Within the Realm

[Brettaine]

OOC Note: This is an internal RP of the court of King Paul II. No real plot or anything, just insight and a Brettish reaction to world events.

It was another muggy but cool June evening in Kronstadt. At the Aquitaine Palace, the King sat in an armchair in his study. The crystal chandelier that hung from the high ceiling was dimmed, but the sconce and table lamps around the room kept the room bright enough for the King's Evening Meeting with the Executive Cabinet.

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Barring an emergency, the Evening Meeting was often just a debriefing of the days events, and often included only the ministers from Foreign Affairs, Finance, State, Defence, and National Security, including the Prime Minister. It had been the King's duty to meet with these six people every night before retiring. He had been doing it since ascending to the throne in 1990, and tonight was no exception.

There around him sat five men. Mr. Dahlgren, the Prime Minister, was rarely late for the Evening Meeting. Of the four Prime Ministers who had served under Paul, Dahlgren was certainly one of his favorites. Prompt and professional, yet easygoing and calm, the Prime Minister was everything the King envisioned in an effective leader and gentleman. Approaching fifty, Dahlgren was little more than a year older than the King. His steel-gray hair was always combed neatly, and his trademark navy blue suit always pressed crisply. The two men saw eye to eye on a variety of different issues, sharing a libertarian philosophy to politics, as well as progressive ideals for social affairs. That was why Dahlgren quickly rose to the top of the King's favorites list.

Foreign Affairs Minister Anthony Corey sat next to Dahlgren on the Victorian style davenport. A tall, handsome man, Corey was somewhat of a mystery to the monarch. Their personalities often clashed, although these clashes manifested themselves in brief periods of awkward silence as the two men tried to decipher each others thoughts. Corey was a man full of dry wit; a man who common humor was lost on but who found jokes about legal affairs to be just the thing to tickle his sides. He wore large, titanium-rimmed spectacles to meetings, but only to read the documents he was handed. Corey's farsightedness was something not well known beyond the walls of the Aquitaine Palace or the diplomatic community in Kronstadt. A bachelor at 32, Corey had yet to marry, although his romantic interests were always a subject of rumor and speculation.

Sir John Allen Hill was Chancellor of the Exchequer. Pushing seventy-eight, Hill was a bald, facetious man with a foul temper and little patience for malarky. He had been in the position of Chancellor since Paul's father, Alexander III, had appointed him to that spot nearly twenty-five years prior. The King secretly hated Hill and his voluminously arrogant ego, but for however annoying Hill was, his knowledge of financial affairs was second to none. For the most part, Sir John would sit opposite the King, quietly listening with his hands folded over his knee. When it was his turn to speak, though, or when he heard something not to his liking, Hill's words ran through the ears of his listeners like tinfoil on a chalkboard.

Defence Minister Thomas Kaulitz sat patiently along with the other Ministers and the King. At fifty-one, Kaulitz bore the scars of a stressful life. His face was marred with deep wrinkles, and his temples and eyebrows were tinged with gray. He was by far the quietest of the group, a former Lieutenant General in the Royal Air Force who learned to speak when asked. Most of the time, he would watch intently with his intimidating brown eyes as other Ministers spoke. When it was his turn, he stood, and with a strong voice, presented his piece with tactical knowledge and verbal efficiency. A widower, Kaulitz had two teenage sons, both of them with rather animated reputations throughout Kronstadt as alternative rock musicians. What teenage girls at school didn't realize, however, is that the stern old man in the tweed coat was the father of the punk rocker boys.

Edward Asner Wuncler III was, like Kaulitz, a gruff and hardened man. While Kaulitz still held a restrained and calm outlook towards life, Wuncler was instead a mean and bitter man. A former Lieutenant Colonel in the Royal Army, and intelligence officer in His Majesty's Intelligence Bureau, Wuncler was a man who still had something to prove in life. At sixty-eight, he was running out of time to do so, and he realized that. Overweight and short, Wuncler often took cheap shots at other people's expense. Politically, Wuncler was referred to by the press as "His Majesty's Loyal Pit Bull," for his often brash and sometimes irrational approach to matters of National Security. Nevertheless, Wuncler loved his country, and nobody could deny his dedication and patriotism to the Crown.

The mahogany grandfather clock in the corner continued to tick as the time struck 8:45. The Evening Meeting was supposed to commence at half past eight, and was usually over by nine o'clock. The Minister of State was running unusually late.

"I believe Sir Charles will be absent from the meeting tonight," the King finally spoke. "In the interest of time, we should probably start the meeting."

And it was at that moment that the Minister of State burst through the door.

"Sir Charles, we were beginning to suspect you had been abducted by aliens," the King spoke as he stood beside his armchair.

"I apologize, Your Majesty," the Minister said, out of breath. "I was having car issues."

"No need to apologize then, Sir Charles. Please, have a seat," the King offered.

The Minister of State, Charles Nelson Blyden, was a man of fifty-seven. He had red hair, graying, surrounding a round face. His somewhat disorganized style was evident as he clutched a folio full of papers. Where he lacked in his organizational skills, though, Blyden made up in his abilities as an internal affairs minister. He knew the names of every mayor of every city in the Kingdom, population 10,000 or over. He could also tell you exactly how many cops were serving in the St. Marys Police Department. He was a man married to his work, divorced from his wife, and father to his children on the weekends.

As suspected, the Evening Meeting did not last very long. The various Ministers presented their daily reports to the King, with hardly anything being out of the ordinary. Wuncler and Kaulitz clashed somewhat over the riots in Tyrisle and the security of Brettish hemp plantations there, and Corey tried to lighten the situation with a few jokes, all which fell flat.

After the meeting, the Ministers all stood and shook hands. Palace servants, with gloved hands, collected the Ministers' coffee cups and placed them on silver trays to be cleaned. The King walked back to his desk, and quietly lit his pipe. It was a ritual of his ever since he quit smoking cigarettes to smoke a pipe at the end of the day. The pungent but pleasing smell of vanilla pipe tobacco filled the room, as most of the Ministers left the room. The Prime Minister, however, remained.

"How is Lady Elena and Paul?" the King asked the Prime Minister.

"They are well, Your Majesty. Thank you for asking."

"Sir James, what do you honestly think of this situation in Tyrisle? I saw the article in the Post yesterday. Bigelow is reporting massive profits at a time when they're secretly concerned about the security of their capital overseas," the King said.

"Sire, I truly believe that the labor riots in Tyrisle present no immediate danger to Brettish interests there. The people of that nation have been our friends for nearly 80 years. Bretons go to Charleston to spend billions of pounds in tourist dollars every year. And it is no secret that Bigelow is looking for more subsidies to build up their overseas operation. I think these 'concerns' of Bigelow's is a way to get some more tax money to fund the outsourcing of Brettish labor. Sire, to put it in a way: I wouldn't be as worried about a bear on the other side of the river if I knew there were snakes right behind me."

The King smiled as he sat on the edge of his desk, looking down at the pipe in his hand. Dahlgren was always an insightful man, and always had a way of putting things into perspective.

"Have a good night, Sir James," the King said, walking the Prime Minister to the door of his study.

 

[Brettaine]

KRONSTADT, June 10, 2010 - 12:35 P.M.

The bright sun shone high in the cloudless cerulean sky over Kronstadt. Birds sang and bathed in the stone bird bath. The Minister of Foreign Affairs looked over papers as he ate his lunch in the garden of his Kronstadt home. A warm summer breeze blew gently across his work area, and he set a silver paperweight atop his work.

Behind him, the door to the patio opened, and emerged from it was Lord Martinson, the Conservative Speaker of the House of Lords from Aquitaine.

"Lord Martinson," said Corey, standing and extending a hand.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Corey," said the Lord. "May I have a seat?"

"By all means, m'lord," Corey said.

Lord Martinson was a rather intimidating man. He stood six feet, two inches tall. A man of fifty-nine, he wore a silver mustache and had a strong jaw line. His words were firm and cold as his steel-blue eyes held firm grasp on the person to whom he spoke.

"You've no doubt heard of the riots in Tyrisle?" asked the Lord.

"I have," said Corey. "I've also heard that Bigelow's stock has increased 7 points over last quarter after news broke that their production has increased."

"Nevertheless," said Lord Martinson, "I am still somewhat concerned that Brettish interests in Tyrisle may be threatened. I want you to send a man to Charleston to inform their government that Brettaine will provide any and all assistance in suppressing this problem - covert, of course. There's no need to declare an all out military operation against a banana republic."

"M'lord," said Corey, a look of grave concern on his face, "I wonder if you're speaking to me as the Speaker or as a major shareholder in Bigelow stock. Are you actually saying we're going to send special ops in against the civilian workforce of Tyrisle?"

"You know as well as I do, Corey, that Bigelow's interests in Tyrisle is very important to the citizens of Aquitaine," said Lord Martinson.

"No Sir, Bigelow's interests in Tyrisle are very important to businessmen in St. Marys. For the past 3 years, more and more jobs have been lost on the Aquitaine Peninsula as a result of Bigelow's outsourcing of jobs overseas. So don't give me that rubbish about how it hurts the 'common man.' I am not a politician, Lord Martinson, I am a diplomat. I will send a man to Tyrisle to speak to the government there about the situation. But under no circumstances will I offer military support against the civilian population."

Corey stood from his chair.

"Lord Martinson, Good Day," said the Minister.

The Speaker stood from his seat, a stunned look on his face. He turned around, and left without saying a word.

Corey took a deep breath, then sat down at his work area again. He pulled out his cellular phone, and dialed the number to his office.

"Sheryl, please contact George Darboe and inform him that I am sending him to Charleston this weekend to look into the riots in Tyrisle. Book a flight with Royal Brettish Airways from Kronstadt to Charleston. Thanks."

 

[Brettaine]

Sir James Dahlgren, the Prime Minister of Brettaine, sat in his office. He had been handling most of the affairs of the government since the Royal Family left for their tour of Gramnonia a few days prior.

The Prime Minister was expected to have a luncheon with Lord Stephen Martinson, the Speaker of the House of Lords. Martinson was a well respected member of the peerage; the Fourteenth Earl of Norwick, and a distant member of the Royal Family, drawing his lineage from the House of Andregenet, which last ruled Brettaine in 1789. His wife, the former Hon. Lady Annette Collington of Haywood, was the daughter of the fifth Earl Collington of Haywood. Together they had four children: Stephen Charles, who at twenty-four was a Captain in His Majesty's Royal Air Force; Patricia; Julia; and Christopher, who at sixteen was a Page of Honour for the Royal Family, a position the powerful speaker of the House of Lords reserved for his son, primarily against the latter's will.

Martinson was extremely difficult to get along with. Impatient, arrogant, and egotistical, Martinson could never find flaws in his own personality. Rather he criticized and belittled those who disagreed with him, or those who he did not get along with. Lady Annette was known for harboring similar personality traits, although finishing school seemed to polish over a lot of the rough traits and in the name of being "ladylike," she often never allowed her true colours to be seen in public.

Prime Minister Dahlgren would be meeting with the two of them today. He sighed as he tapped his pen against the appointment book on his desk. Meeting with Lord Martinson was often an ordeal. Since the Conservatives won a majority in the House of Lords early in 2008, Dahlgren's Reform Party, which holds a majority in the House of Commons and therefore the Premiership, has had to swallow its principles, bite the bullet, and forge a relationship with the party who's views are practically opposite of his own party. Martinson makes it no secret that he not only disagrees with the Prime Minister on almost everything, but he also makes clear his dislike of Dahlgren himself.

The telephone on the desk rang, and the Prime Minister picked it up. It was his secretary on the other line.

"Your Excellency, Lord Martinson just telephoned. His youngest son has been sent to the hospital with mono. He wanted me to send the message that he will be unable to attend the luncheon this afternoon," said his secretary.

"Thank you, Ellen," he said, and hung up the phone.

With one graceful swoop of his pen, he marked out his appointment with Earl Martinson of Norwick.

"And thank you God!" he said.

 

[Brettaine]

The King sat in his armchair as the Prime Minister and seven other ministers sat nearby, discussing the budget deficit. A slowing economy, exacerbated by growing unemployment and inflation, was causing budget concerns in the Kingdom. Conservatives in Parliament rallied for tax cuts, while liberals continued to push for more egalitarian programs. Parliament was crippled as a virtual war was being fought between the two camps. It was up to the King and his ministers to try and find a solution to the problem.

"Conservatives want to follow the ideology of Prime Minister Shaw from 1979 to 1990. Tax cuts, they say, will help stimulate the economy and reduce unemployment. They cite the economic growth during the early 1980s as a prime example," said the Chancellor of the Exchequeror, John Allen Hill, himself a Conservative holdover from the previous administration of Conservative John Boetner.

"Sir Hill," said the King softly, "Prime Minister Shaw served the last four years of her tenure under my reign. It was right around that time that we began to see financial shenanigans grip the Stock Exchange in St. Marys. By 1992, unemployment grew and more and more companies, supposedly 'stimulated' by tax cuts, began sending jobs overseas to Cathay or Kyiv. Bigelow began sending most of its industry overseas to places like Tyrisle. Bretons had to take lower paying jobs and fight for whatever jobs remained.

"Tax cuts by themselves are not the solution," said the King, "unlike hunger, greed cannot be satisfied. Therefore, Prime Minister Shaw's theory of 'trickle-down economics' is fundamentally flawed. There has to be an incentive for companies to hire Bretons and produce products in the Kingdom. That is not achieved with an across-the-board tax cut. What I'd like to see with tax reform is a system of brackets established. The size of a company by gross revenue dictates in which bracket they are. Should 80% of a company's workforce be Bretons or 80% of their products are branded 'Made in Brettaine,' they will receive 80% of the tax credit entitled to them by their bracket. Should 20% of their total employment be domestic, they receive 20% of the tax credit, and so on. The tax credit should be designed specifically to offset the higher cost of domestic employment, but it is not an entitlement for large corporations."

"Your Majesty, with all due respect, such a tax credit would only serve to worsen our budget deficit. I think tax cuts are irresponsible at this time," said the Minister of the Treasury, Thomas Dekker.

"Sir Dekker," said the King, "I have done enough gardening in my life to realize that a million ants can eat a plant just as fast as one rabbit. With more domestic employees obtaining higher paying jobs, they will be placed in a higher tax bracket. Surely not as high as a multi-million Pound enterprise. A happy worker, however, is one that is paid enough to settle his debts and live comfortably, not extravagantly. Our budget woes will be offset by more employees going to work for better wages, putting emphasis on labor demand rather than labor supply."

"Are you mad?" scoffed Hill loudly, his shiny bald head showing a bulging vein. "Putting emphasis on the demand for labor rather than the supply? So we can give the workers more power at the expense of corporations? And we expect them to compete on the world stage. The labor unions are what has crippled employment in this country. Prime Minister Shaw did away with the labor unions and turned the focus from labor demand to labor supply. A corporation should not be forced to find workers and allow them to dictate the terms of employment. Workers should be forced to find employment and corporations should be allowed to dictate the terms of employment."

"That doesn't work," said the King. "Allowing workers to dictate the terms of employment only serves to take the power out of the hands of labor unions. If corporations vie for domestic labor, and higher demand is placed on domestic labor, wages go up, benefits go up, and the need for labor unions decreases. It's give and take. Obviously if the demands are too high and outweigh the benefits of tax credits, then it won't work. But I believe most Bretons would be happy enough to get a good paying job rather than push for more than they're bargaining for."

Hill backed down. The King's logic was beginning to make sense.

"Perhaps Reformists can propose a tax incentive system to counter the tax cuts of the Conservatives," said Prime Minister Dahlgren. "But we also have to address the growing budget deficit. Prime among these concerns is the expenditures of the Royal Family," said the Prime Minister.

"I understand that. The House of Thieriot and I have discussed the matter and have decided to adopt a more private system. Tax dollars will go only to support diplomatic missions on the Royal Aircraft, and the maintenance of the Aquitaine Palace. Fifteen royal residences throughout the Kingdom will be mothballed and opened to the public for tours, which will in turn pay for their maintenance. As for personal expenditures, 100% of that will be paid by the Thieriot family."

"Well, I believe that something must be done about Clipper Regal. Many people are very upset that we're spending millions of Pounds to restore a fifty-year-old aircraft."

"I understand as well. However I have it from the Royal Air Force and Bowen Aerospace that the cost of restoring Clipper Regal will still be less than the purchase of a new Bowen 737 aircraft, modified to specifications."

"Perhaps Clipper Regal's duties can be expanded to include trips for the Prime Minister?" asked Minister of Defence, William Kaulitz.

"I would agree to that," said the King.

"Very good then," said Kaulitz. "I will add that the decision to send Princess Elizabeth to Belmont by commercial jet was a very wise decision. I read that it's scored high marks with many people."

The debate continued for several hours. Pipe and cigarette smoke rose high into the King's office by the end of the night, as servants began offering decaf coffee and snacks. The Evening Meeting for July 28th lasted five hours, significantly longer than most. But budget meetings were always difficult and drawn out. No Ministry liked to lose money.

At twelve-thirty, as the Princess' jet flew high above the Great Sea, the Ministers adjourned for the evening. The King finished his coffee, and turned out the lights to his office, and went back to his apartment.

 

[Brettaine]

July 30th dawned a rather mild day in Kronstadt. The frontal system that brought the previous night's rain had passed through, leaving a crisp, blue sky in its wake. Puffy cumulus clouds hung like ornaments in a cerulean sky. The temperature barely peaked at 78 for the day.

Prince Michael, who had been bedridden for nearly two weeks, decided to take advantage of the good weather. He asked his nurse to wheel him out to the East Balcony of the Aquitaine Palace, which overlooked the East Lawn and Carson Brook. A line of oak trees stood at the edge of the grounds, giving the Prince a rather interesting landscape to sketch as he enjoyed the crisp, clear weather of the day.

The King, wearing a dress shirt and vest, walked out to the balcony where his son was sitting in his wheelchair. He smiled as he watched the boy sketch the landscape, completely absorbed in his hobby. The King grabbed a wicker armchair, and set it next to his son's wheelchair. Michael stopped and looked over at his father as the King took a seat.

"What are you sketching?" the King asked.

"The landscape," the Prince said, pointing at the East Lawn. Dark, green grass stretched from the brook to the brick pathways around the palace. It was, for the most part, an empty piece of the palace grounds. The West Lawn was where the reflecting pools, fountains, and marble statues dominated. The East Lawn, on the other hand, was a serene, natural place. It was well known that the late Queen Victoria would sit on the East Balcony to listen to the songbirds and meditate. It was one of the current King's favorite places in the Aquitaine Palace, as well.

"That's very nice," the King said, glancing over his son's shoulder. A small mahogany side table had been placed next to the Prince's wheelchair by one of the nurses, on top of which was a set of Prismacolor pencils.

"Father, I'm very sorry that I ruined your trip to Gramnonia," the Prince finally said.

"Michael, you didn't ruin anything. You fell ill. We're only human. The Lord Protector was very understanding of the whole situation. I spoke with him on the telephone a few nights ago, and he had asked me if you were feeling any better. He looks forward to seeing us once again in the future. So, there's no harm done."

A fresh breeze blew from the north, rustling the trees in the distance slightly. It grabbed a few pages from the Prince's sketchbook, but the Prince was quick keep the pages down before they were ripped from the book.

Two servants walked out with silver trays, as two more set up the wicker table in front of the King and the Prince. The Queen stepped out on the veranda, wearing a lavender and black suit with gold earrings. A wicker chair was set for her at the table, as tea was served to the three royals. As soon as everything was ready, the servants left almost as quickly as they had arrived. A small silver bell was kept on the table in case they were needed again.

Her Majesty was four years the King's junior. Despite this, there was no doubt that the two royals were deeply in love. Her golden hair was cut short, as style dictated, and her bright blue eyes were framed in her trademark mascara; the Queen, even pushing fifty, never failed to impress the men around her. Alix was the daughter of the Duke of Teck, but always had an independent streak about her. As a young mother, she insisted on driving her children to school in her Jaguar. She hated feeling suffocated by bodyguards and servants. When on vacation at Baltimore Castle in Kenamond, the Queen would often disappear with her children. They would return hours later, the Queen driving an open Jeep with her children, as they returned from kayaking in the Neckar River. Alix cared deeply for her children, and held her position as a mother with far higher regard than being the Queen of Brettaine. The longer she served as consort, however, the less she ignored the recommendations of her security team.

"That insufferable Wuncler was about today," the Queen said with distain.

"Oh? And what did Mr. Wuncler have to say?" the King asked, stirring his sugar cubes in his cup of tea.

"He wants the palace to initiate security drills, something about being prepared. He spoke to Chief Howe about security detail in the palace. I believe Mr. Wuncler is a bit paranoid about Auran and Livonian spies," the Queen replied.

"I will speak to Mr. Wuncler about that tonight," the King said. "Michael, would you like to show your mother your sketch?" the King asked.

The Queen was very curious and excited to see the work that her son was making.

"Not yet, it's not finished. I will show it to you when it's done, Mother," the Prince said before taking a bite of his muffin. "I don't want to spoil the surprise."

 

[Brettaine]

Paul sat at his desk, rubbing his temples as the Master of Ceremonies for the palace paced back and forth, going over a clipboard of preparations for the upcoming Constitution Day ceremony. Although he was a perfectly pleasant gentleman, Count Lambert had an awful habit of becoming extremely annoying when in the course of his work. A perfectionist, Lambert wanted everything on point and on task at all times. And for four hours, the King sat at his desk, silently puffing on a pipe, as he listened to the overly meticulous Lambert go over every detail of the preparations for the ceremony. After a while, even the King's trademark patience had worn thin.

"The parade route will go from the Winter Palace, to the War Veterans Memorial, where it will officially end. After the parade, we shall all return here to the Aquitaine Palace, where the garden luncheon will begin. At approximately 8:30, the guests will meet in the ballroom..."

"Count Lambert," the King finally interrupted.

"Yes, sire?" Lambert asked.

"I'm sorry. I have a terrific headache. Can we perhaps put these preparations on hold for the evening?" the King asked.

He didn't want to be rude. In the twenty-three years that Lambert had served as Master of Ceremonies, he had never messed up a single detail. Yet, over the course of those twenty-three years, the sovereign realized how nettlesome the good Count could be. Lambert had no choice but to oblige by the King's wishes. He quietly grabbed his poster of swatches, maps, and other visual aids and placed them in a portfolio. Then, he left the room.

Once he was gone, the King buried his head in his arms on his desk. He moaned for a second, then praised the Almighty that he had silence at last.

 

[Brettaine]

August 17th, 2009 dawned sunny and warm in Kronstadt. The King and Queen were up at half past six, to enjoy a few minutes of solitude and privacy before the busy events planned for Constitution Day began.

It was also the King's 49th birthday. As the Royal Couple snuggled together in their suite, the Queen quietly handed him a small, white box, laced with a white satin bow.

"Happy Birthday, honey," she said.

The King smiled as he accepted the present. He loosened the bow, and opened the box. Inside was a rare gold sovereign, minted at St. Marys in 1836. Only 18 of that type were ever minted, and it was the last coin the King needed to complete his collection of Brettish £10 coins.

"Oh my," the King exclaimed when he saw the shiny, mint-state coin before his eyes. He had been searching for an 1836-S coin for nearly two decades. Now, he finally had one. "Thank you, Darling. How on earth did you ever find it?"

"I had to do a lot of searching around. I'm glad you like it, darling," she said, standing up from her seat. "Happy Birthday."

--------

12:30 P.M., Kronstadt

The chauffeur held the door open for the Royal Couple as they entered the open limousine. Painted midnight blue with gold crests on the doors, the limousine would carry the Royal Couple from Liberty Hall to the Aquitaine Palace. The Couple's sons rode horseback behind the limousine, and their daughters rode in a carriage behind the boys. Knight Commanders of the Order of Brettaine marched behind the Princesses' limousine, while the Boy Scouts of Brettaine marched in front of the King's limousine, carrying the banner announcing the King's limousine. Patriotic music played, and Color Guards from all branches of His Majesty's Armed Forces stood along the parade route with Brettish flags.

The King was dressed in his Prussian Blue uniform with the gold accents - standard dress for such a formal occasion. The Queen took the retro route, mimicking the style of her predecessor's formal dress as Crown Princess Consort during the 1960s, wearing a pink dress with black satin accents and matching hat.

The boys matched their father, wearing their uniforms as well as they rode on horseback. Their boots and medals were polished so fine that they reflected the summer sun and made it somewhat difficult for photographers to snap a decent picture.

Riding in the carriage behind the boys were the King's three daughters, all dressed to match in peach colored dresses with red, white, and blue bows pinned on them. They wove to the crowds that gathered on the sidelines to watch the parade, and chatted with the young twenty-one year old bodyguard that was sitting in their carriage with them.

The Queen started thinking as she wove to the crowds. Things couldn't have been more perfect. Her family was healthy and happy; and her husband was one of the most popular monarchs in Brettish history. Things just seemed like they could never go wrong.

The motorcade arrived at the roundabout by the War Memorial. Police Officers had traffic diverted, and the parade turned onto the bridge that led to Crown Island - where the Aquitaine Palace was located. The last onlookers on the Parade Route watched as the King's limousine crossed over the bridge, picked up speed, and disappeared on the other side past wrought iron and gold fences.

The Garden Luncheon, an invitation-only celebration at the Palace for aristocrats, parliamentarians, professionals, foreign diplomats, and other well-to-do guests, would begin shortly.

 

[Brettaine]

3:25 P.M., the Aquitaine Palace

By mid-afternoon, most of the day's formal events had ended. The King's speech from Liberty Hall preceded the motorcade that took he and his family back to the Aquitaine Palace. As families all across Brettaine celebrated Constitution Day by grilling poolside or planning fireworks shows, the Royal Family met at the invitation-only Garden Party, just before the Ball and fireworks which had been planned for later in the evening.

Guests stood on the deep-green South Lawn of the Aquitaine Palace; the grass feeling like carpet underneath their polished shoes. It was a tradition in Brettaine - somewhat silly, but tradition nonetheless - for parts of the South Lawn to be opened to guests that had not been opened before. On either side of the lawn were pebble pathways lined in red brick, and to either side of the pathways were rose and flower gardens. In the middle, however, the lawn remained a lush, open field of well tended green grass.

Servers walked around with silver trays filled with champagne and hors d'oeuvres. The guests stood around chatting with one another, others played croquet or catch. The King and Queen stood on the back steps of the Palace, receiving guests and shaking hands. Their children milled about within the crowd.

"Your Highness," said the Gramnonian Ambassador as she approached the Monarch in the receiving line.

"Ms. Despenser. Welcome. I am happy your celebrating our holiday with us," the King said.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world. And Happy Birthday as well," she said as the King shook her hand.

"Thank you," said the King with a smile.

Blue skies dominated the day, with patches of white clouds blowing like sailing ships across the horizon. And behind the rose garden, stealing a brief moment of romantic solitude, was Prince Michael, and Chris Martinson - Lord Martinson's only son.

"Happy Birthday, Your Majesty," said the Speaker of the House of Lords as he took the Monarch's hand.

"Thank you, Lord Martinson."

Neither father knew what was going on in the solitude of the rose garden. It was only after they saw a commotion brewing over in that vicinity that they realized something was happening. A lady-in-waiting stumbled into the rose garden, only to find the two teenage boys cuddling as they kissed.

From there, the rest of the evening became very confusing. A sociopolitical firestorm exploded that night, and a culture war would follow that would cause Brettaine to question its morals and values.

(To be Continued)

 

[Brettaine]

8:30 P.M., Aquitaine Palace

News spread quickly around the palace about the Prince's romantic entanglements earlier in the day. The patterns were quickly beginning to make sense; nobody had made the connection between the fact that the Prince fell ill with mono about a week after Lord Martinson's son fell ill with "the kissing disease." Conservatives rejected the idea of a gay royal, while liberals celebrated the fact. Libertarians were somewhat divided over the issue.

That's why the Evening Meeting on the night of the 17th was so heated. Once a month, the King met with the entire Ministerial Cabinet. As every Minister was attending the celebrations at the Palace that night, the King thought it appropriate to schedule the monthly meeting on the 17th. After the events of the afternoon, he quickly regretted that idea.

He entered the room, as the Ministers bickered and argued. The Prime Minister tried to help the King quiet things down.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the Prime Minister said politely.

The Minister of Education, Ms. Chambers-Howe, was locked in a rather vicious debate with Minister Wuncler. Chambers-Howe supported the Prince's right to be happy and live his life, while Wuncler criticized his lack of morals and values.

"Please, ladies and gentlemen," Prime Minister Dahlgren said again, clapping his hands together to quell the arguments and debate flying across the table.

Still, the debate raged.

Dahlgren looked over at the King, a look of dumbfoundedness plastered on his face. He could see the King's eye twitch; his cheeks were growing red.

As the debate raged, the King quietly slipped off his shoe, and walked up to the edge of the table. Still, nothing could stop the arguing.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please, let's get this meeting underway," the King addressed the crowd.

Nothing. Above the fray, he could hear the loud, deep-voiced Wuncler speaking: "I find that lifestyle to be disgusting, filthy, and wrong. The Prince should be utterly ashamed of the disgusting thing he did today."

Pushed to the breaking limit, worn thin of any patience, the King exploded. He slammed the bottom of his shoe down on the table, knocking off the heel. It flew across the table and landed in Commerce Minister Crane's cup of tea, much to the surprise of the man who remained dutifully silent throughout the argument.

"Shut the fuck up, God dammit!" the King roared as he threw the remainder of his damaged shoe across the room, knocking over a lamp. "Nobody in this chamber will say another word about this matter, or I will have you fired. Now get the fuck out of my office. This meeting is over." the King said.

The Ministers stood there, all shocked at the events that had just transpired.

"I said get the hell out!" the King yelled.

The Ministers jumped out of their seats, reaching for their briefcases and papers as quickly as possible. The King collapsed into his armchair as the Ministers hurried to leave his office, all worried about the security of their jobs.

Only the Prime Minister remained after the Ministers left the room.

"Your Majesty," Dahlgren said.

"Sir James, I apologize for losing my temper like that. It was entirely unprofessional," the King said.

"Sire, I don't believe you were entirely unjustified in your actions," the Prime Minister said.

"I was hoping to get this meeting over quickly so the ball could begin at 9:00. Would you go downstairs and instruct them to begin the ceremonies, stall them for a few minutes. I have to collect my wits first," the King said.

"Yes, sire," the Prime Minister said, before leaving the King's office.

There was silence at last - only the sound of the ticking clock could be heard. The King quietly lit his pipe, and propped his feet up on the table. One foot had a shoe, the other had none.

 

[Brettaine]

8:45 P.M., Aquitaine Palace

Alix, wearing a formal dress dripping with diamonds, sat at the edge of her son's bed, comforting him as he sobbed. For hours, the young Prince had been praised and villified; condemned and commended. The sudden and extreme variation of emotional absorption in such a short period of time only served to further confuse and upset the boy.

The King quietly entered the room, still walking on the shoe with the busted heel. Alix looked up at her husband, as she held her son in her arms, pressed up against her bosom. She had a look of worry and sadness on her face. Michael stared at his father, his gray eyes turned bloodshot as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Paul walked over to the bed, and sat down. Alix knew that he needed to talk to his son alone. She stood up, and walked downstairs to the Ball, which was taking place in the Grand Ballroom.

"What happened to your shoe?" the Prince said after a few minutes as he looked down at the floor.

The King looked down at his feet. "Oh, I lost my temper tonight with the Ministers."

Michael fell silent, and swallowed.

"You're not ashamed of me, are you?" he asked.

"No, not at all. I'm ashamed of the small-mindedness of the people around me. Son, I want you to be happy. It's your right to be happy. I'm not ashamed. I'm not embarrassed or even upset," he said, putting his arm around his son and giving him a hug. "When you fell ill last month, I told the country and the world that I was a father before a King. I am your father, Michael. I will always be your father. And I will not force you to conform to the ideas and standards of the small-minded people around you. If they ask me to abdicate as a result, so be it. Your happiness is more important to me." the King said.

Michael hugged his father, his eyes still full of tears. He never expected that reaction from his father.

The King soon noticed that Michael was perplexed by his broken shoe. He spoke, retelling the epic tale of the broken shoe.

"The heel busted off and about smacked Mr. Wuncler in the forehead," the King said with a chuckle. "Instead, it landed in Mr. Crane's tea."

"Must have given it quite a kick," said Michael.

The King laughed. Throughout everything that happened that day, the King and his son had found a brief minute to share a laugh.

"Happy Birthday, Dad," Michael said, hugging his father again.

"Thank you, Son."