A Failure in this Duty did once involve our Nation in all the

Host: The evening sky hung heavy and bruised, the clouds dark as old ink spilling over a crumbling stone courtyard. The flag above the government hall flapped in the cold wind — tired, but still holding its color. Below, the world seemed split in two: protesters shouting in the distance, their torches flickering like restless stars, while a few guards stood watch, uneasy in their silence.

Inside, behind thick oak doors, a single lamplight burned. The air smelled faintly of rain, iron, and burnt paper.

At the long table sat Jack, his coat draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled, hands clasped tightly as though holding a country together. Across from him, Jeeny stood by the window, watching the thin red glow of distant fires through the glass. Her reflection shimmered faintly against the storm — a face both strong and weary.

She turned slowly, her voice measured but laced with warning:

“A Failure in this Duty did once involve our Nation in all the Horrors of Rebellion and Civil War.” — Charles Inglis

Jack: (low, bitter) “You can almost hear the echo in that — rebellion, civil war… the twin ghosts that never really leave a nation.”

Jeeny: “He wrote it as a warning, Jack. A reminder that peace isn’t a right — it’s a responsibility. When leaders fail in duty, blood fills the silence.”

Jack: “Duty. The oldest excuse in the world for obedience.”

Jeeny: “No. For order. You can’t build a country without it.”

Jack: “But you can bury a people with it.”

Jeeny: “And you can destroy them with chaos. Inglis saw that firsthand — the Revolution tearing at his own beliefs. He was loyal to the Crown, but loyal too to survival. That’s the tragedy of his words: every side believes itself righteous, until righteousness becomes ruin.”

Host: The lamp flickered, throwing the room into shifting amber and shadow. The faint sound of chanting drifted in from the street below — rhythmic, angry, full of the conviction that history was being rewritten tonight.

Jack: “You think rebellion is horror, Jeeny? Or do you think it’s consequence?”

Jeeny: “It’s both. Horror when it happens, consequence when it’s too late to stop.”

Jack: “Then maybe Inglis was wrong. Maybe the real failure isn’t rebellion — it’s the blindness that makes rebellion necessary.”

Jeeny: “And yet… without duty, the world collapses. Every generation needs anchors, or everything drifts.”

Jack: “Anchors can drown you too.”

Jeeny: “But what’s the alternative? Drift long enough, and you forget where you began.”

Host: The wind rattled the windowpanes, a low, mournful sound. A distant explosion — small, controlled — echoed through the streets. Jeeny didn’t flinch. Jack’s jaw tightened, the faint reflection of firelight flickering in his eyes.

Jack: “You hear that? That’s the sound of failed promises, not failed order.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every fire starts with someone who thought destruction would cleanse.”

Jack: “Sometimes it does. When the rot runs deep enough, burning is mercy.”

Jeeny: “Mercy for who? The living or the ashes?”

Jack: “Both.”

Host: The lamp trembled, its flame stretching thin, as though struggling for air. The smell of smoke — faint, distant — began to slip through the cracks of the old window frame.

Jeeny: “You talk like rebellion’s sacred. Inglis watched it devour neighbors, friends, cities. He knew the cost.”

Jack: “And still, centuries later, we worship his warning — as if fear will keep history at bay. But history doesn’t wait for permission. It only asks one question: how long can a people endure being unheard before they raise their voice?”

Jeeny: “And how long can a nation endure being torn apart by those voices before it ceases to exist?”

Jack: “Maybe nations aren’t meant to last forever. Maybe they’re meant to be tested — over and over — until we finally get it right.”

Jeeny: “Or until we destroy ourselves trying.”

Host: The rain began, tapping hard against the window — rhythmic, insistent. The thunder rolled over the city like the growl of something ancient and tired of watching humans repeat their mistakes.

Jeeny: “Inglis wrote that line out of fear. Fear of anarchy, of losing control, of the fragility of civilization. And maybe he was right. Without duty — to law, to conscience, to one another — society dissolves.”

Jack: “And with too much duty, it suffocates. We talk about loyalty as virtue, but blind loyalty is just cowardice in a uniform.”

Jeeny: “So what then? Eternal rebellion?”

Jack: “No. Eternal accountability.”

Jeeny: “That’s idealism.”

Jack: “No. That’s survival. The Revolution wasn’t born from hatred — it was born from exhaustion.”

Host: The sound of boots echoed in the hallway — distant, uncertain. A knock against the heavy oak door reverberated softly through the chamber, then faded. Neither of them moved.

Jeeny: “You think we’re on the edge of it again, don’t you?”

Jack: “Aren’t we always? Every civilization believes it’s immune until the cracks widen. Inglis’s warning isn’t history — it’s prophecy.”

Jeeny: “And what’s your answer to it?”

Jack: “That duty isn’t enough. You can obey the rules and still betray the people.”

Jeeny: “But without rules, the people betray each other.”

Jack: “Then maybe it’s not rules we need — it’s renewal.”

Jeeny: “Rebellion disguised as reform.”

Jack: “Or reform disguised as rebellion.”

Host: The lamp finally steadied, its flame glowing warmer now, defiant against the gathering dark. Outside, the chants began to fade — replaced by the hum of rain, the city exhaling after holding its breath too long.

Jeeny: “You know, Inglis wrote that line to defend order. But maybe its truest meaning lies in its warning — not against rebellion, but against complacency. The failure of duty isn’t just neglecting command. It’s failing to listen.”

Jack: “And when power stops listening, rebellion stops asking.”

Jeeny: “Then horror returns.”

Jack: “Yes. But not because people rebel — because people forgot why they needed to.”

Host: The storm began to pass, leaving only the steady sound of dripping from the roof onto the stone outside. The air inside was heavy with that strange calm that follows tension — not peace, but a pause.

Jack stood, walked to the window, and opened it slightly. The cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet earth and smoke.

Jack: “Maybe every rebellion is a mirror. It shows a nation what it truly looks like.”

Jeeny: “And if the reflection’s too ugly to face?”

Jack: “Then the mirror shatters — and everyone bleeds a little.”

Host: The flame in the lamp flickered again, but this time, it didn’t die. The rain had stopped. The fires outside had cooled to faint embers, glowing like distant warnings across the wet streets.

Jeeny picked up her coat, her expression thoughtful, unyielding.

Jeeny: “You know, Inglis was right about one thing — failure of duty invites disaster. But maybe duty isn’t to kings or creeds. Maybe it’s to truth.”

Jack: “And when truth itself becomes rebellion?”

Jeeny: “Then rebellion becomes sacred.”

Host: The two of them stood by the open window, the scent of renewal mixing with the ghost of smoke.

And through the dark, Charles Inglis’s words echoed — not as doctrine, but as warning:

that when duty is forgotten, nations unravel;
that when order becomes tyranny, rebellion is born;
and that the horrors of civil war are not born from defiance —
but from the silence that precedes it.

The lamp burned low.
The storm passed.
And somewhere beyond the rain-soaked streets,
history waited — listening.