Portraits

"We are ready for you, kýrie." the man in the sharply dressed suit had finished setting up the tripod, double checking the lens before looking over his subject, bowing as he inspected him and then moving in to take the picture.

"I hate this." he mumbled, the man in official garb next to him giving him a baleful look before changing his face into a smile as the time came for a photograph.

"One, two and three!" the camera flashed, capturing the subject, "And once more. One, two and three!" the old man smiled as he looked over the photos, "Magnificent. One final time, for good fortune. One, two a-" he stopped paying attention, waiting for it to be over, the stern man next to him dragging him after the photographs were finished.

"Feelings are quite irrelevant here. This is necessary." the Prōtoproedros scoffed at the Emperor after the imperial photographer was finished taking the pictures, pulling him through the halls of the palace. The purple carpets were rolled out and the ceremonial guards lined every one of the larger hallways, "The economy's on the verge of recession, the country is in tatters. You will do what must be done boy."

"Where would i be without your boundless positivism to sustain me?" he groaned, "I'm rolling my eyes by the way. Just so you know." he only elicited another vitriolic glance from him.

"Though you may find it hard to believe, princeling, this country isn't at peace. If the enemy wins they'll want us erased from existence. And not just the rats. The vultures circle and you have nothing better to do than fool around with your silly pets and books. The will of the people has changed, and only by their will can we stop those who shake the very foundations of our civilisation."

"I don't know what's worse, your negativity or that you include the foreigners into the pet group." he looked him over, "Camera up ahead, remember to smile excellency, wouldn't want people to see you without your mask, you'd make a poor Rasian."

"How rich coming from you. Do you even see us as people at this point, boy?" Dragutin smiled, his face softening for the journalists that waited in the grand hall. A few questions and photographs later he dragged the Emperor up the stairs before resuming the conversation, "This country was great before your father came to the throne. And now as all burns around us ask yourself what the true role of your bloodline is. We must not, can not, flinch. And we all have a role to play."

"That mine is sacrificial lamb is besides the point?" he wondered aloud, looking at the walls they passed by, the figures carved and painted into them. How empty. Almost as much as the people around them.

"A bunch of idiots undid millennia of work. I will not see the empire fall on my watch as a result. If your blood is what will sustain it until it stands on its own so be it. We allow you your whims and your childish actions in return for this. You asked for this, not i."

"Asking and wanting are two different things. Politicians of all people should know this." he pulled away, dusting off his robe and adjusting his circlet before they entered the large room, the two great doors opening and revealing a mass of people, all differently dressed, all turning their heads and kneeling in proskynesis before the last scion of Samo's line, "So empty." he sighed for a moment, entering the room, the doors closing and the Prōtoproedros behind him with head lowered as a sign of submission. The moment was almost all-consuming, the walls bending upon one another as the atmosphere, heavy and grey, seemed even stronger. A bell rang out, the people standing up, their heads still lowered, and turning towards the balcony. Dragutin followed him up to the entrance, just as he was about to cross over the old man whispered, "Duty isn't about choice, it is about sacrifice."

He stepped onto the balcony of the New Palace of the New Capital, the crowds gathered bellow cheering, "Kýrie! Kýrie! Kýrie!" he hated the long speeches almost as much. It amounted to leading a liturgy like a priest at this point, "Hide though you may my people." he whispered to himself. "The times they are a changing."

"Uh..." Pari tilted her head, looking at the strange contraption, "I'm really trying sis, but what is this?" she tried to look at it from another angle, the weird hanging bits, the protruding metallic heads. Most of all the metallic orgy in the middle, raid paint and newspapers all blended together in a most unsightly and unseemly manner.

"A contemporary criticism of modern society, capitalism and...shit." her sister replied proudly at first, tapering off at the end as she herself contemplated the full meaning of her creation.

"Shit?" she looked over at her, the gears rolling in her head, a dread realisation washing over her as she finally noticed something glimmering within the mess of barbed wire and  scrap, "What are Darya's medals doing in there?"

"Well i did say shit, didn't i? Fucking tankie bitch thought she could offend her elder sister." she crossed her arms before taking a long puff out of her cigarette holder, extinguishing the cigar on the black museum bench she sat on.

"She's five minutes younger..." Pari sighed, sitting down, "And what if mother finds out? Father lets you get away with this shit cause you're his favourite but she'll be pissed you stole a veteran's medals."

"Hey now, artists sacrifice for the sake of the nation as well!" she huffed and puffed, "Well fine, how about something more contemporary, what about that painting? I sold it to some dipshit noble who'll display it publicly."

Pari looked over, squinting as she looked it over, "Please tell me i'm seeing the price on that thing wrong."

"Nope." she cackled, "I mean you must admit, the folds on the ass took a lot of effort, i mean drawing dictator like that takes skill."

"So why are the people bellow eating what's coming out of Charles' ass?" she looked away, the painting was rather nauseating.

"Well it's a metaphor! Cause they all eat up his crap!" she raised her head upwards and covered it with an arm dramatically, "It's like i'm the only one with an artistic bone in my body. Daddy loved it."

"Father only half jokingly thinks Vaherians should be put in death camps, he's not exactly the best judge of character." Pari looked at her rather seriously.

"Or he values my deep and meaningful portrayal of the suffering of foreign people under a tyrannical yoke." she scoffed back, "The muses direct me, is it my fault they weep for the suffering of barbarians?"

"And does 'daddy' know how many 'barbarians' you've been 'collecting' in your little book?" Pari asked, rather deadpan in her response, "You know what? Not even going to get into a discussion about father with you. Which of the clown posse bought it this time?"

"I accept your surrender." she beamed victoriously, "And i don't know, one of Hanno's flunkies, officer something something. Said he was going to propose it be put in the Vaherian embassy if relations are ever renewed in his lifetime, until then it's going to hang in some public gallery a friend of his is the curator for. No skin off my back."

"And when are you going to remove the medals from your other work?" she looked at it again, "Oh. So that's why those middle fingers are all over the statue and pointing towards the center."

"See? A good work makes you work for it, heh heh! And i don't know, as soon as the bitch says she's sorry about what she said."

"And what did our sister do to offend you this time?" Pari groaned, rubbing her fingers against her eyelids, preparing for whatever silly thing were to proceed.

"Well the bitch had the nerve to "borrow" my dress! And then she had the gall to tell me i look better in red than in green. Fucking whore. Also i was late to my latest showing because we took too long fighting."

"I think i'll be joining mom's aspirin regiment." Pari groaned heavily, "You'll be the death of us, Sarnai."

"Pfff, you still love me, hoe." Sarnai chuckled, leaning against the bench as she looked over at her other works of art proudly.

"That's why you'll be the death of me."

Vukašin recited the Canticle of Transformations again as the first light of dawn broke through the window, kneeling in supplication before the altar with his hands outstretched. Today was the day, after the morning liturgy they would join the Lity, but this time it would be special, it would require all of his fervour and all of his courage. Today was the day no one could back down.

The sun's light washed over him, and in an instant he felt as the most fervent of monks do after years of prayer and fasting. For a moment he felt Him, and he knew that he was not alone, for like all His children, good or bad, living or dead, rich or poor, king or pauper, he was loved.

The liturgy began as all others, "Blessed be His Creation, his dominion without end..." and proceeded from naming the patriarchs, to the other heads of churches and finally onto the hierarchs of the White Seaside, from the archbishop onto the bishops, "And blessed be Samo's line, our rulers, regents of the Creator, who will one day rule us again when the invaders are cast out."

"Blessed be." the people replied, joining in the liturgy. They all sang and prayed together to greet the morning, a community, if one that only found itself together after the occupation. As the prayer finished the deacon opened the large doors of the church, the priest shuffling out with the deacon carrying the thurible, dispersing incense in front of the small group. The priest continued reciting the Divine Liturgy of Damian the Stylite, the people behind him bearing icons and banners as they followed. Soon enough they reached the main road of the city, and joined the far greater mass of worshipers, each of them lead by their priest, the archbishop of the White Seaside at the head of the column.

The closer they got to the center of the city, and the "occupied" government building, the bigger the crowd got, and as all their chanting joined into a single chorus he felt it again, same as when he was alone. He felt the Creator's presence in their song, in their lity against the invaders. He was with them, and He would not abandon them. He continued reciting the Liturgy, gazing at the sea of people all dressed in black, well, with one exception. Everyone had a piece of red cloth tied around the right palm of their hands. Just as they had not given up on the Creator, nor he on them, so too would they not give up on their true rulers, and they hoped, nay they knew, their true Emperor had not given up on them.

Archbishop Nicodemus walked slowly up the steps of the Old Square, beneath the monument to Saint Athanasius, his stature belying his great age. And yet when he began the liturgy, all he could hear was the voice of a young man, a passionate man, a man who had not given up. The old archbishop began reciting the Liturgy of the Venerable Saint Andrew.

In a surprising turn, when he began evoking the spiritual heads he started first by asking to bless the emperors of Samo's line and their blessed scion who shall rule the White Seaside again, by the will of the Creator, and the people who worship him, instead of starting with the name of the patriarchs. The people responded with a cheer, "Živeo kir! Živeo car!", raising their cloth covered palms into the sky, the echo carrying across the plaza and over the city, the crowd having been far too large to fit in already having occupied most of the inner streets around it.

"He will save us. He will stop you." Vukašin whispered to himself, "As surely as the dawn rises, we will be free. Know this on your "great day" most of all. We will never be deprived of hope."

He joined in on the chanting for the lity for Esdragon's "National Day", the largest one in the White Seaside yet, its people's reply to a question only the invaders asked.
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Lartha yawned as she woke up, her husband still snoring contentedly next to her. Lucky bastard doesn't have to go to work yet but who has to open up the bakery? Now honestly most people didn't give a fuck about what laws the Vaherians might say about whether or not stores are open on national days, especially seeing as how no matter the level of resistance, they had little desire to obey them. So of course she would open up, as the florist across the street would, as the grocers and markets would as well.

She hummed a tune while she ironed the clothes for her children before moving on to the large black flag. Would be rude to have it be wrinkled after all. It's a special day. From corner to corner, edge to edge, she even spritzed it to give it a nice citrus scent before opening the window of their small apartment. Some of the neighbours had already hung their flags of mourning. Some really early risers, or they hung their flags in the evening. Some Tyrsennians are so lazy...

Never the less, she had no time to dawdle or play around, rushing downstairs to prepare the ovens. The sun would rise soon and people needed their bread after all. She loved the smell of the loaves baking along with the other wonderful pastries she was preparing. It invigorated her like no other thing could, and gave her a pep in her step as she ran around the store, making sure everything was neat and orderly before turning the sign on the door from "closed" to "open".

And just as Lartha was about to go back she remembered what she was talking to the other store owners about, slapping her head as she rifled through a drawer next to the till before she triumphantly took out a piece of laminated paper, hanging it in the bakery display window. In large, bold letters it read "Not serving Vaherians, or any other invaders, today", not just in their Tyrsennian dialect but in Vaherian as well. Seven stars, the symbol of Samo's line, hung above these words, and in a way served to bite far deeper than their refusal of service ever could.

Fastening the red cloth around her right hand, she began arranging the bread loves and pastries, singing a tune as she went, "And on his brow a crown of seven, and in his chest a heart of gold..."

"Cheery today?" an old lady shuffled in, waving at her with her right hand, the faded red cloth around it tied in a shaky knot, "The usual."

"Of course Setnia dear. Do you want me to help tie that knot for you?" she asked, taking out a loaf of bread and a jam filled doughnut.

"Oh my Lartha dear, whatever shall your husband say? Please, my hands are too shaky in my old age. I'll be visiting the grandchildren later today, don't want them to think i can't tie a simple scarf!"

"It's fine. It's what neighbours and friends are for after all." she dusted the flour off her hands before going around the counter, taking the old scarf which easily fell off and tying it into a strong knot, "Not too tight i hope? Do you want me to find a better scarf for you? Some people are selling them to mark the occasion."

"Oh not at all! I wore this for Emperor Etum's funeral and it's as good for this as it for everything else!" the old woman laughed, taking out her wallet as she proceeded to count the money necessary for the price.

"You went to that?" Lartha raised an eyebrow, "The vigil at the town square?"

"Oh yes, i left a candle and some flowers at the local shrine, offered a prayer for our kindest emperor. I swear to the gods the pillar was like a garden it had so many flowers! Did you see it?"

"My family was never very patriotic...before this."

"It's quite alright dear. Now is when it matters, when it counts. Those rats are just lucky i have arthritis or they'd see what a former soldier can do!"

"Setnia no. And please no taking a rifle and declaring you'll snipe any Vaherian who tries to enter the town. You gave us all quite a scare when you took out those old mines and tried to mine the town. We barely had time to dispose of them safely!"

"Oh pish posh! Just you wait, the Scion will come back for us! He's like good old Etum, not his incompetent father! And the Dux will lead the charge! Now that's a man, like my husband, god bellow care for him, soil be light on his grave."

"I guess they're right about only missing something after losing it." Lartha laughed, "Now hurry along, i'm sure your grandkids will be anxiously expecting their nan." she hurried old Setnia out the store, washing her hands and putting on her gloves before she was ready to greet the other customers of the day, "I guess even i can be a little patriotic."
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Aksil performed his daily ablutions, washing himself in water and burning incense before moving out into the street. Usually his people didn't wear black, but knowing the rats, them changing their behaviour even slightly scared the ever loving shit out of them. After all, it could be the beginnings of another "rebellion" and Heavens forbid if that were to happen. Well for them anyway. They never could fully be rid of the Imazani's rebellious streak.

Jean the Shithead probably wasn't going to hold a speech today. Probably. Unless he wanted a brick thrown at him and his men. And then his men opening fire, and then another bloodbath followed by his people showing those wannabe colonists the meaning of the word reprisal. Fucking parasites. It mattered not. They always protested on this day but considering the whispers of what was happening abroad in the other occupied territories, it would just be rude towards their kin if Ifri didn't join in on freaking the rats the fuck out.

It was a good crowd. Imazani riots generally had more people but that was only if another rat was too high on his ass fumes to forget picking a fight with them was a bad idea. Though for a demonstration this was still good. Half the town was out. The placards ranged from the boring "Get out" to more fun things like caricatures of Charlie-boy being kicked out of Ifri. Typical fanfare for a demonstration really, it was tradition at this point.

The shouts consumed the city and from what Tadla told him things were even more tense in front of the governor's place. Give the shithead what for he thought especially considering how fucking hot these clothes were. Imazani almost never wore black. Ignoring the fact that only a madman or someone with serious motivation wore the worst colour to be worn under the desert sun, it just wasn't tradition. White, yellow, orange, blue and green were much more appropriate and better at handling the heat. This though, it was like the entire city was attacked by a giant black blob. Most of the people even wore the red scarves on their right hands, key word most. Time to remind the good folk, and the invaders too, how it was done in the old days.

The cacophony of upset roars was beautiful, music to his ears. And even his friends were already there, quite ready for the show to begin. Imazani didn't have true nobility, not on this end of Ifri anyway. The ones they had on paper had either died out over in East Ifri or were still there in exile, either commoners by now or long since married into another local house. But the tribal chiefs and leaders were there, representatives of the collective soul of their people, shackled under the barbarian yoke for centuries, and when they spoke with a single voice, the people listened, and old Charlie shat his pants in frustration cause he knew he could do nothing unless he wanted to further sap his already crumbling empire by sending tanks down. Or maybe his handlers knew that and he was just a rabid idiot? Eh, who gives a fuck about rats anyway?

They went to the head of the crowd, appearing in full view of the residence, and took out daggers, raising them up into the air before sliding them along the palms of their right hands, red streaming down, the true and proper way to show your allegiance to Samo and his descendants. Raising their bleeding palms skyward the people cheered them on with a rousing clamour, the boos aimed at the governor and Charles on their "special day" joining into a single, and rather loud, voice. And for those who saw how quickly they joined together, it would be far more frightening than any riot ever could be.

Aksil smiled at the thought. Their work was never truly done, but like his forefathers, he had above all other things hope, that what the invaders had started, they would finish. For Samo and their people, they would have justice.