Dissentia

TW - Too close to reality, some may say.

As another day of war dawned on the Kingdom of Dissentia, the longstanding king, Ibib, gazed across the fields from his ivory tower, sipping slowly from a golden chalice filled with the finest wine of the land. For over a year, his army has ploughed the Tribes of Palast, rendering their villages and the already poor infrastructure they had to rubble. To his people, he was a hero. To himself, a god. Entrusted by millions to lead what they thought to be a just fight. Although short, the history of the Kingdom was marked by troubled times, and the history of some of its people was traumatic. That same justified and collective trauma that made them tough in the face of adversity, through time, has now made them blind to the suffering they were inflicting on the Palastians.

A knock echoed through the iron door.

“Yes?” Ibib responds, turning from the window. As the door cracks open, a man steps in with his head hanging down, avoiding the gaze of the King.

“Your majesty,” he addresses him softly “The Council of Order has requested your presence.”

Frustrated, the king throws the chalice he was holding onto the ground.

“Again?” His voice is rage-filled, and a thick vein bulges around his temple. “What now?”

The servant maintains his eyes on the ground, feeling the tension in the room. A cold breeze makes him shiver.

“Our defence forces are accused of inappropriate fighting, Your Majesty. The council seeks your explanations.”

The king picks the chalice up and throws it on the ground again, this time more violently. As the metal piece keeps rolling on the floor, creating a reverberating echo, the servant starts to retreat.

“Should I let the stables know to prepare the carriage, sire?” he said, one foot out the door already. The king waves approvingly, avoiding to look at his servant and contemplating.

As the carriage was inching closer to the Council of Order castle, King Ibib was negotiating his tactics with his advisors. The Council was the creation of former leaders of the hundred Kingdoms on earth. Centuries of war have pushed men to reconsider the world order, and the Council was meant to represent each voice across the continents and ensure peace, learning from past mistakes. During its existence, the Council has stopped many wars and removed leaders who threatened the world order. Like anything, the war had rules, and for most of the year, the Kingdom of Dissentia did not obey those.

“Will the United Tribes be there?” asked the king of his top advisor.

“Yes, sire,” he said, checking among his letters. “Yes – they confirmed to have received my instructions. They will stand by you.”

The king nods, and as he steps out, he is surrounded by international scribblers trying to get his comments. His advisors keep pushing them aside, but one jumps before the king.

“Thousands of children your Majesty, have you no shame?” he asks, scribing intensively.

“They shouldn’t have started it!” the king responds brazenly, pushing the scribbler out of his way.

“Did the children start it, sire?” asks the scribbler as his voice fades in the background, surrounded by the King's troops.

As he climbs the steps, a familiar face greets King Ibib.

“My friend,” the man says, “They don’t give you a break, do they?”

The King smiles and embraces the man warmly, rubbing his hand on their back.

“Sam, my uncle, always good to see you.”

Together, they walk in, holding hands and smiling.

Inside the chambers, the tension is poignant. Many eyes are staring at the King as he approaches the podium. Friends of the Tribes of the Palast are holding a green cloth in an act of symbolic resistance. Usually furious at seeing these sorts of symbols, denouncing them as Anti-Dissentism, the King seems ignorant to them today. His eyes gaze at the table in front, made up of five members of the Jury, one of whom is his uncle, Sam, who constantly winks at him.

Judge Assia stands and addresses the chambers.

“Today, we are yet again in a familiar circumstance. The King of Dissentia has defied every rule in the book, yet he stands, as always, ready to fabricate a rebuttal and accuse us of trying to stop his people from thriving. Again, we must ask: What is thriving on the graves of children, Your Majesty?”

King Ibib takes a deep breath and looks around the room, his eyes piercing almost every one of the 200 representatives.

“It’s all lies!” he says as he moves around, gesticulating. “We told them we would come and try our best to avoid commoner casualties. We did. For the most part.” The room sighs.

“They want to eradicate us!” He continues. “They will not stop until every Dissentian is gone.”

“With all due respect, sire”, interrupts Judge Safra, “For more than a year, this so-called conflict has only gone one way. We have proof –“

“Fabricated!” The King responds thunderly.

“We have seen the bodies.” Adds Judge Assia.

“Fake bodies.” Responds the king again.

“What about the land of the Tribes itself? It’s been blasted to the ground by your so-called high-precision rocks!” adds Judge Safra. They stand pointing their finger at Judge Sam. “Rocks thrown from catapults supplied by you, sir.” There’s a large gasp in the audience.

Judge Sam stands up and makes signs to the crowd to silence. They all follow, almost instinctually.

“Now, now,” he says. “The people of Dissentia have had a horrible past to which many around here have contributed. We should not judge what they can or cannot do when facing existential threats.” He winks again at King Ibib.

The protesters rise and shout in the chambers.

“What about the past can justify today? These are crimes!” says one of them. “Punish the criminal!” shouts another. Council troops come in, beating the protesters and arresting them. Once removed, the four judges, apart from Sam, keep probing the King.

Exhibit A. “Made up!” responds Ibib. Exhibit B. “Anti-Dissentism” rebuts the King again. And so far, until all the letters of the alphabet get exhausted. Presented with proof after proof, the King denies any wrongdoing whilst the chambers are increasingly tense.

“Are we done yet?” asks the King ironically. “I have people needing their leader.”

The judges are set to vote, for the fiftieth time, whether to rule King Ibib guilty of inappropriate fighting, among others. Each judge casts its vote “Guilty” except, as usual, Judge Sam, who vetoes.

“I cannot believe what I am hearing,” Judge Sam says. “Are we forgetting our allies here?” he asks as he stares at the room. He walks towards King Ibib, who once again stands tall and looks smug. He puts his arm on his shoulder as he carries on. “This man is a hero. Nothing but. Shame on you for expecting some rules to apply to him. Rules are not made for us. We make them. Never forget that!”

A small handful of supporters cheer whilst the vast majority of the room erupts in boos and jeers. Needing unanimity, the King defies the Council once again and is walked out by Judge Sam to his carriage.

“See you back again next week?” Sam asks, smiling.

King Ibib, relieved again, shakes his hand and nods.

As the carriage moves through the land of the continents, the King is lost in thought. How long can he keep doing this? It gets tiring constantly having to twist the truth. He knows what he’s doing is wrong but cannot stop himself. He needs to carry on; otherwise, his people will wisen up to him. And who’s to say that whatever sentiment is there today in the chambers of the Council would not grow on the streets of Dissentia, too? That thought gave him chills. He knew deep down there would be a day of the reckoning. He thought he was smart enough to avoid it for as long as possible.

“Stop!” he orders his postilion. “What is that?” he asks one of his advisors, pointing at a hut in the nearby field.

“No idea, sire, maybe someone’s house?”

His vein is bulging again. “Is that a green flag flying at full mast?”

The advisors look at each other but do not reply.

“I want it gone. By tomorrow. No green flags in Dissentia.”

The advisors take a note and nod.

As the carriage arrives at the Ivory Tower, the King makes his way towards the bedroom while the advisors discuss tonight’s scribe releases for the people of Dissentia.

“I guess we will not address the rumours of his colour blindness, then?” asks one of them.

“No,” says the senior advisor. “It’s their fault for flying such a similar coloured flag.”