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Once upon a time, in a little world of brass and steam...

There was a brief moment, so powerful that it felt eternal, during which the whole Universe seemed to be holding its breath, waiting. There had to be something more, something grand and unforgettable that would give this war a satisfying end, that would ring down the curtain on the tragic past three years with an iconic image, or a sound that would become the motto of a generation. Perhaps a white flag being raised from atop the palace, or a final heroic shot destroying the last remnants of the old order, or joyous cheers surging from the masses below... In the end, though, there were only a few soft footsteps on the ash-and-blood-covered cobblestones, and muffled sobs coming from behind the last barricade. No one loudly proclaimed their victory; no one shouted their surrender. Tired eyes met, words were whispered, weapons were laid down among the ruins, and so it ended. Later, there was a kiss, pressed upon rosy lips with a tenderness that belied an underlying passion, one that threatened to consume the two lovers, amongst the overgrown grass and bushes of what had been a botanical garden. The broken glass of its walls and ceiling reflected the orange glow of dusk most beautifully, though the air remained cold. The woman shivered, her bare shoulders and arms covered in goosebumps, and deepened the kiss. She wanted... nay, needed to drown herself in it, so that the world beyond them would melt away. She did not feel victorious. Her insides were not warm with joy, and she felt no desire to shout in celebration. She had seen too many ruins and too many corpses on the streets, in what had once been wondrous cities teeming with life. But had her eyes lingered, she would have despaired, and apostles could not despair in front of those who needed faith to comfort them. So, she had pressed on, said what needed to be said, showed the emotions that needed to be shown, and kept everything else within her. A soft thumb caressed her cheekbone as their lips parted, and she smiled at the face before hers. It was a small smile, a fickle thing that managed to escape the present numbness and the looming grief. It vanished quickly, and her grey eyes hid beneath her eyelids. "Don't." Those smiling lips commanded, the sound of the voice soothing. "It's over. We are home, and it's almost tomorrow." There was another kiss, as fiery as the orange sky, and then life began anew. They were home, and tomorrow was just around the corner.

At the present time, in the same little world of brass and steam...

A million cogs ticked and tocked the dawn away below, some loudlier than others, while another storm gathered above, ready to continue its endless siege upon the tower. The wheather had been mercilessly cold, wet and windy this season, and it showed no signs of improving anywhere in the near future. The Moonlands had always been warm and filled with light when he was a boy, as Félix recalled, but that had changed. It would have been a disquieting thought for most, but he had always loved the rains and the cool air of autumn as a child. He had never been happier than while dancing on puddles of water and mud, his wet golden hair sticking to his cheeks, so the idea of perpetual rain was a pleasant one. Today, the roar of thunder accompanied the first drops of cool water that fell on his face, and the sky turned a deep grey. The sea beyond the walls would reflect the darkness of the clouds and the rage of the wind, he knew, and both water and air would be deprived of ships to guard them for the rest of the day, if not the entire week. Still, he relished the sting of the water on his skin as he walked past the shops and manors of the old aristocracy. The city might have changed its name, but Venka continued to be their bastion. Some of the noblemen and tycoons had remained here, too stubborn to give up their opulent sanctuaries, and too craven to die fighting for the rest of their property, but you barely saw them in the streets by day. They were certainly there, either enjoying a life of leisure or waiting for the fall of the Commune, safe from the radicals below under the Basilica's protection. Félix was soaked to the skin long before he reached the imposing temple, the downpour unrelenting as the ticks and tocks continued. Ludovika would either laugh or scowl when she saw him; at least before offering him a kiss, a towel and a cup of tea. He would probably find her in her solar by the Basilica's eastern gardens, as always, having a modest breakfast while garbed in a modest dress, reading a little book of poetry sent to her by her most recent admirer, or looking at Adorján's latest artistic photographs on the back of the Verda Voĉo. Ludovika's apartment in the Basilica was, much like everything else about her, modest. Better than what many people on the lower levels had, but not ostentatious. Félix had criticised her residence of choice at first. He had wanted to live with Adorján and her in a cottage, far away from the smoke and the anarchists and the aristocrats. A fool's idea, that had been. Both Ludovika and Adorján were anarchists to the core, and loved their ideals more than they loved the prospect of a peaceful life with each other, or with him. He had lost Lázára in the wastelands, and in her place he had received a pious woman, too wise for her age, too altruistic for her own good, and most likely doomed. He entered without knocking, but was instantly received with a greeting as sweet and courteous as he had come to expect from the girl... nay, woman... that sat on an iron chair, a blue book and a plate with bread and cheese on the iron table before her, and the gardens to her right, their greens and browns and blues distorted by the water running down the window. The most famous missionary of the Celestial Ocean seemed as content as always, visibly satisfied with her life but never gloating about it. Her restraint hurt him the most. His half-sister kissed him on the lips when he approached, as always. It was a chaste gesture, which he had come to expect of her. In the mornings, she was a woman of the Celestial Ocean, devoted to anyone and everyone other than herself, temperate like the Moonlands of old. For anything else, Félix and Adorján would have to wait until dusk, when the tower no longer needed a prophet to approve of its motions, and even then she would be holding back. They shared some tea, then kissed again, then chatted. Just like the morning before, and the morning before that one, and every other morning for the past two years. It was pleasant, more pleasant than her morning prayers, which Félix carefully avoided. He loved her voice as much as the sounds of the storms raging outside, but he could not stomach the sound of her voice praising an imaginary entity, thanking it for deeds that were hers and hers alone, and begging it for guidance and aid that she could easily find in her fellow human beings. He loved her for her devotion, but also feared for her. As the tea grew cold between them, they spoke about their little world, and the changes that were looming on the horizon. The New Alchemists' Guild wanted to develop a new chemical weapon. The air defense squadrons wanted to build more airships. Maraĵa wanted to build more submarines. The Sons of the Moon wanted to build a great wall around the tower, filled to the brim with heavy artillery. They were all constantly hearing whispers about invasions and conspiracies, but had not faced a single foe since the end of the civil war. They were growing anxious, and wanted material things to cling onto and comfort them, and to keep them active. Many of them did not share Ludovika's unwavering faith in the Celestial Ocean, nor were as optimistic about the Commune's future as the activists and intellectuals of the upper levels. Many doubted, just as Félix did. When the clocks of the tower all struck nine, the two children of Boldizsár Zamenhof left the solar, the Basilica, and Venka. The lower levels awaited their spiritual leader, and wherever she went, Félix would go as well. The journey to Mirinda took three hours by elevator, and it took another half hour in a car provided and guarded by the Sons of the Moon for them to reach their destination: a dark, downtrodden corner of the city's old industrial district, that the sunlight barely reached. In the heavy rain, it looked like a crumbling castle, the likes of which Félix had seen in their exile. Hundreds of people had gathered on the streets, huddled together under umbrellas and half-burnt roofs. Félix saw a handful of photographers at the front, but no sign of Adorján, with his yellow eyes, brown hair and soothing smile. It struck a cord in Félix, and most likely in Ludovika as well, but it was hardly unexpected. Adorján had left the tower the week before to take photographs of the cottages that were being built in the countryside, far away from the rust and smoke. Or, at least, so he had claimed. Thus far, they had received no news from him. The orphanage they were visiting had been a textile factory before the war. In the midst of it all, some faction had decided to bombard it until it collapsed, and left behind a ruin covered in ash and soot, the smell of burnt fabric lingering to this day. Rooms had been built in between the burnt pillars and piles of bricks, with wood and iron beams from neighbouring ruins, to house the children. An ugly sight, Félix thought, for an ugly reality. There had already been many orphanages in the tower before the war, but there had not been that many orphans back then. This one was blatantly overpopulated, thanks to far too many textile workers thinking that they could defeat the military with only their tools, and it would probably stay that way. There was no shortage of people who wanted to adopt orphans from the war, but few were interested in children from this district. Even in the classless, moneyless Esperi, there were undesirables. These children had lived through the war by eating rats, cats and the occasional human corpse. Many had killed, most were illiterate, and some had been so malnourished that the odds were stacked against them no matter what they did. Broken children attracted very few, and many of those they attracted were not interested in raising them. The end of the ancient regime had not removed all evil in the tower. There was clapping when his sister climbed down from the car, and the flashes of cameras blinded them. Beyond the light and the cacophony, however, Félix saw the filthy rags, the ribs poking through sickly skin, and the scars from a dozen diseases. These people had good reason to so joyous for Ludovika's soothing presence. The underlying desperation was unmistakable. Ludovika drove the crowd to silence as she spoke. She promised to listen to their requests, led them in prayer, and recited a beautiful poem about the beauty of the rain. It was an inspired speech, spoken with wisdom and warmth, but ultimately empty, at least for Félix. All her speeches had been empty and pointless since the end of the war. All those present knew what she stood for, and there was no direction for her to lead them to. There were no battles to fight, no grand ideals to be advocated for. The revolution had succeeded, and all its principles now ruled the tower. Still, the poem had been beautiful to hear, and for that Félix was grateful. Clapping filled the air again, and continued as she walked among them, towards the orphanage, Félix staying close behind her with a spokesperson from the Sons of the Moon. The spokesperson was a man who had clearly been a soldier of the principality before the war, with his hair cut short and his posture as straight as an iron beam. His manner of speak was cool and methodical, clearly better suited for private tidings than public speeches. "We Sons of the Moon are concerned about recent events beyond the Moonlands. We wonder if, perhaps, our beloved Ludovika could provide us with her insight on these matters." The spokesperson said, not turning to look at Félix. "She will most likely tell you that what happens beyond our little world is the Celestial Ocean's concern, not ours." Félix answered without looking either. "If you want to hear my own opinion, I say that the Sons of the Moon should take it upon themselves to have agents abroad, agents that would report the latest happenings to me and our beloved Ludovika." There was a pause, and Ludovika entered the orphanage before them as they two men stood on the threshold. "We will discuss it." The spokesperson nodded. "Good. Now, keep your eyes on my sister. I don't trust this crowd, and it only takes one bullet."

At the present time, within the orphanage...

The children were all beautiful in her eyes, specially the ones who had been scarred the most by the war. And they were loud, full of life, and curious about this young woman whose picture they had seen on papers. Two of them held her hands as they guided her to the center of this sanctuary, their own fingers filthy, their nails cracked, but she did not mind. Her hands had been the same at some point. They all sat in a circle, a girl no older than three sitting on her lap, eagerly telling her about their toys and games. Most toys were made out of small pieces of debris, and most games involved the larger pieces. The other children talked about the good volunteers and the bad volunteers. Some begged her for the Celestial Ocean's blessing, which she gladly gave them. Some recited her their prayers, most of which involved their lost parents and siblings, and she joined them. Some said nothing, and did nothing more than stare, listen, and hold her close when she hugged them. Those, she spent the most time with when the circle broke. They would not speak about the years of the war, but their bodies and faces told her enough. They were small, and they trembled, and became irritated or afraid easily. Her war, had broken them. The volunteers said they only needed more food, toys and clothing, and maybe books as well. They did not ask her to seek parents for the children, but she promised to do it all the same. When a boy of seven asked her to be his mother, though, she made no promises. She made excuses, albeit ones that filled him with hope. She did not tell him she was afraid of the idea of raising a child with Félix and Adorján. That was not something she was willing to admit to anybody, let alone an innocent child. One child, a girl nearing her teenage years, came to her as Ludovika was about to leave, having said her goodbyes to all the children while barely containing tears. She had hair as golden as hers, and her green eyes were filled with emotions, foremost amongst them hate. "Esperantists killed my mother for feeding the Prince's soldiers. They called her a whore and hung her body from my bedroom window. The missionaries didn't do anything." She spewed coldly, her face expressionless as she stood before Ludovika. "I hate you, and I hope you die." A part of Ludovika almost said something, but before she knew what that something was, it was gone, and she was speechless. The girl was gone now, and her brother was waiting outside.

At the present time, beyond the little world of brass and steam...

Swans had returned to the lake near the old cottage, and there were fish swimming beneath the silvery surface. The dark clouds reflected on the water, but the rain had yet to come. Adorján could barely see the tower beyond the bare trees, distant in rain. Fog was most likely covering the villages around it. A lovely sight, to be sure, but the air was too cold for the photographer's comfort. Still, he took his last pictures with relish and care, even as his fingers became numb. He photographed the swans, the fish, the cottage, the airships that passed by, and the tanks and trucks that were parked outside the cottage, his grip sure and his aim true. Some of the photographs would please his lovers and editors, although some he would keep to himself. Namely, the tanks and trucks. "It may be a long while before my brothers and sisters reach the Black Moonland, and if the rest encounter occupiers from Irodein in the Green Moonland, we will have to tread carefully... Still, it needs to be done. The Moonlands should be safe from foreign occupation." The spokesperson from the Brava Squadron was a friendly and reliable man, but he was not an anarchist, however, and that had the potential become a problem. He was more enamored with the memory of the Moonlands than with the idea of the Commune. Granted, it was an understandable sentiment, given how the Brava Squadron spent most of the time watching over the ruins of their ancestors. Still, it worried Adorján that the rest of the Brava and Fiera Squadrons might be like this, specially when they were going on an expedition to recolonize parts of the Moonlands beyond the wastelands and build a defensive line near the borders of the Irodein Empire. Adorján had not decided to join the eastern part of the expedition as soon as he had heard of it, but it had not taken much to convince him once he had reached the cottage where hundreds of members of the Brava and Fiera Squadrons had gathered to prepare. If Ludovika and Félix knew about this expedition, Adorján never heard of it, but he would send them telegrams before they parted, and try to keep sending them as they moved forward. He had waited for an opportunity to see the world beyond the tower and the wasteland for a long time, after his return to Esperi. As much as he loved Félix and Ludovika, the little world of brass and steam did not feel like home any longer, and as proud as he was of having helped in the creation of the Commune, he did not feel a part of it. The world was moving forward, ticking and tocking its way through dawns and dusks, and the Commune seemed to still be holding its breath, keeping to itself, unwilling to risk any more than what it had already lost.

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