There was once a time when you believed you were invincible.
(Now you know, that's not quite true.)
You see- Nations, as savage and sanctimonious as they can be, are born from love.
(There was another before you - there always is - who once personified all that you do now. There will be another after you, for that you are certain. Unlike others, you are not dissuaded by the fact. Some nations simply cannot come to terms with their inevitable death. They claw, scratch, bite, and kick - anything within their fading power, with all their might to prevent their predetermined fate. Their trembling hands grip desperately to the last of their legacy like a lifeline. They, eventually, fall from the world stage. They always do.
You, however, want to leave this world with dignity - peacefully. You have yet to meet another with the same ideals.)
Now, for your existence, you can only thank the hands of patriots, those who planted the seed of the nationalist spirit from which you sprouted. Time had not been kind to the Kingdom who came before you, and in turn, they to their people. They were an extraordinary old civilization, but seemingly lacking the wisdom one of such age should, passing down an ancient heritage of rulers from an inheritance long lost to the sands of time and tales. Arrogance and ignorance were a festering disease, and they turned a blind eye - if they even had recognized the signs - to their people's blatant upset.
That was their first mistake.
Something stirs in the streets; the cavalry descends upon those who stomp their feet in defiance with a flurry of furious blades and thundering hooves. Blood, bones, and bodies are all that is left in their wake.
The people, however, were not deterred.
For each step they were forced to take back, they took ten forwards in retaliation. They braved each hit, and return it tenfold because-
-times of turmoil bring about desperate measures. The people get tired. Frustrated. Angry. It's a cycle not unique to you, it's made its mark in the history of others. And, alike the previous pages in the book, it's a story you've heard before - one you know personally.
It's got a name.
Revolution.
(From what you can recount:
They first came in the dead of night, with hushed whispers and hunched shoulders, seeking solstice in your greenhouse. Great glass panels - fragile like faith, clandestine like a cathedral - and clasped, gloved hands held hoses and shovels instead of rosaries, breathing prayers into the dawn of the new day like it might be their last. Treason on their tongues, reverence in their voices - they breathed you to life.
Their cupped hands, whilst calloused, labour-hardened, blood-stained, lowered you gently into a plant pot of possibility. You had never felt the tenderness of man before that moment.
"Careful now," they whispered to their comrade, palms full of soil and a seedling,
"Our future is in your hands."
(And it quite literally was.)
They spent the next months nurturing you to life. Night after night they returned, their congregation growing larger and larger each passing day, until they no longer had to hide you or themselves in the shadows for safety. It was only then did you feel the heat of the sun. Beforehand, the only warmth you experienced was the backdraft of their burning torches, but now, you had the whole world at your fingertips.
