(OOC: Stratarin has an interesting custom for the funeral of sailors killed in a battle. Since the vast sea served as their grave, they would engrave a large stone slab with the names of every man lost in that battle, in order of rank, then alphabetically, and lay it into a field near to the sea. Finally, they would host the funeral next to the slab.)
Coyden, 0900 hours, 12.19.16, five days after the cease fire
There were too many names.
Too many sons and daughters that departed their parents. Too many husbands and wives that departed their spouses. Too many fathers and mothers that departed their children. Anatoly Baryshnikov, Primary Minister of Defense and War, had felt the guilt of sending servicemen and women to their deaths for as long as he could remember. It was his job to not let that deter him, and he rarely did. He would reason that it was for the greater good of Stratarin.
But not today. Today, the blood of the five-hundred forty-nine sailors who had perished in battle was completely on him.
Anatoly had been in quite a number of wars. Never had they been more pointless than this. He turned his attention back to the speaker, guilt weighing heavily on him.
“…these men and women lived honorably and died valiantly. They served their country well, and…”
No, they didn’t. Nothing in this war served Stratarin. Not a single thing. Myriad Station had been destroyed. Debris now needed desperately to be cleared. The Strataric space program was effectively shut down for the time being.
And there were five-hundred forty-nine lives squandered.
He looked around at the considerable crowd that gathered. They all probably hated him. And well they should, as he almost hated himself. Shaking his head to clear away such thoughts, he realised the speaker had nigh finished.
“…finally, as these ships of the 1st fleet…” the speaker gestured towards 3 vessels visible from shore, “…perform a final salute to our fallen comrades, I will recite the ‘Sailor’s Lament.’”
The sailors attending the funeral in ceremonial uniform removed their hats as the crowd stood in respect for the traditional Strataric poem. The speaker cleared his throat.
I followed the wind and waves’ calling;
Shamelessly departed my land.
But one day, my country, I shall return,
And once more on your beaches stand.
BOOM! The noise was almost deafening, even at this range, as each ship fired once perfectly in unison.
O! Stratarin! You have been a good home and a friend.
One day I’ll find my way back to your harbors again.
BOOM! In precise fashion befitting the Strataric navy, they again fired at exactly the same moment.
I long for the tall ice-crowned mountains.
The lush forests I dearly miss.
To see you once again, my country,
Is now my one and only wish.
BOOM! The third volley sounded in the distance.
O! Stratarin! You have been a good friend and a home.
When at last I return to you I’ll no longer roam.
BOOM! The ships fired a fourth time.
I left behind my friends, kith, and kin,
And the prettiest girl you’ll meet.
I’m certain I’ll see them again some day.
I simply won’t accept defeat.
BOOM! For the fifth time in a row, the ships fired simultaneously.
O! Stratarin! You have been a good home and a friend.
One day I’ll find my way back to your harbors again.
BOOM! The sixth volley was fired.
By now, sea is all I remember
Stratarin grows faint in my mind
I still madly cling to the desperate hope
That your shores I’ll one day find
BOOM! The final salute having been fired, all was now silent save the final verses of the poem.
O! Stratarin! You have been a good home and a friend.
I hope before I return my story doesn’t end.
The speaker, who had read the poem without so much as a stutter, discreetly brushed a tear from his cheek and announced, “Thank you all for coming.”
Without another moment spent, Anatoly turned and strode away. To an onlooker, it would seem as though he were carrying the world on his shoulders.
Government Building, Coyden, 1400 hours
Anatoly worked through his daily government responsibilities in a daze. He didn’t let himself concentrate too long on anything else. Already, the Coyden Harbinger reported some disgruntled civilians were calling, perhaps not unjustly, for his head.
After his last piece of paperwork, his desk was clear. There were no more duties of his today.
Anatoly placed his face slowly into his hands. His lack of sleep recently had begun to catch up with him. Perhaps he should just return to his home for the time being and rest. Dreamless, guiltless rest as a reprieve from depressing reality.
As he walked down the long hallways towards the exit, he accidentally brushed against a disheveled excuse for a man. Since he was in no mood for mercy, he turned to give the man a reprimand…
…and recognized his clothing as the formal uniform of a minister. Incredibly ruffled, with the several medals adorning it not hanging straight, but most definitely that of a minister.
Anatoly immediately looked up at the man’s face. He could’ve sworn that he had never seen him before. Why, what minister had a shaggy beard, bleary eyes, and kept himself in such a state of disrepair? Something about him was familiar… bozhe moi.
“Luka?” Anatoly ventured.
Realizing whom he had bumped into, Luka Dreykov, Minister of Space Exploration and Research, straightened. “Anatoly.”
“Are you alright?” Anatoly asked, then inhaled sharply. The stench of Wodka definitely hung heavily about. “What happened to you?” He glanced around for Luka’s ever present assistant and wife. “And where’s Klara?”
With a sullen tone Anatoly had never heard from him before, Luka replied, “Why do you care?” then continued his journey down the hall.
Anatoly just stared after him for several seconds, then leaned against the nearest wall and slowly slid down it. This was too much. Luka had been one of the most cheerful, clever people he’d had the pleasure of working with. Had the minister really let Drugov cutting his budget affect him to such a degree?
Which only happened because of this accursed war …that I started.
“The most trying part of a war is never the beginning. The most trying part of a war is never the middle. The most trying part of a war is never the end. No, the most trying part of a war is when the tortured souls come home, when the loss sinks in, when those who have been changed attempt to fit back into their daily lives. The most trying part of a war is the aftermath.” -Pavel Bulgakov, Ancient Strataric Philosopher[edit_reason]Spaced out the paragraphs[/edit_reason]