Author Notes:
Apologies for the delay, I have been maintaning/repainting the household with my Mom in preparation for the holiday season. Such a course of action will continue for the near future as well, as we want to march into the new year with a bit more brighter of a home. This, however, is only made possible due to all of your well wishes, your contributions, your Tithes! So reach out to your back, and give it a good back, whoever you are! Because! You! Have! Earned! It!
Phew... Now then without further ado, onto the story... And hopefully I remember to set up the Monthly Recruitment Drive this time lol
It should start from now to the 25th.
Oh, and check out Bryn's picture as well.
https://www.patreo-n.com/Heartbreak117
https://ko-fi.com/heartbreak117/goal?g=0
Bryn: https://postimg.cc/tshVPVnX
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London remains burning, and it will remain so for quite some time. Despite their best efforts, the few Matilda tanks the capitalists kept hidden in their private arsenal weren't enough to tip the scales of this sudden civil war in their favor. So far, the best these infantry tanks could do was to advance the capitalists' line for some hundreds of meters or a couple of building blocks before they're either disabled and abandoned or taken out by suicide attacks from the other factions. Despite the mounting losses of combatant and civilian lives in this conflict, though, none of the three major forces seems willing to call for a truce.
Statistically speaking, the militias have the weakest firepower, but boast numerical superiority. This stands in direct contrast to the Royal Guards, which has the smallest troop complements but is arguably the best equipped for a long defensive holdout. The capitalists' and nobles' faction, however, is quite positively a middling force. Other than their surprise package of Matilda tanks, they're only capable of bringing to bear a few machine guns and artillery pieces; more than what the militias have but less than what the loyalist Royal Guards use. For the forces fighting inside London, a delicate balance is thus achieved after countless sacrifices and unwanted casualties have been incurred. Other than a few minor breakouts, the civil war is falling into a twisted stalemate just as the sun is setting. The factions are still obviously fighting, as evidenced by the still intense gunfire throughout London. Yet, none dare to make any overt attempt at a major offensive, at least not anytime soon. Having incurred numerous losses during the day, even the most hotheaded participants find themselves dreading the prospect of a costly night battle. Right now, the leaders of the three factions are banking on the fact that their respective reinforcements will arrive at London by tomorrow morning, barring any unforeseen developments, of course.
Before that, though, certain discussions can't be put on hold.
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St George's Cathedral, Southwark. A 19th-century Catholic cathedral built in the Gothic style and offering Sunday masses in Spanish... Before it fell from public grace for reasons known to all. Located a mere walk away from the Imperial War Museum of London, the cathedral is the proverbial heart of the surrounding key logistical routes on the East side of the River Thames. St George's Cathedral is also the last checkpoint before you reach the Westminster Bridge and Big Ben, where, just behind them, is Buckingham Palace itself. As such, it's no wonder that the militias opt to commandeer the cathedral as a base of operations. More than being a convenient starting point, St George's Cathedral is a defensible location on its own, being a rugged structure to small arms fire, and the bridges due North and West of it are manmade chokepoints against counterattacks. It's here that the leadership of the London militias and the hapless civilians gather around.
Walking among the people of his faction, the injured Count of Farbanti glimpses the weathered face of the militia that composed the majority of his fighting force. Many of them are elderly veterans, yet a lot more are young men just shy of the service age, and even women, widows, who have nothing to lose. Their equipment can't be more disuniform, with almost none wearing combat fatigues, just bandoliers or bullets stocked in pockets. Their firearms are a mix of Lee-Enfield rifles, hunting shotguns, and even antique yet serviceable black powder rifles. Only some trustworthy and experienced members are given a full set of modern combat gear. More importantly, none of them is perfectly healthy. St George's Cathedral, other than being a temporary headquarters, is but one of many field hospitals the militias have set up to treat the increasingly worse influx of patients, none other than injured combatants and civilians. The soldiers that the Count are seeing, they're those who are injured yet are biting back their pain so that those with more grievous wounds can be treated first. It's a solid display of soldierly, camaraderie and humanity, coming from what can only be described as a group that is worse than Rusviet conscripts. So ragtag is his force that the Count of Farbanti can't help but wonder why they are still in the fight after so many losses and so long, but then he realizes that it's sheer desperation, hatred, and stubbornness that keep the militias in the thick of combat despite overwhelming odds.
These happenstance fighters still think that their sacrifices of today can truly bring about a better tomorrow, or it can be that they just want to make the killers of their families pay... Regardless of the reason, the Count still feels guilty that the truth may very well be vastly different from their expectation. Those with greater minds will be able to identify that the matter of today has been orchestrated by an unseen hand. Willingly or not, they all have been made into pawns, even the Count himself is not an exception. During the day, there have been a few close calls, situations where the Count could have perished or the militias would fold prematurely in the three-way conflict. Fortunately, the spontaneity and ingenuity of man mean that those close calls were defused in the end, paving the way for the Count of Farbanti to reach St George's Cathedral at last.
Dismissing the few militias who escort or salute him, and amid the wailing of distraught and injured civilians, the Count of Farbanti makes his way deeper into the depths of St George's Cathedral. Coming upon a quiet confessional that is guarded by a pair of old veterans, the Count spares them a curt nod as he disappears into the stall that has long since fallen into disuse. It's in there that he takes a kneeling position, cupping his hand into a praying position, even though he's been someone whose God was the money that can change lives.
Moments later, rustling sounds can be heard from the other side of the confessional booth. On instinct, the Count of Farbanti speaks the unfamiliar words.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned..."
A beat of silence follows the sentence, one that is put to a swift end by a low chuckle. "If you asked for forgiveness from me, then who the Hell would I ask later?"
"... Commander." The Count of Farbanti greets, already familiar with the voice beyond the blinder.
"Count." The mysterious person, the Commander, and also the puppet master of everything that has happened today, returns the perfunctory gesture.
Seeing that the Commander is in no mood to start the conversation, the Count ignores his shimmering annoyance and the burning pain of his wound to say calmly.
"I did what is required of me. I took the bullet. I became the fuse that lit up the powder keg that was humanity's evil. I dangled promises that would never be fulfilled, leading these people, not soldiers, straight to their demise... I saw rivers of blood and hills of corpses on my way here, a most immediate result of a conflict that dragged three generations of London into Hell. Who knows how many will perish in the coming days, how many children will be left without a clear future... Commander, I hope that this has been something you accounted for in your quest for vengeance." Ultimately, the Count ends his little speech in a hoarse tone, for even he, who is an active participant in this madness, finds it revolting. "We are all worse than the Demons, just like them..."
"I do not deny that. It's something I've made peace with a long time ago." The Commander replies from the other end of the blinder in a perfectly even tone. "The process, no matter how bloody or tragic, isn't as important as the ending, in which everything that makes Erusea what it is nowadays..."
The Count can clearly hear the subsequent mimicking of an explosion sound coming from the Commander. Smacking his tongue, the Count says. "Then, does that make me a weakling for ranting to you about what I personally did on your behest?"
"No, my friend." The Commander takes on a more personal tone. "It means that you are still strong, you still have dignity, your noblesse oblige. At the very least, you retain some of your humanity despite wearing the skin of a monster, unlike me. You're only acting on what your loyalty, your honor, your noble-bound promise, dictated you to do."
"Heh." The Count huffs. "Was that supposed to be your brand of encouragement?"
"Well, I do try to pick up the morale of my collaborators, sometimes." The Commander replies airily. "Speaking of that, the next act won't necessarily require the participation of either you or the militias, Count. Should you have your bleeding heart still, you will be wise to keep everything sequestered to this side of the Thames."
The Count raises an eyebrow, keeping his voice low. "You really want to breach Buckingham with just those greedy bastards' forces? That's a tall order."
"I have my ways." The Commander dismisses the concern. "Whether or not you want to add fuel to the flame, however, it's up to you."
"... I will determine my next course of action later after some thoughts." The Count answers after a moment. "Once everything is done, though... Erusea will never be the same."
"The Erusean people will lose all trust in the old, decaying governing body... If they can still call themselves Eruseans after this." The Commander adds.
"You think the Belkans will follow through on this Heaven-sent opportunity?"
"Why won't they? They have both the capital and the desire." The Commander replies confidently. "My experience in Ustio gives me enough of an idea of how the Reich will respond. They will jump at this chance to dismantle the heart of their long-standing eyesore. How and when are the questions, however."
"Let's say the Reich will move like you suspected, then how will you expect to make it out of this alive, if not captured?" In this question, the Count shows a tinge of concern like that of an old friend. "The Belkans still maintain their blockade, last I checked."
"Like I said, I have my ways." The Commander, again, dismisses the concern. "If anything, my survival after this is simply unnecessary. It's good to survive, but it ain't no loss if otherwise."
With a laugh, the Commander adds. "Even if I fail to make it out of Erusea, nothing will change the plans already set in motion. With or without me: Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Malaya, even South Africa... All must burn. There's a reason why this movement of ours has taken on the Hydra symbolism, you know? You cut off one head, me in this case, and two more shall rise, carrying with them my wish of a world without the Kingdom with a never-setting sun."
"... You're batshit insane, you know that?" The Count feels it's appropriate to say that, given the Commander's quite devastating vision. Countless lives will be lost if the things that happened in London are to be repeated.
"You said that a lot lately, my friend." The Commander smirks. "And I'll take those words as compliments. But then, what does that say about you who have accompanied me thus far?"
"... We already had this conversation."
"Oh, right! Then there ain't no use rehearsing the same topic, ain't it?" The Count can hear the Commander standing up from the other end of the blinder after a smack of his knees. "Here we go! It's about damn time I get this show on the road, old friend!"
Just when the Commander is about to open the door of the confessional, he stops to say calmly. "For what it's worth, it's good to have you on this path of vengeance with me, Count. I'll be seeing you in Hell."
Without further ado, the Commander makes himself scarce from the confessional booth and subsequently the St George's Cathedral. The Count of Farbanti, having lost his conversational partner, makes no attempt to stand up from his kneeling position. Still maintaining the same praying posture, the Count falls into a swirl of thoughts about the past, present, and future.
The Count chuckles wryly. "Because of the deaths of two kind souls, Camelot has fallen by the claw of the Evil White Dragon Albion and its minions."
It's a poetic take on the blistering hot situation in London, but one that is quite apt, considering their origins, their paths.
Moments later, someone steps into the confessional booth, and this time, it's indeed someone of the cloth for reasons known only to the last Father in this cathedral. Perhaps, due to the recent discussion he just had with the Commander, the Count speaks up.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned..."
The Count of Farbanti only believes in the power of money, of the people, but perhaps, for once, it won't hurt to unearth his sins to some higher power, lest there's no chance left at all.