For the King, to Valhalla

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc. This is the sixth of seven posts. The start of the story arc is here.

Music: Lacuna Coil - End of Time

24 August 2012
11:10 am
Santonian consulate, Darrow

“No, not my son!” Hrafnborg wailed as she read the poster that Judith brought back home. “Not my Kjell!”

The Santonians gathered the Kvakkestads and Starrfelts into one of the offices in the Santonian consulate to break the news. The Santonians could only watch as the two families broke down in tears. Thibault could not bear to look at the families’ anguish.

“Why Kjell?” Matthildur thought out loud. “Why does it have to be him?” She last saw her boyfriend at the window, two days ago when Thibault caught them. She hadn’t even said a proper goodbye to him. She stared at Thibault as tears filled her eyes. Thibault Guyton was responsible for separating them. Yet she could not bring herself to be mad at the Santonian. He didn’t understand then how important Kjell was to her… and when he realised it, he became the bridge between the two. How could she be angry at the guy who also looked as much affected as she was?

“Mister Thibault…” Matthildur called out the diplomat’s name, and then pleaded softly, “Please save Kjell…”

Thibault turned to Matthildur. His glistening eyes hinted about his feelings. He inhaled deeply and steeled his resolve to fight for an innocent life. “I’ll try,” Thibault declared. “I’ll try.”

“Thibault and I will be going to the militia headquarters,” Corentin Chouinard told the families. The Santonian consul-general felt the need to apprise the families of the chances of success. They should not get their hopes so high. “We will petition the militia to release Kjell. But I can’t guarantee that they will,” Corentin laid a hand on Hrafnborg’s arm. “We’ll try to do the best that we can. But we have to be prepared for the worst.”


24 August 2012
03:17 pm
Syndicalist People’s Militia Headquarters, Darrow

Hugbert had heard rumours that the twenty prisoners were being held at the militia’s headquarters. It was an obvious choice. It was the Syndicalist People’s Militia that was instigating the reprisals.

The head of the Syndicalist People’s Militia in town, Captain Auðbjörn Arnöy, was not expecting the Santonians. But he entertained them just as well. He didn’t want them complaining to higher-ups in Býkonsviði.

After introducing each other and exchanging pleasantries, Corentin Chouinard and Thibault Guyton sat on the chair in front of Captain Arnöy’s desk.

“So, what can I do for you?’ Captain Arnöy asked.

Thibault resisted answering “release all prisoners”. But Thibault promised Corentin that he would let the more even-tempered consul handle the negotiations.

“Thank you for hearing us,” Corentin began. “We came here concerning one of your prisoners, Kjell Thor Starrfelt.”

Captain Arnöy leaned back on his cushioned chair. He knew where this was heading. “What about him?”

“He is an asylum-seeker in the Santonian consulate,” Corentin declared. Never mind that Nathalie still had not finished his papers. Never mind that they still had not transmitted the Starrfelts’ asylum application to Býkonsviði.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Captain Arnöy said with mock sympathy. Captain Arnöy leant forward and smiled impishly. “But he’s ours now.”

Corentin mentally laid down his cards. They’re not much, but maybe they could score. “I understand that,” Corentin replied. “But maybe you could spare a child from execution? He is seventeen.”

Captain Arnöy chuckled sardonically. “He is no child, Consul Chouinard,” the captain declared. “If a boy’s old enough to carry arms, he’s not a kid anymore. I have militiamen younger than seventeen. They fight. They kill. If they can kill, they can be killed too.”

“But he’s technically under the protection of the Santonian consulate,” Corentin said emphatically.

“Is he a Santonian citizen? I can give him to you if he is,” Captain Arnöy toyed with a pencil on his desk. “But as far as I know, he is not.” The captain straightened back up. “I hope you know that Santonian protection only extends within your premises.”

“Protection that your men tried to breach two days ago,” Corentin reminded the captain. It was his backup trump card. “I already told Býkonsviði about it.” Corentin had already sent a report to the embassy a few hours after the invasion. Ambassador Lasmartres told Consul Chouinard that he can use that fact to the fullest… which Corentin intended to do. “We can make that issue die down,” Corentin whispered. “If you just let us have this one.”

Captain Arnöy sniggered. The Syndicalist government could do nothing about Leiftur’s militia. They could rampage over the breadth of Prydania and still get decorated and praised for their efforts.

“Do you seriously think the Syndicalist government will act against the Syndicalist People’s Militia?” Captain Arnöy told the Santonian consul. “You got your agreement because one of you got killed.” The captain was referring to the 2003 Buhl-Lasmartres Agreement that largely allowed Saintonge to operate consulates and safehouses for refugees and asylum-seekers. “We are not going to make that mistake again,” Captain Arnöy continued, “Why do you think I prevented my men from storming your consulate?”

“Thank you for your restraint, captain,” Corentin said, trying to ingratiate himself with the head of militia based in town.

“I’m not complaining even if he” – the captain pointed to Thibault – “shot at one of our militiamen. It doesn’t matter, I can blame it on Flaatten.”

Corentin nodded.

“I have no hesitations doing that because I know we were in the wrong,” Captain Arnöy told the consul. “I hope you also know the limitations of what you can do, Consul.”

Captain Arnöy stood up from his seat and started to pace around behind his desk. “We tolerate your presence here because that’s what the Prydanian Foreign Ministry and the government wants us to do. Some of the Syndicalist commanders despise the Santonians in their area of operations. I don’t.” Captain Arnöy stopped and turned towards the Santonians. “In fact I would like to thank you.”

Corentin gave the captain a quizzical look.

“You Santonians do a better job in imprisoning the backsliders than the Prydanian police do.” Captain Arnöy gave out a short sly laugh. “You house them in one building, you prevent them from coming out, you prevent them from communicating outside. You contain these undesirables and unreformables properly. Honestly, I would like to thank you for doing a service to Prydania – Saintonge saves us bullets by taking care of these unwanted people and getting them out of Prydania.”

Corentin interrupted the captain. “Why not save more bullets by giving Kjell to us?”

“Consul, I am hanging them tomorrow, not shooting them,” Captain Arnöy retorted wryly. “You know, if the civil authorities and police here in Darrow were as efficient as you Santonians in neutralising these backsliders… this wouldn’t have happened.”

“But is it right that innocent people are going to die because of the incompetence of the civil authorities?” Corentin challenged the captain.

“They’re not innocent,” Captain Arnöy said dismissively. “They tolerated the presence of backsliders in town. If they did not tolerate it, they would have tipped us off about the plot and done something about it.”

“Do you know it was them who knew about the plots and tolerated it?”

“Don’t be naïve, consul, nobody is going to admit they knew about it,” Captain Arnöy answered. “This is a lesson. This is a deterrent. This is a punishment.”

“Is it proportionate?”

“I think it is,” Captain Arnöy said confidently. “Look, if you have issues with this, bring it to your higher-ups.” The captain smirked. “I’m sure they also won’t be able to do anything.”

Corentin realised he was getting nowhere with the captain. But Captain Arnöy was not finished. “Also, let’s say we give the guy that you want. We’ll simply replace him with another one.” Captain Arnöy looked squarely at Corentin. “Can you handle that? Somebody else who wasn’t supposed to die… dying because of your request?”

Corentin fell silent. The captain had a point. If the Santonians saved Kjell, somebody else has to take his place.

“Then put me in his place,” Thibault offered doughtily. Corentin’s jaw fell. Even Captain Arnöy was surprised.

For a moment everyone did not know what to say next. Was Thibault Guyton really offering himself to take Kjell Thor Starrfelt’s place in the gallows? Could the Prydanians do that? What would Saintonge do?

Captain Arnöy took his seat again and smiled approvingly at Thibault. “I admire your courage, soldier,” the captain told Thibault. Inasmuch as the Santonians were a nuisance, he genuinely admired the guy. “I wish many of my men are as brave and as selfless as you are. Are you really ready to die for someone you don’t know?”

“I am ready to die for the innocent,” Thibault said curtly.

“Is there really anyone who is innocent?” Captain Arnöy wondered. “Innocence is subjective.”

“We believe Kjell Thor Starrfelt is innocent,” Corentin declared.

“And we think he is as guilty as all the people of Darrow,” Captain Arnöy replied. “Darrow is lucky we didn’t kill everyone. You see, every common man, woman, and child are natural Syndicalists,” Captain Arnöy continued. “Either they don’t know it, or they are rebelling against it. Kjell Thor Starrfelt is not with us. He is against us, and he is guilty of either ignorance or rebellion.”

The consul sighed. He wasn’t going anywhere. “I still hope you will consider our request – ”

“I considered it, and I rejected it,” Captain Arnöy said flatly.

“We will come back tomorrow,” Thibault said. “Think this decision over.”

“Also,” Corentin continued, “we would like to see Kjell Thor Starrfelt.”
“What for?”
“We would like to talk to him.”

“Now that,” Captain Arnöy said, “I can grant to you. Only because you are Santonians. The others… they won’t get to see anyone before they are hung.”


24 August 2012
04:05 pm
Syndicalist People’s Militia Headquarters, Darrow

The militia set aside one room where the Santonians could meet the condemned. Corentin and Thibault sat on one end of the table as they waited for Kjell to be brought in.

After a few minutes, a militiaman shoved a handcuffed Kjell into the room and closed the door with a loud bang.

Kjell Thor Starrfelt appeared wretched and miserable. He was wearing the same clothes that Thibault saw him in two days ago, only that they were now dirty and grimy. His unwashed face was creased with fear and apprehension. His eyes were red from the sleepless nights.

His expression lightened up a bit when he saw Thibault Guyton. “Monsieur Guyton!” Kjell greeted him eagerly as he sat in front of the Santonian diplomat. “Are you here to help me?”

Thibault dreaded looking at Kjell, afraid of the teenager’s reaction to the news. Because he knew he would be disappointed. Because he did not have any good news to bring.

“Hello, Kjell,” Corentin started the conversation. “I am Corentin Chouinard, Santonian consul-general.” Corentin shook Kjell’s handcuffed hand. “Thibault is my subordinate.”

“Nice to meet you, Monsieur Chouinard,” Kjell said politely. The lack of any word from Thibault hinted to Kjell that this wouldn’t be as good as he thought this would be. The fleeting smile slowly disappeared from Kjell’s face.

Corentin debated which one to tell Kjell first: the results of his negotiations with Captain Arnöy or his family’s condition.

“Kjell,” Thibault said softly, “We tried… but we failed. I’m sorry.”

Kjell could not understand what Thibault was saying. It was left to Corentin to clarify it.

“We negotiated with Captain Arnöy of the Syndicalist People’s Militia for your release,” Corentin informed Kjell, “but Captain Arnöy refused to set you free.”

Kjell became more sullen. “I guess… I’d be dying tomorrow…” He had been mulling over his fate for the past few days. Right from the time he was put in the truck to the militia’s prison. He had a sense of dread and doom. Yesterday, the militia announced that everyone was going to draw lots to select the twenty people to be hung. He drew short.

Kjell cried when he learnt of his fate. “Why me? What about my mother? What about my grandma? What will happen to Dorothea, to Kolbeinn, to Kolbjörn?” His friend Ósvífur Spilde comforted him. But it wasn’t long before the condemned were pried away from the rest and sent into separate cells.

What cruel fate this was! Kjell was not ready to die. He had dreams of continuing his studies in school. He wanted to see his siblings grow up. He wanted to be with Matthildur and start a family with her. All of those… would no longer happen. His family depended on him. He worried about the hardships his family would have to face once he was gone. It gave him never ending distress.

These Santonians tried to be his saviour. They were not able to save him, but… “I appreciate your help for me,” Kjell told Corentin and Thibault. “But would you monsieurs allow me to make one humble request?”

Corentin nodded solemnly.

“Can you please take care of my mum, my grandma, and my siblings for me?” Kjell asked. “I know it might be too much, but there’s no one else I could entrust them to…”

Corentin gave Kjell a reassuring smile. “Your family is in good hands.” Corentin decided it was time to give Kjell the good news. “Thibault brought them over to the consulate last night and they’ve applied for asylum. We’ll be taking care of them until we can send them to Saintonge.”

“Really?” Relief was what Kjell felt. His family would be alright. “Monsieur Guyton,” Kjell turned to Thibault, “thank you for helping me and my family.”

Thibault nodded, suppressing the urge to cry. He was talking to a dead man. Someone who would be gone tomorrow. “Please forgive me… if I wasn’t able to save you…”

Kjell did not understand why Thibault was blaming himself. “Monsieur Guyton, I am grateful for you and your kindness to us,” Kjell told Thibault. “You don’t know us, but you still helped us...”

“If there’s anything I could do for you, I would do,” Thibault murmured. “If I could grant you your last wishes, I would do it...”

After some hesitation, Kjell voiced out his wish. “I… want to see my family before I die…”

Corentin looked at Thibault. Bringing the Kvakkestads and Starrfelts to the militia headquarters was out of the question. Santonian diplomatic protection does not extend beyond the confines of the consulate. Neither will Captain Arnöy consent to Kjell going on an outside pass.

“Kjell,” Corentin began, “I’m afraid that… that is impossible.” Corentin took some pen and paper from his bag and passed it to Kjell. “Write a letter, we’ll get them tomorrow. They’re not allowing visits. This visit we are having… was an exception because we are diplomats – ”

“Corentin!” Thibault interrupted his boss. There was a twinkle in Thibault’s eyes. He was up to something. Thibault held up the standard-issue Nolf smartphone for Santonian diplomats. All Santonian diplomats have a smartphone connected to Saintonge’s satellite phone communications and global positioning system. “Can we use this?”

Corentin grinned at Thibault’s idea. “Sure!”

Thibault connected to Saintonge’s satellite internet and placed a video call to the phone at the embassy. Judith picked up the call.

“Hello? Judith! Get the Kvakkestads and Starrfelts.”

As Judith went to call the families, Kjell looked curiously at Thibault’s phone. “We’re going to make a video call,” Thibault told Kjell. “At least… you can still see them.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Guyton.”

A few minutes later, the Kvakkestads and Starrfelts were on the other end of the line. Thibault simply gave the phone to Kjell.

“Kjell! My son!” Hrafnborg Starrfelt’s voice could be heard from the phone. “Are you going to be free?”

Kjell stood the phone on the table. His hands were starting to shake from the upcoming wave of emotions. He could see his mother and siblings and Matthildur, all evidently emotional. Oh how he longed to be with them… but he had to make do with a screen.

“Mamma…” Kjell started to choke up with sadness and despair. “I’m going to die tomorrow…”

“Nooooooo!” Hrafnborg cried forlornly. “Kjell...” She started to sob. Kjell momentarily looked away; he didn’t want to see his mother so anguished like that. “I’m sorry…” Hrafnborg fell on her knees. “I should have listened to you… please forgive me…”

Kjell blinked away the tears forming in his eyes. “Mamma...” Not once did he blame his mother for his fate. His mother who gave birth to him, his mother who caressed his pain away when he was a small child, his mother who raised him for seventeen years… why should he blame her? “…don’t blame yourself.”

“Kjell…” With her shaking hand, Hrafnborg slowly reached out towards the phone in a futile and impossible attempt to touch her son’s face. She withdrew her hand to her bosom when she realised that he was nothing but a despondent visage on a screen. “… I wish I could be there with you… touch you… hug you…”

Kjell wiped off the tears from his cheeks. He wanted to hug his mother too… but words were all he had. “Mamma… I love you.”

“I love you son…” Hrafnborg murmured. “If I could do anything… to have you back…” Her words were overtaken with grief. Matthildur and Dorothea, who were also crying, went by her side to console her.

“Kjell, what will happen to us?” Matthildur asked ruefully.

Kjell looked at her girlfriend’s face for a long time. He wanted to remember her beautiful face, a face he’d never see again. He knew what would happen to him… “I love you, Matthildur. Please remember me…”

Matthildur nodded. “I will,” she put her right fist over her chest. “You will always be here in my heart…”

“Kjell, please don’t leave us!” Dorothea pleaded.

“I don’t want to leave too,” Kjell said glumly. “But they will take me away…” Kjell tamped down on his emotions to relay one last request to his sister. “Dorothea, please take care of mamma for me. Take care of grandma too. And Kolbeinn and Kolbjörn.” The weeping Dorothea nodded as she listened to her brother’s words. “Be there for them,” Kjell told her, resisting the urge to weep himself. “I love you.”

“STARRFELT!” The room’s door opened violently and a militiaman entered. “YOUR VISIT TIME IS OVER!”

“But we’re not done yet.” Corentin tried to negotiate for more time.

“You’re only given half an hour,” the militiaman said brusquely, who strode towards Kjell to grab him to take him away.

“STOP IT!” Thibault ordered. “Let him say farewell.”

For the last time, Kjell looked at the screen. “Mamma, Matthildur, Dorothea… I love you… Goodbye…” The crying from the other end of the line intensified, so much so that even the militiaman felt uncomfortable.

“Let’s go,” the militiaman forced Kjell to stand up. Corentin retrieved the phone. “I’m sorry, they’re carrying him away… we gotta go.”

As the militiaman half-dragged, half-carried the reluctant Kjell out of the room, Thibault went up to them and put the pen and paper in Kjell’s hands. “Write a letter for your family. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc. This is the seventh of seven posts. The start of the story arc is here.

Music: Red - Hymn for the Missing

25 August 2012
07:30 am
Syndicalist People’s Militia Headquarters, Darrow

Thibault Guyton had been waiting at the militia headquarters for two hours now. His nerves were wrecked. Today was execution day. And he failed to stop it.

Santonian Consul Corentin Chouinard had obtained additional concessions from Captain Arnöy, including a quick visit to Kjell Thor Starrfelt before the boy would be sent to the gallows.

A militiaman called Thibault in and led him to a large room where the twenty condemned men were bound together in a human chain. Anguish, dread, sorrow, and despondency filled the room, almost overwhelming Thibault. He pushed back on the knot of emotions forming in his chest. He could deal with that later.

“We’ll be bringing them out in fifteen minutes,” the militiaman told Thibault. “Be quick.”

Thibault spotted Kjell from among the twenty and went to him. “Kjell…”

“Monsieur Guyton,” the crestfallen Kjell greeted him. “Thank you for coming.”

Thibault hugged Kjell long and tight, like how an older brother would hug a younger brother. “Your mother couldn’t come to give you one last hug…” Thibault swallowed the lump in his throat. “She asked me to hug you for her…”

Thibault felt Kjell’s body heave with disconsolate sobs and cries. Thibault rubbed Kjell’s back, trying to comfort him. Thibault couldn’t tell Kjell it was okay, because it wasn’t. How could he console someone who was about to face his own death?

“Thank you, Monsieur Guyton,” Kjell mumbled amidst his whimpers. “Please take care of my family.”

“I promise you I will.” Thibault could no longer hold his emotions. Tears started welling in his eyes. Kjell was only a few years younger than him. He could’ve been his younger brother.

“Mister Santonian,” the militiaman interrupted them, “they’re about to go.”

Thibault broke off the hug and wiped off his tears with his upper sleeves. “I was told you have something to give to us.”

Kjell produced two sealed letters from the pocket of his hoodie and handed it to Thibault. “Please give them to my mother and Matthildur.”

Thibault nodded. “I will.”

The militiamen then started barking orders for the prisoners to stand up. Another militiaman grabbed Thibault’s arm to lead him out.

“Thank you,” Kjell said before a militiaman jerked him to face the door. Kjell turned his head around for a last look at Thibault. “Goodbye, Monsieur Guyton.”

“Goodbye, Kjell…” Thibault muttered as the militiaman escorted him out of another door. I’m sorry my efforts were not enough to save you…

Neither Thibault nor the other Santonians had the stomach to watch the executions. Thibault immediately went back to the consulate, where he handed Kjell’s last letters to his mother and to Matthildur.

Kjell’s letter to Matthildur Kvakkestad

24 August 2012

To my darling Matthildur,

I am sorry I won’t be able to fulfil my promise to you. I know I swore that I would be with you until the end, but I never knew the end would come tomorrow. Don’t despair! Be strong. Live for me. I might be gone, but I have you in my heart, just as I know you have me in yours. Don’t close your heart to someone who will help you heal the hurt and will treat you well.

My wish is that when you remember me, you remember me and smile, not remember me and cry. Remember all those cherished moments we shared. Those great memories we made. Remember me this way.

Thank you for being a bright spot in my life. I don’t know how I could’ve gone through all these years without you. I love you very much, I cannot say that enough. I wish I could tell that to you in person and whisper it in your ear. But alas, I could not. I hope this letter is enough. Please forgive me if I cannot be with you anymore. Farewell! I love you so much. Thank you.

Kjell Thor​

Click to expand...

Kjell’s Letter to his Mother

24 August 2012

To my beloved mother, my much-loved grandmother, my adored Dorothea and Kolbeinn and Kolbjörn,

By the time you are reading this I am probably dead. I wanted to embrace you all one last time, but I have nothing except this letter.

I know my death will bring you a lot of grief. What I ask of you, especially Mamma and Dorothea, is to be brave and overcome your sorrow. Always remember that Kjell asked you to be strong. For yourselves and for each other. My life will be cut short, but yours must continue.

Even though I am no longer with you, I hope you will keep me in your hearts. Mamma, I am sorry for all the worries and problems I had given you all these years. Let this be the last heartache I will give you. Thank you for giving life to me and raising me. Grandma, I hope you get well soon. Please pray for me. Dorothea, take care of Mamma and the twins for me. I know this is a big responsibility but I believe you can do it. Kolbeinn and Kolbjörn, study hard and grow up to become good men later on.

I know that my cruel fate seems senseless, but my wish is that my death serves a purpose. Fight for justice, for freedom, for this country.

Mamma, Grandma, Dorothea, Kolbeinn, Kolbjörn, thank you for being there for me during all these years. Please say goodbye to my friends on my behalf. Please extend my gratitude to the Santonians and most especially to Monsieur Guyton, who fought for me when no one else did.

Farewell! I will be joining father soon. I am leaving you all. Mamma, Grandma, Dorothea, Kolbeinn, Kolbjörn, I embrace you with all my child’s heart. I love you all. Be brave!

Kjell Thor​

Click to expand...

25 August 2012
Dusk
Town Square, Darrow

A black van with red flags slowly inched forward to the nearly-empty town square. The townsfolk had mostly left. Nobody wanted to stay anyway.

The Syndicalists had forced Darrow’s thirty thousand citizens to view the corpses of twenty of its citizens, hung from the gallows at the middle of the town square. They were somebody’s father… brother… son… neighbour… friend… The militia had systematically marched the red-eyed people of Darrow, neighbourhood by neighbourhood, to the town square. The Syndicalists wanted to teach the people of the town a lesson. Whatever lessons the people of Darrow learned, only their hearts and minds would tell.

The hourly procession of people had gone. The only ones remaining were the few militiamen supervising the several civilians impressed into the grisly service of taking down the bodies from the gallows.

Thibault Guyton deftly drove the van beside the gallows. Their visit was cleared with the Syndicalist People’s Militia; Corentin Chouinard drove a hard bargain for this opportunity. Hrafnborg Starrfelt wanted to see her son one last time.

Thibault heard Hrafnborg’s whimper from the back seat. She had already glimpsed her son. Thibault looked up at the gallows. Kjell was there, fifth from the last, still hanging from the noose that snuffed out his short life. Thibault manoeuvred the van in front of the platform where Kjell was. The sobs from the people at the back became louder as Kjell came into closer view.

Thibault stopped the van and rolled down the window. A militiaman went up to them. “You the one from the Santonian consulate?”

Thibault nodded. “Yes. This was cleared with Captain Arnöy.”

The militiaman chuckled maliciously. “Alright. Enjoy the view!” The militiaman then barked orders: “Take down this boy!”

Thibault, Judith, and Hugbert stepped out of the van. The van was protected by extraterritoriality. The militiamen could not get in. Hrafnborg Starrfelt and her children, Gefjun and Matthildur Kvakkestad, and Theodóra Sörfonn would have to stay in the van or near it.

Kjell Thor Starrfelt’s body was taken down and laid by the workers near the door of the van. The three Santonians formed a cordon around the body to allow their wards to say goodbye one last time. They could not even bury Kjell. The Syndicalists planned to bury them in a secret unmarked location to prevent anyone from making it a remembrance site.

Hrafnborg’s anguished cries filled the town square as the van’s door opened. She alighted from the van and fell on her knees to the cobblestones. “Kjell! My son! What did they do to you…?” She hugged her son’s body, cradling his head on her lap like how she used to comfort her children to sleep. “Mamma is sorry…” Hrafnborg stroked Kjell’s blond hair. “I wasn’t there to save you…” Hot tears flowed down Hrafnborg’s cheeks and fell on Kjell’s cold face. “Please forgive me…!” Hrafnborg’s wails and her powerless calling of her son’s name could be heard all over the town square; the few townsfolk present opted to look away and give the mourning mother her space.

Kjell’s siblings were now also out of the van. Dorothea was hugging and consoling her mother while crying herself. Kolbeinn and Kolbjörn sat beside Kjell’s body; the twins were being comforted by Theodóra.

Matthildur covered her mouth in shock as she saw her boyfriend’s corpse. “Kjell!” She was still in denial. “No, this is not true!” She knelt beside his body and tenderly held his lifeless hand. “You told me… you wouldn’t leave me!” She hugged Kjell and put her head close to his chest, hoping against hope that she would still hear his heart beat. “Kjell… wake up! Wake up…” Their lamentations drowned Darrow’s town square in a sea of sorrow and tears.

Thibault looked away from the scene. Kjell was a life he failed to save. Thibault’s eyes started to water. He had just met the teenager a few days ago. Now Kjell was dead. Thibault couldn’t sleep that night. He was thinking about it all day. Was there anything else that he could have done to save Kjell?

Judith, standing beside Thibault, patted his back comfortingly. She didn’t have to say a word. She understood the emotional pain Thibault was going through. Here was a trained soldier who was prepared for death. Here was someone who placed his life on the line for others. He knew how to face his own end. He was not ready to deal with others’ death.

Thibault rubbed his blurry eyes with the back of his right hand. Judith gave Thibault an encouraging nod. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “It’s okay to cry, Thibault.” Hugbert laid his arm over Thibault’s shoulder.

“I failed to save him…” Thibault murmured. He glanced at Kjell and his family. Hrafnborg’s loud keening was now reduced to soft whimpers. She gazed lovingly at Kjell’s still half-open blue eyes. “You can sleep now, my son,” Hrafnborg whispered as she closed Kjell’s eyelids. “We will not forget you...”

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc. This is intended as the epilogue. The start of the story arc is here.

15 January 2013
2:04 pm
On a Tuesday
Darrow, Prydania

Open war had come to Austurland. Not the Royalist insurgency that had been brewing for years, no. It had finally boiled over. The FRE aired Prince Tobias' public address- the first time anyone had heard the Prince speak publicly- just days before on ÚFP and GRK. The Syndicalist authorities had downplayed the broadcast. "A cheap reactionary propaganda trick," they had said, even as families across the country whispered about it in hushed tones around their dinner tables.
Then the attack came. It had come quick. The FRE was already pushing past Darrow up the coast. The inland towns had fallen....no not fallen, been liberated...they'd been liberated too. The People's Militia reeled under the assault and now Royalist troops were poised to strike at Haland up the coast, where they'd meet the Syndicalist Republican Armed Forces- not the militia, but the actual military. The malaise of over a decade of Syndicalist rule had been broken.

The last few hours had been chaos. People hid in their homes as the sounds of motor fire and machine guns echoed in the streets, but the fighting ended almost as soon as it began. The citizens who emerged from their homes found a Darrow surprisingly intact given the fighting that had occurred, but a different town all the same. Soldiers wearing makeshift versions of the old Royal Army uniforms held Peoples' Militia soldiers at gunpoint as they marched them through town, and the old barbed cross flag was raised in the town square.

People watched in shock at first...this was the Peoples' Militia. Lieftur's lot who could intimidate anyone, beat anyone, arrest anyone, and no one could stop them. The same people who seemed to be above even the normal Syndicalist functionaries. And here they were...their guns taken. Their agency stripped from them. People watched in awe, in shock, glances of Darrow's citizenry meeting the sideways glances of Militia soldiers as FRE troops moved them along. These thugs who had so much power, now glancing at them and looking away in shame.

"Serves you right!" an old lady remarked as a few militia soldiers were being led away. She spat. The crowd cheered....and the cheer rode like a wave through the town....

---

"Hey Flaatten!" Ottar Hummel called out. The Peoples' Militia soldier looked up to see the angry mechanic stare him down.
"Go fuck yourself!" Ottar barked angrily, as the Militia soldier struggled against the FRE soldier marching him away.

"You're on my fucking list Hummel! When we beat these Royalists back you're on my fucking list, you hear me?" Flaatten yelled as the soldier yanked him back in line.

"Shut up and move!" he yelled at Flaatten, paying Ottar Hummel no mind. The soldier wasn't going to give someone a hard time over giving a Militia member a piece of their mind. Not after what had happened here...

Ottar held his wife, Dagheiður, close and kissed the top of her head. They both watched the FRE roll by but...their son was still gone. They had been lucky. By God had they been lucky, to have been spared from the reprisals after the bombing. But Laurids had just...vanished. One day after the Syndicalists made everyone view the bodies, he'd left. He didn't leave a note. He didn't tell them. He was just gone. Spared the atrocity, but they still lost a son.
They thought that maybe the Syndicalists had taken him, but that never sat right. The Syndicalists often made examples of the people they took- the twenty dead souls were testaments to that- but they said nothing about Laurids. He just...vanished. It made it worse, in a way. They didn't even have the closure of knowing the Syndicalists had killed him. It had been five months. They'd slowly made their peace with the idea that he was gone.

"Come on love, let's get back inside" Ottar remarked to Dagheiður.
"Let the younger crowd stay outside in the cold yelling at the bastards." Dagheiður just nodded as they both turned to go back into their home.

"Mr. and Ms. Hummel?" a voice called out, the two turning around. There was a FRE soldier standing in the street in front of their house among the crowds of people.

"Aye" Ottar remarked, a bit stand-offish. He was happy the Syndies had been given the boot, but he was still unsure about speaking with soldiers.
"Who's asking?"

"You don't know me, but my name is Njáll Vopnfjörð. Framan Ríki Eining*, Private, First Class..."

Ottar breathed deep and nodded. He wanted to get back inside, where there was a degree of shelter from the cold winter winds. He humoured the young man recite his rank. What he said next, however, shook his wife and himself to the core.

"...I was asked to deliver a message to you. From your son," Njáll continued.

"La...Laurids?" Dagheiður asked as she managed to speak through a gasp. Ottar, however, was stumped by a million questions running through his mind. He managed to force himself to talk.

"Laurids? Where is he? Do you know him?"

"He's in the FRE," Njáll said with a nod.
"He wanted me to tell you. He's sorry he left without warning. He thought the Syndicalists would come for you, if you knew that he was signing up with the FRE. He wanted me to tell you both that after what happened here he couldn't just not do something. He knew all of those people, and he...wanted to fight. And he wanted me to tell you..." Njáll smiled a bit, "that he loves and misses you both."

"Where's my son?" Dagheiður asked eagerly, nearly stepping down to grab Njáll.

"He's part of our forces moving towards Haland," Njáll replied.
"He would be here if he could, but he has his orders. We all do."
Njáll breathed a sigh of relief having conveyed Laurids' message. He had no idea if the Hummels were even still alive. The news out of Darrow had been horrific. No one from here in the FRE- and there had been a lot since the executions- was taking anyone's survival for granted. Mr. Hummel seemed stoic, but Ms. Hummel...

"My baby...he's fighting with you?" she asked.

"Yes," Njáll replied with a nod.
"He's a good soldier, and my friend."

"Is he...he's ok, isn't he?" she asked nervously.

"I don't know, we're going to keep fighting, but he believes in what we're fighting for. I do too. We all do."

Ottar stepped down the steps in front of their house, to the street. He was a big man, imposing. Njáll felt intimidated, even standing in his gear, holding his automatic rifle. He gulped.

"When are you going to see my son again, Private?" he asked.

"I don't know...we're going to meet up with our northern forces when we've got things under control here. I don't know when that will be," Njáll answered truthfully.

Ottar turned to his wife and nodded before returning his attention to the soldier.
"If you see him again, tell him to do me proud," he said before turning back to head inside.

"You'll have to forgive him he's..." Dagheiður began but Njáll shook his head.

"I'm from Markarfljot. It's a lot like this place. My dad was the same way. I get it."

"Was..." Dagheiður began.
"Dear, I'm sorry..."

Njáll nodded, and looked down for a moment.
"It's ok, like I said. We all believe in what we're doing. For the King, to Valhalla, like the song says." He smiled meekly. Dagheiður smiled back. This boy could very well have been her son. His young visage, in the soldier's gear....it was heartbreaking. In part because of how necessary it was.

"We don't have much food..." she said, "but if you ever need something home cooked...you're welcome for dinner."

Njáll smiled wide and nodded. A home cooked meal, even one made from rationed food stuffs, had to be better than the meager field rations he'd been surviving on.
"Thank you Ms. Hummel. Thank you so much."

Dagheiður cried softly. Truth was she was overcome with joy at the news of her son. God she was angry at him, running off like that, but knowing he was safe- and doing something noble- filled her with relief and pride that easily drowned out the anger. She pat Njáll on the cheek and turned to join her husband in their home. Njáll watched them both vanish into the house, and waited for the door to close. He stood there for a moment, looking down at his feet, before he went off.

Most of the Peoples' Militia soldiers were interned by now at their former headquarters. Locked in the very cells they held their prisoners in. FRE policy was to hold them indefinitely. They'd be tried later, if they won the War. A few stragglers were being escorted, however, and the jeers from Darrow's populace followed them all the way to their captivity. A few FRE soldiers were posing with the Syndicalist flag that had been lowered from the town square's flagpole, joined by a few local kids.

"I wonder if any of them knew the people who were hung?" Njáll thought.
"No, of course they did," he told himself. He was from a town like this. Everyone was at least a bit familiar with everyone else.

"The people who were hung."
Collective Corrective Justice was something everyone knew about, and Darrow was hardly unique. Yet the FRE had been operating in the woods, on the fringes of society for over ten years. It was only after an influx of recruits from places like Darrow that the more seasoned FRE personnel heard first hand accounts. And even the most storied soldier had to take a moment to process what was being told. It was rumoured even Stig Eiderwig had cursed at the news from Darrow when he heard.

It was another kick in the balls, however, to hear it from the people who were still here.

"They hung them right there," a man had told Njáll earlier. Njáll had nodded, extending a hand of sympathy.

"To do that to twenty innocent people. It's monstrous."

"A kid too! Kjell Thor Starrfelt was up there. Boy was just seventeen." The man shook his head, and wiped a tear away.
"He was a good kid. Did odd jobs for me all the time. Worked hard. Kept talking about going back to school when this madness was over. He deserved better."

That had taken Njáll a moment to overcome. The Syndies had done that? They'd hung a child? It shouldn't have come as a shock. They'd shot the twelve year old Princess Astrid on live television eleven years ago. Still...it always knocked you back when you heard something like this from people who saw it first hand.

Njáll shook his head. He'd delivered Laurids' message. He made his way to the now-former Syndicalist Peoples' Militia Headquarters. The Syndicalist emblem was already pried off, lying face first in the snow. He'd passed a number of cheering crowds too. The old Royal anthem had transitioned into a church hymn by the time he entered the building.

"Vopnfjörð!" a voice called out.

"Sir!" Njáll stood at attention as his Sergeant, one Torgeir Rinde.

"You're late."

"I was delivering a message, Sir. One of my friends, pushing north, is from here. Wanted me to say something to his folks...Sir."

Sergeant Rinde looked him over, eventually nodding. He wasn't going to come down on the kid for that.
"Stay put. The General is in the other room. Talking to the Head Syndie in Charge."

"Sir, yes Sir!" Njáll replied. He was relieved he wouldn't be put on guard duty in the dead of winter...yet.

---

Stig breathed in the salted air of the seaside town when he had arrived. His own home of Eiderwig was on the ocean. He missed it, having spent the majority of the past decade deep in the forests of Austurland. It was good to see the hvalvegur* again. Now though...he was seated in the chair of what was once Captain Auðbjörn Arnöy's office. He was looking through Syndicalist files when two soldiers entered the room, dragging the Captain in his disheveled brown uniform, hands cuffed in front of him, and sitting him down in front of what used to be his desk.

"Leave us," Stig replied, not looking up from his files. The soldiers obeyed, leaving the FRE's military commander alone with the local Militia commander. The two sat in awkward silence for a brief moment.

"Enjoying my chair?" Auðbjörn asked with a smirk.

"You'll be lucky if you ever get a chance to have a chair to yourself ever again," Stig replied dryly.

"You cocky blue blooded son of a bitch," Auðbjörn sneered.
"You think this'll last? Once the Army started pounding your lot you'll...."

"I'll shoot you myself if it looks like they're going to overrun us," Stig replied matter of factly.
"You don't understand. There's no way this ends well for you. You're going back into one of those crowded cells when we're done here. And if we win, you'll stand trial. If we lose I'll personally see to it you're shot. You're fucked."

"Stand trial, that's a lark. Whose trial?"

"Assuming we win?" Stig asked.
"The King's. King's justice."

"What? The kid? That brat? You really want to put that brat on the throne."

"He's the rightful king of this country."

"Yeah, go blow it out your ass," Auðbjörn replied.

"You shouldn't underestimate my cousin. You call him a brat, but he's...let's see...he's seventeen. Yes. Turns eighteen in April."

"Who the fuck cares?" Auðbjörn replied.

"Well it appears..." Stig thumbed through more files, "that you consider seventeen year olds a threat." He tossed Kjell Thor Starrfelt's Peoples' Militia file at him.
"You and everyone else carrying out Lieftur's collective punishments will have to answer for your actions, but a child? I don’t think you understand just what’ll do to you."

"He was old enough to be one of my soldiers, he's old enough to die for his crimes. You want to cry over that kid? Fuck you. I did what I did for the security of the Syndicalist Republic and our new society."

"I've poured over your files," Stig remarked.
"You have no evidence this child, or anyone else you hung, was even guilty of anything. And that’s what’s going to bury you and your whole damn government. I’m going to hand all of this over to Goyaneans. They’re going to broadcast this to the world. And everyone will know you killed twenty innocent people- including a child- for a crime none of them committed”

“Your people committed the crime” Auðbjörn seethed.
“Those people died because of you. Because of what you did.”

“I authorized the killing of members complicit in your regime, Captain. You killed innocent people. I’ll gladly weigh my sins against yours at the Gates of Heaven.”
Stig leaned over the desk, staring Auðbjörn head on. The Syndicalist Militia Captain’s jaw clenched up as the two stared daggers into each other for a moment before Stig got up and made his way to open the office door.
"Get the Captain out of here. I'm done with him. For now.” He didn't even bother looking at the glaring Auðbjörn Arnöy as he was dragged out of the office.

"Miðdal!" he called out.
"I want a list of everyone in town related to the twenty executed people on this desk as soon as possible."

---

15 January 2013
3:28 pm
On a Tuesday
Darrow, Prydania

“I think you overestimate my abilities to get in touch with the Santonians” William Aubyn’s voice crackled over the radio.

“You can’t turn on that Silean charm?” Stig asked with a chuckle.

“It’s not that,” William replied.
“They signal to me when they need to talk. I signal to them when I need to talk. We go through middle men. It happens irregularly and it takes time. You’re asking for what…”

“Two hours, give or take” Stig replied. “I’m going to be stopping by the Santonian Consulate here in two hours. They recognize the Syndicalists, so it’s going to be very irregular. I’m just asking you to give them a heads up.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but keep in mind I might not be able to get to them. Don’t be shocked if they’re not expecting you.”

“I’m asking as a courtesy to them,” Stig replied.
“I have business there either way.”

“What business?” William’s voice crackled again, the curiosity evident in the tone even over the radio.

“First to negotiate their withdrawal to Syndicalist lines, as that’s the government they recognize" Stig replied.
"There’s more though. The hangings in Darrow. We have files. Files that will bury Nielsen’s lot internationally. We’re handing them over to the Goyaneans but the military attachment to the local Santonian consulate knows something.” There was a brief pause before William’s voice crackled again.

“And here I thought this was my job.”

“I’d heard stories about Darrow, but I stumbled upon something here. Between the files and what people are saying. Get here as soon as you can.”

“Tobias and I will be there in roughly two hours.”

“Perfect.”

“Why is that perfect?”

“People will be paying attention to you and him, so it’s the perfect time to go to the consulate.”

---

15 January 2013
5:35 pm
On a Tuesday
Darrow, Prydania

For the King, to Valhalla
O’ Valley of Plenty
O’ Valley of Plenty
O’
For the King, to Valhalla
O’ Valley of Plenty

The song wasn’t even that old, but it was being sung by a crowd in the centre of town as William Aubyn and Prince Tobias took to a stage. William had begun his speech just as Stig’s jeep drove up to the Santonian consulate. The sound of cheering could be heard, even as this part of town was quiet. In fact it was probably so quiet because of the gathering in the town square.

Stig had spent the last two hours or so interviewing the families of the twenty people hung. As many as he could find. In some cases the only family one of the victims had was someone else who had been hung. Still, he’d compiled what he could. He’d been recording every testimony given.

The Starrfelts were another matter though. The remaining family members had all sought asylum, and they were gone. Whisked elsewhere when the military situation around Darrow became more tense. In fact most asylum seekers were gone. That left Stig to follow up with some of the only Starrfelts left. Sandur Starrfelt, Kasper’s cousin, had told him a story very familiar when compared to all the others. That his cousin’s son, Kjell Thor Starrfelt, had been dragged out of his home following the bombing. He’d then drawn short when the Militia forced them to pick lots, and been hung. It was sad, tragic, and pretty much the story every other still-grieving family member of one of the condemned told. There were two distinctions with this case though.

The first was that Kjell Thor was a minor. Only seventeen. The other was that the Santonian consulate had gotten involved. Stig had asked about that- knowing he’d be visiting the consulate later- and Sandur had suddenly gone quiet. All he’d say was that his cousin’s wife had “told him” that “and other things” before they had been whisked out of Darrow. Stig had pressed for details, but Sandur politely insisted that he didn’t want to revisit his cousin’s son’s execution. It was too tragic.

So Stig was here. At the Santonian consulate.
“Stay here,” he told the junior officer in the driver’s seat, getting out. His boots crunched in the snow. It was already dark and he was sure there would be people here. The van was parked, and there was no way Santonian diplomatic personnel would be caught attending an FRE rally. Their government recognized the Syndicalists. They wouldn’t embarrass their government like that.

He approached the door, taking his hand from his sidearm. There was no need to be confrontational. Not with these folks. They recognized the Syndicalists, yes, but Stig knew- as William did- what the Santonians were doing to save people. He knocked. No answer. He knocked again and he could hear someone approaching from the other side.

The door opened, revealing a rather imposing man. He wasn’t in uniform, but Stig knew a soldier when he saw one.

“Yes?” he asked in accented Prydanian.

“My name is Field Marshal Stig Eiderwig of the Framan Ríki Eining. Who is it I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

Thibault Guyton’s eyes went wide for a brief moment before he regained his cool composure. He’d heard of Stig Eiderwig, but from the FRE and Syndicalists. And now here he was. And it was a highly irregular situation. Technically speaking this man was at war with the government that Saintonge recognized as legitimate.

“Thibault Guyton,” Thibault said matter of factly.
“I’ll get the Consul-General.”

“No, thank you,” Stig replied, causing Thibault to pause.

“You’re the military attachment to this consulate as I understand it. You’re the one I’m here to speak with.”

“Huh.” Thibault wasn’t expecting this. Truth was he wasn’t sure what to expect since the FRE took Darrow. He saw it as a good thing overall, but there was still fighting. Still soldiers marching in the streets. And the fact that Saintonge recognized the Syndicalist government made their position dicey. The consulate had been in a state of limbo since the FRE wrestled the town away from the Syndicalists, now the FRE’s military commander wanted to speak to him. It was unexpected, to say the least.

“I’d first like to assure you, and anyone you have in there,” Stig nodded towards the door, "that I fully intend to allow your personnel to withdraw back to Syndicalist-held territory without obstacle.”

“Thank you Field Marshal, for your amiability,” Thibault replied with a nod.
“Is there anything else?”

“Yes.”

Thibault was surprised by that, but kept his cool. He was ready to end this conversation that existed in a limbo of legality, but the Thane of Eiderwig seemed to have other ideas.
“Well,” he began, “I don’t mean to be rude, but what else is there to talk about?”

“I want to talk about Kjell Thor Starrfelt,” Stig answered, getting to the point. Pleasantries were never his strong suit. He found it more effective to be blunt.

Thibault’s jaw clenched a moment. It had been five months, but the wounds weren’t still fully healed. He felt a lump form in his throat, but he managed to push it down.
“What about him?” he asked, trying not to sound defensive.

“He was among the twenty hung last August.”

“He was,” Thibault replied matter-of-factly.

“I’ve been collecting all the information on that event I can. I’ve been interviewing family who knew the victims.” Stig used his words carefully. Those twenty were victims. In every sense of the word.

“The Starrfelts are mostly gone,” Thibault explained.
“Kasper Starrfelt’s cousin Sandur...”

“I’ve spoken to Sandur Starrfelt,” Stig answered, being as direct with Thibault as Thibault was being with him. “As I understand it you were involved in the boy’s case. That’s the second reason I wanted to speak to you.”

“There’s nothing to say,” Thibault replied, sounding more forlorn than anything else.

“The Syndicalist government executes people all the time. Santonian diplomats rarely involve themselves. You did here.”

“His family had applied for asylum. We considered him under our protection, so we lobbied for his release. Captain Arnöy refused our request, sadly.”
“Sadly.” It was as much emotion as Thibault was willing to show at the moment, maintaining his professionalism.

“As I understand it,” Stig began, “his family applied for asylum after the Syndicalists took the boy. The timing is all very irregular.”

Thibault sighed and looked down.
“I’m sorry Field Marshal” he said as he looked up. “I don’t know what else there is to say about it.”

“I just want to know everything there is to know about what happened” Stig insisted. “The Starrfelt case is the one I know the least about, as there are less relatives here then there were for most of the others. And he was the only minor among the victims. If there is anything to know beyond what I can dig from the Militia’s records and interviews with family then I want to know about it.”

“I couldn’t save him,” Thibault replied.

“Pardon?” Stig asked, a bit confused.

“I tried to save him. I...we...did everything we could. I couldn’t save Kjell.” He was a tempest inside, as he recalled the events of five months prior. He tried not to let it show though. It wasn’t Stig Eiderwig’s fault.

Stig looked Thibault up and down. He was good at reading people. There was something there. Something raw. He knew because he’d seen enough of it over the past eleven years.
“Do you know why I’ve been interviewing grieving family for most of my day, Mr. Guyton?” Stig said softly.
“I am doing it so that the dead can know justice. I’m fighting for my country. And those twenty people and every…” he breathed deep. Stig rarely got emotional, but when he did…
“...and every other person executed by the Syndicalist Republic deserves justice. And I intended to see to it that it’s proper justice. Not the mockery the regime in Býkonsviði calls ‘justice.’ I go around all day, forcing families to relive the worst day of their lives so I can document what happened here. So the guilty parties can pay when all of this is over. So no one can deny what happened here. So the world knows what happened. So the world knows who is destroying my country. I don’t know what happened here, exactly, but I know enough to know it was something vile. I understand if you don’t want to revisit it, but I have to ask. What do you know about Kjell Thor Starrfelt?”

“What do you know?” Thibault asked, giving Stig a nod.

“What his father’s cousin told me. The Syndicalists instituted their ‘Collective Corrective Justice’ after the bombing and that Kjell was picked, seemingly at random, for the reprisals. And drew a bad lot. So they killed him, along with nineteen other detainees who drew bad lots. I also have files that show that there isn’t a shred of evidence to tie Kjell, or anyone else that was hung, to the crime they were executed for. And…” Stig gulped. He wasn’t sure if he should say this but the chances that Thibault- or anyone else- didn’t know was slim.

“I know exactly who committed the bombing, and who else was involved. No one who was hung was.”

Thibault looked around and then back at Stig. Part of him felt angry...he had suspected that the FRE was behind the bombing. Everyone did. To have the military commander of the FRE admitting it made part of him think he should lay into him for being partially responsible for all of this. And yet he knew exactly what the Syndicalists were. If he didn’t before the events five months ago then he certainly knew now. This man before him was leading the fight against them. He was fighting for his country….it suddenly occurred to him. Stig Eiderwig was fighting for his country. What was it that Kjell Thor had written?

Fight for justice, for freedom, for this country.

“The Starrfelts and the Kvakkestads are already in Saintes, we evacuated them in October 2012. Aside from that, there’s nothing more I can tell you, Field Marshal,” Thibault replied.
“That’s because anything I could tell you would be a betrayal.”

Stig raised an eyebrow and was about to speak when Thibault continued.

“But I know who could tell you. The Starrfelts are still probably at the refugee centre at St-Alban-sur-Orge, in Saintonge. If you reach out to them then they could tell you anything else you wanted to know.”

“That’s away’s away” Stig replied, but Thibault only chuckled.

“I’m sure someone with your resources can establish a connection,” he smiled. Stig just chuckled himself. The Santonian was right.

“Thank you Mr. Guyton. Safe travels.”

“Take care Field Marshal. Don’t stop fighting for your country.”

“God knows we’re trying,” Stig replied, eliciting a nod from Thibault before he closed the consulate’s door.
Stig pulled a notepad and pen out from one of his many pockets and began to scribble.
Starrfelt/St Alban sur Orge/Saintonge before getting into the jeep.

“Sir?” his driver asked.

“Get me back to headquarters,” he ordered. He had to contact black division and Max Hveiti.

---

25 October 2017
3:48 pm
On a Wednesday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Captain Laurids Hummel was off duty, in civilian clothes. He could be doing anything, not that there was much to do aside from hitting the pubs. Most of the country was either still rubble or being repaired.
Still, maybe the pub would be better than where he was? At least he could drink until he was happy. Here, he was only going to get mad. Still...it was cathartic. He needed to see the Butcher of Darrow get skewered by the law.
He’d missed the earlier portions of the trial of Peoples’ Militia Captain Auðbjörn Arnöy, but he was here for this one. And what a time too. Arnöy was taking the stand. And he seemed far more willing to talk to try and defend himself after earlier attempting to play the “I refuse to recognize this court” card.

“Captain Arnöy” the Crown’s prosecutor Jóhanna Kjarrval began, “thank you for deciding to speak with us. At last.”

“Mhm” Arnöy replied.

“Captain, do you recognize this signature?”

“It’s mine.”

“Yes, attached to an execution order for twenty people in Darrow, signed 24 August 2012, to be carried out on 25 August of that year.”

“I remember signing that, yes.”

“And yet you insist that you’re not guilty of the murder of these twenty people.”

“Would this court be guilty of murder if it in turn executed a murderer?”

“Hmm” Jóhanna replied, “so you maintain that your actions were a lawful action of justice.”

“Yes, absolutely. A crime was committed in my jurisdiction. We found guilty parties and sentenced them to death.”

Laurids was fuming, but he resisted the urge to say anything. Even as the memories of the dead bodies he was paraded by thanks to the Syndicalist People's Militia resurfaced.

“The ‘crime,’ which is understood to have been an act of war during an armed conflict, occured on 22 August 2012. Your Militia apprehended over four dozen people that night. By 25 August of that year twenty of those people were dead.”

“What’s your point, Prosecutor?” Arnöy asked as he sat back in his chair.

“That hardly seems like enough time to amass a suspect pool, much less find twenty guilty people from it, and to find them guilty in time to hang them three days later. This is, of course, because you did not follow any recognized standard of fair justice. I have here…” Jóhanna held up more documents, “Syndicalist Republic Interior Ministry documents outlining the protocols for what was referred to as ‘collective corrective justice.’ They are marked specifically for the Peoples’ Militia. Did your contingent have access to these documents Captain?”

“Yes” Arnöy replied. He had only said one word, but he sounded defensive. He couldn't deny it. They found copies of those documents in his offices when the FRE took Darrow.

“Did you follow these protocols when it came to finding the ‘guilty’ parties following the Darrow bombing on 22 August 2012?”

“We did.”

“I would like to draw the court’s attention” Jóhanna went on, “to this section. Quote ‘to maximize terror amongst the guilty populace over twice the number of those planned to be executed are to be seized at random, at the discretion of local commanders. The executed parties are to be decided from this group by a drawn lot,’ end quote.”

Arnöy sat there, breathing heavily as he stared directly at Jóhanna Kjarrval as the Crown Prosecutor let what she had just read sink in for everyone there.

“Captain Arnöy, would it be fair to assume that the Peoples’ Militia had no evidence to suggest any of the forty-nine people apprehended, much less the twenty hung, were actually tied to the bombing?”

“Evidence is subjective” Arnöy replied, stone faced.

“How do you mean?”

“You, this court, you operate on a bourgeois concept of evidence.”

“I sincerely hope you’re not going to claim you don’t recognize this court’s authority again, Captain.”

“I am saying that your concept of evidence is not the same as the concept that existed in the Syndicalist society we were trying to build! We had a duty, a damned duty, to guard against forces who would destroy us. Who would try to bring us down! And we were right! They were there! Our evidence was the fact that the bombing carried out weakened our society. Our evidence pointed us to the reality that the people of Darrow needed to be punished to ensure no such subterfuge was repeated!”

“You know this court had established,” Jóhanna began, “that the Militia’s Darrow files showed nothing to tie any of the twenty people executed to the bombing. Your own files show that you hung twenty innocent people, including a child, for crimes they were innocent of.”

“Innocent in this court maybe!”

“Innocent in any fair, impartial court” Jóhanna replied. “I would like to enter another piece of evidence. A letter from one of the condemned, a Kjell Thor Starrfelt, age seventeen at the time. Dated 24 August 2012…”

“Objection, my Lord” Arnöy’s defence attorney replied, in a thick Malorian accent.
“This letter isn’t relevant.”

“My Lord” Jóhanna replied, “the letter indicates the state of mind of one of the condemned just a day before his death. We’re attempting to prove the innocence of these twenty people.”

“Allowed” the judge replied.

“Thank you” Jóhanna continued, “quote…

‘To my beloved mother, my much-loved grandmother, my adored Dorothea and Kolbeinn and Kolbjörn,

By the time you are reading this I am probably dead. I wanted to embrace you all one last time, but I have nothing except this letter.

I know my death will bring you a lot of grief. What I ask of you, especially Mamma and Dorothea, is to be brave and overcome your sorrow. Always remember that Kjell asked you to be strong. For yourselves and for each other. My life will be cut short, but yours must continue.

Even though I am no longer with you, I hope you will keep me in your hearts. Mamma, I am sorry for all the worries and problems I had given you all these years. Let this be the last heartache I will give you. Thank you for giving life to me and raising me. Grandma, I hope you get well soon. Please pray for me. Dorothea, take care of Mamma and the twins for me. I know this is a big responsibility but I believe you can do it. Kolbeinn and Kolbjörn, study hard and grow up to become good men later on.

I know that my cruel fate seems senseless, but my wish is that my death serves a purpose. Fight for justice, for freedom, for this country.

Mamma, Grandma, Dorothea, Kolbeinn, Kolbjörn, thank you for being there for me during all these years. Please say goodbye to my friends on my behalf. Please extend my gratitude to the Santonians and most especially to Monsieur Guyton, who fought for me when no one else did.

Farewell! I will be joining father soon. I am leaving you all. Mamma, Grandma, Dorothea, Kolbeinn, Kolbjörn, I embrace you with all my child’s heart. I love you all. Be brave!
Kjell Thor’

...end quote. Captain Arnöy, do the words of this seventeen year old boy you condemned to death sound like the words of someone who had committed a bombing?”

“They don’t sound like that because he wasn’t involved in the bombing, in a technical sense” Arnöy said through gritted teeth as his defence attorney rubbed his temples.

“So you sentenced an innocent seventeen year old boy to die alongside nineteen other innocent people. Thank you. No further questions my Lord” Jóhanna finished.

Laurids breathed deep and exhaled. He closed his eyes. And smiled. The trial wasn’t over yet, but the man who butchered his town was just exposed for the monster he was in a court of law. He opened his eyes and sat back in his chair as the trial continued.

---

*hvalvegur= "whale road," a term vikings used to describe the ocean
*Framan Ríki Eining= Front of National Unity

---

God's Gonna Cut You Down by Kevin Lovatt, 2:37

OOC Note: Written with help from @Kyle

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc. This is the second epilogue, touching on the fate of the other characters. The start of the story arc is here. Post approved by @Prydania .

Music: Our Lady Peace – Somewhere Out There

24 August 2032
6:30 PM
Alexandrie, Saintonge

“STARRFELT. That’s an apt name for an astronaut.”

Kolbjörn Starrfelt grinned. The Santonian Minister of Science and Technology, wine glass in hand, was going around the tables chatting with members of the mission. The seven-person crew of the Viseur 11 mission would be launched tomorrow from Alexandrie Space Station to make improvements in the Santonian Space Telescope. Tonight was their last night on the planet. They could have simply just said goodbyes and well-wishes online, but this was Saintonge. In an age of new gadgets and cybermeetings, the Santonians were old-fashioned and clung to tradition. There had to be a send-off dinner.

“A lot of people tell me that,” Kolbjörn said, gingerly touching the ‘STARRFELT K.’ name patch sewn on the right chest of his uniform. “I’m proud to wear this name.”

“Are you Prydanian?”
“Yessir. Came to this country twenty years ago.”

The minister smiled. “Gott hjá þér,“ he commented before sipping his wine. “You look young too. Are you the youngest?”

“Yessir, I’m twenty-eight.”

The minister gave Kolbjörn a pat in the back. “May you have a long fruitful career ahead of you.”

“Thank you sir.”

“I know I’ve said it earlier and in my speeches – ” the minister resumed after sipping his wine “ – I would like to thank you individually for your service to our scientists… in Saintonge and everywhere else, who will use and depend on our telescope for their research.”

“I’m honoured to do it for Saintonge and for science,” Kolbjörn said, and then tipped his head towards Kolbeinn, “and for my brother.” Kolbjörn let out a soft chuckle.

“Your brother?” The minister turned to Kolbeinn. He gazed at the two men’s faces. They looked similar. “Wait… are you two… twins?”

“Yessir,” Kolbjörn answered. “This is my twin brother Kolbeinn.” Kolbjörn laid an arm over Kolbeinn’s shoulder. “He wanted me to do this.”

Kolbeinn gave his twin brother a “here-you-go-again” look.

“Oh, I didn’t realise you were twins,” the minister said sheepishly. “Your glasses obscured your similarities, Mr Kolbeinn. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mr Minister.”
“So, what do you do for a living, Kolbeinn?”
“I’m an astronomer at the Royal Observatory in Alexandrie.”

“Oh, so literally Kolbjörn is doing this for you,” the minister chortled. “You cheeky brother.”
“He wanted it,” Kolbeinn said in jest. “He wanted to be the space guy. I’ll stay behind watching him up above.”

“I like what you twin tandem are doing,” the minister said, before looking at the rest people around the table. “I presume this is your family?”

“Yessir,” Kolbjörn said, before introducing everyone on the table. “This is my wife Laurence and my son Kjell, who is turning one year old next month. This is Kolbeinn and his wife Emmanuelle – they’re expecting. Over there is my mum Hrafnborg… beside her is my older sister Dorothea Starrfelt-Kvakkestad and her husband Bergfinnur… that’s my nephew Kasper and niece Brynja. And Bergfinnur’s mother Gefjun.”

The group exchanged pleasantries and engaged in further chit-chat with the minister. Soon the minister’s wine glass was almost empty. He needed to refill it and go to other tables. “It was a pleasure meeting you all,” the minister said. “I’m sure Kolbjörn will do you proud.”


25 August 2032
08:00 AM
Alexandrie, Saintonge

“One hour before launch,” the control centre informed the crew in the spacecraft.

“Let’s pray before we do the final preparations,” commander Joseph-Étienne Mollard told the Viseur 11 crew. The five men and two women huddled and prayed together. After reciting the Lord’s prayer and the Astronaut’s prayer, Mollard exhorted his crew to pray for their own wishes. “Let us have a moment of silence for our own wishes and prayers.”

There was one special person Kolbjörn Starrfelt wanted to pray for. 25 August 2032 was a date that would be etched in his memory; today was Kolbjörn’s first trip to space. It was also twenty years to the date that his brother Kjell Thor died. A very fitting date for his first mission.

Kolbjörn prayed for Kjell silently. Oh how he missed his older brother. Kjell became like their second father after their father Kasper died. Kolbjörn remembered how Kjell used to encourage Kolbjörn’s astronaut ambitions by helping Kolbjörn construct toy spaceships out of Kjell’s old Spilvel blocks. How Kjell turned a discarded motorcycle helmet into a toy astronaut helmet for Kolbjörn’s birthday. Kolbeinn got a toy telescope too, made from old pipe segments. How Kjell sheltered his younger brothers in a make-believe world, even though everything around them was crumbling down. How Kjell used to tell Kolbjörn and Kolbeinn that they will reach their dreams someday.

“This is it, stóri bróðdir,” Kolbjörn mumbled inaudibly to himself. “Kjell, thank you.”

After their prayers, the crew went to their stations and the customary pre-launch preparations. The crew finished the checklists before time.

“Five minutes before takeoff,” the control centre announced.

“To our stations, guys,” Mollard commanded the crew.

Kolbjörn sat on his designated seat and put on his seatbelt. His heart was racing. Only a few more minutes. He dreamed of this all his life. He trained for years for this moment. He never thought he would reach his wildest dreams of getting to space.

TEN!

The countdown had begun.

NINE!

Kolbjörn recalled his family that he will leave behind on the planet. They knew that being an astronaut was his dream. They supported him all the way, despite knowing the risks involved.

EIGHT!

“Même l'homme sur la lune a disparu, quelque part dans la stratosphère."
Even the man in the moon disappeared, somewhere in the stratosphere.

His wife understood. He will give it all, everything for the dream.

SEVEN!

His mother was the one with the most misgivings. Kolbjörn understood why. She had previously lost a son. She wouldn’t want to potentially lose another one.

SIX!

But only a few days after Kolbjörn told his mother about his space mission, she had a heart-to-heart talk with Kolbjörn. “You know,” his mother Hrafnborg said, “I asked myself: ‘What would your father say? What would Kjell say?’ And I believe… they would’ve said yes. They would’ve encouraged you to go. They would be very happy for you. Why shouldn’t I?”

FIVE!

Kolbjörn smiled at his recollection. He had the blessing of his mother, the encouragement of his brother, the backing of his wife.

FOUR!

The coat-of-arms of the space agency on the spacecraft’s wall caught Kolbjörn’s attention. Its motto was Plus proche du Paradis: Closer to Heaven.

THREE!

Closer to heaven indeed. Kolbjörn’s mind gravitated back to his brother Kjell and his father. They’re in heaven now. It was something Kolbjörn and his twin brother Kolbeinn talked about – how fitting their chosen professions were: Kolbjörn an astronaut, Kolbeinn an astronomer.

TWO!

Kolbjörn realistically did not think he will meet Kjell up there in space; neither did Kolbeinn think that he will see him in the skies.

ONE!

All Kolbjörn and Kolbeinn could do was to come closer and observe the heavens. Kjell was out there, somewhere out there, looking down kindly on them.

AND LIFTOFF!!

The rockets came to life, lifting the spacecraft off the ground, heading to the skies. Kolbjörn will soon be closer to Kjell... even if just metaphorically.

25 March 2017
11:46 am
On a Saturday
Skapta, Prydania

Remember, Children of Iraelia, the Righteous of All Nations, who were as shining stars in the overwhelming darkness of evil.
Those who spoke out at a time of silence,
Those who offered sanctuary and life in the eye of the murderous storm,
Those who upheld those who were falling and extended a helping hand, food, and clothing.
Who answered the cry of men, women, and children:
In the very valley of the shadow of death, these men and women stood by our people, and from the fiery inferno they saved the few and the many. And where there were no human beings they were human.
Remember, Children of Iraelia, their grandness of spirit, their heroism and their pure hearts. May Shaddai bind their souls in the bundle of life, and may it come to pass as it was written:
“As the whirlwind passes, so is the wicked no more: but the righteous is an everlasting foundation”

Nikolaj Ravn packed up what little was left to pack as he looked out of the window of his room. The FRE truck was there, waiting for him. He slung his pack over his shoulder and headed out, sighing once to take in the sites of his family's apartment. The town of Skapta had been blown to hell four years ago in a Syndicalist bombardment. It had been FRE territory since then, and repairs had come...but supplies were always slim. The Andrennians and Goyaneans gave what they could but still. His home had had seen better days. And yet...it was his home. He smiled and held back the urge to shed a tear knowing he'd be leaving. And might not come back. The Syndies may have been on the back foot, but war was war.
He nodded and made his way out of his room.

"I'm giving you one last chance Nikolaj" his father said gravely. Nik turned to see his father, sitting in an old, worn chair in the living room, staring at him.

"Dad, we've talked about this..." he tried to say before his father cut him off.

"No, you've talked and ignored me. Now, it's time you listened. His mother, sitting on the couch, just shook her head. Nik could see she was on the verge of tears.
"Momma please..." he tried to say before his father spoke up again.

"Your mother isn't the issue. You going to get yourself killed is."

"I'm not going..." he paused, shaking his head.
"I'm going to fight for my country. I want to do something that matters."

"Then stay here. Get a job worth doing, and work hard! Start a family. Provide and be there for them! That's how you do something that matters!"

"I think fighting Syndicalists matters" Nik replied.
"After what they did to this town, and what they're doing to our people. You heard about the pogroms in Býkonsviði."

"Yes!" Sólimann Ravn shot back to his son.
"Yes, I've heard, but I also know that this isn't the first time Shaddaists have been butchered in this country! Or do I need to remind you of what happened during the Fascist Wars?"

Nik shook his head.
"I haven't forgotten Dad, but what does that have to do..."

"This FRE fights in the name of a Loðbrók. A Loðbrók was behind what happened back then. We owe the Syndicalists nothing, but we don't owe anything to a Loðbrók either. Not after what happened" Sólimann replied.

"I..." Nik began. He had to calm himself. His father had a very confrontational way of arguing that forced you to get mad if you didn't watch yourself.
"Prince Tobias isn't an anti-Shaddaist. And neither is the FRE. There are already other Shaddaists fighting for them, more since the pogroms in Býkonsviði a few years back."

"You can't be sure what's in someone's heart Nikolaj" his father continued.

"Yeah...I can" Nik replied.
"Four years ago when the FRE first came through here. I met Prince Tobias. Mother was there with me..."

"I've heard" Sólimann said gruffly.
"He gave you a candy bar."

"Yeah he did" Nik nodded.
"When I was cold, hungry, and scared, clinging to mother for dear life as you were tending to the wounded, he gave me a candy bar. He let me know I wouldn't starve. Mother wouldn't stave. You wouldn't starve. He let me know it would be alright."

Sólimann looked over to his wife, Rebekka. She nodded.
"You weren't there but...yes. The Prince showed our son kindness. When he didn't need to. He's a good boy I think" she said with a faint smile.
"Like our son."

"I..." Sólimann closed his eyes for a moment.
"I don't want you to give your heart to something that will hurt you."

"I know my history Dad" Nik replied with a smile.
"But this is my home. I want to fight for it. And we can't...we have to be able to believe in things to be better, right? Look at how much better things have gotten since the FRE took over...no one's rounding up anyone. Shaddaist, political prisoners, Messianists, no one. Isn't this how it's supposed to be? I want to fight for that."

Rebekka stood, unable to hold back tears, and held her son tight.
"I love you so much" she said as she squeezed him.
"You do what you have to do, but..." she pulled back just enough to look him in the eye with her own red, tear-filled gaze, "you come back home. Understand?"

Nik nodded, fighting back the urge to cry himself.
"I promise momma" he said hugging her again. He looked up to see his father standing next to them. He instinctively straightened his posture. Argument or not, his father was his father.

"Do something that means something" he said to his son.

"I will" Nik nodded, hugging his father.
"I love you pabbi."

"I love you meyn ingel*."

Nik nodded, kissing each of his parents goodbye one last time before leaving. The elevator to the building still didn't work, forcing him to take the stairs. It wasn't that bad though, only a few floors. And he looked up at the stairwell. How many times he'd come and gone through them. He pat the railing, almost as if he were patting an old friend on the shoulder before parting.

"Hey Ravn, hurry up! Krummedike's pushing north and he's not waiting for us!" one of the soldiers called from the truck as he emerged from the apartment building. He looked up to his family's window one last time before nodding and making his way to the truck. He tossed his backpack into it before climbing in and looking around. His town. His country. His home. It had seen better days. And yet...it was his home. He'd fight for it.

---

*meyn ingel= my boy

---

I Vow To Thee My Country by Johan Söderqvist and Patrik Andrén, 3:54

8 May 2020
12:46 pm
On a Friday
Erkiengill, Prydania

Rúrik’s left foot was nervously jittering under the conference room table as Víf tried to calm her husband down by taking his hand gently. It was a minor miracle she ever got him here at all. He had wanted nothing to do with the Góðajörð cooperatives at first despite Víf insisting it would be a smart financial move for them.

“I watched the farm get taken away once, I’m not giving it away now” he insisted.

Víf had saved the literature, however, and researched it. It was actually a Santonian concept - Terrebonne. A farming cooperative that was meant to coordinate production between farms, find export markets, and achieve economies of scale. And all farm owners in cooperatives got a democratic vote in the cooperative’s overall structure and dealings. Instead of neighbouring farms being competitors, they would instead cooperate to ensure good prices for their products. The agriculturists and company representatives extolled the cooperatives as the reason why Saintonge was a land of smallholdings, with farmers owning the land they till, instead of the land and the agriculture sector being concentrated in a few wealthy individuals and industrial companies.

It seemed like a good opportunity. She and Rúrik had worked hard to get the farm up and running, but there were always new challenges. Some challenges that could be mitigated by a group like this.

The problem was collectivization. Rúrik’s father had been taken away when he was only ten, and his farm seized as part of the Syndicalist Republic’s agricultural collectivization. And he spent the next eleven years as essentially a prisoner on the collectivized compound. Beaten, worked hard, rarely fed enough to eat. All from the ages of ten to twenty-one.

He’d been liberated three years ago. He’d met Víf. They started a life together. They got the farm back. They’d worked hard. They were even expecting a child. And Víf had helped him conquer his demons.
Demons like that though...they never fade away entirely. Mostly Rúrik’s panic attacks were nothing major. And the truly bad ones were rare. This though….the idea of a farming cooperative? It had sounded just too similar to collectivization. Rúrik had rejected it outright when they were first approached about it. Víf had tried to raise the subject again at dinner that night and it was the only time he had ever yelled at her before storming off. She found him in the bathroom, sitting on the floor, back to the wall as he struggled not to burst into tears, his fingers rubbing the scarring on his left wrist from the thick, bolted on plastic bracelets the collectivized farms made their workers wear.

She had spent an hour just holding him on the bathroom floor. Saying nothing, but comforting him. Eventually he apologized to her. He was scared. People coming around asking if he wanted his property to be “joined” with anything else was just too much for him.

This had led to him agreeing to go to a conference in the Kiojaleit town church held by the Góðajörð people. Who were dealing with just this sort of skepticism given the legacy of Syndicalist collectivization. They had Santonian agriculturalists there from the Terrebonne cooperatives to explain the differences. How it was voluntary, democratic, and was aimed at cooperation and coordination.
Rúrik had left that conference less hostile to the idea and had eventually come around on it. So here they were. In a conference room in the courthouse in Erkiengill. With lawyers representing the Góðajörð people and a contract in front of Rúrik. His foot was still fidgeting. He was nervous. It didn’t help that he felt incredibly underdressed. They were wearing suits, but he didn’t even own formal clothes. He was just in a light jacket, and clean jeans, boots, and a buttoned down shirt. Looking as nice as he could manage.
And on top of that intimidation...agreeing to join this cooperative.

The pen dropped out of his hand.
“I need some air,” he said as he got up and left the room. The lawyers and Víf exchanged worried glances before Víf stood up.
“I’ll go see what’s bothering him. It won’t be long, I promise” she said nervously.

“Honey?” she called out. Erkiengill was a nice medium-sized town but its courthouse wasn’t that big. She found Rúrik in the central lobby, pacing.
“Honey, what is it?”

“I can’t do it,” he muttered.
“I can’t...I just can’t.”

“Love” she said, slowly taking his hands into her’s, “what’s wrong? Talk to me. Tell me why.”

“I can’t give pabbi’s farm away,” he said, shaking his head, looking down.

“You wouldn’t be,” Víf replied, making sure she sounded understanding. She knew exactly the memories this sort of thing triggered in her husband. She owned it to him to be understanding.
“You read the contracts. You saw the presentations. You’re not giving the farm up. No one is taking it away.”

“You don’t understand…” he replied, shaking his head.
“They just took pabbi away. I don’t even have a body for his grave…” tears began to form in his eyes, but managed to hold back the urge to cry as Víf squeezed his hands.
“I don’t have his body, and I don’t know what happened to Aunt Odda, Uncle Kvasir, or my cousins…mother and the farm are all I have left from those days. I...I can’t....give any part of it up. Even something like this. It’s not truly ours anymore.”

What was tragic was that while Rúrik was wrong, Víf understood why he felt that way. She had lived a relatively sheltered life during the Syndicalist era. Rúrik had suffered through some of its worst aspects. She couldn’t imagine what he’d gone through. All she knew was that she had to be there for him. And challenging him on this was not the way to address it.

“You’ve worked so hard. You’ve worked so hard to get the farm to where it is today. It’s profitable. Can you believe that? Did either of us expect that three years ago? You worked so hard for that. Your father would be proud of you. You know he would, right?”

Rúrik nodded.
“I know” he said softly.

“Rúrik I want you to listen. You are so brave. You hear me? To have gone through what you did, and to get up each day having gone through it...you are the bravest man I know. And I count myself lucky that you want to share your love with me.” She hugged him now, gingerly considering she was pregnant.
“We have a son on the way. You, me, and our child. We owe it to give him a life that was taken from you. I know you want that for him.”

Rúrik smiled as his heart began to slow. He loved Víf. And she had a way of cutting through his own trauma.

“Our son’s best future includes us joining this cooperative” she said matter of factly.
“We are profitable now...for us and your mother, but a child is another mouth to feed. A child is a life to cherish and nourish. This will help us. We’ll be able to provide for our son better when we join. And your father would also be proud that you did all you could to give his grandson a good life.”
“It’s not like it was before, love, I know you know that. This is for us, this is for our child.”

Rúrik’s frantic heartbeat was now fully calm, and his head was no longer full of panic. It was like a fog was lifted. He had always known that what Víf was saying was true, but his own nervousness, his own panic, his own trauma...it was gone. At least enough that he could see the clear answer.
“I love you,” he said softly.

“I love you too,” she replied.

“I’ll sign,” Rúrik said. He was nervous...but...he trusted his wife. And he knew. He knew this was the right thing to do.

Víf held her husband’s hand as they re-entered the conference room.

“Mr. and Ms. Öxndal” one of the Góðajörð officials said.
“We…”

“I’m sorry about that,” Rúrik said softly.
“I…”

“Oh it’s ok. It’s a big decision. People need time to consider it.”

“Yes, but we’ve made it,” Rúrik said softly. He and Víf sat down before signing the contract one after another.

“Welcome to Góðajörð, Mr. and Ms.Öxndal.”

“We’re happy to be here,” Rúrik said with a smile.

---

Can't Help Falling in Love by brooke and Tommee Profitt, 3:03

OOC Note: Posted with help from @Kyle

14 December 2035
5:49 pm
On a Friday
Kiojaleit, Prydania

Grey winter skies stretched out across the countryside as a dark green Miðland SUV pulled up to the Öxndal farm. The snow covering the ground cracked as Rúrik Öxndal approached the car, making his way to the driver's side window to kiss his wife.
"Here, they're all yours" Víf joked as she let kids out.

"Hi dad!" Týr called out eagerly as he jumped out of the car and began to run to the house.

"Wait for me!" his twelve year old brother Ástvar called out, chasing his older brother.

"Slow down! Don't run on the snow! There could be ice!" Rúrik called out.

"Sorry!" the boys both called back in unison as they slowed down.

Rúrik then looked down at Ráðhildur, his ten year old daughter.
"You're the one who keeps us sane, you know that?" he chuckled, bending down to kiss her on the top of her head.

"You and Júlíetta are going to be alright with the three of them?" Víf asked, sounding just a bit worried.

"It's fine" Rúrik laughed.
"Mother made cookies."

"Grandma made cookies?!" Ráðhildur asked excitedly.

"After dinner!" Víf insisted.

"Of course! Only after dinner young lady" Rúrik repeated before giving his daughter a sly wink.
"But go on" he added to his wife. "We'll manage for the evening."

"I'm just making sure" Víf said with a soft chuckle, despite her weariness. It was the last school day of the term before the Christmas break and it was her turn to carpool. And now she had a Góðajörð meeting to chair, as Hreppstjóri* of the local co-operative.

Rúrik sensed her weariness and smiled.
"You're wonderful, you know that?"

"Thank you honey" she replied. She kissed her husband once more and looked down at her daughter.
"Be good for daddy and grandma sweetie!"

"Bye mommy!" the young girl waved.

Víf drove off, down the road back to town. Rúrik smiled as he took his daughter's hand and led her back to the house. His youngest was ten. The age he was when the Syndicalists came to take his father away...to take him away. To take everything.

So much had changed though. He had a family. And the farm was doing as well as it ever had. The most recent harvest had done so well that they were looking into two new combines. With enough left over to put into the children's university savings.
Rúrik was very passionate about that. He had grown up in a collectivized labour camp. He wanted to make sure his children had a proper education. And oh God. Týr was only three years away! Rúrik laughed to himself, feeling old.

"Mom?" he called out as he and Ráðhildur entered the house.

"I'm in the kitchen" Júlíetta called out. Ráðhildur took a seat at the kitchen table next to her brother Ástvar, the two of them pulling out phones to play games.

"You know we have board games" Rúrik remarked. "Maybe we could play one tonight."

"Yeah dad" Ástvar replied, not taking his attention away from his phone.
"Maybe."

Rúrik raised an eyebrow. He was DEFINITELY going to force them to play a board game tonight.

"You have a message by the way" Júlíetta remarked with a smile.
"Markthór called. He got the tickets for the ARS Saintes vs Konunglegur Býkonsviði exhibition game."

"Nice, I'll call him back in..." he counted in his head, calculating the time difference between them and Saintes.
"Three hours or so."

"We're going to see Uncle Markþór coach?" Ástvar said excitedly as he looked up from his phone.

Rúrik chuckled. That got his son's attention.
"Assistant coach" he said.
"Your uncle has a lot of championships to his name. We don't need to be inflating his ego any more than necessary" he laughed.
"But yes, we're all going to Býkonsviði to see the game on New Year's with Aunt Nicole and your cousins. Isn't that nice?"

"Cool!" Ástvar remarked happily. He got along well with his cousin Finnur-Lucien.

"Yay!" Ráðhildur exclaimed as she too had a good relationship with her cousin Monique-Rachelle.
"Will Aunt Addý be there?" she asked.

"Aunt Addý is busy" Rúrik said, sounding a bit disappointed himself.
"But we'll get her something nice. A momento of the game." He looked around for a moment before turning to his mother.
"Where's Týr?"

"He went to his room" Júlíetta replied as she began to tend to the marinating chicken breasts they'd be having that evening.

"Ok, I'll catch up with him later" Rúrik remarked.
"You two. Report cards. Come on."

The two children groaned as they set their phones down to dig through their backpacks. It was the end of term and so it was report card time. Rúrik took a seat at the table and collected both of them from his younger two children.

They were good reports. A's and B's. Rúrik still felt the need to prod though.
"You got a B in classroom participation" he said to Ráðhildur.
"Is everything ok?"

"Oooo in trouble..." Ástvar remarked, earning a "don't tease your sister" remark from his father.

"I don't know" Ráðhildur replied.

"Are you still feeling shy?" Rúrik asked, knowing his daughter was naturally soft spoken.
Ráðhildur just nodded timidly.

"That's ok" Rúrik said with a smile.
"You know who else was shy? Your Aunt Addý."

"Really?" Ráðhildur asked.

"Really" Júlíetta replied to her granddaughter.
"Your father and your Uncle Markþór used to stand up to bullies for her when they were little" she said, coming over to give Rúrik a hug.
"You two were very sweet."

"We still are" Rúrik laughed.
"But we did" he said to his daughter. "And now Aunt Addý isn't shy at all" he smiled.
"In fact she stands up for me!" he remarked in reference to Addý's habit of being protective of him on social media whenever someone talked about the Syndicalist era.

"So you just have to know that we love you" he said, taking his daughter's hand.
"And you take that love and be brave at school, ok?"

"Ok" his daughter smiled. Rúrik smiled back. He had such a different life than his children- and for that he was thankful. He grabbed a pen from a cup on the table and signed both of their cards.

"There. All done. Now be good for grandma I'm going to see how your brother did."

Rúrik made his way upstairs to Týr's room, knocking once on the door.

"Yeah?" he eldest son called back.

"It's me, are you free?" he asked.

"Sure."

Rúrik entered, sighing at the clothes strewn about the floor.
"Nice to see you're keeping your room clean" he remarked.

"Yeah..." Týr replied as he clicked away on his computer, playing a video game.

"So your report card. Let's see it."

Týr felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. On one level he knew this was coming. And yet he'd hung onto that adolescent hope that maybe his parents would just...forget about it? For...two weeks?

"Um..." he began but Rúrik had already spotted his backpack.

"In there? I'll get it" he said, eliciting a sense of panic from Týr.

"Hey Dad that's mine!" the fifteen year old protested. It went beyond simple anxiety over the report card. He was getting to the age where he began to cling to his own privacy.

"Alright" Rúrik chuckled.
"You show me" he said, holding his son's backpack out. Týr got up from his desk and took the backpack, nervously unzipping it and rooting around to find the report card. It was different, bigger than his siblings since he was in high school.

Rúrik took it and began to read it over as Týr stood sheepishly, looking down at his feet.

"You got a D in Literature...and a C in Algebra."

Týr blushed and looked sideways for a moment.

"I..." he began, not able to look his father in the eye.

"Yes? You what?" Rúrik asked. He didn't sound mad. He sounded...firm.

"I'm sorry" Týr gulped.
"I just didn't have time to do reading and..."

"You would have if you didn't spend so much time playing that" Rúrik shot back, motioning to his son's computer.

"Dad that's got nothing..."

"I think it does" Rúrik replied. He looked at his son's report card again.
"You need to study more with math but Literature is where you need to do the most work. I'm taking your modem for the Christmas break. No internet until you're back at school."

"Dad you can't!" Týr insisted, only for Rúrik to shake his head.

"Of course I can. Maybe you'll spend some of the next two weeks reading your Literature assignments."

"But it doesn't even matter! Just a bunch of old books. When am I ever gonna need to know that stuff?"

Rúrik sighed.
"It's about a well-rounded education. You're not going to be able to get into the better universities if you keep getting grades like this."

"You didn't need university" Týr said, and immediately regretted it as soon as he said it.

Rúrik, however, just smiled.
"No, but your mother did. And she's the reason I didn't starve to death years ago. This stuff is important. I want you to be smarter than your old man" he chuckled.
"I know you're tired of hearing it but you have so much more opportunities than..."

"...you had, I know" Týr said, finishing his father's sentence.
"You're really going to take away my internet?"

"Yes" Rúrik said, making his way to his son's desk as he began unplugging the modem and wifi adapter and pocketing his phone.

"...can I get it back early, maybe?"

"I'll talk to your mother about it" Rúrik replied, causing Týr to gulp.
"You can use your spare time reading and helping around the farm. May be winter but lots of stuff needs maintenance."

Týr just groaned and then got another sinking feeling in his stomach.

"What about the game?" he asked.

"How did you know about that?" Rúrik asked.

"Grandma told me when I came in" Týr replied sheepishly.
"Can...can I still go?" he asked.

Rúrik looked over at Týr's backpack.
"I assume you have homework for the break."

"Yeah..." Týr replied cautiously.

"What's your homework for Literature?"

"We need to do a report on Painting the Fog."

Rúrik had never heard of it but it didn't matter.
"So here's the deal. Get the report done by the end of the first week of break. Have your mother read over it, and if it's clear you put in some effort then you can come to your uncle's game with us, your aunt, and cousins."

"Ok" Týr nodded solemnly.

"Come here" Rúrik smiled, and a confused Týr looked to him.
Rúrik chuckled and approached his son giving him a hug.

"I love ya, you know that?"

"Dad..." Týr whined, "...I know!"

"Ok good" Rúrik replied, kissing the top of his son's head.
"You're getting tall. I won't be able to do that much longer." Týr just smiled sheepishly.
"But you're smarter than C's and D's" he added.
"You need to try harder. I know you can do it."

Týr nodded.
"Yes sir" he said solemnly.

"That's my boy" Rúrik smiled.
"Grandma is working on dinner. We're doing board games later."

"Board games?" Týr asked confused.

"Yeah! Board games! Get you all off your screens for a bit. But get to your reading. I'll see you at dinner" Rúrik said, folding Týr's report card and placing it in his jacket pocket.

Týr watched that nervously knowing his mother would see it, but just nodded "ok" as his father left.
He looked back to his computer, the little red X in the corner of the screen indicating he didn't have internet connectivity.

He sighed and looked over at his open backpack, Painting the Fog sticking out.
"I guess..." he muttered. He picked the book up and began reading on his bed as the snow fell gently against the window.

---

*Hreppstjóri= District Head

---

Dansaðu Vindur by Eivør, 3:03

5 May 2019
3:56 pm
On a Sunday
Dofrar, Prydania

Jóngeir Bakken opened the door to his home, holding it for his wife Njála as she carried their newborn daughter Lárensína in.
"Welcome home little one" Jóngeir whispered as he and his wife made their way up the stairs to the room that was already prepared for the baby.

"Look at her" Njála said with a smile as she looked down at the baby, resting in her crib.
"Have you ever seen anything like it, sweetie?"

"No..." Jóngeir said, almost breathlessly.
"I haven't."

He held his wife closely, smiling as tears formed in his eyes as he watched his daughter sleep. He couldn't explain it but...he just felt something. Something powerful and beautiful when he saw his wife holding their child for the first time in that hospital bed. He wanted to hold her as tightly as he could. Protect her from everything.

And it was that paternal instinct to protect that now...haunted him. He looked over at Njála. She seemed so peaceful. She knew about his past, of course. You couldn't hide being former Peoples' Militia. And she'd loved him all the same. Despite coming from a family of wealthy landowners, she loved him. And had defied her father to marry him. Even moved with him back to his own mining home town to start a life with him. She knew all of his past....well most of it. He'd never told her about Darrow.

He'd been recruited into the Militia as a teenager. He was the first crop of new recruits not to have roots in the Militia's origins as the Syndicalist Party's militarized wing. He wasn't an old union hand. His father was though. A coal miner from right here in Dofrar in southwestern Prydania. He'd become a standout student, thriving in the ideologically-driven Syndicalist educational system. His enthusiastic loyalty earned him a visit from local Militia recruiters. By sixteen he was serving.

And two years later he was helping bury the dead bodies of twenty innocent people in unmarked graves.
The bodies...God the bodies. The way the faces looked. The way they felt. It was haunting. He was only eighteen at the time. He'd never experienced anything like this. Hell, in the two years since he'd joined he'd never even shot anyone. The bodies were haunting though. He couldn't escape the memory of them. And Captain Arnöy had been very direct with his orders. They didn't want the burial site of the twenty bodies to become a memorial. Each solider tasked with transporting and burying the bodies was threatened- under penalty of death- to never reveal the location.
Jóngeir had obeyed. It was made easier by the Militia's decision to re-assign everyone associated with the body disposal. They were all scattered to the rest of Prydania, their posts filled by new soldiers transferred in. This way no one could be guilted or threatened into revealing what they knew to an angry and mourning town.
He was transferred to Erkiengill, deep within Syndicalist territory. At first he tried to deal with the guilt he felt about Darrow by diving into his work. He'd clung to those old Syndicalist convictions, even if they wouldn't help him sleep any better at night. It worked, to a degree. He rose to the rank of Corporal. But then Hadden fell to the FRE and what was once comfortably in the heart of Syndicalist territory was wide open. The armoured corp of the Syndicalist Republican Army had mostly been routed at Hadden, and the Militia was pressed into service to supplement the Army's forces. It didn't help. He ended up a POW of Eiderwig's army during the prelude to the FRE's final advance on Býkonsviði. By June of 2017 he'd gotten the news. Keris had been captured. And so had Býkonsviði. The War was over. The Syndicalist Republic was no more.

For Jóngeir it brought no gnashing of teeth or wailing. He just felt empty... what was once conviction now filled with guilt. The Syndicalist state had been pulled away, and only the crimes left bare for the world to see.

And then the pardon. Word came that the new King had issued a pardon for all Syndicalist Outer Party members and all members of the Syndicalist Republican Armed Forces and Peoples' Militia under the rank of Captain. Jóngeir was set free...directionless. The people freed from the Syndicalist collectivized farming compounds, labour camps, and workers' collectives were all given access to programs to help them find work. Technically he had access to those programs as well...but the status as a former soldiers in the Peoples' Militia was a black mark against him. He'd worked odd jobs here and there...until he met Njála.

Oh was her father angry...but even as her family began re-settling their former property she was and Jóngeir had fallen for each other. She'd helped him land a job, working security for a mining operation run by Prydanskstál* in his home town.

And as he looked at his daughter...the guilt of Darrow rose up again. Now stronger than ever. Those bodies. Each one of them was someone's father. Mother. Brother. Sister. Son. Daughter. He began to shake as he stood there with his wife. It was suddenly as if the part of his soul that had managed to bottle the guilt had burst open. What if...what if someone had come for Njála? For Lárensína? What if...someone came for him? And his wife and child were left without him? He knew what the regime he served was guilty of. He'd come to terms with it...but now...now that he was a father....he realized just what it was he had been a part of.

"Honey, are you ok?" Njála asked.

"Yeah" Jóngeir replied with a nod and a soft smile.
"It's been...well it's been a crazy few days."

"You didn't have to push a person out of you" Njála teased.

"No, I didn't, and that's why you're stronger than me" Jóngeir chuckled.
"I need to get some air. You set up the chairs in here so we can keep an eye on the little one. I'll be right back.

"Alright love" Njála replied, kissing his cheek.

"Be back soon" Jóngeir smiled.

He walked out onto his back porch. He had a clear view of his neighbours' porches, the houses all lined up as they were. Still, both porches to his sides were unoccupied. And his wife couldn't hear him from the baby's room. He took his phone from his pocket and looked up a number online.

"Hello, Darrow Ríkilögreglu* Headquarters. How may I direct your call?" a pleasant voice answered.
Jóngeir gulped. He was doing this....

"Hello. I...I have information."
The voice on the other end paused.

"About what sir? Are you calling to report a crime?"

"I...I have information about the execution of twenty innocent people by the Syndicalist Peoples' Militia on 25 August 2012. I know where the bodies are buried."

"Sir...please hold..."

Jóngeir's heart raced. What was he doing? They'd come for him...no...no...he had a pardon...and besides. The new government didn't do that. They didn't "come for you" like...well...like his had.

"Sir?" it was a different voice.
"Sir? This is Chief Lysvand. Darrow Police. I have to ask. Is what was told to me true?"

"Yes sir. I know where the bodies are."

"How?"

"I was part of the crew that dug the graves. I know where they are."

"Why are you coming forward with this information?"

"I just...I want the families to have closure."

1 July 2019
10:13 am
On a Monday
Darrow, Prydania

Laurits Eiderwig just stood there as he watched his father stand before the memorial.

"He's still there?" Klara asked as she came up to her brother.

"Yeah. I was going to go with him but he said he had to be alone. It's been at least half an hour."

"Should we go up to him now? I mean..." Klara said, sounding unsure of her own plan.

"You want to be the one to do it? Go ahead" Laurits said with a smile. Klara smiled back, but it was hard to crack jokes in a place like this.

The memorial itself was rather understated. A polished elongated tomb marker in a crescent shape, engraved with the names of the twenty innocent people hung in Darrow. A single Messianic cross raised above it, with a plaque that read...

plaque:

Here lie twenty innocent souls murdered by the Syndicalist regime on 25 August 2012. We will never forget you, nor will we allow such evil to return to this land. May you rest in peace, knowing that justice has been served and that your country knows tranquility once again. May your souls know ever-lasting happiness in the world beyond.

Hallgarður Bastholm
Lúðvík Hyltir Bjarnfjörð
Robert Bjarnfjörð
Sverrir Fossberg
Njörður Grövan
Borgþór Hofteig
Kristfinnur Hofteig
Jakop Finn Höglund
Ólafur Ingebrigtsen
Manfred Knarran
Sigbjörn Knarran
Hjörtur Tryggvi Lundegaard
Friðberg Lundegaard
Þorbjörn Överaas
Peter Skefill Reynholt
Gnýr Eldjárn Röd
Arthur Sjöli-Röd
Tobías Skíðdal
Kjell Thor Starrfelt
Indriði Tungesvik​

Click to expand...

Stig stood before the memorial. He'd been standing in silence for a half an hour. True silence. He wasn't even talking to himself. He just stood there. Finally...finally he'd mustered the courage to speak to the dead.

"I'm sorry" he said softly.
"I...I fought during the War, because I wanted to save our country. Everything I did...I did for that. I knew..." he began to tear up. To anyone who knew him- even by reputation- that alone would have been shocking.
"I knew what the monsters were capable of. That was one of the reasons I fought. To try and stop them. So this...this would stop happening. That's why I authorized that bomb. Because it had to be done. Because I believed in..."
He closed his eyes as the lump in his throat grew bigger....
"...because it was necessary to kill the bastards. Because it was part of a plan to wrestle control of this country back from them. I never...I never wanted innocent people to die for my choices. I'm a soldier. I accept that sometimes that happens. Even for the best of causes...but I failed you all. I did what I had to do. For our country. To save us all from those criminals, but I failed you. That you were killed while I remain here, I don't know what that says about God or the universe, but I promise you all. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I failed you. And I pray to God in heaven above, that you can all forgive me."

He looked down and allowed himself to break. To cry. A short burst of tears before he was able to regain composure. He looked up again, wiping the tears from his eyes. He reached around his neck, pulling a pennant from under his military uniform. A pennant for St. Michael the Archangel. A divine protector.
He draped the necklace across the cross and touched the polished stone for a moment before turning back. He saw his son and daughter waiting for him by the road.

"Hey dad" Klara said nervously. She couldn't think of a single time she'd ever seen her father cry.

"Doing ok pabbi?" Laurits asked.

"Yeah" their father replied, straightening his tie that had come undone a bit as a result of his removal of his pennant.
"Yes. Let's go."

---

*Prydanskstál= Prydanian Steel
*Ríkilögreglu= Realm's Police, the post-Syndicalist national police force of Prydania

---

Do You Realize? by Ursine Vulpine, 3:12

16 April 2018
8:16 PM
On a Monday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Tobias sipped his brennivín as his time with his friends continued. They were all holed up in his office, by the couches. Drinking by a fire as the spring rains fell outside. Tobias was thankful for the rain, actually. It kept Rylond from going on about going out on the town. Býkonsviði had begun to recover, with clubs and bars aimed at the younger crowd beginning to pop up. Rylond was a fixture among that burgeoning scene, but Tobias hated crowds. It had been his birthday two days ago anyway. The celebration at Absalonhöll had been nice, but he enjoyed the more intimate gathering now.
“Fuck,” Fylkir laughed turning to Tobias, “wasn’t that when you were going around with a busted broom like a pimp cane?”

“Don’t diss my pimp cane,” Tobias chuckled. He barely remembered that night. He’d had far too much to drink, but he was eighteen at the time. He wasn’t going to feel bad for having a good time when he could during that fucking War.
“The crazy thing is,” Tobias continued, pointing to Bjarkar, “that I was going to try and show you a good time, but you outdrank all of us.”
Bjarkar chuckled.

“Don’t try to outdrink a farmer,” he winked.

“Yeah, but how much liquor did you even get in that compound?” Rylond asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bjarkar replied, smiling.

“It’s in the genes. I’m predisposed to drinking you all under the table.”

“How is the farm doing?” Tobias replied, sipping more of his drink.

“Good,” Bjarkar beamed. “Land reclamation is mostly complete and the first crops are starting to show. Mömmu and pabbi are nervous, but I keep telling them everything will work out. The aid money helps a lot.”
Tobias nodded. He saw the reports. He had a general idea of how much aid was helping the agricultural sector, but he liked hearing individual stories.
“You should all come over,” Bjarkar insisted.
“We have the room.”

“Countryside hangout? Yeah I could do that” Fylkir replied.

“It would be nice to see the countryside again,” Tobias said with a nod.

“It’s gotten nicer,” Bjarkar nodded. “The roads are still bumpy and the towns are still picking themselves up, but it’s nice that there aren’t soldiers around anymore.”

Tobias was about to respond when Elo Daugaard's unmistakable "ahem" interrupted them.
Tobias turned around to see the Royal household’s steward entering the office.
"Your Majesty," he began, "you have a letter."

"A letter?" Tobias asked, a bit tipsy.

"Yes Your Majesty. I would leave it for the morning but the subject matter is important."

"Oh," Tobias said, looking around as Elo's announcement had gotten the table's attention.
"Sure, what is it?"
Elo handed the King the correspondence. Tobias read it over, his jaw clenching for a moment before he sat it down.

"What is it?" his friend Bjarkar asked.

"Sölvi Buhl is requesting an audience to ask for the King's mercy for his father."

The room was quiet. Henrik Buhl, the Syndicalist Minister of Foreign Affairs, had been caught trying to flee to Cogoria after the Battle of Býkonsviði. He was the second senior-most Syndicalist official captured, after Jannik Lieftur. Lieftur had been shot in February after being found guilty of a litany of crimes and human rights abuses. Henrik had received the same sentence two weeks prior.

"Sölvi's not a Syndicalist," Rylond said, breaking the silence.

"No, he's not," Tobias replied, still staring at the letter.

"You're not going to do it, are you?" Bjarkar asked. Tobias bit the inside of his lip. He had every reason to hate the Syndicalists- and he did. Yet if anyone had cause to hate them more, it was Bjarkar. And people like him. Bjarkar's family had been dispossessed of their farm during Syndicalist collectivization. And forced to work the collectivized compound in what was little more than a prison camp that encompassed their former home.
Seeing the state of those people, starved and worked half to death, when that compound was liberated was a sobering reminder to Tobias what they were fighting for. He'd met Bjarkar that day. They'd been friends since. And Tobias knew exactly what Bjarkar's thoughts were on this.

"I'm going to meet with him," he explained.

"You can't be serious," Bjarkar replied in disbelief bordering on indignation.

"Sölvi's a good person," Tobias replied. He'd only met him once, at the very end of the war, but what Tobias knew about him extended beyond that meeting.
"He could have had an easy life built off of the suffering of others" he said as he looked at Bjarkar.
"Instead he joined the People's Front to help us fight. He gave up a lot to do the right thing."

"So that means you're going to show his war criminal of a father mercy?" Bjarkar shot back. It was starting to get uncomfortable. No one minded if Tobias' close friends ignored formalities with him in private, but Bjarkar was getting angry.

"I'm just gonna meet with him, I didn't say I'd give him what he wants. He deserves an audience though," the King replied.

"I can arrange for him to meet with you tomorrow, Your Majesty," Elo said, breaking his own silence since this all began.

"Thank you," Tobias nodded. Elo bowed and left the office, leaving the party guests tense and uncomfortable.

---

17 April 2018
12:36 PM
On a Tuesday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Sölvi looked around. White-overalled painters passed him by and the sound of construction work could be heard through Absalonhöll. The Royal palace was still being worked on. The section that held the King's quarters and office, however, had been finished.

"His Majesty will see you now," Elo Daugaard announced, leading him into the King's office. Tobias was standing by his desk and Sölvi bowed slightly as he entered, Elo closing the door behind him. He'd leave the King and his guest to their business.

"Your Majesty," Sölvi said, as he entered the room and bowed. Tobias smiled, holding out a hand.

"It's been a while," he said with a grin.

Sölvi was a bit taken back. A lot was happening. When he'd met Tobias last, at the end of the War, he had a wild mess of blond hair, wearing dirty clothing and a tactical vest that had seen better days. Now he seemed far more put together, his hair cut and trimmed, wearing a nice three piece grey suit.
Of course Tobias was King now- a proper King- so the put together appearance wasn't shocking. Still...he was meeting his country's sovereign. And it was the same person who looked like he'd just been through hell when he saw him last. And he wanted to shake his hand.

"It's been a busy year, Your Majesty," Sölvi replied as he shook the King's hand before they both sat down.

"I hope things are well for your mother and yourself," Tobias replied.

"Yes, mother is doing well, and the writing career is taking off."

"I read your piece about the renovation to the National Theatre. I agree, it looks terrible."

"Well Your Majesty," Sölvi began, "you could have forced them to change," he said with a smile.

"No one wants to hear me go on about architecture," Tobias replied wistfully.
"Least of all actual architects."

"Maybe we could have you pen an opinion on the subject now and then." He knew the King had more than a passing interest in architecture. He didn't say it just to make Tobias amicable to his request, but if it helped...

"Maybe," Tobias replied with a smile.
"But you came to see me for a reason,” he said. He felt his stomach turn with nerves. He didn’t know how else to start this without being direct.
“I don't see why I should grant your request based on what I know about your father."

Sölvi gulped and felt a pit in his stomach opening up. He knew this was going to happen. Made worse by the idea that he himself didn't have much in the way of a defence for his father's actions.

"I was there at the Battle of Býkonsviði," Tobias continued. "There are people who are missing loved ones today because Henrik Buhl gave the order to keep fighting, even after the Syndicalists had lost."

"My father..." Sölvi began, trying to work out how to express the jumbled web of emotions in his mind, "...did a lot of bad things" he nodded.
"The court covered all of it in great detail."

Tobias nodded. The courts had. How Henrik Buhl had lied to foreign powers about the extent of the labour camps, collectivization, the killing of religious people, the executions. How he'd been complicit in a cover-up of the regime's atrocities.

"But there are...look..." Sölvi said, still trying to work out what he wanted to say, bringing a hand to his head to rub his temples.

"It's ok," Tobias replied with a grin. "Take your time."
Whatever he thought of Henrik, he liked Sölvi.

"My father was involved in a lot of bad things, Your Majesty, but you weren't there. In his house. Growing up. I remember the conversations he'd have with mother. He was afraid more than anything. Afraid that Lieftur would get him. He disliked that man a great deal, but they went back to their old union days and..."

"The only time I hear anyone say anything remotely positive about Jannik Lieftur starts with 'but we went back to the old union days.' As if knowing someone for a long time makes them a good person," Tobias said angrily. He wasn't angry at Sölvi, but the brotherhood the old Syndicalist-aligned unions fostered seemed to come up a lot to excuse some of the worst people in that regime.

"I know," Sölvi replied.
"Trust me I know. He knew Lieftur though, and he knew what he'd do if he thought he was disloyal. The Buhl-Lasmartres Agreement. You know that, Your Majesty."

"Yes," Tobias replied. Henrik Buhl agreeing to allow the Santonians to operate in the country and save people was one of the few good things to his name as far as the King knew.

"That was a good thing, yeah? And the Syndicalist government needed that. They couldn't afford the blow that losing Santonian recognition would bring. And yet my father feared for his life after that, because he was sure Lieftur would come for him for conceding anything in those negotiations. Even though it was vital to his government that he do so."

"He still lied about their atrocities. He was in a position of power, and he didn't stop any of it. He didn't even try,” Tobias said. He felt a lot of old anger stirring in him, and he just tried to keep it focused and under control.

"He gave the Syndicalist movement an undue sense of loyalty," Sölvi replied. "It doesn't excuse what he did but I think...I don't know, but I think...he wanted to see the best in it and he didn't realize the moral compromises he was making one after the other."

"That's a very generous interpretation," Tobias said coolly.

"He's my father," Sölvi replied.
"I knew what was happening was wrong. It's why I ran away. And decided to do something about it. But...he's my father. I can't not try and see the best in him."

Tobias felt a lump in his throat. He found he was getting tense, and tried to stay calm.
"I used to say the same thing about my uncle."

Sölvi didn't know what to say for a moment. He wasn't expecting that...but it was a powerful comparison.

"I don't think I would grant my uncle mercy if he were alive to be found guilty of his crimes," Tobias continued.

"We all have people in our lives who probably don't deserve the loyalty we gave them. For my father it was his old union brothers, who ended up tearing this country apart. For me it's my father," Sölvi said solemnly.
"He deserves to pay for his crimes," he continued.
"But I couldn't live with myself if I didn't petition for his life. I know what he's guilty of but he's...my father. I know it’s not much, Your Majesty, but he wasn’t a dictator or a psychopath. He just...God I don’t know...he just lost sight of what mattered.”

Sölvi felt vulnerable. Like he’d been cracked open. He truly didn’t have much to come here with. He was only a child when the Syndicalist coup occurred. He was only seventeen when he left to join the People’s Front. All he had were stories of his own father’s apprehensions and his own dedication as a son- dedication that he had a sneaking suspicion he was giving unearned. What could he do though? Leaving for the People’s Front wasn’t an easy choice. Not because he believed in the Syndicalist government- he didn’t- but it was hard to leave his parents. He remembered his father, as a father first and foremost. And it was hard to shake that, even knowing what he was complicit in. He could only look at Tobias, a solemn look on his face.

Tobias saw it, and tried to work out what he could say. Or do. Sölvi had come to plead for his father’s life. Everything else faded away for a moment. He’d watched his own father get gunned down. Now Henrik Buhl was slated to be executed. By his government. No. He wouldn’t put it on tv. No. He wouldn’t make Sölvi watch it. Still...he felt a ping of sympathy for him. Tobias had been too young to change anything. He couldn’t have stopped his mother and father’s execution. If he had been though….would he have tried? He...he wanted to think he would have.
“Sölvi…” the King began softly, “I’m going to think about it. I wish I could give you a better answer but I just need to think about it.”

Sölvi, however, was ecstatic. He’d expected to be told “no.” Now he’d gotten maybe a consideration.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Sölvi replied.
“Thank you so much.”

“Take care Sölvi, please send your mother my regards,” Tobias said as he stood. Sölvi stood as well, shaking the sovereign’s hand once more.

“You take care too, Your Majesty,” he said before taking his leave.

Tobias sat in his chair again as he called for Elo Daugaard.
“Your Majesty?” the steward asked, entering the office.

“Contact the Santonian embassy. Please inform them I wish to speak to Ambassador Lasmartres. About Henrik Buhl.”

“Right away Your Majesty.”

“Wait,” Tobias added, causing Elo to stop and turn around.
“Let them know I’m not angry at him, will you? I just want to talk,” he said with a smile, recalling the first time he met the Santonian ambassador.

“I will find a way to work that into an official request Your Majesty,” Elo replied with a bit of a smirk.

“Thanks,” Tobias said as he leaned back into his chair as his steward took his leave.

---

For the Heart I Once Had by Nightwish, 4:02

Music: Aerosmith - Dream On

17 April 2018
4:03 PM
On a Tuesday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Tobias had his reasons for calling out to Thomas Lasmartres. The Buhl-Lasmartres Agreement was the one positive thing that the King could think to ascribe to Henrik Buhl. Even then though, it allowed for people to be saved from Buhl’s government. Still, it was one aspect of Buhl’s tenure as Minister of Foreign Affairs for the Syndicalist Republic. Thomas Lasmartres had been the Santonian ambassador for all of that tenure. Between that tenure and the agreement…. surely he knew something about the man.

Of course there were also Lasmartres’ own left-wing sympathies. He’d moved in circles that included Prydanian Syndicalists from before their coup. That was actually something Tobias knew about the ambassador going back a number of years. It was one reason why he resented Saintonge for the longest time, their “Syndicalist-loving ambassador.”

Tobias’ opinions on Thomas Lasmartres and his country had changed dramatically since then, since their first meeting in the dying hours of the Prydanian Civil War. He held the Santonian in very high regard these days... but that past of Lasmartres’ was another reason he was being called on. Tobias couldn’t think of anyone else who knew Henrik Buhl who could provide anything close to an objective opinion. He wasn’t thinking in terms of percentages, but if there was a chance he would mitigate Henrik Buhl’s death sentence... he just wanted to be sure. He had to ask who he could. Sölvi deserved to know he’d looked into his father as thoroughly as he could.

He had the recording of Henrik’s trial pulled up on his computer. He told himself he’d watch it between now and when Thomas Lasmartres was due to arrive. Well the time was imminent and he still hadn’t hit play. It was hard. Looking back was hard. Not because he wanted to forget, but because he had to be careful not to feed the urge to be angry.
There was a knock on his office door. It startled him.

“Your Majesty,” Elo Daugaard said, entering. “Mr. Lasmartres has arrived.”

Tobias nodded. “Thank you. Send him in,” he said. He stood. He found he could play fast and loose with protocol on occasion, but Thomas Lasmartres was someone who deserved everything done by the book.

Elo nodded and left, returning in short order. “Your Majesty, may I present the Ambassador for the Kingdom of Saintonge, His Excellency, Thomas Lasmartres.”

Ambassador Thomas Lasmartres and his assistant Marc-Daniel Millerand entered the King’s office, offering Tobias a smile. “Your Majesty.”

“Ambassador,” he replied, offering a smile of his own that hid some nervousness, before motioning to a chair across from his desk. “Please, take a seat.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said as he took his seat as the royal steward took his leave.

“I hope you’re well,” Tobias said happily.

“I am, Your Majesty. Thank you. And a belated happy birthday to you.”

“Thank you,” Tobias replied with a smile. “It was my first birthday out of hiding in sixteen years. It was nice.”

“I’m glad Your Majesty,” Lasmartres said with a nod. “I hope you enjoyed the embassy’s gift.”

“I swear you Santonians are trying to turn me into a wine lover through sheer attrition,” Tobias chuckled. “But yes, it was lovely. Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome Your Majesty. We’ll wear you down one day,” the ambassador said with a smile.

Tobias chuckled again and nodded. “Thank you, Ambassador, for entertaining my request on such a short notice,” the King said pleasantly.

Ambassador Lasmartres nodded. “It is always a pleasure to talk to you, Your Majesty. This might be one of the last meetings we might have.”

Toby’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”

“My term as ambassador here in Prydania is ending,” Lasmartres said as Marc-Daniel Millerand laid down three briefcases on the seat opposite where the Ambassador was sitting. “You can leave us for a while, Daniel.”

As Millerand was leaving the room, the Santonian ambassador elaborated on this previous statement. “Santonian diplomats typically stay only for two terms - or about eight years - in a diplomatic post. Afterwards we are rotated out. I’ve been in Prydania for twenty years… I asked to remain here because of the extraordinary circumstances. But now that those circumstances are over,” the ambassador smiled, “I’m due to be rotated out of this post.”

“Huh,” Tobias remarked, not expecting that. It certainly wasn’t what he’d expected to hear this afternoon. Maybe it was that unexpectedness, maybe it was everything he’d learnt since the end of the war. It was probably both, in actuality.

“Ambassador,” he began, before clearing his throat.

“Thomas,” he said. Tobias had never used Ambassador Lasmartres’ first name with him. Due to protocol and the fact that he just...didn’t like the name Thomas. It just seemed proper though, now.

“Thomas, I…” he paused. He had trouble saying what he had in his head for a moment. He felt like something reliable was just vanishing.

“Thank you,” Tobias said with a nod, diverting his gaze downward, slightly. How he felt now made him realize how...embarrassed he was over how he’d spoken to Thomas the first time they met.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for my country. I guess I should be honoured that you’re no longer needed,” he smiled softly, “but my country is a better place now than when you found it. And you… you’re one reason why. I never said this to you, but if this is the last time we’ll speak like this then I’m sorry. For what I said to you when we first met. And I understand why you’ll be leaving us, but we will miss you. Dearly.”

Ambassador Lasmartres bowed slightly. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for your kind words. I still don’t know where I will be posted next… I still have ten years before I retire.”

“Wherever you are posted will be lucky to have you,” Tobias replied. “I am glad I caught you before you left… This is something important.”

Ambassador Lasmartres knew what it was about. He was informed that it was about Henrik Buhl, the Syndicalist Minister of Foreign Affairs. Hence he had the evidence in the three briefcases.

“Sölvi Buhl came to me earlier today asking for clemency for his father,” the King began. “I wanted to know whether Henrik Buhl deserves clemency. I asked for you because there are very few people here who can give me an unbiased account of his career. I just don’t know what to do about the man.”

Thomas Lasmartres leaned back in his chair. Sölvi Buhl fought against the government of his father. Despite their political differences, he knew that Sölvi loved his father. It was not unexpected that he asked for clemency.

Henrik, too, loved Sölvi. During the years immediately preceding the Syndicalist Revolution, when the Óafmáanlegir was after the Syndicalists, Henrik asked Lasmartres to take Sölvi in, in case Henrik got captured.

Still, as an ambassador of a foreign country, Thomas Lasmartres had to be careful to avoid being seen as influencing his host country or its monarch. It was a tough spot to be in, but a tenable position.

“I would like to ask you a favour if you can give me information about Henrik,” the King told the Ambassador. “You were here through all the tough times that my country went through. You interacted with him for years as Saintonge’s representative to the Syndicalist Republic.I think you know him better than anyone else I could trust.”

Ambassador Lasmartres smiled politely. “Your Majesty, thank you for your trust in me. As an ambassador of a foreign country, and an intensely neutral one at that, I do not want to be seen as influencing your decision one way or the other. Whether you would grant clemency or not is your decision, and I shall not sway to influence you one way or the other, regardless of my personal feelings about Henrik - ”

“Are you two friends?” Toby inquired curiously, inadvertently cutting off the ambassador. “Oh, I’m sorry, ambassador, please carry on.”

“Whatever my personal relationship with Henrik Buhl should not affect your decision, Your Majesty,” Ambassador Lasmartres continued. “Although as a diplomat, I know how personal relationships can be used to improve the professional relationship and ultimately the relationship between our countries.”

“As such, I would want to answer your questions directly and give you factual information. So, Your Majesty, what in particular do you want to know?”

Toby paused for a moment. He called in the Santonian ambassador for him to tell the story of Henrik Buhl, but Toby didn’t know where to start. Or what to ask. Maybe he’ll start with his previous question.

“How was your personal and professional relationship with Henrik Buhl? Were you friends with him?”

“We were acquaintances at the very least,” Lasmartres answered. “I’d kindly say that I cultivated a personal relationship with Henrik Buhl to further our professional relationship. I’m a diplomat, after all.”

Toby was a bit confused. “So, friends or not friends?” Toby said in a tone reminiscent of the newly-popular RÚV game show Samningur eða Enginn Samningur?* The king and ambassador laughed at the inadvertent pop culture reference.

“I’d rather not play,” the ambassador replied. “But all I can say is, if Henrik and I were close friends, I would’ve done the same thing as what Sölvi did.”

Tobias tapped his pencil on his desk. So it was somewhere between an “acquaintance” and “close friend”. The Santonian ambassador was being coy. Not that Tobias could blame Thomas Lasmartres for it. The ambassador wanted to be seen as neutral. But that stumped Toby again. What should he ask next?

“You’re not helping me, ambassador,” Toby said in jest, and then continued in a more serious tone, “You see, everyone knows what Henrik Buhl did - all the bad things. It is why he was sentenced to death. What I want to know, is there anything worth saving in Henrik Buhl?”

Ambassador Lasmartres knowingly looked at Tobias. The King of Prydania was looking for any good things Henrik Buhl might have done. Were there any?

“Maybe we should start with the 2003 Buhl-Lasmartres Agreement,” the King said. “He did allow Santonian diplomats largely unfettered in their work of rescuing people… my people. Right?”

Ambassador Lasmartres inhaled deeply, the recollections on that date streaming back in head. The Buhl - Lasmartres Agreement was a crucial document, but the King of Prydania was in error if he thought it was Henrik’s redeeming value. The negotiations they had that day only exposed the weakness of Henrik Buhl’s position. It did not reflect on Henrik well.

“The Buhl-Lasmartres agreement came about after the Syndicalist People’s Militia killed one of our diplomats. Marc-Tristan Landet was shot while trying to rescue Courantist children who were being gunned down by militiamen.”

Ambassador Lasmartres paused, seeing the discomfiture in the King’s face. Stories like these... affected Toby very much. The ambassador let the king process his emotions before continuing. The King took a deep breath and nodded.

“My government demanded corrective action from the part of the Syndicalist government, future inviolability and respect for Santonian diplomats and diplomatic compounds, and freedom to evacuate refugees and asylum-seekers from Prydania. The Presidium agreed after we threatened to release the video in which the People’s Militia was seen shooting unarmed civilians - men, women, and children.”

“Oh God…” Toby muttered.

“That’s how we got our agreement. We had the Presidium-approved document to wave at the militia whenever they impeded in our work.”

“You said the Presidium agreed to it?”

Ambassador Lasmartres nodded. Now comes the incriminating part. “During the negotiations, Henrik Buhl had to consult with the Presidium for point three - the freedom to evacuate refugees and asylum-seekers from Prydania. I realised that he was not in full control of decisions he was making in his ministry… it was the Presidium.”

“And even when he mentioned that the Syndicalist Republic gave in to the first two Santonian demands regarding corrective action and respect for diplomats, I believe his words were that he had been ‘authorised by the Presidium’, or something like that.”

“So your agreement with Henrik Buhl was largely because Saintonge demanded it?” the King surmised. “It wasn’t an effort by Henrik Buhl to help people?”

“If that is how you view it, Your Majesty, I will not contest that viewpoint,” Ambassador Lasmartres said. Could he just have sealed the fate of Henrik Buhl? But the ambassador went with another recollection. “It seemed that Henrik had no control over what the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was doing - everything had to be run with the Presidium first. Before the Landet incident, Henrik Buhl twice complained to the Santonian embassy regarding our rescue activities. The conversation revolved around ‘The Presidium wanted me to tell you that the actions of your diplomats were so-and-so.’”

Toby leaned back in his chair. He should’ve been taking notes, but the Ambassador’s story was engrossing he forgot to write any.

“It could’ve been just the language in which the protests were worded, but I know that there is at least one incident in which Henrik felt forced to do something reluctantly… I believe it was 2006 when the Syndicalist government abruptly ordered the closure of our Baldersberg consulate. Henrik called me to inform me. He was like, ‘Thomas, I’m sorry. The Presidium ordered the closure of your consulate in Baldersberg because it was being used for FRE activities.’ The Syndicalists gave us three hours to evacuate. Henrik said he pushed for more time in the Presidium, but three hours was the most that the Presidium could give.”

“That’s when I confirmed to myself that Henrik was not making these decisions on his own. He was just the messenger,” Ambassador Lasmartres concluded. “That said, our personal and professional relationship with Henrik allowed us to voice our concerns and protests to the Presidium - he brought our issues to the Presidium… but the Presidium does what it wants.”

The Presidium. Something that was controlled by Thomas Nielsen and Jannik Leiftur. Nielsen and Leiftur even purged members of the Presidium who were disloyal to them. To some extent, it was understandable that Henrik Buhl would not act against Nielsen’s and Leiftur’s will. Because even members of the Presidium were not immune.

But Henrik Buhl could’ve been better than that, Tobias thought. He could’ve done something, but he didn’t. He could’ve paid with his life and died like a hero, just like many Prydanians. Nothing the Santonian ambassador said could save Henrik Buhl. Now, instead of dying like a hero, Henrik Buhl would be dying like a traitor, dying like a criminal.

“He didn’t do anything to save people…” the King murmured. Indignation crept into his voice. “He allowed himself to be used! Well, let him meet his proper fate!”

Ambassador Lasmartres inhaled deeply as Tobias had his outburst.

“I’m sorry, Ambassador,” the King muttered, gathering himself and trying to put his emotions aside.

“I understand, Your Majesty,” Ambassador Lasmartres replied. “Even I am saddened as to how Henrik Buhl ended up like that - a slave to the Presidium, an empty shell of a man who people used to look up to. Maybe that’s why the Presidium put him in foreign affairs - he used to have a good reputation.”

Toby still had not fully swept his emotions aside when he heard the ambassador’s statement. “Henrik Buhl had a good reputation? To whom?”

“To everyone who wasn’t a fascist or a member of the Social Commonwealth government,” Ambassador Lasmartres answered. He then started relating a story. Tobias listened intently.

“I arrived here in 1997. Henrik Buhl was a union organiser, a union man. He was helping Syndicalists and other people. We met in December 1997, and we had been in frequent contact since then.

“I will be brutally frank with you, Your Majesty. The Social Commonwealth government of King Anders III and Stefan Toft was not pleasant. Whatever the Syndicalists did to your people during their fifteen years; the Social Commonwealth was doing too for the previous eighteen.”

Tobias nodded. He was not one to get defensive about his uncle or his government.

“Henrik Buhl frequently contacted me when he sought assistance for Prydanians in need,” Ambassador Lasmartres continued. “That’s why I knew him for years before the Syndicalist coup.”

Ambassador Lasmartres opened one of the briefcases and brought out a blue ring binder - one of the many files on refugees and asylum seekers that the Royal Santonian Embassy had accumulated. The ambassador put the ring binder on the King’s desk and opened it. He flipped a few leaves before he reached the page he was looking for.

Tobias pore over the page that Ambassador Lasmartres was showing him. Pasted on white paper was a yellowed newspaper clipping dated 07 April 1999. “HUMAN RIGHTS LAWYER KILLED IN RIDE-BY SHOOTING”, it said. The article detailed what happened, complete with a picture of a dead man slumped on the steering wheel of a car, his temples shot.

“Thorberg Hnappdal was a young human rights lawyer in Prydania,” Ambassador Lasmartres began. “He took up human rights cases. Back then, many other more experienced lawyers shied away from defending people that the Social Commonwealth government deemed undesirable. Thorberg Hnappdal defended wrongly-imprisoned and tortured people, including Syndicalists, in court. He was so successful in arguing his cases that he had many of the Syndicalists set free, even though the courts were stacked against his clients. One of his clients was actually Henrik Buhl, who regained freedom in 1995 thanks to him.

“Thorberg Hnappdal was not a Syndicalist. He simply wanted to defend innocents and oppose the trampling of human rights by the Social Commonwealth government. But in 1999, the Social Commonwealth had Thorberg Hnappdal in their sights too. They filed a disbarment case against him in early 1999. On his way to his disbarment hearing, still-unknown assailants shot him in broad daylight while he waited at a stoplight in central Býkonsviði.

“Of course the Social Commonwealth government blamed it on the Syndicalists. They blamed it on Syndicalists whose cases Hnappdal lost.

“Everyone knew it was ridiculous. Henrik Buhl offered assistance to Thorberg Hnappdal’s widow Gytta. He knew that her life and that of her two young sons were in danger. Henrik referred her to us at the Santonian embassy to seek asylum,” Ambassador Lasmartres flipped the page over, revealing a photocopy of the pink asylum-seeker form of Gytta Hnappdal and her sons. Beside their names were individual pictures of Gytta Hnappdal and her sons. One of them was a preschooler, who was around Tobias’ age in 1999. Toby wondered what could have happened to them.

“So we took Gytta Hnappdal and her sons in,” the ambassador related. “We sent them to Saintonge a few months later. If it wasn’t for Henrik, who knows what could’ve happened to them?”

“What happened to them?” Tobias asked. “Where are they now?”

Ambassador Lasmartres beamed. He was also keeping records of what happened to some of them, where they are now. The refugees that his embassy had rescued went on to contribute in their own ways to Saintonge. After the war, many sought out the ambassador to say thank you, giving him small photographs and mementos in gratitude. Ambassador Lasmartres flipped to the next page, which showed a large reproduction of a picture of the Santonian national ice hockey team, with the signatures of the players below.

“This is the Santonian national ice hockey team,” Ambassador Lasmartres said, although it would’ve been obvious to the King. “We jokingly call them Prydania’s reserve team because the majority of them are of Prydanian descent. Our national team was not that good, until the Prydanians arrived.”

The King grinned. Although he was a football guy himself, he knew that ice hockey was Prydania’s most popular sport, and it was a sport that the country was good at. If Saintonge’s national team was composed mainly of Prydanians, then the Santonian team must be good too.

Ambassador Lasmartres pointed to the player wearing the #95 jersey. “This is Baldr Hnappdal, Thorberg Hnappdal’s son. He was the preschooler in the asylum form.”

“Really!?” The King took the ring binder to look closer at the picture. The names… many were Prydanian. So many people whose lives were disturbed. Not just by the Syndicalists… but apparently by the Social Commonwealth government too.

“He plays as a forward, I think,” Ambassador Lasmartres added. “I’m not too sure, because I don’t follow ice hockey. But I know he’s one of the more popular ice hockey players in Saintonge. He and his fellow players gave this picture to us last Christmas as a thank-you for our embassy’s efforts.”

Tobias smiled. He was always glad to hear that Prydanians abroad were doing well. And if Henrik Buhl saved the Hnappdals by referring them to the Santonians, was it enough to justify commuting his sentence?

Ambassador Lasmartres let the now-smiling Toby pore over the ring binder. He had more to show. He laid down another red ring binder on the table and opened it on a page. Again, on a newspaper clipping, this time dated 17 July 2000. This one had a burnt-out house with the headline “SKARFSNES RURAL DOCTOR AND FAMILY KILLED IN FIRE”. On the next column was a family picture of a middle-aged man in a white coat, presumably the doctor, flanked by his wife and five children.

“Fritz Skarstein was the only doctor in the rural southwestern village of Skarfsnes,” Thomas Lasmartres started another story. “He was the only doctor for Skarfsnes and its surrounding villages. Now, Skarfsnes was reasonably near the mining town of Dofrar. Dofrar was a hotbed of Syndicalists. In the years leading up to the Syndicalist coup, many of the Syndicalists fled to the hills and forests, some near Skarfsnes. Some of them ended up in clashes with Social Commonwealth forces.

“Dr. Skarstein treated people regardless of their stature in life or their political affiliations. It was his sworn duty. Give aid to everyone who needs them. He treated the villagers and people for miles around, doing house calls. He treated the abused workers fleeing the mines. He treated Syndicalists injured in the skirmishes.

“His activities became known to the Social Commonwealth government. He was interrogated and threatened by the Óafmáanlegir. But Dr. Skarstein told them that curing people was his duty, regardless of their politics. He continued to treat everyone, including Syndicalists. So one night his house burned down, burning him and his entire family inside.

“Or so people thought. We know the truth,” Ambassador Lasmartres turned the page over. There was an asylum application from a Finn Thor Skarstein, aged 12. Attached was an affidavit signed by the twelve year old regarding the events on the night of 15 July 2000.

“The Óafmáanlegir invaded the Skarstein house on the night of 15 July 2000,” the ambassador said. “They woke up everyone and huddled them in the dining room. And then they shot the entire Skarstein family. Finn Thor Skarstein pretended to be dead and was shielded from bullets by the bodies of his family. Then the Óafmáanlegir set fire to the house to cover up their crime.

“Finn Thor Skarstein had to endure being partially burnt before he could flee. Because the Óafmáanlegir were still nearby. He fled through the house’s back door to the adjacent forests, where the Syndicalists found him. By chance, Henrik Buhl was nearby. He loaded the teenager in his car, and drove the almost-dying teenager to us in Býkonsviði… in the middle of the night.

“We had to give Finn Thor Skarstein a false name so he could be treated in hospital. And as soon as he was stable, we airlifted him to Saintonge.”

Tobias clenched his jaw. The more stories he heard, the more he hated his uncle and his Social Commonwealth government. They were as bad as the Syndicalists. But one question lingered in Toby’s mind. “How is Finn Thor now?”

Ambassador Lasmartres flipped the page. There was a picture of a blond-haired handsome man with glasses, wearing a doctor’s coat over a light blue shirt and tie. A stethoscope hung around his neck. Beneath his white coat’s three-fourth length sleeves, his scarred left arm, burnt by the fire, was visible. “Finn Thor Skarstein is now a doctor too,” Ambassador Lasmartres said happily. “Serving the people like his father.”

“Where is he?” Tobias inquired. He was elated that Finn Thor Skarstein was successful in Saintonge.

“He’s actually here in Prydania, Your Majesty,” Ambassador Lasmartres informed the king. “He works as a paediatrician now. He is part of Saintonge’s technical aid teams. As far as I know, he is currently stationed in Haland, helping restart the hospital and the medical school there. He also helped set up nutrition programmes for children and vaccination programmes in Austurland.”

“That’s nice to hear,” Tobias remarked, making a mental note to meet Finn Thor Skarstein when he could.

“I am happy that the people we helped,” Ambassador Lasmartres paused a bit as he remembered why he was showing these files to the King, “and Henrik Buhl helped, are now living good lives.”

The ambassador’s statement also brought back the king to the issue at hand. Henrik Buhl. He saved a few lives, yes, but was complicit in the deaths of others. Can those actions outweigh the wrongs that he did?

Ambassador Lasmartres brought out the third ring binder. He opened it again to a certain page. But this time, there was no newspaper clipping. Instead, there was a portion of a 1998 roadmap of Prydania, centred in Vesturland. In the hills of Vesturland, the name of a small town was encircled in red ink: Kleifar.

“I am sure you’ve never heard of Kleifar,” Ambassador Lasmartres began. “That’s because that town was erased from the map in 2001.”

Tobias perked up. Erased from the map? He thought only Syndicalists did that.

“Kleifar was a small town whose population depended on logging and small-scale agriculture. Regardless of what their industry was, the people of Kleifar were sympathetic to the Syndicalists’ fight. This was why the Syndicalists had their safehouses in Kleifar.

“In May 2001, the Óafmáanlegir discovered the Syndicalists’ safehouses in Kleifar. So they raided the town on 12 May 2001. They forced people in town - men, women, and children - into the town square. They told them that their crime was being Syndicalists and that they were being punished. The men were separated from the women and children.

“The men and teenage boys were corralled in a church set up for demolition. The Óafmáanlegir threw grenades into the church and then lit the dynamite charges. Everyone was killed, except one… and that’s why we know the story.

“The women and children were marched to a barn outside town. They were all locked inside. The Óafmáanlegir doused the barn with gasoline and lit it on fire. Many of the women and children were burnt to death. Anyone who tried to escape from the conflagration were shot at with machine guns.

“Kleifar was subsequently razed and bulldozed over… erased from the map.

“There were about three dozen people who escaped Kleifar,” Ambassador Lasmartres told the King. “Five partial families with one parent still left, and twenty-four orphans. They escaped the marches or the fires, and fled to the surrounding forests.

“When Henrik Buhl found out what the Óafmáanlegir did at Kleifar, he rushed to the area at great danger to himself - he was, after all, also on the Óafmáanlegir hit list. He led his comrades in gathering the survivors from Kleifar to help them seek asylum with us.” Ambassador Lasmartres turned pages upon pages of pink asylum forms and their associated information. “We brought them all to Saintonge.”

Ambassador Lasmartres stopped at a picture of a young man posing with him. The smiling young man was wearing a green-and-red football kit sponsored by Spilvel. “Ah, Thorkell Langslet,” the ambassador smiled as he remembered the name. “His father Hjörleifur was the only survivor at the church. Thorkell, then six years old, and his older brother Hallbjörn, escaped from the march. The three were reunited at the embassy. Thorkell Langslet is now a professional football player for FC Plaisance.”

The ambassador went on to the next page. There was a signed photograph of a woman clad in a red dress, with a microphone in hand as if performing on stage. She looked like a singer or a popstar. “This is Johanne, one of the most famous pop singers in Saintonge right now,” the ambassador pointed to the signature. “Her name is Johanne-Bricette Belcourt… that’s her adoptive name. She was born Jóhanna Dybevig, and was eleven years old when she was orphaned - her parents and other siblings perished in the church and the fire. Her younger brother Kristfinnur escaped with her from the barn... but he was shot by machine guns as they fled to the forest.

“I can remember Henrik’s face when he brought Jóhanna and Kristfinnur to our embassy…” Ambassador Lasmartres’ voice trailed off. It was a grisly scene when the car carrying Henrik Buhl and the rescuees arrived at the Santonian chancery. The car still hadn’t fully stopped when Henrik Buhl jumped from the vehicle and yelled for help. But they could not save Kristfinnur Dybevig. He died while still in the car, in the arms of his sister. “Kristfinnur Dybevig died as soon as he arrived at the embassy,” Lasmartres said sadly. “Henrik felt inadequate about it… not being able to save a child’s life. I told Henrik that if there’s anyone to blame, it’s the people who set fire to and shot at the children… not him.”

Ambassador Lasmartres looked up from the ring binders and focused his attention on the King. “You see, Your Majesty, this was Henrik Buhl before he became Foreign Minister.”

Tobias nodded, taking in everything. William had made sure he had grown up learning about how much of a monster his uncle was. He had fought it at first. His memories of Anders were vague, but generally pleasant. And he wanted to believe in his family. The more he learned though, and the more people he met...the more he had to accept what Anders was. What he’d done to his country. He was grateful William had not compromised on that fact. He could have, but he didn’t. He forced Tobias to accept what his uncle had done. And now Thomas Lasmartres was showing him but a brief glimpse into what his reign entailed.

“This is your choice to make Your Majesty,” the ambassador added. “But you asked me for what I knew about Henrik. All I can do is present the facts as I see them. And hope that they help you make your decision. Whatever it is.”

Tobias smiled slightly. “Thank you Ambassador,” he said. He just sat there for a moment. Part of him didn’t want to say anything. He didn’t want to see Thomas leave. He’d been a friend to his people - he knew that - but he knew that more than ever now. And part of him didn’t want to see him depart his office - and then his country. He smiled a bit more at that part of him that clung on to impossible things.

“Thank you again, Ambassador. Thank you for your service. And thank you for what you shared.”

He meant that too. Sölvi had come to him with his heart, but could not provide much in the way of concrete facts.

Thomas could though. And they matched what Sölvi had tried to say. A man who let his loyalties compromise what had been an inner nobility.

“You’re welcome, Your Majesty,” Thomas replied as they both stood.

“Thank you again, for everything. And best wishes, wherever they send you.”

“It was an honour, Your Majesty,” Thomas smiled. “And I’m happy to be leaving Prydania as it is.”

“Your faith has always meant a lot,” Tobias remarked.

“I’m very happy it was well-placed,” Thomas answered. “Thank you for your well wishes. And best of luck to you, Your Majesty. In everything to come.”

Tobias smiled and then signed as Ambassador Lasmartres left his office. He didn’t have time to think on what his leaving would mean though, because he already knew what he was going to do. He began to type something on his computer. A statement regarding Henrik Buhl.

---

* Samningur eða Enginn Samningur? - “Deal or No Deal”, a version of the Santonian game show À prendre ou à laisser (“Take it or Leave it”) from STV.

OOC note: Post co-written with @Prydania. He got the music too

18 April 2018
11:25 PM
On a Wednesday
Briarviður Prison, Prydania

Henrik Buhl tried reading again. He’d actually been afforded a decent library for an inmate, but he couldn’t focus. He couldn’t bring himself to get more than a page or so into anything - fiction, political theory, history, true crime - without the dread that came from confronting his own mortality bubbling up inside of him. He just forced himself to lay in bed. It was better than pacing in his small cell.

“You have a visitor,” a guard remarked. He didn’t look up. The guards here all held him in utter contempt. He guessed most had fought against the Syndicalist Republic. Prison guard work was a good outlet for discharged fighting men.

“Sölvi? Tóka?” he asked. His son had visited him once. It had been...awkward. As much as Sölvi tied to make amends it was awkward. It was his fault. He still couldn’t let his running away go. And Tóka… his wife… hadn’t even bothered to come. That too was eating him up. He was going to die and he’d blown his last shot to reconcile with his son.

“Not quite,” Tobias replied.

Henrik sat up, shocked by what he was seeing.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone guarded.

Tobias looked around. He’d been here before. To tell Jannik Lieftur he was rejecting his plea to have his death sentence commuted. Henrik, however, hadn’t asked for his sentence to be commuted. His son had. And Tobias had no idea if Henrik knew.

“I’m here,” Tobias replied, “to inform you that I’m commuting your death sentence to live imprisonment. Without chance of release.”

“I didn’t ask you for that,” Henrik replied angrily.

“Sölvi did,” Tobias explained.

“He...he did?” Henrik asked. He… he was shocked. Especially considering that their last meeting had not been the best. He had to look down for a moment to collect himself.

“Yes. He did.”

Henrik collected himself to steel himself before the King.
“And why did you agree to do it?” he asked angrily.

“Because,” Tobias replied, “of Baldr Hnappdal, Finn Thor Skarstein, Thorkell Langslet, and Jóhanna Dybevig.”

Henrik looked wide-eyed at the King. He...he didn’t think he’d know about those people. Or care, but hearing those names again hit him hard. He tried to speak but couldn’t for a moment. Finally he managed to get out what had been floating on the tip of his tongue.

“I didn’t think you’d care about them,” he muttered.

“Why not?” Tobias replied coolly.
“I was them.”

Henrik looked up at the King, both angry and taken aback.

“Your government, you made me like them. A life changed by political violence. Losing my parents at a young age. Dependent on the kindness of others to survive. Your government did that to me, and countless other Prydanian children,” Tobias began to get angry, before he calmed himself.
“I don’t know what happened, Mr. Buhl, but at one point you helped people who needed it. How could I not care about them? That’s worth a lot to me.”

“They were victims of your uncle’s regime,” Henrik replied.

“I don’t know how much of the Syndicalist propaganda you believed or knew was bullshit,” Tobias replied bluntly.
“But I am not my uncle. Anders was a monster. I want nothing to do with him, and I think on some level you know that.” Henrik didn’t say anything.

“I used to blame my father, for trusting Syndicalists, given what happened to him and my mother. But the more I learn the more I understand. Anders’ regime had to be stopped. My father did what he thought was best. I don’t know what happened, to turn you from someone who saved people to someone who was complicit in more suffering. I don’t know if my father could even tell me if he were alive. But…” he felt his heart racing.
“You will live the rest of your life in prison for the crimes you were complicit in. And your life will be spared because of the lives you saved.”

Henrik wanted to answer the young King. What it was that had changed things, but even he wasn’t sure. The dark days of the late 90s and early 2000s...it was like everyone had gone mad. Even the party. It was a whirlwind of chaos, of anger. He just looked down.
“I don’t know what happened either,” he mumbled.
“I don’t...I just…tell Sölvi thank you.”

“You can thank him yourself,” Tobias replied.
“I suspect he’ll want to see you soon, after what he told me.”

“What was that?”

“That you’re his father. And he sees the best in you.” Henrik just nodded as he looked down.

“Goodbye Mr. Buhl,” Tobias said.
“I wish you’d stayed the man you started off as.”

Henrik didn’t say anything until the King had walked away from his cell. When he was sure he was alone again he muttered to himself.
“So do I.”

---

18 April 2018
2:13 PM
On a Wednesday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Bjarkar Odegaard paced across Tobias’ office angrily.

“How the fuck could you have done that?” he yelled. Tobias blushed a bit. It wasn’t even that Bjarkar was wrong in an understandable way. He was, in his own way, right. Tobias just sat there, not saying anything for a moment as his friend ranted.

“You...you let that war criminal…” Bjarkar fumed.

“We killed Lieftur. He deserved it. Do we really need a body count though?” Tobias asked.

“I DON’T FUCKING CARE, TOBY!” Bjarkar yelled before collapsing into a chair opposite the King.
“I don’t fucking care” he repeated, crying softly.

“Bjarkar…” Tobias began, but his friend wasn’t having it.

“Don’t...don’t. I...we...we starved. For twelve years. We had nothing and we starved” Bjarkar cried. “They took everything from us and treated us like slaves” he whimpered.
“And that son of a bitch sat there and let it happen. And lied about it. To the world. He lied Toby!”

“I know,” Tobias said, doing his best to sound sympathetic.
“I know what he did...everyone does. Everyone knows now though.”

“It doesn’t matter! He fucking…he just...he just let everything happen…” he began to cry again. As every indignity, humiliation, and abuse he, his mother, and his father had to suffer. The beatings, the starvation. The...the things he couldn’t even think about for long lest they reduce him to a sobbing mess.
“And you’re letting him live. He could pay for all of this but you...you’re letting him live” Bjarkar looked at Tobias with a look that conveyed pain. Hurt. Sorrow. Like he’d just been betrayed.

“I know…”

“STOP SAYING YOU KNOW!” Bjarkar yelled.

“No, I DO Know!” Tobias insisted.
“I saw the camps! I was there! You know I was! At least you had your parents. I didn’t even get that much!”

“That’s what makes this so fucking hard to understand Toby” Bjarkar growled.
“Because you should have known better. You. Should. Have. Known. Better.”

“There’s stuff beyond just what you and I went through,” Tobias replied.
“Henik Buhl helped people. He helped people who were hurt by my uncle. He did good things for people who would have died if it weren’t for him.”

Bjarkar just sat there, bent over, his elbows on his thighs. He breathed deep, taking in what was being told to him. He stood slowly.
“None of that changes what he did...and what he allowed to happen...to us. Go fuck yourself, Toby” he grunted, turning to leave. Tobias stood to call after his friend.

“Bjarkar wait…” but he didn’t stop. He marched through the doors to his office angrily, and vanished.

Elo looked in, seeing Tobias stand there wide eyed. He knew enough to give him some space. Tobias just walked to the door and closed it. He stood in silence for a moment, his soul raw.

He slowly made his way over to the couches where, just a few days earlier, he, Bjarkar, Rylond, and Fylkir were enjoying each other’s company. He sat where he’d sat just two days ago, and cried at the loss of his friend.

---

Bittersweet Symphony by the Verve, 5:57

10 February 2013
12:04 PM
On a Sunday
Haland, Prydania

Old songs were being sung. New songs were being sung.

"What's it like to have a song written about you?" Axle asked.

"You really wanna know?" Tobias replied. The former intelligence operative just nodded.
"It's weird."

"It was written because of what you did, avenging Knud Buch's daughter."

"It's still weird to have people I don't know singing about me..."

The crowd cheered. It was getting rowdy. Haland was free after eleven years of Syndicalist oppression...people cheered, chanted...occasionally they broke out in church hymns...but they were loud.

"I don't like crowds" Tobias admitted.

"Being in front of one is different from being in one" Axle shrugged.
"They liked your first speech."

The crowd erupted as William finished. William was never a particularly charismatic orator, but he had a way with words. And people were more so cheering what he represented. Speaking of the fight for freedom. The centre of the Courantist Church in Prydania was eagerly cheered William on, now free from Syndicalism. Cardinal Villads Dalgaard even appeared, clad in vestments, alongside the FRE leader.

"Do you know what you're going to say?" Axle asked.

"I think so" Tobias nodded.

"Did you work any Umbrial in? It might go over with this crowd."

"I don't know any Umbrial."

"That's ok" Axle shrugged before he placed a hand on Tobias' shoulder.
"I believe in you."

The crowd began to sing again. It was For the King, to Valhalla. Tobias winced. It made the butterflies flutter in his stomach.

Tobias smiled though, even as he felt the nerves in his stomach tangle. It shouldn't have been that easy, but he'd been with Axle for eleven years. He'd taught him how to hunt and shoot. He'd taught him how to survive. He was seventeen. Old enough to think he was beyond childish notions and yet he still wanted Axle's approval. Axle picked up on it.

"Show them the Toby I saw when you told me about that feeling you got. In Markarfljot."

The crowd was chanting now. Tobias closed his eyes and nodded. He made for the stage. Axle suddenly realized he still had the sheathed Jægerblað strapped across his back.

"Tobias!" he called out to try and tell him, but the crowd was too loud. The Prince didn't hear him.

The stage itself was protected by FRE soldiers. One of them handed Tobias a microphone.

"Thank you Elo" Tobias nodded.

"Of course Your Highness" Elo Daugaard replied, just barely audible over the crowd.

Fyrir Konung!

Til Valhalla!

The crowd chanted loudly, responsively. Tobias looked around as the chants surrounded him. He looked over to Cardinal Dalgaard, who gave him a slight bow. And William, he looked at him. Worried that he still had that sword strapped to his back. Fact was Tobias was such a ball of nerves he didn't even realize it was there. He'd been wearing it almost all day every day for months now. What he did notice were Goyaneans in combat fatigues manning cameras with GRK logos. The success of the Winter Offensive had done more than just freed Austurland. It had brought the Andrennians and Goyaneans into the fight on the FRE's side.

The stage wasn't that big, but that made it worse. Everyone was on top of him it seemed. He closed his eyes. He breathed.

"I want to thank you" he said into the mic. The crowd died down.
"I want to thank you for the welcome" he smiled, as he opened his eyes again.

"I...I see people singing that song, and chanting for me. It's humbling, because I'm like a lot you, someone who lost people" his voice trailed off. He remembered his mother holding him...the last time he would be with her. He remembered it, and he swore he could feel her embrace.

"But that's why we hid out in the woods, right? That's why we starved, and watched loved ones die. It's why we fight and claw for everything, right? We do it because of the people we've lost. We could surrender. We could let the Syndicalists come and take over all of this country. Let them have their way with everyone. Wouldn't that be easy?" He nodded as his heart raced.

"We can't though...people talk about how war isn't good. It's not, I know that. I hate war. I only ever see war. I have dreams....dreams of a world without it. A world where there is no more anger and hatred. I do..." he nodded as he spoke. It was true. His dreams were painfully ordinary. In a wonderful way. A faint fantasy. Clinging to a world that was brighter, warmer, and more alive then the one he'd known for eleven years.
"I hate war...but what would others have me do? Have us do? When they see the camps of the dispossessed, degraded and worked to the bone. When they see the dead bodies. The children left without parents...lives shattered by that republic of thieves and criminals, what would they have us do? What would they have us do in response to Darrow? What would they ask me to do?" His voice got soft as his green eyes were wide open, starring out into the crowd before him. They cheered....they cheered and he felt...he felt like he had to speak to them.

"I don't know what else to do" he said with a nod, "but fight. Fight for our people and our country. To save us all. It would be easier to surrender, but we cannot. Strife in the name of resistance to evil is better than peaceful capitulation to it. Evil must be opposed!"

The crowd cheered again. They really cheered. For a Courantist city crushed under the heel of Syndicalism what the Prince was saying was a cry to action.

"What happened at Darrow was barbaric. It was evil. It was, and we shouldn't be afraid to say so! And we shouldn't be afraid to stand in defiance of it! But Darrow..." he suddenly felt the weight of the sword strapped across his back. He didn't know why he only now just realized it. Or why he did what he did but...he drew it from his sheath.

"What happened at Darrow happens in every Syndicalist-controlled town and city across our country. We will fight..." he held his sword up- his family's sword, the sword Vortgyn Loðbrók carried westward as he fought his way to a crown- as he spoke.
"we will fight for our future and we will not give up until we have a free country!" he pumped his hand as his held his sword above his head as the crowd cheered again, as loud as they had been.

Tobias felt the blood rushing through him. How his hair stuck to his forehead, how alive he felt. He slowly lowered his sword and looked at it in his hand before he turned to the crowd again.

"We will fight until we have a free country" he repeated, "and then maybe the dreams we all share of a world without cold and hunger and hatred will be possible. I hope we all live to see that day" he said as his voice shifted from forceful declarations to a sombre tone.

He sheathed his sword and handed the mic back to Elo before making his way to William. He hugged him tight, on that stage. He had no idea if William could hear him over the loud crowd noise, even as he embraced him. Still, he whispered.

"Thank you."

It was a thank you for all William had done to keep him safe. For the late nights holding him as he cried. For the birthdays he spent with him so he wouldn't feel so alone. For all the stories he read him as a child. And for helping free part of Prydania. Who knew how long the fight against Syndicalism would last, but for now, thanks in part to William, part of Prydania was free. And Tobias squeezed him and thanked him for it.

Tobias smiled as he and William let go of each other, and he wiped his tears away. He didn't give a damn if the cameras caught it. He left the stage as the crowd cheered.

---

Stand Up and Fight by Turisas, 5:27

12 February 2013
6:13 PM
On a Tuesday
Erkiengill, Prydania

Víf Skarði helped her mother set the table. Dinner was...light again. Some fish. Some potatoes. That was all. It would have been just the potatoes had they not gotten some fish from the lake. Well the black market fishermen on the lake. They often didn't have much to sell, but Víf's father Úlftýr had gotten a good price. He was a doctor at the local hospital. It paid for people who needed to be off the radar of the police and Peoples' Militia to have friends in such places if the time came. So he got some of their limited and illegally caught fish at an ok price- for the black market.

"Potatoes again" her mother, Freyleif, joked in an effort to soften the blow of their low rations. Víf just smiled awkwardly. It was more...denial of reality? That seemed to be the best way to put it. Everywhere she looked people were pretending things weren't the way they were. Her mother joked as if the meagre meals she had to prepare for their family was just a minor inconvenience. The same way she pretended that the house wasn't growing older, dustier, less neat.
God she could remember, as a small child, the way her mother would be a tyrant about keeping the house in order. And now? Well what was the point? Cleaning supplies weren't really all that common or easy to get either.

And it wasn't just her mother, or her house. Food around town was rationed while the Party went on about agricultural quotas being exceeded. Try to go down to the collectivized homestead outside Kiojaleit though? The Militia would arrest you. The lying was everywhere. Not even good lies. Boldfaced ones you could disprove just by looking around you and pointing out the obvious. And yet no one did. The liars were the ones with the guns. In this part of the country anyway...
That the same denial of reality was present at home was really what infuriated her. Her parents weren't even Syndicalists and yet here was her mother. Acting like two small potatoes and a few slivers of fish per person for a family of five was enough. It was like the denial of reality was infectious.

"Are you excited to finally head off for Býkonsviði?" her father asked as the family took their seats around the table.

"Yes" Víf said smiling softly. Not even she was immune. She'd act like this was all "fine" too. For now.

"Good" Úlftýr grinned.

"Well they're finally done at the University pabbi" Víf replied.
"Starting a bit late, but better late than never, right?" Ugh. It turned her stomach. "Finally done at the University." What a way to describe purges. The Party had been on a tear through every aspect of society since the FRE took Austurland. Purges, arrests. The propaganda got angrier. The speeches got more vicious. The executions...well...the hung academics from the University of Býkonsviði, displayed on the campus gates, told the story. Not that she could talk about that....She was terrified. She was eighteen. And she was heading into a place where that had just happened.
"I...can't wait to dive into my studies" she remarked. That was the trick. That was the trick to denying reality. You just phrased things in a way that wouldn't upset the liars with the guns. Even if it meant saying you were a coward who would keep your head down and continue lying for them.

"That's my girl" Úlftýr remarked, smiling wide. Víf smiled too. Her father pushed her academically. She knew that this, at the very least, was genuine.

"Thanks pabbi..." she said, before turning to her two brothers. Erik, the oldest at twenty, and Edvard, the youngest at sixteen.

"How's the work at the Ör factory?" she asked Erik. She wasn't expecting much. Erik had never been the student she had been, and had gone to work in a local Ör factory just outside of town. What he didn't have in an aptitude for school he made up for with hard work and an ability to learn on the job. He'd just been passed over for a higher position though. They'd given it to some Party flunky. He'd never get any higher without Syndicalist Party membership, but the Party had clamped down on open memberships since Austurland fell to the FRE. The Party "had to protect itself from reactionary saboteurs" it had said. The whole ordeal- being passed over for a position he was gunning for and dependent on non-existent party membership- had made Erik rather disheartened about work. She'd only asked because it was polite to. She expected he'd brush it off, but instead he just got nervous, looking around as if he wasn't sure if he should be saying what he was going to say.

"They're switching everything over. The running shoes? The basketball shoes? All gone. We're making army boots now."

Víf's eyes opened wide. THAT was something no one had said, she was sure of it.
"Wow...look at them. They spent eleven years saying there wasn't a war and now they're making army boots."

"Víf!" Úlftýr remarked. Freyleif just looked on nervously. Edvard poked his potatoes. Erik...well...Erik just looked down like maybe he shouldn't have said anything.

"Well it's true, there's a war right?" Víf remarked.

"You shouldn't say things like that" Erik added. He was worried. It was, of course, impossible for the Peoples' Militia to be listening in on every house with their surveillance vans. The fear was you never knew when they would be listening in on you or not. Víf knew that too, but for whatever reason today was going to be the day she gave no fucks.

"There's no war, now there is. They're growing more than they ever did and we've got....God this is smaller than a tennis ball!" she said picking up a potato from her plate.

"At least you have something" Úlftýr shot back.
"And you should be grateful for that. And not risk your future on an outburst."

"The city looks like it's slowly falling apart. What sort of future do you think there will be, pabbi?" Víf asked.

"One where my daughter is alive" her father said sternly. He was looking for the final word, but Víf wouldn't budge.

"That's the problem though. Act normal or they shoot you! That's not normal!"

"What do you want?" Freyleif said, speaking up.
"What do you want?" she repeated. She looked angry. But her eyes....were sad. And she was holding back some sort of outburst."
"Because you're not going to do anything about it here. So tell me what you think you're accomplishing or be quiet!"

"I'm just sick of pretending things aren't what I'm told they are" Víf shook her head.

"The war's in Austurland" Erik replied, siding with their mother and father.
"No one's coming here. The FRE will be lucky to hold Austurland through the spring."

Víf was going to respond. She was going to point out that the Goyaneans and Andrennians were coming but it was Edvard who spoke up, as he knocked his potatoes around with his knife.

"The King is coming" the sixteen year old mumbled.

The table turned to him. That was something else you didn't want the Peoples' Militia to hear you say....

"He's coming" he said again, nodding.

"He's no King, he's barely older than you are" Úlftýr remarked, both referring to Prince Tobias.
"And besides, you don't remember his uncle. Your mother and I do."

"Yeah well he's not his uncle. And he said we'd have a free country."

Freyleif's eyes dashed from one end of the table to the other. She looked worried. This was the sort of thing you did not want to be discussing. Víf, however, caught her mother's gaze and smiled.

"What do you think Erik?" she asked.
"How's a free country sound?"

"I'll settle for a decent dinner for once" he mumbled, eating the first half of his second potato in one bite, along with the rest of his fish. He just had half of a tiny potato left.

"You kids don't understand" Úlftýr warned.
"We occasionally deal with people down at the hospital who run afoul of the Party. Sometimes the Militia comes looking. And then they vanish. Is waking up in a labour camp what you want?" he said firmly, looking over his family.
"Erik, you have a job. You work hard. Víf, do well in university. Edvard, study in school. And keep. Your. Heads. Down."

"Pabbi" Erik remarked. He was cutting his last potato half into two potato quarters.
"Do you hear yourself?"

Úlftýr, to his children's shock, nodded.
"Yes" he said softly.
"But I love you all more than anything else."

"That's not how things get better" Edvard remarked. The sixteen year old still hadn't begun eating his meal.
"Why should I study, pabbi? Why should Erik work hard? Why should Víf study at school? What's..." he felt his heart pounding in his chest.
"What's the point?"

"Your father's point is that you'll all be alive" Freyleif protested.

"Every day" Edvard began, "every day at school they tell us who to hate. They tell us we're building a glorious future, but it's nothing but hate. The King is the first person I've ever heard say we could have a free country."

"Do you understand how many Army divisions are between us and the front lines?" Úlftýr asked.

"Well I heard he's coming out of the East. Like Vortgyn I did" Edvard replied.

"Who's saying that?" Víf asked her brother.

"Everyone" Edvard said.

"Everyone?" Freyleif asked.
"I don't want you saying that stuff at school."

"They can't hang all of us" Edvard shot back.

"Edvard!" Úlftýr barked, but the sixteen year old wasn't deterred. He stood up and gave a potato each to his brother and sister, and split his meagre fish slices between them.

"Where are you going?" Freyleif asked.

"I'm going to my room" he said, heading up the stairs.

Freyleif began to cry, softly. She'd been holding it back the whole dinner, but she couldn't. Not knowing that Edvard was saying something they'd kill him for at school.
"He's....I can't....I can't think of that" she said through the tears. Her husband moved to but an arm over her shoulder, causing her to cry louder.
"My baby boy...please...don't..."

"I'll have a talk with him" Úlftýr said, trying to comfort his wife.

"What are you going to do?" Víf asked.
"Tell him not to hope for a better life?"

Maybe it was his sobbing wife. Maybe it was how all three children of his just....seemed to have enough.
"I don't know Víf" he replied.
"I don't know what I know anymore. Except how to survive."

"I'm going to school for my future" she nodded.
"I'd like to be able to believe in this country when I get there."

She passed what was left of her dinner to Erik, and hugged him tight before she went up the stairs herself.

"Where are you going?" Úlftýr asked.

"To tell Edvard that I believe too" she replied.

Úlftýr looked around. Erik looked down at his recently enlarged plate of food, and sighed looking at his still crying mother.

"Here mamma" he said with a smile. She looked up at him with red, tear stained eyes.

"You're a good boy" she sniffed.

"I don't want you to be upset but..." he looked at his father.

"If they're listening we're all dead now anyway. So let's talk about it."

Úlftýr sighed.
"You really believe in this Prince coming out of the east?"

"I know it upsets the Party. It's good enough for me" his son answered with a smile.

---

12 February 2013
6:25 PM
On a Tuesday
a Militia Survalience Van, Erkiengill, Prydania

Corproal Edgar Myren of the Syndicalist People's Militia leaned over the shoulder of Private Fred Ullmann as he went to mark another house down, only to grumble. He had to squeeze the address in at the bottom of the page, outside of the allotted spaces. And the sweep wasn't even halfway done yet.

"Another one?" Myren asked, causing Ullmann to tense up.

"Sorry Sir. But yes. Another one. Look at this! I'm out of pages! I'll have to start turning them over!"

Myren's face went white. So many houses. He knew what the punishment was...but there was no way. Captain Kirkeby wasn't going to dicipline everyone. It was too much. It would be a grotesque spectacle!

"All of these households are..." Myren began to ask, and Ullmann nodded.

"They're all saying the new King's coming out of the east."

---

Rebellion in Dreamland by Gamma Ray, 8:46

13 September 2010
12:06 pm
On a Monday
Austurland, Prydania

"Just a bit longer" Tobias muttered as he held Krista. Their surroundings were hardly romantic. They were in an old Fascist War-era bunker. The single light was a bit too harsh, and the cot they were lying on was just too small for the both of them. And yet it was perfect because they had each other.
At least that's what Tobias thought. Krista would have thought so too not too long ago. Recently though...very recently...something had happened. She looked at Tobias and smiled meekly. She had been trying to work up the courage to tell him the past two days, but she couldn't. It was too hard. The words had been on the tip of her tongue, but she just couldn't. What was worse was that it may be too late. What if she didn't tell him right now? In this moment? She'd leave with her father's cell. And they'd reconnect with William's in two or three weeks. What happened then? When it was obvious? She shuddered, and tried not to let the fear inside of her show. She wasn't all-together successful.

"What's wrong?" Tobias asked, sounding worried. Krista blushed. She ran her thumb over his hand. That was the comfort, really. That Tobias...that it would be with him. She loved him.
He'd also given her an excuse to tell him.

"Toby I..." she began to say, but the words froze on the tip of her tongue again. She sighed and shivered. She'd risk it. She'd go. She'd go with her father. She could deal with this...later. How? When? It didn't matter. She forged ahead with an adolescent's confidence in the here and now and wouldn't worry about the future.
"I'm just sad Axle's going to come in get me" Krista replied as she cuddled Tobias, head resting on his shoulder. That was it. It was a lie, but a comforting one. For now, for a bit longer, it was just the two of them, alone. With each other.

"Let him...I don't want to have to go two weeks without seeing you again" Tobias remarked. She nuzzled his shoulder and sighed. She just let herself melt into him as he held her.

"I don't either" she muttered. It was a half truth, a full truth, and a lie rolled into one. She wanted to spend every waking moment with him. She also know that the FRE cells they were a part of needed to keep moving. And yet...just deal with what she'd been struggling with later.
"We have to though, you know. It's for everyone's own good" she said softly.

"I'm still gonna miss you" Tobias sighed.
"So much. Like...you have no idea. More than anything else."

She couldn't help but smile. She adored that about him. How he was so unbelievably dorky, but genuine in how he loved her. And how he didn't hide it or try to dress it up as something else. He wore it, openly. And never made excuses for it. It wasn't so long ago- though for a teenager it might as well have been an entirety- that she worried she wasn't "good enough" for him. He was a Prince after all. He'd loved her though. She squeezed him. Why was she so nervous about telling him?

"Toby I..."

She was about to spit the words "I'm pregnant" out when a knock on the bunker door interrupted them. Tobias hastily reached for a gun when the knock followed a complicated code. One that Tobias and Krista both knew by heart by now. They each sighed.

"What was it?" Tobias asked as he set the pistol down on an old fruit crate serving as a nightstand.

"Oh..." Krista stuttered, "...just that I'll miss you too" she added with a smile. Tobias kissed her once, before he handed her coat to her as he got up and tossed his old Royal Army coat over his shoulders. It was pretty damn cold outside. Tobias opened the bunker door and it wasn't, to their shock, Axle. It was Krista's father, Toke.

"Captain Brink" Tobias said nervously. Toke chuckled. A Prince of Prydania and he was a nervous puppy around the father of the girl he was dating. Krista, however, felt a sinking feeling. How Tobias reacted to news that she was pregnant with his child was one thing. How the FRE leadership reacted was another. And how her father reacted...maybe she could say something now...but no. She couldn't even tell Tobias for two days. What chance did she have in front of both him and her father? Thankfully her father took her nervousness for displeasure at being separated from her boyfriend.

"Come on, honey" Toke said to his daughter, motioning her to join him outside. She looked at Tobias once more and let her hand slip out of his, giving him a meek smile.
"Tobias, Your Highness" Toke added, both firm and deferential. He liked the kid a great deal, and part of him was even honoured Prince Robert's son was in love with his daughter. Still...he made it very easy to mess with him.

"Yeah" Tobias blushed with a smile.
"I'll see you later Krista."

"See ya Toby...Your Highness" Krista replied, giving him a wave. Toke just smiled at him before he led his daughter off to a waiting convoy of jeeps. Krista sighed as she turned away from him. Two, maybe three weeks. Would it be obvious then? She steeled herself. She'd figure it out as she went. What was the worst that happened? The couldn't be mad at her, or them, could they? She couldn't wait to see Tobias' face when he realized they were going to have a child. She knew deep down he'd be happy. It was just her nerves keeping her from telling him. Oh well...she knew he'd be ecstatic. That made the inevitable announcement easier to look forward to. The one who mattered...he would be there with her. She stepped into one of the jeeps with her father, as it took off down a dirt road.

Tobias smiled softly and waved after her, watching the convoy vanish into the woods. He sighed and closed the bunker, itself hidden against side of a hill, and returned to his cot. Alone for the moment as he picked up his half-finished copy of Riddarar Yfir Landamærin. The knights in these stories always saved the princesses, but the joy was in how they did it. It was a bit of light in his generally bleak existence, and he needed it now that Krista was once again gone from it. He smiled as he read, letting himself get lost in the old, yellowed pages.

14 September 2010
6:32 pm
On a Tuesday
Austurland, Prydania

Krista walked through the field just outside the forest. An old wooden fence marked off what was once a dividing line between property, but the old bombed out farm house indicated that none of that mattered anymore.
"Did anything really matter?" she thought to herself. It was constant fighting, constant death, constant hunger... She felt melancholy at the prospect that she'd bring a child into this world. She touched her stomach gently and looked around. No one was watching.
Something mattered though. Tobias. The way he held her. What could he do against the People's Militia? Nothing by himself, but he held her like he'd protect her with everything he had. And that was enough. Enough to know that as dark and cold and fucked up as the world was it was worth it to bring a life into it if she did it with the one she loved. She closed her eyes and smiled.

She looked back towards the tree line. She'd better be getting back to camp least someone who wasn't supposed to know they were there see her. She could see the FRE soldiers minding the tree line already, ready to vanish back into it. She just needed to get some space outside of the forest. Even if it was just for a moment, and even if it was just to move from a dark forest to a grey sky. At least the grey sky was limitless. It wasn't much, but it was something aspirational.

"I wonder what we'll name you?" she asked herself.
"Robert if it's a boy?" she wondered, after Tobias' father.
"Or maybe Styrbjörn?" she thought smiling wide at the grey sky, after her departed, lost cousin.

"If it's a girl..." that she knew. There was only one choice.
"Embla" she thought. It was a name common among women in Tobias' family and it was also the name of the first woman according to the Thaunics. A beautiful girl, to represent something wonderful in a dark world. She rubbed her belly again. She wasn't showing but...it was a matter of time. She could feel it.

"I love you" she whispered.
"Some day your pabbi and I are going to laugh about how long it took me to tell him about you" she grinned.

She walked down the length of the fence and stopped, just for a moment, to watch the branches on a tree on a distant hill sway in the fall wind. She began to feel antsy. She needed to get back to camp. It was important. They had to get to the lake's coast by tomorrow, and she knew they'd call for her. She began her walk to the camp, her hands in her pockets as she kept looking up at the sky. She'd get to see the lake at least. That's where Tobias and her had first...been with each other. She imagined what it would be like to see that shore again. She'd take a picture of it for him. The idea of it made her feel warm...

...the fire engulfed her as the mine went off...pain shot through her. She had no idea what was happening but thankfully...it was over almost as soon as it started.

15 September 2010
6:00 pm
On a Wednesday
Austurland, Prydania

Tobias sobbed as he collapsed to the floor by the bunker's lone table. William sighed as Axle watched the boy he was charged with protecting collapse into a pit of misery. William didn't know what to say. Axle knew what not to say. Dr. Sundahl had confided something in him. About the poor girl's remains. Axle told him he'd tell Tobias. But seeing him as he was....utterly distraught...only one thing went through his mind.

Hanna...your son will be safe with me. Not just today, but forever.

He'd promised Hanna Loðbrók that. It wasn't just that the news would further devastate him...Tobias had lost his parents. Now he'd lost the girl he loved. Axle shook his head. He'd protect him. He'd spare him one loss. The universe owed the kid that much. Dr. Sundahl...well...he'd speak with him. Right now though, he just watched as agony ripped the teenage Prince apart.

"She...no...." he cried as he squeezed his arms around his legs, curled to his chest, tighter.
"What....she...no....she can't..." he sobbed. He'd JUST seen her. Two days ago. TWO DAYS! He cried again, not even able to speak. Not wanting to. He just bawled. Two days...he'd seen her town days ago and they'd told themselves that in two weeks, maybe three, they'd be together again! He'd already begun counting down the days! How could she be gone?

"She's not gone! She can't be!" Tobias yelled.
"What happened? Where is she?"

"Tobias" William began, "she's gone. I'm...I'm sorry."

"No..." Tobias cried collapsing onto the cot, crying deeply as he lay still.
"Krista..." he occasionally cried between sobs. He couldn't even bring himself to pull his pillow to his chest. He was just...empty.

Axle looked over to William.
"We need to give him some space." William just nodded. Axle wasn't going to tell William either. Or Toke or Lilly Brink. William would feel compelled to tell Tobias. And he wouldn't allow it. He was going to spare the boy more heartbreak. And the same for Toke and Lilly. They were still dealing with the loss of their daughter. They didn't need to know they'd lost a grandchild as well. The two left Tobias alone, but Axle had to ensure this was kept quiet. Only two people alive knew. And that's all it ever had to be.

Tobias continued to sob as he lay on his cot. It wasn't so long ago that he had to grapple with the anniversary of his parents' death...but he had Krista there with him for that. But now...now...now....she was gone. Forever. Just gone. He'd never see her again. How? How could it have happened....she was just there and now...like his parents. Like his aunt. Like his cousin. She was gone.

They were all gone.

---

My Immortal by Evanescence, 4:22

OOC Note: Thanks to @Predice and @Kyle for planting the idea for this in my head

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc called "The Red House". This is the start of the story arc. Many thanks to @Prydania for letting me work on this and for many of the music choices. Special shoutout to @Former English Colony for her valuable input!

Music: Nine Inch Nails - The Day the Whole World Went Away

16 July 2013
03:44 PM
just outside Hjallerup

“Baldr, I am tired.”

Baldr Gudmundseth stopped walking and turned to his younger sister Kristin. She looked exhausted. Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead. Strands of her wet blonde hair stuck to her face. They had been walking under the sun for four hours now.

Baldr took off his backpack and sat on the grass beside the dirt road they were walking on. His sister did the same. He took a half-full water bottle out of his bag. As he was opening the bottle cap, he glimpsed his sister thirstily eyeing his drink.

“Where is your bottle?” Baldr asked pleasantly, as he lifted the bottle to his mouth to drink.
“I drank all my water a while ago,” Kristin answered.

“Here, drink mine,” Baldr said, passing the water bottle to his sister. Baldr still hadn’t had a drop for himself, but it was alright. His sister comes first. He was sixteen and she was twelve, and they’re the only family each other had. Baldr vowed to himself that he will protect Kristin at all costs.

The Gudmundseths had a family. Had. Their mother Alexandra died of cancer in 2010 – made worse by the fact that in Syndicalist Prydania, medicines and especially chemotherapeutic drugs were hard to come by. Not even the moderate popularity of their father could save her. Their father Robert was a former ice hockey player for the top league team Keris Íshokkífélag. Devastated after his wife’s death and after a poor playing season, in 2011 Robert Gudmundseth retired and found a coaching job for the third-tier team Hundsted Hounds, in his wife’s hometown. He moved his family to the town at the western shore of King’s Lake, or Leth Lake as the Syndicalists renamed it.

Things made a turn for the worse when war broke out. The Syndicalists drafted all able-bodied men: for fighting in the war and for extra labour. “Unproductive” labour such as lower-tier sports were stopped. The Hundsted Hounds team was forcibly disbanded and its players and staff drafted.

Robert Gudmundseth was drafted for labour; last time his family knew, he was sent to the mines. Everybody knew what ghastly fate awaited workers in the mines.

Baldr and Kristin Gudmundseth were left in the care of their maternal grandmother Sigurhanna in Hundsted. But last month, their grandmother died. Their neighbours in Hundsted took care of them while waiting for word from Robert… but all they got was a notice that Robert Gudmundseth died in the winter of 2012.

Fearful of being drafted too and having to leave Kristin alone, Baldr packed their few belongings and went to Hjortdal, an inland town halfway between Hundsted and Krummedike, where their maternal uncle Steinar and his family lived. At least if Baldr got drafted, Kristin would be with his cousins, rather than being sent to the orphanage. Baldr and Kristin feared the orphanages – they heard the stories that came out of it… it was run like a children’s labour camp.

But in Hjortdal, they found out that their uncle’s family was gone, sent to the “Agricultural Homestead”. Knowing what it meant, Baldr and Kristin immediately left Hjortdal and set out for Hadden, their father’s hometown.

And that was how they ended up on this dirt road leading to Hjallerup.

“Aren’t you thirsty, big brother?” Kristin asked.

Baldr looked around. He could see a town from afar, behind the fields and forests in front of them. “There’s a town nearby,” he told her. “I’m sure we can ask for water there.”

After a few minutes of rest, Baldr picked up his backpack and carried it on his back. “Come, let’s go into town and look for a place to stay.”

Kristin tried to follow her brother but her backpack slipped from her hands when she tried to lift it up. “Very heavy?” Baldr said. He picked up Kristin’s bag and slung it in front of him. His body was now sandwiched between two big backpacks.

“Baldr…” Kristin muttered worriedly.
“Big brother is okay,” Baldr assured her. He gave her a smile. “The town is nearby anyway.”

The siblings walked down the road until it ended and merged with another dirt road. Baldr looked in both directions. To their right, a glade gave way to more forests; the clearing had a big red farmhouse along the road, about one hundred metres up. To their left was another forest, but behind it lay the town. Maybe they could spend the night there.

Baldr led his sister towards town. They hadn’t gotten far away when they heard the sound of a military jeep from behind. They looked back. The militiamen alighted from the jeep and went inside the red house. Some of the militiamen noticed them. Baldr looked away.

The Syndicalist People’s Militia. Everyone feared them because of what they could do. Baldr hoped that they wouldn’t capture them. “Kristin, don’t look at them, continue walking,” Baldr instructed her. If they run, they would’ve raised suspicion further. “Come, don’t pay attention to them…”

Baldr’s heart pounded as he heard the crunch of boots grow louder and louder. The militiamen were coming for them. “Kristin, hold my hand,” he told his sister, who was walking behind him.

Kristin’s hand was violently yanked from Baldr’s as the militiamen caught up with them. “Baldr! Help me!”

Baldr turned around on Kristin’s screams. Four militiamen were dragging her away.

“Let’s have a pretty girl,” one of the militiamen sniggered.
“Hey girl, come with us!” The other added.

“Hey, that’s my sister!” Baldr yelled at the militiamen. He dropped his bags and chased the militiamen. His sister was his everything to him. He would give up everything for her.

Two of the militiamen stopped. “What are you going to do about your sister?” He sneered. “She’s ours now.”

“No!” Baldr lunged at the militiamen, but was met with a blow to his face. Baldr fell on the ground. From his peripheral vision, he could see the militiamen dragging Kristin towards the Red House. She was reaching out to him, screaming his name, screaming for help…

“Kristin!” Baldr shouted as he started to stand up again. “I’ll save you!”

“No you won’t,” the militiaman said as he kicked Baldr back to the ground. What came next was a cascade of blows, rendering Baldr almost unconscious…


16 July 2013
03:56 PM
just outside Hjallerup

“So this is the shortcut to town,” Éric-Ketille Brottier told Thibault Guyton. “If you’re going to Alleslev to buy milk, this is the shortest route.”

Thibault Guyton nodded. He was fairly new to the Hjallerup consulate, having been here for just two months. He had been transferred in December to Haland when the consulate in Darrow was closed. The FRE had taken over the town, and the Santonian consulate had to be shuttered, ostensibly because Saintonge recognised the Syndicalists as the legal government of Prydania. But the Santonian diplomats knew the real reasons why: the Santonians didn’t want to deal with Syndicalist refugees and potential criminals from seeking asylum from the FRE; and the Santonians didn’t want the increasingly-paranoid Syndicalist government from accusing them of collusion with the FRE.

Haland fell to the FRE in February and they had to close that consulate too. So the Darrow staff had to be transferred elsewhere, again. Corentin Chouinard, Nathalie Depredomme, and Hugbert Clostermann were sent to establish another consulate in Jörgensbjerg, a town near Hadden. Judith Grimault and Thibault Guyton were assigned to this consulate in Hjallerup, an inland town of ten thousand people, roughly equidistant from Alaterva, Krummedike, and Jórvik. They arrived in May.

Judith and Thibault were supposed to be buying food for the refugees and asylum-seekers in the consulate, similar to the job that they did back in Darrow. But in the past few weeks, Judith tended to stay inside the consulate, leaving the men to source the food. Hjallerup was a town in panic – women don’t come out of their homes unless absolutely necessary.

In the past few weeks, women from Hjallerup and the surrounding villages disappeared, their bodies found later, dumped in various areas outside town. Coupled with the already stressful presence of the Syndicalist People’s Militia, the Syndicalist government’s increasingly heavy-handed administration, the war erupting… Hjallerup was on edge. Some of the bodies had been dumped beside the very road they were traversing.

“Sjöland Road is a bumpy dirt road, but it will save you time.” Éric-Ketille told Thibault. Éric was in the Hjallerup post for almost two years already, hence he was guiding Thibault around. Though Éric, a lieutenant in the Royal Santonian Armed Forces, held a higher rank than Thibault, who was a sous-lieutenant, their shared backgrounds brought the men closer together.

Sitting at the back seat was Charles-Archambault Bressand, who became the purchaser and commercial officer after Judith shied away from going out. He was from the Haland consulate and was transferred with Judith and Thibault to Hjallerup.

“We’ll turn left here on Krummlands Road towards town,” Éric said as the dirt road merged into another one.

Thibault’s attention was caught by a scuffle a few metres to their right. “Éric!” Thibault’s eyes widened. “Stop the car!”

Two Syndicalist People’s Militiamen were using a teenager as a punching bag. The boy couldn’t be older than eighteen. The boy was almost unconscious, yet the two militiamen took some perverse joy in beating the kid to a pulp. One the militiamen held the boy’s hand behind his back and forced him to stand up on his already wobbly legs. The other militiaman punched the boy in the stomach so hard, the boy fell onto his knees and vomited blood. The militiaman let go of the boy and before he stumbled forward, the other militiaman delivered a roundhouse kick to the boy’s head, sending him flying down the dirt road.

The car still hadn’t fully stopped when Thibault jumped out of the passenger seat. “Hey! What the f*ck are you doing!?” He was outraged. He sprinted towards where the boy was.

“Who are you?” One of the militiamen, Ustrud, asked insolently. Teigen, the other militiaman elbowed Ustrud. He noticed the Santonian diplomatic plates and the Santonian flags on the van and was indicating to his partner that this guy might be a diplomat.

“Thibault Guyton, Santonian consulate,” Thibault bent down to check on the teenager. The teenager was beaten and bloodied, unconscious but still breathing. He needed medical attention right away.

“Hey, hey!” Ustrud pushed Thibault off the boy. “Don’t interfere with us.”

Éric manoeuvred the van nearer to where Thibault was. He knew what this could possibly lead to.

“Why are you doing this to a kid?” Thibault demanded as he stood back up.

The two militiamen took a step back. Thibault Guyton was a big well-built man who looked dangerous.

“Because he deserved it,” Ustrud answered. “And it’s fun.”

“FUN?” Thibault was incensed. “Beating up children is fun?”

“Why do you care?” Teigen snarled.

“Because children deserve protection, not violence!” Thibault roared. “Why are you targeting them? Is that because they’re all you can take on? People who are weaker than you?”

Ustrud was incensed. “F*ck you Santonian!” Ustrud tried to punch Thibault with his right fist, but Thibault blocked it with his left forearm. “How dare you insult us!” Thibault parried another Ustrud jab. Thibault then kneed Ustrud in the abdomen, and smashed his chin with an uppercut. Ustrud was thrown backwards, and now Teigen went into action.

“That’s it, if you are real men you should take on someone your size,” Thibault taunted them. Thibault then dodged Teigen’s jabs before landing one on the Prydanian’s right cheek. After recovering, Teigen then attempted to kick Thibault. Thibault blocked the kick, grabbed Teigen’s leg, and threw him off balance.

By this time Ustrud was now up again, but Thibault evaded his punches. They went around in circles as Ustrud attempted to hit Thibault.

Ustrud suddenly let out a cheeky smile. It’s now two-versus-one. Having recovered as well, Teigen grabbed Thibault’s arms from behind, temporarily distracting and disabling the Santonian. Ustrud landed a hard punch on the left side of Thibault's face. Thibault tasted blood as his head was violently jerked to the right. Ustrud followed up his blow with a strike at Thibault’s abdomen. Thibault’s legs gave way as pain signals flooded his brain. Teigen released Thibault, letting him fall to his knees.

“Someone your size?” Ustrud yelled triumphantly. “We can take on someone our size. Here.” Ustrud then delivered a roundhouse kick to Thibault’s face.

The Prydanians laughed at Thibault, who was now sprawled semiconscious on the dirt. “You think you’re strong?” Ustrud spat a mix of saliva and blood at Thibault’s face.

Thibault could barely see the Prydanians. Blood was streaming down his face that all he could see was red. The world seemed to be whirling around him. His legs felt weak and unable to stand.

“Come here, Santonian, show us you’re strong,” Ustrud then grabbed Thibault by the front of his bloodied shirt and forced him to stand up. Thibault tried to resist, but his arms could deliver nothing but ineffective jabs.

Ustrud let go of Thibault’s shirt and Thibault staggered backwards. Thibault felt Teigen push him forward, onto an oncoming Ustrud punch. Thibault fell sideways to the ground and Teigen kicked him on the back.

“STOP IT!” A single shot rent the air. Éric had fired his service pistol into the air. While Thibault faced down and scuffled with the militiamen, Éric and Archambault were discreetly putting the teenager and his belongings into the van. Now that the boy was safe, they had to save their fellow diplomat.

“You are attacking a diplomat of the Kingdom of Saintonge!” Archambault bellowed, pointing his gun at the militiamen. Éric also had both his service pistols aimed at the militiamen: one pointed at Ustrud, the other at Teigen. “The persons of Santonian diplomats are inviolable!” Archambault recited a line from the Buhl – Lasmartres Agreement, something that the militiamen should be familiar with.

The militiamen held up their hands but looked angrily at the Santonian diplomats.

“SCRAM!” Archambault commanded the militiamen. Ustrud and Teigen looked at each other. They had no choice. The two militiamen ran towards the red house as Éric helped his fallen brother back to the van.

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc called "The Red House". This is the second post in the series. The start of the story arc is here.

Music: Coldplay - Fix You

16 July 2013
06:16 PM
Santonian consulate, Hjallerup

“Corentin was right about you,” Consul-General Laurence-Marie Trullard grinned as she cleaned Thibault Guyton’s facial wounds in the consulate’s clinic. Thibault was lucky, the Santonian consul in Hjallerup was a nurse. Consul Trullard was formerly the nurse in the clinic at the Býkonsviði embassy. As Saintonge needed to expand its diplomatic presence in Prydania, even staff who did ancillary work were pressed into heading and staffing consulates. Madame Trullard had to head the legation at Hjallerup when its consul left in 2008, citing burnout from all the work and stress.

“Ma’am, what do you mean right about me?” Thibault drawled. “What does that –” Thibault’s statement was cut off as he inhaled deeply to tamp down on the pain coming from his wound. Laurence Trullard was applying alcohol on Thibault’s burst left eyebrow. “What does that mean?” Laurence pressed the wet cotton ball on the wound. “OUCH!” Thibault yelped in pain.

“I was told you were so brave taking on two Prydanian militiamen, yet you scream at your wound being cleaned,” Laurence chuckled, joshing the poor Thibault.

Thibault gave a puppy-eyed look at his boss. Laurence laughed even more. “Your battered face does not look cute anymore, Thibault,” she commented daintily as she dabbed another alcohol-saturated cotton ball at Thibault’s left eyebrow. Thibault exhaled through gritted teeth, trying to endure the pain.

“Good thing your face does not need stitching,” Laurence said. “Your split lip can heal on its own. The eyebrows, we can put reinforced adhesive skin closure tape.”

“Do you feel anything else?” Laurence asked.

Thibault struggled to think. His brain had been shaken in its cage. There were a million things he felt. Pain, anger, hunger, sleepiness… But those were things a soldier could and should endure.

“I’m fine ma’am,” Thibault said stoically.
“No you’re not,” Laurence chuckled as she reached skin closure tape from the first-aid kid and applied it to Thibault’s eyebrows. “You’re not fine. Éric had to assist you in cleaning and dressing yourself earlier.”

“I’ll be okay,” Thibault insisted. “Thank you ma’am.”
“Just because you’re a soldier doesn’t mean you can’t be hurt,” she told him. Laurence finished dressing Thibault’s eyebrow wound. “We won’t be putting anything on that lip aside from antiseptic,” she told Thibault. “I heard you got beat up real bad.” She then handed him a cold compress to put on his face so that it wouldn’t swell up too much.

“This is nothing, ma’am,” Thibault said, taking the cold compress and dabbing it on his cheek. “Compared to what the boy experienced.” Thibault tipped his head towards the bed in the clinic.

Lying unconscious on the bed was the teenage boy they had rescued earlier. When Thibault Guyton saw the militiamen beating up the boy, thoughts about Kjell Thor Starrfelt came back to Thibault’s mind. Kjell’s sad, forlorn face. Kjell’s heavy sobs as Thibault hugged him one last time.

The boy was of the same age. Thibault instantly made up his mind to intervene. He would never let him become another Kjell Thor Starrfelt.

Laurence smiled sympathetically at Thibault. “That’s what I meant when I said Corentin was right about you,” she related. “He told me that you have a big heart and a strong sense of justice. That you won’t stop trying to save people in need. That you won’t take no for an answer. That you are ready to sacrifice yourself for others.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Thibault answered humbly at the glowing review.

“I understand why you had to offer yourself to be beaten up while Éric and Archambault brought the kid to safety,” Laurence told him. “But I ask you to please be careful next time.” Her voice cracked slightly, as if temporarily overcome by emotions, and then held back up. “I don’t want anybody in my team dying. Especially someone who is as hardworking as you.”

“Thank you ma’am.”

“You need to rest in your room,” Laurence said. “I will ask Gafn to bring your dinner to your room.”

Thibault nodded. His attention shifted to the boy he had just rescued. “How is he?”

“Dr. Gjönnes actually went in to look at him while Éric was helping you clean up,” Laurence answered. “He said he might have suffered a concussion, but he’ll be arranging a trip to the hospital for him to have imaging studies and blood work.” Laurence noticed the apprehension in Thibault’s eyes. “Don’t worry, Thibault, he’ll be accompanied by Archambault and Jules. The militia won’t take him away. And if he needs to be admitted, I can ask that he be cared of here in the consulate.”

“Thank you ma’am.”

“Thank you too, Thibault, for saving a life,” Laurence gave Thibault a pat in the back. “You deserve a rest.”


17 July 2013
11:16 AM
Santonian consulate, Hjallerup

Baldr Gudmundseth slowly opened his eyes. His head was throbbing, as if it was being pounded by a thousand jackhammers. He winced at the pain as he struggled to make sense of where he was. The white ceiling above was illuminated by a fluorescent bulb, no indication on where he was. He turned his head to the left, and he saw a window obscured and draped in red curtains. At the bottom of the curtains were his backpack and Kristin’s. Where was his sister?

He had to look for her. Baldr sat up quickly, but the movement rattled his shaken brain. The pounding in his head became worse. Baldr grabbed fistfuls of his hair and tugged at it, as if it would decrease the pain. He lowered his head forward onto the bed that he is on. He badly wanted to search for Kristin but his head and his body were not cooperating.

“Goodness, you’re awake now!” A motherly woman went to Baldr’s side. She sat on his bed and laid an arm over Baldr’s shoulder. “What is wrong, honey?”

Baldr couldn’t even look up at who it was. And movement of his head would trigger more pain. “My head… hurts…”

“Let me get your medications…”

The lady assisted Baldr in drinking the painkillers the doctor prescribed for him.

“Thank you…” Baldr murmured.
“You should lie down on the bed first,” the lady advised him, and then proceeded to assist the teenager to position himself on the bed.

“But my sister…!” Baldr whimpered.
“Don’t worry, honey, we’ll get to that,” the woman said. “I’ll go call the Santonians.”

Santonians? Baldr had only heard of that country, much less seen it. How did he end up in Saintonge?

A few minutes later, three other people came into the room. The first was a middle-aged woman, with a pleasant face, her chestnut hair tied in a bun. She said she was Consul Laurence Trullard of the Santonian consulate. The second was a bespectacled younger woman, bringing with her some papers. She introduced herself as Constance Carquet, immigration and asylum officer. The third was a strapping young man, who looked like someone had recently mauled him. He said his name was Thibault Guyton. They asked him his name.

“I’m… Baldr Gudmundseth. From Hundsted.”

The fellow refugee woman, whose name was Hertha, brought a light meal for Baldr. “I’m sure you are hungry,” she told him as she laid the tray in front of Baldr. Laurence and Hertha assisted Baldr in sitting up to eat. His head was no longer that painful. But his stomach was.

“Thank you,” Baldr told them. He took the spoon and ladled a spoonful of soup in his mouth. It tasted good. It was his first nice food in days.

Despite the good food, he still couldn’t brush off the questions in his head.

“Where am I?” Baldr asked in between spoonfuls of food.

“You’re at the Santonian consulate in Hjallerup,” Laurence told Baldr. “You are under our diplomatic protection, and so you are safe here.”
“They can’t hurt you anymore, Baldr,” Thibault said earnestly.

Baldr’s mind went back to the last moments he remembered. The militiamen taking his sister away. The militiamen punching him in the face and the stomach.

“Thibault helped save you,” Laurence informed Baldr.
The teenager looked up at the soldier. “Thank you… but my sister… where is she?”

“Your sister?” One of Constance’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re not alone?”
“My sister Kristin… the militiamen took her.”

Thibault clenched his fists. There was somebody else that the militia took away. He had to find her.

“Please help me find her,” Baldr pleaded. “She’s my only family left… she’s all I have.”
“We will,” Thibault said. “But Constance will help you sort all your paperwork first. Eat up first.”


17 July 2013
03:02 PM
Santonian consulate, Hjallerup

The Santonians let Baldr fix the paperwork with Constance after eating lunch. Later on, Thibault, Laurence, and Hertha re-joined the group as Constance left to process the papers.

“You said you had a sister?” Thibault asked Baldr.
“Kristin,” Baldr said sadly. “Can we find her?”
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to get out here,” Hertha told Baldr. “If you come out, the Syndicalists can get you.” Baldr was about to protest when Hertha added, “I’m sure the Santonians will help you find your sister… right?” Hertha looked at Thibault and Laurence.

“Sure we will,” Thibault said without hesitation. “Can you show us what she’s like?”

Baldr reached out for his backpack to search for a picture of his sister. Thibault brought the backpack to the bed. Baldr opened his backpack and took its contents out. His clothes, the family documents that Constance saw earlier, some family mementos.

“I see you are an ice hockey fan,” Thibault remarked as he saw two green Keris ice hockey jerseys among the contents of the bag.

Baldr held up one of the jerseys. It was too large for Baldr, but it had his surname on it. Gudmundseth. Number 77. “My father used to play for Keris… this was his last jersey.” Baldr hugged the shirt and kept it close to his face, as if the scent brought back memories of his father. “I kept this in his memory.” Baldr picked up the other jersey. It, too, had the same number and surname. “This one is mine.”

“Where is your father?” Laurence asked.
“My father is dead,” Baldr answered, melancholy seeping into his voice. “He died in the mines.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Thibault said as he sat beside Baldr to comfort him.

“How about your mother?” Hertha asked.
“She died of cancer three years ago…” Tears started forming in Baldr’s eyes. “You see, my sister is the only family I have left.”

Baldr blinked away the tears and found the family photo album. He flipped through the pages until he could find the most recent family picture. It was dated Christmas 2011. It showed a smiling father and son in matching Keris ice hockey jerseys, a blonde-haired young girl wearing a red flowery dress, and an elderly woman wearing a knitted gray sweater. “This is my sister Kristin,” Baldr said. “And my grandmother Sigurhanna. She died last month.”

“We also found out last month that my father died last winter too. But Kristin and I are afraid of being sent to the orphanages,” Baldr began detailing the story. “We don’t want to be separated…”

And so, amidst tears, Baldr Gudmundseth detailed his and Kristin’s journey from Hundsted to that fateful day outside Hjallerup when Baldr and Kristin were separated from each other.

“They took her to the big red house,” Baldr told them. “Can we please go to the red house and get Kristin back?”
“Red house?” Laurence inquired.

“Wait… is this the big red farmhouse near where we found you?” Thibault clarified.

Baldr nodded.

“Where is this house?” Hertha asked.
“On Krummlands Road, about one hundred metres from its junction with Sjöland Road,” Thibault answered, remembering the directions that Éric had told him the day before.

“Oh, the Skovsgard farm!” Hertha exclaimed in realisation. “It’s an abandoned farm. The Skovsgard family left in 2002, after the Syndicalist Revolution. The Skovgards used to be one of Hjallerup’s wealthiest families. In fact, this big house – ” Hertha pointed in all directions, “was called the Skovsgard House. It was their house in town. Now I don’t know how this became the Santonian consulate, but the Skovsgards left in such a hurry they abandoned many things,” Hertha recounted. “Including their farm.”

“So you mean the Red House used to be the Skovsgard farm?” Laurence inquired.

Hertha nodded. “It was abandoned for years and it was slowly being reclaimed by forest and weeds. The Syndicalists didn’t include it in the farmland collectivisation. I wonder why, considering that it’s an abandoned property. But I’m not surprised the militia used the farmhouse as their headquarters. It was a nice big house. The Skovsgards were good people. They used to host social gatherings twice a year for the townsfolk: once in spring in this house; and once in autumn in the farmhouse, after the harvest.”

Something about the name bugged Laurence. Skovsgard. She had encountered that name somewhere. Maybe they sought refuge through the Santonian embassy? Maybe she encountered their name in the lists of refugees she had processed in Býkonsviði? All of them had to have a health check before being sent to Saintonge. Maybe that’s where she encountered their name. But there were literally thousands of names – many of which were unpronounceable or unremarkable Prydanian names – that passed through her list. Why did she feel that there was something more to the Skovsgards? Why did she seem to remember them more than others?

“Can we go there and ask for Kristin Gudmundseth?” Thibault asked.
“Thibault, you know it doesn’t work that way,” Laurence answered.

Thibault bit the inside of his swollen, split lip in an attempt to rein in his emotions. He again sensed the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. This was Kjell Thor Starrfelt all over again. Someone they needed to save was under the custody of the militia. Of course they will not give her to the Santonians.

“Can’t you talk to the head of the militia?”
“Thibault, you know that Captain Moxnes is notoriously difficult to deal with,” Laurence replied, referring to the head of the Syndicalist People’s Militia detachment based in town. “Even Mayor Thygesen is finding a hard time dealing with him.”

Thibault sighed. He was starting to get more and more concerned and invested in Baldr and Kristin Gudmundseth. He looked at Baldr and saw that the teenager was getting more distressed. Maybe they shouldn’t talk about it in front of the boy.

“Baldr, we’ll see what our options are, okay?” Thibault tried to comfort him. “Just stay here and regain your energy.”

Baldr nodded.

“We’ll let you rest,” Laurence told the teenager. “Hertha will be bringing your dinner later.”

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc called "The Red House". This is the third post in the series. The start of the story arc is here.
Warning: This post may contain strong, graphic, or descriptive language not suitable for children and for those whose sensitivities may be offended.

Music: Jethro Tull - And Further On

17 July 2013
09:23 PM
just outside Hjallerup

Under the cover of darkness, Thibault Guyton lay on his belly among the bushes and weeds beside the road opposite the Red House. He had staked out a hidden spot in front of the Red House.

Nobody in the Santonian consulate knew what he was doing. He snuck out in the afternoon, and took a circuitous route through the forests surrounding Hjallerup. He was going to plot how to save Kristin Gudmundseth from the Red House.

Two military jeeps with Syndicalist People’s Militia markings drove up to the Red House and parked beside it. A gaggle of half-drunk militiamen emerged from one of the jeeps.

“Comrade, I am excited to be in the joy house once again,” one of them drawled. “I’m ready to use the women.”

Thibault perked up. “Use” the women? This was sounding even worse than what Thibault thought.

“I deserve this night,” another militiaman declared merrily. “Gonna get some ACTION!”

From the other military jeep, three militiamen dragged a resisting young woman off the back seat. She was blindfolded, gagged, and her hands and feet were tied up. Her tousled long blonde hair salvaged her dignity by covering her bosom; her clothes had been torn away.

“How about this as your reward, boys?” Another militiaman grabbed the woman by the arm and forced her to walk up the staircase leading to the house. Thibault recognised that voice. He wanted to disbelieve it, but he knew that voice.

The militiamen laughed. “What a pretty reward,” another militiaman puckered his lips. “Gimme a kiss will you?” He shoved his face onto the young woman and kissed her all over as he manhandled her into the house.

Thibault felt disgusted. He wanted to react vocally, but he consciously stopped himself from making a noise. He had to be hidden.

In the next fifteen minutes the house was filled with the sounds of merrymaking men, not unlike a college fraternity party. But then Thibault started to hear disturbing sounds. A soft whimper. A momentary yelp. A woman screaming “no!”

For the next two hours the sounds grew even more louder and more frequent. Cries of anguish, calls of help, pleas of mercy, sobs of resistance, and moans of agony all added up into a cacophony of torment and suffering that Thibault couldn’t block out. He had to use all his willpower to prevent himself from standing up and barge into the house and save the women. He was alone and he would not be able to take down all these armed men by himself.

A screech came from the second floor. Thibault looked up at one of the second-floor windows directly facing the road. Something was happening there.

Thibault used his binoculars to see more clearly. A desperate, frightened woman was holding the door closed. But it wouldn’t be shut for long.

Two Syndicalist militiamen forced their way in through the door and grabbed the woman. They pushed her to the bed and violated her. Thibault felt so sick he had to remove his eyes from the binoculars. He was witnessing a revolting crime but he felt utterly powerless to stop it. Part of him wanted to go in and beat the hell out of the brutish militiamen; part of him reined in his instincts and urged him to be more calculating and more prudent.

A cry refocused Thibault’s attention back to the second-floor window. Thibault looked again through his binoculars. The woman had her back towards the window as she fought off the two militiamen. One of the militiamen slammed her against the windowsill, causing her to scream in pain.

The woman pushed her attacker away, but in doing so, she lost her balance and fell out the window. Thibault barely suppressed a shocked scream as he saw the woman crash onto the railings of the ground-level stairs down below, with the horrible sound of human flesh being torn apart and impaled by the wooden pilasters reverberating in his head. The body landed with a loud thump, so loud that the people on the first floor heard it.

Several militiamen came out of the front door and onto the front porch. Despite the shock of having just witnessed a ghastly death, Thibault was able to identify one of the men. He was right. Captain Ingibjörn Moxnes of the Syndicalist People’s Militia was involved in all of this. Captain Moxnes had gone out to see what the disturbance was about.

Thibault wanted to take a picture of the captain who was the ringleader of all of this. But the flash – or even the small light beside the camera of his phone - would give his location away.

“Oy you horny f*cks!” Captain Moxnes shouted at his militiamen at the second-floor window. He pointed casually at the dead woman. “Come clean up the mess you made!”

“Yessir.” The two militiamen up the window suddenly looked more sober. If Captain Moxnes seemed unperturbed by the bloody demise of a woman, the militiamen seemed to be at least affected by it.

The two militiamen and everyone who was on the front porch went back inside. This was Thibault’s opportunity to take evidence. He took out his smartphone and snapped a picture of the scene. Suddenly the two militiamen came out the front door.

“Did you see that, Bekkhus?” One of the militiamen asked.
“What are we supposed to see?” The other militiaman replied. “The ghost of the b*tch? You believe in ghosts now Grundt?”

“I saw something there,” Grundt pointed towards the direction where Thibault was hiding. “A light.”

Thibault’s heart raced. Should he go out now? If he moved, he would create a sound. The plants would be rustled. His chances of being discovered would be increased. Thibault opted to stay put.

“Grundt, you’re just drunk,” Bekkhus sneered. ”Let’s clean this up.”

As Grundt and Bekkhus dragged the body towards the jeep, Captain Moxnes again went out of the door. “Oy, you two, dump it where it won’t be discovered! Dump it in the river so it will go out to the lake!” After the advice, Captain Moxnes went back to more merrymaking inside.

“Yessir.”

Thibault watched as the two militiamen loaded the body onto the jeep so they could throw it elsewhere. As the jeep sped off, Thibault crawled out of the bushes and onto Sjöland Road. He would have to work his way back to the consulate. He had seen enough.

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc called "The Red House". This is the fourth post in the series. The start of the story arc is here.

Music: Rob Dougan - Furious Angels

18 July 2013
07:55 AM
Santonian consulate, Hjallerup

Denise-Judith Grimault entered the meeting room, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a plate of pastries in another. The Santonians were going to discuss and brainstorm that morning over breakfast. She sat down on her customary seat before she noticed Thibault Guyton sitting beside one corner of the table. Thibault was clad in his Royal Santonian Army battledress, something that was almost rarely done in his work as a diplomat. Something seemed off.

“Thibault, are you ok?”

Thibault did not reply. He simply sat there emotionless, staring at his shaking hands. His tired, bloodshot eyes indicated that he had not gotten enough sleep.

Their fellow diplomats started coming in, and through worried looks and hushed whispers, expressed concern about Thibault. Éric sat beside his fellow soldier. He knew that look. Even though the Royal Santonian Armed Forces had never engaged in big battles for centuries, Santonian officers were taught to recognise it. What did Thibault witness?

An agitated Thibault Guyton came back to the consulate at around three in the morning, with dirty clothes, glazed blue eyes, that thousand-yard stare. Éric-Ketille Brottier was on guard duty that night. Thibault did not answer Éric’s inquiries as to where he had been. Éric told Thibault to clean up, change his clothes, and sleep. If Thibault was still like that in the morning, Éric planned to call their immediate military superior, Lieutenant-Colonel Marc-Canute Bluget over at the Jórvik consulate, to request for Thibault Guyton’s extraction from Hjallerup. Éric might just have to make that call.

Through the first part of the mundane meeting, detailing expenses, the state of the consulate, and new memos from Býkonsviði, Thibault spoke no word.

But on to the next point on the agenda…

“Let’s go to the last item, specific requests,” Consul Laurence Trullard started. “One of our recently-rescued asylum-seekers, Baldr Gudmundseth, was requesting that we assist him in finding his sister Kristin. Kristin Gudmundseth was taken by the Syndicalist People’s Militia to the Red House.”

The mention of the Red House brought back to Thibault everything that he had seen last night. The screams. The howls. The death.

“I know what they do there…” Thibault mumbled, almost inaudibly.

“Pardon?” Laurence asked, surprised that the obviously-distressed Thibault started speaking. “Thibault, you were saying something?”

Thibault slowly lifted his head up and looked at everyone on the table. Laurence. Constance. Jules. Judith. Archambault. Éric.

“Thibault?” Laurence prodded.

“I know what they do in the Red House,” Thibault declared, his voice breaking from the torrent of emotions. “They abuse women.”

The people around the table wore a mix of quizzical looks and shocked expressions. “Thibault, what do you mean?”

“They lock up women and violate them…” Thibault’s hands were now clenched into tight shaking fists. His breathing became faster. His heart was pounding. “I’ve seen it…”

A deluge of inquiries came from the other Santonians around the table.

“Seen what?
“Who are ‘they’?”
“What did you see?”
“When did this happen?”

Laurence held a hand up to stop the barrage of questions for the distraught Thibault. She wanted to ask Thibault in an organised fashion.

“Thibault,” Laurence said in a calm, slow manner, “what happened?”

Thibault scanned his surroundings before spilling the story. “I… staked out the area around the Red House last night. And I’ve seen it all, ma’am, I’ve seen it…”

“What did you see?” Constance asked impatiently. Laurence held up her hand to signal to her that she should let Thibault tell the story at his own pace.

“They were abusing women… two jeeploads of Syndicalist People’s Militiamen came to the Red House around nine-thirty in the evening… they were all signifying they wanted to ‘use’ women…

“There was one woman from another jeep… she was tied up. They abused her right from the doorstep.” Thibault’s voice was as shaky as his hands.

“They cried, they screamed… all night long. The militiamen abused and violated the women. And I couldn’t stop it…” Judith realised what the story was about. Why Thibault was reacting like this. She had seen this happen to Thibault before.

“One of them fell from the second floor to her death…” Someone else in the room gasped. “She was trying to flee the militiamen trying to violate her. She died… she died right before my eyes…” Thibault suppressed a sob. “And the militiamen were just told to dump her in the river.”

Suddenly everything made sense to Laurence. The Syndicalist People’s Militia was taking women and girls to the Red House for carnal pleasures. That was why women from the town were disappearing. Some of the women died from the militiamen’s cruelty and abuse. And they just dumped their bodies around Hjallerup.

Laurence tried to block her emotions from getting to her. Anger at fellow women being abused. Fear about what else the Syndicalist People’s Militia could do next. Pity at Thibault having to see it all.

But somebody was expressing doubt. “That’s a grave accusation, Thibault,” Jules began, “Are you sure – ”

“DON’T TELL ME I DIDN’T SEE WHAT I SAW!” Thibault angrily pounded his fist on the table. The usually-calm Thibault Guyton was transformed by a tangle of emotions. “You weren’t there!” A sob escaped Thibault. “I wish I hadn’t seen what I saw… but I saw it with my own two eyes!”

“Thibault, that’s not what I meant…” Jules attempted to backtrack in an attempt to placate the soldier, “Of course I believe in what you said… but what I’m saying is that… uh… if we have evidence, that’s better.”

“Go search the river for the body they dumped last night,” Thibault said flippantly. He reached for something in his pocket. He took out his smartphone and opened an image – the picture he took last night. He tossed the phone in Jules’ direction. “There! Don’t tell me I’m lying!”

The rest of the Santonians pored over the grainy, nighttime image of the Red House. A badly-mangled form in the shape of a human body was sprawled across the front stairs of the house. They could not recognise the face from the blurry, dark picture.

“Jesus…” Judith mumbled as she saw the image. Anyone would break over witnessing such a terrible death. She went over to Thibault and hugged him. Thibault started to cry, but he restrained himself from doing so. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” she told him.

A long silence blanketed the table as Judith comforted Thibault. Finally, Constance spoke up. “What are we going to do?”

“We can tell Captain Moxnes of the Syndicalist People’s Militia about what his men were doing,” Jules suggested.

“It won’t work,” Thibault said, who had by now almost recovered. “Captain Moxnes was there. He was encouraging his men to abuse the women. He was the one who ordered they dump the body in the river.”

“P*tain,” Éric muttered.

“Maybe we can approach Mayor Thygesen and Police Chief Steinholt about it,” Judith suggested. “We have the evidence.”
“I don’t think they can do anything about the militia,” Jules sighed. “Captain Moxnes would just get the militia to rampage over town.”

“What about we approach Major Solhjell of the Syndicalist Republican Army?” Archambault suggested. “Their detachment is just stationed in the neighbouring town. They can help.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Éric answered. “There is some sort of interservice rivalry between the militia and the army, and I fear that we’d be wading into that if we bring them in.”

“What about telling Býkonsviði about it?” Constance offered.
“What’s Býkonsviði going to do about it?” Laurence retorted. “Ambassador Lasmartres will tell Henrik Buhl, and then Henrik Buhl will just do nothing,” the consul answered. “And even if the Syndicalist government does something about it, I doubt any of them will be punished. They’d just move on to another place, transfer the militiamen to another place. Like Darrow.”

The conversation shot back and forth in Thibault’s head. One proposal, it gets shut down. Another suggestion, gets told it’s not feasible. Another idea, not worth it. The mention of Darrow… something inside Thibault snapped, like the dam that was holding back his deep thoughts had just burst wide open.

“ENOUGH!” Thibault violently pushed the meeting table away as he stood up from his seat. Everyone around the table was startled with Thibault’s outburst. Someone’s coffee was spilt in the middle of the table. Papers fell to the floor.

Thibault leaned forward, his arms planted firmly on the table. “I am sick of being told ‘we can’t do this’, ‘we can’t do that’!” Thibault was shouting, his voice seething with anger and exasperation. “I am sick of sitting around this table, while people are being abused, while people are being murdered!”

Thibault grabbed his pistol from an adjacent table. “If you people are happy with that, I’m not!” He kicked his chair away and started pacing towards the door. “I want to do something about it!”

“THIBAULT!” A loud voice astonished everyone in the room. Consul Trullard yelled the soldier’s name and forcefully grabbed him by the sleeve of his battledress, forcing him to drop the firearm. Éric discreetly retrieved the firearm and hid it. Who knows how the unpredictable Thibault Guyton was going to act now.

Laurence Trullard yanked Thibault back. The sight of the petite, demure consul facing and physically restraining a burly soldier shocked the other Santonians. Thibault Guyton was a big gentle man, a polite and pleasant southerner… and they were surprised at his transformation. The trauma of what he experienced unleashed a surge of emotions that was too much to restrain.

On the other hand, Laurence Trullard yelling angrily shocked them even more. The consul never raised her voice, even in frustration. She never got angry. Their mental image of the consul was of a caring, sympathetic woman, shaped by years of being a nurse. And now what the Santonians were seeing were complete metamorphoses of two people they thought they had known.

“Listen to me,” Laurence bellowed at Thibault, “Do you think you can take on the Syndicalist People’s Militia alone?” For some reason, Thibault pushed her beyond the limits of her patience. Corentin Chouinard may be Job-like in his tolerance of Thibault Guyton’s impulsiveness, but she was different. She was there in Prydania, to help people, but she knew her limitations. Even after Darrow, Thibault Guyton seemed to not have learned anything. “I will tell you right now, Mr Guyton, THAT YOU CANNOT.” Laurence spat out the last three words so disdainfully, it must’ve destroyed Thibault’s self-esteem. Even Judith recoiled from hearing it. Thibault just stared at his nominal boss.

“I am not happy that the militia are abusing people. I am not happy that the militia are murdering people,” Laurence said angrily. “Do I want to do something about it? Hell YES!”

The other Santonians watched silently as their boss gave Thibault Guyton a savage dressing-down. “Don’t accuse us of not wanting to do anything! But could we do anything about it?”

Thibault inhaled deeply. Laurence Trullard was still his superior. But he wanted to say something. “See, that’s the problem with you!” Thibault hurled back. “All words, no action!”

A loud slap stunned the room. Laurence had slapped Thibault in the face. Thibault shot Laurence an indignant look.

“You cannot take them on alone!” Laurence pointed angrily at Thibault. “You tried to take on two – JUST TWO – militiamen two days ago, and look what happened to you! Now you want to take on an entire battalion of them?”

Éric wanted to speak up. As a fellow soldier, he understood Thibault. Laurence’s words were crushing Thibault’s pride so hard, it could’ve been worsening Thibault’s state of mind. But Laurence was not done yet.

“Why do you insist on doing this? Because you want to be the hero? You want to be the martyr?” Laurence said contemptuously. “I will tell you right now: STOP IT.”

A strange uneasy stillness filled the room.

“SIT DOWN!” Laurence ordered Thibault.

Thibault remained standing, his frustration-filled eyes tracking the consul as she went back to her seat.

“Guyton,” Éric called his comrade. Éric could not even bear to look at Thibault, knowing how he must’ve felt… but Laurence had a point. If they want to succeed, they cannot go it alone. A dead Thibault can’t save any more lives.

Éric hoped that he could use Thibault’s military instincts to comply. He outranked Thibault. He could command him. “Lieutenant, take your seat,” Éric said in a commanding, yet compassionate tone.

“Yessir,” Thibault replied as he complied. Judith saw the flood of emotions playing in Thibault’s eyes as he sat again around the table. Thibault looked downcast, staring at the floor. She went closer to him and rubbed his back. Judith held Thibault’s hand. Of everyone around the table, it was Judith who knew Thibault for the longest. Underneath that stubbornness was a big heart. She was sure that Consul Trullard was wrong. She knew that Thibault wasn’t seeking glory. She knew that he wasn’t doing these things for himself.

Nobody knew what to say next. Or how to defuse the situation involving… paradoxically, a room full of diplomats.

Judith saw a tear fall down Thibault’s eyes and onto the floor. She squeezed Thibault’s hand. “Thibault…” she whispered. “It’s not your fault…” Judith then threw an accusatory look at Laurence, who had now calmed down and was now starting to regret what she said to the soldier.

“I’m not… looking to be a hero,” Thibault said softly. His body started to heave with sobs. “I know I am not a hero, ma’am,” he looked up and gazed at Laurence, who sat opposite him. “I wasn’t able to save Kjell.”

The mention of the name also started to bring up memories in Judith. She swallowed the lump of emotions in her throat.

“I wasn’t able to save the women and girls in the Red House. I wasn’t able to save the woman they killed… I just sat there… and heard them cry. I didn’t… respond to their screams of help…” Tears started to flow down Thibault’s swollen cheeks. “I didn’t do anything… I just sat there… What kind of a person am I?”

Judith laid an arm over Thibault’s shoulder and brought him closer to herself.

Guilt stabbed Laurence’s heart just as she watched Thibault being consumed over his own guilt of not being able to intervene at the Red House last night. She had been too harsh in her words. Thibault Guyton had good intentions. His actions might have not been well-thought out; he might have been acting under the influence of his deep emotions… but she realised she shouldn’t have questioned Thibault’s intentions. She shouldn’t have said some of the things she uttered.

“I’m no hero, ma’am,” Thibault repeated dejectedly, addressing Laurence. “I didn’t do anything… I couldn’t save them…” Thibault then lowered his head and sobbed. “I’m powerless… I didn’t save them… I’m inutile, useless…”

Judith hugged Thibault tighter. “Hush, Thibault…” She was starting to cry too. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m useless…”

“Thibault…” Laurence started to reach out to the soldier. She gently held his hand. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

Thibault just stared at her. His eyes, swollen from all the crying, no longer harboured resentment. Instead, Laurence saw grief, despair, anguish, despondency…

“I hope you forgive me,” Laurence said. Her eyes were starting to water too. “I… understand now.” She gave him an amiable smile. “We’ll try to do everything to save them. Don’t blame everything on yourself.”

Thibault nodded weakly.

“I think it’s best if y’all leave us alone for a while,” Éric told the other Santonians. “Judith and I need to debrief Thibault.”


18 July 2013
02:03 PM
Santonian consulate, Hjallerup

“How’s Thibault?” a worried Consul Laurence Trullard asked Éric Brottier and Judith Grimault as they took their seats in the meeting room. Today was a late working lunch. All of the other staff at the Santonian consulate, except Thibault Guyton, was in attendance.

“He’s still a little shaken,” Judith answered. “But he’s asleep now… poor Thibault.”

The consul nodded knowingly. She had contributed to Thibault’s emotional state and she felt awful about it. The best thing she could do was to help Thibault save the people he wanted to save.

“So, I contacted Mayor Thygesen and Police Chief Steinholt, in a confidential capacity,” Consul Trullard started. “The Hjallerup police are searching the river for evidence of the body.”

“But onto better news, I have something to announce,” Laurence told her staff. “Even I was surprised.”

Laurence put at the centre of the table several documents faxed by the embassy at Býkonsviði: a deed of sale, a property title, a letter from the Prydanian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The product of her own investigation. The other Santonians looked and read the document.

Constance was wide-eyed. She couldn’t believe it. “So… these documents are saying,” Constance said, “that the Red House is Santonian diplomatic property? How come?”

Laurence recalled how she decided to investigate. Hertha, the Prydanian refugee taking care of Baldr Gudmundseth, said something about the Skovsgard family. How that name seemed familiar with her. After meeting Baldr yesterday, she asked Hertha if she remembered the names. One name stood out: “Enja Skovsgard, the girl was sick then they left.”

Laurence, who was a nurse, remembered taking care of a girl named Enja, whose family sought asylum at the Býkonsviði embassy in 2002. She had leukemia, and was in Býkonsviði seeking medical treatment when the Syndicalist coup happened. Aside from being wealthy targets of the Syndicalists, her family hoped that they would get better medical treatment in Saintonge.

But their funds slowly depleted, with some of their money in the banks frozen by the Syndicalist government. They needed money for Enja’s treatment.

Enja’s family pleaded with then Santonian Ambassador Paul-Baudouin Luyt de Thiembronne for Saintonge to buy their farm and properties in the countryside so that they could have money. With approval from Saintes, the Santonian embassy bought their properties at a very reasonable price. It was the most that Laurence could remember.

Laurence had to check with Býkonsviði whether the Enja she had cared for was the same Enja Skovsgard. After Laurence’s meeting with the mayor and police chief that morning, she got a call from Býkonsviði telling her that Enja Skovsgard and her family had passed through the Royal Santonian Embassy as asylum-seekers in 2002; they confirmed that this was indeed the Enja that she took care of.

The deed of sale and the property title were registered to the Royal Santonian Embassy. It was also part of the extensive list of diplomatic properties submitted by the Royal Santonian Embassy and approved by the Prydanian Ministry of Foreign Affairs as having extraterritoriality. The list included the big house that they were in, which the previous consul converted into the Hjallerup consulate in 2004.

Because of the extensive lists and shuffling of diplomatic staff, everyone just forgot that the Skovsgard farm was Santonian diplomatic property. This was perhaps the reason why the Syndicalists did not include the Skovsgard farm in collectivisation. And the implications were very wide.

“So technically the Syndicalist People’s Militia are squatting on Santonian diplomatic property?” Archambault asked rhetorically.

“Yes,” Laurence answered, “that’s why we can evict them.”
“Prydanian military, paramilitary, and law enforcement are not allowed inside Santonian diplomatic premises,” Constance reinforced the statement.

“So all we gotta do is to send a letter to the Syndicalist People’s Militia that the property is a Santonian diplomatic compound, right?” Jules proposed. “Then they have to evacuate it.” Most of the people around the table nodded in agreement.

“No,” Éric spoke up, the seriousness of his tone indicating that the plan was very flawed. “Look, if we just give them a letter and a deadline to vacate, they can just liquidate its occupants and give us an empty house.”

Liquidate. Éric Brottier used an ominous word, a word that was being used in Syndicalist circles to denote the cold-blooded murder of people.

“If we are just going to send a letter, we are just claiming the house, and not the occupants inside.”

Everyone sat in silence. What was supposed to be a good plan turned out to be not feasible. This information that they had, would now be worthless.

“What do you propose?” Laurence asked.
“That we surprise them,” Éric said. “We show up unannounced and demand they leave they compound. Give them no time to liquidate the occupants.”

“Éric…” Jules began, “There’s only seven of us.”
“That’s why I have asked to meet with Major Solhjell of the Syndicalist Republican Army. He and I have a good working relationship. I can convince him to give us backup if the Hjallerup police won’t give us any.”

“But you said something about inter-service rivalry,” Constance commented.
“They sort it out themselves,” Éric replied. “I’m sure that even the militia would be aghast at what their people are doing in Hjallerup. Listen, I am not going to tell Captain Moxnes or any in the higher-ups in the militia. I realised that if I do that, their action – as they are wont to do – will probably just to cover it up. They will most likely liquidate the Red House. Going to the army is the best option.”

The discussion was interrupted when the consul’s phone rang. She looked at it. “It’s the Mayor,” Laurence told the group as she answered. After a few minutes of talking, the consul’s expression turned grim.

“What was it about?” Constance asked as Laurence hung up.
“The Hjallerup police found a body of a female in the river outside town,” Laurence informed them. Thibault’s story was confirmed. Now they had evidence to point out that the information they passed to the Hjallerup civil authorities was reliable. “But now they are asking us how we got the information.”

“Are you going to invoke diplomatic immunity?” Judith asked. The traditional protections of diplomats included immunity against being forced to testify or to appear in court. “Or are we going to have Thibault give a statement and testify?”

“No,” Éric answered. “We use the information to get the Mayor and the Police on our side. We meet Mayor Thygesen and Chief Steinholt later. Tell them that we have information that Captain Moxnes’ Syndicalist militia is responsible for this barbarity. We tell them our plan: appear at the Red House unannounced and demand that the militia vacate the diplomatic premises under the scrutiny of the Mayor, the Hjallerup Police, and the Syndicalist Republican Army. That way we will catch the militia red-handed.”

“What if they resist?” Constance asked.
“That’s what the police and army is for,” Éric answered. “The key is that the militia should not have any warning that we are going to come.”

Consul Trullard thought over Éric Brottier’s plan. It would solve many of the outstanding problems that they had: the Santonians being summoned by the Hjallerup civil authorities to provide information; helping the Hjallerup police solve the spate of crimes; rescuing Kristin Gudmundseth and the other women; reclaiming the Red House as Santonian diplomatic property.

“Sounds like a good plan,” Laurence said. “Let’s meet the people concerned.”

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc called "The Red House". This is the fifth post in the series. The start of the story arc is here. This post was co-written with @Prydania

Music: Metallica - For Whom the Bell Tolls

19 July 2013
06:30 AM
just outside Hjallerup

A convoy of police cars accompanied the two bulletproof double-door vans from the Santonian consulate. The convoy went up Krummlands Road to the front of the Red House – the Skovsgard farmhouse. The two bulletproof Santonian diplomatic vans stopped in front of the house.

The militiaman guarding the house, seeing the visitors, went down to see why there were a lot of visitors this early in the morning.

Consul Laurence Trullard stood in the grassy ground in front of the house’s front staircase, flanked by Thibault Guyton, Hjallerup Mayor Thygesen, and Police Chief Steinholt. Thibault tipped his head towards the damaged banister of the front staircase. The handrail was broken and the balusters splayed out, the wooden tips sticking out like sharp spikes. The dirty white colour of the wood was copiously smeared with dried crimson… blood, which had pooled and dried on the lower steps of the staircase. This was where the woman died two days ago. Silently, Thibault’s companions acknowledged the evidence he was pointing out.

“What is this?” The militiaman asked half-insolently, half-apprehensively as he went down the stairs.
“Good morning,” Consul Trullard greeted him pleasantly. “I am Consul Laurence Trullard from the Santonian Consulate in Hjallerup. This is Thibault Guyton, my subordinate.”

Mayor Thygesen and Chief Steinholt also introduced themselves.

“Who is your most senior officer here?” Laurence asked.
“Captain Moxnes is here,” the militiaman asked.
“May we talk to him?”
“Just a while.” The militiaman went back to fetch the commander of the Syndicalist People’s Militia based in town.

While the militiaman was in the house, the contingent from the Syndicalist Republican Army arrived from an opposite direction. Major Solhjell joined Consul Trullard in front of the house.

A few minutes later, Captain Ingibjörn Moxnes went out the front door, partially in uniform, sans the outer jacket. He eyed his visitors. “Oh good morning!” His mode of speaking indicated that he was somewhat tipsy. He went halfway down the stairs. “Why did I deserve to be visited by the mayor, the police, the army, and some foreigner soldier so early in the morning?” He was clearly referring to Thibault Guyton, who was clad in his Royal Santonian Army camouflage battledress.

“Good morning, I am Consul Laurence Trullard from the Santonian consulate,” Laurence introduced herself, offering her hand for a shake. Captain Moxnes took it. Laurence then introduced everyone else.

“Yeah, yeah, I know Solhjell and Steinholt,” Captain Moxnes said in a mix of condescension and insouciance. “What brings you here?”

Consul Trullard gave Captain Moxnes a copy of the deed of sale, property title, and certification from the Prydanian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Captain Moxnes’ brows furrowed as he read the documents. He didn’t immediately understand why the Santonian consul was showing him the papers.

“The Skovsgard Farm and this house is Santonian diplomatic property, protected by extraterritoriality,” Consul Trullard said. “We would like to ask you and your men to leave as per the 2003 Buhl–Lasmartres Agreement concerning the inviolability of Santonian diplomatic compounds.”

Captain Moxnes finally realised what the papers meant. He used this farmhouse as the joy house because it was an abandoned property and located outside town. But now that it was owned by the Santonian consulate… he had to vacate it. He wouldn’t contest that. But the secrets he kept inside the house… those needed to be taken care of before they leave.

“I understand, consul,” Captain Moxnes said. “But why now?”
Consul Trullard had a ready answer. “Because we just found out yesterday that we owned this place.” It was the truth, but it would not explain the next question that the militia captain had.

“Why did you have to bring all these people?” Captain Moxnes asked. “You even brought your own paid fighter,” he said as he looked contemptuously at Thibault from head to toe.

“We wanted to take possession of the building as soon as possible,” Consul Trullard replied.

Captain Moxnes was stupefied by the consul’s answer. It didn’t add up? He was going to vacate the property anyway. So were these police and soldiers merely glorified movers who will help the militia move out?

“Why not just send a letter to us?”
“We want it today,” Consul Trullard answered.

“Woah, madame consul, impatient much?” Captain Moxnes sniggered. He could not yield the house to them right now, if that was what they want. He needed to buy time. “Give us four hours. We’ll be out by noon.”

“I’m afraid we can’t give you that time,” Consul Trullard answered.
“Wow, what is it that you want? You excited to sleep inside the house right now?” Captain Moxnes’ voice started to become louder as annoyance crept in. “If I demanded you vacate your consulate now, you are going to ask for some time,” he argued. “Why can’t you give us some time?”

“It’s not the same,” Consul Trullard said as she started demolishing Captain Moxnes’ analogy. “The difference is that, if you do that to us, the consulate was legally here and would be asked to close. That needs time. You, on the other hand, are occupying our diplomatic compound illegally. We’re just asking you politely to leave.”

Captain Moxnes clenched his fists. “Throwing us out on short notice is polite?” The captain snapped. “All I’m asking is a few hours, can’t you give me that?”

“No,” Consul Trullard answered curtly. She looked at Mayor Thygesen to her left and Major Solhjell to her right. Both wagged their heads in agreement.

Captain Moxnes felt that these people knew something. That they were setting him up in a trap. If he yielded, they would see the secrets in the house. Maybe that’s why the Santonians brought the police and the army? Anger welled up in Captain Moxnes. His state of partial drunkenness meant that he had little restraint.

He quickly pulled out his gun and pointed it at the consul. The police and the Prydanian soldiers went to position, aiming at the militiamen. “All I’m asking is a few hours!” Captain Moxnes yelled. “You even have to bring in your f*ckin goons!” The captain decided that this was the best option. If he gave way and the secrets discovered, he could be imprisoned or killed. If he resisted, he could probably be killed too. Better take down some of these bastards with him.

“I told you, captain, we can’t give you that,” Consul Trullard said softly, trying to placate the militiaman.

“Why can’t you!?” Captain Moxnes shouted.
“Let me return the question to you, Moxnes!” Major Solhjell shot back. “Why can’t you leave right now? Hiding something?”

Hiding something. They knew. The Santonians knew.

“NOOO!!” Captain Moxnes rapidly discharged his gun, and a firefight ensued.

Laurence saw a blur obscuring her view as gunshots rang. She closed her eyes and screamed in fear. She felt something heavy push her backwards and she fell down on the soft grassy ground. Had she been shot?

Laurence opened her eyes and saw Thibault Guyton’s pained face. The big soldier lay on top of her. “Ma’am,” he mumbled as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “I – ” Thibault’s words were cut off as another gunshot rang; Thibault winced agonisingly as the bullet penetrated his body.

“Thibault!” Laurence screamed his name, realising that Thibault Guyton had shielded her from bullets intended for her. Thibault could no longer keep his head up as he slowly lapsed into unconsciousness.

“Please no!” Laurence cried as she held Thibault’s cheeks to look at him. His face was slowly draining of colour. “Somebody help us!”

A lull in the gunfire allowed Éric and Archambault to get out of the Santonian van. The militiamen were neutralised. Captain Moxnes was sprawled dead on the stairs. The militiaman guarding the house was incapacitated. Somebody shooting from out the windows was neutralised.

Éric and Archambault shoved Thibault’s body off Laurence. “Ma’am, come with me,” Archambault, with adrenaline rushing through his veins, scooped up Laurence off the ground and carried her to safety in the bulletproof van.

“What about Thibault?!” Laurence was on the verge of crying.
“Ma’am, Éric will take care of him.”

Laurence could see Éric putting Thibault’s arm over his shoulder and half-carrying, half-dragging his comrade to the van. Judith closed the van’s thick impregnable door after Éric Brottier had laid Thibault Guyton on the second row of seats.

Laurence shrieked as she saw the two profusely-bleeding bullet wounds on Thibault’s back. “Thibault!” Laurence was now crying hysterically. Judith tried to comfort her boss while having to deal with her own emotions too.

Éric turned Thibault over. Thibault’s blue eyes stared blankly, soullessly. “Thibault, buddy… wake up.” Éric tapped Thibault’s cheeks, hoping for a response. Nothing, not even a blink. “Guyton… you’re not going to die on us, are you?” Éric muttered. He put his fingers on Thibault’s neck, palpating for a pulse. “He’s still alive.”

“Archambault, drive Thibault to the hospital now.” Éric was now handing out orders like a military commander. “Judith, stay in this van. Stay with Thibault.”

“Ma’am,” Éric turned to Laurence, pulling her towards him even before he hadn’t finished his words, “we must get off this van.”

“Why?” Laurence protested. Éric opened the other door of the van, the door facing away from the house. He led Laurence out the door. “I want to go with – ”

“Ma’am, you’re needed here,” Éric then closed the door of the van. The van then sped away to the direction of Hjallerup, with the wounded Thibault inside. “Judith will take care of Thibault.”

Éric and Laurence then sat and hid behind the other Santonian diplomatic van as they heard Major Solhjell negotiate with the militiamen via megaphone.

“THIS IS THE SYNDICALIST REPUBLICAN ARMY AND THE HJALLERUP SYNDICALIST POLICE. WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED. SURRENDER NOW AND YOUR LIVES WILL BE SPARED!!”

The Santonian consul was reduced to a mess of emotions. Had she just witnessed another diplomat, a member of her team, her responsibility, die on the line of duty? “Thibault… he saved me…” Laurence recalled the hurtful words she told Thibault the previous day. That he wasn’t a hero. That he couldn’t be a hero. And then… Thibault just saved her life. Guilt and regret overwhelmed her. “Thibault, I’m sorry…”

Éric watched as Laurence cried hard. “Ma’am, I’m sure Thibault understands.” He hugged Laurence to try to console her.
“But I shouldn’t… have…” Laurence could not even finish her sentence as sobs overtook her.
“Trust me,” Éric reassured her, “we are soldiers. We know our duty. We understand.”

Éric saw Mayor Thygesen from a few metres away, also sheltering behind a police car. He gazed sympathetically at the Santonian consul. “Ma’am,” Éric told her, “You need to hold on. Steel yourself. Be strong for Thibault… and the women he was trying to rescue.”

19 July 2013
08:44 AM
just outside Hjallerup

All of the Syndicalist People’s militia members inside the Red House surrendered. The Hjallerup Police and soldiers from the Syndicalist Republican Army herded the twenty-or-so handcuffed and disarmed militiamen on the grassy ground beside the house. They started to count the casualties of the battle. On one side, three of the militiamen were sent under custody to the hospital, one severely injured. Only one dead: Captain Ingibjörn Moxnes of the Syndicalist People Militia, killed by a sniper bullet between his eyes.

On the other side, a police officer and a Prydanian soldier were lightly injured. And then there was Thibault Guyton. Judith’s last update to Consul Trullard was that he was in critical condition and that doctors were trying to stabilise him; Éric had arranged for Thibault’s evacuation via medical helicopter from Hjallerup to Býkonsviði once he was stable.

The uncertainty of whether Thibault will live or not weighed heavily on Consul Trullard. She managed to control her emotions and stop crying, but she was still on the edge. She had to see the liberation of people that Thibault risked his life to save.

Consul Trullard, Éric Brottier, Mayor Thygesen, Chief Steinholt, and Major Solhjell looked around the house, accompanied by pairs of policemen and soldiers. The policeman forced open one locked first-floor room.

Inside, a dishevelled woman in a state of undress was chained to the bed. Her swollen eyes recognised some of the newcomers and recognised at least one. “Mayor Thygesen!” She called out in a raspy voice, indicative of what must’ve been done to her. “Please help me!”

The consul and the mayor stepped forward. Laurence took some nearby sheets and covered her body to preserve some of her modesty. “We’re from the Santonian consulate,” Laurence told her. “We are going to help you.”

“Madame, thank you…” The woman started to cry as policemen used bolt cutters to cut her free.

“What did they do to you?” The mayor asked.

“They hurt us!” The woman wailed so much her words were almost incomprehensible. She tried to tell the story of what the militiamen did to them in the house. “They abused us… repeatedly… day and night…”

Laurence hugged the woman. She couldn’t say anything. As a woman, she felt the pain. No words could ever accurately describe what she must have gone through. She sympathised with her. She cried with her… for a long time.

The Santonian diplomats, along with the Hjallerup police and Syndicalist Republican Army soldiers liberated a total of twelve women in the house... but two were almost dead.

Major Solhjell could barely contain his anger. “F*cking bastards!” He remarked to his aide-de-camp as the women were brought to army trucks and police cars for transport to town. “This is not what the Syndicalist Republic was about, this was not what we fought for! They think they could do this because they’re the militia, and they thought they’re untouchable? No wonder people don’t like them and we’re losing support in the countryside. This is the result of the Presidium coddling the militia! Those sick bastards were not even able to prevent the fascists from taking Austurland! Those worthless city bums thinking they’re strong now because they got guns. Let me tell you, this is going to reach all the way to Field Marshal Borg. Let’s see what these smug bastards will do once we reveal them for what they are. Leiftur won’t be able to protect them from this. I promise you that.”

The Major took a deep breath and calmed himself. He had a job to do, and he had to make sure he did it well. The militia was Leiftur’s after all. Everything here had to be recorded and documented. Witnesses needed to be interviewed. Statements signed. The more thorough and by the book this was the better their chances of forcing the Presidium to take action.

He rubbed his temples and calmed himself. It was hard though. The Army had been confined to barracks since the early days of the Syndicalist Revolution. The militia was tasked with keeping the peace and now royalists were in open revolt in Austurland. Leiftur had pinned the blame on the Army despite the militia letting a royalist rebellion grow under their noses. Maybe, if anything good could come of this, it was that they could rein the militia in and try to restore some sanity.

Police Chief Steinholt was equally scathing. “I am not going to let those monsters get away with this! Those serial abusers and rampaging murderers deserve to rot!” Chief Steinholt ordered the police to lock up the militiamen in the town’s jail. He had also asked Major Solhjell for additional security at the jail, in case the militiamen mounted an operation to free their comrades. Checkpoints were to be set up along roads leading to town so that no militiamen can go in. Mayor Thygesen issued a declaration expelling all Syndicalist People’s Militiamen from Hjallerup and the surrounding district pending an investigation on the spate of serial murders. The order was countersigned by Chief Steinholt and Major Solhjell. The Prydanian Interior Ministry be damned – they knew that Minister Jannik Leiftur was probably on the militia’s side. While Mayor Thygesen and Chief Steinholt technically answered to the Interior Ministry, they knew that the people and the army will be on their side once word about this goes public. In addition, the Syndicalist People’s Militia’s reputation would tank if word about their abuses would come out.

Mayor Thygesen acceded to Consul Trullard’s request that the women and their families still in town be given asylum and diplomatic protection at the Santonian consulate – the threat of the militia retaliating against them or their families was too great to ignore. Chief Steinholt also assured the Santonians of additional security at the diplomatic compounds.

“Go to hell, you bunch of sadistic perverts!” Mayor Thygesen roared at the militiamen as the police truck carted them away. He inhaled deeply before muttering something that nearly unleashed a deluge of emotions. “They even abused children...” The youngest woman rescued in the house was twelve-year-old Kristin Gudmundseth.

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc called "The Red House". This is the sixth post in the series. The start of the story arc is here.

Music: Evanescence – My Heart is Broken

19 July 2013
12:03 PM
Santonian consulate, Hjallerup

Kristin Gudmundseth looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her blonde hair was in disarray. Her eyes were red and swollen from all that crying. Dark circles under her eyes betrayed her lack of sleep caused by the incessant noise and abuse. Her lips were cracking from the lack of water and from the cruelty she sustained. Her skin was dull and pale from days of being kept in a dark room, seeing only light when a militiaman visits her.

Is this me? Kristin asked herself as she stared at her sad reflection. This was not what she wanted herself to be. Kristin, is this you?

Kristin took the soap from the soapdish and started washing her face. How would she look if Baldr sees him again? Will she ever see her brother again? Or did the militiamen kill him? The thought of her losing her brother… the only remaining family she had… cut deep. He tried to protect her as much as he could. He loved her more than anything; she loved him more than anything. Was her life worth living without her brother, without anyone in her life?

Kristin finished washing her face and looked again in the mirror. Nothing has changed. All she was seeing was a damaged version of her former self, a wrecked Kristin Gudmundseth. She spent days being violated in every possible way. She felt used. She felt degraded. She felt dirty.

Kristin stepped into the shower. Dirty. The word weighed upon her as she soaped her body. You’re dirty, you’re filthy. She rinsed the soap off her body. But Kristin felt that she was… still dirty. She took the soap bar again and lathered herself, as if hoping that it would remove the dirtiness that she felt. But it didn’t. Kristin began to cry. “You’re dirty, you’re dirty…” she muttered under her breath as she began to vigorously rub soap on her arms, so much so that the skin of her arms went red from all the scrubbing. Dirty. No amount of soap could wash away the defilement, the trauma, the nightmare.

Kristin scrubbed until her arms were tired and she slumped crying on the floor of the shower. Her loud cries and long time in the shower alerted Erna, a fellow refugee woman who was tasked to assist her.

“Kristin!?” Erna knocked on the door. Hearing no reply, she opened the door and saw Kristin sobbing under the shower. Erna sat down beside her and hugged her.

“Don’t hug me, I am dirty,” Kristin mumbled.
“No, no, Kristin… don’t say that,” Erna told her. “You are not dirty.” She rubbed her back comfortingly. “It’s gonna be alright, honey. You are safe now.”


19 July 2013
02:20 PM
Santonian consulate, Hjallerup

Despite having eaten poorly for the past few days, Kristin had no appetite for the lunch laid down in front of her. Even though the Santonian food in front of her seemed delicious, eating seemed like a chore. Why continue nourishing herself, when she had nothing to live for? Why continue living this damaged, broken life of hers?

“Kristin?”

A familiar voice called out her name. She turned her head around the direction of the voice. He was standing there, wearing a replica of her father’s Keris ice hockey jersey. His face showed signs of having been beaten up but she recognised her right away.

“Baldr!” Kristin stood up and hugged Baldr. For a long time brother and sister embraced each other tightly and lovingly, as if they had been separated for years. Each of them thought they would never see the other again… but now they were reunited.

“Baldr…” Kristin muttered, “I thought I would never see you again…”
“So did I,” Baldr whispered. “I’m so happy to see you alive… God knows I prayed hard for me to be with you again…”

Baldr broke off the hug as he wiped his teary face with his sleeves. “Did they do anything to you?” He asked. He did not expect it would trigger something in his sister.

Kristin’s smile left her face. Her lips started to tremble. “Baldr…” She mumbled as she bowed her head and looked down as she started to cry again. Baldr realised that these tears were different. These were tears of pain and hurt. “Baldr… they violated me…”

Indignation shot up within Baldr. He knew that militiamen were monsters, but the truth still hit him like a slap in the face. He was angry. He wanted to avenge what they did to his sister, who was now sobbing thoroughly in front of him.

But… now was not the time to be angry. Baldr gazed thoughtfully at his sister. He had to be there for her. She had suffered immensely. What happened to him was nothing compared to what she had been though. The militiamen roughed him up, but the militiamen… they sullied her dignity, they took her innocence, they destroyed her. “Kristin…” Baldr said tenderly as he gently lifted her chin up to look into her sad eyes. “Kristin, I promise you... that as long as I am alive, nobody is going to hurt you anymore…” Baldr wiped the tears off her cheeks. “Baldr will always be here for you.”

4 March 2016
7:23 pm
On a Friday
Hadden, Prydania

The Hadden Convention Centre hadn't been this packed in years. What had once been a centre of trade, political rallies of various stripes, trade shows, and the like had become a dull monument to the Syndicalist cause. Party meetings, "Syndicalist education seminars," and the like. Now though, the mood was electric. The Syndicalist emblems painted along the walls had been painted over, including the large "SYNDIKALISMI- FRELSI LAUNAFÓLKS*" that had been painted along the far wall.

Now the old flag of the Kingdom of Prydania- the white barbed cross on red- hung over a stage as a group of FRE soldiers sang and played. They were joined by some musicians from the surrounding farmland- or the scorched out remnants of what was once farmland- and it showed. The music playing was very traditionally Prydanian. Not the tinny, military and party marches the Syndicalist Party tended to like.

The food itself was nothing special- mostly Andrennian and Goyanean aid packages, but no one seemed to care as people danced. It was the dancing that caught Alycia's eye.

"So this is traditional Prydanian dancing?" she asked Tobias in Mercanti.

"Yeah," Tobias replied smiling.
"It's called þorpsdans*. It's from the country," he said as he and the Princess of Norsia sat at their table. He was eagerly tapping his foot to the music though.

"It seems interesting," she replied before looking at Tobias again.
"You're looking really sharply dressed tonight."

Tobias blushed but chuckled.
"No I don't. Look at this thing. It's faded," he said. Indeed, he was wearing a faded sports jacket over a long-sleeved t-shirt, and jeans. He was wearing some formal shoes, like the jacket they were worn. It made them comfortable though.
He was also blushing because he wasn't sure if Alycia was making fun of him or not? She was a princess. A real princess. He had no idea what Norsia was like, but he was sure it wasn't like his own home, where you could count yourself as well-dressed if you were lucky to find a worn but intact pair of shoes and a sports jacket in a bombed out ruin. Surely Alycia's standards of "sharply dressed" were much higher than anything Tobias could hope to accomplish. Indeed, her formal Norsian military uniform was perfect, it seemed.

"I mean it, it looks good on you," she insisted, smiling at him. Tobias smiled back. He'd known Alycia for six months, and he'd grown to really enjoy her company. He was delighted every time he saw her, worried that her mother might deem her fact finding mission in Prydania over and recall her. Yet here she was. Again. He'd already told her about the Syndicalist he'd killed outside of Markarfljot and earlier today he'd told her about what he'd done just a few months ago, killing that Syndicalist operative who was part of the Harrying of Hadden. He'd unloaded a lot on her actually, admitting just how upsetting it was. To be the reason someone just wasn't alive anymore.

"There's a party tonight at the Convention Centre. Will you take me?" she'd asked.
"I think it'll be good for you to get out and have some fun."

It had taken Tobias a moment to realize she was asking him on a date, but here they were. Hours later, enjoying an outpouring of celebration that had come from news that Stig Eiderwig's forces had secured Nelspruit. The Syndies were pinned down in Jórvík. That, combined with Andrenne and Goyanes taking Leiruvagr, meant Hadden was secured.

The crowd here was eclectic too, with FRE soldiers in various states of uniform garb, civilians trying to look their best, even a few people from the rural communities around the city who broke out traditional dress. It reflected the mix of the local musicians and the soldiers on stage playing.

Tobias' foot continued to tap to the music as the song they were playing drew to a close.
"Would you like to learn how to do it?" he asked with a smile. His calm grin betraying how nervous he felt asking.

"How what?" Alycia asked.

"How to do the þorpsdans dance," Tobias replied.

"You know how?"

"I grew up in the countryside. I'm not a good dancer, but I could show you. You could take it back to Norsia. Show some handsome Norsian noble what they do in Prydansk," he said, trying to not seem like he was coming off too strong. He had no idea what had come over him. Maybe it was the happiness in the crowd? It was a rare thing for him, to be around this much celebration. Maybe it was infectious?

"Well," Alycia grinned, "you may not be a good dancer, but you can probably manage better than most Norsian nobles. Sure, let's go!"

"Don't worry about people watching," Tobias grinned seeing Alycia's nervousness as they approached the dance floor.
"Everyone here's having fun."

Alyicia laughed softly… it was enough to get her to not worry so much.

The band began to play a new song, and it was one that got the crowd excited. Even people who weren't dancing hollered out excitedly. The tune was actually very old. It had been used for various Prydanian folk songs over the centuries, but none of those were what the band was playing. It was a new song, set to old music. And everyone knew it...

Bring the good old fiddle, boys, we'll sing another song
Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along
Sing it as we used to sing it, 50,000 strong
While we were marching through Hadden!

The song started off slow, allowing Tobias to tell Alyicia what to do.
"So we start by walking like this," he began, showing Alycia the start of the dance by making small, closely-spaced baby steps. She tried to imitate Tobias but she found it a bit... awkward.

"You dance by shuffling your feet?" she chuckled.

"This is just the start," Tobias said knowingly, taking Alycia's hand. Both of them felt themselves blushing. They were holding hands! It was just a dance though...

Hurrah! Hurrah! we bring the jubilee!
Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that makes you free!
So, we sang the chorus from Reykjadalr to the sea
While we were marching through Hadden!

"Come, let's dance to the music," Tobias invited her to dance with him.

"But I don't know the steps!" Alycia protested facetiously. It actually looked fun... and as awkward as it may have looked like, sometimes it's not so bad to let go of one's stiffness and formality once in a while.

"Just feel the music!" Tobias smiled, looking into Alycia's eyes.

The sounds of the fiddle became louder and faster, building up pace and speed. The people around them started to dance clap and hum with the rhythm.

How the people shouted when they heard the joyful sound
How the chickens clucked which our commissary found
How the wheat even started from the ground
While we were marching through Hadden!

Tobias' feet shuffling became faster in tune with the accelerating beats and tempo.

"Haha, Toby, I can't do that!" Alycia giggled with delight from seeing Tobias dance and from her embarrassment of not being able to keep up.

"Come on, you can do this," Tobias said encouragingly as he gestured towards his feet doing the moves. "Step, step, step. Then let's do the twirl."

"The twirl?" Alycia muttered inquisitively.

"Like this." Tobias then lifted Alycia's arm above his head and turned around, passing his head underneath the elevated arms. He grinned as he faced Alycia again. "Your turn."

She blushed, but mimicked what Tobias had done. The music continued to sound celebratory as the band played the song about the victory at Hadden back in December. The crowd that wasn't dancing called out "HURRAH! HURRAH!" as the song's chorus repeated.
Tobias and Alycia were going at a slower pace than most couples, but Alycia seemed to get the handle on it as she completed the twirl herself. Tobias looked into her eyes, smiling softly as he got lost in their warmth for a moment.

So, we made a thoroughfare for freedom and her train,
A hundred kilometers in latitude, nearly five-hundred to the main;
Syndies fled before us, for resistance was in vain
While we were marching through Hadden!

They repeated their earlier movements, Alycia seeming to get it, with Tobias gently correcting her if she erred. Finally they got to the finally bit of the song, the pace fast with people dancing around them, and more clapping and cheering.

Hurrah! Hurrah! we bring the jubilee!
Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that makes you free!
So we sang the chorus from Reykjadalr to the sea
While we were marching through Hadden!
While we were marching through Hadden!
While we were marching through Hadden!

The last line of the song faded as the fiddler led the band to finish out the song. By this point they had locked arms, kicking slightly as they rotated, each smiling at fun and excitement of the dance, until the song finally ended, as Tobias pulled her in, facing each other and moving in circles as the music faded.

They were both breathing a bit heavier as Tobias held Alycia for a brief moment or two after the song was over. She looked back up at him, grinning.

"That was a lot of fun!" she exclaimed.

Tobias held her for a moment later before he realized it and chuckled.
"Oh sorry," he said letting her go.

She took his hand as they walked back to the table they'd been sitting at.

"I have a question though," Alycia said.

"Oh?" Tobias asked as they both sat.

"You said you weren't a good dancer. But you're not bad! So why'd you say that?"

Tobias blushed. He knew why he'd said that. The answer was right there in his head.
"Because why would you like me as much as I like you?" he almost said, smiling meekly as he suppressed that thought.

"I haven't had much practice," he said instead.
"I guess I remembered more than I thought I did."

"Well it was a good time, Toby," she admitted.
"Maybe we could do that again, if we get the chance."

"I'd like that," Tobias said, his heart fluttering just a bit.

"If we get the chance." That was the caveat you lived with in this country these days. It wasn't a promise, but it was a hope. One you could cling to if you wanted. Tobias certainly did.

---

---

*SYNDIKALISMI- FRELSI LAUNAFÓLKS= SYNDICALISM- WORKERS' LIBERTY
*þorpsdans= village dance

---

Farewell Apollo by Bear McCreary, 3:00

OOC note: Big thanks to both @Kyle who wrote the dancing scene and @Zyvun who approved Alyica's parts!

29 July 2017
11:46 pm
On a Saturday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Tobias was trying to work out how he felt about the coronation. In a lot of ways it reflected where he was now, in Absalonhöll’s main offices. That's what Tobias had been told anyway. The chipped and damaged wooden panelling told him the place had seen better days. As did the overturned furniture, the empty bookshelves, and the torn up tapestries confirmed it.

He sat back in his chair and pondered. This must have been where Anders ran the country from. No wonder it was torn apart….
It wasn't all damage though. There was already scaffolding all over to fix the woodwork, and the office was full of boxes. Of all sorts of files and family heirlooms that had survived the Syndicalist reign and the War.

It all reminded him of the Cathedral earlier that day when they crowned him. Just clergy and military men. It was all so...broken. People around him talked about the War being over, of putting the country back together, but he felt melancholy at the prospect. The Cathedral was mostly gutted. His family’s home was in shambles. All he knew was broken things, and it seemed daunting to build something after so many years of fighting.

He looked down at his desk. His robes from the coronation lay across it. They were nice, and maybe that's why Tobias was fixated on them. They were gold and red. Prancing stags lined the arms, and the torso weaved Messianic symbolism with old Thaunic emblems. He couldn't read those though, he'd never been good with runes.

Still, the imagery was beautiful. William had made sure this was ready for him. Foreign dignitaries were not invited to the Coronation, but it was still broadcast on RÚV. William wanted Tobias to look like a proper Prydanian monarch. Part of it was political, but part of it was William being William. He wanted it because he claimed Tobias deserved it.

Now the deed was done. He was crowned. Tobias, Third of his Name, King of Prydania. He looked outside of the window. It was dark. The city was still a city recovering from a battle.
He turned away. No use feeling more depressed. So he fumbled through the nearest box and pulled out a bound leather book.
The inside cover read “Robert Ecgþeow Loðbrók” in messy handwriting. It was his paternal grandfather’s.
“I’m still amazed you survived all these years,” he muttered. Anders and the Syndies, and neither had purged Robert VII’s personal diary?

He thumbed through the pages.

28 February ‘56

Father passed away. The lung cancer finally took him. I wish I could say we reconciled. That perhaps he saw some error in what he'd done as he prepared to meet the Lord, but it wasn't to be. The only thing he said to me was ‘prepare to do your duty.’
I suppose I should be grateful. It's the closest thing to a compliment he's given me in years. Nonetheless I’ll pray for his soul. Maybe he will know peace in the afterlife, following a life filled with anger.

Maybe that's why Tobias wanted to read his grandfather’s journal? Like him he was crowned after a war. And followed years of tyranny. He continued.

14 March ‘56

I have been crowned King. I suppose seven is a lucky number. I’ll try to keep that in mind.
Already the Social Commonwealth snakes are trying to appeal to me. They cry about their wrongdoings, how they have learnt from the War they pushed us into. The delusions these people must have to think I will allow them into government.
I have already talked to the Bandalag and Syndicalist leaders. The Reform, Liberals, and Centre have formed a new coalition it seems, but they too seem open to what I have proposed. I have told them I have no desire to play favourites. I just want to ensure they are all dedicated to the democratic system. They all say they are.

It is encouraging to see these institutions ready to win the confidence of the people at the ballot box after so many years of dictatorship and war. I meant what I said too. This “free democratic” coalition the Reform, Liberals, and Centre were discussing seems promising, but anyone who wins earnestly will have my support.

Part of me is anxious though. It cannot be so simple as to push the fascists aside can it? They governed this country with my father’s blessing for fourteen years. And our fighting men...yes they fought for a horrid cause, but many return with physical injuries. And more with psychological ones. Families have lost sons, brothers, fathers, and husbands. We have much to do to heal. I only hope that we prove we are able to put the country back together.

Tobias set the diary down.
“I do too grandpa,” he muttered. How much Robert VII succeeded deepened on who you asked. His reign did see a transition back to democracy. And economic prosperity. Prydania joined the FSO, the economy boomed. Had he not been killed…
...but he had been. Whatever he did, Anders was able to unravel.

Tobias tapped the desk a bit. He had no idea if his grandfather was an inspiration or a warning. It was possible for him to be both, he suspected but…
He set his head on the desk and raised his hands over his head…
“Why...why...why...why not you grandpa? Or...Uncle Baldr? Or dad?” he trembled a bit.
“Why me?”

“TOBY!”

Tobias looked up, a bit startled.
“Ry? What are you doing here?”

“Come on!”

“What? Where?”

“You have to see this!”

“What? See what?” Tobias was confused as his friend seemed like he was just about to drag him from the office himself.

“William told me to get you! Come on!”

Tobias sighed and got up, running a hand through his hair as he followed Rylond.
“Where are we going?”

“The roof.”

“The roof?!”

“Yeah you can go on the roof!”

“What's on the roof?”

“You’ll see” Rylond replied.

“Ry, come on. Enough. What's going…”

Tobias stopped dead in his tracks as Rylond opened the door that led to Absalonhöll’s roof.

William, Axle, Stig, Mathies, Laurits, and Klara were all there looking up too.

“Is that…” Tobias asked.

“Yeah” Rylond replied.
“Yeah it is. It's an aurora.”

The green and blue lights danced across the Býkonsviði sky. The light moved like nothing Tobias had ever seen. It flickered and turns and waved....in perfect harmony with itself. The lights danced in his eyes as he stared in awe, left speechless by the brilliant sky before him. He didn't know what it was...but the beauty of the thing touched him. He felt his heart flutter. The way the ribbons of light moved was magical. The young king could hardly believe what he was seeing was part of the natural world. This couldn't exist in the same grey, dark, cold world he knew. Could it?
“We...we don't get those…” he managed to say in response to Rylond.

“We haven't in a long time,” Stig remarked.
“We used to though.”

“I don't ever remember…”

“We haven't gotten one since your grandfather was alive” William remarked. His hands were in his pockets. “Thirty-three years ago…”

“It's…” Tobias replied. He didn't know what to say. He was overcome with a sheer rush of just emotion. He began to laugh and cry at once, as William wrapped his arm around him.

“It's brilliant isn't it?”

“Is it...I don't even know…” Tobias’ thoughts ran together in his head.

“Just enjoy it my boy” William remarked, patting his back.
“First one in thirty-three years, and in the summer. Enjoy it.”

Tobias looked over at William, who smirked and winked. Tobias wanted to ask if this was a sign of some sort, but the thought seemed silly. William though...he understood. He pat his shoulder again.
He stifled the urge to cry more and just smiled as he took in the sight.

“Hello grandpa” he thought, as the lights danced across the sky.

---

Again by AmaLee, 4:48

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc. This is the Prologue.

3 December 2015
8:34 pm
On a Thursday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Thomas Nielsen’s finger tapped the desk as the Presidium met...well most of the Presidium. Leiftur was in Hadden, overseeing the government’s role in the city’s defence. And it was the situation around Hadden that had everyone on edge.

“FRE advances to the south and Goyanean and Andrennian landings to the southeast…” Minister of Defence Kolviður Grondahl began before being cut off.

“Why are the Goyaneans and Andrennians being allowed to land?” Nielsen grumbled.

Grondahl tensed up a bit. Nielsen had slowly been getting more and more nakedly aggressive since the FRE broke out and seized everything from Haland to Darrow in early 2013. And he'd been on edge since the operations in Hadden that the Royalists were calling the “Harrying.”
Grondahl wasn’t sure if it was the international pressure resulting from the operations, the way they stiffened anti-government resistance in the countryside, or the dire situation burning all of those farms put the food supply in. Probably it was all three, but Grondahl was used to Nielsen’s prickly demeanor. They were all used to it after years of him snapping at them. The good news was that Leiftur was in Hadden, meaning Nielsen didn’t have his usual attack dog to shout down anyone who dared question his mood.

“Well, Comrade Chairman,” Grondahl began, “Field Marshal Borg felt it was in the Army’s best interests to fortify positions within the city. Engaging the Andrennians and Goyaneans could have led to military disaster before the FRE reaches the city.”

“Are you suggesting the Armed Forces of the Syndicalist Republic cannot expel imperialists from our territory?” Nielsen asked. Grondahl adjusted his tie. It was going to be one of those discussions.

“I’m relaying, Comrade Chairman, what Field Marshal Borg has told me. I have confidence in his judgement on the matter,” Grondahl replied, trying to keep a stoic front up. The problem, though, was that FRE strike teams were taking out the armoured corps. Leiftur’s Militia suspected a leak, and was scrambling to fill it. That meant a firefight with the FRE around Hadden would be a bloodbath. Add in the Andrenians, Goyaneans and the likely civilian uprisings as a result of the Harrying? It was untenable. No one would say it though. He couldn't say it to Nielsen. Borg couldn't say it to Leiftur.

There was no doubt in Kolviður Grondahl’s mind that the FRE had insider intel on Syndicalist Republican Army tank locations. The attacks were too precise. Beyond that though? Of course there was a turncoat. All one had to do was look around. Syndicalist Republic military officers unable to relay simple, objective facts to their superiors of fear of being hung from lampposts. And he, the fucking Minister of Defence, was unable to tell the Chairman of the Presidium that the best course of action he and Field Marshal Borg had discussed was pulling out of Hadden to fall back to reinforced lines. A plan neither of them could actually articulate to the people calling the shots.
To many, turning tail and taking their chances with the FRE was appealing. For old loyal soldiers to the workers’ cause though? It was like being stuck between steadfast loyalty and the crushing realization of what was to come.

“It should be noted, Comrade Chairman,” Grondahl added, “that Field Marshal Borg’s assessment to not engage the Andrennians and the Goyaneans at their landing on the mainland met with the approval of Minister Leiftur.”
That should, he hoped, keep Nielsen from making any rash counter-orders. Even if it was utterly ridiculous that Field Marshal Borg had to run his plans by the Interior Minister.

“Hm,” the Chairman grunted. His eyes were tired. They'd been tired for two- going on three- years.
“Thank you Minister Grondahl.”

Kolviður sat, breathing easy. He managed to survive one more of these. Nielsen, however…

“Gentlemen,” he began.
“We are at war. Not just a war against royalist and fascist insurgents. Not just against foreign imperialist powers, no. We are at war with the old social order itself. In many ways we have been at war since before we seized control of the country. And it is this two front war that weakens us today…”

The rest of the Presidium looked around at each other. Nielsen had taken to these propaganda-esque statements more and more since the FRE breakout in 2013. It was understandable, perhaps, for the public. It always seemed unnerving, however, when he got this way with the Presidium behind closed doors.

“I ask you all, how can we fight the enemy before our eyes when the enemy within undermines us?”

Grondahl perked up a bit. Was he talking about the suspected intel leaks to the FRE? His hopes for something so pragmatic were dashed as quickly as they were raised.

“Our society is being eroded,” Nielsen continued, “by reactionary thought. Reactionary belief. Even the seemingly apolitical is tantamount to treason when it erodes our resolve as we face down this royalist insurgency. Gentleman, it's time we made an example. I am going to order the Militia to act on intelligence related to subversive religious services within the capital. We’ll make an example of them this Advent, and strengthen the resolve of the workers’ state.”

The members of the Presidium looked at each other. The dower mood was evident. Even the Ministers who had cheered Leiftur on when he sicked the militia on the countryside churches back in the government’s early days were silent. What was once theoretical and academic- even back then when it started to actually happen- was now painfully realistic. The dead bodies. All of them. More and more. Churches on fire, bodies in mass graves...even the more loyal among them were questioning why this was continuing when it just pushed more people into the FRE’s camp.
Leiftur wanted it though, and he had the men with guns. And Nielsen...he was leaning on Leiftur the more things got dire. To many it was expected. Nielsen always leaned on him back in the union days, but this was different. People were dying. The FRE was growing...but no one could say it. Lest you joined those Messianic priests and Shaddaist cohens in the mass graves.

It was Henrik Buhl who spoke up.
“Comrade Chairman. The Militia is Minister Leiftur’s department. Perhaps we could delay such operations until he's returned from Hadden. In the meantime we could have you address the nation. Tobias Loðbrók gave another speech in Haland and it would be good for the nation to hear you resp…”

“Shut the fuck up Henrik,” Nielsen snarled.
“I’m not dignifying that boy with a response.”

Henrik nodded and shut his mouth. This wasn't the first time various members of the Presidium had tried to get Nielsen to respond to Tobias Loðbrók’s speeches. And every time he steadfastly refused. Some suspected it had to do with lingering feelings from the Chairman’s past friendship with the Prince’s father. Kolviður Grondahl had almost asked him if that was what it was when they were both drunk watching old Iraelian cowboy movies, but he'd stopped himself in his inebriation.
Whatever the reason, Thomas had insisted he wasn't given legitimacy to a “figurehead and propaganda tool.” That people who flocked to the FRE pledged loyalty to that propaganda tool- and sang songs celebrating him- was another fact you couldn't bring up to the Chairman.

The room was silent once again after Henrik’s suggestion had been shot down.

“So it’ll begin. In three days. The Militia will root out the rot among us, and we’ll be stronger when the fascists come knocking at our door,” Nielsen said.

The Presidium all looked at the Chairman, who abruptly stood up and turned to leave.

“Comrade Chairman…?” Henrik Buhl began to ask before Nielsen rained down anger without even turning to face them as he left.

“MEETING FUCKING ADJOURNED!”

---

War Pigs by Black Sabbath, 7:54

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc called "Advent of the End". This is the start of the story arc. For the background to the story, kindly read the prologue first. Many thanks to @Prydania for approving and letting me work on this. Special shoutout to @Former English Colony for her valuable input!

Warning: This post may contain strong, graphic, or descriptive language not suitable for children and for those whose sensitivities may be offended.

Music: Breaking Benjamin – Ashes of Eden

6 December 2015
06:57 PM
Býkonsviði, Prydania

“My name is Styrbjörn Granseth… and I’m fourteen.”

My lips were trembling as I answered the interrogators’ questions. Their faces were barely visible in the dark cold room illuminated by a single incandescent light bulb. All I could see were their Syndicalist People’s Militia uniforms. One of them had a logbook on the table in front of him where he was transcribing the interview. The other was the one asking questions. Beyond them… there was a third shadowy figure overseeing the process.

“Where do you live?”
“Býkonsviði.”

“WE F*CKIN’ KNOW THAT!” the interrogator pounded the table, startling me. I closed my eyes, mentally bracing myself for what will come next. When I opened my eyes, I saw his face right in front mine, mere inches from my face. “You stupid kid, I was asking for your address,” he snapped.

I could not make eye contact with my interrogator. I instead stared down at my handcuffed hands on my lap as I answered in a shaky voice. “788-B Einingarvegur, Býkonsviði.”

“You’re making this more difficult for you,” the interrogator said contemptuously as he lightly hit my right temple with the back of his left hand. He went back behind the table and sat again, his blue eyes staring right at me, drilling fear inside me. The poorly-ventilated room was as chilly as the Prydanian December. I was shivering from the cold, being inadequately dressed in my threadbare faded cargo pants, and slate grey zip-up hoodie over a white T-shirt. Yet the temperature of the room seemed to drop even more as the interrogator blurted out the question. “Are you a Messianist?”


I am a Courantist. Not by birth, but by choice. I am probably one of the least likely Courantist you would find in Býkonsviði.

My father Sigfreður was a Syndicalist. Before I was born, he was a labour organiser among the stevedores at the Port of Býkonsviði. The stories that my mother and my older brother paint of him about those times were that of a doting and loving father, protective of his family and the workers he was organising.

I never saw any of that. When my mother was pregnant with me, my father was imprisoned by Anders III’s Óafmáanlegir. In one of those ghastly prisons, they punished and tortured my father. He was one of the Syndicalist prisoners freed after the Syndicalist coup of 2002.

My father came back a changed man. Whatever he experienced in prison broke him. As far as I can remember, my father was a cold, unloving, cruel man. He drank a lot. He regularly beat my mother Elina. He hit me and my older brother Þorfinnur for the slightest infraction. My mother tried to protect us from my father, but she couldn’t bear to leave my father. Somehow, she was still holding on to the memories of the old Sigfreður; clinging to the shell of a man he had become.

But my brother Þorfinnur, he’s gone. After one physical argument with my father, Þorfinnur left home two years ago. He was sixteen. We never heard from him again. Rumours had it that he had joined the FRE and was fighting in Austurland against the Syndicalists. My father, when he heard the rumours, derided Þorfinnur and “his little teenage rebellion”.

Maybe being a Courantist is my teenage rebellion? I’m not entirely sure. All I know is that I was looking for an escape from my violent domestic situation. Since I was ten, I started coming home late. I dreaded coming home, because I would see my father drunk, my father hitting my mother, my father hitting my brother, or any combination of the three.

When I was in sixth grade, me and my best friend Björnólfur Rössvoll found refuge in the Skaug home. Björnólfur’s father was a low-level bureaucrat from the Innanríkisráðuneytið or Ministry of the Interior. The Syndicalist government was losing control of the country, and bureaucrats like Björnólfur’s father had to work extra time. Björnólfur was largely left to himself; his mother died of breast cancer a few years ago.

Björnólfur and I became good friends with Finnbjörn Skaug, a smart and friendly upperclassman. He was one grade higher than us, and Finnbjörn noticed that Björnólfur and I kept mostly to ourselves. Finnbjörn befriended us in school and started tutoring us and helping us with our homework. Finnbjörn was like his father, who was a beloved teacher at school. Soon, we were frequent visitors to the Skaug house, where the three of us would hang out to study together or play football or dream about the future.

His twin sister Finnbjörk called us the “Three Björns”: Finnbjörn Skaug, Björnólfur Rössvoll, and me – Styrbjörn Granseth. The Skaugs were good people, they welcomed us and even shared their meagre dinners with two hungry growing boys like Björnólfur and I.

The Skaugs, however, had a secret: they were underground Courantists. Finnbjörn’s father Kristfinnur had to vet me and Björnólfur closely to see whether we could be let in on the secret. Soon, we were learning not only algebra and football, but also catechism and the Bible.


For some reason, Courantism gave me hope. Whatever suffering I was undergoing in this harsh life of mine… was going to be fleeting and temporary. It gave me comfort that if my lot was not going to improve in my wretched life, it will improve in the afterlife. That there was something good, something better waiting for me up in heaven.

This must be why the Skaugs are like that. Very humble, very placid, very virtuous. Not averse to helping people in need like us.


I found myself becoming more and more like the Skaugs. Björnólfur and I started inviting some of the bullied boys at school to play football with us. We volunteered to do work at the school cafeteria.

At home, I became the one defending my mother, despite the risk that my father would beat me up instead. It’s alright, my mum doesn’t deserve the violence. I will take the blows and punches like a man. I will be her shield.

After one particularly harsh beating, my mum was attending to my badly bruised body, to my battered face. Despite my eyelids almost swollen shut, I saw her cry as she washed my body with cold water. It hurt me to see her cry. The pain from seeing my mother crying was worse than the physical pain I was feeling. “Mamma, don’t cry,” I told her softly.

“Styrbjörn… I’m sorry,” she mumbled as she plunged the bath towel in the basin of iced water. “You don’t deserve this…” She wrung the water out of the bath towel and gingerly wiped the cool towel on my skin. “Sometimes, I wonder, why you hadn’t left like Þorfinnur did.”

“If I leave,” I told my mother, “who’s going to be here for you?”

And my mother hugged me tight.


I will endure whatever the evil people in the world would do. The world, this country, is full of violence, why should I add more? What Prydania needs are examples of what to do, how to treat your fellow human being. Maybe in my own way I could be what Prydania needs, the little change the world needs.

A slap brought me back from my thoughts. The interrogator was again standing in front of me. “Did you hear the question, kid?” He demanded. “Are you a Messianist?”

“Yes.”


The interrogator turned to the third person behind him. “Boss, the kid says he’s a Messianist.”
“Include him,” the gruff voice answered.
“He’s fourteen,” the scribe commented, with a hint of protest in his voice.
“He’s old enough.”

Five minutes later, they released the handcuffs and threw me in an empty jail cell. I pulled the hood of my hoodie above my head. I lay down on the cold tiled floor and tried to sleep. There were no beds, no chairs, nothing.

I just lay down there, wondering what will happen to me. They didn’t say what they will do to me… although my gut feeling was that it would not be good.

“Og hann tók brauð, gjörði þakkir, braut það, gaf þeim og sagði: ‘Þetta er líkami minn, sem fyrir yður er gefinn. Gjörið þetta í mína minningu.’”*

Father Salvar Hesketh was celebrating Mass with our small group when Syndicalist People’s Militia barged in and rounded up all of us. There were eleven of us: me, Father Hesketh, my best friend Björnólfur Rössvoll, Finnbjörn Skaug and his father Kristfinnur, the twentysomething Gabriel Bokn and his girlfriend Greta Indresand, and the four members of the Skaalvik family, our hosts in whose house we were holding the gathering. The militia blindfolded and tied us up and transported us to this unknown place.

It was supposed to be a secret Sunday Mass. It was Advent after all, when we were waiting and preparing for the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. But like Herod the Great, the Syndicalists went out of their way to oppress and suppress the people from going to their Saviour. Like Herod the Great in Bethlehem, the Syndicalists slaughtered multitudes of innocents… and left Prydania weeping for its children like Rachel wept for hers.*

The Syndicalist government hated organised religion, and believers were forced to go underground. I was told that after the coup, the Syndicalists killed or expelled many of the priests. The few remaining priests hid.

Father Hesketh was one such priest. He was a young Prydanian Courantist who smuggled himself out to study theology in Goyanes and get ordained as a priest. He returned in 2013 as a clandestine priest. During weekdays, he works as a clerk at the Prydanian central bank. On weekends, he shuttles back and forth between his flocks to say Mass.

The clandestine parish of Fr. Hesketh was made up of different ‘cells’. Each cell would have 10-12 parishioners who gather in a different place in a different time each Sunday, which Fr. Hesketh would visit to say Mass and administer the Sacraments. Only Fr. Hesketh knew about the cells, we don’t know who and where the other cells were. Our cell was called “Three Björns” too, and he had codenames for each and every one of them. People do move between cells, but not often. For instance, the other half of the Skaug family moved to another cell because the militia were at their heels last year. Two months ago, we took in Gabriel’s girlfriend Greta.

This arrangement was probably for the better. If one cell gets discovered, it would not bring down the entire network with it… unless Fr. Hesketh himself gets caught.

I started hearing Fr. Hesketh’s agonized cries and shouts of pain, probably coming from a room down the dark corridor. “I’m not telling you!” he was screaming at his torturers. They were probably trying to extract information about the other cells and about who his other parishioners were. Knowing Fr. Hesketh… he would not yield. But the sounds of agony and suffering were hard to block out, and I had difficulty sleeping. I tossed and turned on the floor and positioned myself away from the corridor where the terrible sounds were coming from. For a long time, I stared at the wall…


“Styrbjörn!” A familiar voice called out my name. I turned around and I saw my parents being let in my jail cell by the militia. “You have an hour for the visit,” the militiaman told them.

I felt myself smiling as I saw my father and my mother. Especially my mother – she had that worried but relieved look on her face… I was alive. But my father, he had a stern, enraged expression.

My father bent down towards me. “Styrbjörn! Is it true?” He growled as he grabbed the front of my hoodie and manhandled me, forcing me to stand up. He harshly pushed my gaunt body against the wall and pinned me against it. He leaned forward, his face right in front of me. His blue eyes were filled with burning anger. I could smell his alcohol-saturated breath as he spat out the question. “Styrbjörn, is it true that you are a Courantist?”

My heart was pounding inside my body frozen with dread. Neither of my parents knew about me being a Courantist. A ball of fear formed in my throat. I couldn’t answer. I looked away towards the direction of my mother, who was standing nearby, her hands covering her mouth in shock and apprehension as to what my father could do to me. Tears started to appear in her blue eyes.

“Answer me!” My father brutally shook my body like a rag doll. “ARE YOU A COURANTIST??”

I swallowed the fear. If I was able to say it to the militia, why not to my father? I looked at my father straight in his eyes. “Yes, pabbi, I am a Cour – ”

I wasn’t even able to finish the word when I felt sharp pain engulf my left cheek. He punched me in the face… hard. The next thing I knew, I was back down on the floor, weakly trying to block his jabs. “You vanþakklátgaur, you traitor!” He kicked me in the stomach so hard I doubled over in pain. I felt him kick me again and again all over my body. “You bring me nothing but shame!” Another kick. “You worthless skítkast!“ He landed another punch on my already throbbing face. I tasted blood as my lower lip split with his blow. My father bent down again, hovering menacingly over me. He half-choked me as he grabbed my jaw. “Listen, Styrbjörn, if you don’t stop your stupidity… I won’t even let the militia kill you,” my father snarled, “I will do it myself!”

“Pabbi…” I pleaded in a soft voice. Tears and blood were flowing down my face, mixing and reflecting the misery and the pain I was feeling inside. “Pabbi, please…”

My father delivered another blow to my face. “Do not call me ‘pabbi’!! I have no Courantist son!!” He then grabbed a fistful of my blond hair and violently jerked my head. “You’re not my son anymore,” he hissed, with spittle coming out of his mouth. “You shouldn’t have been born!” He lifted my head up, only to smash it on the hard tile floor. I blacked out for what seemed to be a few minutes.

When I woke up again, my entire body was screaming in pain. My head felt like it was being crushed under a steamroller. My body felt like it was being mangled in a shredder. The world was spinning around me, unsettled and unsteady like a boat in stormy waters. Through my tear-filled and blood-stained vision, I saw my mother sitting beside me. “Styrbjörn…” she mumbled. “Mamma is here for you…” Tears started to fall from her eyes.

“Mamma…” I managed to let out a few words. “I’m sorry.” I looked beyond her and saw my father, who was pacing back and forth at the far end of the jail cell. He seemed to have heard what I said. He angrily strode back to where I lay.

“SORRY?” My father bent down again to grab my clothes and to maul me some more. “What are you going to do now, backslider?” He raised his arms to hit me again. My mother managed to block the blow and somehow forced him to let go of me.

“Sigfreður, you’re killing him!” my mother wailed. “You’re killing your son!”

My father slapped my mother. “He’s not my son anymore.” He quickly stood up and turned his back on us. “I don’t know, Elina, where you got that stupid boy.”

“But Sigfreður…” my mother cried, “the militia will kill Styrbjörn if we don’t do anything!” Her words were punctuated by sobs. “Please… save him.”

I heard my father sigh. He didn’t face us. He just stood at the corner of the jail cell. For a long time, we saw him wallow and process his emotions. He ran his head through his hair while mumbling words, as if reliving what happened to him years ago. His body shook from all the suppressed emotion over the years. His fists clenched as barely-controlled fits of fury overcame him.

“Sigfreður… please,” my mother begged my father. “Please save Styrbjörn… I know you still have the influence to save your son – ”

“I DON’T HAVE A BACKSLIDER SON!” my father bellowed, turning to face us. He was seething with rage. “You know that Elina! They tortured me! And now your so-called son is siding with them?” My father directed a hateful gaze at me. “And you, Styrbjörn, you are now an enemy!”

“Pabbi…”

“I SAID DON’T CALL ME FATHER!” my father shouted, striding angrily towards us. He pointed an angry finger at me. “You little helvíti, you vanþakklátgaur, I never loved you anyway!”

The words crushed my heart so dearly. I already knew and I already saw that my father didn’t care or love me… but him proclaiming it out loud… still hurt. Even though it hurt… he’s still my father. He helped give life to me. I wouldn’t be here without him.

“Sigfreður… don’t say that,” my mother muttered.
“It’s true,” my father said contemptuously. “He’s just another mouth to feed!”
“Sigfreður…”
“Come, Elina, I don’t want to see that gaur’s face anymore,” Sigfreður grabbed my mother by the arm. “Let’s go.”

“NO!” my mother protested. “Sigfreður, please save Styrbjörn! He will die if we leave him here!”
“He’s already dead to me!”
“Sigfreður, please…”

My father forcefully yanked my mother away from me, dragging her towards the door. My mother was crying, trying to reach out to me, trying to touch my face one last time. “Styrbjörn! My son!”
She turned to Sigfreður: “LET ME GO!” She managed to escape from my father’s grasp as they waited for the militiamen to open the cell door.

My mother almost crawled to where I lay. She scooped my body from the floor and cradled me on her lap, like what she used to do to put me to sleep. She was crying hard as she spoke to me. “Styrbjörn... I love you.”

“I love you too, mamma.”
“Don’t you ever think… that you were not loved.”

I nodded weakly.

“Your father might be like that… but he’s a good person at heart, you see?” My mother tried to smile. It was a spiel I had heard ever since I was a child. That my father was a good man, but he just had problems and we needed to understand him. “I will talk to him when he’s not drunk. We will get you out of here. I hope you understand.”

“I… forgive him,” I told my mother. “I hope you forgive pabbi too.”
“Oh Styrbjörn,” my mother said softly as she hugged me tight. “Why did it have to be you? Why? Why should this happen to you?” She gently rocked my body back and forth as she cried. “My sweet little baby… Styrbjörn, I love you.” She wiped away some of the tears and blood obscuring my face. “Styrbjörn, you’re the only one I have left… please don’t leave me…”

You’re the only one I have left. Did she somehow feel that my father was already gone? What would happen to her if I’m taken away?

“Mamma, I don’t… want to leave you too,” I told her. “But if this is my fate…”

My mother looked at me tenderly and wistfully. She could lose another son, the only one she has left. “No, no, Styrbjörn… don’t say that,” she wagged her head. “You’re not going to die!”

I raised my hand to touch her face. I looked up at her as I wiped tears from her cheeks too. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to me... but whatever happens… I would like to thank you, mamma, for loving me… and for everything you did for me… I love you, mamma.”
“I love you too Styrbjörn…”

Would this be the last time I would see her? I suppressed a sob. “Mamma, if this is the last time we’d be seeing each other…”
“No! Styrbjörn, don’t say that!”
“… please take care of pabbi. He will need you here more than I need you… Go with him if you must.”
“But Styrbjörn…”
“Don’t worry about me, mamma…” I tried to assure her, but truth to be told, I was afraid of what would happen to me too. Somehow I found solace in my faith that this world… is merely fleeting. There is another, better world out there. The heaven where all the good people go to. I know I will see my mother there eventually. Þorfinnur will be there too. My father… I hope he changes so I can see him up there too.

“… whatever goodbye this is, this will be temporary,” I told my mother.
“What… do you mean…?”
“Mamma, if I die soon… I will be up there and I will be your angel. I promise.”
“Styrbjörn…”

The door of the jail cell opened and my father again grabbed my mother by her arms. “Come, Elina, let’s go!” he commanded her.

“Styrbjörn!” she cried out my name as my father dragged her out of the jail cell. “My son! My baby!”

My mother was still wailing and calling my name as my father forced her down the corridor. I sat up with difficulty and crawled towards the jail cell bars to catch one last glimpse of her. The militiaman noticed me. “Get back inside, kid,” he grunted and then kicked me in the face, back into black.

---

*OOC Notes:
FRE = Framan Ríki Eining= Front of National Unity

Prydanian Terms
Pabbi = term for father, like “Papa” or “Dad”
Vanþakklátgaur = ungrateful brat
Skítkast = Piece of sh*t
Gaur = brat
Helvíti = f*cker

Explanatory Notes:
“Og hann tók brauð, gjörði þakkir, braut það, gaf þeim og sagði: "Þetta er líkami minn, sem fyrir yður er gefinn. Gjörið þetta í mína minningu.”
Translation: “And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.” - Luke 22:19
"But like Herod the Great, the Syndicalists went out of their way to oppress and suppress the people from going to their Saviour. Like Herod the Great in Bethlehem, the Syndicalists slaughtered multitudes of innocents… and left Prydania weeping for its children like Rachel wept for hers."

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc called "Advent of the End". This is the second post of the story arc; the first post is here. For the background to the story, kindly read the prologue first.

Warning: This post may contain strong, graphic, or descriptive language not suitable for children and for those whose sensitivities may be offended.

Music: Nightwish – Gethsemane

7 December 2015
11:30 AM
Býkonsviði, Prydania

“Styrbjörn! Thank God you are alive.” I was greeted by a tight hug as I opened my eyes. I found myself in a dimly-lit large cell, with some of my companions. It was my best friend Björnólfur Rössvoll who was hugging me. He had teary eyes. “I thought you’d never wake up,” he muttered as he helped me sit up.

I smiled weakly. I looked at everyone in the room. Only Björnólfur Rössvoll seemed unscathed. Gabriel Bokn had a burst left eyebrow and a black eye. Finnbjörn Skaug had his arms covered by angry bruises and cuts. His father Kristfinnur looked badly beaten. All of them looked glum and hurt.

“Did they also do this to you?” Björnólfur asked with extreme concern. “Did they also torture you to force you to renounce Jesus?”

“No, my father… did this to me,” I told my best friend, trying to control the feeling of sadness that was threatening to engulf me. His question, though, was telling. Despite my head still aching, I surmised that all of them might have been roughened up to recant our faith. “Were you all… tortured too?”

Finnbjörn nodded. “They beat all of us up individually last night to force us to blaspheme Jesus, spit on a crucifix and a Bible…”

“I’m afraid of what they did to my Greta,” Gabriel admitted. “I still haven’t heard from her…” He had a worried, pained expression. We all knew that the militiamen liked to abuse women. “I hope she’s not tortured badly… God, please save her…” Gabriel uttered.

“The torture was so bad that the Skaalviks recanted their faith,” Kristfinnur added. “I could hear the militiamen torturing Jesper and Rebekka… probably in front of their parents.”

Jesper and Rebekka. The Skaalvik children, aged seven and four. I could see why the Skaalviks could’ve turned away from the faith on the pain of torture. No decent parent would want to see their children tortured because of the parents’ decisions. What does it make my father then? My mind gravitated away from that sobering thought and looked at my best friend. “Even you, Björnólfur? They tortured you?”

Björnólfur suddenly looked self-conscious. He slowly wagged his head. “No, Styrbjörn, they did not.” He frowned. Maybe he was embarrassed that he was somehow spared the depredations that we suffered. “My father… asked the militia to spare me. He talked to me earlier today.” Björnólfur’s green eyes started to mist. “He told me that if I just renounce Jesus, the militia would let me go.” His voice started to shake. “Pabbi pleaded with me to renounce Jesus…”

I was now the one who hugged Björnólfur. “Björnólfur… I will understand if you did it – ”

“No, Styrbjörn,” Björnólfur murmured. “I am not going to do it… inasmuch as I don’t want to leave my father, I answer to a greater, higher Father up above.” Björnólfur started to cry. “Poor pabbi… he will be left all alone here.” He broke off the hug and looked into my eyes. “But I don’t want to leave you all too… especially you Styrbjörn.”

“Björnólfur…”
“You were there in my worst moments, Styrbjörn,” Björnólfur told me. “You were there through thick and thin. You’re my best friend. You’re like my brother. I cannot… in good conscience… leave you in your worst moments…”

“Björnólfur… thank you,” I replied, also on the verge of crying.
“We’ll get through this together, Styrbjörn,” Björnólfur gave me a brotherly hug and rubbed my back.

“Yeah, we’ll get through this together,” Finnbjörn muttered as he and Gabriel joined the group hug.


Later, in the midafternoon, we were handcuffed again and herded into a meeting room full of Syndicalist militiamen and functionaries. In front of the room were three Syndicalist People’s Militia members in full uniform and regalia. It looked suspiciously like the show trials that the RÚV occasionally televise. Was this what we are about to undergo?

Militiamen brought in a tied Fr. Hesketh, still bloodied and beaten, into the room. His face was almost unrecognisable, his vestments dirty and bloody. He was thrown on the vacant seat beside us.

“Father Hesketh!” Finnbjörn whispered. “What happened?”
The young priest turned towards us. “They tried to torture me into telling about our brothers and sisters in Christ.” A stream of blood came out of one corner of his mouth. His formerly pleasant smile now has some missing teeth… either pulled out as a form of torture or lost because of the trauma his face had sustained. “I told them they’d have to kill me first.”

“SILENCE!” the head militiaman up front pounded the gavel. “We shall be reading the next sentence.”

With the efficiency of a factory assembly line, the militiamen-judges handed out capital sentences one after the other.

“… for the crime of SUBVERSION and TREASON, the Syndicalist People’s Special Court sentences Salvar Hesketh, Kristfinnur Skaug, Gabriel Bokn, Finnbjörn Skaug, Styrbjörn Granseth, and Björnólfur Rössvoll to DEATH, with no recourse for appeal. So ordered.”


I was crying as they dragged us back to the big jail cell. At the back of my mind, I expected this to happen… but I never thought it would happen this quickly, with unfeeling mechanical efficiency. My thoughts went to my mother. She would be devastated when I’m gone. Who will protect her from my father’s abuses? Who will be there to keep her company through the wintry December nights when my father is out drinking all night? Who will comfort her when she misses my older brother? These questions reverberated in my mind, unsettling me for hours.

Father Hesketh, despite his horrendous condition, tried to console me. Everything happens for a reason. Trust in God and His Will. The righteous people will be saved. “Styrbjörn, do not let your heart be troubled… and besides, wherever you are… I know you will still be with your mother… right, Styrbjörn?”

My last conversation with my mother the previous night played back in my head.

I will be up there and I will be your angel. I promise.

Father Hesketh gave us absolution. We asked for forgiveness for our sins and forgave everyone who sinned against us. Our group prayed for a long time that night. We prayed for ourselves, to ask God to welcome us in His Kingdom. We prayed for our families, that they overcome the sorrow and grief that our fate will give them. We prayed for our community, that they remain faithful and they be spared from the same suffering we have undergone. We prayed for our torturers, captors, and executioners, that they realise their sins and repent. We prayed for our country, that Prydania will soon find peace and the senseless violence and bloodletting come to an end. My poor long-suffering country… when will this madness end?

Our prayers were interrupted when a group of Syndicalist militiamen barged into the jail cell. “We’ll get revenge with them,” one of them said ominously. The militiamen bound me, Finnbjörn, and Björnólfur with rope and hauled us to an adjacent cell.

We thought we were just going to be separated from the adults… but this was much worse. We weren’t unbound as if we were going to be simply transferred. Instead the militiamen strapped all three of us to the single pillar in the centre of the jail cell with more rope. I could see the apprehension in Björnólfur’s and Finnbjörn’s eyes as we faced each other from each of the sides of the column. I gave Björnólfur a forewarning gaze as I saw the militiaman behind him raise up an arm, like a pitcher ready to throw a baseball. The militiaman was gripping a whip in his hand.

“OUCH!” Björnólfur yelped in pain as the whip cracked on his back. “Please stop… OUCH!” Another whipping. Björnólfur bawled from all the pain… I wanted to reach out to him and soothe his pain, but I was also tied to the pillar.

“That’s for you backsliders!” The militiaman whipped Björnólfur once again.

“And this is for you traitors!” Another militiaman flogged Finnbjörn so hard he momentarily lost consciousness.

“You are the filth and rot in our society!” This time I felt the third militiaman lash me multiple times. I cried in agony as he whipped me with gusto. My back was burning from the excruciating pain, the nerves going haywire, overloading my brain, steering me towards the verge of blacking out.

“Please… stop…” I pleaded to my tormentor. “Please…”

The militiamen laughed. “Isn’t this what your so-called Messiah endured?” One of the militiamen said mockingly. “Well then, if you are a real follower of your Saviour – ”

“Who cannot save you here by the way,” another militiaman interjected.

“ – you have to follow the fate of your Saviour too.”

I felt the sting of the whip on my sore back again.

“STOP IT!” We heard the voice from another cell. “You monsters! They are children!” It was Gabriel.

The militiamen turned their attention to the outraged Gabriel and Kristfinnur, who had likely heard our wails and screams. From the corner of my vision, I saw them angrily gripping the bars of the cell, glaring indignantly at the militiamen whipping us.

One of the militiamen went out of our cell to confront them. “What are you going to do about it?” The militiamen asked them contemptuously. “Do you want us to whip you too?”

“Then do it to us instead of them!” Gabriel yelled at the militiamen. He sneered at them: “You cowards! You only take on people who are weaker than you!”

The militiamen were incensed enough that they dragged Gabriel and Kristfinnur out. Finnbjörn, Björnólfur, and I were freed from the pillar and Gabriel and Kristfinnur took our place. The two men bravely and willingly took the punishment meant for us. Gabriel dished out so many taunts that his torturers stuffed a rag in his mouth to prevent him from saying anything.

Finnbjörn, Björnólfur, and I were returned to our old jail cell, battered and barely alive. What would tomorrow bring?

---

OOC Notes:
Prydanian Terms
Pabbi = term for father, like “Papa” or “Dad”

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc called "Advent of the End". This is the third post of the story arc; the first post is here. For the background to the story, kindly read the prologue first.

Warning: This post may contain strong, graphic, or descriptive language (including death) not suitable for children and for those whose sensitivities may be offended.

Music: Lacuna Coil – One Cold Day

8 December 2015
01:48 PM
Býkonsviði, Prydania

The blindfolds were taken off and we found ourselves out in the cold, out in the streets of Býkonsviði. Shouts of mocking anger, of bloodthirsty mantras, and of festive triumph filled the air. The bellicose cacophony reverberated up the leaden skies, which threatened to unleash a torrent down the earth in retaliation. The skies were sympathising with us on that eighth of December, Feast of the Immaculate Conception, the day when the Virgin Mary’s sinless lifespan was being remembered. My life may not have been sinless, but I hoped heaven knew I tried walking down the righteous path as the inevitable drew near.

“Styrbjörn,” Kristfinnur encouraged me, “we must keep walking.”

So this was how it feels. We were dead men walking.

Our hands were bound in front of us. Nooses were tied to our necks. Me, Finnbjörn, Gabriel, Björnólfur, Kristfinnur. The loose ends of our nooses were tied to that of Fr. Hesketh’s, who was walking in front of us. We were like cattle being led to slaughter, paraded through the streets of Býkonsviði.

“LOOK AT HOW THE SO-CALLED MESSENGER OF GOD HAS HIS SLAVES!” The Syndicalist People’s Militiaman behind us taunted through megaphones. “HE HAS LED THEM TO BECOME TRAITORS TO THE WORKER’S STATE!”

I slowly walked through the damp cobblestones of the old Krossleið*, taking in the scorn and ridicule from the people.

“MOVE FASTER!” The militiaman brandished his whip and randomly hit one of us. Finnbjörn fell to his knees, pulling his noose downward. Fr. Hesketh went out of balance from the pull.

“Finnbjörn!” I mumbled as Kristfinnur and I went beside him. The jeers became louder and louder. As we helped Finnbjörn stand up, I took in the scene around me. Hecklers bearing Syndicalist flags and banners lined the Krossleið, throwing abuse and insults at us. One of them threw a glass bottle at us. Luckily Björnólfur was able to kick the bottle away.

Standing behind the front row of Syndicalist activists and militiamen were ordinary people, stone-faced and disquieted. They might’ve been forced by the Syndicalists to watch the spectacle they were making out of us. Many wore worried expressions. Some had tears in their eyes. Some tried to look away.

“WHAT DO WE WANT FOR THESE BACKSLIDERS??” the militiaman asked the crowd.
“DEATH!” the Syndicalists in the crowd answered enthusiastically.

“WHAT DO THESE BACKSLIDERS DESERVE??”
“DEATH!”

“WHAT SHALL WE BRING TO THEIR SUPPORTERS??”
“DEATH!”

“THE PEOPLE HAVE SPOKEN! JUSTICE WILL BE SERVED!”

The whip cracked and I felt a sharp pain piercing my back down to my left leg. My legs gave way and I stumbled forward down the cold wet pavement. The noose was tugged by my fall and it pressed on my neck. I coughed out blood as my face hit the ground. I panted as Fr. Hesketh stopped walking to relieve the pull on my noose.

“Styrbjörn!” A worried Björnólfur reached out to me and helped me to stand up again despite his hands being tied. As I sat back up in preparation to stand, I looked up at the people lining the streets. Some shook their fists at us, as if we were their enemy. Some shouted obscenities at us. One spat at me. Another hurled a rock at me, hitting me at the shoulder, throwing me off balance again.

Did I really deserve this? What did I do to deserve the hatred, the anger, the sentence?

“Ef heimurinn hatar yður, þá vitið, að hann hefur hatað mig fyrr en yður.” The Saviour’s words came back in my head. “If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first.”

“Styrbjörn,” Kristfinnur told me, “forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.”

I nodded and stood up with difficulty. As we plodded down Krossleið, I caught a glimpse of the Skaalviks, standing behind a row of Syndicalists. As our eyes met, the Skaalviks averted their gaze away from us. Somewhere, a rooster crowed.

Our humiliating macabre parade trudged down Krossleið, exposing us to all kinds of abuse. A Syndicalist bystander struck me and Björnólfur with the end of the pole of his banner. The militiaman whipped Gabriel and Kristfinnur. A Syndicalist spectator threw freezing cold water at me and Finnbjörn. More stones and bottles were thrown at us. The worst abuses were hurled at Fr. Hesketh. He experienced everything we had to endure… and much more. He was the most targeted, being the priest at the head of our group. Random sadistic men went in front of our group in order to slap, punch, or kick Fr. Hesketh. But there was one woman who appeared in front of our group. She didn’t go for Fr. Hesketh. Instead she made a beeline for Gabriel.

“Gr… Greta?” Gabriel muttered in disbelief as he recognised his girlfriend… or so he thought was his girlfriend.

Greta Indresand pranced happily around our group, wearing bright festive clothes. “Surprised?” she sneered at us, especially Gabriel. She then snuggled snidely to Gabriel and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you Gabriel,” she giggled. “I got my reward,” she whispered in Gabriel’s ear.

“You… you betrayed us?” Gabriel cried out in astonishment. “How could you do this to us?”

“How?” Greta chuckled. “I told the People’s Militia about your group.” She flipped her long blonde hair and laughed. “I’ve planned this for a long time. Got thirty krossar for each of you.”

Gabriel was about to shout at her, but Kristfinnur laid a comforting hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Gabriel… you know how Judas’ bargain ended…”

Greta sniggered. “Enjoy the walk!” She said as she went away and melted into the crowd.

Somehow, I couldn’t feel anger. We were betrayed. Our lives were worth that little. We had been tortured, we were humiliated. But I had accepted my fate. My time here is almost over. This will be my last suffering. However long the Syndicalists wanted to torture me, they could kill me only once.

And then heaven awaits.

“Styrbjörn,” Björnólfur said as he slowed down his walk so I could catch up. He continued talking once I was beside him. “I’m happy to have known you,” he said as he put his bound hands on top of mine. “You’re like the brother I never had.”

“I’m happy to have been your friend too, Björnólfur,” I replied. “I’ll see you in heaven, bróðir minn.”

Björnólfur smiled. “Our time is near.”

Krossleið then opened into the Verkamannatorg, one of Býkonsviði’s central city squares. As we entered Verkamannatorg, we saw a glimpse of our grim fate.

The grotesque scenes unfolded amidst the sea of sullen onlookers, having been forced to watch the horrendous executions. We were paraded towards one side of the square, where we passed by corpses hanging on lampposts. I could tell they were religious people too, hung yesterday, maybe this morning. I saw a young Shaddaist man wearing a kippah, his tallit tied around his neck, from which he was suspended from the crossbar of the lamppost. A few lampposts down, another Courantist priest was hung using his purple stole.

As we were walking to our execution site, delicate white snow started to fall, as if the skies were crying for us. The bell at the municipal building tolled the time. Three o’clock in the afternoon.

We were led to a corner of the Verkamannatorg where the lampposts were still empty. As the militiamen prepared the lampposts, Fr. Hesketh spoke to us. “My brothers in Christ, this is our Calvary. Let us die in peace, forgive those who sinned against us… for the glory of heaven awaits us.” He then started to recite the Lord’s Prayer and the six of us prayed together.

“Faðir vor, þú sem ert á himnum…”

One of the militiamen unfastened a random noose from Fr. Hesketh’s. One by one we would be hung… and Fr. Hesketh will be the last.

“...helgist þitt nafn, til komi þitt ríki...”

It was Finnbjörn who would be hung first. A militiaman passed the end of Finnbjörn’s noose to the executioner who would suspend him from the lamppost.

“…verði þinn vilji, svo á jörðu sem á himni.”

The executioner started to pull up Finnbjörn’s rope. We prayed harder. His father Kristfinnur was sobbing. “Finnbjörn… I love you,” he mumbled. At his last breath, Finnbjörn shouted “Lengi lifi Kristur konungur!“

“Gef oss í dag vort daglegt brauð...”

The militiaman untangled another noose. Björnólfur’s.

”Fyrirgef oss vorar skuldir...”

I gave my best friend a hopeful look while I said my prayers. This is the end, Björnólfur. Your suffering is about to end.

”...svo sem vér og fyrirgefum vorum skuldunautum.”

Björnólfur’s eyes gazed back at me, full of gratitude and fondness. I remembered all the good times we spent together. How we became best of friends, running away from our broken families. How we bonded over football and homework. How we became each other’s bright spot in our sad lives in a war-torn country.

”Og eigi leið þú oss í freistni...”

Before his life was snuffed out from him, Björnólfur smiled. He died at peace.

”…heldur frelsa oss frá illu.”

The militiaman then untied another noose. Mine.

The militiaman led me to the lamppost where I would be hung. He solemnly had me stand beside the foot of the lamppost. Fr. Hesketh gave me a final blessing. “Styrbjörn… be ready to greet God!”

I felt the noose tighten around my neck. I swallowed the knot of fear in my throat. This was it. My noose was being hoisted from the lamppost.

My feet left the ground and the entire weight of my body tugged on the noose. My windpipe was being crushed. I struggled to breathe. I wanted to grab the noose to loosen it, but my hands were tied. Choking sounds came out of my mouth. I looked down to the world below and saw people crying, my companions praying. As they pulled me higher up the lamppost, my vision became blurrier and blearier… the world was fading away.

In my fading vision, I saw a figure, veiled in black, run towards the foot of the lamppost, right below me. Her veil fell backwards as she looked up at me. My mother. She fell on her knees, crying, shouting my name. I could still hear her anguish despite the sounds becoming more indistinct, more muffled, like I was underwater. I felt a tear fall down my eye for my sorrowful mother.

Another figure appeared behind her, hugging her and trying to console her. He also looked up at me. It was my father. He had sad tears in his eyes as he mouthed an apology for me.

One strong tug at the rope snapped my neck. Everything collapsed into black.

---

OOC Notes:
Krossleið = Cross Avenue
bróðir minn = my brother
Verkamannatorg = Worker’s Square
Lengi lifi Kristur konungur! = “Long live Christ the King!“

“Ef heimurinn hatar yður, þá vitið, að hann hefur hatað mig fyrr en yður.”
“If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first.” – John 15:18

OOC Note: This is a series of posts comprising a single story arc called "Advent of the End". This is the epilogue of the story arc; the first post is here. For the background to the story, kindly read the prologue first.

8 December 2020
12:04 pm
On a Tuesday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

The sky was grey and the air chilly as snow gently fell on the assembled crowd. Tobias looked to his side. The King was sitting next to Cardinal Villads Dalgaard, of the Courantist Diocese of Haland, which covered all of Prydania. He was sitting beside Hallvard Heckneby, the Bishop of the Santonian National Church’s Diocese of Prydania. Down further sat the family of those executed five years previously. And of course there was Magnus, the Prime Minister at the podium.

Tobias sighed. It was so sad. Every story he heard about suffering from the War, or the abuses of the Syndicalist government, made him want to hug someone. Even after three years of peace. He couldn't help it. His own trauma watching his parents’ execution had made anything regarding an execution very hard for him.
This wasn’t an unknown story either. The Advent Executions were well known when they happened and had occurred just three weeks prior to the Battle of Hadden.
Some say it stiffened FRE resolve for that fight. Maybe it did, but that’s not what Tobias remembered. He remembered hearing of it on the radio, with Stig, William, Rylond, and Axle. He remembered sitting there in silence after hearing what had happened...he still wasn’t sure how long they all sat there. Only that he’d gone to bed quiet that night, feeling angry and sad.

Those feelings- sadness and anger- resurfaced as the ceremony got underway. He looked down for a moment as Magnus continued to speak. This was hard. These people- the family of the dead- were here. And what could he do? He couldn’t bring them back. Cardinal Dalgaard or Bishop Heckneby couldn’t bring them back… he just felt overwhelmed for a moment before he looked back up. Magnus was finishing his speech.

“So we gather here, today, to remember the lives of those taken before their time…” Magnus looked down for a moment.
Tobias cocked his head just a bit. It seemed even Magnus was having a hard time.

“...and we remember that what happened cannot be allowed to happen again. Thank you.”
Magnus stepped down from the podium and took his seat. Tobias watched as Cardinal Dalgaard, clad in his vestments, stood to shake the Prime Minister’s hand before taking his place at the podium.

“If I may, I would like to begin with a prayer….” the Cardinal closed his eyes as he began…
“Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.”
He opened his eyes and looked around, temporarily removing his glasses to clean away some melted snow that had fallen on the lenses.

“Many a prayer have been said for the people who died here five years ago. Courantist prayers, Laurenist prayers, Shaddaist prayers, Thaunic prayers. I remember being in Haland, hearing of what had happened. I felt...I felt like I was failing our flock…”
Tobias perked up at that. He'd always thought he was alone in his feelings of helplessness during the War.

“...how could I comfort Courantists in free territory who came to me looking for comfort, when what had happened had left such a pit in my stomach? The Syndicalists looked to break the faith of some of God’s faithful. What happened that night was the closest I had come to breaking, I know that much…” he sighed.
“But as more news of what had happened came out I was visited by someone. Cohen Finn Melchior. He was the Cohen for the Shaddaist community of Haland. I had known him for some years of course, and considered him a friend. Yet...I did not expect him to visit me as news of the Advent Executions occurred…” the Cardinal paused for a moment to collect himself.
“He did though. He came to my home and I stumbled over my words to greet him. He just said ‘Villads, can I pray with you?’ I’ll never forget how that made me feel. Finn was not a Courantist. I was not a Shaddaist, but we prayed together for the people killed here and for everyone else suffering in those dark days.”

"Suffering, though, knows no religion. Shaddaists, Courantists, Laurentists, Thauniccs, and even non-believers were hung from these lampposts. Today we remember the people who remained steadfast in their beliefs, defending them until death. Their refusal to bow down to the oppressive imposition of uniform thought and the suppression of freedom of conscience is the ultimate example of non-violent resistance... resistance against intolerance, resistance against prejudice, resistance against fanaticism. Intolerance, prejudice, fanaticism - this is what Prydania should reject.”
The Cardinal paused for a moment.
“In exemplifying this, the dead here showed that they truly followed the path of Christ. We should remember these examples of the people who died here - five years to this day - that we must work to make their dream of a tolerant, inclusive, and just Prydania come true.”

"The Syndicalist records detailed the words and the deeds of the people who died here. The Laurentist pastor Kristþór Heyns urged his torturers to repent. The Shaddaist Cohen Hildar Choresh forgave his executioner before being hung. The Courantist Father Salvar Hesketh and his five companions prayed that Prydania will soon find peace, and that the senseless violence and bloodletting come to an end. May those souls, Blessed Salvar Hesketh, Blessed Styrbjörn Granseth, Blessed Finnbjörn Skaug, Blessed Björnólfur Rössvoll, Blessed Gabriel Bokn, Blessed Kristfinnur Skaug, find peace in heaven with the Lord.”

Tobias stood as it was his turn to speak. He desperately wanted to grab his notes from his coat- the same old, grey Royal Army coat he'd been wearing since it was too big on his teenage frame years ago- but that just wouldn't look right. He wanted to though, because he was trying to square what he'd written down earlier with the swell of emotions he was feeling now. He shook the Cardinal’s hand before he took his place. The crowd was sizable. He looked to his side, at the family of the deceased, before looking back at the crowd.

“Hello,” he began softly as he spoke into the microphone. His mind went blank for a moment as he looked down again and then back up.
“Cardinal Dalgaard said it felt like a pit opening in his stomach when he first heard what had happened here five years ago. I felt that too...and I felt angry and sad…” he paused as he collected his thoughts.

“War is never easy. I was blessed that Stig Eiderwig understood that war was an awful thing, and taught me that. He was, and is, a professional soldier. He did his duty, but he hated what had to be done, and he hated what had befallen our country. He fought because...that was the only way. Not because he liked it.” Tobias stopped, feeling the cold air on his face, and the sorrow he felt dancing inside of his chest.

“When you are caught in that, it can be easy to forget how awful war is. Troops become numbers and not people, cities become objectives, not homes. You need to remember the bad side of war, even if you have to fight it. And I remember when I heard about the Advent Executions. I went to bed with that empty pit in my stomach and I cried softly. I wanted the killings to stop. That it couldn't...that we had to fight...made it so much sadder. More dead. And there was no way out. Not just for us...but for the people who were murdered here. Who did nothing wrong but love their God. Maybe that reaffirmed what we were fighting for…” he breathed deep.

“I hope we fought for a better future. I hope that when Kristþór, Hildar, Salvar, Styrbjörn, Finnbjörn, Björnólfur, Gabriel, Kristfinnur, and everyone else hung from these lampposts look down on us now, they see that their home is at peace. I hope they see us working to make it better. Tolerant. Happy. That's why I want to remember them. I want to remember their lives. What they believed in and prayed for. How they lived their lives and made a dark world brighter. We miss you. And I hope that when you look down on us you see…”
Tobias had to fight back an urge to choke up.

“...I hope you see the world you prayed for. I know we’re all working to build it.”

He stepped down from the podium before shaking Cardinal Dalgaard and Bishop Heckneby’s hands. The two clergymen were about to lead a joint prayer. Tobias took his seat and looked up at the grey skies as the snow continued to fall lightly.
It was beautiful despite its dreariness.

“It's true,” Tobias thought as he looked up at the sky.
“It's not worth it, to just remember,” he thought. “You honour the dead, by making the world they left behind better.”

---

Finngeir Rössvoll had spent the time after the ceremony ended shaking hands and hugging the others who had lost family in the executions five years prior. He was emotionally exhausted though. He had lost his wife in the midst of the Syndicalist era. And then his son...he smiled softly. They were both in a better place now. That’s what made the exhaustion and the feelings of sorrow so manageable. Knowing that his beloved and his son were in paradise.

“Mr. Rössvoll?”

Finngeir turned around, and his eyes went wide.

“Your Majesty!” he went to bow, but Tobias had just stuck out a gloved hand for him to shake. Finngeir reached and took it, shaking the King’s hand nervously.

“I just wanted to say,” Tobias said, himself sounding nervous, “that it can’t be easy for you, to relive all of this. So thank you. For being brave, and coming out.”

Finngeir, however, was confused.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but this was a ceremony to honour my son. Why would I not attend?”

“I just...I don’t know,” Tobias replied, verbally stumbling as his emotions and his brain outran his mouth, “reliving all of this. It weighs heavily on me, and I didn’t lose family. I’ll be frank. I don’t think I could hold it together if I had to commemorate my mother and father’s execution. So I guess...I guess I’m saying thank you. For being braver than I could be.”

“Seminary gives me a certain outlook that’s helpful, I suppose,” Finngeir replied.
“I hope I’m not prying with this question, Your Majesty, but do you believe in God?”

“I’m the head of the Laurentist Church,” Tobias replied with a smile. Finngeir just laughed. “As a consequence of being King. I’m curious if you truly believe in God though.”

“I’m…” Tobias stopped for a moment.
“I was an atheist for a period of my life. I found my way to Christ though. Eventually. I wish I could say it was a happier journey.”

“I know that feeling,” Finngeir said with a nod.
“I could say ‘my faith lets me know my son is in heaven, and that is how I deal with the sorrow of his death’ and that is true. I do believe that, but there is more. Look around, Your Majesty. In only five short years we have gone from hanging people from street lamps to peace. My son and the others prayed for an end to the madness. And it came to be.”

“You’re right,” Tobias looked around. “It’s just hard to ignore the sadness, you know?” He felt vulnerable, but Finngeir was easy to talk to.

“Yes,” Finngeir said with a nod.
“But God’s miracles are not just found in extraordinary occurrences. Or the comfort in knowing our loved ones are in paradise. They’re found in the things everyone does every day to make the world better. Things are better now than they were five years ago, because of God working through us. I truly believe that. Tomorrow will be even better then. So anytime you’re feeling down about the tragedies you’ve seen, remember that God is working through all of us to make the world better.”

Tobias smiled, looking down a bit as he nodded.
“You’re going to make a fine Priest, I think.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Finngeir replied with a smile.

“I won’t keep you in the snow,” Tobias added, extending his hand again. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Rössvoll.”

“Likewise, Your Majesty,” Finngeir replied. He watched the King take his leave. Tobias went over to Finnbjörk Skaug, her mother, and younger brother and he looked around. He was meeting with the other family members of the executed later that evening. For now though, he took in the sublime snowfall. It was further proof of God’s beauty in the world.

---

Better Days by the Goo Goo Dolls, 3:30

---

OOC Note: Thanks to @Kyle for writing large parts of Cardinal Dalgaard’s speech

22 July 2017
8:56 am
On a Saturday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Þorfinnur Granseth sighed as he approached his childhood home. He was wearing his military garb from the waist down, but a light track suit jacket over a white t-shirt. He had the rest of his gear slung over his shoulder in a pack. He'd been granted leave now that the capital was fully secured. The capital… his hometown. He looked around.

Býkonsviði had clearly seen better days but at least the damaged areas were being cornered off and rubble cleared. And more importantly… thank God his home was still here. That didn't make it any less awkward though. He scratched his head nervously as he looked up. He'd run away five years ago. And here he was… returning a soldier. For a cause his abusive son of a bitch of a father hated… his father… as if abuse was his only sin!

He put his hands on his hips and paced a bit, head lowered as he tried to think of what to say. Part of him wanted to kick the door in. It was only his memory of his mother that stopped him.

“Þorfinnur!”
Almost as if she could sense he was thinking of her.

“Mamma!” he said nervously as he saw his mother emerge from the house. He legitimately had no idea what she would say. He was happy to see her, but would she be? Would she blame him for leaving her and his brother at the mercy of her father? Could he blame her if she hated him? He stared up at his mother, full of fear and uncertainty. It was only a moment, but it felt like forever… until she rushed down the steps and threw her arms around him.

“Þorfinnur...my Þorfinnur…” she was on the verge of tears as she hugged him. Þorfinnur’s own anxiety melted as he embraced his mother back.

“Mamma,” he said softly.
“Mamma, I’m so sorry…” he said as he rocked his mother gently in his arms on the sidewalk.
“I’m so sorry I left…”

“Shhh,” she said quietly, holding him. “None of that…” her voice cracked as she began to cry…
“I’m just happy to have my son in my arms,” she said softly weeping. She just held her son with no regard for anything else, before she pulled back, tears in her eyes as she smiled, and looking up at him.

“Look at you,” she said proudly.
“All grown, and a soldier. A good one,” she said as she ran her hand over a FRE patch hastily sewn onto Þorfinnur’s jacket sleeve.

Þorfinnur just lowered his tear-reddened blue eyes and sighed.
“I left you. I left you and Styrbjörn.”
He felt guilt over that. Over leaving both of them. He'd often entertained fantasies that - if Styrbjörn had been older - he'd have tried to take him and his mother...but his brother was only twelve when he left. Far too young. And he wasn't going to leave his twelve year old brother at his father’s mercy without their mother.

Elina, however, shook her head and placed a hand on her son’s cheek.
“You did what you had to, and what you believed in. I raised two very good, moral boys,” she smiled.

“But…” Þorfinnur tried to continue only for his mother’s gentle caress of his cheek to turn into a soft slap.

“None of that, as I said,” she said with a smile. And Þorfinnur could only chuckle. At how dearly he missed his mother - even her laying down the law and telling him how things would be.

“Yes Mamma,” he said softly.

“Come, sit,” Elina told her son, as she sat on the steps leading to their front door. The streets were busy-ish given the state of the city, but no one paid them much mind. Þorfinnur sat next to his mother. He would have to ask about his father eventually. He knew he was probably inside. Just up these steps… but he just enjoyed his mother’s company. She took his hand.

“I missed you so much,” she began to say, wincing as she gave in and cried softly.
“I missed you so much and I prayed that you'd be safe…”

“I…” Þorfinnur looked down.
“I missed you too Mamma. You and Styrbjörn. I prayed for both of you, to be safe.” It was Þorfinnur’s turn to cry.
“That's why I'm sorry I left,” he cried softly.
“If I’d been here I could have… maybe I could have saved him.”

Elina squeezed her son’s hand.
“Your brother died, filled with the love of Kristur* in his heart. He died at peace, praying for all of us.”

The truth was in the nearly year and a half since Styrbjörn’s execution, Elina had tried her best to find some comfort in it. She still felt herself ripped apart thinking of her baby boy hanging there… but she had to find some way to cope with it.
“There was nothing you could have done, Þorfinnur,” she continued.
“The Syndicalists wanted him dead. There was no stopping them. You honoured him by fighting against the people who took him from us,” she sniffled.
“So please don't feel guilty…”

“I couldn't have stopped them,” Þorfinnur said, “but I could have stopped him. I could have stood up to pabbi and made him protect him.”
There it was. He’d brought up his father. And he was prepared for a reckoning.

“Þorfinnur…” Elina replied, “your father was...you need to know some things.”

Þorfinnur looked ahead of himself, into the street in front of him. His jaw was clenched but he was going to listen to his mother when another voice emerged behind them.

“Þorfinnur.”

He looked over his shoulder and immediately stood up. It was Sigfreður. His father.

Elina shook her head as she stood. Her stubborn idiot of a husband. She'd told him to let her speak to Þorfinnur first.

Þorfinnur looked up at his father at the top of the stairs. So many things he wanted to say, and so many things he expected his father to say to him…

“I’m happy to have you home, son.”

...and that was not one of the things Þorfinnur was expecting. He lowered his head, chuckling in indignant defiance of his father.

“That's what you have to say to me?” he growled.

“Þorfinnur wait…” his mother tried to interject, but her son wasn't having it.

“Go fuck yourself, you Syndie piece of shit.”
It was hardly the most elegant thing he could say, but it was how he felt. He stared at his father, with a wide eyed and angry gaze. He'd thought of this moment since he left home at sixteen. And it had only gotten more intense since he heard about the Advent Executions and his brother’s death.
He was expecting his father to get angry. Defiant. Maybe even threaten to hit him. Lord knows Þorfinnur had taken many a beating from Sigfreður before. Would he still be brave enough to hit him now that he was grown? And a trained soldier?

“Þorfinnur, don’t,” Elina protested, but Þorfinnur would not be denied what he'd wanted to say to his father for all of these years.

“You beat mamma, Styrbjörn, and I and you…” he felt himself growing angrier.
“You let my brother die.”

Sigfreður though, he just lowered his head.
“We should go inside to talk…”

“No, we can talk right fucking here,” Þorfinnur insisted.
“You let my…” he began to cry as he yelled…”you let my little brother die! For your fucking ideology. What kind of father are you, to tell me you're happy to have me home? I can't even hug my brother again because of you!” He was fuming now.
“He was my brother….and your son. And you might as well have been the one to kill him!”

“I loved your brother, Þorfinnur. And I love you…” Sigfreður tried to say before Þorfinnur cut him off.

“Don't you fucking say that! Don't you fucking dare!” Þorfinnur said, walking up the steps until he was just a level under his father, practically face to face. So close that his father’s downcast eyes and his tear-soaked eyes were visible to the other.

“I did!” Sigfreður replied, showing the first bit of fire since seeing his elder son.
“I loved Styrbjörn! With all my heart but I couldn't save him! I…” he looked down and that fire was gone. He hung his head before his son.
“I couldn't save your brother. As much as I tried.”

Elina grabbed Þorfinnur by the arm.
“Your father is telling the truth. He tried to talk to the Militia. They wouldn't let Styrbjörn go.”

Þorfinnur looked at his mother. Her pleading expression melted him somewhat but seeing his mother… his beloved mother… just made him angrier at his father.
“How can you defend him, Mamma? After all the times he hit you? He hit us?”

“I… I was sick. In spirit,” Sigfreður replied.
“It doesn't excuse what I did but I was an angry man. I’m…” he began to cry himself.
“You have no idea how much I regret what I did to you, your mother, and your brother.”

“Oh so you're a spiritual man now?” Þorfinnur asked angrily.
“I wish I'd have known this side of you growing up. Maybe this spiritual side would have saved Styrbjörn! Or did it take your thugs killing him to get spiritual?”

“Þorfinnur!” Elina insisted.
“Your father did what he could! Believe me! He even fought for the FRE during the fighting here! He helped…”

“I don't care!” Þorfinnur replied, looking at his father.
“I don't care what you did,” he said to his father angrily. “I care about what you didn't do. You didn't save my brother!”

Þorfinnur pulled his arm away from his mother’s grip and pushed past his father into his family home. He didn't take long to take it in, immediately making a beeline for his younger brother’s room.

“Styrbjörn,” Þorfinnur said softly as he took in the familiar surroundings. It all came back to him. How he'd spend time in this room… this same room… playing with his brother. Showing him how to make amazing things from his Spilvel blocks.

He suddenly realized that the room was… intact. His brother’s bed, his dresser, his night table…
He opened the closet. His brother’s clothing. Hanging there… never to be worn again. He dropped to his knees and began to weep.

“I’m so sorry. I could have saved you,” he cried.
“I did everything I could. I fought the people who hurt you and Mamma but I couldn't get back here soon enough…” he cried as he hung his head in the door frame of his brother’s closet.
He opened his eyes and saw a multi-coloured tub through his tears. Styrbjörn’s tub of Spilvel blocks.

He pulled the tub close to him. He was trembling as he grabbed some bricks and began to snap them together. He had no real plan, no idea what he'd make… but building Spilvel was one of things he had with his brother. He just cried softly as he snapped more and more bricks together…

“I love you Styrbjörn,” he said in what was barely even a whisper as the unwieldy mass of bricks slowly grew bigger.

“Your brother prayed for peace.”

Þorfinnur looked over his shoulder to see his parents standing behind them. He had no idea how long they'd been there.

“He prayed for peace,” his mother repeated.
“And you, his older brother, you helped make that happen,” she approached him and knelt down next to him.
“You fought for the peace your brother died praying for,” she was holding back tears.
“You two… you were connected even after you left, I know it. Maybe neither of you knew it, but you both did what you felt was right.”
She hugged him again, holding her son tight.
“It’s like I said. I raised two morally upstanding boys, and I’m so proud.”

“Mamma…”

“You listen,” she said as she held him.
“Your father…” Sigfreður was still standing by the doorway, “...he tried to save your brother. Lord knows he's not been a perfect man, but he saw the error of his ways and he made himself a better man.”

Þorfinnur was shaking as he stood and approached his father.

“I was a sick, angry man, as I said,” Sigfreður said as he looked his oldest son in the eyes.
“I can never apologize enough to you, your brother, or your mother, for what I did… but when I saw what was happening…” he choked on his words.

Þorfinnur sniffled. He tried to steel himself despite his emotional state, but seeing his father on the verge of tears clicked something in him. He wrapped his arms around him, and they were soon joined by his mother. Þorfinnur smiled even as he buried his face in his father’s shoulder, to be held by his pabbi again.

“I love you son,” Sigfreður said. Þorfinnur didn't reply. He just held him. The hug eventually broke and Elina walked over to Styrbjörn's night table. She opened the top drawer and took out a holy bible. Þorfinnur looked on shocked. Just having that could get you sent to a prison camp under the Syndicalists.

“It was your brother’s,” Elina told her son.
“I don't know how spiritual you are but… I think you should have it.”

Þorfinnur took the bible and held it, nodding. His father then pat him on the shoulder.

“Come,” he said softly, “I’ll help you get settled.”

Þorfinnur nodded as his father took his pack of army gear and led him to his own childhood room. Which was likewise untouched. Even including his shelf of car model kits.
He was emotionally exhausted as he took in the site of his childhood room.

“You’ll be able to stay a few nights?” Sigfreður asked, his voice tinged with hope.

“Yeah,” Þorfinnur replied softly.
“I have a few days until I need to report.”

Sigfreður nodded. He hugged his son again.
“I'm truly happy to have you home. Safe.”

Þorfinnur wanted to say so much more… but that time would come. Right now though, he just nodded.
“I’m happy to be home, pabbi.”

He looked around at his room again, and sat down on his old bed as his father left. He took his brother’s bible. The marker was at a specific part. He turned to it.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up…” he said as he read Galatians 6:9.

He smiled.
“You never gave up, little brother. I won't either.”

---

*Kristur= Christ

---

Behind Blue Eyes by Limp Bizkit, 4:30

OOC Note: Thanks to @Kyle for letting me use characters he created and for suggesting the theme of the post...and for suggesting the music

4 June 2017
4:05 pm
On a Sunday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Field Marshal Ejvind Borg stood in the middle of the hall of the Haraldvígi one walked into when they entered the Alþingi building. It was strange...the name "Haraldvígi" meant "the Harald Fort," or "Harald's Fortress." It was named as such because it was completed during the reign of Harald V. And yet the building's name survived the Syndicalist era. Ejvind thought about how fascinating that was.
The government had tried. "Verkafólksvígi" (Workers' Fort) had been the official name for a number of years but the government couldn't stamp out the habit of people saying "Haraldvígi." The Alþingi building wasn't alone in this. The government had tried to rename the kross the "inneign," meaning credit. And the city of Erkiengill- meaning Archangel- was temporarily renamed Lethborg. In both cases the populace's force of habit kept the old names around and the Syndicalist government gave up trying to force the issue.

And now the Haraldvígi- along with the city of Erkiengill and the kross- would fully survive the regime that had tried to impose new names.
"It's fitting" Ejvind thought.
"It's fitting that the Syndicalist Republic ends in one of the places where we never could get our way." Ironically it happened to be the seat of the legislator.

"Sir..." Ejvind took a look at the young Lieutenant who was approaching. Who, despite looking like he was still a teenager, was his second in command here. That's how close it was to the end.

"Yes Lieutenant?" Ejvind replied.

"I just...we just..." the lad was stammering with nerves.
"I just want to make sure your orders are understood. We're surrendering?" Lieutenant Garri Sjöholm asked.

Ejvind felt his heart beginning to race for a moment, but he didn't let it show. Surrender. That's all there was to do. That's why he'd seized control of the Presidium. Practically forced them at gunpoint to appoint him Chairman. Henrik Buhl was going to get them all killed with his orders that they keep fighting following Nielsen's suicide. He'd done what he'd done. To make sure the fighting had stopped. It was over. So he'd ordered troops to stand down and surrender. Now it was only him, a contingent of Syndicalist Republican Army soldiers, and the Haraldvígi. The last bits of the Syndicalist Republic.

"Yes" he nodded.
"It's over. There's no point in painting the last few blocks red. We stand down when the enemy arrives. I'll issue the surrender myself."

Lieutenant Sjöholm saluted and returned to his post. It was coming. They'd be here any moment now. What would it mean for him? True, the Syndicalist Republican Armed Forces was not the People's Militia, but they were not apolitical actors either. Everyone in the Syndicalist Government was dirty to a degree. He was already counting his own sins- be they active transgressions or sins by passively letting atrocities happen- in his own head.
How had it come to this? He was a soldier. And like most of the officer corps he had despised King Anders III. Unlike most others, however, he was not paralyzed by tradition and conservatism that had dominated the Royal Army. He acted. He helped make the Syndicalist coup happen, because it was necessary. And now...compromise after compromise...he was here. Ready to be the Syndicalist Republic's gravedigger. He honestly couldn't stand to think how history would remember him. Acting to free his country from a tyrant only to serve another was not something he felt he could contemplate right now. He had to focus on the task at hand.

The FRE arrived. Their soldiers secured the building's hall, disarming surrendering Syndicalist Republican Army soldiers before they fanned out to the Alþingi chamber. They'd find Nielsen's corpse in the attached office. One soldier came up to him. He didn't say anything. He just motioned for his gun. Ejvind looked at him intensely for a moment.

Everything...his career, his life, his reputation. He'd tied it all to the Syndicalist cause. And this was it. A Royalist soldier disarming him. Without a firefight, because they both knew it was pointless. He nodded, drawing his sidearm and removing the clip. He handed both to the FRE solider, who walked away saying something into a radio. They'd left Ejvind there though. For obvious reasons. He looked around again. The Syndicalist Republic flags hung along the balcony above them that ran the length of the inner hall of the Haraldvígi. He sighed. All he could do was wait.

It felt like hours, even if it was only another five minutes. And there they were. William Aubyn, wearing a flak jacket over his civilian clothes and Field Marshal Stig Eiderwig. He and Eiderwig had known each other back before the Syndicalist takeover. It would be wrong to say they were friends, but they were classmates at the old Royal Military Academy. And they knew each other on a professional basis for years. And now...well...who could have seen this? Ejvind kept his wrists crossed behind his back, trying to keep his posture as the two FRE leaders approached.
He knew what he'd say. He knew that earlier that morning the FRE had declared itself the acting and legitimate government of Prydania, in the name of Prince Tobias Loðbrók, who they were now calling "King."

"On behalf of the Presidium of the Syndicalist Republic I am formally surrendering unconditionally to His Majesty's Armed Forces" he said with a sense of duty. He knew Stig enough to know he'd appreciate that.

Stig, however, simply looked at him. The universe was funny in this way. Of all the people he knew from his military career...it was Ejvind Borg who he found his opposite in all of this madness. Not any of the officers he had personal rivalries with. Not any of his friend he could have had a falling out with. No. Ejvind was just there. In the background. And Stig was sure he felt the same way about him.
Still, he grunted at the attempted formality. Fifteen years of war. Fifteen years of seeing atrocity after atrocity. Fifteen years of liberating labour camps and seeing the end result of Syndicalist rule. They didn't deserve to go out with that much dignity. Yet it was worth it to finally end all of this.

"Your surrender is noted" Stig replied.
"Take him away."

Two soldiers grabbed Ejvind by the shoulders and secured his arms as they bound his wrists behind him with zipties. Ejvind didn't resist. What would be the point? All he did was say one final thing to William Aubyn as he was led out past him. His final act to justify his actions.

"I hope His Majesty learns the right lessons from his predecessor" he said, looking William in the eyes. William just looked back at him, saying nothing before he and Stig continued on their way to the Alþingi chambers. Ejvind grunted as he was led out. At least he'd gotten that off his chest.

---

4 June 2017
4:13 pm
On a Sunday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

"Well Tom's dead" Stig muttered as he and William stood over the corpse of Thomas Nielsen, bent over what was once the Prime Minister's desk with his brains splattered everywhere. William nodded. It used to be that he, Gætir, and Tom had all been planning bright futures ahead of the end of Anders' reign. Now Gætir was dead, Tom had killed himself, and the country...

"Let's get him out of here. No fanfare. We'll cremate the body later" William said with a nod.

"You don't want Tobias to see it?" Stig asked.
"It's the only closure the lad's going to get."

"That's not closure" William replied.
"Tom's dead. Tobias is still alive. Despite everything Tom did to him. That's closure enough."

"He won't see it like that" Stig said, looking around the office.

"Maybe, but he's about to be a King. I'm going to have precious few chances to tell him what's good for him going forward" he instructed solders to load Nielsen's body onto a gurney, covered with a sheet.
"We're in control of RÚV central broadcasting?" he asked. Stig nodded.

"Yes. We have control of the Útvarpshús*, and our technical people are in place."

"Have them send over a team. It's time I addressed the world."

---

4 June 2017
4:30 pm
On a Sunday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Tobias paced around the conference hall he was in as Axle spent most of the time on the phone...

The day had been a nerve-racking one. He'd come to the city- his return to the city of his birth after seventeen years- once the bulk of the Syndicalist resistance was crushed and the final push towards the government centre could begin. He'd already fulfilled part of his duties concerning why he had to be in the capital when the FRE declared its legitimacy- he'd already met with one foreign ambassador who had recognized his government.

Since then the last Syndicalist lines had broken. There was confusion. The Presidium had gone quiet before Syndicalist military leadership had ordered a stand-down. Now he was here, waiting...

"Axle?"

Axle set his phone down as he took a seat across the conference table from Tobias.
"Yes?"

"Any word on what's happening?"

"Yes" Axle said with a nod. His own heart was racing with what he'd just been told.
"You'll want to see it for yourself though."
He motioned to the television as he turned it on. There was a simple test pattern on RÚV.

"You can't tell me?"

Axle chuckled.
"The war's over...Your Majesty."

"It's...I mean..." Tobias stumbled for his words. He knew the fighting was going to end, but now that Axle had said it...it was over? Finally?

"What's the word?" Rylond asked he came in, starling Tobias. He was joined by Bjarkar and Fylkir. The three had gotten passage into the capital when the final Syndicalist troops had been told to stand down.

"Axle just said the war's over" Tobias said as he stood to great his friends.

"That's like saying the sky isn't blue" Fylkir scoffed. It was a joke obviously, but they were all in their early 20s. The war was very much a regular part of their lives.

"Is that true?" Bjarkar asked, looking at Axle.

"Just watch" Axle replied, pointing to the tv. The screen flickered as the Syndicalist version of the RÚV logo flickered on with the text SÉRSTÖKTILKYNNING*. Soon the screen faded in. It was William Aubyn sitting in the office of the Chairman of the Syndicalist Presidium. With the barbed cross flags flanking him.

"To Prydanians everywhere. I speak to you all from the Haraldvígi, the heart of civil government. The long winter of discontent that was the Syndicalist Republic is over. The Syndicalist Presidium's remnants have ordered an unconditional surrender upon the suicide of Chairman Thomas Nielsen. The Syndicalist regime has collapsed. In the name of King Tobias III, the FRE re-affirms itself as the legitimate government of the Prydanian Realm. The war is over. After fifteen long years...our war is over."

---

4 June 2017
4:30 pm
On a Sunday
A FRE military checkpoint outside Býkonsviði, Prydania

Þorfinnur Granseth and the rest of the checkpoint's personnel were gathered around a small handheld TV as they waited for the news to come over the screen.

"It's gotta be happening soon, right?" Þorfinnur asked.
"There hasn't been any chatter about fighting for an hour or so."

"Just wait Granseth" his Sergeant replied.

And then the news...Þorfinnur looked around at the faces of his squad-mates. Some of whom he'd been fighting alongside for five years...
"It's over..." he muttered.
He barely had time to process it before another solider hugged him tight. He held back tears as he hugged back...the people who killed his brother had been beaten.

---

4 June 2017
4:30 pm
On a Sunday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Laurids Hummel cheered as he hugged Janus Bröndum and Adin Elad at once.

"We fucking made it boys" he he exclaimed excitedly to the two remaining original members of his squad who he'd first met on the march towards Hadden.

"You got anymore of that wine, Captain?" Janus asked as the streets began to fill up with people...it wasn't like anything Laurids had ever seen before. Just people...strangers...hugging. Celebrating. It was all over...

"No, but let's fucking go. We're celebrating!" Laurids declared, leading his two men into the streets with the revellers. Someone- it wasn't clear who-was passing around beer. The three found their way to a quiet-ish street corner admits the cheering.

"To Erik, Morgens, Henrik, Friðjón, Karkur, Otri, and Brjánn" Adin said as they all held their beers.

"Rest well" Janus said softly.

"And watch over us as we continue to follow the road. However weary" Laurids added, looking up. Hopefully his fallen charges were looking down at them. Knowing their deaths were not meaningless.

---

4 June 2017
4:30 pm
On a Sunday
Markarfljot, Prydania

The Duttlungafullurdreki* pub cheered excitedly as the news broke over the television.
Knud Buch gasped and almost broke down in tears as he brought his hands up to his face for a moment. It was finally here. After months of being told "the war is almost over" it finally was. And his daughter and wife...maybe they rest in peace,

"Knud!" Saxi, the bartender, called out. "Play the song!"

Knud blushed but began laughing.
"You think?" he called out.

"Fyrir Konung! Til Valhalla*!" the patrons of the fishing village bellowed back in unison.

Knud took a sip of ale and made his way to the piano. Who was he to deny a request.

---

4 June 2017
4:30 pm
On a Sunday
Darrow, Prydania

Ottar and Dagheiður Hummel stood in the crowded town square of Darrow- less full than it perhaps could be, as the space where twenty people who were hung by the Syndicalist regime five years ago was turned into a makeshift memorial.

The FRE authorities in the city had promised big news as the Battle of Býkonsviði neared its end. Makeshift television screens provided by the Goyaneans were set up for the crowd.

"Do you think it's over?" Ottar asked.

"I don't know, but I hope Laurids is safe. Why did he have to volunteer to go into the city?"

"The lad's a captain now" Ottar said proudly at his son's promotion. From joining the FRE after the massacre of twenty of his townsfolk to an officer. Fighting for justice for those twenty.
"He had to go."

Dagheiður nodded, still clearly worried for her son. Soon though, the screens in the town square flickered on...

And Ottar and Dagheiður embraced and kissed in the cheering crowd as the streets of Darrow- from the wharf to the town's main street came alive with celebration.

---

4 June 2017
4:30 pm
On a Sunday
Hadden, Prydania

Kaleb and Asfrith Stahl sat on a couch in their apartment in Hadden. Where Asfrith had been brought by FRE operatives when Kaleb had defected.

Asfrith reached out to take his husband's hand. He could feel the tension.

"Honey" he said softly.
"What's the matter? I thought you'd be happier?"

Kaleb chuckled softly.
"I am I just...I was twenty when this started. That was fifteen years ago. This war has defined everything about me for almost my entire adult life. I was a Syndicalist operative. Then a defector...if the news coming out of the capital is true and the Presidium is standing down then..." he looked at his husband with a wide gaze.
"What's next?"

"What's next" Asfrith replied with a smile, "is that you're going to keep being the same thing you've been since before all of this started. My husband."

Kaleb chuckled and leaned in, kissing him on the lips as the sounds of celebration from the street could be heard from outside their window.

---

4 June 2017
4:30 pm
On a Sunday
Just outside Býkonsviði, Prydania

Finngeir Rössvoll sat, leaning over his keyboard, in the trailer that had been pretty much his life since May. There were faint desk lamps in the five work stations, but most of the trailer was illuminated by the glow of computer screens. He, and five others, had been working for the FRE's cyber warfare division. All were like him, leaning forward just a bit at the larger screen along the trailer's long end.

And then the announcement from William Aubyn.

"We did it" he said softly as he and the rest of their team hugged and shook hands. It didn't matter that perhaps personal hygiene was not the best at the moment. Long hours needed to disrupt Syndicalist military networks trumped the need for regular showers.

And it didn't matter because as Finngeir looked at the screen to watch William Aubyn announce the end of the war he knew that his son Björnólfur finally knew temporal justice.

---

4 June 2017
4:30 pm
On a Sunday
Erkiengill Collectivized Agricultural Homestead, Prydania

Rúrik Öxndal sat next to his mother Júlíetta in the mess hall of what had once been their prison. Back during Syndicalist control they could never spend much time together. They were assigned to different work gangs and were not afforded much socialization time.

Things had been different since the FRE liberated the compound months ago. Their tracking bracelets had been removed and they were allowed to intermingle. Some people had left even, but not Rúrik and Júlíetta, or most others.
Rúrik and Júlíetta had nowhere to go, really. Their family farm was collectivized and made part of this Compound when Rúrik's father- and Júlíetta's husband- had been taken from them.
The FRE had promised them that the land would be redistributed to their rightful owners but until that happened...these barracks were their only home. And the same was true for everyone else. All wearing the blue overalls they'd been forced to wear for lack of any other clothes.

The television on the mess hall wall was hardwired to RÚV. It would broadcast a stream of propaganda during the years of Syndicalist occupation but now the FRE soldiers were turning it on for the first time. Suddenly the test pattern flickered to an announcement...

Rúrik was openly crying as he held his mother. His poor mother. Not only worked half to death like he had been for eleven years but...
He could hardly think of it. Syndicalist guards forcing themselves on her. The forced abortions. He squeezed her tight. They had been free of Syndicalist tyranny for months now but to hear that the war was over and the Syndicalist regime was done was like a wave of relief for him and everyone else in this mess hall who had endured captivity here since collectivization.

"Mamma, I love you" Rúrik said as he cried and held her. "You and Pabbi, wherever he is."

Júlíetta cried along with her son as people embraced loved ones and friends all around them.
"Your father is looking down on us" she said softly.
"Believe in angels, Rúrik. He was ours."

---

4 June 2017
4:30 pm
On a Sunday
Keris, Prydania

Blue overall-clad "conscripted workers" cheered as the news of the Syndicalist Republic's final defeat spread through the city. They poured out of the segregated camps they had been kept in near the docks and the shipyards, cheering as they mixed with Keris' local citizenry.

The Syndicalist defeat here had only happened recently, and white crossed flags were being flows across the city. Kanadian and FRE soldiers had joined in with the revellers as other FRE soldiers continued to move captured Peoples' Militia and Syndicalist Republican Army personnel out of the city.

"Hey go fuck yourselves!" Kaldor Ulvestad called out to a collection of Syndicalist Republican Army soldiers being led by him.
"Doesn't look like you'll be pushing sveitalubbi* around anymore! Fyrir Konung! Til Valhalla!"
He didn't fucking care. These people had killed his family when he was only two. He'd grown up beaten and worked half to death. Told he needed to be "re-educated" because of who his family were- rural landowners. They'd taken his friends from him. They'd degraded him. He had no idea what the future would hold, but right now...right now he had to get some anger out.

A FRE soldier who happened to be near him looked over.
"Long time coming?" he asked.

"You have no idea" Kal replied.

"I think I do. These bastards shelled my home town until there was nothing left. I signed up as soon as I could to fight them."

"Where are you from?" Kal asked curiously. Being a "conscripted worker" meant he was pretty much a prison labourer. Or a slave if you wanted to be blunt about it. He didn't really get much news that wasn't filtered through Syndicalist propaganda.

"Skapta" the FRE soldier replied. "It's a small town on the east shore of King's Lake."

"Why'd they shell a small town?" Kal asked.

"Because we stood up for ourselves."

"Yeah..." Kal replied. "They never liked that. I still have the bruises from when they beat us after the Storm of Keris."

"You were part of the Storm of Keris?" the FRE soldier asked, sounding impressed.

"It was...very violent" Kal replied.
"But that's what happens when you treat people poorly..."

"My name's Nik. Nik Ravn" the soldier said holding out his hand.

"Kaldor Ulvestad" Kal replied, shaking his hand.

"Let's get a drink, Kaldor. Seems like you need one."

"You too" Kal said with a smile.

"You're not wrong" Nik chuckled.
"Not wrong at all."

---

4 June 2017
4:30 pm
On a Sunday
Býkonsviði, Prydania

Tobias could hardly process what he'd seen William say when Rylond hugged him tight.

"Man...we fucking did it! We did it..." Rylond said as he held his friend...and his King.

Tobias embraced him back and thought back to his childhood, after the war had started. Rylond...he was his oldest friend.

"Ry" he said softly as he held him.
"Thank you..." he said as he held him. Rylond was always the more headstrong one. The more outgoing one. He'd made the hell of the last fifteen years bearable.
"Thank you for everything..."

"Thank you too Toby" Rylond replied, as Fylkir excitedly hugged Axle from behind. The wave of relief the announcement had caused made the usually ornery Axle Skov fine with it though, as he hugged one of the children whose life he had been charged with protecting back.

Tobias looked around after he and Rylond had broken their embrace. Bjarkar was crying...crying happily as he sat.

Tobias couldn't help but nod. Bjarkar's family had owned a farm out in Austurland around Haland and had been disposed by collectivization. He'd spent years in the Haland Collectivized Agricultural Homestead as a labourer. He'd been worked until he starved, and then worked again, beaten if impossible quotas weren't met. Tobias knew that what happened in those camps must have traumatized his friend, though he never asked. He heard the rumours though.

"You ok Bjarkar?" Tobias asked as he sat down next to him.

"Yeah" Bjarkar sniffed as he nodded.
"Yeah I just...I...I'm just..." he was overcome with joy at the news that the Syndicalist Republic- who had taken everything from his family and terrorized them for years- was now no more.

"I never thought this would happen and I can't really...I can't believe it."

Tobias hugged his friend and nodded.
"I know how you feel" he said softly. Indeed he did. Years of living in hiding, years of war, of hunger. And now...
"But it is happening, Bjarkar. We're getting our futures back" he said with a grin.

"Fyrir Konung, til Valhalla" Bjarkar replied with a smile.

Tobias laughed.
"Thanks, but we'll all do it together."

"Tobias."

Tobias looked up. It was Axle. He was holding his phone.
"A message."

"Oh...um, I'll be back in a bit guys" Tobias said as he stood and took the phone. He knew who it had to be. Only one person sent him messages through Axle. He left the conference room for the relative peace of the hallway.

"Hymir" he said with a smile. He'd met Hymir a few years ago. He couldn't actually spend much time with Tobias thanks to security concerns but they communicated through text via Axle.

text message:

Hymir: Toby, I saw the news. Congratulations! I know you'll make a good King. I believe you can be what we need right now. I wish I had more to say but it's a lot to process. I wanted to pass along my well wishes though.

Axle: Hey it's Toby. Thank you for messaging me And thank you for the faith you have in me. It means a lot coming from you. Please be well. Hopefully we can talk in person again soon.

Click to expand...

Tobias re-entered the conference room and walked to the windows. Býkonsviði was celebrating.

"Should we go down?" Rylond asked.

"If you want" Tobias replied. He was nervous though. Hymir had said he had faith in him...but could he be who these people needed him to be? He just...he wasn't ready yet.

"You guys go. I just need a bit" he said softly.
Maybe he wasn't ready just yet, but it filled his heart with happiness, as the weight of the past fifteen years was finally lifted. The city of his brith. And his country. Free.

---

*Útvarpshús= The Radiohouse, the RÚV's headquarters. The name comes from the RÚV's origins in radio before the advent of television.

*SÉRSTÖKTILKYNNING= SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT

*Duttlungafullurdreki= Whimsical Dragon

*Fyrir Konung! Til Valhalla= For the King! To Valhalla!

*sveitalubbi= hick, a term that took ok a derogatory meaning during the Syndicalist era, thanks to the Syndicalist Party's disdain for farmers and the rural population in general.

---

Victory Celebration by Matt Beane, 2:30

Music: Under Pressure- Queen Feat. David Bowie

4 June 2017
2:30 pm (Saintonge time)
Saintes, Saintonge

“You’re not watching the TV, Thorbjörn,” Kristin Höjsleth told her younger brother, who was typing intensely on his Nolf laptop computer. The sounds of Saintonge Télévision’s Prydanian-language service was in the background as Thorbjörn Höjsleth did his university work.

“Yeah, big sis, but I need the noise to keep me awake,” Thorbjörn replied, not even bothering to look up at his older sister who brought him food. “Prydanian sounds are comforting.”

“Here, you need this more than you need the TV in the background,” Kristin said as she laid down a plate of cookies and steaming cup of coffee beside the computer.

Thorbjörn momentarily glanced at what his sister gave him. She was really this thoughtful. Thorbjörn looked up at his sister. “Thank you, big sis.” He hugged her waist. “I love you.”

“Love you too, li’l bro,” Kristin replied. “Now eat up – you still hadn’t eaten lunch.” She spied Thorbjörn’s laptop screen. “What is this you are doing anyway?”

Thorbjörn let go of his sister and reached for a cookie. “This?” Thorbjörn rolled his eyes. “Ugh, my professor in history,” he said with disgust, “he likes to assign additional papers and essays every time the break is more than a standard weekend.”

“Sounds like a meanie and a killjoy,” Kristin remarked.

“He’s actually chill, but ugh…” Thorbjörn leaned back onto his chair and stretched his arms outward. “… lots of work. This is due tomorrow morning and I’m not even a quarter done.”

“You can do it,” Kristin patted Thorbjörn’s back. “You should eat – your brain cannot run on an empty stomach.”

“Yes, big sis.”

“Also, why don’t you switch to some music instead?” Kristin reached for the remote control to turn off the TV, but then…

“STÓRFRÉTTIR!!!“

BREAKING NEWS!!! the TV said. Kristin laid her thumb away from the off button for a while. STV Prydansk rarely interrupts programming for ‘breaking news’, and so this must be important. Kristin and Thorbjörn Höjsleth momentarily turned their attention to the television.

The usually unflappable Reginbjörg Vattarnes-Philippeaux, one of STV’s most trusted Prydanian-language newsreaders, appeared on the screen. Another sign that this was something important. There was something peculiar about her though – she was struggling to enunciate the words clearly, as if some sort of emotion was overcoming her.

“A few minutes ago, at the Haraldvígi, Field Marshal Eyvind Borg, the de facto head of the government of the Syndicalist Republic of Prydania, had formally surrendered to the forces of the Front of National Unity led by King Tobias III, Prime Minister William Aubyn, and Field Marshal Stig Eiderwig…”

“FOKK JÁ!!!” Thorbjörn jumped out of his seat, his fist punching the air above him. “Serves you right, f*ckin’ Syndies!”

The television cut to a news feed of William Aubyn announcing the utter defeat and the unconditional surrender of the Syndicalists.

“… after fifteen long years... our war is over."

Fifteen long years. Years that took Thorbjörn’s and Kristin’s father, mother, and older brother. Years where their life was pulled underneath them and they had to rebuild again in a foreign land.

“The war is over…” Kristin muttered, with tears in her eyes. Thorbjörn looked at her sister. Their eyes communicated the joy that each other were feeling. The enemy had been vanquished. Justice had been exacted.

Brother and sister hugged each other tight, with tears of joy flowing down their cheeks. They knew – everyone knew – what a historical moment it was. The war may be over, but the fight continues – for Prydania and Prydanians everywhere.


4 June 2017
2:30 pm (Saintonge time)
Plaisance, Saintonge

The Spilvel factory in Plaisance was still open during Sundays. Even though the Santonian National Church is the official religion in Saintonge, the country does not close up on Sundays.

Spilvel toys were recently enjoying a boom, thanks to popular lines like Bloxorr, Kanoka, and Inaÿus. Production had to be ramped up to meet demand. Plaisance’s Spilvel factory was running at 50% capacity during Sundays.

It was worth it anyway. Generous Santonian labour laws and generous owners of the company double the pay of workers who do Sunday shifts. These were coveted shifts because they paid more. It was why Sigurbaldur 'Siggi' Thorkildsen took on the Sunday morning shift. Usually he does not work on Sundays because he also sings in the choir at his local parish church of Saint-Hilaire. It was alright, he could still sing for the afternoon and evening Masses.

But his colleagues, both at the choir and at Spilvel, understood his situation. The twenty-four year old was a father-to-be; his wife was pregnant. And so he needed extra money to prepare for the baby.

Siggi was clocking out when an announcement rang over the factory’s public address (PA) system. Must be important. The PA system is used only for very important things, since anything said there reaches the entire factory complex.

“Good afternoon! This is Thibault-Carsten Lavicomterie de Rochedragon speaking.”

Woah, it must be that important – the son of the owners of the company was speaking to them.

“To my Prydanian friends and colleagues, the moment we had been waiting for… had arrived. I had received news that the Syndicalists had laid down their arms and surrendered. The Civil War is over. Prydania is at peace.”

Siggi was stunned. The shock was palpable throughout the factory. He looked at his fellow workers who were clocking out. The Prydanians were wide-eyed, as if in a daze. The Santonians were smiling thoughtfully, reaching out for their nearest Prydanian colleagues. Somebody put an arm around Siggi’s shoulder.

“We will be broadcasting the news via the PA system and screens throughout the factory. Those who can pause their machinery, do so now. Those who cannot, I ask the Santonians to take over.”

The TV screen above the time clocks flickered to life, showing them the STV Prydansk live feed. As soon as pictures of the ignominious surrender of Field Marshal Eyvind Borg flashed on the screen, half of the factory erupted in joyful shouts and ecstatic cheers.

It was the moment that Siggi had been waiting for… had been dreaming for. The forces of good had prevailed. He did not even try to rein in his emotions; hot tears fell down his cheeks. A Santonian colleague gave him a brotherly hug. “I’m happy for you and your country, buddy.”

Siggi wiped his tears as he focused on the screen. William Aubyn announcing the end of the war.

“Fyrir Konung!” somebody shouted.
“Til Valhalla!” somebody responded.

“Fyrir Konung!”
“Til Valhalla!” Siggi joined the chanting. Soon the entire factory was chanting, even some of the Santonians, who were clapping and congratulating their colleagues.

As if carried by the chanting, Siggi started belting out the start of the song For the King, to Valhalla.

“When a humble bard
Graced a ride along…”

Soon the Prydanians in the factory were singing their hearts out.


4 June 2017
2:30 pm (Saintonge time)
Saintes, Saintonge

Baldr Gudmundseth was dressing up for the warm-up before the game. His ice hockey team Vikings de Saint-Alban was up against the second team of the AS Aurigny in the fourth-tier of the Santonian ice hockey leagues.

Like the other teams in the fourth-tier of the Santonian ice hockey league, Vikings de Saint-Alban did not have a big prospect of promotion. It was as high as they could get – the Vikings being a semi-professional team. But there was something special about the team.

Vikings de Saint-Alban was a team formed by Prydanians at the refugee centre at Saint-Alban-sur-Orge, in left-bank Saintes. With the Prydanians known to be good at ice hockey, the semi-professional Vikings steadily rose up in rankings until they hit the ceiling of the fourth-tier. They could not afford to be professional in order to enter the third-tier of the Santonian ice hockey league system.

This was when Association royale sportive de Saintes, or ARS Saintes, came in. ARS Saintes was a big sporting club, better known for its Stade de Saintes football team. But its ice hockey team was also a respectable force in the top tier of the Santonian ice hockey league. ARS Saintes offered to partner with Vikings de Saint-Alban as one of its second teams – in short, in return for nurturing talent, Vikings would become the feeder team to ARS Saintes ice hockey team.

Many former Vikings players went on to have blossoming careers in ARS Saintes, including Santonian national team members such as Hallthor Sverdrup, Gottsveinn Robberstad, and the great goaltender Brynjar Tellander. Baldr Gudmundseth dreamed of following in their footsteps.

It would make his father proud. Baldr’s father was a professional ice hockey player for Keris Íshokkífélag in Prydania. He wanted to emulate his father.

As Baldr took out his pads, his phone rang inside his locker. He opened it and saw a message from his younger sister at home.


Baldr looked around. At least two other phones within the team’s locker room rang. Tobias Haukeland also was looking around. He was smiling from ear to ear. “Baldr, you got the message too?”

“My sister told me to turn on the TV,” Baldr replied, not really understanding what was going on.

It was when the Vikings coach Stefnir Slagsvold excitedly went in. “Boys! Watch the TV!”

Somebody turned on the TV screen in the locker room. “Turn to STV Prydansk!” the coach commanded.

The team caught up with the news, with William Aubyn speaking about the surrender of the Syndicalists and that the war… had now ended. The Vikings locker room exploded with jubilant hurrahs, as if they won the championship already. The news was a good encouragement. They were clearly pumped up for the game. Win or lose, they already heard the good news.


4 June 2017
2:30 pm (Saintonge time)
Alexandrie, Saintonge

“Bro, you done with the book?” Kolbeinn Starrfelt sat beside his twin brother on the couch. Kolbjörn Starrfelt was reading the Uranometria Moderne astronomy book. It was a gift from Aunt Gefjun Kvakkestad for the astronomy-obsessed twin boys’ birthday. It was a big lavish picture-laden book filled with glossy pages of star charts and astronomy images. It was probably expensive, hence there could just be one for both of them. It didn’t matter, the identical twins were used to sharing their things anyway.

“Not yet,” Kolbjörn answered as he flipped a page. Kolbjörn was in the section of the book devoted to space exploration. He was devouring every detail of it. He jabbed a finger at the illustration of the Viseur 1 astronaut mission. “You know what, Kolbeinn, when I grow up, I want to be an astronaut like this.”

Kolbeinn snuggled up to his brother. “Kolbjörn, you already told me that so many times. Now give me the book.”

Kolbjörn frowned. “I’m not done yet.” He shrugged his left shoulder to dislodge his snuggling twin brother off him.

“Ok.” Kolbeinn sat back up on the couch. Out of boredom, he turned on the TV. It was set to STV Prydansk, as usual. It was their mother’s go-to channel, even though their elder sister Dorothea said that the twins would be better off watching Santonian-language television so that they could improve their Santonian. But Dorothea was out on National Service, and their mother’s choice was now the default.

The news was on. Kolbeinn slumped on the couch. News could be boring. But… wait, it was past two on a Sunday afternoon, and it was… news? Shouldn’t it be something like Nýttland* or something?

“… the de facto head of the government of the Syndicalist Republic of Prydania, had formally surrendered to the forces of the Front of National Unity…”

“Mhmm,” Kolbeinn mumbled as he listened aimlessly to the news. And then it finally sank.

“MAMMA!!!” Kolbeinn yelled. “Mamma, come here!”

Kolbjörn stared daggers at his brother. “Why are you screaming for mother? You want to get her so you can get the book?”

Kolbeinn grabbed his brother’s arm. “No, Kolbjörn, look!” Kolbeinn pointed at the television screen. “The Syndicalists have been defeated!! They’re gone!”

“WHAAT!?” Kolbjörn abruptly closed the Uranometria Moderne but still clutched it closely to his chest. “They’re gone?”

The television then showed Field Marshal Eyvind Borg and the Syndicalist soldiers being led out after the surrender, and the news that Thomas Nielsen committed suicide.

“Kolbjörn…” The teary-eyed Kolbeinn stared at his brother’s also-watery blue eyes. “The people who killed Kjell, they’ve been defeated.”

Kolbjörn placed the book on the coffee table and embraced his twin brother. “I’m happy they have avenged Kjell,” Kolbjörn muttered. “Big bro can now rest in peace.”

“Kolbeinn! Kolbjörn! What is this noise?” Their mother entered the living room, obviously expecting the boys to be quarrelling. But instead she found them hugging each other. She was perplexed. “Why did you call me? And why are you two crying?”

“Mamma…” Kolbeinn pointed at the television as he wiped tears off his face with his other hand. “The Syndicalists… they’re gone. They’ve been defeated.”

At the moment, it was William Aubyn who was speaking on TV.

“The war is over. After fifteen long years... our war is over."

A soft whimper escaped Hrafnborg Starrfelt. With her trembling right hand, she covered her mouth in disbelief. She half-sat, half-collapsed on the couch where the twins were sitting on. Kolbeinn made space for his mother and tried to position her comfortably.

Hrafnborg Starrfelt’s sniffles became full-blown sobs as tears flowed down her eyes.

“Mamma, please don’t cry…” Kolbjörn murmured.

“I’m not crying because I am sad,” Hrafnborg told her children. “I just remembered… your brother and your father. Finally, the people who killed Kjell, the people who killed Kasper… they are now gone.” She put an arm around each of her twin children and brought them closer to her. “The nightmare is over…”

---

Fokk já!!! = F*ck yeah!!!
Fyrir Konung! Til Valhalla! = For the King! To Valhalla!
* Nýttland (“New Land”) = a Prydanian-language STV afternoon serial drama focusing on the life of immigrants in Saintonge.

OOC Notes: Many thanks to @Prydania for approving and letting me work on this!

2 May 2016
9:52 pm
On a Monday
Lundr, Prydania

Hymir Giæver clutched his rifle as a spring breeze blew through the air, the sun just starting to dip over the horizon. It was calm, all things considered. Greenery was poking out from the melting snow. Branches swayed in the wind. It seemed pristine.

And Hymir was terrified. Not about the town being quiet- it had been quiet since the shooting stopped- no. What terrified Hymir was how quickly his unit had been taken out.

"What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck" he muttered, hiding behind a stone wall.
"Why am I even here?" he asked himself. It was a good question. The Army had made it seem so simple. Deploy here. Hold the line here. They didn't tell you how terrifying it was when the bullets started flying. Or how useless a division of sixteen and seventeen year old Militia were against FRE soldiers who had been fighting across the country for years.

That's what really got to Hymir, what really made him shake behind that stone wall. How quick it was. The enemy came, and then their line broke. They couldn't do anything about it. They were children fighting battle hardened grown men.

He was only seventeen himself! He REALLY shouldn't be here. He should be learning the ropes of the Militia in some field office but...the war was getting ugly. Hadden fell. And here he was, with the rest of his recruitment class, pressed into service.

"Barosvik...Barosvik...Barosvik..." he muttered. That's where the Army would be pulling back to. An orderly retreat was made impossible when their lines broke- they all panicked and scattered- but if he could get to Barosvik...he suddenly heard the sound of melting snow being crunched under a boot.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck" Hymir muttered to himself. It was either the FRE, civilians, or one of his comrades. The former two were not good options. He checked his rifle.

"Fucking idiot" he cursed himself.
"You didn't shoot enough to be worried about amo."

Sun was really starting to set now. He grumbled and gripped his rifle and began to rise up and peak over the wall. Maybe whoever made that sound wouldn't be looking at him. It could give him a second or so to see who it was.
He began to rise slowly, looking out over the wall. There was...no one. He raised his rifle up and looked around. Still no one. He gripped tight, looking over at the houses and the street intersection he was by. He could still smell smoke from the downtown area, where most of the fighting was. He looked down the road. There was blue Midland truck in front of a house just done the road from where he was. Maybe if he commandeered it he could get...

He fell back into the wall, the pain of the punch that had been thrown at his face too much for a moment. He could just barely hear someone saying "get fucked, asshole" over the ringing in his ears. He tried to raise the rifle, but whoever had punched him was wrestling him for it! He grunted and grit his teeth trying to pull the rifle back from his attacker's grip, and that's when he saw who it was.

Tobias Loðbrók.

He stared up in shocked, pained gaze before the Prince managed to yank the rifle free. The jostling sent it flying into the street.

Tobias looked at his target again, drawing his sidearm. He took aim but it was here that Hymir's admittedly truncated training came in handy, grabbing the Prince's arm and yanking it to the side as he pulled the trigger, the bullet hitting the pavement.

Hymir's brain was racked with fear, with sheer...unbelief. Was this...was this really happening? Prince fucking Tobias? Why was he here? Hell was he himself here?

Hymir managed to pull Tobias' arm to one side before he thew an elbow that hit the drop of the Prince's flak jacket. Tobias grunted, using his strength to drive Hymir into the stone wall. Then he lay his own elbow into Hymir's torso, lodging him loose as he stumbled back and fell into the street. Tobias wasn't that much older than Hymir, but the differences between a seventeen year old and a twenty-one year old were enough.

"Fucking empty" Tobias muttered as he jammed the pistol back into his belt.
"That's ok" he growled, reaching behind him and drawing Jægerblað from the sheath across the back. Hymir looked up, his blue eyes wide as he saw the Prince- the source fucking one person the Syndicalist Republic wanted dead over anyone else- walking towards him intently with a drawn sword in his hand.

Hymir's heart raced in terror as he scrambled to his feet and ran into a driveway of the old house across the street from where they had started fighting. It looked abandoned, and the mess of scattered tools across the ground lended credence to that. Hymir panicked looking around and saw only one thing that could possibly help him.

"Stand back" Hymir growled, picking up a pipe wrench and brandishing it menacingly.

"No" Tobias growled, swinging the sword at Hymir. Hymir had to swing the pipe wrench, deflecting the blow but trying to adjust to the weight of his weapon on the fly. He tried to swing it again, but Tobias parried easily.

"You" he growled.
"Don't!" he brought the sword down against the wrench.
"Get!" Tobias brought it down again.
"To!" he was wailing on it...
"Live!" Hymir managed to pull back and dodge another blow before his wrench clashed with the sword again, bringing them face to face.
"While they all died!" Tobias growled, pushing Hymir back and off balance as Tobias rained more blow down.

His heart was racing. He felt himself consumed by anger. Not rage though. No. He was too focused for rage. He just saw that uniform...that brown and grey Peoples' Militia uniform...and he was determined to extract some vengeance. His father...his mother...his grandparents...his aunt...his cousin...Krista...the victims of the Harrying. Of Darrow. Of the Advent Executions...children! These people had killed children!
He brought his sword down again against the wrench and Hymir stumbled back helplessly...

---

2 May 2016
9:09 pm
On a Monday
Skorraey, Prydania

"Why is Tobias in Lundr?" Alycia asked.

"Syndicalist lines broke like wet paper" General Níels Krummedike said as he looked over maps of southwestern Prydania.
"He went in with the Desyndcialization detachments. There isn't any Syndicalist resistance left in the town."

Alycia looked at the map worriedly. She'd just spoken with Tobias. And he'd been in a rough spot. He'd been fixating on his parents' executions again.
Alycia found it hard to blame him, after all how does someone cope with seeing that, but she was worried. Worried that given what he had been talking about lately visiting the site of a recent battle may not be for the best.

"Colart?"

"Yes" her protector replied.

"Fancy a trip to Lundr?"

"For the Prince?" Colart asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, for Tobias" Alycia replied. Colart looked at her, trying to read her. And thinking about just what his duties were. Alycia's mother had sent her here, and it fell on him to protect her. As it always did. And he also knew when she would not be dissuaded.

"I'll get ready to head out" Colart replied dutifully.

"Oh no, no, no" General Krummedike replied.
"Your here on a fact finding mission" he said matter of factly to Alycia.
"I'm not letting you two head out alone.

"Lundr's captured. You said it yourself" Alycia replied.
"Surely you're sending more soldiers in."

"Yes" Níels replied with a nod.
"We are."

"Then we'll catch a ride with the next truckload in" Colart shot back, knowing what Alycia had in mind.

Níels looked at the both of them and grumbled. He had enough on his plate.
"The next convoy leaves in fifteen. You should head out now if you want to catch them."

"Thank you General, we will" Alycia replied with a smile before heading out with Colart in tow.

"You really want to go to a freshly captured city for this Prydanian Prince?" Colart asked.

Alycia blushed just a bit. She'd found herself growing more and more attached to Tobias since that night they danced in Hadden. Whether she was prepared to speak those words was another matter. Made more complicated by the fact that Colart knew her better than anyone. If anyone picked up on it, it was him. So she decided to try to be honest without saying the words.
"He's having a very hard time right now. He shouldn't be somewhere like that. I just want to help him."

"Help?"

"He's a good guy" Alycia said.
"I want..." her blush deepened. Colart raised an eyebrow again. And Alycia shot him a look that said "don't say a word."
"I'm worried, and that's that."

"Of course" Colart replied, the two of them climbing into a truck with FRE soldiers bound for Lundr.

---

2 May 2016
9:57 pm
On a Monday
Lundr, Prydania

The setting sun did little to slow down Tobias' assault.

All of the dead. His father...his mother...the hangings...the liberated camps...he locked up with Hymir again.
"You took everything from me!" Tobias growled, bringing the sword down again.
"Broke me, hurt me...but now you're going to pay! For all of their deaths!"

Hymir's heart was pounding in his chest. Tobias' green eyes seemed vibrant even in the dark. Vibrant and vicious. And he was scared. Scared because...there was no propaganda. There was no Party line here. Tobias Loðbrók was a person. And he was unleashing frustrations and anger that...that Hymir's side had caused. He felt his heart jump into his throat as he realized that the person who was Prince Tobias had human motivations. He wasn't just a symbol of the enemy.

The revelation came as Tobias locked up with him again, and shoved Hymir back. He tripped, falling back into the side of an old tool shed, old wood and roofing falling atop of him as he lost his grip on his wrench.

Hymir struggled to get up but...he gasped. Tobias' sword blade was pressed to his throat.

"Please..." Hymir pleaded. "Please don't kill me..."

"Begging for your life?" Tobias growled. He pushed the flat side of the steel blade down Hymir's neck, squeezing his windpipe. One twist of the blade and he would cut Hymir's neck open.

Hymir raised his hand to reach out to Tobias. He had an idea of what to say even if it flew in the face of everything he'd been taught...
"Your Highness..." Hymir gave out a choking sound as Tobias pressed harder on the blade.
Was this going to be how he died? At the hands of the figurehead of the enemy? Hymir had seen that burning hatred in Tobias' eyes after all. He had to think...did he have that same look? If not now then....then when he was fighting? When his cadet class watched FRE sympathizers hung? Did he have that look then?
Now that he was on the receiving end of it...he realized how wrong it was. He'd realized that Tobias was acting with the anger of an actual person and Hymir realized that he never had a personal animosity with him. Just the ideals he represented. Tobias though...

"'Your Highness' now?" Tobias snarled. He felt uncomfortable when his own supporters called him that. Now a fucking Syndicalist was saying it..
"Just because you have my sword on your neck, you suddenly have respect for me? For my family?!"
Tobias stomped on Hymir's stomach. He felt that rage his anger had been missing bubble up. His family...his mother...
The teenage Syndicalist Peoples' Militiaman groaned in pain.
"Come on" Tobias growled. His grip on the sword's hilt was causing his knuckles to whiten.
"Beg for your life."

Hymir winced at the pain. He couldn't speak properly with the cold steel blade pushing against his voicebox.

"BEG FOR YOUR LIFE, YOU FUCKING SYNDICALIST SCUM!" Tobias yelled at Hymir. He pulled the blade away and pulled Hymir up before punching him in the face agan.
"Beg for your life! Beg for your life like all those innocent people had to! The innocent people that you and your ilk had killed!" he growled, pressing the blade to his throat again.

Hymir didn't move for a moment. Tobias looked down at his sword. He still hadn't twisted it. It was still simply pushing on Hymir's neck.

And then Tobias heard a soft whimper. A cry. Something Toby had heard countless of times, from the time he had been yanked out of his mother's arms, to honouring bereaved families, to visiting liberated people.

Hymir slightly turned his head to face Tobias again. His blue eyes were filled with tears. "Please... Your Highness...have mercy on me."

It was the first time somebody appealed to Tobias like this. This Syndicalist Militiaman was just a bit younger than him. Very likely a kid...Hymir was asking Tobias to spare his life. Tobias swallowed the feeling of pity, that stomach twisting knot of sympathy, forming in his throat.
"Tell me why I should let you live," he challenged him.

"Your Highness... please don't kill me!" Hymir began.
"My father is dead! My mother is sick... I have my younger siblings. They rely on me..."

The mention of family was not what Tobias needed to hear.
"At least you still have a family!" Tobias screamed.
"What did you Syndicalists do to mine!? You killed them all!" Tears began to roll down his cheeks.
"Your family" he growled, "can live with the same pain I've had to feel for FOURTEEN YEARS!" he yelled as he began to twist the blade.

"NOOOO!!" Hymir screamed as the sharp blade began to cut at the skin of his neck. His breathing became faster.
"Please! Your Highness! Tobias! Please... no! Don't be this vindictive!"

Don't be this vindictive!

The words cut through Tobias' mind just as his blade began to cut into Hymir's skin.

Vindictive? Was he becoming that? He paused and breathed deeply. He wanted justice for the victims of the Syndicalist regime...but what was it that William had said? A difference between salvation and vengeance? Justice and vindictiveness? Was what this was justice? Or vindictiveness? Should he rob this boy's family of him because of what happened to his? Would taking another life serve justice for the other lives taken?

"One last chance," Tobias growled as he temporarily held back on the blade, preventing it from going deeper into the flesh.
"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you for all the people you Syndies killed!"

"I..." Hymir looked squarely at Tobias, imploring him to believe him.
"I...I never killed anybody..."

Tobias' grip on the sword hilt loosened slightly. He remembered when he killed Gylfi Hjaltdal. When he killed Filip Fuglsang. They had deserved it after all...and it still bothered him. This...this was a kid. Younger than him. And if he'd never killed anyone...

"You're in a Militia uniform. You had an automatic rifle. Bullshit you never killed anyone" Tobias insisted.

"No..no, I'm a new recruit! They just pressed us into service! I was in a classroom less than a month ago! I haven't killed anyone! Please you gotta believe me!"

"Why'd you join the Militia?" Tobias growled.
No aspect of the Syndicalist government garnered as much fear and hatred as the People's Militia. They were hands of the Syndicalist regime. The means by which they tortured and killed.

"I was recruited! They said they'd take care of my family" Hymir replied, seeing Tobias wasn't wholly convinced.
"I..." he added. He was asking for mercy. At the very least he could give the Prince his honesty.
"I joined because I wanted to serve the Republic, but I never wanted to kill anyone! Not like...not like you always see..."

"So you're a Militiaman with a conscience?" Tobias replied with a sneer, only for Hymir to reply sincerely.

"Yes."

Tobias felt his heart slow down. He felt his rage begin to evaporate...he stood over Hymir with his sword to his throat. Part of him want to kill him but...but the bigger part of him couldn't. Not after hearing that. The Syndicalists killed innocent kids. He didn't want to become that. He wanted...he wanted to be the person his parents would be proud of.
Tobias backed away, holding his sword out, to keep Hymir in place.
"Don't move" he said as he backed up into the street and picked up Hymir's rifle.

"Ok, get up..."

Hymir's own heart was racing, but he didn't try to escape. He just got up as he was told.
"Sit down, on that ledge."

Hymir nodded to show his compliance and sat down on a brick ledge that formed the outer wall of a neglected garden. Tobias sheathed his sword, holding the gun on Hymir as he stood across from him.

"Thank you, Your Highness" Hymir gulped only for Toby to shake his head.

"No. None of that. My name's Tobias."

"Yes, sorry" Hymir replied. "Tobias. I'm
sorry."

"What's yours?"

"Huh?" Hymir replied, unsure of what was being asked.

"What's your name?" Tobias asked.

"Hymir Giæver" Hymir replied with a nervous nod.

"So you're a Syndicalist" Tobias said, scowling a bit.
"One who doesn't want to kill people..."

"I..." Hymir began to answer before he took time to think.
"I'm from a working class family from Dofrar. My dad was a mining union rep."

"You said he's dead" Tobias replied coolly.

"He died in a cave-in years ago" Hymir replied with a nod.
"My sick mother only has me, and my little sister and little brother left..."

Tobias watched Hymir...and this time the story about his family had a different reaction. He remembered his own father.
"I'm sorry to hear about your father" he said softly.

Hymir nodded and looked down. Should he say something? Would it come off...wrong? Thankfully he was spared thinking on that much longer as Tobias continued to speak.

"You said you wanted to serve the Syndicalist Republic though."

"My pabbi had a theory" Hymir replied.
"Say a poor man only makes x38 a year. And a really good pair of boots is x50. Well every winter a poor man will have to buy cheap boots for x10, the kind that wear out by the end of winter. Of course the really good x50 boots the rich man buys will still be good in ten years. Meaning in one decade the rich man has spent x50 to have dry feet every winter. While the poor man has spent x100 on boots over that decade that don't even keep his feet dry. Pabbi said that's how the rich stay rich and the poor stay poor. I just..." he sighed.
"I wanted to fight for a world better than that."

Tobias listened. It was an older story...it had to be with the prices given. Probably older than Hymir's father. And likely something Hymir's father got from his father...
That this was something that went that far back...it was almost as telling as the point itself.

Tobias stayed silent for a moment.
"How many boots does the government make right now? Today?"

Hymir wasn't expecting that...he did vaguely remember an announcement from the Economic Ministry a little over a month ago...
"They said boot production..."

"I don't care about the propaganda" Tobias replied.
"How many barefoot children do you see around? I've been from Darrow to here over the last three years and I've seen too many barefoot children for a government that seems to make more and more boots every year. Or supposedly cares about people having boots in the first place."

"I..." Hymir nodded as he paused.
"Things are...things aren't great. But...Syndicalism stands for equality. I want people to be treated that way. Fairly."

"Your government doesn't do that" Tobias replied, his calm voice underscored by a growl.

"No they don't" Hymir replied.
"I know they don't. I admit it, but maybe I can make things better."

"Or you'll eventually become like them" Tobias replied coldly.
"You shared a family story. So here's one of mine. My uncle was a monster. And your government tells everyone I'm like him even though I'm not. So I know what it's like to have to make sure I don't become like a monster."

"You spared me" Hymir replied.

"Yeah..." Tobias said, thinking for a moment.
"I don't know what you think you know about me, but I want to make things better too."

"How do you want to do that?" Hymir asked curiously. He really did want to know what the Prince thought...what he was politically. If he'd say anything that confirmed the Party's accusations of fascism.

"I want to get rid of the government that hangs innocent people and works children to the bone in labour camps" Tobias answered.

Hymir nodded...he couldn't say anything to that. All the Party justifications melted when you put them up against stark reality.

"Toby!" Tobias looked up, shocked.

"Alycia!?"

The Princess of Norsia threw her arms around him as he dropped the rifle, FRE soldiers securing the site. Two of them pulled Hymir to his feet.

"Be careful with him" Tobias said as he finished hugging Alycia.
"He surrendered to me. He's not dangerous."

"Thank you...Your Highness" Hymir said, trembling as the soldiers cuffed his hands behind his back with zipties.

"We'll talk again" Tobias said as Hymir was led away.

"He surrendered to you?" Alycia asked, causing Tobias to nod.

"Yeah."

Alycia smiled. She was certain...certain that in the mental state Tobias had been in when he left that he'd come here to kill someone. And then it clicked! It was the second of May! Hanna Loðbrók's birthday. Tobias had come here to try and avenge his mother. He'd let his captive live though.

"I'm proud of you" Alycia said softly.
"See? I told you, you're not your uncle."

Tobias smiled softly and nodded.
"I wanted to...part of me wanted to kill him. I don't know if that's Anders or..."

"No. That's just being angry...we're all angry at times but..." Alycia took a deep breath before she said what she said.
"Your mother would be proud that you did the right thing."

Tobias just looked down for a moment. He didn't nod. He didn't say anything. He just took Alycia's hand and squeezed.

---

25 December 2018
6:29 pm
On a Tuesday
Dofrar, Prydania

Hymir exited the kitchen of his family home to find his twelve year old brother Geiri and fourteen year old sister Auðbjörg watching tv.

"You two are dressed nicely?" he asked.

"Yes" Geiri replied, his eyes still glued to the television.

"Ya, I already told Mamma I was" Auðbjörg replied, sounding annoyed in that particular way teenagers sound annoyed about everything.

"Well Mamma is busy with dinner so I'm double checking" Hymir replied.

Karítas Giæver dutifully checked everything in the kitchen before emerging into the living room. The table was set...just waiting for people to take their seats. It was the Giæver's second Christmas since the end of the War. The family had never ceased to be Messianist, even though Karítas' late husband Bolli had been a dedicated Syndicalist in most other ways.
Now though...the War was over. And there was no reason to hide what you wished to celebrate.

"Thank you so much for helping me get things ready" she said as she hugged her eldest son.

"Oh come on Mamma. I'm not going to let you prepare a full Christmas meal by yourself right out of the hospital."

Karítas didn't say anything, instead hugging her son tight some more when suddenly the doorbell rang.

Hymir smiled and made his way over. He could hardly believe it a few months back when his friend had suggested this, but here he was...
He opened the door, finding the King of Prydania standing in his doorway, wearing an old grey Royal Army coat to protect him from the cold.

"Hymir" Tobias replied with a grin, hugging his friend.
"Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas" Hymir replied back.
"Come on in!"

"Thank you" Tobias said as he entered.

"I can take that coat, Your Majesty" Karítas said with a grin.

"No, no, it smells like you've done enough" Tobias chuckled, hanging his coat on an old coat rack by the door.

"Oh! I almost forgot" the King chuckled as he pulled in two bags from the cold.
"Presents!"

"But Presents are for Christmas morning!" Geiri said insistently.

"Don't talk that way to the King!" his older sister said under her breath, but Tobias just smiled as he closed the door.

"Well you see, one nice thing about being a King is that Santa lets me know personally if he forgot any presents. He wants me to tell you are that he's very sorry!"

"Santa's not real" Geiri replied.

"Who told you that?" Tobias asked, sounding skeptical.

"Auðbjörg!"

"Well. He's not" the teenage girl replied.

Tobias, however, just gave Geiri a side glance and winked, with a nod. The twelve year old chuckled as he winked back.

"Y...I mean Santa...really didn't have to" Hymir replied as he and Tobias took their seats.

"It's Christmas. Santa can be as generous as he wants to be. Especially for friends" Tobias replied.

The two were joined by Auðbjörg, Geiri, and Karítas as Christmas dinner got under way...

---

Not Gonna Die by Skillet, 4:44

OOC Note: Huge thanks to @St George, @Kyle, and @Zyvun for the inspiration and approval for this post.
And a thank you to @Kyle for writing portions of the Toby/Hymir fight.