Long Live the Republic! [SHUT DOWN]

[Arc]

18 August, 1848
3:02 PM
Siloyev Arcanstotska

King Alexei III looked out from a window as the crowd stood on the other side of the palace plaza, separated from him only by a line of Royal Guards, the walls of the Royal Palace, and the plaza itself. He was meant to be getting ready for a party later in the evening, but these commoners were driving his anxiety up the wall. What if they try to storm the palace? He thought, pacing back and forth before the window. What if they plan to kill me?

The Royal Guard were holding position at least one-hundred-and-twelve yards ahead of the crowd of protestors. The Guards were armed with breech-loading bolt-action rifles. The protestors, however, had naught but signs. Alexei couldn’t make out what any of the signs said but had already assumed they were threatening to him and his position.

The doors of his dressing room opened behind him. In stepped Duke Valerian of Stroganov, the Royal Protector. He bowed his head in the presence of the King. “Your Majesty.”

Duke Valerian was about the age of Alexei; late forties. The Duke was dressed in a deep-blue military uniform with red piping decorated with medals and ribbons. The King, by contrast, was dressed much more royally; he was dressed in a white uniform with golden piping. Across his shoulders was laid a golden sash and his chest was covered in medals and ribbons. Both men had graying hair, though the Duke’s hair was further down that path than the King’s to a noticeable degree. What the Duke did have which the King didn’t was a mustache; he wore a proud, walrus mustache above his lips whereas the King had no facial hair to speak of.

“What is it?” The King’s eyes turned back out the window and towards the crowd. He didn’t bother with formalities.

“The protestors’ leaders wish to make your presence and request that you listen to their demands.”

Alexei’s eyes snapped back with a shocked look at the notion. “Are you mad? Give up power to these common folk? Do you not remember what happened the last time that happened in this country?”

“I am well read up on the histories of Chevalier’s conflicts, Your Majesty. I merely mean to ask what you intend for us to do regarding these protestors.”

“Have their leaders stated their demands?”

“They wish that you establish a constitution and a publicly elected legislature and that you surrender your authority to it, Your Majesty.”

Alexei found this both ridiculous and threatening. Why should he share power with these common folk? He had the approval of God and the Church Patriarchs; he didn’t need the people’s okay to rule. “And if I do meet with them? They’ll attempt to seize me; I’m sure of it.”

“Majesty, we will not allow them to do such a thing.”

“I don’t care; I’m not going to meet with them.”

The Duke felt dread build inside him over what the King might command next. “Your Majesty?”

“Shoot them. I will not allow these peasants to threaten my authority.”

The Duke was hesitant at first. He knew what would come out of opening fire on the people. He glanced over to his sister in the King’s bed, with a bruise on her face. The King looked back to the window. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” the Duke replied and bowed his head, “Your Majesty.”

 

[Arc]

Thursday
12 February, 1846
12:42 PM
Outside Khasavo, Arcanstotska
6 miles west of Siloyev

The sun was shining brightly and clearly upon the snow-covered yard, glistening off the nearby frozen pond. The air was cold and the breeze was light. Fyodor Igorevich Khalski walked along the path leading through the flowers outside his estate house as birds chirped in the leafless trees.

He looked over to the road leading up to his home. A man on a brown horse was approaching. A smile touched his lips before he walked over.

“Sergei, my friend!” Fyodor welcomed his guest. He offered his hand to his old companion, and the two embraced after Sergei Kariyev dismounted his horse. “Fyodor it is good to see you!” Sergei smiled. “I’m glad I could finally get a chance to see you away from military matters.” A servant came up to tie up Sergei’s horse as the two began walking back to the estate house.

“Sergei, the people in the capital grow more and more restless with each passing day,” Fyodor explained. “Just yesterday, a protest was met with gunfire from the Royal Guard. Three men are now dead and a further twelve are wounded.”

“By His Majesty’s order or just some jumpy soldier?”

“I cannot say for certain, though many suspect it was His Majesty who ordered that the crowd be fired upon.”

“And what is to be the Circle’s plan of action, then?”

“The same as we always do; organize protests and riots and print articles and pamphlets. Whatever gets the wheels of republicanism spinning once more. I myself shall soon begin working on an article calling the King out for this tragedy.”

The two men continued up the trail until they reached Fyodor’s front door. The house was a nice, white two-story residence. The two men stepped inside, removing their coats and hats. Sergei took a seat in a chair by the fireplace, relaxed by the radiating warmth of the crackling flames. Fyodor walked into another room and returned with a pair of reading glasses and a paper.

“Here’s a pamphlet written by our friend Fomenkov. ‘This tragic loss of innocent life by the hand of His Majesty’s guard has served as yet another reminder of His Majesty’s willingness to disregard his subjects.’” Fyodor paused before continuing.

“‘Since the incident, His Majesty has not come out to address the concerns of his people, refusing to speak to anyone outside of his advisors and closest companions. His Majesty throws luxurious parties for the aristocracy while all across Arcanstotska, men, women, and children starve and suffer terrible conditions and high taxes. And when we, as a people, finally come forth and plead our Sovereign for change we are met with a flurry of rifle fire from His Majesty’s soldiers? Is this to be our brothers’ and sisters’ punishment for seeking out relief and the change deemed by many to be necessary?’”

Sergei listened as Fyodor read over more articles from secret newspapers published by other members of the Circle.

“Here is another by Lavrentiy Kasharin, reading ‘fellow working men, I ask you, what are we willing to sacrifice in our struggle for a fair and free society? Our freedom? Our lives? Under the reign of this King - this Fourth Devil and bastard son of Alexandria - our beloved Arcanstotska has suffered famine, poverty, and severe economic downturn. The King wastes the treasury on lavish parties while our brothers and sons beg for food. For the sake of ourselves, our children, and the generations of Arcanstotskans yet to come, we must throw aside the Crown and establish a second republic.’”

“Socialists can be such a vigorous type,” Sergei remarked. Fyodor chuckled.

“You’re doing well to keep this all hidden, yes? We don’t want the King to find out about our activities.”

“Of course I do,” Fyodor responded, “I keep them all hidden in a safe which I then keep hidden beneath the floorboards. As far as the monarchy is concerned, I’m just another lawyer.”

Sergei nodded. “Good. I’ve already won over several fellow non-aristocratic army officers.”

“As long as we have the army at our backs then our success is guaranteed, Sergei.”

“Yes,” Sergei responded, looking over to the fireplace, “but public support is the most important asset of all.”

“And what of foreign powers? Maloria or Norsia may try to intervene.”

“They won’t unless we give them reason to.”

“A republican revolution is reason enough.”

Sergei didn’t reply at first. “We’ll worry about foreign powers when we have to. First we must concern ourselves with matters here at home.”

Fyodor nodded. Sergei looked over. “When is the next Circle meeting?”

“This upcoming sunday. It’ll be at Fomenkov’s residence.”

“Good, we can coordinate the next wave of protests.” Sergei relaxed back into his seat.

Fyodor put down the pamphlets in his hands along with his reading glasses. “Would you like a drink? I have some whiskey aged to perfection.”

Sergei nodded, and Fyodor walked off to the cellar to collect the whiskey.

Sergei had plenty of anxiety concerning the Circle and its affairs. Would someone betray them to the King? Would their planned coup go smoothly and peacefully like they hoped? Or would they be forced to turn to violence? Sergei couldn’t answer any of these questions for himself with any degree of certainty. Perhaps the planned revolution would succeed, or perhaps it would fail. He, and the rest of his compatriots, knew one thing however: whether their ship would sink or sail, they knew they would all share its fate.

Fyodor walked back in with the whiskey. Prydanian whiskey to be exact; a favorite of Fyodor’s, though not so much that of Sergei. He didn’t complain, though. Fyodor poured him a glass and handed it to him before taking a seat in the chair across from him.

“Do you think our plans will succeed?”

Sergei was hesitant at first. “I can’t say for certain. But I do know that even if it fails, it was all worth it.”

Fyodor nodded and raised his glass. “To a new republic.”

Sergei raised his. “To a better Arcanstotska.”

 

[Arc]

Monday
2 July, 1849
2:02 PM
Northwest of Liyev, Arcanstotska

The field was a chaotic display of violence. Cannonballs tore into the ground, destroying the bodies of men unfortunate enough to find themselves in the way. Men screamed in pain and agony as they lay broken and bleeding and dying, while others barked out commands and warnings of the foe’s movements across the field. The republican flag-bearer dropped to the ground as a bullet pierced his neck, bringing his hands up to put pressure on the wound in a desperate yet vain attempt to stop the bleeding and save his own life. Another man rushed to catch the republican colors before they touched the ground before he too was riddled with holes. The summer heat only made it worse; men were tired, hot, dehydrated. Heatstroke seemed to kill as many men as the muskets and cannons.

“Ready! Aim! Fire!” One officer called out, barely audible above the sounds of war, followed by the crackles of muskets firing. “Muskets to shoulders! Forward march!” The formation of men marched deeper into the field - into the frenzy of bloodshed and musket fire. The regimental drummers and flutists played the newly composed tunes of the Republican Army. Some fell, either dead or injured, from cannonballs or musket fire. The rest marched on.

A royalist soldier stood to look above the trench at the advancing republicans before a musket ball dug itself into his face. His body went limp and fell back against the trench, eyes wide and deprived of the light of life. Others hurried past his lifeless body as they rushed to fill in for dead troops in the firing lines.

“Fire!” A republican artillery officer screamed before the thunderous roar of the guns let loose their fury upon the royalist trenches. Explosions and smoke erupted from the hills around the royalist formations, men were thrown to the ground, and the screams and shouting persisted through it all.

Sergei looked down to the battle from the top of a large hill. The enemy had held onto Liyev for two months thus far, but today was the day he was sure he would take the city. All that was needed was for his plan to succeed.

He brought his binoculars up to his eyes to look out towards the city of Liyev. He could see clashes in the streets as fires spread and musket smoke climbed into the sky before fading away. The royalists’ attention was split as groups of revolutionaries rushed towards their rear from the city. The republican soldiers finally breached the royalist lines, dropping down into their trenches to engage in close combat. Royalists tried to flee, but to no avail, as they were cut down or shot as they ran. Their white and gold uniforms now stained with the deep red of their blood.

The colors of the Second Republic were hoisted atop the city’s church after Sergei’s troops dealt with the bodies and the fires. There was great celebration in the city that night as the troops rested, whilst elsewhere the dead were collected and buried. Sergei himself didn’t join in the celebrations of drink and music which was going on throughout the city’s several pubs, but rather decided to take a seat by the window in an inn room, listening to the crackles of the fireplace and relaxing in its radiating warmth.

The day had been won; another step towards achieving what he and his colleagues had fought and schemed and planned for for decades. He climbed into his bed, and drifted off to sleep with the rain pattering his window, the fireplace crackling, and the faint sounds of cheering and music outside.