Work Text:
The last rays of the sun glitter through the cathedral's colorful windowpanes.
The ragged screams of the ravenous mob of swine - once lowest of the low, and yet now masters of the land - grow ever stronger in the Civilized's gardens.
In the grand hall, now devoid of followers, Sage Marro sits despondent.
He could not have predicted this sudden resistance from the fools they feasted upon.
They had cared for them, protected them from the other, greedy factions' claws - never mind the fact that when their grand scheme had concluded, they themselves would be the sole ones to feast upon them.
He had always led his flock victoriously through this upheaval. His plans had been brilliant, invincible, finely woven from the start - a net to snare even the Tsarina herself.
Depose the state of its glorious leader, and chaos was soon to follow, with the greatest pieces on the board masking their ravenous hunger and greed under stirring speeches and bloody battles "for the common good".
And he had known that his beloved Civilized - always keen to shift to the ebbing and flowing tides of war - would be the final victors.
They had slaughtered the opposition at every turn. Each victory and defeat was well within expectation, with even their retreat into the desert sands a most prosperous opportunity for the flock. And they moved from strength to strength, with even their foes' feeble attempt to unite at Snikaree, firmly crushed by his firm left hand. Their final assaults - if you could call them "assaults", rife as they were with discord and mutually assured destruction - totally routed.
He had planned first for their leaders to be strung up in public, a fitting example to all who opposed the might of the Civilized. Any dissident whose will had not turned to join the flock would soon be a fine feast for his most stalwart followers.
But then the Swine had arisen.
Nobody could expect the brutes - the walking stores of their sustenance, unfit even to be called citizens - to have been their final end.
All the remaining warriors received the vengeance of eras due, whether they be scores of desperate, feeble Distillery Brothers making a last stand in Bellafide's inn, or even the mightiest like the fabled Matriark, plummeting to the ground as she finally lost strength in a hail of bullets.
Even his strong left hand was mercilessly slain, beset upon by hordes of the impious beasts. None were spared from the swine's wrath - a fitting retribution for the destitute who were not spared from their dinner tables.
And now they were beating down the door.
Despite his colossal size, despite his strength and will, Sage Marro knows that there is no escape and any attempt at resistance was futile. The tyranny of numbers was too great. No attendants or soldiers were left to throw themselves into the fire for his cause.
So as he sits on his chair, silent, alone, as the screams grow louder outside the door, all that is left for him to do is to imagine the trilling of music one final time.
Not a stirring piece from the whole orchestra, but a somber requiem from the sole piano, now abandoned, carries on in the Sage's mind as the doors finally burst open.