The End of All Things
A single horseman, dressed in black, smoking.
Old dom Contravarius, grey face covered in scars and a worn-out black eyepatch over his right eye, looked towards the great city of Namur lying in front of him with a sentimental look on his face.
They were never going to let him rest. He had to always be there, like he had been there from the very beginning of mankind. They were never going to remember anything but his last deeds. Memory fades, it always does. They’ll forget him sooner than they’ll forgive him, but then, maybe ten, maybe a hundred years later, he is still going to be there to remind them.
He, the mastermind behind all of the important political moves any member of Contravarius dynasty had ever taken, he, the legendary revolutionary who had fought in almost every political conflict in the world since before even he could remember, he, who had robbed, betrayed, manipulated, tortured, killed, enslaved, defiled countless people. He was the only one who really understood: the End always justifies the means.
He was a myth, a monster, a scary story that the mothers told to their small children. He was an unstoppable idea concentrated in one single body, the immortal force of revolution, the undying flame.
He hadn’t fought for any nation, any one group of people, he hadn’t fought for justice or power, not for honour or glory, not even for revenge. He was determined to drag this piece of crap world through hell and more, just to finally bring humanity the future they deserve. He looked up, eyes shining brightly. Up there, there lies the destiny of mankind.
Eternity by the stars.
Young Lucius Viktor had armed the men and women of the People’s Party and then started a systemical takover of the city, street by street, block by block. He had also been the one coordinating with the Revolutionary Front, the one who isolated the old, useless parts of the BNF and coordinated the political dealings of the Contravarius dynasty here, in Belgium. And he had been the leading force behind that „social fascism“-thing. It would’ve probably even worked out for him in somewhere along the line. And now they’ll fight side-by-side with the revolutionary socialists and radical communists and when the dust settles and happen to be on the winning side, they’ll leave Belgium to the revolutionaries. Pheh. Young Lucius will probably want to stay aswell. Oh, he was still so young and idealistic. They all were. Even Valentin.
Oh, yes. Valentin. „The Chessmaster down in Barcelona“! He had long prepared the Network for a support operation that (of course) included the almost total shutdown of any communications between Namur and the rest of Belgium and (naturally) a lot of explosions everywhere around the country. A brilliant chessmaster, a magnificent bastard, a true Contravarius, one of the few still left. It had always been an joy to have him by his side.
They were all ready.
Old dom Contravarius looks at the horsemen around him, all dressed in black cossack uniforms, pale faces motionless, but eyes shining brightly. They had been there from the very beginning, they are with him in this world and will be there in every next one and will probably be there when it all ends one bright and happy day.
He draws his sword with an almost-too-familiar motion. Rays of the pale sun reflect back from the sword and for one moment the world stands quiet.
Old Contravarius grins as he interrupts the silence of the world.
„Rise high your flags of black, you beggars and thieves,
today we march on Namur!
Raise high your flags of red, you beggars and thieves,
never shall you die!“
The black horsemen answer and ride out.
Every thought, every deed...
For You, my Stars.