The Precipice | (Closed)

Alsatian Island · Oct 10, 2022

This is the destination of Esthursian historical national scenarios.

17 May, 1955

"Come through, m'Lord."
A fairly stocky yet lively gentlemen, heavily overdressed, sauntered his way in. "Future Forethegn, I should say, shouldn't I?"

"Not too fast."

His aide, a withered husk of grey incarnate, whose personality was scarcely better, replied slowly. "Wentworth, sire, no humility is necessary. You are the first conservative that has had the grace and strength to lead this great country. I trust you will serve well."

"Not with-"
An older gentleman, somehow even more overdressed, as if a Theobaldian caricature of an aristocrat - one would expect he was to be preceded by someone brushing the very ground in front of him - ambled through the door, shutting it haphazardly behind him, startling half the room.
"Him."

The caricature-politician looked around, briefly recognised the Forethegn - either out of genuine ignorance or disrespect - and walked over. "Olafn, sire, Olafn Arbjern."

"Arvern?"
"Arbjern. That's Sir Arbjern to you, Wentworth." Wentworth slightly scoffed at this.
"I'm not calling my deputy, of whatever creed, by honours. Frankly, I don't even know how you managed to wangle a kingmaker position. And I may not be a socialist like Whittaker but I won't be kissing the ground you walk on."
Arbjern took a step back. "You're going to find the next year or two awfully long." Slightly smirking, he ambled back off, leaving a caucus of conservatives unsettled by the man who they relied on for their very government.

Muttering to himself as he went, "these liberals are going to either come kicking and screaming to where I want them, or I'll kick them out, just let them watch..."

---

The Nationalist Party conference was aroar. Victory - kind of. Not only had they edged the Workers out in key areas with electoral pacts, but they'd even managed to campaign against what Asmont stood for - redistribution, open borders, even at a push a free media, were simply superfluous hangovers of the reconstruction after Thorne, not permanent and necessary. And Arbjern, the man and the symbol of loud, clear paternalism, graced the party.

Applause thundered the conference hall, as the grey-clad Arbjern brought his confidence onto the stage. A massive crowd greeted him, many of whom had quite recently been expelled by the Conservatives for a plethora of wide ranging and interesting offences.

"We, ladies and gentlemen, are upon a new age! An age of truth. An age of patronage. An age of work. An age of power. A new Esthursia will rise from the depths that the War and the trade unionists brought us into. No longer shall the voices of so-called progress sully our policy programme - hierarchy is Esthursian, tradition is Esthursian, responsibility is Esthursian! No longer shall we cower to foreign powers, to the anti-war crowds, to the hordes of the other lands whose actions this government are complicit in! No longer shall the voices of the common drown out those of the learned and established, and no longer shall we serve the lazy, the poor, the ignorant and the unlucky."

Uproars of applause bolstered Olafn.

"I grew up afraid that this government would take away what we had; hierarchy, tradition, culture, nobility, heritage, power. Now here we are - we ARE the government. But we will - I just know it - bring these moderate, liberal Conservatives we have partnered with into line and we will force the trade unions out!"

Spoken almost like a man who wasn't the junior partner of a struggling coalition, Arbjern's voice echoed across the echo chamber of an audience, who encouraged his every word. It didn't matter what he said. It mattered that he was the one saying it. Arbjern knew it too - all he needed to power him was the enthusiasm of a crowd hung on his every gesticulation.

"Esthursia abandons tradition and common sense restriction no more. We will bring back social responsibility by control, not by pandering to criminals, vagrants and aliens, and we'll do it now. We stood on a precipice to immoral ineptitude, and we rightfully stepped back. This is a Nationalist Esthursia, and we're not going anywhere."

Alsatian Island · Jan 15, 2023

22 May, 1955
Workers' Union HQ
Ettwerp
Brough of Weskerby, Osynstry

"Well, what now?"
Documents lay strewn across his table, a sad-looking oak ornament that looked to have half-rotted away. How it kept such a large number of various documents ought to baffle any observer.

"I don't know, Rickard. We-"
"We lost, I fucking know. Don't remind me. This country..."
Rickard Warner's impatient rendition of his own failure spurred him to his feet, from an equally rickety chair. This really ought to be where the party budget goes next.
"... they don't know right from wrong. We offer them a waterproof-I mean, watertight path to a new Esthursia, and they choose the ranting raving loony who looks like a caricature of himself." The wrinkles on his face animated as his voice rattled.
Philip Whittaker slightly maneouvred in his own chair.
"Perhaps the best option to campaign on against an extremist isn't to run towards the other political extreme after all?" He chuckled to himself slightly, his far more weather-beaten face grimacing at his own sardonic humour. "We warned you. Me and George, we told you - we know you want a different country to the rest of us, but we know you're a better option, but you can't trust the entire country to give you the benefit of the doubt! What did you expect?"
Rickard's response was an impromptu fist slammed to the desk, which by some miracle didn't fall apart.
"Well-"
The desk responded by falling apart, documents strewn across his table were now instead strewn across the floor, the top of the old husk slumped half-balanced on its remaining two legs.

"Okay, right. You fucked up, Rickard. Now we've got this loony in power, and the party's in shambles. Have you heard George is going to resign as a thane next election? You're about to drive the man who literally built this party for an entire fucking generation out of the party in sheer anger at your own failures!"
Rickard sat down, a little more delicately, just in case the chair followed suit. "Okay, okay, but what good's this? Sure, everything's better in hindsight-"
Philip bluntly interjected; "Hindsight? What do you even mean, you spent the last months appearing like a communist revolutionary! We all warned you! You wanted the Overlaw gone, you wanted the new King gone - a man who's pretty obviously both popular and no threat to socialism - and you didn't even manage to remind Esthurs of what an extremely conservative aristocrat, removed from reality, that the other option was?! All "me, me, me, my plan, my plan", when you forgot that the one you're against has about a tenth of a plan and a twentieth of a grasp of reality."

A knock at the door. A singular knock. Something both of them noticed was... wrong, somehow, as if knocking once was just either entitled or slightly self-defeating.

A press officer, slightly sodden from the spring downpours of Weskerby, ran in. Dishevelled at best, he sputtered just about coherently: "He's just pledged to make a national religion. That Arbjern, the Forethane. Might even, might even force the new King Arthur into being its head."
Rickard sputtered back incoherently in shock. Philip, far less surprised, quipped: "You lost against that idiot. There's no way young Arthur will agree to that."

Westlow College
Lorestead of Thornlow
Osynstry

King Arthur, still studying the Classics at university, had called for Arbjern to join him. Westlow College - at the best of times, an elite institution in its own right - was somewhat taken aback that suddenly, both the King and Forethane would be meeting inside their college. Arrangements were made, and the Classical Imperial library would be freed for the entire day, much to the misery of the students, who'd be "bumped" to various other colleges' libraries for the day.

The room itself was ornate, to say the least. Oaken bookshelves and a ceiling that wouldn't look out of place in a Classical-era cathedral. A long table separated the two sides of the library, at which students would normally read and study at, whispering to the discretion of those around them. Today, it lay empty.

Arthur had not long taken his seat, accompanied by several Crownguards, when the Forethane - somehow managing to look overdressed despite meeting the monarch, of anyone - strolled into the library, mildly distracted by the rows of books around him. Taking a seat, he swiftly darted his eyes back to that of the King opposite him.
"I trust you received my plans, your Highness."
Arthur adjusted his position in his chair ever so slightly, taken aback by the... bluntness. No greetings, just straight into it. "Yes." He returned the favour.
"Good evening to you too, your Highness." A slight snicker, followed by a mutual glare, led into a hasty, increasingly uneasy continuation of Olafn's statement. "So, what I was thinking, was we should preserve our national traditions. I believe, and I was elected to convey that belief, that our Church of Athersism should have national, institutional links." A slight pause. "Your Highness."
Arthur sat forward slightly. "No, Olafn." It felt almost... odd, suddenly. Addressing a man so full of himself, an aristocrat and a man easily thirty years his elder so directly. Then he reminded himself who he was. "No. This is Esthursia, Olafn. We don't live in a country of religion and frankly I don't see why you think we do."
"Because I was elected on it, your Highness."
Arthur found himself muttering "somehow", before continuing. "You seem convicted, I'll give you that. But I will have absolutely no part of it."
"Your Highness, there's no way to bring this about, to reinstate this tradition, without your consent."
The King suddenly bolstered himself, became more confident. "Have you forgotten our history? The Church were a pretty influential cause of the Classical Empire falling apart - which, may I remind you, led to a hundred years of our occupation - and an equally obstructive force in trying to prevent Esthursia's return to popular rule. Do you not remember 1926 yourself, when the Church attempted to side with a fascist uprising in order to benefit their own power urges in an era where they had no true claim to power?"
Arbjern interrupted. "They weren't fascists, your Highness, I daresay. That's too far. They just respected the Ch-"
The King interrupted his interruption. "I shan't be having that. As Forethane, and I don't care how well you dress or present yourself, you will not be excusing fascism. I don't care about your political inclinations, that is not my war to fight, but I will not be having any part, nor will I sit back and allow, in any attempt to excuse fascists. Have I made myself clear, Forethane Arbjern?"

Another uneasy pause as Olafn calculated his response. "... fine, right, okay, your Highness. I do solemnly apologise."
The King let him speak, staying silent and watching his words eagerly.
"So, your Highness. My plan is to legislate for a national Church. That way, we can preserve our national faith. I was elected on a mandate to serve you in a way that would empower both of us, your Highness, and I believe it is in both of our interests, and the public interest, to do just that, through the means of instating you as our nation's faith leader, and by doing so, making Esthursia a beacon of constitutional monarchy, tradition through faith - for our faith is independent of the rest of the world."
Arthur considered his proposal. Then remarked, "No, I cannot. It is not right for me to bestow upon myself such a position that I personally do not believe in nor associate with through kingly assent, and it certainly is not responsible for me to give the thumbs up to such a major transformation."
Olafn spoke again. "Listen, your Highness. I was elected to do this. You have, with all due respect, to consider the ramifications of compromising the judgement of elected politicians like myself, and of overruling me. I respect your position, I truly do-"
The King waved his hand. To his merriment, Olafn's lips clasped shut.
"You seem to be proud that you were elected. I'm happy of that. You seem to cherish tradition. Exuberantly, sure, but I honour that. Do not stray into the love of tradition for tradition's sake, I must warn you, it blinds you. I might be scarcely twenty, but as King, you live a lifetime every day. You watch every nation, and you feel responsible for each one, and each of its folks, for otherwise you fail to understand just how responsible you are in failing to act quickly enough when the inevitable eventually happens, and when its results hit our own nation. Tradition for tradition's sake scarcely fails to materialise into authority for authority's sake. There's a reason why the Crown has been one without religion for longer than either of us care to mention. Meanwhile, thanks to that, I've never had to act. I hope I never do. Do return with a plan that I can consent to with good conscience, with due respect. It is truly wrong that we should wave away the concerns of generations of people.

For this isn't just any religion or faith. It's the Church of Athersism. The last time the Church got involved in politics, we had street battles and fascist nationalists trying to overthrow the Forethane. The last time the Church had national institutional status, the entire country fell into tyranny, then anarchy, then foreign subservience. I can't in good conscience be partisan to the empowerment of an institution with such a poor record, even withstanding the concerns it brings up for our constitutional affairs."
Arbjern once again calculated his response. "Alright, fine. I will return in due course with a plan that suits your intuition, your Highness. I do thank you, and good luck with your studies."
The King waved him off. "I look forward to meeting with you again, Olafn. I do hope we can get along for the next however many years I can have the pleasure of convening with you. However, I must reiterate - I will have no place in religion; I do not believe it right that I, an irreligious man, leading an irreligious country, should do such."
Arbjern swiftly departed. "Thank you, your Highness." The great doors shut behind him, slowly. His black jacket remained on the seat. "If that isn't testament to how quickly he just scurried away, I don't know what is." Opening his books, he sighed relief, as he now had an entire college library to himself to continue his day's studies in.

Alsatian Island · Apr 21, 2023

5 June, 1955
Houses of Berworth
Weskerby, Esthursia

"The ayes; 44. The nays; 42. The ayes have it, and the Control and Order Act 1955 has passed."

6 June, 1955
Armston House
The Crown Estate
Weskerby, Esthursia

"You must listen, Olafn." King Arthur wasn't particularly bothered by Olafn's presence. Even if he was thirty years younger than this domineering leader, he knew Olafn depended on his consent to rule. The King maintained significant power after the 1835 crisis; and it would come into use.
"What is it I must listen to you for, your Highness?" Forethane Arbjern's tone was, as ever, condescending, snide. The King had got used to this at this point. The veneer of politeness, of gentile aristocratic spirit, washed off quickly. By this year, his contempt for the King's maintenance of separate power and mandate from his own was clear.
The King didn't really care so much. When you'd put up with four years of it, even as a young man, you get used to this. "You cannot pass this law. I will not assent to it." The young King's eyes flickered.
"Whyever not?" Olafn calculated that his best option was to reinstate that veneer. For now.
"I'll tell you for why." Arthur's eyes went from glazed to flaring. It felt almost insulting that Olafn thought the young King would just fall into that state of security seconds after being snapped at. "As the head of state of this nation, I have the constitutional right - no, no, that is not right, the constitutional duty to uphold basic fundamental principles of this Esthursia."
A brief pause, signalling the King was aware Arbjern's focus was elsewhere. Olafn turned back. "I must apologise, your Highness."
"Indeed. I agree, you must apologise for this... law, if you can call it that. You think this law, not only clamping down on..." The King stopped himself. It wouldn't be his place to get into political debate, when there was something more glaringly obvious as an excuse. "You must excuse me. I started from the wrong point, Olafn. No, the reason this law cannot and does not abide by Esthursian convention and constitution is that you are attempting to instate yourself as commander-in-chief and grant yourself royal prerogative powers directly by law."
The Forethane wasn't particularly bothered by this revelation. He'd have to have underestimated Arthur pretty far for him to have thought he'd get away with the King not noticing. The mask began to slip. "Your Highness, I must inform you, you have no power to determine that."
The King got up to pour a drink. He wasn't a drinker, so it was water. Coming back to sit down, he continued. "So suppose I continue my obstruction of this law, suppose any parliamentary inquiry into my decision gets the response that it breaches the Overlaw. What, I must ask, are you planning on doing to determine the future of your law?"
Olafn began to speak. "Well, I-"
"No. That was a rhetorical question, Lord Arbjern, you need not answer it. You simply do not have the power to transfer yourself into the role as head of state." In his mind, Arthur continued, so go back to your party and tell them how you've failed.
"You can't do this, my King. You cannot just subvert democracy-"
The King leant forward, interjecting: "Democracy? Is this what you call democracy?" The man who had suspended elections for three years - somewhere skirting between legally dubious and politically catastrophic, a backsliding no Esthursian Forethane had ever attempted - was preaching to him about democracy.
Arbjern sat back. "No, I don't call your decision democracy." Doing away with formalities, his voice tensed, harshened.
"You know precisely what it is that I asked, Olafn. Not only is your intention to use armed forces on protesting citizens morally..." The King left out the word he was to say here. "... but it's also unconstitutional. This law will not pass, and you must accept that."
Olafn stood up. He knew this reading room quite personally at this point, having been here for years. Wandering over to the bookshelves, he pulled a history book - The Fall of King Theobald - on the 1835 regal crisis from the shelf, taking the hardback under his arm back to his seat. "May I read, your Highness?" He anunciated the final sound sharply.
"You may." The King obliged more out of curiosity than out of anything else.
"Thank you." Olafn opened the book, scouted out the page he wanted, and then began. "Theobald's demise came swiftly. King Theobald was politicking like no King had ever done before - and facing the reformist Howard Turnbrook, he turned to obstructing as much as possible. No law passed after the first two months of Turnbrook's term; democracy was essentially halted. The King knew his position would be safe, unless the Forethane pulled enough reserve together and dedicated his term to eroding his adversary's position. Or resigned in protest - the latter became Turnbrook's choice, when it became apparent Theobald was probably days away from soliciting a vote of no confidence. The opposition, the entire Redery, all the Ridings, they stood back. The armed forces informed the palaces that they would not support the King if a constitutional crisis between democracy and monarchy took place. Theobald's columns of power disintegrated, and he fell soon after."
A moment of unbroken quiet.
"So you intend to resign, Forethane?" King Arthur quipped.
Arbjern spoke slowly. "No. I intend to outlast you. You can continue opposing my democratic will all you like," at this point Olafn had completely reverted away from politeness, "but you will fall, you will succumb to the thousand cuts that I will inflict on your rule, and the true institutions of Esthursian heritage will take your place."
The staff's murmuring around the King became audible. Arbjern continued. "You fail to realise that if you side with the protesters, with the mavericks, with the liberal obstructers to my rule; you will be struck down with them."

It had been four years. Arbjern came in a calculating aristocrat proud of his so-called heritage, but time took its toll. Each victory he claimed enveloped him. Each time he was enveloped, he grew more distant - his perception of his power grew further from his real power. In 1950, Olafn's stern but polite remarks and ability to convey a message to the King was apparent, and worried the young King, who had only just lost his grandfather. That had evolved into disregard, into sardonic pleasure in his own power, and now into an increasingly blatant distaste for liberal democracy - if Esthursia's values didn't work alongside that, he would have to rework Esthursia itself.

But the young King was ready. King George VII, his father, had said it himself, when he abdicated less than a year after Edmund's death. In the previous few years, the Workers' Union began unravelling; after George Asmont's sheer weight holding down the party was taken off, it left Philip Whittaker's leadership just about holding the ship together. When radical communist Rickard Warner took power of the declining party, the ship sank. King Arthur's first year took place during this very transition, and Arbjern had taken the opportunity to attempt to rival the King's position as the statesman. Had it worked? - not really.

Arbjern had extended his term by three years by legislative vote. He had spent the following month failing to get it extended further, but was satisfied that the first term of over 4 years would occur during his steermanship. Maybe it'd be long enough to secure his position; but he certainly felt he had finally seized power for good. The issue - King Arthur wasn't gone, and his age meant Arbjern would be dead long before that could happen naturally. This left Olafn a couple of options - delegitimise the monarchy, or kill off the King. And brute force, murder and plots were never his style; he much preferred the calculated victory. There'd be time for what to do with the downfallen King to be worked out after it happened. Then he'd finally take power; even if it wasn't his original plan of just sidelining the old King, who just happened to abdicate. He always thought George was more susceptible to his influence - but maybe he'd worked that one out too.

"You can leave now, Olafn." Arthur called over some Crown Guards to escort the Forethane out. He didn't really care where, he just wanted the man to get the fuck out of his palace.

The dinner that night was terse. The King was usually the life of the party - and with old George VII away elsewhere, the King was now both expected to be the life and the head of the table. And he was too preoccupied on politics to care.

"Will I be King, one day, dad?" Llyn - the affectionate Cumbric name for Llywellyn, or in Atlish, Levelyn - asked. Llyn had just celebrated his fourth birthday, the idea of being a King was little more than wearing fancy outfits, saying long words and cheering.

Arthur didn't respond. He knew Llyn was far too young to understand quite why the answer to that, in his mind, would always be a no; whether or not Arbjern would be successful. Maybe he'd never get the chance if Arbjern went the way of many dictators. A warm smile was a feigned attempt at avoiding the question; but that wasn't enough. "Can I? Will I be?" Hope lit up in his eyes, as fear struck the King's.

The King felt almost uncomfortable responding, but the Queen Consort - Margrethe, an Asthonic noblewoman who married into the family soon before his coronation - warmly filled in, "Of course you will, darling." Arthur's heart dropped again; he couldn't protect young Llyn from this forever. His world was currently full of toys, playing outdoors - when weather permitted, of course - and basic education; and if he had the choice, Arthur would make it stay that way. If things continued the way they were going, Llyn would grow up into a dictatorship that no previous generation of his family had ever had to, while Llyn would have to watch his old man struggle against Arbjern with an increasingly weak hand, until it became his turn, if he ever got one.

"Pass the gravy." Warm roast dinners would always put the King's mind at rest. Tonight, however, it didn't.

Alsatian Island · Apr 22, 2023

15 October, 1955
Tynwald, Asthonhelm
Esthursia

Driving in his old Estner up the Great West Road between Execester and Fjarmagn, the two powerhouses of the west coast, Major Derrick Walton had noticed how crossing the border had immediately brought an early winter upon him.

Arriving in the city, Walton realised the scenes described to him by the central forces were completely accurate. Almost as soon as he'd made it off of the slip road, he spent his time rubbernecking to see broken windows, blood-stained streets and the occasional shout or gunshot. The main riots had taken place yesterday, but one was expected later that day too; the formerly peaceful city wasn't going to be a good place to be outside in army gear, unless he wanted his car burnt out, preferably for rioters with him still in it.

A scene five years ago that may never have been one of beauty, now was the epitome of civil disobedience cast on an entire city. Tynwald always had a reputation for anti-elite sentiment, so it was always going to be a hotspot for resistance to Olafn Arbjern. Major Walton dreaded to think what would happen if the riots spread elsewhere.

He was there for today's peacekeeping. The Communist Union, at least its hefty Asthonic branch, and a union of unlikely anti-nationalists - social democrats, liberals, the Civil Rights Front, everything in-between - were turning out today. Yesterday was a mere precursor, yet the police had been completely overrun when Arbjern's orders to suppress the protest turned a peaceful demonstration into a violent, nationally publicised riot. The Forethane may have been on the television this morning saying how the riot was somewhere between the last of its kind and a sign that there needed to be a clampdown from anti-culturalists, but it was a clear sign that his rule wasn't quite as secure as he'd like.

Today, the Battalions - at least those from the West Barrows south of the border - had been sent up to "aid the police". What that meant, even Walton knew it, was the police were woefully inadequate, and that any future riot must be responded to with direct violence.

Banners of various creeds, either of communist origin or of vaguely anti-Arbjern sentiment, were hung high by the waves of crowds marching down the Stadsgat. Cries of "down with the Nationalists", "fuck the Army" and "go home, Ossies" - a less than endearing term for Osynstric people south of the border - reverberated between the buildings either side of the street.

Major Walton had been told that the army was under instruction to break apart any march, but it would have to be a display of public control; so they were waiting for the front ranks to reach their block, then the police cordoning off the edges of the protests would march in, and the armed reinforcements on either side would close in. Sure enough, the front ranks closed in - Walton's cry of "Enter!" preceded a sudden stoppage of the march, followed by open gunfire.

That wasn't what he'd meant.

Chanting morphed into rallying cries and painful screams. Banners were pulled down by falling men, either in the chaos or shot themselves. Walton's eye was caught to one man who'd seized a soldier's gun, shot at least three or four soldiers straight through the eyes, then fell himself. He found himself stood, awkwardly, back up the street, watching the scenes of... public control. If shooting hundreds, if not thousands, of protesters was public control. There would be thousands of families in the North Riding who would get the police round to their house today to break the news; possibly even the same ones who'd killed them or their compatriots.

Walton snapped out of thought. This had gone one step too far. "Out!" He didn't even know whether anyone could hear him. "Get the fuck out! Retreat! Off them!" Any buzzword that came to his head. No sign of notice from his battalion - they weren't bothered, some seemed to be enjoying it, if not just carrying out Arbjern's orders. Then, in a moment of complete madness, he found himself running down to the mayhem. Readying his gun. Shooting his own soldiers. He wasn't thinking at this point, he just wanted this to end.

It took a shot to his leg to rouse him back into at least some semblance of sanity. Stumbling away painfully, he abandoned his post - it wasn't like they needed him there anyway, the noise of gunfire, death and anguish would drown out any order he gave, not that they were listening anyway.

"Forethane, my Lord." A rather jumpy young minister, the poor soul who had to maintain Arbjern's press image, was visibly shaken.
Olafn Arbjern had spent the entire morning smirking. Wind had reached him of the Army's heroic efforts keeping back the rioters and anti-government revolters - the threat was neutralised.
"The ENBC presenters didn't hold the line you told them to. They're Workers' Union agents, the lot of them! I swear, we did everything we could... but we couldn't pull it off air in time."
The old aristocrat didn't really react, except a solitary eyebrow raising itself. "It?"
His minister friend looked like he'd rather shit himself rather than report the news, but he continued after some profuse coughing. "M'lord... they reported it as a peaceful protest. They showed all the footage, and they claimed the army was..." His voice gave out.
Arbjern stopped smirking. "Fucking hell. Right, right, and you're telling me this now, why?" The contempt in his voice didn't do his anger justice - if he wasn't Forethane, he'd have punched this kid.
"It's not just Tynwald rioting anymore, Lord." The minister got a comprehensive list out. "Gloucester, Fjarmagn, Strackway, Cambury, Lancestre, Brantley, Weskerby, Esthampton, Execester, Rennezh, Strantglade, Hereporth..." He stopped reciting, giving Arbjern the list. "Brantley's constabulary says they just lost control of several central blocks. Weskerby are reporting severe casualties in their backlash. Esthampton's government building is occupied and Execester has set fire to theirs. Rickard Warner's making a speech in Weskerby."
He realised he was gabbling, and stopped. No response came, so the minister, clearly distressed, plead: "What are we going to do?"
The Forethane remembered. "Arrange a meeting with his Highness. I'll need to convince him if I'm going ahead with what I need to do. He refuses... actually, scratch that, let me start over. Send an order to the High Command of the Army that his Majesty has... given his blessing to clamp down. By the time his Majesty realises what we have achieved, the revolts will be quenched and his Highness will have zero power."

22 October, 1955
Armston House
"So you came at last, Forethane." The King hissed, savouring his words. It wasn't often he got to enjoy his power, but knowing the Army had refused to acquiesce to Arbjern's demands thanks to his lack of authority, and that now he would once again be here grovelling and squirreling to find a way to get his beloved armed clampdown; that certainly had made his morning. Although having to see the old fart again was a bit of a cloud for the silver lining.
Olafn Arbjern looked understandably pissed off. "Indeed, your Highness. To commence, I must-"
He'd been here a hundred times before. Arbjern acting outside of his laws, or acting based on laws that weren't passed, then asking forgiveness to a King whose retroactive power was nearly nonexistent, so whose response was meaningless. This time, though, he finally had the upper hand. "I do know, Olafn, precisely why you're here, and what you're to start with. No, you will not be declaring a national emergency. No, you're not taking control of the armed forces. No, you will not be receiving the power for deployments." An attempt by Olafn to interject was waved away. The King had grown to enjoy doing that. "Forethane, you will act within constitutional bounds."
Arbjern was now the one to wave it away. "No, I am not here for that, your Highness. No, I am here to implore you to make a speech on the grave situation."
"That, Forethane, is already arranged. You know as well as I do that I shall be making a national address this weekend."
Olafn coughed a little. "I would like to politely request you pass that by me. You are not this nation's leader, your Highness, I was elec-"
The King finished his sentence. "Elected. And then you delayed the election. So I see absolutely no reason, with the utmost due respect, why you think you can pull my statements into line with government protocol based on a rather stretched mandate."
Arbjern sat back. He had an ace up his sleeve. "Your Highness, I must regretfully inform you of the Constitutional Reform Act 1837."
"Speaking in riddles will not-"
"Article 5, clause 11.1. The legislature, as defined, retains the power to dismiss a monarch by majority vote should there be a case of proven partiality and endangerment of national security as seen by the public through a referendum." Continuing, he pressed. "Abdicate now, your Highness, and you will avoid a painful end to your tenure. Your son will take your role - and by the same act, I will act as his executor of power until he reached age 18."
Arbjern stood up, not allowing for a response. "I strongly suggest you take my advice, my King. Abdicate. You don't want an embarrassing downfall and a parliamentary charge, do you, your Highness?" Walking a step before turning back, he continued. "Or, I proffer, you could just make the right speech, allow me to control the protests, and we put this... behind us."
"Escort the Forethane to the exit." The Crown Guards once again took their duties. The King's face was pale; if he was taken down, there'd be nobody left to stop Arbjern's plans. His backstop was basically all that stopped Arbjern's total authority over the armed forces.

"The situation this nation faces is grave. My personal condolences go to those who have lost lives, livelihoods or loved ones in the events that this country has faced in the previous weeks and days.

I fervently believe in this nation's ability to conduct its democratic right to practice and participate democratically; and therefore unequivocally condemn the actions of lethal force conducted unlawfully and without right. This unprecedented period of our country's history is no reason for any enforcement official to take away the life of any of the citizens whose duties it is to protect.

I therefore call for a peaceable end, and I therefore remain in communication with my Government over what measures to undertake to prevent a national emergency. However, I remain convinced that this government will conduct its duties to secure this in accordance to the Overlaw, in accordance to national law and in accordance to democratic conventions that preexist us all - for the rule of democratic, fair law, is what makes Esthursia.

I remain confident that this conflict will be brought to an end, that all wrongdoing will receive retribution, and that the resolution will restore order, security and democracy to Esthursia."

The King retired to his quarters, awaiting the furious communiqué from the Forethane's office.

Alsatian Island · Apr 29, 2023

20 November, 1955
Brantley, Hereshire
North Osynstry
Esthursia

The meeting between two historic enemies - Rickard Warner, and Edith Newell - was going to be an odd one. Arbjern's election bills were failing to pass - and now the King was seemingly positioned to scrap any that did. So they had a chance of ousting him.

About time too. Arbjern had always been a tad out of it politically, crashing out of the Overton window from day one, but now he seemed more... engulfed. As if all that mattered to him was his leadership. He once talked of culture, of heritage, but those had just become buzzwords to accompany his rule. Perhaps that was a blessing; the more he fell in love with himself, the less he changed... but the more he hurt. He was never a tyrant, but he is certainly indifferent to the death of those who oppose him.

Rickard Warner had once hoped he would just return the Workers' Union to power. Then, he'd get to do what he wanted; a communist Esthursia. It was about time too, he thought; the other option had clearly failed.

Yet his party declined. Even when the unions rebelled, people showed more sympathy to Edith Newell. Something in him was beginning to register what an old-fashioned politician he was.

There were small orange and red banners at their table, but otherwise, it was essentially an inauspicious meeting between a liberal and a communist United against Arbjern.

Newell arrived a few minutes after Warner, taking her seat opposite. The room around them was solemn, and rather matched the looks on their faces. Neither of them wanted to admit it, but they needed each other for this.

"Glad to meet with you again, Lord Warner," Newell began, lying slightly. She was fifteen, even twenty years his junior; but that worked to her strength. There'd been enough old men leading the country for now, and the public knew it.
"Likewise, I'm sure." Warner was less than happy to be there. Even being there was an admission of his declining power.
Edith's face let a small smirk appear. "Listen. Neither of us particularly would like to be here." Pausing to let Rickard freeze while trying to calculate whether nodding was right or weak, she continued. "What I'm proposing, Rickard, is a joint opposition. A resistance movement. Civil disobedience, protest, industrial action, you name it."
Rickard's eyebrow raised. "That's not very liberal of you." He maintained a degree of skepticism in his voice. Maybe he'd suspend that disbelief, but not yet.
Edith looked out of the window instead of immediately responding. They were on the ground floor, but the Hall was on a steep incline as it moved away from the river. Today had been the first snow of the year, so a light covering of snow topped the dark houses.

"I wouldn't be an Esthur if I didn't. You could call it Esthursian liberalism, if that makes you feel better." He watched Rickard warm a little. Tempt his inner demons, she thought, convince him that she was compromising, when in fact this was just her true belief. "You've seen how the institutions remain resistant inside too. The King, the army, even some police forces, and some local governments. Arbjern wouldn't even be able to be a tyrant if he tried, he lacks such authority."
Warner nodded. "What of it?"
Newell arrived at her point. "You don't see it? The other thing he lacks authority in is the Nationalist Party, the legislature. It's not that the King hasn't allowed an election bill through, it's that one hasn't even reached him. So I propose, we form an electoral opposition, we-"
Stopping her in her tracks, Warner interjected. "I'm many things, but someone who'll sign deals with liberal capitalists isn't one of them. Count me out. Liberal capitalists like you are why we're here in the first place."
Newell watched the old man leave, taking with him any hope of a united opposition. "Odd," she said before she asked herself, "What was he expecting to do here then?"

Houses of Berworth

"Lord Speaker..." Olafn Arbjern began, his face red with partially repressed anger, before giving up and sitting down.
"I must inform the Right Honourable Forethane that no point of order can retroactively trigger a vote. The vote stands, and the Emergency Powers Enabling Act 1955 is rejected, by 30 ayes to 49 noes."
The opposition members cheered. Each time Olafn had forced a vote, he lost worse. First it was 39 to 41, and each time more and more abstained then went against it. His own party were getting sick of his antics now, the former elder statesman and fighter for cultural rights was slipping in their view.

Olafn had seen the polls too. He knew he'd not stood a chance in 1953, let alone now - by 1957, his entire party would be relegated to electoral oblivion, at the rate they were losing ground.

He had until 20 March, 1957, he told himself. There was still ample time.

1 December, 1955
Greystones, Esthamptonshire
South-East Osynstry
Esthursia

A rather bored young journalist, by the name of Hilda Elgar, found herself traipsing through the woods. The local paper had sent her on some trek for some bullshit sighting - she suspected that it was some sort of scaremongering tactic. Send the youngest journalist out to take a bad quality photo of a forest and scare the more gullible locals into needing protection. It stank of the grubby hands of Olafn Arbjern.

She'd definitely gone the wrong way. The scorch marks of a fire - the old Greystone pines up here could withstand the odd fire, since the area so routinely necessitated it - were clear, since the tree bark was splintered and blackened, the foliage barely growing back. There was a trodden path that led somewhere, and since she had absolutely no idea where she was going, it'd hopefully be the way to somewhere civilised; the South Downs weren't exactly dangerous, but you'd very quickly get lost. Tales of people wandering and their bodies being found months later were not uncommon.

Yet, she unmistakeably heard voices. A line of chained, solemn looking, gaunt people, walking behind an armed Constable. Some form of structure; perhaps an old fort. But it looked like it was concrete. Almost like a rural prison.

Hey, wait. That was a rural prison.

Disorientation gave way to intrigue. What the fuck was a prison doing here? Walking closer to it, taking pictures as she did, she entered what must have been the warden house.

She thought on the spot. "Greystones Constabulary, Hilda Aston. I'm here to report back to Elburne House," thanking her lucky stars she knew where Greystones' central police station was, "on progress here." The warden looked at her somewhat suspiciously, and asked her to hand over her photography equipment, but nonetheless allowed her in.

Inside, the best word would probably be... squalor. In her days, she'd visited normal prisons - they were bad enough after five years of deliberate overcrowding and underspending, very deliberately inciting violence - but this one took the biscuit. It probably wasn't normal to see blood coat some of the walls. She'd basically taken about two steps in, but any further and she'd fear for her life.

Coming back out, Hilda went back into the warden house. "Me again," she said, trying to hide her nerves. This was going to be a gamble... but she'd already bet the whole house at this point. "Can you escort me to this site's files? I need to collate, report back on the data." Complete bullshit, but the fact she wasn't immediately being arrested was a good sign.

The warden this time took a second - this was probably the first female inspector he'd ever come across, let alone one below the age of 40. "... right. Follow me." Escorted through a short corridor into a room one could best describe as "a place where a lot of documents were shoved about", the warden left her to look around, then spoke.

"Listen, lady. I know you're not who you say you are. You're some journalist who went off her path and stumbled here." His cold words froze her. She'd been found out.

He noticed her go into a silent meltdown, so continued. "No, I'm not going to arrest you. Why do you think I led you back here?" Hilda's face went from fright to confusion.
"Why aren't you arresting me then?"
"I'll show you. It'll do it better justice." Picking up a file with Neil Parker, 1955 on the rim, he opened it to the front. "Name, Neil Parker. Arrested on 23 October, 1955, Tynwald. Tried at secret court for acts of political treason, after pleading guilty in Tynwald Crown Court for civil disobedience. Found guilty, sentenced to 15 years of hard labour at Greystones-"
"Hard labour?"
The warden sighed. "Yeah, hard labour. You either get a normal sentence here, hard labour, or you get... well, you must've seen them."
She almost immediately knew what this old, guilt-ridden warden was referring to. "The line of men?"
"The death-marchers, yeah. They stay here for some weeks, perhaps a month or two, until they're malnourished and weak. Then they're shackled and sent on their way. I think one came back once, because the prison officer leading them thought he had been tried enough, and he helped commute it to a normal sentence. But yes, the rumours of death marches are real."
Hilda felt herself even more confused.
"I thought the death penalty was illegal?"
The warden broke eye contact for a moment. "Government orders. They constructed this place and opened it. I think they knew how loyal Greystones' Constabulary was so it'd never get out - even then, I've only seen two or three constables ever come in." He let out a slight smirk. "So even if you'd not been a very poor actress, I'd have known."
"And nobody's exposed it?"
"Honestly; I think the idea is that by the time they get out, the entire country would be under such a tight dictatorship that it wouldn't matter what anyone said, since revelations would just result in a one-way ticket back here."
"Why are you telling me this? Couldn't you get in trouble for this?"
"Sure fucking could, why do you think we're in this room? The guilt of working here, even if I'm not directly involved, it's too much. You coming along, with your failed acting, was the best opportunity I had at exposing this place."
She finally began to smile. "Can I take these documents? A few photographs?"
He continued. "Collect as many as you can, and get as many photographs as you can. I'd rather get caught than allow this place to keep getting away with murder."

A lot of questions whirled through her mind - how did nobody find these places, expose them? Has nobody been released? Are there others?

Then she decided it was best to ponder those when she wasn't in the death camp.

Alsatian Island · May 3, 2023

14 January, 2030
Moderate Party HQ
Hepburn Place
Thurrock, Esthursia

It had been twelve years since Rosemary Manning had taken the helm of the Conservative Union. She'd outlived it.

"Rosemary?" The familiar sound of Stephen Alborough. "Are you ready?"

Manning noticed how old Alborough seemed now. Back in the 2010s, he'd been the face of the new party. The party had since died, and over a decade had passed; and she knew however old he was, she was a decade further down.

"Ready for what exactly, Stephen?"
He returned a pleasant smile. "Everything. The end of the Wilson government. The campaign to get there. You're a shoe-in. That is, if you choose to stand." Continuing, his smile widened. "You know, I was skeptical about your whole Moderate schtick. Yet, it seems to have paid off-"

Manning was startled by this suggestion, enough to interrupt him. "Of course I'm standing!"

An awkward pause. She continued nonetheless. "I'm 80. I know. But we've got a King who's 100 in a week-"
"You know as well as I do how frail his Highness is now. He's too hardy to abdicate, but you know as well as I do that he won't last your term if you do stand. You'll be at his state funeral." Demurring, he pressed on. "You've got to ask yourself - how old is too old?"

Manning leant back a little. "I wouldn't know."
"It's your choice, Rosemary. If you think you're comfortable running into your mid-80s, then you do that."
"Thank you Stephen."

4 July, 2034
The Street
Weskerby, Esthursia

Forethane Manning's office was adorned with portraits of three of her most preferred predecessors - Edith Newell, Isaac Harding and Neville Salisbury.

Manning's absences had become more prolonged in recent months, giving the offices a somewhat empty feeling a lot of the time. The Forethane's decline in health had been most noted at first in Manning's quote about "being sick of hospitals", but now it became a little more haunting. At the few events Rosemary entertained in parliament fully, her opposition - still led by Wilson, and his new Socialist Party - his tone had notably calmed. Some of that was how humbled he'd been by such a blast of reality the 2030 and 2031 elections proved to be, but increasingly it was him noticing how frail she appeared. Even the cruel populist in him wouldn't entertain the antics he used to have against her now.

Now, as ever, Manning lay in a hospital bed. This time, however, things had declined further - the Forethane had suffered a stroke following unsuccessful surgery to remove a blockage from her heart, a medical accident. Still holding on, she now was unconscious, and had suffered life-changing brain damage even if she did wake up. Doctors didn't expect that to happen.

Rosemary Manning had always told party officials that the job would take years off her life, that the stress would get to her. She, after all, was 84.

The message had also clearly reached the office of Jeremy Wilson, whose reaction was a somber statement which wished her a speedy recovery. Rumours spread that Wilson had finally contacted the Moderates to ask that they let Manning retire, either voluntarily should she wake up and be cognisant enough to make that decision, or by other means, after hearing how seriously her faculties had been compromised.

Visiting relatives who were in any doubt about the precarious situation were quickly informed, if not for the amount of machines whirring away to keep her alive, then for her appearance. Party officials, except the odd one who had been close to the Forethane, were denied access, for her private dignity. One particularly stern-faced doctor had told a stern-faced Moderate official that she likely wouldn't live for another week.

When Alborough arrived, a long-term friend of the Forethane, he stayed for fifteen minutes. Little is known of his visit, except that he left with possibly the first public show of emotion he'd ever let out. ENBC News had spent half the morning stood outside the hospital she was resting in, waiting for the inevitable. It hadn't arrived yet, but everyone knew it would.

A feeling also punctuated Llywellyn House. Manning's tenure, the party merger - it'd left the party without any real obvious successor. There was nobody at the helm anymore, since even if by some miracle Manning lived, she was never going to be fit enough to lead. That left the government eight months from an election with no leader, against a galvanised left under Wilson's new Socialist Party.

The King had also received news of her situation. Himself frail and resting after a bout of ill health, the official response had been prepared a year ago, when her decline became hastened enough to warrant a chance that her demise would predate an election. A national address would come, but a 104-year-old - even one as stubborn and resilient as Arthur - couldn't overstrain himself in the best of times. He would, however, be attending her state funeral, should there be one.

Alsatian Island · Jun 19, 2023

April 18, 1924
An undisclosed location
Near Yeaburn, south-east Osynstry

The arrival of a high-ranking statesman was always big news. Plenty Conservative ministers had come and gone - most of whom had disappeared back off their list, likely out of a mixture of fear or antipathy towards the Osynstric Renewal Front (ORF). It was ever more dismaying knowing that the Leader of the Opposition, George Asmont, was enticing just as many to the left and his Workers' Union, which had steered itself away from the overt communist beliefs of Banbury and the 19th century establishment WU politicians.

Even so, in the views of the dapper, slightly terrified and yet somehow "of-the-upper-hand" congregation of ORF ministers, members and party leadership figures, the arrival of Athling Frederick - Prince Frederick to the Mercanti-speaker, the King's only brother no less - was cause for great raucous and ceremonial grandeur. Grandeur was never seen as amiss at the ORF meeting-places, yet this may have been one of the seldom few where it actually was appropriate.

A dower yet somehow ornate black car, manoeuvred by a rather elderly gentlemen clad in a dower yet ornate black suit of his own, slowly drove outside the agreed meeting place. That was step one passed, thought Front High Chairman Arnold Rimmer - a lot of those he'd agreed to meet with would never turn up. One sent a Yuletide card with a signature and "Sorry" on it the day before, another arrived, told Rimmer to fuck off and promptly left before the Frontmen could beat the shit out of him. He was almost anticipating a no-show, for this elusive Athling just not to show up, though he knew well enough of old Frederick's gradually more sympathetic beliefs to the Front. It had taken the complete dysfunctioning of Esthursian paternalistic liberal-conservatism and democracy in general, as the economic situation became more dire and the public more angry, for the Front to really entice the aging Prince.

Stepping out, it was Rimmer who greeted the Prince alone. He, and he alone, wanted this duty. Engaging in an overstated salute then offering an especially rigid handshake, Rimmer began.

"It's an honour, truly, your Highness." A warm smile hid Arnold's terse feelings; Frederick's coldness was far more genuine in comparison.
"Save the flattery for when we've won." A hint of friendliness punctuated what was otherwise a sentence said in the coldest, sternest tone. Finally stopping the handshake, Rimmer retreated into the building, leading the Prince into what may as well have been a surprise party. Frederick found himself groaning slightly at the bother of it all.

The chief Frontmen had stood in a rather conspicuous - if not slightly odd - line, all offering their hands. The room was plastered with all sorts of paraphernalia - guns, flags, slogans, even newspaper clippings. Taking a moment to either appreciate the effort, or to work out whether this was some ritualistic gesture of goodwill, Prince Frederick engaged and walked down the line, one by one. Having completed it, and completely forgotten the plethora of names warmly bestowed to him - he'd barely remembered Arnold Rimmer's - he sat down at the table.

"So, your Highness-" A man in what looked like a fake military uniform-cum-costume began, but Prince Frederick interjected.
"Save it." Frederick leant forward imperceptibly. "Let us leave the show and bluster to one side, as much as I'm a man of culture." A groan from some general earnt a death stare from both the Prince and Chairman Rimmer, before Frederick returned to his recanting.
"We all know this country has gone to shit, to use a vulgar Mercantism. The root cause? This Government, so focussed on saving face and pretending it's still commanded by the nation's best, most worthy and brightest that it engages in a war against a country far smaller than itself. A noble quest, or whatnot - except cue James Thorne, seemingly the only man capable of losing what should be a walkover of a war. All whilst the good Esthursian people express understandable anger at the whole situation."
Not allowing a long enough pause for some well-meaning but unimportant general or Frontman to intervene in his flow, the Prince pressed on. "It's well-known that the Leader of the Opposition is some socialist. Young George. He's got the support of a lot of angry young people, and these bands of mostly young thugs pose a serious threat to us and our Front if we stand a chance of pushing into government. I'm sure the armed forces will warm to us quickly, but people? With a smooth-talking young man with a brogue of an industrial worker and mind of an intellectualist, we have a roadblock."
Chairman Rimmer noticed a pause, and ran face-first into it to stop him, attracting a noticeable sign of dismay from the Prince - and managed to get some words out himself. "Too right, your Highness. Every single one of us here knows what George's plans are. Some piecemeal reforms to pretend the cracks have been filled, suing for peace on day one, and then clamping down on us nation-first politicians for pushing for real change. So, we can't win by elections - we've got to take power."
Stifled laughter came from a few, and one Frontman blurted out, "Good luck with that-" before being politely told to shut the fuck up by his Chairman.

Rimmer decided now was the right time for a big announcement, to punctuate the atmosphere. "Now, we know the situation between you and liberal Edward. We very much share your concerns for his ability to lead. Now, that brings up the question - if we take care of the democracy, what do we do with old Ed, your Highness?"
Prince Frederick continued. "Well, I'd have ordinarily said replace him."
"You'd have ordinarily been right." A gunshot punctuated the room, presumably from outside. The Prince was initially startled, but Chairman Rimmer's ease assuaged him quickly. A second followed, and the reaction of the Prince this time was non-existent.
"And you're planning on doing that how?"
"Well, you see, when we've got a willing and sympathetic participant in our plot for control - then we can just arrest Ed the old blighter, put this participant in Ed's place, and who cares what happens? The man can live out the rest of his life on one of his beloved pear orchards for all I care."
Frederick's eyebrow raised; he was interested. "That's a very good idea, I must say. But how do you propose-"
"You're not a military man, are you, your Highness? When we've control of the armies-"
"You're not a thinker, are you, Chairman? It's all when, when, when. Never if. I don't think you've got the plan."
Rimmer had prepared for this. He knew the Prince was a deeply skeptical man about just about anything. He had a plan - pulling up a whole drawer, pulled from a larger vessel of documents, onto the table. "This is the plan, your Highness. For storming Esthampton, for hijacking the media, for winning the police's hand, for planting ourselves into the armed forces, for undermining the government, and for what we're going to do in the immediate before, during and after phase of control. No, we're fucking prepared, to the hilt."
"I must say, Arnie. I'm impressed. And I am very much a willing participant."
"That is truly wonderful." Chairman Rimmer proclaimed to... himself. "We have the chance, together, to steer the country back onto the right path, off whatever the fuck liberals, Edward and socialists want from it. We're seeing similar movements across the world who've clocked onto the same thing. It just takes a spark; Esthursia is already on fire."
The Prince showed his first signs of genuine approval on his face - although it proved brief, as he returned to skepticism. "What of the men who doubt that the Front has what it takes? You saw them in there."
"Didn't you hear the gunshots?" The two exchanged a genuine smile, nodded, and the Prince got up to return to his estate.

Alsatian Island · Jun 21, 2023

Saturday, 23 October, 1926
Romsdæg, 26 Aldaven, 2881

The Esterwood, South Downs
14 kilometres south-west of Esthampton
about 18h40

Rimmer wandered quite aimlessly through the thickets, occasionally stopping himself from shouting in pain. The storm on Esthampton? A failure. The Osynstric Renewal Front? Decapitated, and deceased. The movement? A goner, for sure. "Fucking George," he grumbled to himself breathlessly, "if it weren't for him..."

He knew these woods quite well. He'd always known if worst went to worst, and if the ORF failed, then he'd have refuge here - he'd grown up around here, after all. "Not even a warm welcome back?" he quipped, noting the damp and murky atmosphere, the arrival of rain soon following as his answer.

He'd not made it particularly far before he was a bit taken aback by his situation. He'd been shot in the abdomen - although it clearly hadn't struck him dead, he was bleeding quite profusely. Even the makeshift tourniquet made from his banner (the irony of using one of his prized ORF banners as a bloodied life preserver seemed... a little grisly for his mind) wasn't stopping it properly. If he'd seen himself, he'd have seen a half-limping, bleeding aging man with a ghoulish pallor and unfocused eyes.

A sudden thought came to his beleaguered mind. Regret? Remorse? "Do I seriously feel bad? I didn't do fuckall!" He shouted into the emptiness, the forest absorbing his self-directed anger. "It was Asmont that did it all! He'd got to the police before I did!" Falling into his rage even further, he stomped on the ground - causing a sting of pain - before balling up his fist and shouting "why the fuck couldn't my men just get their fucking job done?", before slipping back into sluggish melancholy. "I should have never waited this long, the socialists... fuck. I've lost my entire world." By now the realisations were coming - his family had distanced from him, he'd never married, he'd never had kids, he'd never really had much of a career. He'd dedicated his life to this - for what? A bullet wound and spending the rest of his life in some damp forest near the place where it all went to shit? This moment of humanity was abruptly interrupted by another twinge of pain, sparking an angry shout.

Finding a very overgrown trail, he made his way up the hills. Stopping for a moment - the idea of turning around, whether he admitted who he was or not, was appealing. "No, I can make it out here," he eventually decided, "I'll be right, so long as I keep out of sight." Scouting the way, avoiding the most open spots, he felt very much as if he'd been reduced to a forest animal, hiding from his predator and scurrying his way up.

Arnold decided to look around the thicket. Whether it was out of paranoia - he'd after all escaped from justice, in the eyes of the so-called law - or out of a distant hope for the entire ORF movement to be on the other side of a tree trunk alive and well with a plentiful supply of bandages and painkillers, he began searching in every nook and cranny. He slowed down, until eventually noticing he was too weak to carry on running about. The sun was showing signs of dropping quite soon, as the sky had taken on a slight orange tint.

"That'll do," he told himself absently upon finding an opening in the cliff of a particularly sheer-faced mountain. Clambering up it, now virtually stooped over in pain, he deposited himself inside, made his way in as far as possible. The plan had increasingly turned from running away to just not collapsing in an open place. If he passed out on some trail or out in the open, they'd find him. He was sure of it.

He'd finally found some solace. Somewhere to just... not do anything. He didn't have to be Chairman Rimmer anymore, not the wannabe political leader. He thought back to his childhood, wandering around these woods playfully with his parents. "Just keep in this area, and don't be long!" he recanted in the image of his parents as his memory played out in his mind, then replying to himself, "Sure. I'll try." It struck him how... cold that reply sounded in hindsight. The idea that some thirty years ago, he'd have just been frolicking around mindlessly - now here he was, bleeding out and half-conscious, a defeated man who led a failed movement.

Images of the event itself plagued the back of his mind. The gunshots, the screaming, the sounds of desertion and anger, as the ORF's attempts to win over support backfired spectacularly. A voice shouting "What right do you people have to arrest us, you're not the real government?!" at a random uniformed officer, the lines of armed units firing on the disorganised rabble of his own front in response to their attempts to do just the same back first. The masses of arrests, the image of someone shouting "For King Frederick, and for Osynstry!" before shooting themselves next to him. The first, proper attack of pain as he himself was shot, and the second of time frozen for what felt as an hour before a hasty and cowardly scampering. And now here he was.

His mind's eye, and eyesight generally gave way to nothing. Mumbling to himself, Arnold slowly lost his mind, and told himself over and over matter-of-factly that he'd "be home within five minutes", slipping into unconsciousness as his blood pooled at his side.

Tuesday, 26 October, 1926
Frægerdæg, 29 Aldaven, 2881

The Esterwood, South Downs
14 kilometres south-west of Esthampton
about 14h30

"I've found something, Marshal, lord." A young constable shouted back to his commanding officer. "Come up." His voice was quite clearly troubled, so the officer - despite being a man of both significant proportion and age - made his way up the trail and off to the voice sharpish.

"Well." It wasn't often Marshal Gordon Erickson was speechless - but this was one of those instances. On the floor in front of them, lay a huddled-up body, clad in what looked like military uniform or otherwise official garb, but unmistakeably stained with blood - and a fascist banner wrapped round what must've been the wound. He'd clearly been there a few days. Bending down and peering, he saw it was exactly who he'd worried it was...
"That's Arnold Rimmer alright. Get some men to haul the body down, commission the autopsy and whatnot." He heard himself say things in a particularly odd order, vaguely, but he knew it was the shock of... finding him. "I want to know exactly what led him up here."

Wednesday, 27 October, 1926
Hresendæg, 30 Aldaven, 2881

Edmund House, 192 Llywellyn Street
Brough of Weskerby
Osynstry, Esthursia
8h45

George Asmont sat in his office, having arrived at 8 sharp as ever. He knew it was a Hresendæg, but in the aftermath of the failed Esthampton riots, and what felt like the final death knell of Esthursian fascism, he was going to be here every day working and working some more.

His deputy, Osmund Hemsburgh, arrived, a look of what couldn't be distinguished from both excitement and grave seriosity. Arriving promptly at the Forethane's table, he sat opposite and had a moment of silence.

Asmont grew tired of the odd silence between them. "Well spit it out-"
"Rimmer's dead."
Another moment. Osmund watched the Forethane browse through a wide selection of burgeoning emotions, landing on concern eventually. "How?"
"Well, he got away from the March on Esthampton, it seems, alive. He'd gone back to his childhood area, out in the woods down south."
"Down near Esthampton?"
"About ten, fifteen kilometres out. We found him in some hole, cave, whatever. He'd been shot."
George took another second to consider the new information, before coming to a verdict. "So Rimmer died slowly in a hole alone thanks to his own failed revolt, knowing full well he'd failed. Well, if there's ever someone up there meting out justice, that's the best example they've come up with yet." Leaning forward and getting his notes, he got ready to stand up. "I'll make an address to the Redery forthwith, inform them. The Osynstric Renewal Front are down and their leader's dead. If that's not something to cheer up our morning, I don't know what is."
"Right you are." Osmund watched as his superior walked out of his office, musing that perhaps they could finally get on with their jobs without the threat of a revolution breathing down their neck anymore.

Asmont himself, meanwhile, spent his time travelling between the two destinations musing. For months, they'd been threatening revolt - the consequences of which would put not only him in mortal danger, but virtually every group who didn't adhere to Rimmer's ideal version of a true Osynstric morally-right person. Yet, as it turned out, Rimmer was one of the only ones that Rimmer's movement ever led to being killed. "Isn't that something," he thought, a burden off his mind as the ORF's demise finally began to percolate.

Alsatian Island · Oct 12, 2023

Wednesday, 7 January, 1959
Meresdæg, 7 Æfteryule, 2914

Nationalist Party Conference
Brough of Weskerby
Osynstry, Esthursia
11h15

A particularly bushy-haired gentleman, with a voice as soft as a brick, graced his way onto the stage. Before the purple-stained podium, he stood in front of a crowd of... an embarrassingly low amount. Three years ago, the seats had been filled and more, even last year they were still more or less full to the extent that taking a picture wouldn't embarrass the Forethane. This, though, this was just an embarrassment. They might as well not have bothered, but for Olafn's insistence that they run in the 1959 election that they failed to stop happening, in case the people refusing to work and burning various institutions of the state to the ground were somehow going to change their minds.

"I, as ever, am Conrad Oldham, begin by welcoming the conference, this Nationalist Conference," Oldham continued, the complete lack of cheers deeply rooting itself in the recesses of his mind as he pressed on, "to Weskerby, the home of nationalism and tradition. We face an illegitimate ballot in Astorn [April], which we will humour, and we know that we will come out of the other side - regardless of the result." Even more silence. Not even the excitement of electoral fraud could rile up the dreary-faced few who'd bothered to turn up.

"And I welcome onto the stage, Olafn Arbjern, our great leader of our age!" A few furious clappers couldn't distract from the fact that nobody really gave a shit, yesterday's man was coming up to talk about tomorrow.

"Those against us have no right to stand!" A smattering of applause "filled" the room after Arbjern left a pause, awkwardly standing in front of his own acolytes for attention. "The left, the socialists, the communists, the trades unions, they are all in convention to take down our great march for a true Esthursia!" Another few claps. "I will make sure that-" A gunshot. The glorious Forethane swiftly responded on stage by cowering behind his podium, gripping either edge as he perilously looked out onto the crowd. A few seconds of nothing, and then security guards rushed into the "crowd" of people, finding the culprit.

The bullet was lodged in the head of the slumped, bleeding uniformed man in front, who just happened to be the Home Minister, Edwin Bard, while the gun was still in the shooter's hand, who hadn't even bothered to get up. "Arrest me, I don't care, you won't last long enough to even try me," he began, laughing maniacally as he was pushed out of the audience, looking back at his unfortunate victim. Not that the man was much of a victim, at least in his view anyway, having ordered the police by proxy to execute as many deaths as he could remember. "You people, you made us kill. You trained me for this, so I'm just doing my job." He said, harking back to his days as a police officer fighting against Tynwald protesters, before contemplating his next years; even a democratic government would probably lock him up for most of his life.

A full minute later, Olafn Arbjern got up from his hidey-hole behind the podium, to an empty audience. Everyone had abandoned him - even leaving the body of his Home Minister lying in the chair two rows up and to his right - except a very small few. Arbjern's gaze diverted to them, who - out of either fear or confusion - scampered out, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the body of his second-hand man.

Alsatian Island · Oct 13, 2023

Monday, 9 February, 1926
Gemesdæg, 10 Hreþen, 2881

An undisclosed location
Near Anborne, Esthamptonshire
Osynstry, Esthursia
about 19h10

"We have been meeting for about..." Prince Frederick began, his now fully greyed hair slightly retreated from his temples as he brushed it back a little, almost impatiently, as his eyes darted around with a sense of indirection.
"Two years, Your Kingly Highness." Frederick smiled again. He smiled every time that he was given an honour by Rimmer, and he often returned the favour. Like now.
"Yes, Chairman. Two years. So, I have but one question for us tonight." The two exchanged a cordial smile, before the aged Prince pushed on.
"Do go on, your Ki-" Rimmer's snivelling pleasantry was interrupted, this time, however. The redness in the Prince's eyes then burst out in flames from his lips.
"WHAT IN BLASTING HELL HAVE YOU FOLKS BEEN AT SUCH THAT WE HAVE GOT NOWHERE IN TWO WHOLE BLOODY YEARS?!"

"I, uh, we... we've been, uh, planning, your-"
"Shut up. It was rhetorical." Frederick's jaw had stiffened now, his wrinkles being the only unfixed aspect. "Do any of you not understand how sparingly little time we retain now that we've... YOU'VE pissed away seven hundred days to stage this thing!"

One of Rimmer's nameless acolytes spoke up. "It takes time. We've got time left too. Don't worry." The Prince's anger redoubled, his eyes focussing on the new target. "No, we do not. James Thorne being in power - what little he retains - is all we depend on. Should he fall, we have not a chance; and the April polls will surely bring about a George Asmont government. As much as we hate the man, he executes capably, and folks like the cut of his jib. He gets in, we have no momentum. The police will back him. You will not, and can not, underestimate how little time we have left to seize power of this miserable country." Said acolyte responded by huffing, and then sitting back, in either indignation or a public sulk.

Rimmer took out his gun instinctively, looking for a stooge. "Don't worry, I'll get-"
"Ah, ah, ah, now now." The Prince's clenched jaw melted to a condescending, paternal grimace, like a father about to start teaching his son a lesson. "I wasn't talking at one of your incompetents for the sake of it, I was talking to you. You. Not any of them. YOU. ARNOLD. RIMMER. YOU."
Rimmer froze, his hand still gripping the gun. "How... dare you, Frederick. Freddy." His voice cracked as the Prince simply laughed at his snide. "I'll... I'll kill you, you traitor!" Rimmer continued, pointing his gun in-between the Prince's eyes.

The Prince, however, did not flinch, but began beaming. "Do go on, do it, you fucking coward. You will not, as without me, you, you are nothing. You are nobody. You rely on me. My prestige, my power, my brains, my tactics, and yes, that fucking includes me pushing you at every opportunity to get your act together." Rimmer's hand shook, but the barrel was still cold against the Prince's forehead. "I am waiting. I am still breathing. If you want me to stop, all you have to do is pull. Then you will have blissful silence and you can live out the rest of your life as a daydreaming nobody who killed his only chance at power. I will die a happy man."

The gun slowly fell from Frederick's forehead, as Arnold Rimmer's shaky hand lost grip. "Now, is that not better, Arnie? Temper tantrum over, so let us get on with business, eh?" Rimmer's chin trembled in uncontrollable anger as the Prince sternly raised his eyebrows, almost willing a second attempt, but none came. "Good. I find it easier to plan revolutions without a manchild pointing his gun in my face."

Tuesday, 10 February, 1926
Frægerdæg, 11 Hreþen, 2881

Edmund House, Berworth
Weskerby
Osynstry, Esthursia
about 8h30

The black door of Edmund House opened, revealing an upright, dower Conservative Party gentleman. James Thorne was by now undeniably elderly, but still certainly with it and as uptight as ever, procedural to the letter, as every good statesman in his view should be, and as his predecessor Neville Salisbury had emulated so exactly.

The professionalism of his display was slightly undermined by the police beating back crowds and crowds of protesters, chants of "DOWN WITH THE WAR!", and Workers' Union posters adorning half of the opposite addresses. One week remained until the election season began, and Thorne had virtually no support left while the momentum of George Asmont was carrying him well ahead, to the knowledge of both of them; the election was knocking on Thorne's door, and Thorne knew it.

Photographers clicked away as the Forethane outstretched his hand for his likely replacement to shake. George Asmont was visiting, a far younger yet far more naturally warm figure, ahead of the final week of the term before its dissolution and thereafter election.

"It is always pleasant to welcome you here, even in these circumstances." Thorne began, and Asmont's warmth faded to a forced, austere smile as he approached as he returned a pleasantry and the handshake. "I am sure the same can be said for me," Asmont returned, evasively.

Walking in and shutting the door on the cold street outside, Thorne made his way to his office, Asmont following some distance behind. Asmont, however, had sombered slightly, sitting opposite.

George began, his relatively tempered but noticeable South Hereshire accent present. "I am sorry to have the news of Neville's condition." Neville Salisbury was the previous Forethane, and at 71, had spent his last few years in worsening health. By 1922, he resigned due to lost mental faculties, and both Thorne and Asmont were fully aware of Salisbury's hasty decline thereafter. By last year, he was in permanent care of his family and unable to be understood outside of close family or remain lucid for extended intervals. His health had recently taken a turn, and he'd been hospitalised. George Asmont, unlike his view of Thorne, regarded Salisbury fairly highly, despite their political differences.
"Indeed." James Thorne responded, curtly. "The end of an era, certainly."
Asmont's mouth curled at one side. "It will be soon, yes, the end of an unfortunate era."
A moment of silence, before Thorne's façade broke.
"What do you mean by that?" His opposition leader did not respond.
"Tell me, George. Was that a comment?" No answer, as George just stared somewhat absently back at the irate Forethane.
"You must tell me! I implore you! I demand of you!" George stifled a laugh as the Forethane heard himself and sat back slightly, attempting to regain some composure. "Pardon me."
"No, James. I am solely..." Asmont continued, trying to keep back bursting out in laughter, "... concerned for the persisting wellbeing of Salisbury. That is all. You-"
"Do not lie. How dare you disgrace Neville like this, just to get a jibe in at myself!" Asmont stood up in response, pushing in his chair and picking back up his coat.
"If you will excuse me, Forethane, but I must ready for the end of said era. We have talked long enough and it has been very... pleasant to speak with you on Neville's condition. Good day, James, and good luck." Standing, he walked out of Edmund House, remarking under his breath that he'd likely be "back in a few months to replace that warmongering bastard" before opening the door and heading briskly back down the path.

James Thorne looked on in horror from the window as his youthful adversary began shaking the hands of protesters opposite his own office, and only then did he realise he'd been photographed watching just that. "Blast." Asmont caught on, and began waving. The curtains shut quickly.

Assuran Stow, the Brough
Weskerby
Osynstry, Esthursia
9h58

"I stand here, at history's mark."

The leader of the Workers' Union stood before a crowd that filled the Stow - the square - and the streets that branched off to the far edge and sides. Mountain ranges of red posters spanned the entire stretch of the place, around the Moore Stone, to commemorate the life of the joint Esthursian-Tardineanni ruler of the Assurani period. The museum opposite had booked out its tickets specifically for today in the hope to entice eventgoers. The crowd chanted; "Our George, our George, our George!", as Asmont made his way forward to begin.

"This is a significant place for history. Esthursia is a nation formed by its habit to overpromise and underdeliver, and we have seen that quite clearly in recent years." Anti-war posters rose further in response. "However, it is not you who has caused this, contrary to the tenets of our so-called democracy. No, it is the landed gentry and the moneyed few who are paying, watching as an audience as the government dutifully presses the right keys to produce music to their ears, while the rest of us are locked out and beaten away. Opportunity, prosperity and security have all been ripped from your hands by the aristocracy of this country."

"James Thorne-" Just the mention of his name started an upswell of noise amongst the crowd, such as to playground rumour. "-has dragged this entire society into a meaningless yet endless conflict with our neighbours. James Thorne has battered down the working man, and in response to his cries for justice, the Government sent him off to die, as a final resort of a dying hierarchy."

"A country whose democracy rests on the donations and parlays of the same community, born into power but seemingly not a morsel of intellectual prowess nor competency, is one that drags us all kicking and screaming into blunder after blunder. We endlessly meander through failure, but with capital in power, it is labour who foot the bill for the expense of privilege. It is labour who toil for the service of preserving and maintaining the opulence of the ever-richer few. When recession comes - and how often does it come! - who is it that loses their jobs, their homes, their food, their lives! The working man!" Cheers rang out from the crowd again. "Thousands come back every week to their families lifeless and unbreathing, and thousands more starve to death or die preventably from poor housing or healthcare, because of the uncaring punishment wrought on each and every one of us, as a distraction from our powerlessness! This country of the few cannot stand, and this society is currently upside down, with all the money falling down into the seemingly bottomless pockets of the power-holding privileged groups, stripped out from those who have little else."

"Health, learning, shelter, income, security, utilities, water, transport, industry; these are the property of the people, and inextricably so, and any state who hands control of a good used and relied upon by its people to a profit-taking few is one irremovable from plutocratic tyranny. Labour maintains the right to withdraw, at all times and at its own discretion, in the same way that capital has traditionally permitted itself to do - a business may go out of market to save its owners money, and a labourer should thus be able to leave a job at will and withhold its labour to demand its own money. Efforts by the few have lasted since history began to construct every human society in a way that withholding labour is tantamount to treason; trade unions are often banned and seldom free, while employers are empowered by almost every law. May we not forget that democracy stretches to the workplace, and that every voice - employer or individual worker - is equal! The voice of the many will drown out the obstruction and imposed destitution of the one under a Workers' Union government."

"This country will finally be able to look at its Overlaw, and say - we have honoured this. We will rip out every inherited position of power from government, redistribute away the centuries of stolen wealth back from the hoarding hundredth to the people, and we will rigourously industrialise and construct in order to enrich, prosper and collectively endure the trying times our world is going through. We will restore every single human right in entirety, reform this democracy to finally end the endemic corruption and discrimination at its heart, and abolish every law that holds back the freedom of the people. We will finally bring our hopeful cities and towns the investment they need to grow off the backs of the hoarded public wealth stolen from generations past. We will end the needless, pointless and cruel game of war played by the removed aristocracy, we will end the government mandate on division and state violence, we will rebuild from this capital-created economic meltdown to renew a public-first economy, and finally make them pay the comparatively small price of losing control of Esthursia - as this country belongs not to those who are born into power, but to every single one of us. Arbitrary restrictions, cruel treatment, state violence, brutality, enabled poverty, harsh inequality, poor life expectancy and slum living - we will fight the war against the systems that those in power have enabled to flourish for centuries to keep down every single one of us from ending their opulence, said opulence enabled at the cost of progress."

"James Thorne and his enablers have finally made the miscalculation that has pushed this nation's many over the edge, that has finally awakened us to the true scale of death, destitution and suffering that it commits happily and repeatedly, that has finally pushed our society into total unbridled crisis, and the cost of all of their hatred and condescension. Fret not; we will restore a reconstructed, fair and free Esthursia to the people, by the people, for the people, and the aristocracy will be abolished once and for all, for the orchestrated injustice imposed onto generations upon generations of us! In April, vote for the Workers' Union, enable the rise of a true public-first economy and welfare state, and bring about the end to centuries of denialism, cruelty and aristocracy once and for all! A vote for us is a vote to rebuild this nation, and a vote for Thorne is a vote to send more thousands of our good young men to die in a cynical and embarrassingly unsuccessful distraction on a sovereign nation's territory - I trust in you to choose rightly, and cleave off a new history, of a society that protects those in need, empowers those of merit rather than of birthright, protects the freedoms and rights of the worker and the citizen, and invests in promise and not private lavish."

An outroar of applause nearly deafened half of the crowd as George Asmont stood back and left the stage, ready to fight the most important election in his lifetime.

The Precipice | (Closed)

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