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On this date, pen touched paper, and the record of a man's life was born.
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On this date, pen touched paper, and the record of a man's life was born.
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I am officially a traitor to my nation. There is no other way about it. I am an associate of the fateful act called treason. If I were to be found out, they would execute me. He would execute me. Personally if it was proper, I'm sure.
The final nail in my coffin was not hammered when I attended that meeting but a few weeks ago. If you could call it as much. A young man at center stage yelling bold political statements almost as blindly as the younger men on soapboxes in the street. It was my first attendance of but a couple before the solidification of my treason, and so as not to be recognized, I sat in the back, listening half-mindedly in between sips of some foul liquid they sought to call whiskey. He praised the names of the first victims of our revolution. A man and a woman, and maybe a man and a woman more, whose pictures were hung on the back wall. These were apparently, the first to be caught. Just caught however, not killed. Although I can only imagine a lifetime's imprisonment is much worse than death.
However their names were cried only for so long. Our Godless prayers of rebellion only directed their way for a minute or two. The true victims, the focus upon which we could summon military might more fantastic than Holdine's war machines, within our own two fists, were their children. Their names I can't recall, but truly they do not matter. Our brother's and sister's children, were very well kidnapped by our opponents, and are probably being doctrined in the nature of Holdine Strane as we speak. The travesty they speak of during this meeting, the travesty we could kill for, is not the act of kidnapping them, or of putting their biological parents in prison. The true crime is that they have given their children, -our- children, new parents, a new life. Destroyed their earliest memories of childhood at the young age when this is possible.
They do not call the first victims or our rebellion mother and father.
No, Holdine Strane is their mother. Holdine Strane is their father.
We cannot forgive this.
No, Holdine Strane is their mother. Holdine Strane is their father.
We cannot forgive this.
I could not be killed for attending this meeting. In fact, because of my parenthood, I probably wouldn't even go to prison, no less a court. They'd simply release me under the joke called house arrest, and watch me with a golden eye for a month or two.
I could be killed, for seeing her. I won't say her name, although unlike the revolution's heroes I truly remember it. Her hair was red, much too chaotic a colour for the nation I reside in. All the women here seem to be a blond too bright, or a black too dark. The daughters of nobles, of an inbred monarchy. But her hair, that firey red, it almost screams the ideals I now focus upon.
It was not a lover's meeting, no she was simply an agent of this youth uprising. However we did kiss, if only to hide my face from a Durem patrol. But I cannot focus on those lips, it was too brief a moment, and she had grabbed my face and forced me onto her much too quickly for a proper memory. Our words were whispered in a back alley, my one and only task for which the Revolution would remember my name always. That one order upon which she called me Brother, upon which they would all call me Brother. I thought once of saluting her as she placed the letter in my palms and turned away, but realized in that action I could be denounced a traitor to both nations, to both causes.
Anyways she was gone before I'd even decided to just say goodbye.
The manner in which I got home was strange. Wearing a street urchin's cloak with hood pulled over I'd hopped on an ancient horse-drawn wagon, holding folk quite different to me, except for the common cloak drawn over all our shivering figures. My eyes were much too green compared to the dull browns and hazels amongst this crowd. Where this wagon was truly headed I was unsure, and I could barely even guess. For after jumping off on the borders of Holdine I was faced with the task of infiltrating my own city, sneaking up onto the balcony of my own room. I was not a noble again until that cloak was tossed over the edge and lost in the wind. I was not a revolutionary again until I opened this journal and inked in the date.
I refuse to become a noble again.
The date upon which my task is to be fulfilled is undecided. However this also means I must be ready always. Odd how what should be my greatest relief is also my greatest stress. By not having the date set, by her not saying to me, "You must do this on the fifth.", I must be prepared to do it on the fifth, and every other date until it is actually done. There is the chance I will never have to do it, but I know in the end that chance is so small that I shouldn't bother to think of it. No one else is suitable enough to commit this act of treason. It is truly my act, for only by my hands will the blood spilt hold proper meaning. I will wait for the day a servant knocks on my door, and hands me an envelope sealed with blue wax. Then I shall draw my sword.
Then I shall kill my father.
Marcellus
"Son of Grand General 'Stonefist' Archimedes."
The young man sighed and snapped his journal shut.
The young man sighed and snapped his journal shut.
