NationStates Jolt Archive

Tomorrow Belongs to Me (http://c.wrzuta.pl/wa8904/0495de7900167b56477330db/0/liza%20minelli%20%26%20joel%20grey%20-%20tomorrow%20belongs%20to%20me%20(cabaret).mp3)


November 13th, 2010
Rexheim: The Great Levantian Empire

“With every move and counter move, with every inch that is given another inch is gained in retreat. Where once there was nothing but waste, and then where desperate hands are turned to labor, there was created a great and thriving opulence, In desperation we find that all we are so accustomed to is,,,, Is….” King Rex rustled the paper and folded it over his knees tiredly; Headlines of Waldenburger ships shelling Westminster were splashed across the front page, “Strike that, return to the third paragraph.” His secretary nodded silently and clicked her typewriter back a few lines.

“There is a tide component… No, no strike again.” It was suggested by his staff that he should, both for capital and political purposes write his memoirs, and series of political theses. “It says here that Grestonian forces have been hit hard by the betrayal; and that casualties are catastrophic on both sides.” His secretary seemed to care little and took this little break to clean under her fingernails with a pen cap. “Waldenburger battlecruisers are sinking like lead.”

Sun lofted through great French widows that lead to a great marble balcony that in turn encompassed a panorama of sparkling waves that were but an atom’s breath away from the turning of the world. This changed things; this new coup, the MU’s turning away from the Hegemony, split the region, and more specifically the Levantian Empire into two distinct halves; one which held its support with the original Pan Grestonian power bloc, and those who could better taste the flavor of the wind.

“When the Levantian State Minister calls I am playing polo, and after that I will be flossing.” The King spoke irritably, and indeed his phone had been ringing off the hook and for some time and he had not advanced through a single paragraph in the last day. The only head of state not to call him was Wyatt von Waldenburg, the man he had met only once and spoken to even less. There seemed to be a strange lack of communication from the continent, and his envoys had thus not spoke with anyone inside of the cabinet.

This office had been a sympathetic gift, a pat on the head, from the Levantian Empire, once the largest state in the region, and now sadly at war within its own home. Every tile on the embossed floor, every fluted pillar was the sum of his worth, a quick and pleasant dismissal from world politics, to push him aside for the Canaerean political machine that had, along with Grestonian support, come to dominate fully every aspect of Imperial life.

“The blood and tears of kings are shed in equal measure, but only one leaves indelible stains; only one pricks the heart of every free man to action; scream bloody revolution and you have but a war, weep a sea of soft tears and you have an ocean to net from.” The King of Rexheim clutched his pen heavily and bit his lip. He had the sneaking suspicion, from deep within himself, that he was being played. “Get my coat.”
--

“Your children have waited to see…”
Paper flags waved as the crowd roared through the second verse and the Rexheimer flag was pulled above the mercantile bank; it drifted lazily in the breeze before snapping to an almost military attention.

“The morning will come…”
The crowd had been growing all morning with thousands of students coming out from the leafy quadrangles, and open squares of the colleges to have the royal standard painted on their faces, and the red of the flag dabbed on their hands.

“When the world is mine….” It swelled from but a few anxious protestors until Homel Square was packed with almost one hundred thousand singing voices and pumping fists.

“Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me!”

The banners unfurled and the city erupted in a fervor of patriotism, as individuals poked their heads from homes businesses to see a flood of humanity pressing in upon their homes, and they could not but help but be swept up in the moment, they could not help but throw open their doors. There was a certain ambiance of the mob, the smell of stale sweat and coal on a laborer, the fine threads of government minister, and the sickly sweet dichotomy of children that clamored to see.

“But soon says the whisper, arise, arise!
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me!“

There was now a purpose to their movement and through the sea of limbs the watched could see the rococo style Imperial Liaison Building, bedecked as always with fluttering green flags. A loose line of Imperial policemen stood to attention behind a thin concrete detachable barricade, outnumbered by nearly by the crowd by almost fifty thousand times.

“Protestors disperse!” A captain applied a megaphone to his lips and attempted to be heard above the mob, “You are violation of traffic laws! Disperse or we will arrest you!” A cobblestone flew from the crowd and smashed the plastic device to shreds, and bloodied the captain’s lip; laughter overtook the first few ranks of citizenry who added fuel to their humor by jeering, and throwing the remnants of half eaten hot dogs across the barricade.
--

“Do you really think you can control them?” Ossian Bayard, Minister of the Interior leaned against the balustrade with King Rex as he studied the protest through binoculars; the Interior Ministesr wore a heavy black coat despite the heat, and smoked what appeared to be a never-ending stream of unfiltered cigarettes. “It’s not just here, everywhere, the people say ‘no more empire’ freedom, liberty, enfranchisement!” Ossian yelled with mock enthusiasm.

“A sad categorization of the times as the benefits of the Empire have given the population the ability to protest its fault.” The King put down his binoculars and picked up a cell phone from the marble balustrade. “I don’t need to control them,”
--

“Disperse!” Twenty men were almost pinned to the ground by the constant and increasingly violent barrage of projectiles, and suddenly blood filled the air as automatic rifle fire chattered into the street and bodies began to fall with alarming frequency. Rather than reacting in the traditional mob fashion, the Rexheimers quickly did some mental addition, and surged forward, makeshift weapons appearing from the street and reaching angry fists.

In one hour the Fire Service was called in to extinguish the charring Imperial Liaison Building; in two hours Royal Troopers had to secure the street with tear gas and shock batons. In three hours the sun went down.

“But soon says the whisper, arise, arise
Tomorrow belongs to me
Tomorrow belongs to me!”

Paddy's Lamentation (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_VCX-Zdz5qA)

November 13th, 2010
Canaery: The Great Levantian Empire

At the begining of his era of reign, the Emperor had flaunted around a sentimentality of being equal to his people, despite his crownship. That had been a tradition he quickly abandoned after he had moved into the Regency Palace of Canaery on Levantia. The chusions he sat upon seemed to mock him, he had gained much weight in the two years since the coronation. The truthful, but just, eyes of the faded portrait of Augustin Isidore Baudouin, hanging as a testimony to the Canaerean lives lost in the name of freedom during the initial onslaught of the Imperial Korosovoan Army at the closing of the sixthteenth century, witnessed yet more events that would change a nation, an empire, and a region. Only the Head of the House of St. Claire, Emperor Ryan I, did not know yet that it was such an impending moment in history.

Emperor Ryan I sat at the end of a table, amazing woodsmen ship was portraited by the carved legs and the side panels, engraved with testimonials all the way down. The table was lined with empty chairs, tucked in under neath; as of late the emperor had been eating alone, something seemed to be tugging at him. He ate silently, the only noise to be heard was that of the clatter of his untensils on the porclean china and the chewing of his supper. More money had been invested in the creation of his meal than had been redistributed to the public through government funded systems in the past year. The same was also true to the funds being attributed to funding the Pan-Grestonian power bloc and her war.

Ryan stared at the fork, gently balanced in his hand; finely painted gold, the fork gleamed back at him. The fire placed behind him gently flickered, the opened windows to either side of it let soft, whispering breezes roll in. To his left opened up a beautiful parlor, host to many conferences in the past; furnished entirely with Victorian style furniture, Ponentian rugs and chandelier, and Grestonian baroque era paintings. To his right was a few feet of space then a wall, lined with great portraits and Romantic style paintings. A small table with a Greek vase and a Victorian stlye chest huddled in the corner between the window and the wall.

It was a picture perfect moment in a picture perfect palace, that of those in stories. That was until Pactrick Évariste, aid to the thrown, hurriedly rushed into the room as the emperor ate. Sweat was gathered at his brow and nervousness seemed to be digging deep inside him, portayed by the lines of furrowed, wrinkled stress on his forehead. St. Claire laid down his fork and looked up at the panic streaked man, not taking the moment to stop chewing. Upon swallowing the emperor looked up and questioned, "What news is so grave that I must be disturbed whilst supper?"

"Your Most Gracious Imperial Majesty, Emperor Ryan I, the Rexhiemian Imperial Liaison Building has burned down."

St. Claire took a sip from his goblet before replying, "Then this can wait until morning, Sir Évariste."

Évariste seemed taken aback by the statement, "But, Your Majesty, it was not an accidental fire, protestors burned it down whilst rioting."

That was what made St. Claire react. He stopped his fork mid air, fumes from the piece of steak dangling seven inches away from his mouth danced on his lips. "What would provoke such violence?"

"Your Majesty, this is the problem, King Rex III ordered his imperial policemen to fire upon the crowd. Instead of acting in a regular mob manner, they surged upon the Imperial Liasion Building in Hommel Square and burnt it down. King Rex tried to keep a lid on the story, but survivors of the riot leaked it to the press. GNNN is blasting it all over the head lines!"

St. Claire was taken aback but let it show as little as possible, his old friend Rex, he could tell was losing his ways, "I'd rather wait for the papers tomorrow morn, thank you for the information Sir Évariste, believe me, we shall react."

--

Shells had been landing on Easen for a day now, St. Claire stared in awe at the newspapers over toast and fruit. He was amazed at how quickly relationships could change all in the name of national security. The sad truth was, after seeing the Empires' two biggest allies, the Imperial Republic and Waldenburg, duke it out in the Westminister, St. Claire was scared of what could happen if tensions were to rise with Rexhiem. Thousands of miles of ocean separated Waldenburg and Greston, only a few feet of former land borders separate the two kingdoms.

He flipped the pages and glanced upon the black and white rendition of a picture taken of the naval battle the night before. He folded the papers and rested them upon his knee, his air, Pactrick Évariste sat to his left, Lucile Marianne to his right with a lap top, typing away his response. "The Implacable has been sunk... the unsinkable ship now lays as scrap metal in the Westminister Strait."

Évariste was startled at the news too, only about two months ago the Emperor had toured the ship, met the Admiral and shooks hands with the crew. As he read the paper, those men were probably dead or drowning.

St. Claire looked up to meet Lucile's eyes, a revelation was upon him, "Lucile, 'To this I swear and devote my life' the exact words I spoke in my coronation. I swore to serve and protect my people, all the people of the Levantian Empire, how can I do so when two members are warring with themselves?"

The television which had been on a low enough volume not to be a nusiance became louder. The remote was in the emperor's hand and he stared blankly at the screen.

"Grestonian ships have been launched on both sides of the Isthmatia to attack the canal. Tanks have been rolling across the Levantian-Aschenhyrstian for the past two hours. Casualties are mounting, and two lockes have been destro-"

"By god! The Imperial Republic is using our Empire as staging points for attacks on the MU! What do you feel with should do Sir Évariste?"

"Had it not been for Greston, Canaery would be a small insignificant nation in the region. The Great Levantian Empire would be non existant had it not been for their suppourt. The State Minister probably authorized it, and even then why should we side with the MU, they are attacking our allies in this war?"

St. Claire was out of his seat and pacing, his index finger and thumb stroked his eye brows. His brow furrowed in frustation, he had no clue as to what to do, then he turned to Évariste and decided, "Let's remain nuetral, we need to clear up problems on the home front first. Set up a meeting with me and King Rex, have Second King Ru'an attend as well."

St. Claire downed his orange juice and began to his chambers when Évariste stopped him with a question, "What about Crown Prince Marten Evanovich of Korosovo?"

"Oh of course, Patrick, what harm can he do?"

Grabbing his coat of the coat rack and his scabbard, leaned against it, St. Claire left the room.

There was something about the crystallization of air, the fine puffs of breath were little civilizations in themselves, a million little people blooming then being dispersed amongst the greater world. When a momentous event happens in someone’s life they remember every detail of it, and King rex, speaking to a mourning crowd of almost three million, felt the cold of the balcony through his gloves, felt the little pricks of moisture forming on the back of his neck.

Despite the number the crowd was silent, and their breath hung like his did in little clouds; the paper flags of before now discarded and replaced with black mourning bands.

“…308 dead. Almost a thousand wounded, and despite myself I do not know what to say,” Rex’s own black cloak whipped in a gently wind that too cropped his hair over a sad and pale face, “what have we come to? What has happened to my people? What has fired their blood so much as too push them to this? I look back to two hundred years of absolute peace with our neighbors; and I must ask from where did this violence come from. Madness has over taken this country.

Madness not of fiery blood, vindictive murder, not rabid butchery and slaughter but the yearning of two billion souls to be free; the gentle sound, the slide of grains of sand from the mountain into a sea of wrong, that has at last overflowed the sink in which we held our own wrists to so happily ease the blood from our veins. A righteous anger is more powerful than a cruel one, more powerful than arms and oppression. When I return to my office I will pass under a Levantian flag, salute, then labor for its greater glory and what will receive? The bodies of 308 of my children, funerals for so many, and the bill to foot it!

This is not Empire, this is not union: this is slavery. Not of whips and chains but of more potent devices, not of the body but of the soul and the mind; shackled to this imperfect union with our bonds of fealty. But as your king, descendent from thousands of years of bloody war and strife, I tell you when those bonds become too tight they must be broken! When the shackles chafe too much they must be splintered!” Rex paused as the crowd applauded loudly.


“When the Waldenburg Empire began its bombardment of Westminster it committed a most courageous act; it stood against a sea of foes, a mighty LION, and with Easen in flames at this very moment, we see how courage reaps it rewards. Now we can look to Greston, enemy of the MU, using neutral Levantian territory to assault MU territory, flinging us into the war; our neutrality is violated, our soldiers will undoubtedly be thrown into combat and we can only wait and see what directives shall further bind us.

Now I have heard the rumors just as you have; that I ordered Imperial soldiers to fire on crowd of my own people; if you feel that I have, have betrayed your trust and your bonds of fealty only say the word and I shall throw myself on your feet and in bloody adoration and plead your mercy. If you believe me responsible for this audacious crime proclaim it, but I will not play to your fears, as those who station armed soldiers on the streets: I will not tempt you with delusions of security where there is nothing but danger. The Levantian Empire is at war, the region is at war, and we, in the face of tragedy must choose a path, which will deliver this nation ahead through its struggles to a future not chained to the failures of others.

If you demand my life I will give it, but I will never relinquish my country, and I will never forget the oath I took: to defend the sovereignty of the Rexheimer people, to perfect the civil union, and maintain the commonwealth of states!

I have nothing more to say, or directives to issue; I will go home now hang up my coat, and pray; pray for those who have died, and pray for the morning.” Emotion building over the course of the speech was let out in great waves with every word reverberating off the other and shaking the pillars and facades of the surrounding square.

“Construction has begun on the monument just as you requested.” Ossian Bayard handed the King a file folder stuffed with polling reports, “the trend continues. Almost 70% of the population is in favor of withdrawing from the Empire, with almost 29% in favor of trying St. Claire with abandonment, treason, and so on.”

“Good…” Rex muttered distractedly, “Tell me when the Levantian’s do something stupid won’t you?” It was a short walk to the long black limousine that whisked him back to his palace; the trip itself should have only been a few minutes but black-banded mourners swarmed across the cobbled streets.

“Vivat!” A black robed don from the Royal University shouted as the king peered through the tinted windows; he waved slightly, which drew the crowd around him and blocked his path. As the driver motioned for the throng to be parted it formed a slow honor guard around the armored limousine. “Vivat Rex!”

Rex smiled slightly as they proceeded slowly, and returned to his folders where he slowly started checking boxes.
--

“Sire? Rex’s secretary stood as her employer strolled into the main office, “the Levantian Minister left seven messages while you were away, and I have the Emperor waiting on line one for you. He’s invited you to a conference on the situation.”

Rex bounded by and into his own office, “I will not be attending; and I’m not here.” The two varnished doors clicked closed behind him and his winter ware was discarded roguishly about the furniture, and papers about the desks. A desk phone rang peevishly, and then again as Rex pulled himself towards the desk and gently removed the phone from cradle.

“Ryan?”

“Rex?”

“Yes. You wished to speak with me?”

“Yes…” There was a drawn out pause, “Things are going poorly. I would hate to see anything happen.

“More than already?”

“No Rex… Tensions are too high right now; and I have been wrong not to trust you, was wrong to assume you ordered those men to fire. If I cannot trust you, who can I? My apologies.”

“Apologies? Trust? Who do you think I am? I have had enough of your patronizing; I’ve licked your boots enough to accept another fallacious apology! This war, will it be the death of us? Was it not enough to tie us to Easen, but to chain ourselves to war? If this spirals downwards and spreads I can only hope we are both killed, so I may have the pleasure of watching you suffer in hell! There will come a day when those who picked the wrong side will pay for what they did, and I do not intend on suffering, now or ever. Good night Ryan. Sweet dreams.” There was a click of plastic on plastic.
--

“Bloody farmers,” sheep, in their thousands poured across the dirt track in relentless and never ending seas of white fleece. A Levantian flagged convoy, Rexheimer in nationality, carrying pay to the 12th Fleet some miles to the south, had been flagged down by a farmhand and informed them that if they wished to continue it would be a bumpy ride.

“Nice fleece though,” the guard remarked as the driver thumped the steering wheel, “coming along nicely.”

“Will you shut up Daniels! We should have been there by now. To hell with farmers! Screw the bloody sheep!”

“Round here that’s considered a compliment.”

A few overall clad farmhands sauntered aimlessly with bamboo poles through the flock, prodding direction where necessary. The two men in the lead truck paid no mind to this as they continued to bicker and only noticed a small boy, hat in hands, twisting amongst his hands, knock on the window and make the universal ‘roll it down symbol.’

“Yes?” The driver did so and poked a sarcastic head out the window. A sickle neatly bit into the neck cutting almost two thirds through the neck and showering blood over the flock, which with the scent of blood on the air were pushed to panic.

“At em’ boys!” From either side of the track, men rose, wielding shotguns or farm implements and dashed for the convoy of vans, firing and whooping war cries as they went.