Ankh - Morpork, 30 years ago.
There was a whisper in the city. Rumors flew left and right and overflowed into the street. It flowed in the alleyways and slithered from one ear to the next, a sigh of coming revolution.
In the dark, Reg was writing a manifesto.
We the People of Ankh - Morpork do set down these complaints and grievances against the current system; the curfew is unreasonable, we the common folk are grossly misrepresented, our rights and liberties ignored in favor of greed, covetousness, and mindless self-indulgence…
His pen scratched on the parchment hastily, making quick loop - the – loops out of his letters, blotches of ink staining his poet shirt. The candles flickered on their shortening wicks; Reg had been writing late into the night.
When the needs of the many are not met swiftly and fairly, it is the duty of the people to meet them themselves; by diplomacy first, and if necessary, then by violence. When a man is arrested without proper cause and left to rot in a cell with no trial, then the system has failed. When there can be no outcry, however small, against our leadership, then the system has failed. When our children cannot look forward to a future better than the one they currently live in, then the system has failed. When the system has failed, when it no longer serves the people it was supposed to protect, then the people must protect themselves.
Reg was on fire with intensity, writing faster and faster; words and sentences and entire paragraphs exploding from the quill in his hand like a stream of gunpowder. Revolution! Glorious, magnificent revolution, it could not come soon enough! A battle, an assassination, a shot in the dark, anything to break this awful tension stretching across the city. Everyone – everyone was waiting to see what would happen. Which side would lose blood first?
These words are written in the throes of passion and zeal that our suffering and patience have not been in vain. Would that these words be enough, enough to convince and sway the masses as yet undecided that our cause is just, our reasons sound, our motives virtuous.
Would that these words be all that was needed, and that this Revolution sweep through with no loss, however great or small.
We hold in our hearts pride and love for our city, even in its darkest hours.
Reg paused his writing to give his hand a rest. His fingers felt stiff from so long holding the quill, the tips stained black with ink. He took a long drink from his mug, setting it down with a thump. His work was done for the night. Changing into his nightclothes, he brought the candle over to the nightstand to get a little reading done before finally hushing out the flame. In the dark he dreamed of struggle, of defending his home on the front lines under the lilac trees as the petals rained over the battlefield.
In his dreams he saw everything that could be.
The lilac trees outside bloomed more beautiful than he had ever seen them the next morning.
Lilacs are symbolic of young love, spirtuality, and death.
- SilverInkblot