Blood is Thicker ...

[Gramnonia]

From the desk of Michael IV

My dearest cousin:

It has been, by my count, nine years since you last set foot on Gramnonian soil. True, it has been five years since I last visited Brettaine, but it's your turn to get off your lazy duff and come visit. Lancaster is as beautiful as ever, and the weather has been just perfect lately. Bring the children, too -- we've got some yachting scheduled six weeks from now and I'm sure they'd find it to their liking.

Michael paused, tapping his chin with the pen and pondering whether he needed to add anything more. He signed the letter, and then remembered to add, "PS: BYO life preserver."

Chuckling, he slid the paper into a plastic tray marked OUT.

 

[Brettaine]

June 12, 2010

King Paul walked into his study at the Aquitaine Palace. The morning sun shone through the tall palatial windows. On his desk sat a single letter. “HM The King of Brettaine,” was written in a strong, heavy handwriting on the ivory-coloured envelope. Still standing, the King reached for his silver letter opener from a cherrywood box, and opened the envelope. At the top of the letter was the standard for Michael IV of Gramnonia.

“Colonel Sellgren,” said the King, after reading the letter.
“Yes, Your Majesty?” replied the King’s aide-de-camp.
“Inform Sir Anthony Corey that my family and I have been invited to visit my dear cousin in Gramnonia, and that I wish preparations for a state visit to begin immediately,” said the King.
“I will, Your Majesty,” said Sellgren, as he bowed, and then left the King’s office to perform his task. His shined boots popped as they made their way across the polished wood floors.

The King sat back in his chair as he took a sip of water, still looking at the letter as he smiled.

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June 16, 2010

Brettish flags flew under the crystal clear June sky at Howerton Royal Air Force Base. On the tarmac stood the brand new Bowen 747 jet, her paint glimmering in the sun, the polished chrome cowls of the engine reflecting the scenery around her. As His Majesty's official aircraft, it was one of the best looking aircraft in the Kingdom. Today, however, would be her maiden flight.

His Majesty's Colour Guard stood alongside a carpeted walkway that led to the stairs. They stood at attention, the best of the best in the Royal Army. The first sentry carried a Brettish flag; the second a silver rifle; the third carried the King's Standard; the fourth carried a silver sword; and so the pattern continued twenty-sentries in a row.

The Royal Navy band began to play the Hymn of the Kingdom of Brettaine as the King and his family made their way down the walkway. As the King passed, the guards saluted. It was an impressive sight, to see the gleaming silver swords drop in salute as the King walked past, to return to attention after the young Prince Michael passed.

Paul made his way on board the aircraft, where a man in a suit welcomed him on board.

"Welcome aboard Clipper Imperial, Your Majesty," said the man. "I am Arthur Connor, representative from Bowen Aerospace Company. I will be on board to oversee the maiden flight and ensure that all systems are operating as they should."
"Your Highness," said Connor, as he bowed to the Queen Consort. "May I show you to your private stateroom?"

Connor gestured to the King's private suite at the nose of the 747. It was nearly triple the size of the King's stateroom on Clipper Regal.

With the rest of the crew, passengers, staff, and journalists boarded, Clipper Imperial prepared for takeoff. In the King's stateroom, the children sat at the small dining table with their safety belts fastened, while the King and Queen sat in armchairs in the forward part of the cabin.

"Welcome Aboard this Maiden Flight of Clipper Imperial, official call letters: RAF-1. We are looking at a 4-hour flight time to Lancaster this afternoon. Temperature is 79 degrees under clear skies. We ask now that you please fasten your safety belts and prepare for takeoff," said a voice over the PA system.

Within minutes, they were off, the gleaming Brettish Blue and Regal Red hull of the aircraft gleaming in the sunny sky.

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Colonel Sellgren entered the Medical Office on board Clipper Imperial. Dr. Christina Hawthorne, the King’s personal physician, was there, refilling prescriptions of Fluoxetine for Queen Alix and Prince Michael. She was engrossed in her work, meticulously counting every single pill. The gentle hum of the engines was the only sound that could be heard.

“Chris,” said the Colonel, referring to the doctor by her oft-used nickname.
“Yes, Jim?” she asked.
“I’ll need a packet of Dramamine,” the aide-de-camp said.
“Is somebody airsick?” she asked.
“No, the Gramnonians have yachting on the itinerary while we’re there.”

Dr. Hawthorne knew exactly what the Colonel was talking about. As the King’s personal physician, she was privy to knowledge that only a select few other people in the entire world knew about the King of Brettaine: he became seasick quite easily.

“Here you are,” she said; pulling out a packet of small, pink pills. “Be careful, though. The Gramnonian customs agents may consider Dimenhydrinate to be illegal without a prescription. I’ve never understood why, but they do.” She said. “If worse comes to worst, though, I will write His Majesty a prescription.”

“Thank you, Chris,” said the Colonel, placing the packet in the breast pocket of his uniform.

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The Royal Family was spread all over the plane by the time she reached altitude. Twenty-year-old Princess Diana and eighteen-year-old Prince James sat in the empty Conference Room, flicking a paper football across the large, polished wood table. The King’s older daughters, twenty-two-year-old Princess Elizabeth and twenty-one-year-old Princess Grace, sat in their father’s office, watching a new movie in the Nightfall series while they bickered about which actor they liked best in the film.

In the Communications Office on the lower deck, Her Highness, Queen Alix, met with a reporter from Lifetime Magazine, in an interview that had been promised nearly six months prior. The questions were mostly about life itself – the reporter was trying to portray the Queen as not only a political and social figure in the Kingdom, but also as a mother and wife.

One deck above, her husband toured the flight deck with Arthur Connor and Colonel Sellgren, meeting with crew members and being shown the communications systems on board the aircraft. The two men entered the cockpit, and watched as they flew at nearly the speed of sound, seven miles above the face of the Earth.

In the Royal Suite at the nose of the aircraft, fifteen-year-old Prince Michael sat alone on the couch, drawing a picture in his sketchbook. As the youngest child of the King, he was often the most reserved of the family; the one who had been most often overlooked by his increasingly busy parents and siblings. The door to the suite opened, and entered Dr. Hawthorne, with a small silver disk and a small cup of water on a stainless-steel tray.

“Here we are,” she said, sliding a lever on the disk to reveal a small blue pill. Michael took his medication without a word, and then returned to his artwork.

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With a roar of the engines and a puff of smoke from the tires, Clipper Imperial touched down in Lancaster. The plane came to a crawl on the runway, then made a turn to the right where she would stop before a crowd of reporters and well-wishers. As in Kronstadt, a walkway of red carpet led to a stairway. Along the walkway in Lancaster, however, stood Gramnonian colour guards. The Lord Protector stood at the end of the walkway, waiting for his guests to arrive.

The stairway was pushed up to the side of Clipper Imperial, and the door was opened. From it emerged a few of the King’s staff, bodyguards, and Colonel Sellgren, before the King himself emerged from the aircraft. Well-wishers waving Brettish and Gramnonian flags cheered as the head of state of one of Gramnonia’s closest allies descended the staircase to the walkway below. His family followed suit.

The Colour Guard saluted as the King walked past, and stopped when he reached the Lord Protector, Michael IV of Gramnonia.

“Welcome to Gramnonia, my cousin,” said the Lord Protector.

 

[Gramnonia]

As he shook the King's hand, Michael could feel the corners of his mouth attempting to form a smile. Manfully, he quashed the temptation and said, mock-sternly, "So, Paul, are you going to introduce us, or am I going to have to stare at her from a distance the rest of your time here?"

Paul started momentarily, then recovered his aplomb and replied, "Of course, how thoughtless of me. Michael, allow me to introduce Clipper Imperial, the latest technological marvel from Bowen Aerospace. She cost over 330 million pounds and took two years to build."

Michael cocked an eyebrow. "Well, that certainly throws my latest acquisition in the shade. Any chance we could have a quick tour?"

Paul grinned mischievously. "I don't think these people are going anywhere without us, Michael. Come on, let me show you around."

Michael waved off the flock of government dignitaries that was approaching, while Paul snapped a jaunty wave hello to the gathered crowd. Almost simultaneously, the two men pivoted and began the long trudge up the stairs to the 747's main door.

"Bloody hell." The Crown Prince scowled as he watched his father and cousin mount the stairs. "Looks like I've been promoted to head of the welcoming committee."

*****
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The helicopter's engines whined softly as they spun down; after a quarter-hour of enforced silence the royals were able to converse once again.

"Here we are folks: Morningstar House. This will be your home base during your stay in Lancaster. We don't have anything scheduled 'til dinnertime, so feel free to wander the grounds and decompress. Tomorrow you must make a tough choice: whether to accompany your father and me in a tour of various cultural attractions, or to go to the biggest waterpark in the whole country."

Needless to say, Michael was not very surprised to see the results of his quick straw poll.

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[Brettaine]

The King sat down in an armchair at the Morningstar House, dressed casually in a collared shirt and slacks as he sat back with a copy of The Kronstadt Post. The bright Gramnonian sun shone through the tall windows, and a gentle sea breeze blew through the curtains. Birds sang as they danced on top of the green tree tops outside of his window. The peaceful serenity of the grounds was something that the King of Brettaine always liked about Morningstar House, although he hadn't stayed there for nearly nine years.

Colonel Sellgren, dressed in his standard uniform, entered the room with a telegram in his hand.

"Your Highness," said the aide-de-camp, "The Prime Minister has sent you a telegram," he said, handing the King the yellow document.

"Thank you, Colonel," said the King, tearing open the document.

Your Highness,

My meeting with the Earl of Norwick on the subject of education reform was cancelled this afternoon. His son is suffering from mono and was taken to Kronstadt Memorial Hospital. A rescheduling is still pending.

Yours,

James C. Dahlgren

The King folded up the telegram and set it on the table next to his chair. It was not a pressing issue, but important nonetheless. Rather than dwell on it, the King instead thought about the State Dinner that he and his family would be having with the Lord Protector in a few short hours.

 

[Brettaine]

A few days into their visit to Gramnonia, the Royal Family was certainly enjoying themselves. The Gramnonian media continued to cover their every move, including tours of government institutions and natural wonders.

On the fifth day of their visit, the itinerary included a tour of Gramnonian museums after a luncheon at one of Gramnonia’s pristine beaches. The women were planning to spend the day touring the country, before the entire group would meet up for an opera that evening.

Not all was well that fifth day, however.

June 21, 2010: 10:15 A.M.

The young Prince of Brettaine, the King's youngest son, sat in a chair at Morningstar House, his face pale and his eyes sullen. He had complained to his mother of a sore throat earlier in the day, but Alix, believing it to just be a change in the humidity between Brettaine and Gramnonia, passed it off as nothing. Kronstadt was notorious for humid summers, where warmer sea breezes off the Great Sea would clash with cooler mountain air to the west of the capital city. In Gramnonia, a cool current off the coast usually kept the air somewhat drier.

The Queen herself had noticed her hands were often dry since they arrived, and carried a small bottle of hand lotion around with her wherever she went. To her baby boy, she gave encouragement. Still, Michael knew he wasn’t feeling well.

The King gave little notice to the matter. He had been far too busy to notice small issues like that. As the day progressed, however, he noticed that something was not well with his youngest son. The Lord Protector had a day of tours and activities planned, and as the entourage went from place to place, Michael seemed to grow slower and slower, more and more lethargic as fatigue set in.

At 2:30 that afternoon, with the sun high in the sky and the mercury approaching eighty-three, the King and Lord Protector, together with the King’s two sons and Constantine, stepped out of their limousine outside the Gramnonian Museum of Military History in Lancaster. The King and the Lord Protector wore sunglasses, their shirtsleeves rolled up to their elbows after a day at the beach. As Michael emerged from the limousine, his eyes were empty, his lips were pale gray, and his teeth were chattering.

“Michael?” asked his father, “you’re shivering.”
“I am?” asked the Prince.
“It’s quite warm out here. Are you cold?” he asked, his face showing great concern for his son.

There was no response. Rather Michael simply nodded and the five of them walked up the marble steps and through the iron gates and glass doors, into the museum.

“And here we have the Kitchener Model 1889, forty-five caliber revolver with a mother-of-pearl handle. This particular handgun was used by Brevet Major General…”

The Lord Protector’s words danced around and became more and more muffled as Michael tried to stay as alert as possible during the tour. The thought of disappointing his father or embarrassing him by admitting weakness in front of the Lord Protector petrified him.

The King was not paying his full attention to his cousin, either. His son did not look well, and his fatherly instincts were calling. His eyes would jump over from the exhibits, to the Lord Protector, to his son, and back to the exhibits. Michael inched his way over to a brass handrail, and put his hand on it.

The King turned his eyes to the exhibits again, and began talking about the revolver that the Lord Protector was showing.

Just as he did, the Prince’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed to the floor, knocking his head against the wall as he did. The loud thud exploded across the floor, and the King immediately turned around and rushed to his son.

“Michael,” yelled the King, falling to his knees to check his son’s pulse. His skin was hot, sweat rolled from his brow. He was burning up.

“Jesus Christ, get a doctor here, now!” yelled the King. The Lord Protector pushed a button on his cell phone, alerting his bodyguards to a medical emergency. Three paramedics and a few bodyguards came running around the corner, supplies in hand, and came to the child’s aid. One of the bodyguards helped the King of Brettaine to his feet, and the Lord Protector came by to help calm him down.

“Oh my God, he’s got a fever of one-hundred and four,” said one of the paramedics, reading a thermometer he had placed in Michael’s ear. The boy soon regained consciousness as blood rushed to his head, and was somewhat startled as paramedics placed an oxygen tube in his nose and placed him on a stretcher.

“Dad?” he said in confusion, his voice weak.

For once, the King had nothing to say. For the first time in his life, he sat powerless as the situation spiraled out of control.

 

[Brettaine]

June 21, 2010: 6:55 P.M.

Dr. Hawthorne emerged from the hospital room to the Royal Couple, waiting in a sitting room right outside of the room. A stethoscope around her neck, and a clipboard in her hand, she approached the King and Queen with the news.

“Michael is feeling a little better now. He has regained consciousness and his fever has gone down to one-hundred and one. In addition to the fatigue and fever, he has a sore throat and his lymph nodes are swollen, as is his spleen. I’ve had some blood drawn and we’ll find out in about an hour what he’s got,” said the doctor.

“If he’s got what?” asked the Queen, her voice laced with concern.

“Your Highness, without the results from the blood test I can’t make a concrete diagnosis,” said Dr. Hawthorne.

“Give us your medical opinion then,” said the King.

Dr. Hawthorne sighed.

“Infectious mononucleosis,” said Hawthorne. “As I’ve said, without the blood tests there is no way to confirm whether the Epstein-Barr virus has entered his system or not. But all of the symptoms are there.”

“Will he be okay?”

“With plenty of rest and care, he’ll be fine. With his spleen so swollen, any physical activity is out of the question until it subsides. It could rupture which could cause some very serious problems.”

“What do you recommend?” asked the King.

Hawthorne paused, and then answered. “Your Majesty, it is in my medical opinion that if indeed he does have mono, I would want him to return to Kronstadt as soon as possible.”

The King stared at the good doctor, his gray-hazel eyes locked with her brown eyes.

“Colonel Sellgren,” said the King.
“Yes, Your Majesty?” said his aide-de-camp.
“Please prepare a statement, that we will be returning to Kronstadt as soon as possible. The Prince has fallen ill and his physician has provided her opinion that he be returned home as soon as possible. Make preparations for departure this evening. I will inform the Lord Protector by telephone,” said the King.

The Colonel bowed, and began his tasks. Meanwhile, the King went to find a telephone.

 

[Gramnonia]

It was a sober day in Lancaster. True, the sun was shining brilliantly and a handful of clouds scudded across the rich blue sky, but as Michael bade goodbye to his cousin, he couldn't help but notice the changed mood. There was no honour guard present for the departure, no flags nor band. The usual government dignitaries and hangers-on had been asked to stay home out of respect for the situation. Even the crowd of well-wishers stood quietly rather than babbling with excitement as they had upon the royals' arrival. Here and there in the crowd, Michael could see hands clutching miniature Brettish flags and placards bearing messages of support for the Theriots.

Paul shook Michael's hand warmly. "I'm so sorry about this mess. I promise it won't be another nine years before we're back."

"I understand. Give my best to Alix and the rest, and tell Mike I hope he feels better soon. Godspeed, Paul."

Michael stepped back and allowed his guest to climb the stairs to the plane's door. Halfway up, the King stopped, turned around and waved. The crowd responded with a tremendous cheer which could be heard even inside the plane and faces appeared in the 747's windows as curious passengers attempted to find out what the din was about.

RAF-1 was going home.

 

[Brettaine]

On board Clipper Imperial, the King made his way from the conference room to his private stateroom. Night had fallen, and the quiet din of the engines was most of the sound that could be heard. The lights in the cabin had been dimmed, and most of the press and other passengers on board were quietly napping as the clock struck eleven o'clock. From outside the windows, the flash of navigation lights reflected off the gleaming wood trim of the interior of the brand new aircraft.

Paul entered the stateroom, his wife sitting on the couch, comforting their ailing son. Michael's face was covered in sweat, his hair soaked, his eyes glassy from medication, and his face flushed from the fever. He wore a sleeveless shirt and gym shorts, trying all he could to keep cool, as his mother, still wearing satin, diamonds, and pearls from her activities during the day, patted his wet hair.

"How are you, Michael?" asked the King.

Michael just looked at his father. The Queen's bright blue eyes ping-ponged from her son to her husband, as the two simply looked at each other.

"I'm sorry," said the Prince, finally. "I'm sorry I got sick."
"Michael, it's okay," said the King. "You had no control over that. It's okay. Your health is the most important thing to me."

The Prince managed a weak smile.

"Are you thirsty, dear?" asked the Queen, reaching for a crystal tumbler with ice water.

Michael simply nodded – with his throat scorched with pain, it was hard for him to talk.

The Queen handed her son the water as he labored to tilt his head upwards. He swallowed, a look of pain overtaking his face, before he laid down and tried to rest some more.

"Darling, we'll be landing in about 20 minutes," said the King.
"Okay, Paulie," said the Queen.

The King turned around and left again for the conference room, where he would be meeting with his aide-de-camp and Minister of Foreign Affairs to plan a response to the upcoming state visits that would have to be cancelled.

It would be a long summer, thought the King, as his plane trekked on into the starry night sky.