There was an ornate, beautifully crafted golden wall clock chirping away over her head in the small holding room outside of the King’s study, and it was beginning to agitate her slightly. Guinevere Featherington, the Prime Minister of the Glorious Dominion of Saescia, had been summoned to a meeting before the King of the Dominion that very day, bringing an untold level of anxiety to an already-busy schedule that had hitherto been in flux without this monkey wrench thrown into the equation. Upon receiving the summons, she had been escorted quickly – but quietly – to the royal estate grounds just outside of Williamstown-proper, unsure of why she had been summoned or what the audience would entail. Once inside the grounds, a pair of Sentinels had handed her off to the orderlies inside who had shepherded her into the small retaining room outside of the King’s first floor study, awaiting for him to greet her formally. Protocol for this type of meeting took time that she did not have.
This was not the first time at the Prime Minister had been summoned to a personal audience with the King of the Glorious Dominion, but it was the first time such a meeting had been arranged with such urgency. Guinevere Featherington was used to having time pressures placed upon her; it sort of came with the job of leading a country the size of the Glorious Dominion of Saescia, after all. Still, when the head of state asked for an audience, you were obliged to attend out of respect for the office, even if it did mean postponing a critically important defense panel meeting. The bigwigs in Williamstown would have heads rolling in the streets come morning, but that was all part of the job; mopping up the mess and keeping the shit to shoe level so that the next unlucky sap that got talked into the gig could keep their head above water. If not for that, then the whole damn system would come flying off the rails, and they would all be out on their ass in the street looking for a job, begging for crumbs like the fools they were.
Thankfully, her brief repose inside the holding room would only last for what felt like a fortnight instead of an entire eternity; after a brief couple of moments, one of the estate stewards opened the heavy wooden doors that led into the study, beckoning the Prime Minister to come inside. The study was well stocked as any private library of the rich and wealthy would, with the exception of the presence of a military guard standing at the ready to defend the occupant’s life at a moment’s notice – that may have escaped most personal studies in the country, Guinevere thought to herself as she entered. The room was lined with walls made of mahogany wood, the same basic wood that made up the ornate desk that served as the center piece of the office space and working area. The Prime Minister could see a stack of loosely strewn papers and maps all over the desktop, indicating that someone had clearly been hard at work trying to decipher some diplomatic riddle, some problem-to-solve that was difficult to master indeed.
The King was not at his desk as she had expected; instead, he stood by the far window on the western wall of the study, looking out over the garden toward the gateway to the royal menagerie in the distance. The King was dressed in his military uniform, a pertinent mark of respect when conversing with his Prime Ministers per the tradition of the station, though why that tradition had existed, Guinevere could not answer. The King looked troubled, burdened by some hidden foe or obstacle that had his mind cluttered, but as usual he guarded it well; Banastre was not a man to show his emotions all that often. A dour figure in public, the King had developed the reputation of being a well-to-do, laconic figure that strove for honesty and integrity with little fanfare for pomp and ceremony. It was that pragmatism that had made his tenure as King one of the most prosperous in the country’s recent history, but it had extracted a heavy toll in the form of an immense work load that had aged him beyond his years.
“Favor find you, my King,” the Prime Minister said as she bowed, placing her hand over her chest in reverence to the man she had come to deeply respect. “It is always a pleasure to see you again, my old friend; what service can His Empyreal Majesty’s Parliament render unto him?”
“Favor unto you, Madam Prime Minister,” the King said, turning from his pacing by the window to come and greet Guinevere. He embraced her warmly by the hand, smiling; “I know I must have told you a thousand times by now to please drop the royal title nonsense – call me Banastre!”
“Putting aside the fact that it would break with centuries of precedent,” Guinevere stated unequivocally as she shook the King’s hand, looking at him dead in the eyes, “I simply could never hope to muster that kind of disrespect. Your station means too much for me not to honor it appropriately.”
“Fine, fine,” the King grumbled as the two separated, the King moving to sit at his desk. Guinevere sat down across from him, anticipating his next words: “Let us proceed to the point at hand then, since you are on a deadline. Your time is more important than mine whittling away here anyhow.”
“My King, I will always make time for you,” the Prime Minister said in earnest, her brow furrowing as if she were offended by the King’s laissez-faire attitude towards his own importance. “Your station warrants far more importance than you bequeath it, sir; I am most honored to be here.”
The King gave a slight smile and a nod, but pushed the matter no further, instead pivoting to the matter at hand. “The issue at hand is the Kingdom of Sombreland; I have recently taken an interest in their plight over the last several weeks and have sent correspondence to their Princess-Regent.”
“Oh?” Guinevere leaned forward in her chair a little, mildly surprised at the turn of the conversation. “Yes, we have been monitoring the situation from our station in Parliament. There has been some vigorous debate on what we could do to assist them with their current predicament.”
“Let me be clear, I want no stone left unturned in this endeavor,” the King commanded his Prime Minister, continuing, “I want the full resources of our Glorious Dominion brought to bear to assist them. Even if it means draining the royal coffers, we will help our friends in the Kingdom.”
“Majesty, if I may inquire as to the nature of your concern,” the Prime Minister questioned him in response to his edict. “I understand the importance of assisting an ally in need, and with our shared ties via the International Coalition of Nations, we would be well within our right to help…”
“…But why am I making it sound so personal, right?” The King finished Guinevere’s thought for her before she could state the obvious. He genuflected for a moment, then replied: “I have made it my purpose in life to help my people attain great and noble things, Madam Prime Minister.”
“That you have, Majesty,” the Prime Minister found herself in accord with the King, nodding. “You have certainly given yourself to many worthy charities and causes over the course of your tenure as regent, and have set an example for the whole of the country to follow, and follow you we shall.”
“This is why we must help them, then,” Banastre replied, placing his hands on the desk before him. “If we were to stand by and allow our friends to suffer wanton harm while stuffed our faces to excess, what would that make us? What would that say of our moral character, of our national pride?”
“It would speak very poorly of us,” the Prime Minister nodded concurrently, acquiescing to the King’s point. “It would speak very poorly of us, indeed. So then, the question becomes how we can help our ally deal with their problem. We could help them resettle some of the Wenchuanese here.”
“Yes, but you and I both know that we could never hope to solve the problem through resettlement into Saescian territory,” Banastre lamented, leaning back into his chair, placing his hand on his chin. “There are simply too many hungry mouths to feed and not enough space for them all here.”
“No, you have a point,” Guinevere concurred, herself now stroking her chin in ponderance. “So then, what if we focus not on bringing the Wenchuanese people here, at least not all of them, but instead focus on providing the resources necessary to help care for them, maybe provide assistance?”
The King was already a step ahead of the Prime Minister, nodding in agreement with the plan. “I had something like that in mind, Madam Featherington. What I want to do is organize a convoy that could sail for Sombreland and deliver much needed relief supplies for the Kingdom to aid them.”
“We would need to be thorough in our planning,” the Prime Minister continued the thought aloud. “Traveling that distance, we would need the support of the Royal Fleet to keep the convoy safe, but logistically it could work. All we would need to know then is what kind of aid to disperse.”
Banastre had an answer for that as well, nodding along: “I plan to make an address before Parliament and announce my intention to use the royal treasury to purchase clothing, food stocks, and medicine. All of the essentials that would help the refugee crisis abate somewhat, at least temporarily.”
The Prime Minister sat for a moment, trying to square the logistics of what the King intended to do, then caught on to the game. “I see; by going before Parliament and announcing what you plan to do, you intend to ask them to match the donation. You want to double up on our forces here.”
The King smiled broadly. “Charity starts at home; by leading the way, my example will hopefully inspire Parliament to loosen the purse strings and supply the Kingdom with much needed food and medicine to help them deal with the Wenchuanese crisis while we help them figure out a next step.”
“This is a gambit, for sure, but a worthy cause and a noble one at that,” Guinevere said reassuringly. “I believe I can whip up the votes to get this through; my colleagues across the aisle may be a bit stingy at first, but ultimately they can sink their teeth into this kind of cause célèbre at the end of the day.”
“I believe the opposition to be people of conviction when the chips are down; I believe they will help,” the King responded. “In any event, I intend to fill two container ships full of meat, dairy, staple grains, fruits and vegetables, medicine, tents and canvas, clothing, anything we can grab.”
“Whatever the royal coffers tap into, we will be sure to follow then,” Featherington said proudly, standing from her seat, following the King’s lead as he too rose from his desk. “I must say, this is a sight better than spending the money on whatever vanity project the Royal Sentinels have in mind.”
“Yes, well,” the King started in, “I am a sucker for sentimentality, and my Sentinels always love to impress with new monuments. Still, I believe a bit of understanding this year will be in order when the coffers go towards helping an ally deal with settling refugees instead of building statues.”
There was little more that could be said; now it required action, and she was a master of getting action underway in the halls of government. She looked at the King with respect, feeling an immense swelling of pride for her monarch in a way that she had never felt before. Sure, she paid lip service to the idea of being proud of the heritage of the royal lineage, and she knew that the King was a good man, but this was the first time that she really felt as though she had peered behind the visage of the crown and had gotten to know Banastre, the man behind the crown. It was a deeply personal look at a man who was, in many respects, after her own heart, filled with a conviction for helping those in need like she was, and it instilled in her an even greater purpose than before to whip her caucus into line and get the support needed to send Sombreland an aid package worthy of the Glorious Dominion. If her King felt this strongly about aiding Sombreland, then she too would make it her mission to help as well.
“Live forever, my King,” the Prime Minister said amicably to her friend the regent, smiling as she reached across the table to shake his hand one last time. “May fortune and favor find you, always sir. It has been and will continue to remain my utmost pleasure to serve you as your Prime Minister.”
The King stared at her thoughtfully, placing his free hand over their clasped handshake, patting it as though he were a grandparent doting on his beloved grandchild. The King smiled at her warmly, thanking her for her kindness: “Good luck whipping the vote, Guinevere. I’m counting on you.
This was not the first time at the Prime Minister had been summoned to a personal audience with the King of the Glorious Dominion, but it was the first time such a meeting had been arranged with such urgency. Guinevere Featherington was used to having time pressures placed upon her; it sort of came with the job of leading a country the size of the Glorious Dominion of Saescia, after all. Still, when the head of state asked for an audience, you were obliged to attend out of respect for the office, even if it did mean postponing a critically important defense panel meeting. The bigwigs in Williamstown would have heads rolling in the streets come morning, but that was all part of the job; mopping up the mess and keeping the shit to shoe level so that the next unlucky sap that got talked into the gig could keep their head above water. If not for that, then the whole damn system would come flying off the rails, and they would all be out on their ass in the street looking for a job, begging for crumbs like the fools they were.
Thankfully, her brief repose inside the holding room would only last for what felt like a fortnight instead of an entire eternity; after a brief couple of moments, one of the estate stewards opened the heavy wooden doors that led into the study, beckoning the Prime Minister to come inside. The study was well stocked as any private library of the rich and wealthy would, with the exception of the presence of a military guard standing at the ready to defend the occupant’s life at a moment’s notice – that may have escaped most personal studies in the country, Guinevere thought to herself as she entered. The room was lined with walls made of mahogany wood, the same basic wood that made up the ornate desk that served as the center piece of the office space and working area. The Prime Minister could see a stack of loosely strewn papers and maps all over the desktop, indicating that someone had clearly been hard at work trying to decipher some diplomatic riddle, some problem-to-solve that was difficult to master indeed.
The King was not at his desk as she had expected; instead, he stood by the far window on the western wall of the study, looking out over the garden toward the gateway to the royal menagerie in the distance. The King was dressed in his military uniform, a pertinent mark of respect when conversing with his Prime Ministers per the tradition of the station, though why that tradition had existed, Guinevere could not answer. The King looked troubled, burdened by some hidden foe or obstacle that had his mind cluttered, but as usual he guarded it well; Banastre was not a man to show his emotions all that often. A dour figure in public, the King had developed the reputation of being a well-to-do, laconic figure that strove for honesty and integrity with little fanfare for pomp and ceremony. It was that pragmatism that had made his tenure as King one of the most prosperous in the country’s recent history, but it had extracted a heavy toll in the form of an immense work load that had aged him beyond his years.
“Favor find you, my King,” the Prime Minister said as she bowed, placing her hand over her chest in reverence to the man she had come to deeply respect. “It is always a pleasure to see you again, my old friend; what service can His Empyreal Majesty’s Parliament render unto him?”
“Favor unto you, Madam Prime Minister,” the King said, turning from his pacing by the window to come and greet Guinevere. He embraced her warmly by the hand, smiling; “I know I must have told you a thousand times by now to please drop the royal title nonsense – call me Banastre!”
“Putting aside the fact that it would break with centuries of precedent,” Guinevere stated unequivocally as she shook the King’s hand, looking at him dead in the eyes, “I simply could never hope to muster that kind of disrespect. Your station means too much for me not to honor it appropriately.”
“Fine, fine,” the King grumbled as the two separated, the King moving to sit at his desk. Guinevere sat down across from him, anticipating his next words: “Let us proceed to the point at hand then, since you are on a deadline. Your time is more important than mine whittling away here anyhow.”
“My King, I will always make time for you,” the Prime Minister said in earnest, her brow furrowing as if she were offended by the King’s laissez-faire attitude towards his own importance. “Your station warrants far more importance than you bequeath it, sir; I am most honored to be here.”
The King gave a slight smile and a nod, but pushed the matter no further, instead pivoting to the matter at hand. “The issue at hand is the Kingdom of Sombreland; I have recently taken an interest in their plight over the last several weeks and have sent correspondence to their Princess-Regent.”
“Oh?” Guinevere leaned forward in her chair a little, mildly surprised at the turn of the conversation. “Yes, we have been monitoring the situation from our station in Parliament. There has been some vigorous debate on what we could do to assist them with their current predicament.”
“Let me be clear, I want no stone left unturned in this endeavor,” the King commanded his Prime Minister, continuing, “I want the full resources of our Glorious Dominion brought to bear to assist them. Even if it means draining the royal coffers, we will help our friends in the Kingdom.”
“Majesty, if I may inquire as to the nature of your concern,” the Prime Minister questioned him in response to his edict. “I understand the importance of assisting an ally in need, and with our shared ties via the International Coalition of Nations, we would be well within our right to help…”
“…But why am I making it sound so personal, right?” The King finished Guinevere’s thought for her before she could state the obvious. He genuflected for a moment, then replied: “I have made it my purpose in life to help my people attain great and noble things, Madam Prime Minister.”
“That you have, Majesty,” the Prime Minister found herself in accord with the King, nodding. “You have certainly given yourself to many worthy charities and causes over the course of your tenure as regent, and have set an example for the whole of the country to follow, and follow you we shall.”
“This is why we must help them, then,” Banastre replied, placing his hands on the desk before him. “If we were to stand by and allow our friends to suffer wanton harm while stuffed our faces to excess, what would that make us? What would that say of our moral character, of our national pride?”
“It would speak very poorly of us,” the Prime Minister nodded concurrently, acquiescing to the King’s point. “It would speak very poorly of us, indeed. So then, the question becomes how we can help our ally deal with their problem. We could help them resettle some of the Wenchuanese here.”
“Yes, but you and I both know that we could never hope to solve the problem through resettlement into Saescian territory,” Banastre lamented, leaning back into his chair, placing his hand on his chin. “There are simply too many hungry mouths to feed and not enough space for them all here.”
“No, you have a point,” Guinevere concurred, herself now stroking her chin in ponderance. “So then, what if we focus not on bringing the Wenchuanese people here, at least not all of them, but instead focus on providing the resources necessary to help care for them, maybe provide assistance?”
The King was already a step ahead of the Prime Minister, nodding in agreement with the plan. “I had something like that in mind, Madam Featherington. What I want to do is organize a convoy that could sail for Sombreland and deliver much needed relief supplies for the Kingdom to aid them.”
“We would need to be thorough in our planning,” the Prime Minister continued the thought aloud. “Traveling that distance, we would need the support of the Royal Fleet to keep the convoy safe, but logistically it could work. All we would need to know then is what kind of aid to disperse.”
Banastre had an answer for that as well, nodding along: “I plan to make an address before Parliament and announce my intention to use the royal treasury to purchase clothing, food stocks, and medicine. All of the essentials that would help the refugee crisis abate somewhat, at least temporarily.”
The Prime Minister sat for a moment, trying to square the logistics of what the King intended to do, then caught on to the game. “I see; by going before Parliament and announcing what you plan to do, you intend to ask them to match the donation. You want to double up on our forces here.”
The King smiled broadly. “Charity starts at home; by leading the way, my example will hopefully inspire Parliament to loosen the purse strings and supply the Kingdom with much needed food and medicine to help them deal with the Wenchuanese crisis while we help them figure out a next step.”
“This is a gambit, for sure, but a worthy cause and a noble one at that,” Guinevere said reassuringly. “I believe I can whip up the votes to get this through; my colleagues across the aisle may be a bit stingy at first, but ultimately they can sink their teeth into this kind of cause célèbre at the end of the day.”
“I believe the opposition to be people of conviction when the chips are down; I believe they will help,” the King responded. “In any event, I intend to fill two container ships full of meat, dairy, staple grains, fruits and vegetables, medicine, tents and canvas, clothing, anything we can grab.”
“Whatever the royal coffers tap into, we will be sure to follow then,” Featherington said proudly, standing from her seat, following the King’s lead as he too rose from his desk. “I must say, this is a sight better than spending the money on whatever vanity project the Royal Sentinels have in mind.”
“Yes, well,” the King started in, “I am a sucker for sentimentality, and my Sentinels always love to impress with new monuments. Still, I believe a bit of understanding this year will be in order when the coffers go towards helping an ally deal with settling refugees instead of building statues.”
There was little more that could be said; now it required action, and she was a master of getting action underway in the halls of government. She looked at the King with respect, feeling an immense swelling of pride for her monarch in a way that she had never felt before. Sure, she paid lip service to the idea of being proud of the heritage of the royal lineage, and she knew that the King was a good man, but this was the first time that she really felt as though she had peered behind the visage of the crown and had gotten to know Banastre, the man behind the crown. It was a deeply personal look at a man who was, in many respects, after her own heart, filled with a conviction for helping those in need like she was, and it instilled in her an even greater purpose than before to whip her caucus into line and get the support needed to send Sombreland an aid package worthy of the Glorious Dominion. If her King felt this strongly about aiding Sombreland, then she too would make it her mission to help as well.
“Live forever, my King,” the Prime Minister said amicably to her friend the regent, smiling as she reached across the table to shake his hand one last time. “May fortune and favor find you, always sir. It has been and will continue to remain my utmost pleasure to serve you as your Prime Minister.”
The King stared at her thoughtfully, placing his free hand over their clasped handshake, patting it as though he were a grandparent doting on his beloved grandchild. The King smiled at her warmly, thanking her for her kindness: “Good luck whipping the vote, Guinevere. I’m counting on you.
From the Desk of His Empyreal Majesty the King, an Official Communiqué to the Nation of Sombreland:To Her Majesty Alavaine de Cressa, Princess-Regent of the Kingdom of Sombreland: this evening, in a closed door session of the National Parliament of the Glorious Dominion of Saescia, the legislature voted 353-27 in favor of enacting the Aid to Allies Protocol of the Saescian National Securities League (AAP-SNSL). This measure has allowed my government to put together an aid package to help assist the Kingdom of Sombreland in dealing with its settlement of the Wenchuanese population within its borders. At this very moment, provisions are being made to assist in bringing much needed resources and supplies to bear to help nurse this situation forward while we work with your government in assessing the best possible course of action towards finding a speedy resolution that proves workable for all parties involved and helps resolve this humanitarian crisis with as little suffering as possible, for it is the mitigation of human suffering that we in Saescia are after.
Four replenishment ships from the Armada of Auxiliaries of the Royal Fleet of the Saescian Defense Services are being prepared to sail for the Kingdom of Sombreland. They will be filled from hold to hold with blankets, clothing, canvas for tents, electric generators and prefabricated housing units. We will also be sending a hold full of food and provisions to aid in the feeding of the Wenchuanese: beef, pork and poultry, fresh dairy, several tons of fruits and vegetables from our protectorate in Xiahua and staple grains like barley and wheat. And, with the assistance of the National Healthcare Service, we will be sending truckloads of medical supplies as well: broad-spectrum antibiotics, crepe bandages, I.V. saline, hospital beds, surgical tools and other much needed aid. The royal treasury has further endowed a cash grant aboard this convoy of $100 Million USD in financial assistance in helping to abate the crisis; I have personally granted $10 Million USD myself.
To ensure that this precious cargo reaches its intended destination, the four replenishment ships will be screened by Saescia’s Royal Fleet and elements of our Rapid Response Force, a mobile military detachment capable of rapidly responding to a crisis flashpoint in quick order. The air craft carrier SNV Herald of Sturdivant will lead a contingent of a dozen warships to flank our replenishment tankers and ensure its safe passage to the territorial waters of the Kingdom of Sombreland. Our government will be in contact with officials from your government about the coordination of dispersing these supplies to the proper authorities upon the time in which they are delivered, and in which the Rapid Response Force is given permission to escort the replenishment ships into port. Rest assured, Madam Regent, that your friends in the Glorious Dominion are working tirelessly to bring this unpleasant situation to a speedy conclusion that all parties will find satisfactory in the end.I Pray That This Missive Finds You All, and Finds You Well. Oyez, It Is So Entered Into Our Records.
Witness My Hand and Seal This Day, For the Good of the Dominion
His Royal Majesty the King Banastre III of the House Conne-Strauss
Righteous Defender of the Faith, Sovereign of the Glorious Dominion
