The Last Tsar

He glared at the street below with an expression of pure hate, the protesters were close now and he could hear their booming chants even from here in the relative safety of the palace. Dragan II of Kozaria, would be fascist autocrat, was cornered in his own capital like a rat with its back to the wall. A few months ago, the mere thought that people could rise against their Tsar had seemed impossible, and yet here they now were and the power had shifted from the emperor to his subjects.

“Traitors all of them! This collection of syndicalists, students, and social parasites! I want them all shot Rhadomir, every last one must be purged!” He ranted angrily, hands gripping the windowsill as though he intended to break it

“You should come away from the window brother,” Rhadomir said in a relaxed tone

Rhadomir was sitting in a comfortable armchair in the center of the office, the commander of the Kozarian armed forces seemed oddly calm for a person at the epicenter of a revolution. Dragans brother had always been above reproach though, apolitical and focused on his military career, the lack of ambition put him far above any suspicion.

Despite being brothers, the two men had evolved into very different beings, Dragan was a stocky framed man with a bulbous nose and a penchant for rage-filled outbursts. Rhadomir meanwhile was tall, well-built, and had a strong-boned face that better resembled the Tsars of old who gazed down from countless portraits. Dragan had long resented his brother's impressive physique, hating his brother both for his full head of dark hair and his conspicuous height advantage, the only thing to connect the two men was the silver irises* of their shared parentage.

“Nonsense! These communist fools are too busy waving flowers and singing songs! I would respect them more if they had brought guns!” He said with a dismissive wave of his hands

Dragan felt impotent rage well up inside him as he bore witness to the collapse of his regime, two decades of fascist rule had begun to crumble almost overnight. His prime minister had already tried to flee the country and been strung up on an overpass and now this coalition of students, grandmothers, office workers, and even bakers were coming for him. He swore he would not end his days like Himdach, being beaten to death by his own citizens.

All the walls he had put up between himself and his people were now being broken, his once pervasive security service had proven useless in the face of millions of determined protestors. His armies had ground to a halt when faced with striking bakers and gas stations and even his own government had now turned against him, traitors from across the party lines were flocking to join the uprising.

“Everyone has betrayed me, the people, my ministers, and even my son!!!” he raged turning from the window and moving toward his desk

The Tsarevich had publicly distanced himself from his father, fleeing to Arcanstotska five years ago and setting himself up as a beacon for anyone who took umbrage with Dragan’s regime. Years of preparation and education wasted on a child that had rejected all of his father's dreams, Patriotic Feudalism would be doomed because his own blood would not do as they were expected.

“You terrorized that boy with your anger and your fists every day from the moment he was born, how many times did I have to intervene to prevent you from doing Paul irreparable harm!?” Rhadomir asked in a cold and accusing tone

“HOW DARE YOU QUESTION ME!!! I was making the boy strong! Strong enough to carry the cause of fascism into the future!” he yelled taken aback by his brothers' sudden criticism

Years of preparation undone in days, his racial purity laws flouted, Kozarians and Kianese singing ethnic songs as they marched down capital boulevards. His dream of an ethnostate of pure Kozar’s all dedicated to patriotism and God was being drowned out in a sea of interracial rebellion.

“I want you to order my troops the clear the city, a purge now will break these insurrections, we kill enough and they will have to surrender!” Dragan schemed psychotically

“No brother, it's too late for that” Rhadomir replied in a gentle yet firm voice

“I SWEAR IF YOU DISOBEY ME AGAIN I....” he paused as he noted the pistol in the now standing general's hand

“You have brought this country and its people nothing but misery and now your reign is over brother, you can do nothing to change that, the only service you can provide now is to step aside In order that the entire dynasty doesn’t fall to republicanism”

“I will have you shot for this!” Dragan roared

“Poor choice of words as always,” Rhadomir said with a frown

A single shot rang out, Dragan fell back with a large head wound oozing blood onto the ornate carpeting, Rhadomir stepped over the former Tsar and placed the still smoking revolver into the dead man's hand. The sound of booted footfalls soon filled the hallway outside, Rhadomir walked to the door and opened it to greet an armed squad of palace guards with their rifles raised.

“Summon the Speaker of the assembly and the palace chamberlain, the tsar has just committed suicide,” he said with practiced solemnity

For 500 years the House of Tarnovsky had reigned over Kozaria, not always for the better, now its fate rested in the hands of a single gamble. If Rhadomir could gather enough political support, he could ensure his nephews throne would not be lost in the chaos that was to follow. However, before such arrangements could be made first, they would have to break the news to the people in the streets below.




“Annnd that was the Tyrooz national opera performing the birth of astragon with traditional Hailakaid string instruments, you are listening to world music FM with Sven, all Eras all the time. Now for the news, the so-called “September rising” that has seen mass protests erupt across the Tsardom of Kozaria is entering its third month as thousands of protesters continue to occupy the capital city we cross now to Jean La Perrin for a live update”

“Thanks, Sven! I'm standing in the Centre of Radoslava, thousands of protesters from all walks of life are here demanding an end to nearly 15 years of fascist rule by the ruling Tsar, already soldiers manning barricades have begun throwing down their arms and joining the protests, but everyone is now collectively holding their breath as news has just reached us that the heads of the country's major political parties are on their way to meet at the palace, whether this means abdication or something else we will keep you posted!”

Paul switched off the radio and sighed, standing he opened a window and lit a cigarette, the Siloyev night outside glittered invitingly. Paul had called this small apartment home ever since his successful absconding some five years earlier, it had been the place he felt most free in his entire life and now he wondered if he would have to leave it behind.

it was raining outside, Paul usually found that soothing, but tonight all he could think about was the chaos engulfing his homeland. He had always found it oddly liberating, being an exiled royal in a republican country, here no one saluted his passing and he worked for his living. However, that idyll was never meant to last, he was the Tsarevich and his nation's needs would always come first.

It had been small scale at first, helping other dissidents find sanctuary in Siloyev, organizing cultural festivals that lacked the endless censorship found back home, and eventually, gathering a network of like-minded Kozarian’s eager for change. Now his father's iron grip on power looked to be failing and questions raced in the young prince's mind. Would he return? Would his people even want him to? His father had done so much harm, it made Paul wonder if they would ever want to see another Tarnovsky, let alone another Tsar.

His thoughts were disturbed as the apartment door creaked open and a weary-looking Natalya made her way inside. Natalya took off her thick rain jacket and shoes before turning to regard Paul with a concerned look. Her doctors' scrubs were creased but otherwise immaculate, Paul wondered how long she had been on her feet tonight. He stubbed out his cigarette and pulled a chair out for her.

“Have you been sitting by the radio this whole time?” she asked

“No... I got up to smoke and use the toilet”

“Smartass” she replied with a weary smile

It was an unlikely pairing, Natalya Reznikova, daughter of an avowed republican and he, a prince of the last Tsardom in Eras. Somehow despite being from backgrounds that should have all but guaranteed rejection, they made it work. It was crazy to think that a fledgling doctor and an exiled noble were living in a small apartment in downtime Siloyev, likely to the disapproval of both partners families, and yet there it was and perhaps crazier still, they were happy.

“What's the radio been saying?” Natalya asked gently

“It's getting hard to follow, protests everywhere, soldiers are joining in now too.... weird thing is that the politicians are meeting at the palace” Paul replied ominously

“that's good, right? They are probably ready to talk” Natalya offered attempting to sound optimistic

“Yes...but my father never did much talking, it was all fists and anger, something has happened,” he said bleakly letting the thought trail off “anyway...what about you? Surely im not the only one with exciting news” he continued trying to change the subject

Natalya pulled out a cigarette and held it to the flame from Paul’s offered lighter, sitting back and taking a long drag she closed her eyes and exhaled with a long sigh. She was always tired after a long shift; the city hospitals were always busy no matter where in Eras you went.

“Waiter at a Borscht restaurant got his hand stuck in a boiling pot, a couple of messy auto accident victims came in oh and the police brought in a man who had been hiding a gun in his pants, turns out gangsters cry too” She said with a smirk

“You make it sound so easy” Paul replied before placing a kiss on Natalya’s forehead

“I have my moments, now if you're finished being romantic shall we order in? Pretty sure that Essalanean place down the road is still open” She replied with a grin he knew all too well

“The one with the mystery meat kebabs and horse milk!?” He asked nervously

“It's Stutenmilch and yes” she corrected with a cigarette between her wagging finger

“Sometimes I think you were born in the wrong country,” he said chuckling

“Natalya queen of the steppe does have a nice ring to it” She replied with a satisfied look on her face as she assumed a mock regal pose

Paul grinned and stood up, heading from their living room into the kitchen, a pile of dishes was presently floating in the sink and Paul noted that the power bill was getting bigger by the day. He checked the fridge door, which was plastered with menus from takeaway restaurants, and carefully pried free the one marked “Gunther’s Grill” taking pains not to let the rest of the tenuously placed menus fall.

Reaching for the phone he was about to dial when it began ringing, he placed the phone to his ear and a familiar voice greeted him

“Paul, we need to talk, your father is dead and you are needed back home,” Uncle Rhadomir said in an urgent voice

Paul froze in place and stared at the kitchen sink with newfound intensity, he had never loved his father, the man had alternated between violence and mania with little in-between. But the death of a Tsar was a momentous occasion and it created many worrying questions, the most important being

“What now?” Paul said his mind reeling

“Hurry up Paul I'm hungry! Oh, and see if they still have any of those Marmot jerky bits!” Natalya called from the lounge oblivious to what was happening

Paul mouthed a curse and felt his heart begin to pound; takeout was not going to be the most important decision he made tonight Afterall.

Radoslava

Capital of Kozaria

1989



Pavel watched the alley with growing anxiety, if Ana shared his trepidation, she was doing a great job of hiding it. His girlfriend busied herself, utterly engrossed in her work, spray paint cans changing hands as she moved across the brickwork. Except for the light from their torches, it was pitch black, a necessary inconvenience given how dangerous the capital had become at night. Rival political gangs and army soldiers were all potential threats that could appear at any moment.

“Come on Ana! We need to leave!” Pavel hissed fearfully as his nervousness grew unbearable

“Relax boy! It's almost done!” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand

She was a slight thing, barely standing 5 feet 2 in shoes, what she lacked in height she made up for with courage that bordered on recklessness. The two had met at university, drawn together by similar politics during a time of violent upheaval. Academia, like the rest of society, had fragmented into countless factions following the old Tsar’s death. Now the university in Radoslava was split down the middle, one side a left-leaning mélange of syndicalists, anarchists, and communists, and on the other monarchists, liberals, conservatives, and more.

Pavel and Ana fell into the latter category, young idealists who had been inspired by the tsarevich’s actions. The image of the prince who had willingly gone into exile had already been romanticized by the youth of Kozaria, but it was his recent television appearance that had ensured his popularity. Humility, nervousness, and a man who appeared all too relatable, traits his father had never possessed. People were entranced by this soft-spoken heir and his promises to serve, it was a far cry from his father's ranting authoritarianism.

Those who supported the tsarevich had come to call themselves the “Pashites” after the prince's informal name and they clashed daily with the socialists in his name. Ana and Pavel had met at a monarchist rally and had become inseparable ever since. Now they spent their evenings engaging in an ideological struggle, one fought not with bullets but rather with leaflets, graffiti, and placards.

“Finished yet maestro?” Pavel asked in a prodding whisper

“Done, we should dump some more pamphlets on the...” Ana’s voice cut off abruptly

The telltale thump of hobnailed boots filled the night air, a gang of youths with blue shoulder patches moving down the alley. Pavel grabbed Ana, pulling her away from the wall and into a nearby garbage pile, the youths were soon close enough to make out in the darkness. Blue commune supporters were long considered the most extreme of the leftists, where socialists could at least be reasoned with to some extent these sorts could not.

They were always dressed in the same thuggish attire, leather jackets, farmers' caps or Volshan Plume* hairdos, army pants combat boots. They were seldom without improvised cudgels and wherever a blue armband was seen, violence soon followed. The commune didn’t care for discourse and diplomacy wasn’t a word most of them understood, violence was their language and revolution their song.

“Fucking bourgeois!” One of them yelled as they stared at the freshly graffitied wall

Pavel and Ana hid in the dark, scared even to breathe, if they were spotted a brutal beating would be the best they could hope for. One of the communards barked out an order and the rest of the thugs began to spread out with weapons drawn. Pavel pulled Ana close and began to pray in his head frantically, hoping the Messiah would save them.

One of the communards came close to where they were hiding, he was gripping a butterfly knife in his right hand, it glittered menacingly in the gloom. He moved closer, boot squelching in a puddle of rainwater as he did so, Pavel was certain he would find them. The thug turned to regard the pile of rubbish and refuse, he didn’t know it yet but he was looking right at them, Pavel’s heart began to pound as the man elected to move in for a closer look.

A bright flood light flashed into life, the entire alleyway suddenly illuminated in blinding white, a whistle blew as the panicked thugs froze in place. An army patrol had its weapons trained on the communards as a sergeant yelled out commands.

“You are breaching curfew! On the ground, now!” he roared

Taking their chance Pavel and Ana ran, Ana, kneeing the knife-wielding thug in the groan as they fled down the street. Behind them, they heard a warning shot ring out as the army moved in to arrest the thugs. They ran for what seemed like a frantic eternity, eventually coming upon their lodgings and with-it safety. winded and drenched in sweat the two of them struggled to catch their breath as the adrenaline took its sweet time fading from the system.

“Worth it!” Ana quipped with a slanted grin

Pavel did not answer, he doubled over and vomited up the contents of his stomach as the revelation of how close they had come to dying hit him. When his lunch had vacated his belly, he stumbled back and sat on the step of their apartment building. Ana lowered herself down to sit next to him, she planted a gentle kiss on his cheek that almost made the near-death experience seem worth it.

“Maybe we don’t do any more night painting for a while” she offered as she placed her hand in his

“I don’t regret it, Ana, even if I did just lose a very good meal, what we are doing is right”

“they’ll probably paint over my work anyway” Ana replied dismally

The two kissed passionately and then shared a companionable silence for a while, they watched as the first orange flecks of dawn began to break the dark of the endless night. Eventually, they felt rested enough to creep back to their shared apartment, like thieves after a successful haul. There were no lectures that morning and they had no plans other than to sleep and lay low.

Ana was wrong about one thing however, the graffiti was not painted over, in fact, the opposite happened. Reporters descended upon the site of a large arrest of blue commune supporters like flies to excreta, amidst the images of crestfallen thugs a very distinct piece of art would soon rest upon the front page of countless publications. It was a simple thing written in Kozar Cyrillic, with blue lettering on a white background.

“Where is our prince?” it read

Soon that slogan began to adorn more walls, was stitched into the clothes of monarchists, and even held aloft on fabric banners. Ana didn’t know it yet, but her graffiti was now the rallying call of an entire movement.



*An unusual hairstyle originating from the Aurorian nation of Volshan, the hair is shaved and molded to imitate the horsehair plume of a Volshan helmet.