_-={Into That Gentle Night}=-_

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Row after row of shadows led by a robe of black, "Fear not, for at least you all tried..."


Excellant, very mood and grand.

He felt their eyes on the procession, on him. The victors cruelly gloating over the defeated, every single damned Death's Head on their helmets, every satanic cross on their arms, every barbaric eagle on their chests, all magnified out of proportion. They burned into his eyes, and spat on their sacrifices.

And he could only agree with them. For they were right. All of them had been too weak, too foolish, too idealistic to keep their freedom- the freedom they and millions of Poles had given their blood, bodies, and souls for.

Less then thirty years ago, a stronger, more dedicated group of Poles had risen up, cast of the chains of their German and Russian oppressors, and defeated the dozens of armies the two had mustered against them, trying to rob them of their freedom. Both that cursed Hawk, black from satanic fervor , cold and cruel, and the Red Star, reddened from the blood of the workers and peasants that it had declared to protect, had both fallen upon them.

But that generation had been strong, reared in slavery, and determined to hang on to what they had gained. His, had been reared in freedom, and thought it their birthright. Had been traditional, and did not believe that they would be challenged. Had been weak, fed, and complacent. Which allowed them to be devoured.

And now, as they were led through the streets of Warsaw, Child of the Wistula, they had nothing. A parade of shadows of men and women led by a German- cloaked in black rather then gray, with the symbol on his arm taunting them- an Anti-Moses leading the Israelites away from the Promised Land into Egypt, into the Ovens. The thought made him give a bitter chuckle.

He could only draw some degree of condolence from two things: that these ingrates would not have been in their goose-stepping uniforms and with that damned cross had it not been for a generation of Poles defending their racist, genocidal, shameless bodies from the Soviet hordes at the gates of this city.

This city that was now nothing more than rubble, haunted by the ghosts of those who perished in over two centuries, and just now, every few weeks ago. What did they think of them now, from their ashen, rubbled tombs?

Did they pity them, for their youthful foolishness and inability to toss the yoke of foreign tyranny off? Did they curse them, for having squandered their amazing opportunities, for having cravenly been defeated by their foes and stripped of all dignity, all rights, all honor? He did not know.

The second bit of consolation was that these triumphant fools, these inhuman savages, would soon be the vanquished, dead, and trembling themselves. The Bolsheviks were coming soon. Their former allies, those who they had signed a pact with to rob them of their humanity. They came angry, and hungry, and filled with a terrible vengeance. They would cut them to pieces, hang them, shoot them as they cowered on the floor, and victimize the whole of the Reich, save for those unjustly luck at having been taken by the too-noble, too- naive West.

The thought bent his smile into a perverse grin, at thinking of how the victors would become the vanquished, the rapists the raped, the conquerers the conquered. Let them all die. And then may their conquerers in turn be conquered themselves by the West, be conquered by those far better and honorable then they.

But, as he saw the few remaining buildings, the last vestiges of the Polish nation, be demolished around him-tossing fire, dust, and ash- his thoughts were driven from those thoughts to what awaited them when they reached the end of this derelict street lined with Gray-suited swine.

Perhaps they would shoot him. Might as well, because the Soviets would if they didn't.

Perhaps they would lock him up.
Perhaps they would force him to work in their factories.
But perhaps, perhaps they would let him die the way he wished to.

By wrapping him in the flag of his nation, by nailing him to a cross, and by lighting him on fire.

And, from the light, the pyre of Warsaw- the jewel of the Wistula, a path would show, to guide his people to freedom.

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MaestroRage responds:

what an incredible story, and incredibly written.

Seriously, thank you for this, for spending the time to craft such magnificence. I have thie saved on my desktop to read whenever. The last 2 sentences especially sent chills up my spine.

Thank you again for the review, i'm glad you liked it!


You are 1 of bests of ng

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great piece yet again


You are the War Music Master In my Records... Next to Nintechno

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I'm not a storyteller, but...

A battalion of soldiers marches out of the dense trees, the steady beat of the snare keeping their courage from faltering. Across the field, they can see the thousands their hundreds must face, but they know it is their duty to fight. Musket fire and cannon blasts resound from both sides. Many are struck, and though their injured bravely cry out not, they know they will not last long against such a powerful enemy.

At least that's the mental image I get from it ^^;
9/10, only because I prefer songs with an end and this is definitely more of a looping song.

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Credits & Info


4.07 / 5.00

Aug 7, 2007
7:52 PM EDT
File Info
1.2 MB
1 min 17 sec

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Please contact me if you would like to use this in a project. We can discuss the details.