Josepania
Establishing Nation
Aftokratorikó Anáktoro tou Anaxándrou, Anaxandroupolis, I Ierí Aftokratoría tis Aresoúras
27/12/2021, 1000hrs
The church bells were still ringing as joyously as they were on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, though at this moment they were only heralding the beginning of the tenth hour on the twenty-seventh day of the twelfth month in the Year of the Savior twenty twenty-one. It seemed that any item, Basileus Iōséph XV Anaxandros-Konstantinos observed, that was given a religious significance in at least some form could transform the most mundane of its functions into something holier, more mysterious. Be they bells, buildings, bread and wine, even Emperors, what was perceived to be touched by the Lord could be transformed from the profane to the sacred, and that was a power few could understand even if they even bothered to attempt it.
The Basileus had tried. Ever since he was a child he struggled to understand the reverence and near-worship that was laid at his feet day after day, even though, hidden in the deepest corners of his heart, he did not understand why he was deemed worthy of it. He had attempted to confess his fears to his father when he was still alive, who sharply rebuked his apparent attempt to shed the heavy mantle of Successor to the Conqueror. Years later he confessed the blasphemous sin of his doubt in His Own Majesty to the Patriarch of Antiochia, the highest religious authority within the Empire before the re-acquisition of the Holiest of Holy Cities of Hierosolyma. Rather than gently guide him back to fold with the love of a shepherd, he was verbally struck, beaten, and corralled like a recalcitrant sheep back in his place with the cruelty of a novice farm hand. It was clearly unthinkable to the powers-that-be that the power-that-be, the Basileus himself, could not understand the nobility of his bloodline and the holiness of his person, as head of the true successor to Anaxander's Dream of a united Pelasgia under the rule of his sons and daughters in Anaxandroupolis. And so, rather than seek wisdom from a mortal on this earth for a third time and risk further humiliation and shame, he sought the answers in prayer to the Savior, to the Conqueror, to the Archangels and the many, many, many Saints he could choose from within the Tiburan Catholic Church: Why Was He Basileus?
They were silent.
Maybe they didn't know either. If so, that was incredibly troubling, for if even the Divine doubt the majesty of His Majesty, then who was His Majesty to remain His Majesty? The subsequent questions, for indeed many others sprouted from this rabbit hole, would've made the Pelasgian ancient philosophers' heads spin in bewilderment. It was, ultimately, a dangerous road to travel without guidance, and thus far the Basileus had not recruited a sufficient guide or, at minimum, companion for this journey.
So he remained in Purgatory of Existence, trapped between the Heaven of His Perceived Majesty and the Hell of His Blasphemous Doubt, allowed only to show one and not the other, and not able to enjoy the life of moderation in all things that the philosopher Aristotle preached centuries before Christ preached his own holy philosophy. Therefore he resolved to showed the former by being inaccessible to most, and remained in the latter through the same self-imposed inaccessibility. A vicious cycle that allowed him no exit or relief.
His one remaining comfort was, perhaps, that Anaxander had the same feelings as well. This too was a blasphemous thought. To the Aresouranoí the Conqueror was the ideal Pelasgian they were destined to emulate: glorious, confident, invincible, unbeatable, unstoppable. But did they know him, truly? Or did they only know him like they currently knew the Basileus? That was a mystery that, perhaps, the Basileus could solve. Perhaps the answer was indeed to emulate the Conqueror, regardless of his true personality.
Perhaps through living Anaxander's Dream, he could escape the Nightmare of Reality.
27/12/2021, 1000hrs
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The church bells were still ringing as joyously as they were on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, though at this moment they were only heralding the beginning of the tenth hour on the twenty-seventh day of the twelfth month in the Year of the Savior twenty twenty-one. It seemed that any item, Basileus Iōséph XV Anaxandros-Konstantinos observed, that was given a religious significance in at least some form could transform the most mundane of its functions into something holier, more mysterious. Be they bells, buildings, bread and wine, even Emperors, what was perceived to be touched by the Lord could be transformed from the profane to the sacred, and that was a power few could understand even if they even bothered to attempt it.
The Basileus had tried. Ever since he was a child he struggled to understand the reverence and near-worship that was laid at his feet day after day, even though, hidden in the deepest corners of his heart, he did not understand why he was deemed worthy of it. He had attempted to confess his fears to his father when he was still alive, who sharply rebuked his apparent attempt to shed the heavy mantle of Successor to the Conqueror. Years later he confessed the blasphemous sin of his doubt in His Own Majesty to the Patriarch of Antiochia, the highest religious authority within the Empire before the re-acquisition of the Holiest of Holy Cities of Hierosolyma. Rather than gently guide him back to fold with the love of a shepherd, he was verbally struck, beaten, and corralled like a recalcitrant sheep back in his place with the cruelty of a novice farm hand. It was clearly unthinkable to the powers-that-be that the power-that-be, the Basileus himself, could not understand the nobility of his bloodline and the holiness of his person, as head of the true successor to Anaxander's Dream of a united Pelasgia under the rule of his sons and daughters in Anaxandroupolis. And so, rather than seek wisdom from a mortal on this earth for a third time and risk further humiliation and shame, he sought the answers in prayer to the Savior, to the Conqueror, to the Archangels and the many, many, many Saints he could choose from within the Tiburan Catholic Church: Why Was He Basileus?
They were silent.
Maybe they didn't know either. If so, that was incredibly troubling, for if even the Divine doubt the majesty of His Majesty, then who was His Majesty to remain His Majesty? The subsequent questions, for indeed many others sprouted from this rabbit hole, would've made the Pelasgian ancient philosophers' heads spin in bewilderment. It was, ultimately, a dangerous road to travel without guidance, and thus far the Basileus had not recruited a sufficient guide or, at minimum, companion for this journey.
So he remained in Purgatory of Existence, trapped between the Heaven of His Perceived Majesty and the Hell of His Blasphemous Doubt, allowed only to show one and not the other, and not able to enjoy the life of moderation in all things that the philosopher Aristotle preached centuries before Christ preached his own holy philosophy. Therefore he resolved to showed the former by being inaccessible to most, and remained in the latter through the same self-imposed inaccessibility. A vicious cycle that allowed him no exit or relief.
His one remaining comfort was, perhaps, that Anaxander had the same feelings as well. This too was a blasphemous thought. To the Aresouranoí the Conqueror was the ideal Pelasgian they were destined to emulate: glorious, confident, invincible, unbeatable, unstoppable. But did they know him, truly? Or did they only know him like they currently knew the Basileus? That was a mystery that, perhaps, the Basileus could solve. Perhaps the answer was indeed to emulate the Conqueror, regardless of his true personality.
Perhaps through living Anaxander's Dream, he could escape the Nightmare of Reality.