Tuesday September 6th 1949.
The Houses Of Ecclesia
The Emperor's tale from the narrator's view
12:00
"Supreme Arbiter, When your senates again fail to manage taxation and heap more burdens on the already suffering, you offend the people... When you yet again take land from the farmers for the readiness of battalions, you offend the nobles and the great houses. When you yet again fail to subjugate the Meridian freedom fighters, you offend the country! And by effect, you offend God." The man said, tilting his head downwards towards the Emperor in reverence, the man sitting within the House of Apollo.
A member from The House of Ares would chime in, glancing towards the general of the Verdannian army, almost cowering behind the senate, "Supreme Arbiter, Have you even managed to seize control of the nononium farms at the outskirts of Meridia?"
"Supreme Arbiter, The Meridian troops have stationed many of their battlements around the nononium fields; they have a monopoly over the fields by using a range of guerilla tactics. When we eventually gain control of the nononium fields, they flank our soldiers and use them as bargaining chips."
"Supreme Arbiter, The people are not appeased. The senates have repetitively stated a bill for tax cuts yet have repeatedly failed. Rather, the money is going towards a losing battle. If the people find out, and they eventually will, about the conflict, they will spiral into rebellion and revolt against God. You make a bad face." The leader of the Athena House would proclaim.
A man would stand up and rise. A man of indistinguishable charisma and charm. A well-versed man. He would hoist his hand to his heart as if in reverence.
"When the crops rot, they're no good. When a field fails time and again to yield fruit, you take a scythe to it. You burn it."
Then one of Senates glared at him proclaiming, "Supreme Arbiter, How dare you! You do not honor the Supreme Arbiter before you speak?"
The Emperor would gesture for The Senate's silence "What do you suppose?" The Emperor would muse, smiling with austere curiosity—less amused than terrible.
"You uproot the rotten crops. And you burn them," the man would respond, tilting his head towards the Emperor, smiling.
Then he would continue "And thus is your mercy. And thus your retribution. And thus is the example of those who fail to govern their regions and armies."
All faces gazed at the Emperor.
"I ask verily unto you," he said, looking towards the senate. "By what is a man's worth vindicated?" His gaze piercing cold, their words would be chosen carefully, his words carried an air of fear. Power. Subjugation. That is the earthly status of a God.
"His wealth?"
"His power?"
"His status?"
Each senate would chime in one after another.
"It's his pride! A man takes pride in his wealth, his power, his status, his knowledge. Pride is a dignity that of self-respect; it is not sinful arrogance! That is a fool's reasoning. This is the nature of the stage we stand on. A man's greatness is not vindicated by his right or wrongs. It is vindicated by his strength, his pride, not by his humility, but by his hubris. A man steps on your pride, you kill the man."
The senates all nodded, smiling along emphatically. Each senate would chime in one after another, nodding in accordance, agreeing, smiling one after another, believing they had been spared.
Then the Emperor spoke henceforth. "You stepped on my pride as Emperor. If you respect yourself—"
"Kill yourself."
Each of the men struggled, as though they were controlled by that of an apparition. Unable to fight the Emperor's will, forced to submit. One begged to God for mercy.
And so the Emperor would laugh, stating, "God has forsaken you. I have forsaken you."
"Do not judge us for our pride, Supreme Arbiter! You know the truth—If we do not claim our place here now, that devil of a man will rise and supersede the throne. He will kill you! Do you not see the threat? Are you blinded by your hubris!" A senate would exclaim as a last attempt.
"I see your fears, your ambitions, but what is ambition to a man who cannot control his own pride, as to stand in front of the Emperor and revile, not revere and adhere, and to speak such blasphemies!"
"As the sun burns the fields, so too must the pride of the wicked be turned to ash. In my gaze, you have already fallen from my light. I never knew you. Get away from me," the Emperor would continue.
The soldiers would hand their swords to the senates. And as said, it was done. Each of the three men impaled themselves with the blade. Promiscuous of order as in death their status was irrelevant. Neither their right or wrongs.
"That is pride," the Emperor would proclaim.
"Ash and cinder."
They burned with the flame and intensity of a thousand suns. A hot gust of air carrying its way to the people sitting around. Their remains had been eviscerated to pure white ash, no money to pay the ferryman's fee. The dark smog would curl, wafting through the chambers. A vapor of judgement.
"This is pride!" The Emperor would proclaim.
"From this day henceforth, I proclaim Joacheim as the senate of all the regions."
A youthful figure stepped forth once more, carrying a newfound air of authority. Thus, the dragon crowned him—without hesitation, without blemish. His was a gleam not of doubt, but design. Simply a calculated gleam of reassurance towards the Emperor. Absolute power. Commands absolute. Authority. Power controls.
The houses would chime in, terrified at what they had witnessed, exalting Verdannia. Remembering the undying power of the Emperor. They each screamed in emphatic fanaticism.
"All hail Verdannia! All hail Verdannia! All hail Verdannia!"
And so the Poser and the dragon would smile together, uttering beautiful words. "What a wonderful world..." the dragon would whisper coarsely.
Tuesday, September 6th, 1949.
13:04
The Emperor, having taken his leave towards his quarters, pushed open the door.
His adviser spoke to him, "Who do you plan to govern all the regions of Redonnia, Ceagea and Valdora,?"
He upreared his head, almost in shock, as if it were a clear answer.
"The boy?" The woman queried.
He smiled, a large giant of a man, pale skin of pallor, red piercing eyes, sharp jagged teeth, veins running through his bald head.
"Indeed."
"The region of Ceagea, the forest region, is closest to Meridia, being so close their climates are similar. Do you not think it would be easiest for Meridia to use guerilla tactics to subjugate it?"
"Meridia does not understand the power of The Requiem as I do. Quite frankly, I could kill them myself. However, I think it's interesting to watch, per se."
"The whisper?" She murmured lightly.
"Yes, yes, the one of the gods. The ultimate authority over names." Entering his quarters, he shot a look towards her.
He bowed her head in respect, stating, "I'll be taking my leave, Supreme Arbiter."
The emperor sat hunched over a book, turning its pages with deliberate grace, licking his fingers between each. His interest was cultivated, like his taste—feral, refined, ancient. He flicked each page with a measured motion, licking the tips of his fingers after turning a page.
By day, he would hunt animals. At night, he would dress nimbly in their hide. His taste had been acquired by time, nurtured to his grand interests. He took great pride and hubris within his extensive knowledge, his taste.
He would rise aptly, in a towering nature, a damned juggernaut of a man in his fifties. Taking claim to Oedipus' heresy, of two legs at day, four at midday, and three at night. His taste was lavish, pristine, Like jazz on a sleepless midnight—decadent, unrepentant.
He would close the book, stuffing the insides with a stifling leather hide bookmark, crushing the book's pages between his monumental hands. To his side, he loomed over, slumping to reach for a glass of clear wine, crushed fermented grapes from Italy.
Then he reached for a bottle of milk, pouring it into the glass of wine.
The white would diffuse, branching through the corners of the glass.
As he would flick his pinky, he wound up a gramophone. The soft hums and sounds whispering inversely. He continued the act now in double time, the disc oscillating like an industrial axle sparking as it went by. Out rearing his head of billy goat horns, Puffed-chested, a beast mid-ritual, he spoke in a voice forged in brimstone.
Cogs and gears twisted as the gramophone spun itself a lullaby of silk.
The Emperor spoke, "I say verily unto you, boy, religion is but a trivial thing. Knowledge, pride, and power are the patience of the saints."
A man stepped out from the shadows of the flaxen room. The gramophone moved in double time now, fleeting, oscillating as the Emperor would dance vicariously, tiptoeing side to side with jovial heaviness, atrociously striding and pacing, rough and coarse. Yet he smiled while doing so, believing his absoluteness in all he does.
"This—this gluttony, this fire—is the patience of the saints." the Emperor would bellow once more, engulfing the so bitter fermented flavors, pouring down the sides of his chin in a gluttonous nature. And he would lick his chin, claiming the rundown as his own with such greedy nature.
"My apologies." He spoke then continuing
"The mixture must be drunk quickly for fear it may curdle. I needn't wait."
"Absolute power demands not just obedience—but reverence!" In an almost loathing monotone to those beneath him, the host to the antichrist-like figure's power.
"How much blood of the innocent is enough before they join and fight against us?" He would laugh out of his throat
His loathing for the weak beheld great hubris, lacking any attributes beyond control and the subservience of the people. He shunned God in such blasphemous nature, claiming and proclaiming the title to be his own, killing those who disagreed.
He strove for knowledge only for power. He strove for money only for power. He strove for power to become the absolute pinnacle of man. Singular in belief, not an incarnate of the idea of evil, but evil itself.
Henceforth, he would bellow, and the voice of the damned roared. "I will reign not for centuries, nor millennia—but millennia folded into millennia."
And Joacheim would smile in accordance, lacking words. He felt his question was unanswered. He poured red wine onto a torn piece of bread. The Emperor would look at him. "Your question died in your throat, long before it reached your lips."