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Author's notes: Well, I don't know any Italian, but I think Guido should be pronounced GWEE-do and Beatrice should be be-a-TREE-chay AC 181
As I stand, watching over my sleeping child, I fear for him, unsure now of what his future may hold. When I ascended the throne of the Sanc Kingdom, our embrace of absolute pacifism seemed a thing to be proud of, a thing noble and full of light. But now, with the constant threat of the Federation hanging over us, I find myself afraid. I, head of the Sanc Kingdom and patriarch of the Peacecrafts -- how can I fear? But I do. Standing in a palace that is one of the last remnants of the aristocracy that formerly governed Earth, I cannot appreciate the beauty that is around, cannot find peace in the treasured oil paintings or the cold marble sculptures. They are nothing to me; they are merely the unwelcome reminders of my title and rank, badges that command not the respect of the people but the deadly gaze of the Federation. Already I can feel them plotting, planning to destroy my kingdom. We are the final bastion against them and their notions of equality, we who symbolize peace rather than war and nobility rather than laity. How could they not hate us and all we represent? Every day now, I wait for the declaration of war that will be our end, praying to God to give me the courage to stay till the very last with my dying country. But even so, how can I sacrifice my children on the cold altar of peace? They know nothing of the absolute pacifism that lies at the heart of the Peacecraft rule, though they bear the name. And so, I watch Milliardo sleep the sleep of the innocent, unaware of the storm clouds forming above, blissfully certain that his father will always be there to protect him. But I cannot unless I sacrifice the Sanc Kingdom, for only through war can we survive now. And this I cannot do. I am king, and all the citizens are my family, no more and no less precious to me than my blood. I will not betray those who have put their trust in me; thus, our ruin is inevitable. So I watch, and I wonder what my son will think of his father, a man too weak to stand up for him and too stubborn to bend to what seems the only practical course, and I pray he will find it in himself to finally forgive me. * * * AC 181
As I stand, watching over my sleeping child, I often wonder what life would be like if the Federation had not taken over, if it had not declared war on the aristocracy of the world. Different, of course. But how so? I, I who was once Guido Rossini, Baron of Milan and Count of Venice -- I now stand among the sorry remains of an old apartment building, forced to watch my wife dirty her formerly unblemished hands so that we may eat. Ah, my poor Beatrice . . . When she married me, we believed our union to be a melding of lives and kingdoms, the brotherless Baroness of Milan wedding the bachelor Count of Venice, a cause for celebration. It was so then. Perhaps not now, as she might have remained unharmed if not for me. Yet, she has blessed me with little Lucrezia, the joy of my life, a gift I would never forsake. She was also harboring a second such miracle in her womb, another promise of light in our darkening world. But then, the Federation came, with their ideals of equality, and overthrew the nobility, establishing instead a reign of the poor over the poorer. By ousting privileged, they had merely succeeded in increasing the huddled masses of the tired and the worn. We fled that night, afraid for our unborn child. We took to the streets, disguised ourselves as the homeless, and in pretending, we turned our facade into a reality. Now, Italy is lost to us -- all that she was has slipped from our grasp. We were forced to abandon the tongue of our ancestors, for it gave away our heritage. I forsook the God of my father when He deserted us and left us at Fate's whim. And so, we drift through the streets like the discarded newspapers lying everywhere. Lucrezia has forgotten her roots; she believes we have always been tired and ragged and hungry. She has even lost her language, and she knows only Japanese, the common tongue, the language used for international trade. All she shares with her ancestors is her childlike faith in a God who has averted His eyes from her small, uplifted face. We have lost everything, even, at the very last, our family name. She is simply Lucrezia, the baby, Maria. They would not recognize the name of Rossini; it is far too dangerous to place our safety in the mouths of children. And yet, I mourn for all my daughter will never and can never know. She lies sleeping in a pile of rubble, the hunger a perpetual gnawing at her belly. Down here, there are no answers. But I shall lift mine eyes to the stars . . . |
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