the streets had been torn up, gardens had been planted, tended by Orthodox monks and grateful citizens. Under the shadows of the smoke and the acid rain, the sanctuary was a beacon of light. Those who dwelt there believed it was a living miracle.

The Priest kept his head bowed as he emerged into the square, not looking up at the rising buttresses or the dirty stained glass windows. Still, he felt the warmth rising from this place, and his stoic heart lifted a little. He smiled under the veil that hid his face.

The monks in the gardens and the common people taking refuge here looked up as the strange man in the dirty white robe emerged, walking steadfastly towards the great door of the sanctuary. They felt something stirring in their breasts, but it was not the fear that often accompanied the arrival of a stranger to this place. They might even have been as bold as to call it hope.

He stepped into the cool, clean air of the sanctuary. On the pews, men and women were sleeping, allowing themselves to slip into blissful oblivion, freedom from the darkness around them. A brother tending to a sick woman in front of the altar looked up, hearing footsteps echoing in the peaceful stillness of the sanctuary. His eyes widened, and he immediately left his charge, retreating back into one of the alcoves where another, older monk was knelt in prayer. He waited, unwilling to disturb his master while he communed with God.

The Priest meanwhile did not halt but approached the sick woman. Here eyes were closed, and her face was contorted in an expression of pain. She was young, though her once beautiful face was worn with years of suffering. Slowly, she opened her eyes as the Priest approached. Her lids forced themselves open, against the pain, and recognition dawned upon her. She whispered a prayer, struck with disbelief. Against all of the pain that racked her fragile form, she sat up, and then fell on her knees, grabbing the hem of the holy man’s robe. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her mouth moved in prayer, though her hoarse throat allowed no words to emerge. The Priest smiled, his face hidden, and he knelt down, taking her hands. The pain on her face seemed to disappear, and her mouth stilled. He placed a hand on her forehead, and whispered something, so that only she could hear even in the chamber where the slightest breath echoed. He helped her lie down once again, and her eyes closed as she slipped into peaceful sleep.

As he rose, he turned to see the wizened old face of the Elder, whom the young monk had not wanted to disturb from his prayers. The young monk stood beside him, aghast at the miracle he believed he had just witness. The Elder stepped forward, his face stern.

“Our brother here has been tending to that woman for nearly a year now, and he has yet to see her sleep peacefully, free from the agony that racks her body. If you have brought peace to her slumber, then there is only one person whom you can be.”

“It truly is him, father,” the monk spoke softly, still in awe. Zinova, the Priest, was wordless. The Elder nodded, confirmed in his suspicion.

“Come, Elder Zinova. I have heard that you were coming, and now that you are here, we must speak in private.”

The elder beckoned the Priest to follow, and the two walked off, behind the altar and down into the lower chambers of the sanctuary, where the private hermitage of the Elder was found. The Elder closed the door behind them.

“So, you have come at last.” There was a note of disbelief in his voice. The Priest walked over to the far wall, his back to the Elder.

“In the south, they spoke of a sanctuary here, talking in low tones of a few good men left in this place of corruption; men who still remembered the old traditions that lingered through the last century and finally seemed to die during the Last War…”

The Elder nodded grimly.

“You have found a sanctuary, though sometimes I wonder if it’s worthy of what people say of it. We help who we can, but I fear it’s not enough. This city is a festering wound, and someday the infection will spread here too.”

The Priest turned towards the Elder.

“I sense you are a man of strong faith, and I wonder why you speak these words now, friend.”

The Elder sighed. He walked over to an old leather chair against the wall and sat down, beckoning the Priest to sit as well. He complied.

“I have faith in God, yes, and in his goodness, and in his justice. This compels me to question whether it is not his will that this place will destroy itself, and whether our work merely prolongs the Lord’s inevitable vengeance for the evils committed by the Generian people.”

The Priest was silent for a long time. Suddenly he raised his hands to the veil that covered his face, and lifted it, revealing to the Elder an old face, ravaged horribly by a rare dermatological illness. The Elder, who had never seen this man, tried to contain his shock at the sight. The Priest smiled, watching him, and ran his hands over his own scars.

“I wonder sometimes why the Lord saw fit to defile my face so, and yet never granted me the peace and joy that comes with bearing the pain of Stigmata,” he said, whimsically.

He set his veil aside as the Elder rose to pour two cups of coffee. The Priest took his and sipped it pensively.

“You seem to have heard of my coming, but no doubt you wonder why.”

“The question has crossed my mind, I admit.”

The Priest nodded wisely.

“The Lord has given me a task, friend. God has brought me here, to this hive of greed and corruption. His ways are mysterious, and I have never allowed myself to question him. He has commanded me, and I have obeyed. I have promised to him that I will fulfill his command or die here, in deference to him.”

“If I may ask, reverent father, what has he commanded you to do?”

The Priest rose, and paced the floor, sipping his coffee.

“Simply, he has told me to build his temple here, in this place. It is here, he has made known to me, that the resurrection of the Faith will occur. He will reclaim this city through me, through his Church.”

The Elder watched him quizzically.

“To what end?”

“God seems always to have held a place in his all knowing, all loving heart for this country. He has blessed it with great power, and now, in the wake of the last conflict, he has stripped it away. Generia is ruined. Her last Godly Emperor is dying, as you know, and with him will die the old traditions, given over to the dark hearts of dark men.”

“But what can we do to stop it, brother?” exclaimed the Elder, exasperated. “The Empire is dying. Is it not God’s will? His punishment for our people’s falling away from the faith?”

“Perhaps, but is it not also his will that the few virtuous men left should fight with all their strength in His Name to prevent that?”

The Elder nodded, though his expression was one of sadness.

“I fear we fight a futile battle, though perhaps with one such as yourself, we will stand a chance.”

His tone changed, and his eyes took on a far away look.

“The apocryphal texts of the last century spoke of a man, a good man of the cloth who would come one day when things looked bleakest to revive the Church, and thus the Empire itself. Perhaps you are him…”

The Priest was quiet for a moment.

“I know only what God has commanded me to do, no more no less. I know what people say of me. They say that I am close to Christ, that I will save them in His name; that I can bring us out of this dark time. Of these things, I am unsure, but I know that I will try to do as the Lord has asked.”

“It is more than many would do,” replied the Elder. “If God has truly spoken to you, as I believe he has, then I will do everything I can to help you. God has brought you to me, and this Sanctuary will serve you.”

The Priest’s aged mouth smiled kindly.

“For that, I thank you. I know you have great faith. Men such as yourself and those of your Order are exactly what this city, what this country needs now, in its darkest hour.”

“Then go to your work. Command me, and I will obey.”

Both men rose. The Priest set aside his cup.

“Come, I will acquaint you with the sanctuary.”

The two left the chamber.

ooc: simply outstanding writing. keep it up.....

II. The King

For all of the darkness that had taken hold in the north, the fields around Sofia, the ancient southern capital of Generia, were still green in the warmth of Indian summer. The sun shone brightly on the River Aljoja, emerged from the mountains to the northwest and now beginning its lazy run down the southern flatlands, all the way to Port Belgrade and the sea. Cargo vessels that enjoyed the river’s width and depth were steaming into the port district of the old city, where warehouses stood in the shadow of factories, belching smoke in productive defiance of the destitution of the north.

Behind the industrial quarter lay the midtown sector where the old European facades of apartment complexes and office buildings gave way to hundreds of feet of sparkling windows, from where tenants could glimpse the parks of the inner city, and catch the sun glinting on the golden spires of Kazatmiru’s Imperial Palace, which sprawled for city blocks in every direction, dwarfing the other less ostentatious government buildings.

It was all a remarkable façade, the death mask on the Imperial sarcophagus. The walls of the Imperial palace still reflected the brilliance of past splendor, but inside, the skeleton was rotten. One could smell the corruption seeping from the heart of this city. If the smoking ruins of the northern capital were not preferable to the hypocritical grandeur of Sofia, then at least they were honest.

And in the heart of this monument to all things brazen and pretentious lay a dying man. The Emperor Kazatmiru, old at 56 from the many years of holding together an old, multi-ethnic, and historically violent empire in spite of itself, was finally succumbing to the twin wills of God and Nature. His face was lined and his heart was failing, and in his eyes it was evident that the fire that had kept him going strong in the face of so many crises was going out. He had not risen from his bed in two days, and had admitted few visitors, embarrassed by his sickly state and not wanting his subjects to lose heart in what he knew as well as anyone was a very dark time.

He sat with his second son, Prince Nikolai, in the quiet peace of the mid afternoon sun which came in through the large open window beside a warm breeze.

“Has your brother received the sacrament of repentance yet?” came the emperor’s voice, still strong despite his apparent physical weakness.

“He continues to refuse, father, despite our pleas,” came the prince’s scornful response.

“You have asked him personally, as his brother?”

“He treated me to another one of his diatribes against the Church. He called it a ‘decrepit tribute to ancient barbarism,’ if I recall properly.”

“It doesn’t sound unlike him,” sighed the emperor.

“It’s embarrassing, and yet the people seem to eat it up. There’s talk, you know. Some of the liberals have started to get together in secret. They’re expecting reforms if, when, Ivan takes over.”

One of the emperor’s oldest servants who stood now in attendance by the door shot the Prince an acidic look. The old woman had berated him before about bringing up the possibility of death in his father’s presence, but the Prince simply returned a look of equal scorn. He had never been one to hide his opinions, especially not when he knew they could be useful to his father. A naturally astute politician, the Prince had seen at a young age how many people did not care the slightest about the Emperor’s wellbeing, and only sought to control him. Hence, he had decided to speak nothing but the raw truth in his father’s presence, which was an occasional cause of discomfort for other advisors, but which Kazatmiru had always appreciated, though without any special praise for his son.

Now, the Prince continued:

“I can’t understand why you continue to let him rule in your stead.”

Kazatmiru’s expression darkened. He detested comments such as these, which displayed the tension between his first and second sons that he had always tried to combat. It was the duty of all second princes to serve the firstborn, whose birthright was the kingdom. While the Emperor could conceivably strip the eldest of his right to the throne, to do so was highly uncommon and raised irreconcilable questions about the stability of the Royal House. To be fair, Ivan had not turned out as his father had hoped. He was brash, drunk with the prospects of his inheritance. He cloaked himself in the rhetoric of the old liberals, preaching reform under his father’s nose while the Emperor was still quite well and able. Still, though he cloaked himself in the guise of a great future reformer, the man was a dilettante, and in person an arrogant cad. His brother Nikolai hated him, and tried to instill it in the youngest of Kazatmiru’s sons, the teenage Alexei. The youngest though was not one to harbor harsh emotions, still very young and naïve about the politics of his own family. In truth, he was usually more concerned with his horses than he was with his brothers, or they’re seemingly petty feud.

The Emperor’s brief moment of anguish at his son’s words pass, giving way to a comforting look.

“I know how you feel about your brother. You haven’t hidden it from me,” he added, humorously. “But you can’t overlook your duties as my son and his brother. The Empire needs you to adhere to your role in this way as much as it needs me to adhere to mine and Ivan to his.”

“The Empire is breaking apart under your nose, father, and he hopes only to hasten its demise!” replied the Prince, exasperated.

“Calm, Kolya,” the Emperor said, raising his hand for peace. He let it fall on his son’s shoulder, looking at him kindly. “I don’t ignore your council. I never have. You know this.”

The Prince nodded grudgingly as the Emperor continued:

“You have to be patient. Your brother has been groomed for politics from a young age. He speaks with the fire of youth, but its just rhetoric. He has his flaws, as do all men, but it doesn’t discredit him as a leader. He is the Prince Regent, yes, but I’m not dead yet. Consider it another stage of his tutelage, and stop worrying about it.”

Nikolai listened, and tried to calm his desperate heart. The King continued, in a softer tone.

“I am dying, Kolya. The last thing I want is to leave this world with my sons at each other’s throat. For my sake at least, reconcile your differences before that hour. For my sake,” he repeated, looking earnestly into his sons eyes. Nikolai nodded, though his eyes still showed signs of a troubled heart.

“Promise me?”

“Yes. I promise.”

The Emperor smiled a tired smile, and took his hand from his son’s shoulder.

“Go and see your brother Alexei. I worry he’s not keeping up with his studies.”

Nikolai smiled.

“No, he’s not. He spends all day fencing with the Praetorians. He wants to be a warrior.”

The Emperor laughed.

“Go see him. Try to instill some of your scholarly virtues in him.”

“I’ll try, but I doubt I’ll succeed. He’s as young and reckless as I was.”

“God forbid!” said the King, laughing. Nikolai rose, and kissed his father’s hand. The King closed his eyes as his son exited the room. He tried to fight off the troubling words that had been spoken, and his own doubts that his son never ceased to raise when he visited.

“Will he never stop bothering a sick man?” said the servant Grusha as she walked over to wipe the Emperor’s forehead with a damp cloth.

“I fear he won’t, Grusha. Still, he doesn’t do it out of malice. He’s a good son. A good man. If only…”

The King stopped himself.

III. The Good Son

Nikolai was still troubled as he stepped out of the Emperor’s bedchamber into the corridor. His father was weak in body, this was true, but his mind seemed sound. Why was it then that he was so willing to overlook in his brother flaws that had led him to denounce his own family, and more importantly to denounce the institution his family had served for generations?

Pausing pensively in front of one of the many huge windows that overlooked the courtyard, his thoughts turned to Alexei. His younger brother was a curious young man. As mentioned, he managed to remove himself from the politicking that so consumed his brothers, and while introverted, he was not daft as some had speculated in his earlier years. He was intelligent, but a poor student, always distracted by some distant thought. He was interested in one thing, so it seemed: horses. He spent every spare moment in his father’s stables. Some speculated that he would be happier living the leisurely life of a wealthy breeder, rather than being given some bureaucratic sinecure of the variety that most young princes longed for.

Nikolai’s thoughts were distracted as a particularly lovely young woman crossed his eye in the courtyard below. She walked slowly, enjoying the warm late summer sun. The girl, Katerina Ivanovna, was the daughter of one of the Emperor’s economic advisors, from an old and respectable central Generian family. Her skin was pale, in appealing contrast to her jet black hair, and her figure was the slight, slender sort that the Generians particularly enjoyed.
Nikolai knew her, but not particularly well. He admired her for her beauty, but knew little of her besides. This, however, was his wont. Rarely did he dig below a woman’s appearance, by his own choice, fearing that undoubtedly he would uncover something ugly and thus spoil the girl in his eyes. He was a sensualist, and consequently a somewhat notorious womanizer.

Placing aside darker reflections, the Prince descended to the courtyard, approaching the young girl with a smile.

“Katerina Ivanovna, I haven’t seen you here in months.”

She turned from where she had been curiously admiring an old statue.

“My father is here on business. Tying up some of your father’s affairs,” she said, politely. Her face, however, suddenly took on a downcast appearance. “To be completely honest, though, I had hoped to see your brother, but he’s unwilling to meet me.”

Nikolai laughed coldly.

“Well, Ivan’s a busy man,” he said spitefully. “Perhaps you’d dine with me instead, if he won’t see you?”

“Actually, I was talking about your other brother,” she said distractedly, ignoring the Prince’s invitation, which put him off a bit, though he didn’t show it.

“Alyosha?” The Prince laughed. “He never meets women. I think they frighten him more than anything else.”

“It’s such a shame,” said Katerina, still downcast. “I’ve written him before, and he neglected to reply. I had hoped perhaps he’d prefer to see me in person.”

“Is that why you came with your father?”

“Partially,” confessed the girl, obviously embarrassed. “I’m sorry; this must be boring you, pouring my problems on you. It’s all nothing to worry about,” she said, adopting a false cheerfulness that obviously wouldn’t have been genuine even in the best of circumstances. Nikolai, however, had already grown tired of her. A girl, lovesick over his shy brother was a hopeless case and not worth his time.

“Were you going somewhere,” she asked, her distractedness melting away. She seemed to really notice Nikolai for the first time.

“As a matter of fact I was. I’ll have to take leave,” he said curtly.

“Oh, hopefully I’ll see you before I leave.”

“Hopefully, yes. I’ll send your regards to my brother.”

With a slight bow, he was off. The girl watched after him, contemplating him before slipping back into her daydreams. For his part, Nikolai’s thoughts moved away from her, back to his younger brother. As he had mentioned to Katerina Ivanovna, Alexei didn’t even seem to share his brother Nikolai’s passion for women, which the older one had developed acutely at his younger brother’s age. In fact, Alexei at 17 was still quite shy. It concerned Nikolai, who saw it as a vulnerability that could be exploited, possibly by Ivan, the older brother whom Nikolai knew as a master manipulator. As of yet, however, Alexei had rejected attempts by both of his brothers to turn him against the other. He harbored no ill will at all against either, it seemed.

Nikolai exited the courtyard, and walked through the massive complex that surrounded the Emperor’s residence itself. He was heading for the stables, where he knew he’d find his brother. Sure enough, as he approached, he caught sight of his brother, watching one of the emperor’s new stallions. Nikolai walked up to him and patted his younger brother on the back. Alexei turned, at first surprised but then taking on his usual good natured look.

“Shouldn’t you be studying, Lyosha?”

Alexei laughed at the notion.

“I’ve got better things to do.”

“Apparently. That’s what you told Katerina Ivanovna, or so she tells me,” said Nikolai, smiling. Alexei looked embarrassed.

“The breeder needed me here, to...look after-“

Nikolai raised his hand and chuckled. His expression soon turned dark, however.

“I’ve just come from our father. He isn’t well.”

Alexei nodded, his eyes turned to the ground.

“I saw him yesterday, with Ivan.”

“Ah?” Nikolai was disturbed. He didn’t know Ivan had been to see his younger brother recently.

“Did Ivan bring you?”

“Yes. He said we should spend as much of our time with father as possible these days, while he’s still able.”

Nikolai contemplated this. It was unlike his older brother to take a sudden interest in his family. He had imagined that Ivan would simply let Kazatmiru linger and die without visiting him until the last moments, when it was his duty to be there.

“What did father say?”

“He reprimanded Ivan for not attending confession. Ivan tells me it’s a lot of boring drivel though, religion that is.”

Nikolai’s expression turned stern.

“Don’t take everything your brother says to heart.”

“That’s what Ivan tells me,” smiled the young Prince with mischievous eyes. Nikolai allowed himself a scornful chuckle.

“What you have to understand about Ivan is that he has an agenda. He’s a single minded man, and he’s not afraid of using people to get what he wants.”

Alexei’s expression was immediately uninterested. He had heard the same speeches from both brothers countless times. Nikolai picked up on this. Though it frustrated him that he couldn’t make his brother understand where he was coming from at times, part of him wanted to trust the boy to make his own decisions. He was smart and though he was young, he would learn through experience. Nikolai, after all, was the same way; never one to take anyone’s advice. Sympathetically he changed the subject.

“Katerina was distressed that you wouldn’t see her. You’re a cruel man, my young Alexei.”

“She’s too old for me.”

To be fair, she was closer to Nikolai’s age, at 19 years.

“An older woman’s not such a bad thing,” said the smiling Nikolai. “She said she’s written you.”

“I got a letter from her a week ago. She mentioned she was coming up and wanted to…see me.” Alexei, suddenly exasperated turned earnestly towards his brother. “Why can’t you take her out? Keep her away from me?”

Nikolai laughed again. “She’s your problem.”

Nikolai checked his watch. He remembered he’d promised to meet a young woman of his own, one of his various liaisons.

“Go home and study,” he said, grabbing his brother affectionately by the shoulder, before turning and walking off in the direction of the Imperial residence.

OOC: Sorry to butt in, but GE! Long time no see!

IV. The Prince Regent

Ivan reclined on one of the several luxurious sofas that filled his parlor, smoke trailing from a cigarette he clasped between his fingers. Several other men and women surrounded him in the room, mostly Generian nouveau-riche from the liberal intellectual circles, but a few foreign dignitaries as well. Servants roamed the room, bringing food, champagne, and the best Generian Black Death Vodka (a favorite of the Imperial Royal Family since the Emperor Antonius bought the original distillery 50 years ago).

“Well, certainly even you can agree, your Excellency, that your father’s policies marked him forever as a Stone Age warrior,” said one gray-haired gentlemen who sat by the door, sampling some caviar.

“Jesus, Tihomir, you talk about him like he’s already dead!” was the response of another man.

“He’s certainly not actively ruling the country. He may not be dead, but he might as well be,” replied the first gentleman. This statement caused an obvious uproar among the Prince’s guests, who saw the obvious faux pas in insulting their host’s father in his presence. Ivan, however, smiled and responded calmly.

“It’s quite alright. The man’s right. My father hasn’t been more than a figurehead for some time. Even when his health wasn’t in such an active state of decline, he decided it was in the country’s best interests to name me Prince Regent. This you all know of course,” the Prince said, trailing off.

What he said was only partially true. While his father had named him Prince Regent, Ivan had had little to do with actively managing the country’s affairs, and in fact it was he who was more of a figurehead than the ailing Emperor.

“But do you agree, your Excellency,” insisted the man called Tihomir, “that your father’s policies were, to put it mildly, antiquated.”

The Prince reclined even further, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“My Father was under the spell of his Dynasty, I fear. He wanted so much to follow in the footsteps of Alexei and Antonius that he clung for dear life onto traditions, such as the guaranteed independence of the Church. I fear he was blinded by his advisors, and by the Patriarchs.”

“So you think the Church should be made subservient to the Crown?” asked another man.

“Isn’t that how it was originally intended? It wasn’t until the reign of Alexei, the bloodthirsty tyrant and my great-grandfather (most unfortunately so), that the Generian Orthodox Church was given a Patriarch who wasn’t the Emperor himself. This, only because Alexei was too busy warring and terrorizing the world to care much about religion. Still, so often in this country do we neglect history to maintain our precious illusions.”

The Prince’s guests nodded and murmured their agreement. Suddenly, there was a knock on the doors to the Salon.

“Enter!” said the Prince. The doors swung open and a very tall, imposing man of at least 60 stepped in. His hair was stark white, and though his face was wrinkled, his imposing features and stabbing grey eyes revealed great vigor. The man was Obrad Kasotkin, one of the Emperor’s oldest economic advisors and a respected columnist for one of the state’s private economic journals. He was an occasional guest at the Crown Prince’s salons, and many suspected he was a liberal, though his tenured position in the Imperial Government meant that he was often loathe to share his views in a setting so rife with gossips. He was also the father of Katerina Ivanovna.

The Prince rose into a sitting position, smiling. His languid demeanor had subtly changed, and the sharp eyes set in his round face now studied the new arrival intently.

“Ah, Obrad Kasotkin. Please, come in!”

Kasotkin returned the Prince’s smile, and bowed slightly at the waist in acknowledgement. He had a patronizing air about him as he sat down and regarded the others.

“We were discussing my father,” said the Prince, still smiling.

“Were you now?” replied Obrad Kasotkin “A great man, though I’m afraid he won’t be with us much longer.”

“A ‘great man’ indeed,” scoffed Tihomir. “A relic!”

Obrad turned in his seat, studying him. Tihomir became visibly uncomfortable under the man’s sharp gaze, despite the smile on his face.

“I confess he’s done his share,” quietly continued Tihomir, trying to console the newcomer, whom he thought was upset with the insult to his employer.

“No, no, you’re quite right. I’ve always suspected that His Highness was a bit intoxicated by the image of his predecessors,” said Obrad. Tihomir lit up, reassured.

“Exactly as I was saying!”

Obrad glanced over at Ivan, who had been watching him the entire time Tihomir was speaking. The conversation continued for a few more minutes without input from either Obrad or the Prince. As it began to die down, Ivan rose suddenly from his couch.

“Gentlemen, I’m sorry to say it, but I’m going to have to take leave of you. I have some pressing business that needs attending to before it gets much later.”

Ivan bowed, smiling as his guests rose, bowed in turn, and left the parlor. All but one, however. Obrad Kasotkin remained seated.

“What it you’ve come for,” said the Prince, turning. His indulgent demeanor was all but gone, and now he had suspicion written all over his face. For his part, Obrad was still smiling patronizingly at the Prince.

“I was visiting your father,” he said.

“Business?”

“Taking care of the affairs you seem inclined to neglect.”

The Prince was visibly indignant. Obrad continued:

“Specifically, I brought him a report concerning the newest economic statistics for the Northern provinces. Tell me, are you aware of the drop in grain production in Alberia?”

“Alberia doesn’t produce grain,” replied the Prince. Obrad laughed at this.

“You see, it’s good Kazatmiru’s still alive. If he wasn’t, you’d be in charge and you’d therefore have no time for my wit and sarcasm.”

“Get to the point,” said Ivan taking a step towards Obrad. The economist in turn rose and paced over to the window.

“If we’re going to be honest, though, my visit to Sofia wasn’t entirely about your father,” he said, turning once again to face Ivan. The Prince was silent, waiting for the man to stop dancing around the issue.

“No, in fact, I was even more concerned with seeing you.”

Ivan was obviously getting angry with the way the man was toying with him.

“What more do you want with me, Obrad,” he spit. “You told me last time that it was all you could want to keep away from me for good.”

“Perhaps I’ve had a change of heart.”

He approached the Prince.

“You see, I’ve considered your situation, and decided that maybe you’re a bit misguided. You need a mentor. Someone who didn’t grow up suckling at the breast of the Royal Family. Somebody a bit more like me and less like, say, the Emperor.”

“You said you had finished with me, Kasotkin. After our deal, you said you were finished, and you’d let me be,” the Prince nearly shouted.

“Did I? It must have been a grave mistake. You see, people like you are dangerous when left to their own devices. Who knows? One minute they might be attending to their dying father’s last wishes, and the next they could be back in Alberia, siphoning money from the Imperial treasury into the fat bank accounts of rebel warlords.”

Kasotkin spit the last bit out like it was a piece of rotten meat. Ivan lunged at the man, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. Despite appearances, the Prince was quite strong, and the old man was lifted clear off his feet, and felt his back slam against the wall.

“You filthy bastard! That was your money! That warlord was your man! You despicable fucking snake! You come here, spewing lies about freedom and human rights, and tell me about your fucking little peon, that dirty sweat-sucking son of a bitch! Tell me he’s loyal to my father; a loyal reformer; a loyal liberal reformer! He killed them all, you fucker! You blackmailing fucker!”

The Prince slowly lost his grip and the old man fell to the ground, terror in his eyes fading to delight at Ivan’s rage. He leapt up and got in his face once more.

“You made the decision to arm him. Your guns killed your countrymen! You’re a traitor, Ivan!”

Tears of rage were welling in the Prince’s eyes. He slapped Obrad with the back of his hand. The economist spit back in his face.

“Watch yourself! Your life is in my hands! I could write the whole story tomorrow! I could sell you out to your father, or to your brother. He’d pay a million Genera to have you dragged through the mud.”

A sick smile crossed Obrad’s face.

Ivan turned, fuming, but desperately trying to calm himself. He walked over and collapsed onto one of the coaches. Obrad slowly walked over and placed a spidery hand on his shoulder.

“But I can help you. I’m the only one that can help you. All you have to do is listen, your Excellency. Just listen to me for a few moments, and I can help you. Your mistakes will disappear.”

Ivan felt the hand tightening on his shoulder.

“What is it you want,” he said flatly.

“The same thing you want, your Excellency: change. You’re a reformer at heart, and so am I. We have that in common. Be glad you’ve found an ally like me!”

Ivan laughed without humor.

“We’ll start small. The Church. It’s time for you to exercise your new powers as Prince Regent.”

Ivan shook off the man’s hand and got to his feet, keeping his back to Obrad.

“Get out.”

Obrad smiled.

“You’ll find a letter with my full proposal included. I beg you’ll consider it.”

He walked out of the room, slamming the doors. Ivan spit on the floor and collapsed, feeling utterly helpless and alone.

V. The Novice

It was raining in Generia City, a torrent the likes of which the place hadn’t had in several weeks. Soot ran from the faces of the ruined buildings, blackening the water as it flooded down into the storm drains. Likewise, the dirt was washed from the great stained glass window of the Sanctuary the hundreds of candles burning inside lit the window like a multicolored beacon.

A young monk stepped in through the heavy wooden doors, glad for the warmth. He pulled back his dripping hood, revealing a handsome though somewhat gaunt face. Inside, his eyes fell upon the scores of people sitting or lying in the pews, taking refuge from the rain. The past few days had seen a swell in the number of the Sanctuary’s residents, as word spread that a great healer and holy man had come from afar. Both the needy and the curious, as well as the skeptics had joined the impromptu pilgrimage to the Church. In a place that was nearly devoid of hope, such an arrival was rare, and something to be witnessed.

The young monk, whose name was Fyodor, was the same young monk who had informed the Elder of the great holy man’s arrival. As it was, he was still a Novice. Despite this, however, he was a favorite of the Elder, who treated him like a son. This novice was a kindhearted young man, though growing up in a ruined city had hardened him in his earlier youth and made him skeptical of the miraculous. He had not rejoiced in the Priest Zinova’s coming, and instead it caused him many sleepless nights as he wondered what indeed the man was up to.

In the days since his arrival, the Priest had moved about the Sanctuary unhindered, the brothers having been given orders by their Elder to allow him to come and go freely and to give him any aid he requested. None of them were quite sure what he was up to, and he spoke to few of them save the Elder. He never removed his veil, adding to the enigmatic air that surrounded him. A note of tension had even developed in the behaviors of Fyodor’s companions, though they did not speak of the Priest or his business.

Now, as he walked towards the altar, he was approached by a monk who was only a few years older than him, and who Fyodor considered a close friend.

“Fedya,” he said, “the Elder has asked for you.”

“What for,” replied Fyodor, confused by the request, as it was unusual for the Elder to see anyone, even those closest to him on days such as today when he fasted.

“He did not say; only that you should go to him as soon as you returned.”

Shrugging, Fyodor nodded, and left in the direction of his elder’s chamber. He knocked softly on the door, and the Elder’s voice boomed:

“Enter.”

He did, and was surprised to see the Elder seated with the Priest, Zinova. The Priest was unveiled and in the dim light, it was hard to see the marks of his disfigurement, though Fyodor noticed shortly after he stepped inside, and recoiled a bit.

Zinova merely smiled.

“Don’t be frightened by my face, my son,” he said, in a powerful, though kindly voice.

Fyodor bowed in his direction and then turned to the Elder, hiding his discomfort.

“You sent for me, father?”

“I did. Please, sit down,” he said warmly. Fyodor took a seat across from the two men.

“Father Zinova has actually requested your presence, my son.”

Zinova nodded.

“Your Elder has spoken to me at length about you. He tells me you are a man of great piety, though he senses that you are restless here at the Sanctuary.”

The Novice was taken aback.

“Why do you say this, father,” he said, directing his question at his Elder.

“It’s apparent, my son, in the way you move about. I do not question your commitment to me, or the brotherhood, or those who seek shelter here, but I wonder often if you were not driven here by the world, rather than guided by your own heart.”

The Priest nodded.

“Perhaps in this way you share more with those whom you tend to, the refugees from this great ruin.”

Fyodor wanted to object. He had been here for nearly a year and had taken on the robes of a Novice of his own accord, or so he thought. Still, he held his tongue, and tried to ponder his superiors’ assertion.

“You disagree, my son,” said the Priest. “Of course you will. Still, you can’t deny what your heart already speaks. It is for this reason that I have selected you.”

“Selected me? For what?” said Fyodor.

“I have an errand that must be tended to immediately. It is a most sensitive mission; one only for someone completely committed to this Sanctuary. You must have asked yourself why I came here?”

Fyodor nodded.

“I have wondered, though I have Faith that it was God that brought you.”

Zinova nodded and smiled knowingly.

“You speak like a monk, though perhaps you don’t believe your own words? No matter. I will reveal the truth to you, my son. You will be the second person to know, besides your Elder. God has indeed sent me. This is true. He has sent me to this very sanctuary to rebuild his Church in Generia. He has sent me to save the dying soul of this Empire.”

Fyodor was taken aback by the Priest’s great words.

“But, how? Why here? What do you intend to do?”

“In time, you will see. Your Elder has asked me the same questions, and to him I have given the same response. In this matter, both the head of the Order and it’s youngest initiate are equal. You do, however, have a role to play in this matter, and it is with this that you must concern yourself. I am sending you south, to Sofia, away from the sanctuary that has been your home.”

The Novice started.

“Away from here? Why?”

He looked to the Elder for guidance. The old man merely smiled.

“Father Zinova has chosen you out of many to aid him, my son. You must do everything in your power, as I have commanded you.”

The Priest nodded his withered head.

“Why Sofia?” demanded Fyodor. He had heard of the city, though never been. It was spoken of with great disdain here in the sanctuary; considered a great hive of corruption and godlessness where even the purest could be quickly led astray.

“There are great things brewing there. Great and terrible things. You must be my agent, and an agent of God in that den of iniquity. There is a Church there where a good man still dwells, keeping a sanctuary much like this one. He is wise and he is loyal to me. He believes in my cause and has great faith in the goodness of God. You must seek him out and do as he commands. I will tell him you are coming.”

Fyodor was silent, his face glum. He felt a slew of emotions, from sadness to fury at the fact that a man he had never met had suddenly usurped his Elder and was sending him away from his home to serve a seemingly ambiguous end. The Elder detected this in his initiate and rose, walking over and placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“You too have great faith in the goodness of God, Fedya. And I believe you still have faith in me,” he said, smiling fatherly. “If this is true, you must also trust Father Zinova. He has chosen you for many reasons, but mostly because he knows you are committed to this world and its people. You are not yet ready to leave them and shut yourself away, dedicated only to God. These people need you now. They need someone to act as Christ did, to save them in the darkest depths of their misery. If you love them, you must go to Sofia and do God’s work.”

Fyodor’s expression was still solemn, but his heart was quieted. It was true that he still had great faith in the Elder, and his words brought out the doubts he had harbored the past year about whether he was truly ready to leave the world and enter the brotherhood. As the Elder backed away, Fyodor rose and bowed towards father Zinova.

“I will go to Sofia and do as you command. I am in your service.”

He walked over to the Priest, kissed his hand, and received his blessing. He turned and kissed the hand of the Elder, and then stepped out of the chamber.

VI. The Warrior
As Fyodor left the room, the Priest also rose.

“Where are you off to?” asked the Elder, absent mindedly, still looking at the door and pondering the departure of his favorite disciple.

“God’s work keeps me a busy man, brother,” said the Priest, smiling.

“I should learn simply not to ask,” said the Elder. The Priest put on his veil and walked out into the Cathedral. Slowly, he made his way down the aisle, towards the door, inviting the awestruck gazes of the refugees sheltering on the pews. Some reached out to touch his robes as he passed, inviting a faceless gaze. He paused beside a young girl who stood by the church doors. She instinctively fell to her knees and buried her face in his robes. He knelt down beside her and touched her head, whispering a blessing to her before rising again. As he walked out, she looked after him, dazed.

As he stepped out, the rain continued to fall, though to onlookers it seemed as if his robes were not soaked. Some would claim later that day that the raindrops reverently changed course, landing around his feet without touching his head. A few minutes after he stepped out of the church, the rain stopped entirely, and the sun shone brightly through, bathing the sanctuary.

The Priest had told no one where he was going, as was his custom, and he walked out of the square dominated by the Cathedral, that had grown regal and imposing since his arrival. His shuffling feet took him further into the heart of the ruined old capital, into the heart of the black stain on the Generian plains. Cold winds swept these streets and two legged serpents prowled the alleys, waiting for innocent prey to swallow whole.

But the Priest walked without giving thought to the yellow eyes that watched him. He never looked up from the road extending infinitely before him, letting the Almighty hand of God guide his steps. He came eventually to a ruined neighborhood near the old dockyards that had been a den of vice and violence even before catastrophe brought the city into Earthly eternal abyss. The former red light district had, in the days since the fall of the city become the epicenter of the emergent gang culture, where drug kingpins and former Imperial police strongmen alike had set up the castles from which they ruled their petty urban fiefdoms.

It was in front of one such castle, in the center of this hive of villainy, that the Priest halted. The building was a former cannery on the edge of the docks, guarded by a high concrete wall, the top of which was studded with shards of broken glass. Big men with bigger guns patrolled the wall and guarded the gate. They had not stopped the Priest as he approached. Perhaps they were too astonished by the sight of a man of God in their devilish country to know exactly how to respond; or perhaps it was God himself who cloaked him from their dark eyes. In either event, they noticed soon enough and their confusion gave way to their evil instincts.

Very shortly, the Priest was surrounded by a dozen haughty villains, eager to prey on pure blood. They grinned yellow grins, and fingered knives and other weapons of mutilation. The Priest did not look up, but stood in the center, not even a finger on his holy hand wavering.

“Gentlemen, I pray that you let me pass,” he said in his sturdy old voice, tinged with kindness though he knew he would never appeal to anything in their thoroughly corroded hearts.

“What have we got here,” coughed a thin, sickly one with a dirty face and a mouth full of fangs.

“A priest, isn’t it?”

“Fuckin’ right, it’s a fuckin’ priest, genius,” said the one, shooting the other a vicious grin. “What are we gonna do with ‘im?”

“He’s trespassin’,” said another thick, ugly voice. “You know what the boss says about trespassers.”

The owner of the voice stepped before the Priest, twirling a switchblade. The Priest raised his head, and the villain noticed that his face was veiled. A confused look came over his features, and he instinctively raised his knife to lift the veil.

The Priest’s hand moved like lightning, knocking the knife aside and grabbing the man’s wrist in a single motion. With a sharp twist, he snapped the burly man’s wrist, and he fell back, squealing in agony. The others all took a step back, but soon their eyes grew mean and their appetites whet for vengeance. They closed in, and the tall, sickly one unleashed a blow to the Priest’s abdomen. The old man crumbled, murmuring:

“Forgive them Father.”

The others joined in, landing kicks all over the Priest’s form. Suddenly, however, a voice rose above the crowd.

“Enough!”

A gunshot split the air and the villains backed off as the shadow of a giant fell over them.

“Who told you to attack this holy man?” came a booming voice from within an enormous, muscular chest. The speaker stepped into the light. He was fully seven feet tall and had the look of one who could rip a lesser man clean in half. Some claimed that he had.

“He broke poor Ivan’s wrist!” came the pleading cry from the sickly serpent.

“And you retaliated against a man of God?”

The giant stepped forward and swung at the man, knocking him off his feet and out cold.

“You killed ‘im!” came another reply. The giant stepped in the direction of the voice, and it was stifled instantly. He moved back to the crumpled figure of the Priest, and bent down. Helping him to his knees, he spoke softly to him.

“Are you hurt?”

“I feel no pain that our Lord did not endure for us,” replied the Priest. He allowed himself to be helped to his feet. The man turned another angry look at the cluster of villains, and they were dispersed.

“Why have you come here, Father?” asked the giant. “This is no place for a holy man.”

“The Lord has shown me the way, Kostya.”

The man started. The use of the pet name seemed to stir up some ancient memory.

“Who are you,” he said, backing away. “How do you know my name? That name?”

There was alarm in his voice. The Priest moved towards him and placed his hand on the huge man’s shoulder. With the other he lifted the veil that covered his disfigurement. The giant’s eyes widened, and tears began to form. He fell to his knees.

“Father Zinova, your holiness! You’ve come! You promised you would and you have! You’ve come at last!”

The giant grabbed the hem of the Priest’s robe as the little girl had done and pressed it to his face. The Priest put a hand on his shoulder.

“Rise, my child,” he said, calmly. The giant slowly got to his feet, still staring in awe at Zinova.

“But why have you come here, of all places? Surely not simply to look for me!”

“But even if I had, I would never have sought you out in such a place, my son,” said the Priest, reproachfully.

“Forgive me father,” replied the giant, turning his face away in shame. “This city, this horrible scar! It ruins men’s hearts; makes them evil.”

Zinova nodded.

“I know as well as any. Come, do not be ashamed. No matter how far a man strays, if his heart is good, the light of God will lead him home.”

“It is true, father. And I will follow it! I will follow it! You will show me, and guide me back home!”

Zinova nodded.

“But first, my child, I have come to see the man you call your employer.”

The giant’s face was grim.

“He is no man. He is a monster. You must not see him.”

“Do you fear for me, my child?”

“He is a great and evil man. I do fear for any righteous man in his presence.”

The Priest smiled.

“I have seen many dark and evil things in service to the ultimate good. Isn’t it true that to reach Heaven we must first pass through the trials of Hell?”

The giant nodded.

“It is true, father. If it is what you command, then I will take you to him.”

The giant led the Priest up to the gate, and forced it open. The giant took the Priest around to a side entrance to spare him the debaucheries of the main floor of the building, and up a spiral staircase to the third floor. There, they came to an old office door guarded by a masked man with a rifle. The giant shot him a violent look and the guard backed away. The two stepped in to what they discovered was the office of a notorious robber baron: Oleg Slavochkin.

The thin, bearded man sported a greasy haircut and a striped suit. A buxom Generian blond sat on his lap and an empty bottle of whiskey was tipped over on his desk. He started as the door opened.

“Christ! I told you not to disturb-“

He rose in anger but smiled as he saw who it was.

“Ah! Konstantin! Why didn’t you say it was you? Come in! Join me! She’s got a sister downstairs, I’ll call her up! And who’s this? My best bodyguard has a friend? And who is it!”

Konstantin looked sternly at the greasy little man who now approached them.

“This is a great holy man, Oleg. He’s come to us to bring peace and salvation.”

The crime lord cackled an evil little laugh as he looked at the old holy man, who had replaced his veil.

“Then why does he hide his face?” He cackled again. “Hey, I’ll bet he’s a pimp who’s ashamed of himself. Or maybe an assassin?”

The great criminal’s expression grew dark as he sized him up.

“Well, what have you got to say for yourself? Konstantin, what does this man want?”

The Priest said nothing. Losing interest, the criminal waved his hands in the air, and turned back to his desk and the bored looking woman. As Oleg sat down, the Priest suddenly approached. Startled by this, Konstantin rushed to his side, hoping to protect him. As he began to speak, the Priest pulled away his veil.

“You are Oleg Slavochkin,” said the Priest, more as a declaration than a question. The criminal was startled.

“Yeah, what of it?” said the criminal, not looking at the Priest and not noticing the fear beginning to grow in his bimbo’s eyes.

“Men of your kind have destroyed this city,” boomed the holy man. “You have gutted what was once a beautiful and a righteous place. You have been a scourge. Perhaps God has willed it to be so. Regardless, he has revoked your right to terrorize the innocent and make a stinking sewer out of his lands.”

Oleg was utterly stunned. Speechless, he simply looked at the veiled man. Then a mean look began to cross his face. Pushing the blond off of his lap, he slowly stood up, towering over the old man before him.

“You obviously seem to know me quite well, old man. If this is so, then why do you come into my place of business and insult me to my face? You must know what I do to self-righteous sons of bitches who talk down to me.”

The criminal slowly walked around the desk and stood before the Priest. Slowly he reached for his belt and pulled out a long knife. His hand shot for the Priest’s throat, but was instantly grabbed by the giant, Konstantin.

“Don’t lay a hand on him,” he said, and then turned to the Priest. “Forgive him father.”

The criminal pulled his hand away, stepped back, and shouted, his face crimson with rage.

“Traitor! Who the hell do you think you are? You ungrateful scum! I took you in, raised you like my son! And who the hell is this? This, this, Priest! To come barging into my office and speak to me like that! To hell with you both!”

The criminal stormed around to the front of his desk, and reached for the drawer where a loaded pistol sat waiting for his fingers to clutch it. They never would.

There was a gunshot.

“Father, forgive me…”

The giant turned, lowering a smoking pistol. The girl screamed.

The Priest stood rooted to the spot. His face was as a rock, but inside, his heart trembled. He turned and walked over to Konstantin, slowly putting a hand on his shoulder.

“My son,” he said softly. “My son, you have done God’s work. For some souls, there can be no saving. Some men have gone so far over to the Devil that their existence on Earth is an affront, and a danger to those who still dwell in God’s light.”

Konstantin’s face was still grim.

“I am a murderer father. I have done so many…terrible things. This is, perhaps, the first good thing I have done in many years.”

“Let it not be the last,” whispered the Priest. “And let us go, now.”

“Home, father? To the light?”

“Yes, my son.”

The two stepped out of the office, and left the way they had come, leaving the corpse of a vicious criminal and a frightened young whore

Part II

“I trust I find you well, Father?”

The booming voice was unmistakable. As the doors to the sunlit gallery opened, the shadow of a truly massive human being fell over the unmarred face of a much younger Zinova. Clothed in the simple cassock of an Orthodox monk, he reclined leisurely in an armchair by the window overlooking the garden of Emperor Antonius’s summer palace. He turned and rose upon hearing the voice. A pleasant cool breeze blew through the open door.

“Your Excellency, I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, smiling as the huge man entered.

He was clad head to toe in ceremonial armor, and his chestplate bore a seal reserved only for the highest nobility of the Doomani Imperium. He was showing signs of age, his hair graying, and yet his features were still handsome and imposing. The man was instantly recognizable to any Generian citizen as Helldawg, the Emperor of Doomingsland. Even at this early period in the relationship between the Catholic Empire and her Orthodox ally, the Doomish Emperor existed as an example of a man of principle and great faith, exceedingly popular among the Generian people. Zinova himself held him in high regard, and was lucky enough to say that he now had met him personally, at a palace event a few evenings before.

“After our conversation the other night, I couldn’t resist dropping by. I hope I wasn’t disturbing you?” said the royal Doomani.

“Not in the least. I was simply enjoying the view. What a day God has made for us today!”

“Indeed. This place has always been one of my favorites. An escape from the heat of my capital in the summer months.”

The two shook hands.

“Please, I forget myself. Sit,” he said, gesturing to a second chair. “You mentioned our discussion. What, precisely, did you find so remarkable about it?”

“Perhaps, if I must put it simply, it was your faith that impressed me so.”

“Indeed?” replied the priest, smiling with a slight trace of pride. It was not every day that a man was called godly by the Catholic King.

“Yes. Rarely outside of my homeland have I encountered one with such, conviction. That is not to say that Generia is a godless land. I count myself among the admirers of the Orthodoxy that flourished here, but in recent years…”

“Indeed,” concurred Zinova in a somber tone. “I believe I mentioned my views on the state of things here in the Empire. I do as I can to serve his Majesty, but I fear sometimes that Antonius, in his quest to modernize, has forgotten the ways that made our nation great.”

“You fear he is distancing himself from the Church,” said Helldawg, reading the Priest’s sentiments.

“The Church has always been the backbone of the state. The two are simply…inseperable.”

There was a trace of exasperation in his voice.

“But surely he must recognize its importance. He invited you to become his spiritual advisor, after all.”

“And I relish the job, yet sometimes I fear my advice falls on deaf ears. Do not misunderstand me, His Grace is more than approachable. He will hear anyone out. That’s why he’s become so popular with the nobles, and even with some of the more reform minded clergy. Still, I’ve been here for two months and not once has he acted on my proposals.”

Helldawg leaned in, interested.

“What proposals are these, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“Well, to be truthful, I’ve been inspired by your own reforms in Doomingsland. The complete melding of ecclesiastical dogma and state law is impressive to a man of faith. Needless to say, such steps would never go over here. Generia has embraced the path of internationalism. I worry that we neglect our past for fear of fitting in with the so called ‘enlightened’ states.”

Helldawg nodded, knowingly.

“I have proposed, though, that the church take a more active role in politics. A spiritual advisor is one thing, but to have the Patriarchs of the Orthodox Church sitting in council with the Emperor would only be the next logical step.”

“So you propose that the Church dictate policy?”

“Not explicitly. But I suggested that an Empire that claims to be a nation of faith should give her Church something more than a ceremonial role.”

“It would be only fair,” agreed the Doomani Emperor.

The Priest now hung his head, his eyes troubled.

“I worry. That’s all. I’m afraid we’re losing our path in this age of globalization, electrification. The words of a clever diplomat or politician can sway even the strongest of wills. If we have no ground to stand on, we’ll fall off into nothing.”

“You’re talking about the Church, of course?”

Zinova nodded. Helldawg sighed.

“I confess I share the same fears. I count the Emperor among my closest friends, and Generia among Doomingsland’s strongest allies, but these diplomatic winds you speak of are blowing very strong. It’s easy to lose your path in a storm, father.”

“Indeed it is, Your Excellency.”

There was a pause, and then the Emperor continued, slowly.

“Have you considered other means?”

The Priest looked up, surprised.

“Such as?”

“Well, fanaticism was once a dirty word in my country too, but things are different there now. They can be different here too.”

Zinova frowned.

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing. I’m only saying that sometime’s a man’s faith requires more than statements to be realized. Faith is the only thing in my opinion worth fighting for. Fighting for in every sense of the word.”

Zinova was taken aback.

“Your Excellency, with all due respect, I am quite loyal to the Empire, and to my Emperor, however much I may disagree with the way things may be going.”

Helldawg raised his hands and smiled.

“Father, please, I’m not suggesting you compromise that in any way. I’m simply saying that in dealing with politicians, anyone can become confused. Perhaps your Emperor’s ear has been bent in their direction. You must raise your voice to be heard, my friend.”

Zinova sat back, and stroked his chin in contemplation. Despite his better instincts, he found himself seduced by the great man’s words.

“I only offer these as comforting words, my friend. To show you that you have a sympathetic ear to turn to. I have been through many crises; crises of politics, and of faith, but in the end God has always showed me the true path.”

“The Lord is just, and he loves mankind. In the end, only He can truly guide us.”

“Wisdom beyond your years, Father.”

The Emperor stood, smiling.

“However, I have to be going. I’ve kept my escort waiting, and I’m expected to land back in my own land before nightfall, so I must take your leave.”

The Priest shook of his contemplation and stood. He took the Emperor’s hand.

“Go in Peace, Your Excellency.”

Helldawg turned to leave, but turned back with a few parting words.

“You strike me as an extraordinary man, Father Zinova. Feel free to contact me at any time, to discuss God, or politics. God be with you.”

The Emperor left, leaving the Priest with his thoughts.

I. Sofia

Fyodor the novice stepped off of the train. The platform was deserted, even this early in the afternoon. Few people traveled between the cities these days. The countryside had become dangerous. Bandits and militias prowled the countryside, hiding out in dens and small hamlets and striking out at night to raid. Fyodor had grown up on the streets of ruined Generia City before he found God and the Sanctuary, but even still the prospect of a long train ride between the urban centers had frightened him.

He emerged from the station into the warm sunlight. From here, he could see the golden dome of the Imperial Palace, the seat of government. Unlike the platform, the main avenue through the heart of Sofia was a hive of activity. Stepping out into the crowd, he suddenly began to feel dizzy, overwhelmed by this place so unlike the peace of the Church in Generia City. Crossing the street, he halted under the awning of an old hotel and unfolded a piece of paper. The address was scrawled hastily, almost illegibly on the sheet. It was the address of a church, near the river several blocks to the south. Replacing the piece of paper he got his bearings and headed off in search of it.

The streets narrowed as he left the center of the city, the dome disappearing behind towering office buildings and apartments that grew more and more ancient as he went on. The alleys were jam packed with cars and people, huddling around a few outdoor market stalls or looking for a parking space. This was the oldest quarter of the ancient Imperial capital, and the odors of decay were pungent. Since the war, upkeep and restoration had halted and the extremities of Sofia were melting into neglect. Commerce still flourished during the day, but at night it was unwise to wander these parts alone.

The Novice emerged from one such narrow alleyway to see the shining waters of the river Dogev, which ran all the way from the Alberian mountain ranges and emptied into the Inkana channel beside the old Port of Belgrade. The Emperor’s Bridge was to his left, still gleaming white and out of place beside the old apartments. He looked to his right, and saw an old steeple rising beside the chimneys. Surely, this was his destination and he made for it with haste, eager to be off the streets and inside a house of God.

The old wooden door creaked as he opened it, and he stepped inside a narrow church, with only two short rows of pews leading up to an old, uncovered altar. The smell of incense was thick. Services had apparently just ended, and the place was empty. He approached the altar and genuflected, before taking a seat in the foremost pew. He knelt his head to pray, but his eyelids were drooping not out of devotion, but exhaustion. Nearing sleep, he started to hear a voice beside him.

“It’s not often we see monks around here, brother.”

He looked up to see a tall, skinny man in priest’s garb.

The novice rose.

“I am Fyodor Alexeyovic. I’ve come from Generia City.”

“Indeed you have. Your elder sent word that I should expect you.”

The Priest was not old, but his face was lined from stress. His voice was soft and revealed the same world-weariness.

“I was told to come here. I’m not…entirely sure what for,” said the novice slowly, studying the man.

“You’ll find out soon enough. From the way your head was drooping, though, I feel inclined to offer you food and rest before we get to more serious business.”

“Food will suffice. It’s too early in the day for sleep.”

“True. I prepared a meal in my quarters. I was expecting you, so there’s some left over.”

The two adjourned to the back of the church, past the altar into a cramped room, packed with books, a small desk, and a bed. There was a card table by the door, and a simple meal had been laid out with two plated. The two sat down, and ate silently. After he had finished, the priest studied his apparent guest.

“You were sent by the Holy Man, Father Zinova, yes?”

“I was,” replied Fyodor.

“He tells me he has taken up refuge at your Sanctuary. I warned him about going. Generia City is no place for one such as him. It’s grown dangerous.”

“I’ve lived in the sanctuary for most of my life. We’ve never been troubled. The city is not safe, but the people protect us from the unsavory elements.”

“You place a great deal of faith in the flock, then,” replied the priest. “My name is Iosef. I am the caretaker here, and the priest.”

The novice looked around the room. The Orthodox Bible lay open on the desk, beside a pair of reading glasses and an empty water jug.

“This place is old, father. It looks ready to collapse.”

“But it hasn’t yet. And neither has the Church,” added the priest, with pride. “Perhaps Zinova has chosen your Sanctuary to be the base of our mission, but this old church will be our bunker. My flock is strong, and faithful. And they are young. Hardships in this part of town have inspired great devotion among people of all ages, all walks of life.”

Fyodor nodded.

“As it was with me. What, though, is Zinova’s mission? He hasn’t spoken much about what he plans to do since he arrived.”

“The Elder is a secretive man. Much of his business is truly his own, though he has told me what I need to know, and since you are here, I will tell you as much. The Elder seeks to revitalize the Church. It breaks his heart to see Generia as it is, crumbling like these wards. He recognizes that the backbone of our Empire was always our Church. It was the faith of the Emperors that kept Generia strong, and bent the backs of her people to their hardest tasks. We, Zinova’s disciples, will bring back this era.”

“But how?”

“Through whatever it takes. We are working on building a new flock, gathering new disciples from the faithful. From the ground up, we are building a movement at a rapid pace. The people may have little faith in their government, but they still believe in God. We are making them believe in his Church once again.”

“And what role do I play in all of this?”

“Father Zinova tells me you are a faithful man, but that you belong in the world, not in the monastery or the priesthood. This is not an insult, but a blessing he has given to you. You must be sinless in a world of sinners. You must guide the flock by your own deeds.”

Fyodor fell silent, thinking.

“What, though, must I do?”

The priest nodded, understanding the young man’s curiosity and wishing he could say more.

“We are preparing for something great here. We, you and I, are paving the way for the Elder’s return to Sofia. There is a great conspiracy brewing in the palace. Kazatmiru lays dying, and his sons will jostle for power after his fall. That is how it always is. This is simply the Generian way.”

“How do you know this?” interrupted the young man. He was understandably taken aback. The Emperor’s illness was not a well known phenomena, and as far as he knew Kazatmiru would reign another ten or twenty years.

“As I said, we are building a vast flock. Our sources are many, even some inside the walls of the palaces. They bring me this news. We have known for some time. It is why the Elder went to Generia City. He knows what is coming, and needed a strong base from which to initiate his plan. But never mind that. You and I have our own work to do. You say you don’t need sleep just yet, so we will depart for the palace. I will show you of what I have spoken.”

With that, the two men rose and walked out into the world.

This is best epic to ever unfurl in all of nationstates, I love it keep up the good work (Hey would you like to help me make the Epic of Aniane, chrnocling my nations intricate history)

OOC: Generia! Good to see you again! I'll TG you rather than interrupt.

II. The Royal Residence

The Imperial Palace in the heart of Sofia was truly a wonder of the modern world. Composed of seven enormous, elaborate structures, it had been the brainchild of Alexei I, the first Emperor of the current dynasty that had ruled Generia for three generations. The Emperor’s son Antonius had taken the first steps in turning his father’s dreams and designs for the royal complex into a reality, building first the structure that constituted the Royal residence. Standing in the heart of the walled compound, it was seven stories tall, and covered 3 acres of ground. Within it were housed hundreds of bedrooms, the gilded Imperial throne room, countless meeting halls and reception galleries, as well as the famous Imperial Chapel, which rose four stories and boasted impressive stained glass windows and a massive organ. It was here that the royal family took communion and attended Orthodox services performed by handpicked members of the Generian clergy. A great dome crowned the structure, visible from almost any point in the city.

Antonius had also constructed a Cathedral within the grounds of the compound. Though small by comparison to the others throughout the cities of the Empire, it was considered by many to be the most beautiful. Decorated with gold and painted with Biblical images and icons, it was wondrous to behold and was the only building in the compound that was opened to the public. For years, Christmas mass had been said here by the Patriarch of the Orthodox Church, and the building had been filled to capacity. In recent times, however, the tradition had been abandoned due to the internal and international strife that had plagued Generia. Kazatmiru, however, and even despite his frailness, sometimes still walked to the church for moments of private reflection.

He had himself contributed the other five buildings to the palace complex, which included government and military buildings, and a servant’s quarters of size and accommodation rivaling the palaces of the rulers of many other nations. Even with these structures dominating it, the Royal complex boasted impressive and beautiful parks and gardens where members of the Generian nobility and servants alike took in the mild weather of the capital.

From the balcony of his own personal chambers, Prince Nikolai looked out over the entire complex, and over the walls into the city at large. He flicked the butt of his cigarette out into the air and watched it twirl through the air before disappearing three stories below. Despite the calm weather and the beauty of the scene, he felt a bitter venom welling up in his throat. This place made him want to spit, sometimes as he thought about what went on in the dark corridors, and as he pondered his brother holding court below.

“He’ll ruin us…” he muttered to himself. He couldn’t restrain a vision of the entire scene before him burning to the ground, writhing and choking amid the toxic smoke of a cremated Empire.

His dark thoughts were interrupted however, as the noise of an argument drifted up from below. Leaning over the balcony, he saw a little man in a priest’s cassock being dragged from the palace, roughly handled by a pair of Imperial White Guards, the personal bodyguards of the Royal Family and the symbol of Imperial grandeur at home. Nikolai couldn’t make out the man’s words, though he suspected he heard a few Alberian curses fly from the clergyman’s mouth. He recognized the man, though he did not think they had ever met personally. He imagined that this priest was one of the lower clergy that hung around the palace as caretakers for the religious buildings.

His curiosity was piqued, and he walked quickly inside, down the flights of stairs to the ground floor. He caught the two guardsmen as they were walking back into the reception foyer. They halted and stood at attention.

“What was that all about?” he demanded of them.

“Nothing to worry about, your highness. Your brother caught that monk snooping around his personal quarters and had him thrown out,” replied one of the guards.

“If you ask me, he should have killed him then and there, your highness. These priests don’t seem to remember their place here anymore,” said the second one, a younger man. Nikolai shot him a venomous glance, reminding him to hold his tongue. The man reddened and fell silent.

The Prince pondered this, and then waved the two men away. He stepped out through the large double doors, but the accused spy had vanished. The Prince turned and walked back inside, considering the curious incident.

The clergyman had fled quickly around the corner and was making his way towards one of the servant’s gates that led into the Imperial compound, so frightened was he at having been caught in the Prince Regent’s Quarters. In reality, he had indeed been spying, looking for confirmation of a rumor he had heard that Prince Ivan planned to close the Cathedral permanently and ban several respected Bishops from the Royal premises.

In his hurry to get away, he ran right into Fyodor, the novice, and his guide Father Iosef. Iosef grabbed hold of the startled man.

“Where are you running to, then, brother Sergeievic?”

The little gray-haired man looked up, and seemed to regain a bit of his composure, though he remained somewhat incoherent.

“Ivan, that foul bastard! Curses on him! Damn him, that servant of the Devil! May Lucifer take his soul to a dark place and do terrible, terrible things to him for eternity!”

Fyodor stifled a laugh at the enraged little monk as he threw out a string of ancient Alberian curses. Iosef remained stern however.

“Mind your tongue, or are you a servant of God?” he reproached.

The monk shook his head.

“Forgive me, brother. I forget myself when I think about that polluted son of Satan.”

“What happened?” asked Fyodor.

“He caught me looking through his drawers.”

“And what, exactly, was it you were looking for, friend?” asked Iosef.

“What you told me to look for! The letters.”

“I had hoped that you would be a bit more discreet…” muttered the old Priest.

“What letters?” asked Fyodor.

“There have been rumors,” replied Iosef, turning towards his younger companion, “that the Prince Regent has signed into order a proposal to ban the clergy from the palace. A heinous act, indeed.”

“Paranoid fool!” shouted the monk.

“Perhaps not, if he caught you snooping through his things,” said Fyodor.

“Ah, but it’s much worse than that! This is only the beginning! The beginning of something far worse,” said the monk.

“Brother Sergeievic is right, I’m afraid,” said Iosef, gravely. The Elder Zinova suspected correctly, I believe, when he said that the Prince Regent would begin his campaign against Orthodoxy on his own doorstep. He asked me to obtain proof of these new palace reforms. Alas, it seems I charged this sensitive task to one a bit too hot blooded.”

He glared at Sergeievic as he said this. The monk hung his head, ashamed.

“I’m sorry, brother. It seems you’re right about that. The dirty bastard…” he said, spitting the last bit through his teeth.

“Don’t worry. It’s not over yet. But you need to leave before Ivan changes his mind about simply throwing you out. Go to the Church. We’ll discuss this later.”

“Alright, brother. God bless the both of you.”

He hurried off, leaving the two men.

“Zinova asked you to spy on the Prince Regent?” asked Fyodor.

“In so many words, yes. That’s why I brought you here. You see, we have agents throughout this whole palace. This is where we draw our strength: through our information. I fear though that Ivan is getting wise. I don’t know how, but he may be slowly learning of the ears and eyes that we have trained on him. If he gets his way, he’ll blind us and the Elder’s plan will fail before it has even begun. It’s our job to make sure that he doesn’t.”

“And what are we going to do?”

“There’s a man here who I believe can help us. An old archbishop, one of the Emperor’s most loyal servants, and loyal to God as well. A rare combination, I’m afraid. Come.”

Iosef set off in the direction of the Cathedral, with the Novice in tow.

This is best epic to ever unfurl in all of nationstates, I love it keep up the good work (Hey would you like to help me make the Epic of Aniane, chrnocling my nations intricate history)

It sounds cool, but im struggling to keep posting in this story here, so i dont think id be able to contribute much. Thanks for the comments though.

III. A Friend

Archbishop Aleksandr Maksim was a tall man of sixty years. His hair was close cropped and when not saying mass, he dressed austerely, the picture of an ascetic. He had served as the royal family’s personal chaplain for years, and was the informal spiritual advisor to the Emperor himself. He lived simply in a small hermitage cut into the side of the Chapel in the heart of the Royal Residence. A bed, a desk, and a stand for an old bible were all that adorned the place, and the only light came from a small window high on the wall and the candles that lit a few old icons. When not praying or seeing to the upkeep of the Royal Chapel, he wrote. He had composed several volumes of religious and philosophical works and was considered one of the masters of Generian Orthodox theology.

As Iosef and his young companion entered the chamber, they found him rising from afternoon prayer. There was a muted jangling from the several lengths of chain that he wore under his robes around his waist whenever he was awake, which was a good portion of the day.

The archbishop turned towards his visitors and smiled, opening his arms, welcoming them.

“Father Iosef. I hadn’t expected you.”

Iosef nodded, his expression stern as usual.

“I’ve brought a visitor.”

The archbishop approached Fyodor and clasped the young man’s hand in both of his.

“Welcome. From where have you come?”

“From the Sanctuary in Generia City,” Iosef answered for him.

Still smiling, the archbishop released Fyodor’s hand and turned to Iosef.

“And for what reason has he made such a long journey?”

“To see me. On business of the Elder Zinova.”

“Ah, the Elder. How is his health? I’ve not seen him in many years.”

“He’s as strong as ever,” said Iosef, stonefaced.

“I’m glad to hear it. You’ll excuse me if I sit?”

Iosef nodded and the archbishop walked over and sat in the old wooden chair by his desk. Fyodor noted a subtle absence of courtesy in his guide’s manner towards one so many ranks above his own status as a simple parish priest. He had seen the same demeanor in the Zinova when he appeared before Fyodor’s mentor and the Elder of the sanctuary.

“And why have you come to me today, Father?”

Iosef stroked his chin, pondering a moment before replying.

“A few minutes ago we watched a young monk being thrown out of the royal residence.”

“Ah, brother Sergeievic. I’ve just heard that he was caught looking around the Prince Regent’s quarters. I’ll have to speak to him about this. It’s bad business for a man of the cloth.”

“I’d imagined that you sent him yourself.”

The archbishop looked surprised.

“What? I would never advocate such temptation, Father.”

Iosef’s stare was fixed on the archbishop’s face as he spoke. Fyodor was getting the sense more and more that his newfound guide did not particularly care for this man.

“Fair enough, but you must be concerned with what’s going on here.”

Maksim sighed.

“I confess that things in the palace are getting disheartening for a man of the cloth. It’s as if the Church has completely lost face here, where it used to be respected above all else.”

“I share the same concern.”

Iosef took a step towards the archbishop.

“Perhaps there’s something you can do about it?”

The archbishop smiled at this, though his eyes were firm, impenetrable.

“I’m not sure if there’s anything anyone can do except try to hold up the Church’s reputation. The Prince Regent’s word is law here, and if he finds the clergy in disfavor, then we must do our best to prove ourselves loyal subjects.”

“You’re aware of the Prince Regent’s proposal to ban many of our brothers in the cloth from this premise?”

“I’d not heard of it, Father. I could certainly look into it, though.”

Iosef again was momentarily silent, staring at the archbishop.

“It won’t be necessary. You can take my word for it.”

Iosef turned towards Fyodor, looked at him for a moment, and then back at the archbishop.

“We have somewhere to be, so we’ll take your leave.”

The archbishop seemed startled at his abruptness, but smiled kindly again and gestured at the door.

The two men left. Iosef watched the ground, deep in thought as they stepped out of the Chapel.

“You said he could help us,” said Fyodor.

“I was wrong. He’s in bed with them now.”

“What do you mean?”

“The archbishop is a man of faith, and a good man too. Don’t misunderstand. His ideas are old fashioned though. He doesn’t see what’s going on. He thinks that we, that the Church can work with the liberals. With Ivan. He’s concerned about his position after the Emperor dies…”

Fyodor looked curiously at Iosef. He had never heard him talk like this: putting the conflict between Church and State in such terms.

“Then, you advocate rebellion against the Royal family.”

Iosef remained quiet.

“This Empire is threatened, my young friend. It’s being devoured from within. Rebellion? No. But we can’t expect to be spoon fed religious freedom. Not with men like Ivan. With ideas like Ivan’s.”

Fyodor too became quiet as they made their way through the palace gates.

Back in his chamber, the archbishop sat watching the door through which the two men had left, lost in his own thoughts. The door opened suddenly, startling him, and in walked a man in a neat suit with lined face.

“Obrad Kasotkin,” said Maksim, greeting the new arrival.

“Your Priest was just here, was he not?” said the man, accusingly.

“He just left.”

“There was a young man with him. One of his lackeys, then?”

“He’s come from Generia City. The Elder sent him. I’d heard of his arrival a few hours ago.”

This seemed to distress Kasotkin, who replied angrily:

“Why didn’t you inform me?”

“It didn’t seem important.”

The archbishop got to his feet.

“Not important! Do you have any idea what this means, you old holy fool?”

The archbishop was clearly offended.

“Please lower your voice, and try to remember that you’re standing in God’s house.”

“To Hell with your God, holy fool! If Zinova has sent his agent here, it means he’ll be returning soon. His spies have done their work, and it means that ours must begin in earnest.”

Maksim scowled at the man.

“I’ve never agreed with the Elder, and perhaps you’re right to fear him, but I won’t let you harm my flock, Kasotkin.”

Obrad stormed up to the Elder, furious.

“And what could you possibly do to stop me? I knew you were a poor choice of servant. You’ve sold out your ‘flock’, you worm, and now you’re trying to alienate the one friend your Church has left!”

The archbishop remained steadfast against his assailant.

“You’re only friend is yourself, Kasotkin. You don’t care about this Church, or this Empire. You’re right that there may be nothing I can do, but remember that God will judge you in the end.”

Kasotkin laughed coldly. Without another word, he turned and walked out.

----------

IV. Betrayal

As night fell over the city, Fyodor sat in the pew before the altar at the run down little church in the heart of the Sofia wards. Iosef had retired to his chambers shortly before, leaving the Novice to contemplate the day’s events.

He admitted to himself that the Priest’s words earlier had disturbed him. He still had no concrete idea of what Father Zinova was planning up in Generia City, or why he of all people had been sent to Sofia as his agent. Despite his short absence, he felt like he had missed the peace of the Sanctuary for a very long time, and in fact since the arrival of the mysterious Elder, his life had seemed jostled and interrupted. What was it that Iosef had meant, saying that the Church couldn’t expect the support of the royal family? The two had always leaned on one another, and though the Novice was not naïve to the dark corners of Imperial politics, to claim to the Emperor or his eldest son would openly betray the Church was a startling accusation. Even the archbishop Maksim, the clergyman closest to Kazatmiru’s family, seemed appalled by the idea that the Royal Family was somehow out to get him and his flock. Something clearly was amiss.

He rose, trying to clear his head, and made for the cot that had been laid out for him at the back of the Church. He lay down, and closed his eyes. Sleep was about to dawn on him when a harsh rapping came on the doors of the Church.

He rose quickly and threw open the doors, and the small monk, Sergeievic, from earlier burst in, frantic.

“It’s happening! It’s happening! They’re coming for us! They arrested the others! Our agents in the palace are captured! It’s Ivan’s doing, I swear it! Ivan and his dog Maksim!”

Iosef, clad in a nightshirt appeared in the door of his chamber.

“What is this? What are you yelling about?”

“They’re coming for us, Father! They’ve arrested our brothers.”

Iosef’s eyes widened and he walked quickly over to the monk. Laying his hands on the man’s shaking shoulder, he looked into his eyes.

“Calm down. Tell me what you know.”

“The Imperial Guards came to our monastery, in the northern part of the city. They took the abbot, and everyone else who serves Zinova in the city. I barely got away to warn you. They’re coming here. They know of all of our sanctuaries. Someone told them, Father! We are betrayed!”

“Maksim,” snarled Iosef. “I knew it was unwise to trust him. He was too close to Ivan.”

As he finished, a noise was growing in the streets. Shouts could be heard amid falling boots.

“These men are traitors to the Emperor and the Prince Regent! By Imperial decree they are to be arrested and tried! They have sold out the Generian people, filled your heads with lies!”

The shouts drew nearer.

“They’re here!”

Sergeievic’s eyes flashed with mad terror. He fled towards the altar, and threw himself behind it, hiding. Iosef turned towards the door. There was distress on his face, but he remained stalwart, awaiting what was to come. Fyodor watched him nervously but did not budge.

The commotion was right outside the door now. A heavy pounding fell on the door.

“In the name of the Emperor, His Grace Kazatmiru, and the Imperial Regent, His Excellency Prince Ivan, open these doors!”

Iosef took a deep breath, and pulled the handle slowly. Fyodor caught a glimpse of a vast crowd standing outside. A pair of massive Imperial White Guards stood in the doorway. Outside, Fyodor could see several monks handcuffed, standing together. A pair of police squad cars and a truck stood waiting.

“By Imperial decree, these premises are to be searched and anyone found inside to be seized!”

The soldiers burst in, grabbing Iosef roughly and twisting his arm behind his back. He let out a yell of pain, and Fyodor heard the sickening crack of an old bone. The second soldier made for the Novice, who struggled, only to find himself face down on the cold floor. A second group of soldiers entered, and followed the terrified sobs to the cowering Sergeievic, who was also soon seized.

The three were dragged out into the street, and thrown beside the monks. The crowd was growing steadily as citizens were attracted by the racket.

“These men have conspired against the Emperor and his Regent! Look at them, and let this be a lesson to you! Don’t believe the words of the Church! They will fill your head with lies against our beloved Emperor, and drive you to their same fate!”

As the soldier finished his diatribe, the prisoners were shoved into the back of the truck. Fyodor looked over at Iosef, who was clutching his arm, twisted into an unnatural position.

The vehicles were making for the Imperial palace, as Fyodor could see the buildings passing quickly through the reinforced glass window. The trucks pulled through the gates and stopped in front of a building that housed the Sofia police headquarters. All of the prisoners were dragged out and rushed inside. Fyodor and Iosef were separated from the others and brought into the basement. They were shoved into a whitewashed room, and handcuffed to a pair of chairs. Two stern-faced officers and several White Guards waited inside. After a moment the door opened again, and in strode a man whom Fyodor had never seen before. Iosef looked up, and recognition flashed in his eyes.

“You fool. Don’t you see what you’ve done,” he said, speaking through a pained grimace.

Obrad Kasotkin strode up to the man, a triumphant look on his face.

“What I’ve done? I’ve quashed your little scheme before it’s started, you idiot!”

Iosef shook his head, dejectedly.

“You’ve only hastened your own demise, Obrad. This won’t stop the coming of Zinova. Our savior, our Messiah is still coming; coming to knock you off of your stinking throne.”

Kasotkin laughed, but his expression soon became enraged, and he landed a blow across the old man’s face, letting forth a stream of crimson blood.

“Your Messiah will never leave his Sanctuary, priest! We’ll crucify him in front of his whole flock! And your plot here is finished! Your agents are caught, and they’ll be tried and hanged before two days time! It’s over, Priest.”

Iosef was silent. For the first time Fyodor noticed the dejection in his eyes. Obrad looked over at the young man.

“Next time you should choose a better role model.”

The Novice felt a surge of venom in his throat. For whatever reason, he hated this man more than any he had ever encountered. He could almost smell the evil resonating from him, as if his rotting soul was crawling out through his ears.

Fyodor turned his head towards the floor, but he looked up again as he heard a faint mumbling. Looking over, he saw Iosef’s lips moving, saying something quietly to himself. It was obvious he was praying, but the language was an old one, the ancient liturgical language of the first Orthodox Priests, almost dead now from disuse. Kasotkin heard it too, and he looked down at the man. His fists clenched.

“Stop that, holy fool.”

Iosef continued, and Obrad let fly another blow in retaliation. Iosef reeled, but his lips still moved. Obrad hit him again, and a third time. Iosef’s voice was inaudible now, but still his lips moved.

“I told you to shut up! Your Elder is dead! We’re killing him as you speak!”

Obrad’s fists slammed into the old man, pummeling him all over his frail body. Ribs cracked as the sounds of fists into flesh resounded around the room. One of the officers turned away, his face contorted, disgusted. Fyodor’s eyes welled with tears, but he could not look away.

“He’s dead!” shouted Obrad hysterically, eyes lit with madness. “Dead! Dead! Dead!”

The door flew open.

“Enough!”

Fyodor’s eyes darted over as the pummeling ceased. There was a face that he knew only from newspaper headlines. Prince Ivan, the Regent, strode in. He gripped Kasotkin’s shoulder, the man’s fist still poised to let loose another blow, and spun him around to face him.

“That’s enough.”

“Shut up, you pawn!” spat Kasotkin, and turned back towards his quarry. Ivan grabbed him roughly, turned his face back, and slammed a fist across it.

“Get out.”

He spoke calmly, clearly, but Kasotkin could see that the Prince would kill him if he failed to obey. There was hatred in his eyes comparable to that in Fyodor’s heart. Kasotkin spat out a stream of blood upon the floor, and scurried out of the room. Ivan looked at the two men. Iosef’s lips no longer moved. He had slipped out of consciousness.

“Let them go. Get them out of here,” said the Prince to the guards, who promptly did as they were told. Fyodor felt himself dragged up, and saw himself being led from the room. He struggled briefly with the guards, but a firm blow to the back of the head brought on a thick, dark, blackness.

---------------------------

V. Generia City

The Elder Zinova walked out into the Sanctuary, standing before the altar and before a crowd of thousands. They were of all sorts: men and women, children, some ragged, some clad in stolen finery. There were several armed men, former gangsters from the dockyards who had heard the good news and come to see the man that had tamed their beast, Konstantin. He, the great repentant sinner, stood in front of them all, his face cold, eyes flashing with devout determination as the man who had saved him appeared.

Zinova watched them all through his veil, and then opened his mouth to speak.

“Children, you are many. You have come here because God has brought you here, as he brought me. You have seen this scar of a city burn amid the fires of heresy and corruption. You thought you were a forgotten people, abandoned by your Emperor and your God. I had to come here to tell you it wasn’t so. Everyone else was content to let you rot, but not I. God brought me to lead his children out of this place, and to lead this Empire back into his arms.”

A few cries of ‘Amen’ drifted up from the crowd.

“These are the darkest days we have yet to see. As I address you, our brothers to the south are being rounded up like stray dogs and cast into the dungeons by those who see themselves as enlightened; those who want to banish Generia’s Church and rob our beloved country of her very soul. I have gathered you as my flock, as I have gathered others before you. Together, we will stop this. It has been far too long that our souls have been pilfered by the avaricious ones who want to set themselves above our Emperor, or replace him outright. This will not come to pass.”

The Church was silent. Outside, a sudden shout turned heads. The door to the sanctuary was thrown open, and a young monk ran in.

“They’ve come.”

Zinova nodded, and gestured towards the door. The flock filed out into the open area where an acid rain was falling from a thick black sky. The sound of vehicles and marching feet filled the night air. The crowd remained silent as the forms of soldiers appeared at the top of the square. A car pulled up in front of the crowd, and a uniformed Colonel stepped out. Beside him, a man with a megaphone read a declaration.

“By order of His Grace, Emperor Kazatmiru, and his Regent, Prince Ivan, these premises are to be seized. Their caretaker is to be arrested for harboring one known as Zinova, a known traitor to the Imperial standard, wanted for corrupting the citizenry.”

Shouts of “God bless Zinova!” and “Go to Hell!” rose from the crowd. The Colonel looked on sternly.

“Any who obstruct the capture of this dissident are to be apprehended and put to trial for treason, the punishment for which is death!”

The crowd did not budge, but began to part slowly and surely. From their midst, the Elder came, clad in white robes. He stood before the Imperial officer.

“All of this fanfare over an old priest?” said Zinova, his voice calm, almost ironic.

The Colonel eyed him coldly.

“You’re smarter than that, holy father. Just come with us, and let your flock go home. We wouldn’t want this to get ugly.”

“Holy Father? So much respect from a servant of the atheist king.”

“I don’t like this anymore than you do, Father, but I serve the Emperor.”

“So do I,” replied Zinova. “And I think that it would be treason in the highest to hand myself over to his enemies.”

“And who are those?” said the Colonel.

“His son and the man who commands him.”

The soldier was silent.

“Hand yourself over, Priest, and this won’t get ugly,” said the soldier with the megaphone. He was hushed by a backwards glance from his superior.

“Will you really fire on your countrymen, and fellow believers?” said Zinova. Again, the Colonel did not respond. Zinova then turned, slowly, and walked back into the crowd. A pair of soldier tried to go after him, but the crowd closed and pushed them back. One raised his weapon, and looked to the Colonel for permission to shoot. The officer was silent. All that could be heard was the fall of the rain on the backs of the masses.

“No,” said the officer quietly. Surprised, though obedient, the soldier lowered his weapon and stepped back into rank.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Father,” the officer shouted.

“I’m saving your soul!” came the reply, from the midst of the crowd.

The officer climbed into his vehicle, and drove off. The crowd remained, a stone wall, watching as the fingers of the Empire withdrew into the night.

Part III

I. Revelations

Iosef was dying. Every breath he took was pained, and his eyes rolled in his head, trying to fight off the glaze that was overtaking them. Ivan sat beside his bed in the small church, ransacked completely by the mob only a few hours earlier. He gripped the old man’s icy hand, and prayed quietly. His mind was cloudy, however, and he found it difficult to concentrate on the words he was speaking.

It had been the scene in the interrogation room; watching a man try to break another man’s soul with his fists; trying to beat God out of him. The young man had come upon something strange, watching that. The scene hadn’t disturbed him, frightened or sickened him. His stomach hadn’t turned like those of the guards in that little room. Then and now he felt no rage, no dejection. He felt pity. A great sense of sorrow for someone who hated God and the Church so much that he would murder an old man in cold blood. He had wanted to get up, to tell the man that he didn’t have to do that; that he would be forgiven; that the Church would take him back, hold him to its infinite bosom.

But he had said nothing, and now a brother was dying. As the Priest began to heave his last few breaths, Fyodor’s mind began to go blank and his eyes closed. He awoke elsewhere. He could still hear the faint gasps of that dying man, but it was as if for every ounce of life that drained from the ancient chest, a window was thrown open in the Novice’s soul. Fyodor realized he could see everything that would come to pass. God put his essence on a hilltop and showed him the future of the World from this moment of an old priest’s death to the final horizon of the Last Judgement. He saw the faces of kings, their outstretched armies, banners waving in the haze of midday; cities built and toppled, and a great cross hanging in the sky. In the middle of it, this sea of visions, stood Zinova. His face was covered, but the Novice felt his eyes cutting through the nakedness of his soul. He was transfixed, and couldn’t turn, for God was holding him in place. The Elder raised his hand, and beckoned. With the other, he touched his veil, and pulled it up.

“Come now, boy. His work is done, but ours is just beginning.”

Fyodor’s eyes shot open. He realized that he had been clutching Iosef’s hand, and let it fall. It hung limp, dead at the side of the bed. He turned around. Standing there in the doorstep was Zinova. His face was uncovered, but in the dim light it was impossible to make out his features.

The Novice stood and walked slowly over to the Elder, stopping a few feet short of him.

“A man killed your agent. I watched him do it,” he said quietly. “I’m going to kill that man.”

He said these words coldly, without emotion. Inside, he felt the sting of rage, foul temptation boiling in his breat. He was reproaching every part of himself that was good and Godly for ever having wanted to forgive the Priest’s murderer.

Zinova replied quietly, sympathetically.

“Banish such thoughts, my child.”


Fyodor wanted to be struck for having done nothing, for having watched a man die. There had been nothing he could have done, and deep down he knew it, but he wanted to feel pain.

Zinova shook his head.

“Why are you here?” asked the Novice.

“It’s beginning. The forces of injustice have set everything in motion. We knew that they would strike first, and we were ready. We were vigilant.”

“It’s too late. They’ve broken every sanctuary in this city.”

“The time of sanctuaries is over, my son. Now, the streets are our safe havens. These cities, this country is a haven for us.”

“You’ll be killed. Kazatmiru is arresting everyone.”

“Not Kazatmiru, boy. Kazatmiru is dead.”

This was news to Fyodor, and in fact to anyone. The Emperor had passed only an hour ago.

“Then his son, Ivan, is responsible. He’ll be king.”

“It’s not Ivan, and he won’t be king. It was the man who killed Iosef who set this in motion.”

Fyodor eyed the Priest curiously.

“Who is he? How do you know?”

“His name is Kasotkin. A wicked wolf of a man. Powerhungry. He controls the Prince like a marionette.”

“Can this be stopped?”

Zinova turned his eyes to the ceiling.

“I pray it can, but God has only revealed to me everything up to this point. I know only where to stand, where to move my pieces. I know not the outcome.”

There was silence between the two. Fyodor eventually looked up, straight into the Priest’s invisible eyes.

“I will serve you,” he said quietly. Zinova extended a wrinkled old hand and placed it on the boy’s shoulder.

“I know you will, my son. That’s why I chose you.”

II. Ends

Nikolai sat beside his father’s bed. The archbishop had left an hour ago, having given the Emperor his last rights. Now the Prince was alone with the dying man.

The old man’s chest heaved in and out with great effort as he took his last breaths of this world’s air. The Prince had never seen his father look this old, before. The lines on his face seemed to have deepened, and his eyes sunk further into his skull as the Holy Spirit began to lead him away.

Nikolai pressed his father’s palm, growing colder by the minute. He bowed his head and whispered a prayer, listening all the while to the old Emperor’s last breaths. Finally, there was silence. The Prince’s face contorted briefly in anguish, but he shed no tears. He squeezed the Emperor’s hand one last time, before rising to his feet. He looked at the still form of his father, then turned and left the room.

In the gallery outside, several people were waiting: courtiers, clergy, advisers; all who had been close to the Emperor in life now waited for news on his death. They surrounded the Prince as he exited the room, but he brushed past them wordlessly.

He walked through the empty corridors of the palace. The moon streamed in, casting an eerie light on the white marble floors. The Prince felt neither the breeze on his face, nor heard the sound of his own footsteps echoing through the halls. His face was pale white, as a ghosts. He felt nothing, saw nothing. It was as if he himself had departed this world, and was wandering emptily through some supernatural maze. In the back of his mind, he knew he had a task to do: he sought his brother Alexei, to give him the news.

This subconscious will drove him towards his younger brother’s chamber. As he drew nearer, his senses returned somewhat, and the world flashed back into view around him. The color returned to his cheeks, and the buzzing in his head subsided, enough that he could hear the soft, musical voice of Katerina Ivanovna in the hall outside his brother’s room. He rounded the corner, and caught a glimpse of her dress before she disappeared inside. Nikolai paused, and leaned against the wall. He would wait to tell his brother, so that at least someone would enjoy peace and pleasure this night.

The Prince made his way back, halting before a great balcony overlooking the center of the palace complex. He stepped out into the cold night, and leaned against the railing. He drew a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, taking a deep drag. Suddenly, he felt as if something was terribly amiss. He realized then that the night air was full of unusual noise. The drone of truck engines could be heard fast approaching the palace gates. Furrowing his brow with intense curiosity, he watched as the gate before him opened and a convoy of unmarked police vehicles entered, stopping before a large government building within the palace walls.

Armed police exited the trucks, and were met by White Guardsmen, who threw open the rear doors and dragged out several individuals. Nikolai could tell they were bound even in the dim light, and watched the police haul them into the building.

The Prince felt a bizarre rage boiling up in his soul.

“Ivan…” he whispered through clenched teeth. Of all nights

As the trucks pulled off into the night, he looked down and saw a tall figure walking quickly towards the building. He recognized his brother’s gait and posture, and darted from the balcony. He raced down the stairs, hoping to catch the scoundrel in time. As he charged down the stairs, however, he ran directly into someone going the opposite way.

He got up, and dusted himself off, shooting an angry glance at the other man. As the interloper got to his feet, Nikolai thought he recognized him: a tall man with white hair. A noble of some sort, possibly one of his father’s old advisors.

“Your highness,” he said. “I apologize, but I’m glad I caught you before you went out.”

“What is it?” said the Prince, hurriedly.

“It’s concerning your brother.”

Nikolai raised an eyebrow. The other man looked around the gallery, making sure no one was around, then leaned in and continued quietly.

“I have some documents that you may find interesting. Apparently, the Prince Regent was involved in some activities several years ago, during the Alberian Crisis. Activities that may have compromised Imperial soldiers…”

The man reached into his coat and handed over a thick envelope. The Prince grabbed it hastily.

“I’ll look into it.”

He opened the envelope and removed the stack of papers within. He looked up to ask the man who had given them to him his name, but saw only the back of his head vanishing into the darkness outside.

“Strange…”

He began flipping through the documents. At first, they seemed like simple facsimiles of business legers and his brother’s correspondence, and he wondered how the stranger had come upon them. As he read on, though, his eyes began to widen as it dawned on him what the documents really implied. Together, they were nothing short of a full history of his brother’s involvement in financing a particular Alberian warlord, whose name was instantly recognizable as one of the most brutal men to stand against the Empire in the rogue province.

Nikolai dropped the papers, which fluttered the floor. He was stunned. He stumbled outside, breathing deeply of the night air. Just then, he saw his brother leaving the building he had entered shortly before. Nikolai’s blood boiled; his face turned white hot. The Prince Regent crossed the grounds quickly, and entered the Cathedral. Nikolai sprinted after him, covering the distance in no time.

He burst through the Sanctuary’s doors like a wild animal. His brother, hearing the crash of the double doors, rose from where he knelt before the altar. His eyes were wide as Nikolai stormed down on him.

“You bastard…” growled the Prince.

“What? Nikolai, are you alri-”

He was interrupted by his brother’s hand wrapping itself around his throat. Bodily, Nikolai heaved the Regent off of his feet and threw him forward. His brother’s body crashed into the altar, toppling it with its candles and incense. A priest rushed out of a confessional, horrified at the scene before him.

Nikolai leapt on his brother, and slammed a fist into his face.

“Stop! Stop this you scoundrels! This is a House of God!” shouted the Priest. Nikolai didn’t hear him.

The Prince grabbed his brother by the hair and slammed his head again and again into the ground.

“You bastard! You fucking bastard!”

He let up momentarily to catch his breath. Tears of rage streamed down his face. Ivan took the opportunity to counterattack, and with great strength of his own, he head butted his brother, who fell backward, clutching his now bloody forehead. The Regent stood up, and as his brother tried to rise, placed a boot on his throat. Ivan’s face streamed blood. He could barely see.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” he said, calmly, to Nikolai.

“I know what you did, you bastard!” shouted the Prince. “In Alberia! I know what you fucking did!”

He grabbed Ivan’s ankle and twisted it. Ivan fell, and Nikolai leapt to his feet. Before he could jump on him again, his brother was up, protecting his face.

“Nikolai? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t give me that!”

Nikolai threw a left hook, which his brother blocked.

Stepping back, the Prince reached into his jacket pocket. His brother, fearing he was about to produce a weapon, went for the dagger at his heel, drawing it and extending it towards Nikolai’s throat. Nikolai, however, merely removed a crumbled sheet of paper, and hurled it to the floor.

“That. I’ve read all of it, Ivan,” he said, quietly now, his rage subsiding into despair. Ivan warily bent down to pick up the piece of paper. Unfurling it, his eyes scanned the top of the page, then widened in horror. He dropped it and stumbled backwards, bracing himself against the upturned altar. The Priest still watched from the aisle.

“No…” said the Regent. “No, it can’t be…He didn’t…”

He brought his hand to his head, and fell to his knees.

“No!”

“So it’s true. You dirty bastard…”

Nikolai advanced on his brother, standing over the crumbled form. Nikolai looked up, horrified. He clutched his brother’s legs.

“He tricked me! It wasn’t my fault! You have to understand, you have to believe me! It was Kasotkin! He…he wanted to blackmail me!”

Nikolai kicked Ivan’s hands away.

“No more excuses, Ivan. No more lies.”

Nikolai slunk backwards.

“I’m telling the truth, goddamnit! Can’t you understand?! Don’t you see what’s happening!”

Nikolai kept advancing on his brother.

“You fool! You idiot! Believe me! It’s Kasotkin! I can prove it!”

Nikolai halted.

“How? Who’s Kasotkin?”

“Probably the one who gave those papers. He was…it’s a long story. He worked for our father. He’s trying to blackmail me into turning against the Church.”

“Pinning your own ideology on someone else, now?” said Nikolai spitefully. “Don’t give me anymore bullshit. I’m tired of swallowing your lies.”

“No! Like I said, I can prove it, brother!”

“And like I said: how?”

Ivan began to get up.

“Upstairs, in my desk, there’s a copy of his correspondence with the Alberian. It can reveal everything.”

“If you have something like that, how did you manage to get blackmailed?”

Ivan sighed, exasperated.

“It’s, it’s not enough to deter him on its own, and releasing his information on me is still enough to damn me, but I kept it for damage control purposes. For times like these. That Priest, the one they caught snooping around in my room was probably looking for it. Probably one of Kasotkin’s agents.”

“You’re stalling, then. Show it to me.”

Ivan nodded, and led his brother back to the Royal Residence, upstairs, and into his chamber.

“That’s strange. The door’s unlocked…” he said. Turning the handle, the two entered to find Obrad Kasotkin standing there, staring at them. Behind him a pair of White Guardsmen trained their guns. Prince Alexei and Kasotkin’s daughter Katerina sat against the far wall, hands tied.

“You knew you made a mistake interfering, Ivan,” said the old man, venomously. “You should have let me kill that Priest. Life would have been much easier for you.”

Nikolai looked at his brother, who was staring straight back at the blackmailer.

“You weren’t lying,” whispered the Prince.

“Afraid not,” replied Ivan.

Kasotkin looked at Nikolai.

“I was hoping you’d kill him for me. Your jealousy of your brother is not exactly news, Prince Nikolai. Still, it seems blood is thicker than water in some cases. Oh well.”

“What is it you want, Kasotkin,” said Ivan.

“Nothing you can help me with. Not anymore. You’ve reached the end of your leash, and your usefulness. Nothing for you to do but die, now. Along with your brothers.”

“So what? So you can finish off the Church single handedly? You’ll be arrested, you fool! Hanged!”

Kasotkin laughed coldly.

“You underestimate my connections, then. If I could blackmail the Prince Regent, then certainly I can handle a few petty police officers and palace guards. My fingers are closing around the black heart of this Empire as we speak, ‘Your highness.’”

Nikolai looked over at Alexei. His brother was trying to comfort the girl.

“Isn’t that your daughter? What does she have to do with this?” asked Nikolai.

“Loose ends,” replied Kasotkin, shooting an icy glance at the girl.

“So it’s all come down to this? All your scheming for a simple palace coup?” said Ivan.

Kasotkin laughed again. He checked his watch.

“We’re running behind, I’m afraid.”

He turned to the two guards behind him.

“Kill them all,” he said. They raised their weapons. Nikolai flinched, waiting for the explosion.

There it was. Outside. The building shook. He opened his eyes, looked at his hands. The guards had dropped their weapons. He looked out the window. The noise of many voices outside. There was a fire in the center of the courtyard. Men were racing towards the gates. He could see faces, banners; hear shouting.

Kasotkin cursed.

“He’s here!”

He raced to the window. Nikolai was on him in seconds, hurling him to the ground. The guards looked first at the blackmailer, then at the window, and fled. Nikolai landed a heavy punch to Kasotkin’s nose. It broke, and blood streamed down into his open, screaming mouth. Ivan, who had been thrown to the ground by the explosion, rose and walked over.

Nikolai reached into Kasotkin’s coat and pulled out a revolver. He pressed it to the man’s head, and pulled the hammer.

“Wait!” shouted the terrified, sweating old man. “Wait! He didn’t tell you everything! I know more!”

Nikolai’s finger pressed against the trigger.

“Stop! He-!”

Bang. Nikolai dropped the gun, and got to his feet. He wiped away a bit of blood and skull from his cheek, and stared at the corpse.

Outside, the shouting was growing louder. Ivan walked over to the window, as Nikolai went over and unbound his brother and the weeping young girl.

“Get her out of here,” he said to Alexei, his voice flat and gray. He looked over at Ivan.

“I’d better get down there…” said Ivan.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure, but it scared Kasotkin enough.”

Ivan left the room, and walked downstairs.

Outside, at the gates, the palace guards trained their rifles and shouted for order. A great mob was outside. From robed monks to working class Generians, it seemed the whole city was out in force that night.

In their midst stood the Priest, Zinova, like an oak tree in the middle of a great storm.

The gates broke, letting the tide free. The palace guards fell back against it, afraid to shoot. Zinova walked calmly through the breach as the mob swarmed in. Ivan emerged from the Royal Residence just in time to witness this. It was the last thing he saw before a shot rang out from the mad crowd, dropping him like a sack of bricks.

The crowd halted briefly, staring at the crumbled form of the royal.

“He is dead! The atheist is dead!”

The shouting resumed.

“Kill the rest of them!”

Suddenly, the rooftops lit up with gunfire. Men fell like chaff. Zinova alone stood calm, watching the chaos around him.

“So it is done, my Lord,” he whispered. Suddenly, he felt a white hot pain in his chest. Looking down, the world stopped turning around him. He touched his chest, and brought away his hand, seeing it smeared with blood. He fell, and Fyodor was instantly beside him.

“Father! Father!” he shouted. Zinova looked over, his face still veiled. He touched the young man’s face and pulled him close, whispering something in his ear.

The mob seemed to halt briefly in their flight. They saw their messiah lying there, bleeding, breathing his last. A great wail went up from their throats before the gunfire drove them back into the street. Sirens wailed in the distance: the last fanfare for a dead Priest.

III. The Last Emperor

Nikolai sat silently beside his brother’s body coffin, which lay beside that of his father in the Cathedral. He placed a hand on the cold wood, and bowed his head. He couldn’t even bring himself to pray after what he had watched the night before. He felt betrayed; dirty. He had stood up for them, stood against his brother and for the church. This was how he was repaid. He glimpsed a faint vision of a bloody face, a bullet hole through the forehead; white hair smeared with blood…

“So, the old ways end here of all places.”

The voice was unfamiliar. Nikolai started, looking up into the face of the young priest who now stood beside him. The Prince scowled, but the clergyman paid no heed, only staring straight ahead at the dual coffins. There was a trace of sadness in his eyes.

“Is this what you fought for, then? Is this what that holy man wanted? My brother dead? My father shamed amid the ruins of his palace?”

Nikolai’s voice was flat, his eyes empty. He remembered this face from last night, amid the crowd. The priest looked at him, sympathy in his eyes.

“He never told me his grand designs. I question now whether he even had any. Great men are like that sometimes. We are so blinded by their appearances and their charisma that we forget to look for a method to their madness.”

“Wise words, coming from a monk…” said Nikolai, less spiteful than sad.

“A Novice, actually,” said the Priest softly. Nikolai looked up at him, not having heard.

“I’m a Novice. Well, was a Novice. Before Zinova came and turned that world upside down.”

“It seems he had a knack for doing that,” said Nikolai. Fyodor nodded at the tragic comment.

The two fell silent, both simply watching the two coffins, as if they expected the doors to open and the dead men to sit up and start a conversation.

“What was it he whispered to you last night?” asked the Prince, softly. He remembered now where he had seen this priest last night. Fyodor looked at him, but remained quiet.

“Your Holy Man,” continued Fyodor. “As he lay dying, he whispered something to you. What was it?”

“I told him that your brother, the Prince Regent, had been shot,” said Fyodor, apparently choosing his words carefully. “I did not know if he had intended for that to happen. He then whispered to me: ‘then you must follow the second son.’”

Fyodor watched Nikolai as he spoke the last words. The Prince kept staring straight ahead. His expression remained distant, blank.

“And follow you we will,” said Fyodor, softly, before turning and walking down the aisle, towards the door.

As the door closed, Nikolai remained where he was. Suddenly, he chuckled.

“Follow the second son,” he repeated. He laughed again.

Fin

{OOC: GE, that was abso-bloody-lutely brilliant and amazing. Your writing skills are like a fine wine; they just get better with age. Keep up the great work. :)}

{OOC: GE, that was abso-bloody-lutely brilliant and amazing. Your writing skills are like a fine wine; they just get better with age. Keep up the great work. :)}

((OOC: Haha, thanks buddy.))

{OOC: My pleasure. Your stuff is always a joy to read.}

OOC: Bravo! Excellently written!

OOC: Bravo! Excellently written!

Thanks.