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January 5th, 1910: Imperial Retreat at Lago di Vico outside Rome

Crack!

The discharge of a pistol echoed across the field, disturbing the peace of the morning. The sounds of deep male laughter followed. Amelia Sforza stared indignantly at the Webley Revolver in her right hand and the target paper in her left. Without regard to her efforts, the paper was still intact. The gafauing of her elder brother Alonzo and softer chuckle of her father, Emperor Trajan VIII were not helping. They were not the only ones laughing, but they were the loudest. Amelia put on her best pouting face and turned to face her father. "I don't understand daddy. Why do I keep missing?"

The laughter slowly died down as the Emperor rose out of his seat. "Then let us walk through it again my little waterlily."

Amelia was unable to fully contain the smile and blush that came with the nickname.

"Now, tell me." The Emperor placed a hand on Amelia's shoulder. "How do you shoot a pistol?"

Amelia explained the process back to her father as she had many times before. Trajan VIII nodded along, never having to correct Amelia. He helped adjust her stance and then stepped back.

Crack!

One of the guardsmen retrieve the target paper, and Amelia deflated on seeing it intact again.

"Perhaps a demonstration would help." The Emperor said softly. "Sergeant Major Ploussard, would you be so kind?"

Ploussard stepped forward. "As you wish my lord. M'lady, if you would please step to my right." Ploussard gestured to a spot where Amelia moved to. "Right, now please observe M'lady."

Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!

This time the paper came back with six tightly grouped holes. Seeing the discouragement on Amelia's face, Ploussard spoke up. "If I might offer some advice M'lady?" Amelia nodded and Ploussard continued. "The Webley uses a very powerful round, and that might be throwing off your aim. May I present you with an alternative option?"

"Yes Sergeant Major, and thank you for the demonstration."

Ploussard turned to one of the other military men present. "Major Aiello, I recall you carry a St. Etienne. May I borrow the use of your sidearm sir?" The major nodded and handed the revolver to Ploussard. He presented the weapon to Amelia.

"M'Lady, this is a St. Etienne revolver. It's quite similar to the Webley, but it fires a smaller round. I could not help but observe that you are having some trouble controlling the recoil of the Webley, so perhaps this will help. At your leisure, the target is yours."

Amelia steadied her stance and leveled her arm at the target paper affixed against a pile of hay. She exhaled and gently pressed the trigger.

Crack!

The guardsman who retrieved the paper could not quite hide his grin and Amelia snatched the paper from him greedily. Unlike the others, this one had a clear bullet hole in the upper left quadrant. Amelia squealed with glee as she waved the paper in the air. "I did it!" A soft round of applause arose from the assembled men.

Ploussard didn't crack a smile, but his voice was praising. "Excellent job Princess Amelia. With your father's permission, I will have a St. Etienne provided for you should you wish."

Amelia looked at her father, who nodded his approval. "I would very much enjoy that Sergeant Major." She handed him back the revolver. "Thank you, Major Aiello, for allow me to use it."

Alonzo called out. "My baby sister, the crack shot. Something I never thought I would say." Chuckles reverberated as Amelia blushed. Alonzo raised a glass "I propose a toast. To Princess Amelia, may her aim always be true and just."

"Here here!" Ploussard said, and various liquid containers were raised in Amelia's direction. Blushing a fierce shade of red, Amelia courtesied.

Reading that bit makes me wonder: When will the Red Wedding take place? :D

January 11th, 1910: Headquarters of the 44th Imperial Dragoons Outside Middlesbrough, England

Major Manuel Sforza stood in the pre-dawn morning outside the large manor house that served as the regimental headquarters. Despite having served in the Roman Army most of his life, with a large portion of that in England, the morning fog still had a chilling effect. Draping the hills like a soft blanket, details blurred past the point of recognition. Even tho Manuel knew what was there, the fog's masking effect made him uneasy. His aid, a second lieutenant with what most joked was still the smell of the Wessex Military Academy on his uniforms, opened the door and moved to salute Manuel.

"Good morning Major Sforza" the Lieutenant said far to crisply for the hour.

Manuel returned the salute. "Good morning Lieutenant Carlyle, how does the morning find you?"

"Well sir, thank you for asking." Carlyle replied. "Can I fetch you anything?"

Manuel failed to suppress a chuckle. "A good Italian morning would do nicely, be a good lad and make the fog go away."

"I will see about getting the General Staff to hold a meeting." Carlyle replied completely deadpan.

"Good man Carlyle." Manuel said smiling. All the moving air from a General Staff meeting would indeed blow the fog away, along with half his men. "So, I presume removing the fog was not your only reason for joining me this fine Albian morning?"

"That would be correct sir." Carlyle began. "We received some new orders last night, very late from what I gather." He produced a sealed envelope.

Manuel opened the envelope and read silently. "Lieutenant, do you have any plans for today?"

Carlyle perked up a bit "Actually yes sir, the wife and I have an appointment in Middlesbrough. I spoke to you about it last week."

"Ah, I do remember now" Manuel replied "Cancel those plans Carlyle, we have been summoned to Londinium. We leave on a Navy ship at noon."

---

"What do you mean Dana?" Peggy Carlyle practically threw the question at her husband.

Second Lieutenant Dana Carlyle continued packing his duffel bag while replying "We are needed in Londinium urgently. That's all the ordered said that Major Sforza passed on."

"Dana, can you stop and look at me a second." Peggy's voice was shaking. "I can't do this alone, is there any way you can be there with me? With us?" Her hand moved towards her almost unnoticeable swollen belly. "I'm scared something will be wrong."

Dana stopped packing and met his wife's gaze. "Peggy, orders like this don't come every day."

"Orders like this only come when men like you get sent off to make widow's of their wives." Peggy shot back. She immediately recoiled. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for."

"I understand" Dana pull Peggy into a hug. "It's only Londinium, not Germania or the Northlands. Its likely just some sort of meeting, and we will be back within a few days."

Peggy held the hug. "Does the Major know about..." she let the thought trail and then started again. "About my condition?"

"Peggy, darling," Dana looked his wife in the eyes. "It's ok to say aloud that you're pregnant."

"It still sounds to new." Peggy cracked a smile.

"But no, the Major does not know. I can tell him if you wish." Dana moved to grab his bag.

"Please" Peggy answered. "It would make me feel a little better."

"I will tell him on the ride to the navy base then." Dana squatted down and kissed Peggy on the belly, then stood up and kissed her passionately. "Now, you two take care while I'm gone." He squeezed Peggy's hand and the two walked together to the front door.

---

"Well that is fantastic news Carlyle." Manuel clapped Carlyle across the back. "Now how nervous you have been makes more sense. Do send Peggy my love, I'm sure Isabella will be overjoyed to hear it. In fact, let me send word to her before we leave. Would Peggy appreciate some company while we are away?"

"I think she would sir," Carlyle replied. "She has nothing but nice things to say about your wife since they were introduced."

"I think Peggy might have difficulty keeping her out, no matter what she thinks of her. You were not around when she found out Princess Amelia was expected. The Empress finally had to ask Isabella to calm down. I've never seen a woman deflate quite so fast." Manual chuckled. "I half wonder if that's the reason why I got the 44th in the first place, to get Isabella out of Rome before Amelia was born."

The conversation continued as Manuel, Carlyle, and the rest of the party made the final turn into the Middlesbrough Naval Yard, and the waiting IRS Provisio. The Provisio's stacks were already beginning to belch smoke before the Army men were even aboard and on being pulled clear of the dock by harbor tugs, she quickly picked up steam and cleaved the sea in two as fast as her engines would carry her south.

QuoteTO: TO: CMD 44TH DRAGOONS

FROM: 1ST EXPEDITIONARY FORCE COMMAND

SUB: [REDACTED]

REPORT TO LONDINIUM ON 12TH JANUARY FOR STAFF MEETING REGARDING [REDACTED]. BRING ANY NECESSARY STAFF FOR [REDACTED], [REDACTED], AND [REDACTED]. TRANSIT PROVIDED FROM IRS IRS PROVISIO, DEPARTING MNY AT 1200 11TH JANUARY.

COMPLIMENTS GEN. D'ESPÈREY

QuoteEven tho Manuel knew what was there, the fog's masking effect made him uneasy.

Well, there is only that large orange hedge there moving towards them. ;D

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GR6Jcp_vYVg

January 16th, 1910: Imperial Roman Naval base in Brest, Brittany

The shops near the dockyards of the main base of the Imperial Roman Navy were always bustling with sailors, but the addition since the beginning of the year of more Roman Army soldiers and Republic Marines had been a boon to the bottom line. It was natural that the shopkeepers were some of the first to notice the sudden absence of many uniformed young men. Over the course of the week leading up to that Sunday, the streets slowly approached the sleepiness of more rural parts of the city. As the bars and shops became barren, the naval base grew more lively and crowded.

More merchant ships crowded the harbor than ever before, an almost constant stream of smaller motorcraft moving back and forth between the mass of shipping and the shore. Larger ships took time along the queue to load boxes and boxes of a large variety of items. Crates labeled Item Cibum: Corrumpuntur joined Diripiet Adapter 6.5mm on the cranes. The old battleship IRS Timere spent one night along the main dock and rumors flew wild that she had taken on a full load of ammunition for her guns under the cloak of darkness. Some of the smaller cruisers sat noticeably low in the water, likely due to massive amounts of coal seen strewn across the decks.

Sunday morning the townspeople awoke to a stunning sight. A majority of the recent arrivals to the naval base were making steam. Thick, black, choking coal smoke filled the air above the harbor. Merchant ships streamed out of the harbor, some clearly loaded to the gills with disgruntled and seasick Roman infantry. The IRS Timere lead the IRS Pegasum out of the harbor, a number of smaller cruisers accompanying them. All told, the number of ships took most of the morning and into the afternoon to finish exiting the harbor. By sunset, the Armada was far out of sight of the shore. Behind, the gleaming cream of the Imperial Roman Navy, her modern battleships, sat at anchor. Whatever this was, it was not important enough to draw away any big guns.

Out on one of the transports, two Roman Army artillerymen stood on the bow of the heavily loaded merchenman. Cigarettes glowed in the dusky afterglow of the sun.

"27 days on this tub" one of the men said, flicking the butt of his cigarette over the side. "27 damn days."

"Yes, but just imagine if half the rumors about where we are going are true" the second man replied. "Think of the opportunities. It's going to be a whole new world over there."

*Baseless speculation begins*

27 days?
It doesn't take that long for the Roman invasion fleet to reach Norway, maybe it's a diversionary route.

Quote27 days?
It doesn't take that long for the Roman invasion fleet to reach Norway, maybe it's a diversionary route.

Nah. Norway is so close that he can almost walk there. No need to use ships. :) 27 days @ 10 knots would put him near South Africa and one step away from bothering you in the Indian Ocean.

Quote from: Walter on May 31, 2018, 01:29:30 PM

Quote27 days?
It doesn't take that long for the Roman invasion fleet to reach Norway, maybe it's a diversionary route.

Nah. Norway is so close that he can almost walk there. No need to use ships. :) 27 days @ 10 knots would put him near South Africa and one step away from bothering you in the Indian Ocean.

That would be interesting, though I would guess the tansports at more like 6-8 knots, which is still a big area.
Currently geography basically means I stare down the Byzantines in the Red Sea. Having the Romans closer would give another potential foe.
The sheer distances for me to get to the North Atlantic/Med is why I still have sailing ships and have so many fleet support ships - so I can operate at range.

February 14th, The Bahamas (OTL Nassau)

Ships flying the Roman Flag were an uncommon but not unheard of sight in the Caribian. Merchantmen using the route from the Frankish coast to the Aztec Empire and the Peoples Republic of Maya passed by and occasionally stopped at the small native-manned port. Roman warships, on the other hand, were unheard of. When the IRS Pegasum, accompanied by a trio of merchantmen and a smaller cruiser dropped anchor in the harbor and large amounts of men began moving ashore the natives knew something was up. Finaly, all of the important locals were gathered up in the largest outdoor meeting space. At the head of the area stood the commander of the Roman Army forces that had occupied the town without a shot. The man spoke, and the local that was able to translate let the words be known to the gathered. "Under sanction of the Emperor of Rome, this land is now claimed as the colony of New Milan."

February 7th, 1910.

The Roman Army announced today that it had reached an agreement with the Bleriot company to supply the company's Type XI airplane to the Army. The aircraft will be used for training, communication, and role development duties. Talks began last year in July after Louis Blériot, the head of the company, flew one of the Type XI aircraft across the Albian Channel. The Imperial Navy has also been in talks with Bleriot about procurement of the aircraft. Both branches have acquired limited examples of other heavier- and lighter-than-air craft in the past, but this is the first time a model will be procured in quantity. Talks are also ongoing with other companies, and the Type XI is expected to be joined by competing models in the near future.

Colonal-Related Stuff: 1910H1

February 18th: Roman troops land at Tamara [OTL Havana, Cuba] and begin occupying the city already present there. While the landings are unopposed, a significant force flees into the land outside the city and begins to rally under a local War Chief. Elsewhere, other small landings continue throughout the Bahamas.

February 20th: The best port on the Atlantic side of the Florida peninsula is seized from the Tequesta by Roman Marines. The small settlement and trading port is renamed New Venice [OTL Miami].

February 23rd: The Tequesta and the Romans reach a formal agreement regarding sovereignty of New Venice. A planned Roman occupation of the Tequesta's territory is halted in exchange for formal recognition of New Venice and the surrounding area as Roman territory.

February 25th: The main opposition force of natives outside of Tamara engages the Roman forces in battle. The Romans resoundingly defeat the native forces, but are unable to capture leadership. As Roman forces begin to occupy the northern half of the island, scattered pockets of armed resistance are encountered from rendments of this group.

February 28th: The occupation of the Bahamas is completed. Little resistance is encountered on a majority of the islands.

March 2nd: On the Gulf side of the Florida peninsula, the Timucua agree to surrender the land surrounding a natural harbor. In exchange this harbor is to become the main point of trade contact between the Timucua and the Romans and be a city open to both. The planed Roman settlement is named Trajanpolis while the Timucua refer to the area as Tampa.

March 4th: A formal treaty establishing the Roman colony of Bahama is reached with the natives of the islands. With its capital at New Milan, the colony formalizes control over the archipelago under Roman control. Native populations are given a second class status to Roman citizens, but have priority to items like land rights over non-Roman citizens and have the opportunity to pursue colonial citizenship.

March 7th: The Conference of Caddo-Wichita, a loose confederation of local tribes dominated by its two most powerful members, is approached by Roman diplomats and military personnel about establishing a Roman colonial presence along the coast in territory held by some of its member tribes. This request is refused, and the Caddo-Wichita leave the table belief that war with the European power is imminent.

March 15th: Roman Marines land on the coast of Karankawa, one of the coastal Caddo-Witchita members, territory. The goal of the landing is to take over the best natural harbor in the area. Only a small Karankawa settlement is present [OTL Galveston/Houston] The Karankawa are shocked by this, unused to the speed at which European militaries operate. As such, there is only limited organized resistance. Within a day, the port is under Roman control and more troops begin landing. Word is sent to the main Caddo-Wichita assembly requesting assistance.

March 18th: The Roman Army completes the formal occupation of the northern part of Tamara Insula [OTL Cuba]. While this marks the end of formal opposition following the capture of the War Chief who lead the initial resistance, a guerrilla faction continues to resist Roman occupation for quite some time.

March 19th: The Conference of Caddo-Wichita issues what amounts to a formal declaration of war against the Imperial Roman Republic. More Roman troops join the Marines as the Karankawa attempt to retake the port and fail.

Week of March 20th to 26th: Roman troops occupy most of the Karankawa territory. Caddo-Wichita forces put up a feeble resistance, but the fighting gets harder as Roman troops push further inland.

Week of March 27th to April 2nd: The second Caddo-Wichita group to be invaded by the Romans are the Chitimacha. Controlling the mouth of a large river that pierces the vast interior of the continent, control of this area is vital. Resistance is fierce, but overcome quickly by Roman forces.

Week of April 3rd to 9th: Roman forces continue to consolidate positions within Karankawa and Chitimacha territory. Formal Caddo-Wichita units begin entering combat alongside tribal militias.

Week of April 10th to 16th: The Atakapa, who's territory sits between the two Roman beachheads sees increasing pressure. Roman calvary are causing disruptions in the flow of supplies and men from the inland areas, so limited but spirited resistance is met once the tribal militias are mostly routed.

Week of April 17th to 23rd: The Caddo-Wichita launch a spirited offensive against the occupied coastal tribes. Having only limited encounters with more primitive automatic weapons than the Roman army brings to the table, the casualties are astronomical. The fighting reaches its peak on the 20th and quickly peters out to nothing within hours of the last repulsed attack.

Week of April 24th to 30th: Roman forces counterattack and begin pushing Caddo-Wichita forces further inland. The territory of the tribes closest inland to the coast are overrun quickly.

Week of May 1st to 7th: The Caddo-Wichita make what becomes the final organized stand at a site important to the local religion. The defenders are laid to siege and it takes most of the week to dig them out. All but a handful of the defenders are killed or captured.

May 11th: Once news of the defeat and capture reaches Caddo-Wichita political leadership they approach the Romans to discuss terms of surrender. A cease fire is implemented beginning the next day and the date for a formal conference is set for June.

May 23rd: The Romans reach a formal agreement that establishes the colony of Sforzaterra on the Florida Peninsula. Unlike with Bahama, the native tribes play a much larger role and have many more rights. Roman control over the region amounts more to a trade monopoly than a true colonial conquest. The only areas of Roman territory are the cities of Trajanpolis and New Venice. Part of the treaty is an agreement for the Romans to significantly upgrade the main transit networks of the region.

June 2nd: The formal surrender of the Caddo-Wichita takes place. The Romans lay the groundwork for integrating the majority of the Caddo-Wichita territory into a colony, New Francia.

June 20th to 30th: Roman surveyors around New Francia discovere and begin mapping the area's immense oil deposits.

February 27th, 1910: St. Paul's Cathedral, Rome.

The trappings of Catholic mass did not appeal to many fourteen year olds, and Amelia Sforza was no exception. Covered neck to floor with a stiflingly thick dress and a veil over her head, her attire did not help her efforts to remain focused on the droning of Pope Pius X. Somehow, Alonzo had gotten out of this again and so it was up to Amelia to help her father keep up appearances. The rest of the room was filled with various noblemen, senators, and other important persons. The Pope finally reached the end of the service, but all remained seated until the Emperor had risen and began to exit. Amelia followed her father with her head bowed, counting seams between the cobbles. After the pair, and guardsmen, stepped out into the somewhat warm late-winter morning, Amelia moved beside her father. The Emperor turned and look at his daughter.

"Oh my little Waterlily" Trajan VIII smiled "How you remind me of your mother, both in form and in spirit. I do miss her." He reached out for Amelia's hand.

"I miss her too papa." Amelia replied while taking the outstretched hand. "Would you care to go for a walk when we return to the palace?"

"I would very much like that Amelia." Trajan's voice hinted at more. "However, I have a surprise for you, would you like to know what it is?"

Amelia did her best to control her facial expressions, but failed to control her voice. "I very much would father."

"As you know, Alonzo is out on exercise with his regiment. I'm suppose to travel to Brest and meet with some Navy men there about something or another. The thing is, I told them that someone would be coming with me, and as such they have made all these plans for a review. But now that Alonzo cannot attend, I would feel rather foolish having them put on all these events for just one old man. Do you happen to know of any young ladies who adore looking at ships of war?" The Emperor could not control his grin.

Amelia's face erupted into a splitting tooth-filled grin. "Really father! There happens to be one such lady right in front of you."

"Ah how silly of me, I seem to have forgotten." The Emperor smiled back. "Would you do me the honor of taking your brother's place?"

"Of course, your majesty." Amelia courtised.

"Good, we will walk after you get a chance to start packing, we leave this afternoon." Trajan then took his daughter by the arm and lead her to the waiting carriage, guardsmen in tow.

---

February 28th, 1910: Imperial Roman Naval base in Brest, Brittany.

The Atlantic Fleet had spared no expense nor detail in preparing for the arrival of the Emperor and the Princess. Arrayed in gleaming rows stood the Battleships, lead by the modern and powerful Invicta. Flags hung crisply from the masts, gun barrels pointed gleaming to the sky, and white-clad sailors hustled about the decks. The finest of Roman naval power was on display, and no ceremonial note was being spared. Dwarfed by the massive warships, the small yacht flying the flag of Trajan VIII glided smoothly through the harbor.

On board the yacht, Amelia stood next to her father, attention diverted from the conversation between him and the other men around them. As they pulled alongside the ship named for her father, she gawked up at the wall of steel which ascended out of the water before her. Taking the gangway behind her father, the group of dignitaries were whistled aboard by the bonsun and as the ships band struck up the Imperial Anthem, the party advanced through the receiving line. Clearly some had not been informed to Amelia's attendance, as various Admirals all but tripped over themselves to properly greet her. Finally, she cleared the last of Atlantic Fleet's leadership and stood alongside her father while the rest of the party filtered though. Next to them stood Admiral du Fournet, who conversed lightly with the Emperor. Amelia took in all the sights and sounds, holding her gaze on the massive 340mm rifles reaching into the sky above them. The Admiral then leaned over to Amelia.

"Would the Princess like a personal tour of the ship? I know all the pomp and such all these old men require is as far beyond your interests as the horizon."

Amelia attempted to keep her decorum as a fountain of excitement erupted in her chest. "I would very much like that Admiral du Fournet. If my father will allow it."

Trajan VIII caught her eyes. "Of course I will. I would still like you to speak to me now and again after all." He winked at her playfully. "Now, away with you. Us old men need to continue our pomp and beautiful young ladies dont help us at all."

Admiral du Fournet waved over a younger officer. "This is Capitano di Corvetta Alessandro Valli. He is my finest executive officer, but I'm afraid to say I will soon be losing his wonderful abilities."

Alessandro sharply saluted the Admiral and then bowed sweepingly to Amelia.  "Princess Amelia, it is my honor and pleasure to be introduced to you. I am more than willing and able to provide you with a tour of this fine warship. If you would please follow me."

Amelia courtised. "Thank you for your offer Capitan. It pleases me to accept." She then followed Alessandro away from the formal ceremony taking place on the deck. A single guard with a red armband followed. "May I introduce my escort, Sergeant Major Ploussard."

Ploussard extended a hand to Alessandro. "The pleasure is mine sir."

Alessandro shook the extended hand. "Likewise." He turned to Amelia. "It it would please the Princess..."

Amelia cut him off "Please Capitan, call me Amelia. All that formality can be suffocating at times and I much enjoy being away from it."

Alessandro and Ploussard exchanged raised eyebrows. Alessandro visibly chewed on his words for a moment before speaking back up. "I happen to agree that all that formality can be suffocating at times Princess. Sorry, Amelia. Once we were made aware of your arrival we were asked to prepare a formal tour. I'm sorry to say that some of the more interesting areas were not included, protocol being what it is for having a Princess on board. If there is something you wish to see that is not on my list, please do not hesitate to ask."

Amelia smiled sweetly. "I won't, but please complete what was prepared. I would perish the thought of the hard work of your sailors going to waste."

The tour was interesting, far more so than the formal proceedings taking place on the aft deck. Amelia was shown the bridge, the flag suite, officers mess, and other small highlights. As they ended the formal portion of the tour on the starboard for-deck, Amelia knew what she still wanted to see.

"Capitan, if it is at all possible, I would much like to see the inside of one of this ships fine gun turrets and her engine room."

Alessandro grinned. "I was told you loved warships, but clearly was undersold on that affection. Fortunately, we prepared a little something for this. Follow me please."

Amelia, with Ploussard in tow, followed Alessandro for a ways until they arrived at a small storage closet. Alessandro opened the door and gestured inside. "If you want to see the machinery, I'm afraid the dress will not do. To much flowing fabric and I do not wish to explain to your father how you got hoisted up the magazine lift. Inside you will find some coveralls. They are the smallest we have, but they are still probably to big for you."

Amelia stepped inside and closed the door. Just as promised, the coveralls sat on a bucket. Amelia wiggled her way out of the outer layers of her dress and pulled the coveralls on. She was swimming in them, even with the additional skirts she had declined to remove. Making sure the dress was stored as best she could, she opened the door and stepped out. "Well sirs, how do I look?"

Ploussard, being far more use to Amelia than Alessandro was spoke first. "Princess, I must say you look quite prepared to be inflated like a balloon." His tone was devoid of any humor.

Alessandro looked horrified until Amelia started laughing. " Well met Sergeant Major. Someday I hope someone enjoys your humor as much as I do."

Then Alessandro spoke up. "If I might Amelia, a trick to keep your hair back."

Amelia nodded and Alessandro produced a purple handkerchief which he used to push Amelia's hair back out of her face. She could tell his hands were well practiced at this.

"I have a daughter about your age." Alessandro anticipated the question. "Her name is Samuela, but she chooses to go by Sammy."

"You should tell me about her as we walk." Amelia offered. She learned all about Sammy, including how she was deaf. After traversing many ladders, Alessandro finally gestured to a thick armored hatch.

"Behind this door and up the ladder are the finest naval guns in the world." Alessandro boasted as he swung the hatch open. "Are you ready to see them?"

Amelia beamed and stepped through.

---

March 2nd, 1910: Outside Savona, Italia.

"...and the captain was so accommodating. I could have spent a week just looking around every nook and cubby..."

Trajan VIII put another small bite of sandwich into his mouth as Amelia continue regaling him with all the sights she had been shown aboard both the battleship and one destroyer they had toured. Finishing the nibble, he coughed gently to get Amelia to take a breath.

"I'm very glad you enjoyed yourself. Now tell me, did you forget any of your royal duties after these events?"

Amelia let out the age-old sigh of an exasperated teenager. "No father, I have drafted letters thanking the Admirals and those who provide tours."

"Does that include the hosts of the event you so begged me to allow you to attend yesterday afternoon before we left? What was that event Ploussard?"

Ploussard did not look up from his paper when he replied. "She was invited to attend a gunnery practice on the Lauri, your Majesty." He glanced up at Amelia before continuing. "They even let her sight the gun and fire a blank."

Amelia turned stark white, clearly, this was supposed to not reach her father's ears. "And the crew will get getting a letter of thanks for it."

Trajan could not help but smile. "I should have expected something of the sort from you. Never change Amelia."

OOC Note: I had more I wanted to do before this, but would rather move forward than backfill.

February 20th, 1912. Imperial Palace, Rome. Amelia's Study

Amelia carefully maneuvered a pair of tweezers to place the last strand of thread. Gently winding it around its stay, she completed the task with a small knot. No sooner had she set her hands on the table then a knock came from the door behind her. "Who is it?" she inquired.

"You get three guesses and the first two don't count." Alonzo's voice filled the room. "What are you working on?"

"It's a model of Grandfather's ship." Amelia stood up and pointed to the small model of the Emperor Hadrian IX. "It's a gift for father, please don't tell him."

Alonzo met his sister's pleading gaze "Secret is safe with me."

"Do you need something brother?" Amelia smoothed her skirt absentmindedly. "Or did you just come to mock me for another unladylike pastime like the others?"

"I wanted to let you know that I'm needed with the Regiment for the foreseeable future. I should be able to return for the big day and all that." Alonzo replied, "I'm sorry I won't be around to help with the prep work."

"It's ok." Amelia moved to stand in front of her brother. "Besides, people keep telling me it's my job to become good at things like this."

"That may be true, to a degree." Alonzo smiled warmly. "But that also does not mean you cannot pursue things that bring you joy. I personally find your models to be top quality stuff. Unladylike my rear end. Keep your chin up Millie, I know you can do this." It was clear Alonzo was not speaking just of party preparations. "Now come here, I get a hug before I leave."

Amelia pulled her brother close. "Someday I will make a model of the ship bearing your name." she said mostly into his chest.

Alonzo broke the embrace and looked his little sister in the eyes. "And it would occupy the most prominent location I could place it. Do you think you could make a statue sized one for the courtyard, or is that a little too self-serving?"

Amelia couldn't contain a single, loud, laugh. "Perhaps a little bit vain of you." Her grin went ear to ear. "Stay safe brother, We all love you."

"I love you too Millie." Alonzo said and kissed her on the forehead. "See you at the party." He then bowed and left the room.

---

February 22nd, 1912: Imperial Palace, Rome. Amelia's Bedroom.

A clicking of bootheels started Amelia awake. Rain tapped softly against the windows, the rhythm lulling her back to sleep. Then she heard the first voice.

"Stay here, we will send someone if she is needed. Keep things calm."

"Yes, sir." A second and third voice replied.

Amelia gently peeled the blankets back and sat up in bed. What on earth was going on? She squinted at the clock on the nightstand. 3:30AM, what are men doing outside her door at this time. She slid her feet out from under the blankets, finding the strategically placed slippers to fend off the cold from the stone floor. She tiptoed to the window and looked out through the streaks of rain. There was activity in the courtyard, several men moving around with far too much haste for this hour. Her next move was back to the bed, to grab her robe. Wrapping herself in the additional layer, she moved to the door. Pressing her ear against the wood, she heard no other sounds. She gently tugged on the handle, and the well-lubricated hinges swung the door open. Right away she noticed the two guards outside her door were not the normal men who occasionally passed the hallway during the night. Something seemed off to her until the sleepy fog of her mind parted just enough, and then lifted violently when the pure terror of the revelation flooded her thoughts. The guards were wearing red armbands adorned with a silver aquila. That armband was only used by the guardsmen of the heir to the Imperial Throne. Amelia was not the heir to the Imperial Throne unless...

"Where is Alonzo?" The question cleared her lips before the guards noticed her, and it clearly startled them both. Amelia repeated the question. "Where is Alonzo?"

One of the guards finally found his voice and bowed. "Crown Princess, I apologize for not seeing you. Please go back inside."

"But I'm not the Crown Princess." Amelia stammered. "My brother, Alonzo, is the Crown Prince. Where is he?' A pause so thick it could have been cut with a knife followed. "Is Alonzo alright?"

The guards look at each other with pained eyes, before the first one spoke again. "I'm sorry Crown Princess, I have been asked not to comment on any questions you might have. Please go back to your room."

"I'm going to see my father." Amelia felt a well of emotion being to erupt inside her. "Let me pass."

"I'm afraid we can't let you, Crown Princess." The second guard spoke.

Adrenaline flowed freely as Amelia pushed past both guards. She escaped their feeble attempt at restraining her, both clearly not keen about aggressively laying hands on the sixteen year old girl. As she passed a window, she saw her father on the other side of the rain-soaked courtyard. Taking the next turn, she stepped out into the rain, forgetting for a moment that she was still in her nightgown and robe. Rain hitting her face began to blend with tears as the reality continued to wash over her like a wave. The Emperor saw her and turned out from the covered perimeter to meet his daughter as quickly as possible. By the time he reached her, she was standing shakily in the middle of the courtyard, tears, and rain running down to the ground off her cheeks.

"My little Waterlily." The Emperor spoke softly.

Amelia interrupted before he could continue. "Is Alonzo safe papa?" She knew what the answer to this question must be, but refused to let the reality cave in on her. "Is he safe?"

Trajan VIII's gaze met his daughter's tear-filled eyes, and she realized he was close to breaking down as well. "We received word a short while ago. While on a night training exercise, Alonzo became separated from his men. A search was called, and they found him. It was not far from the training area, but it was in much rougher terrain. He had been thrown from his horse and landed on his head. I am told there was likely no pain. He is with God now."

Amelia felt the last of her will to disbelieve the truth flicker out like a weak candle in a windstorm. Her legs buckled underneath her as the poorly restrained tears turned into a flood. Her father caught her and slowly lowered the pair to the ground. Amelia sobbed hard into her father's chest, failing to choke out any gasping words. Father and daughter sat holding each other in the middle of the courtyard. Both cried harder than they had in years.

February 26th, 1912 Rome

The consistent but random tapping of rain on stone backdropped the proceedings unfolding around Amelia. The dark sky set a fitting backdrop. Numbly, she put one foot in front of the other, keeping pace behind and to the left her father. To her right, the head of the Imperial Senate walked. Ahead of her, the sharp sound of horseshoes on cobblestones was muted by the open wagon carrying an ornate wooden coffin. Her brother's body lay inside, the splendid full dress uniform kept dry by the lid. Behind her the procession continued, military men, politicians, and foreign dignitaries. The splendid boulevard was lined with Roman citizens, the silence unnatural for a crowd of this size. All there to pay their respects to a member of the royal family.

Amelia had experienced this once before, when her mother and other brother had passed away. Then the crowds had also been large, the procession long, and the grief unrelenting. That was over five years ago, when Amelia was only 11. Her relationship with Alonzo had blossomed out of the dark pit of hopelessness and had been her rock in the years since. Now Alonzo was gone. Amelia had hardly come out of her room in the last 4 days, only appearing for official functions. Even then, the actions felt forced, almost mechanical. She felt alone, unable to force herself to move at times. When she thought there were no more tears she could physically weep, her body would conjure a new reserve and the raw emotion would flow again. Her father had joined her several times, holding her gently and crying softly along with her. It did little to pull her out of the well of sadness she could see no light within.

The procession continued, Amelia not bothering to try and keep track of time. The horses pulled the wagon onward over the wet cobblestones, until at the command of the driver they stopped. Amelia looked up, suddenly aware of how heavy the soaked fabric of her black dress pulled down on her frame. The weight, had the cold wet been absent, was almost comforting, like a heavy blanket when tucked into a warm bed. From behind her men in the full parade uniform of the Roman Army and Imperial Navy stepped forward. The black armbands they wore stood out, especially against the crisp white of the Navy men's jackets. On command, they began to unload Alonzo's coffin. She felt a gentle touch on her arm and turned her head. The Emperor met her gaze, which was again filling with tears.

"It is time Amelia" Her father's voice was able to mask the feelings she was unable to suppress any longer. "May I help you to the service?"

Unable to speak as the raw emotional wound within her writhed with fresh pain, Amelia managed a short burst of small nods which sent tears scattering around her cheeks. Her lips quivered uncontrollably as her father took her arm and guided her behind the solders and sailors carrying the coffin. Again, she focused on putting one foot in front of the other, the task made more difficult by the mud between the road and the gravesite. The service passed by in a blur. The only distinguishable moment for Amelia came when flowers were placed before Alonzo was lowered into the earth. While others placed a rose, Amelia placed a singular white waterlily, after the childhood nickname her brother and father had given her.

---

Custom dictated that the current Emperor and the Heir were not to leave funerals in the same carriage. Some old superstition about death not being able to find both. This left Amelia alone for the long ride back to the palace. The cold weight of her clothing combined with the vortex of emotion inside her drained all the warmth from her, the sobbing and shivering wracked her body like a plague cough. When the carriage arrived Amelia could hardly stand. As if by divine placement, two handmaidens were there to help guide the exhausted Amelia back to her room where a warm fire burned. They strip the soaked clothing off her, dried her, and settle the exhausted girl into bed. They then left silently, exchanging nods with the guard outside the door.

Hours later a much warmer Amelia heard a knock on the door. She pushed herself into a sitting position and then softly called out "Who is it?" after whipping her runny nose on the sleeve of her nightgown.

"Its your father." The soft voice of the Emperor replied. "May I come in?"

"Of course, father, please." Amelia replied as the door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

Trajan VIII approached and sat on the foot of the bed, his eyes and cheeks clearly showing he had been crying as well. Amelia though her own face must look quite a sight. Trajan met his daughter's eyes.

"Amelia..." The thought trailed off as he brushed a tear away. "Amelia, I wish I could tell you this would all feel better soon. It is not going to. It will take time. I know you and Alonzo were close, and his loss wounds you deeper than anything else in this world could. I know you know this already, but I am here when you feel like everything is overwhelming. Please let me do for you now what I could not do when your mother left us. You deserved better of me then and I can only ask your forgiveness and be here for you now."

"O Papa..." Amelia sniffled and continued "I know this is hard for you too and I have been terrible this last week.."

"You have not been, and don't you dare think it." Trajan cut her off. "You have lost someone very dear to you. It is ok to feel, and feel quite forcefully. I'm sorry, I should have let you finish, please continue."

"It's ok Papa. I need to be there for you as well." Amelia replied. "I know that Alonzo would have hated seeing us pushing each other away. He felt very strongly about family."

"That he did." Trajan replied "It was one of his best qualities." He then turned his head and looked thoughtfully out a window. "Amelia, you know I love you so much."

"I love you to papa." Amelia moved over to pull her father into a tight embrace.

Trajan returned the hug. "I'm glad to hear that. Now, can I possibly talk you into coming to eat something with me? I find it easier to talk on a full belly then an empty one."

"Of course papa." Amelia untangled herself from the blankets. "Let me put on something proper and I will meet you in the kitchen. I am quite hungry now that you mention it."

Trajan stood up and walked to the door. Before exiting, he turned and looked at his daughter. In that moment, the first time he had seen her moving organically in days, he knew she would eventually be alright again. As would he.

March 13th, 1912. Saint Rochelle, Capital of the Roman colony of Novus Francia

Much had changed since the Roman troops first came ashore almost two years ago. What had once been a small fishing village had rapidly blossomed into a large city that grew more modern by the day. By virtue of its harbor, which had been underutilized by the Caddo-Wichita Union, what was now known as Saint Rochelle was the hub for the Roman administration of the Republic's freshly won territory. That is what brought the man known as Philippe Marceau to the growing hub. Philippe was not his real name, but like many his name had not translated well into the Modern Latin used by the Roman administration. To ease his work, he had adopted a Roman name for use when dealing with the Roman bureaucracy. One of the many changes his people had to endure since they had lost the battle at what was now called The Alamo, another half-correct Modern Latin translation of its proper name.

Philippe had not expected what came after. Rather than impose the harsh penalties and concessions on the defeated, as was custom in conflict with the tribes to the north and west, the Romans had set about to rebuild the political and social infrastructure. Taking the parts of Caddo-Wichita government that works and quickly discarding the segments that didn't or clashed with Roman goals, the new administration had accomplished more within the last year than the Caddo-Wichita government had in the last ten. New roads, businesses, and amenities had sprung up to service both the Caddo-Wichita people and the Roman citizens. The land this expansion of Roman civilization had rolled over was why Philippe had come to Saint Rochelle today.

The Caddo-Wichita had little idea how valuable some of the land they claimed was. The Romans did, and many enterprising Roman colonists had sought to claim as much of it as they could. This had unfortunately resulted in many altercations, some physical and a few fatal between Caddo-Wichita Roman. While the wheels or Roman justice turned slowly but for the most part fairly, resentment grew at the flaunted wealth that Roman colonists built off of what had been Caddo-Wichita land. There had been much discussion about moving beyond the laze-faire landgrab that had precipitated the tensions, and Philippe believed that he had found a solution that would benefit all sides.

Clutching his briefcase, a gift from the elders of his small town, Philippe entered the very new building with Amministrazione Coloniale carved above its massive entryway. Once inside, he spoke with the receptionist, a young Roman woman, and was directed to the third floor of the building. Finding the door with B. Forestier: Ministro Delle Imprese Coloniali stenciled in thin black letters on the frosted glass, Philippe knocked twice. Barnabé Forestier, an older man with thin gray hair and a plump figure opened the door after half a minute.

"Welcome, welcome." Barnabé extended his hand. "You must be Philippe. I apologies for not knowing your native name, but official documents are like that."

Philippe took the outstretched hand. "Thank you for meeting me mister Forestier." Philippe then followed Barnabé into his office. The two men sat down and Philippe produced documents from his briefcase. Over the next four hours, Philippe and Barnabé discussed, dissected, and debated what Philippe proposed. Refreshments were brought, handwritten revisions or additions made to carefully typed notes, and the idea continued to improve.

"Dear heaven's, look at the time." Barnabé dabbed sweat from his brow as he looked at the large grandfather clock in the corner of the office. "I have kept you far to long."

"It is all right." Philippe successfully hid his shock at the time. "I fee our conversation was productive enough to warrant the length." He began to gather the sheets of paper the two had poured over.

"Indeed." Barnabé replied, also working to gather papers. "I will give these to one of our secretaries to revise and formalize before we present them to the Governor."

"Are you sure it's a good idea to have me there?" Philippe handed the documents to Barnabé.

"Of course, this is your brainchild after all." Barnabé set the papers down on his desk and walked Philippe to the door. "I think the corporatization of native land claims will be a net positive for everyone involved. I know you need to get settled at your hotel, but I would love if you would join Marie and I for dinner at the Chateau Picard. They have the finest collection of Aquitanian wine and food in the city."

"I would be honored." Philippe replied. "Thank you for your time mister Forestier."

 :)
That blank sealed my grin.

Roman Foreign Ministry, sometime in early August 1912

"Polly-what?"

"Polynesia sir, a large chain of islands in the South Pacific."

"And we gave them the African territory we just spent time and money working to grab for this chain of islands in the middle of nowhere?"

"Yes sir, the Vilinus had occupied many of the other ports in the area, so any overland expansion from there was going to be a nonstarter, unless we wanted to start shooting Vilinusian solders."

"Lord knows we don't need that. Besides, we did get some monetary assistance from them as well to help develop the territory. Nice bit of work by Mr. Sauvageon on that front."

"Indeed, I'm glad Sauvageon is working out at the post."

"Yes, keeping smooth relations with our northeasterly neighbors here at home is a good thing. The less likely we are to be forced into a war here in Europe, the more we can focus on where we may be forced into one in America."

"So its true the Aztecs are moving across the river?"

"I'm afraid so. Force redeployment are already underway in the New World. All under some tidy little name too. Speaking of which Mr Airaldi, your next assignment is in. You will be travailing to the Peoples Republic of Maya. You depart with a navy ship leaving on Friday for Saint Rochelle."

Early August, 1912. Rome

Amelia considered herself a reasonably quick study. The same, she had reaffirmed over the last several months, could not be said of a majority of the Imperial Assembly in matters of how to be proper around a young woman. This was of course complicated by the fact that said young woman was the heir to the Imperial throne. If there was a finite number of ways to trip over oneself, metaphorically and physically, Amelia had yet to find that limit between all members of the Imperial Assembly.

Since Alonzo's passing, Amelia had been thrust into a role she had never dreamed she would need to prepare for. Her sixteen years of life until that fateful April day had groomed her, despite her best efforts, for the life traditionally held be daughters of nobles. A barter piece to be moved around into a place where she could produce offspring, preferably male, for the most conveniently placed male noble her father could find. All that had changed. While Amelia had an academic, if detached, understanding of the machines of the Roman government, the real-world workings of those machines were both fascinating and dull, somehow both at the same time.

Her father's insistence that she begin learning hands-on as quickly as possible is what had landed Amelia in weekly sessions with the Imperial Assembly. At first, the mostly older male makeup of the Assembly hardly knew what to do with the poor girl. Some treated her like a child, stopping to explain the simplest ideas as if her brain was incapable of learning something other than sewing without a slow, simple explanation. The more mentally agile members quickly discovered that Amelia was quite intelligent and began (with some not-so-gentle suggestion from the Emperor) to include her in discussions, from an advisory standpoint only.

Not all these sessions were learning, there were some where she was expected to sit silent and listen. Today was one of those sessions, as one of topics concerned her. The Emperor had talked to her before things began.

My Little Waterlily, he had said, as much as I know you dislike it, today is one of the days you must bite your tongue. As I am sure you know by now, there is a time for the figure of authority the throne represents to take a stance and a time for it to endorse the stance taken by others. Today is one of those days, even though it concerns you.

Amelia had playfully rolled her eyes and affirmed to Trajan VIII that she would be a good woman and heir and bite her tongue. She almost had to physically bite it now, as the discussion had grown heated yet again.

"There is no way this can possibly be allowed." Assemblyman Uggeri from Wessex practically spat the words out. "The Army is no place for a woman, no mater if the position is ceremonial or not. Besides, what sort of example would that set to the world?"

What was being debated with this small group of Assemblymen, Ministry of War bureaucrats, and members of the Roman military was the traditional placement of the heir to the imperial throne's place in the armed service, specifically the Roman Army. It had been tradition dating back a thousand years at least that the heir to the throne had served in the Roman Army. The tradition was not without its issues, at least one sole heir had been killed in service, sometimes resulting combat injuries had sometimes made continuing a bloodline, difficult.

"This is a time-honored tradition of our nation, dating back to the times of the First Empire." Minister Aloisi, an old Aquitanian nobleman retorted. "To throw it away now would simply do nothing but spit on the graves of those descendants of rulers past who gave their lives in defense of our nation."

Inwardly, Amelia fought to suppress an exasperated sigh. The same argument had been making the rounds of the small group for what felt like hours, though it had hardly been one. Amelia felt for the poor Army generals seated in the middle of the room. After their opening remarks, which had amounted to We will do as we are ordered, it does not matter if we like it and you know it, the poor men had to endure the same debate she had. The Navy admiral however seems to be enjoying watching his land-bound counterparts squirm a little bit, the Marine general was doing much the same.

Emperor Trajan VIII coughed and stood before another Assemblyman could circle back to the other counterargument again. "Gentlemen, I can tell that there are many passions that burn hot as fire on this issue. It is clear that you all desire the best for the nation, its people, and my heir."

Amelia recognized that her father was providing a little bit of cushion for the hammer that was about to come down from the throne.

"That said, these arguments grow in tighter circles by the word. Nothing will be accomplished aside from flared tempers and wounded pride if we continue this path. I cannot speak for the parties involved but surly there must be an option we have not considered."

Almost as if on cue, the Admiral stood up. To the credit of the generals, Amelia had to work to see any expression of shock.

"Gentlemen of the Assembly, your grace, and my lady." The last part directed at Amelia, which was sure to offend at least Uggeri and Aloisi. "I have a proposal for the body to consider. I believe that there is a third option that is unconsidered. It would be possible to, instead of a commission in the Army, to provide Princess Amelia a commission in the Imperial Navy. It is my belief..."

Uggeri shot to his feet, cutting the admiral off. "Preposterous! The Navy has no need of such a role, the people would never stand for it!"

Aloisi also began to stand and protest but Trajan bet him to the punch. "Assemblyman Uggeri, you will let the honored Admiral finish. Afford him the same courtesy that you would ask others in this body to afford you." The implied suggestion was anything but one. Uggeri sat down.

"Thank you, your grace." The Admiral nodded and continued. "It is my belief that the Navy is qualified to provide the opportunity for the heir to serve in the armed forces. Her family has provided great service to this country, we should allow her the same opportunity."

"Do you have some sort of qualification that would imply the heir is more fit to serve in the Navy than in the Army?" Her father asked. "As I recall, that is one of the points we have circled around time and time again."

"In fact, I do your grace. While the esteemed Assemblymen have noted repeatedly that Princess Amelia's limited experience with firearms would be an obstacle to her service, the Navy would have no such hesitation. Does your grace recall your visit to the Atlantic Fleet in late February of 1910?" The Admiral reached for a folder with only a few sheets of paper inside.

"Indeed, I do, it was quite a lovely time." Trajan replied.

"Then your grace might recall that Princess Amelia took part in a gunnery drill on board the IRS Lauri during that visit." The admiral produced the documents from the folder. "As the esteemed members of the Assembly can observe here, the only part of the drill that the Princess was unable to partake in was the transfer and working of ammunition. This was done as a safety precaution, as the Princess was only fourteen at the time and would have been unable to handle the munitions without assistance. Aside from that, the drill was successful for the duration of the Princess's involvement. I also have here testimonial from the crew regarding her involvement. All this speaks to that the Princess would be a welcome addition to the ranks of the Imperial Navy, even if the position were ceremonial."

"Well gentlemen, it seems as if we have an alternative." Trajan settled back into his chair "Now, let us discuss the merits of the proposals before us."

The debate lasted another half an hour before the consensus was reached. Amelia's service in the Roman military would take place in the Imperial Navy.

Quote from: snip on March 11, 2020, 09:51:21 PM

Trajan VIII's gaze met his daughter's tear-filled eyes, and she realized he was close to breaking down as well. "We received word a short while ago. While on a night training exercise, Alonzo became separated from his men. A search was called, and they found him. It was not far from the training area, but it was in much rougher terrain. He had been thrown from his horse and landed on his head. I am told there was likely no pain. He is with God now."

I've been otherwise occupied and not keeping up with various folks news.
If there was a State Service, Parthia's Ambassador would attend.
They would send someone higher rank, but at 4700nm, I expect the travel time is to great.

October 25th, Ministère de la Marine: Département de la Construction et de la Réparation

"So, I believe that is the last account. Where do we go from here?"

The comment from a man seated near the head of the table worked its way through the smoke-filled room. The cool autumn air the reached tantalizingly in from the large open windows for those lucky enough to be close. Around the large table sat many men, the table filled with papers large and small.

"What we understand from the various accounts of the action off the Ryukyus is well known." A different man than the first now spoke. "It goes to show that the type of conflict we can expect in three of the major seaways and areas we are expected to defend is not going to be as previously thought."

"So, you are saying the Navy is obsolete?" The first man spoke again.

"Hardly sir." The second answered. "Merely that we need to engage in several serious discussions about what will best meet our long-term needs and about what we can best do in the short term to meet those needs with the assets we have."

A third man spoke up. "What is good about the relative success of the torpedo, though we do feel that the figures we have are optimistic as to the absolute numbers involved, is that torpedoes and their launching mechanisms are relatively cheep to replace on existing ships with on-deck installations. This work can be done quite quickly."

"Additionally, the relatively confined nature of some seaways, mainly the Albian Channel, mean that we can take advantage of greater number of smaller more mass-producible craft for the deterrent defense of those regions." The second man spoke again. "Given the improved quantity of these ships, combined with good reconnaissance, will serve to make these areas functional inaccessible to capital units."

The first man again asked a question. "So that covers the Albion Channel. Do you believe the same applies to the Mediterranean or Caribbean?"

"In some ways yes and in others no." A fifth man was quick to reply. "While those areas are confined bodies of water, they are larger and so while areas can be made extremely inhospitable for capital ships with a large number of torpedo, they are open enough to allow for some maneuver. Ultimately, we cannot outright replace the battle fleet in these regions. The torpedo is still an important area-denial platform for them."

"This brings up another important point." The fourth man floated a statement to the room. "Within the last three years, the necessary operating areas of our fleet have expanded greatly. We now need a battlefleet that can be not just in two places, but in three. One of these is almost too far away for the oldest of our ships to reach in one go."

"This is true." The second man replied. "I feel that the fundamental goals of the navy; the protection of trade and the security of supply lines, are now at odds with the ships that we have and the ships we have planned to build. Specifically, when it comes to capital units."

"Do you mean to say that the entire battlefleet is obsoleted?" The first man practically threw the question.
"Hardly, I merely suggest that the priorities of construction and refit need to change." The second man seemed to have anticipated the first's response and had prepared. "Our modern capital ships are not vastly different from the type in service with other nations. What issues they do have, mostly outdated fire control systems, can be fixed quickly and efficiently. Our older ships are in worse shape, but there is already the existing plan to replace them. I am not suggesting we vastly deviate from the schedules already set, merely that we alter the type of ships being built. We are only ever going to have one battleline, and recent events have shown that the areas we though we needed a world-class battleline to defend, that said battleline can be augmented with means we did not have before. With that fact, we can work in the longer term to improve the quality of the battleline with new ships, but also expand our capabilities to protect trade and supply lines by adding different capital ships to our arsenal."

"You mean more ships like the Respublica." The third man interjected.

"Yes." The reply from the second man was firm. "While controversial when first proposed and started, I firmly believe that ships like the Respublica are more useful than the battleline of old."

This set off a lively debate that lasted for hours. Papers were scattered, tempers flared, cigars burnt to ash. By the end, the future direction of the Imperial Roman Navy had changed.

Excerpt from Capital Ships of the Imperial Roman Navy: A Design History (1991)


In the leadup to the launch of the IRS Respublica in early 1913, work had been underway on a follow up design for some time. As covered previously, the reception of the Ryukyu Disagreement in the eyes of the Roman Navy had introduced fear into the planners of the Imperial Navy. Facing the potential for a naval war in another confined waterway, the Caribbean Sea, designs began to shift. No longer was the standard 5500nm range at 10 knots considered adequate, it would take these ships to long to cross the Atlantic and they would be almost incapable of fighting on arrival if they did not have a chance to refuel. These concerns did not allow for upending of the traditional battleship, but merely prepared the stage for the items that would.

The first was the extent of Sultan Ali the 8th's naval reforms becoming clear. Where before it had been felt that older pre-Invicta ships would be sufficient until help arrived from the Atlantic Fleet at Brest, the rumors of what became the Sultan Ali Class Battlecruisers proved to be the tip of an Aztec naval buildup. Second was increased Aztec contact with Japan on a military level. While much of the finer details we now know were obscure to planners of the time, it was clear the Aztecs were in a position to learn how to fight a modern engagement in similar areas to where the only current combat experience had shown decisive results. After much deliberation, a follow on to the Respubica was given the formal design go-ahead in early 1913, with expected laydown to be early in the following year.

[Removed section about shortcomings of the Respublica, early specifications, protection, challenges of speed, and shipyard improvements]

With the problems of dockyards being remedied and other requirements well defined, the main bottleneck around the Large Armored Cruiser – 1914 (LAC14) proposals was of armament. The ubiquitous 340mmL45 was again selected as the main weapon. The lower rate of fire of triple turrets was well known by this point and had been a constant source of harassment for the proponents. Design configurations existed for various turrets and layouts. Ultimately, three configurations solidified. The first was a 4x2 design, LAC14-A3, with the turrets arranged in twin gun turrets set as superfireing pairs fore and aft. The second was a 3x3 design, LAC14-B1, with  the turrets arranged identical to the Respublica. The third, LAC14-B4, was a 2x3 design with triple turrets arranged fore and aft. LAC14-A3 was to large for other aspects of the requirements, while LAC14-B4 was not felt to have enough firepower with only six guns on the broadside. The LAC14-B1 design was the favorite despite the shortcomings of the Respublica layout, until the LAC14-C1 design was introduced. Using the quad turret under design for the follow on to the Audax class [The consolidation of main armament was intended to allow for more powerful engines on the same hull], LAC14-C1 was able to combine the firepower of the A3 design with the more weight-economic layout of the B4 design while not suffering limited firing angles for a section of its battery like the B1 design. After much consideration and parallel development on the B1 design, the C1 design was selected for construction. Shortly thereafter, the name Jeanne d'Arc was assigned to the ship.

February 20th 1913, Imperial Palace, Rome.

"I simply don't see why it was even a discussion."

It took all of Amelia's willpower not to attempt to engulf the head the comment had originated from between her teeth and bite down as hard as she could. Formal events were suffocating enough in the best of company, but the woman across the table was far from the best. While her father entertained some visiting nobles in another part of the palace, Amelia was forced to listen to a small number of others discuss her future as a wife. As with topics such as this, far too many people though they had opinions that were more valid than anyone else's. The current speaker was no exception.

"It's quite simply improper and I don't understand why those dusty old men even touched the subject, let alone forced it."

The rage building in Amelia came within millimetres of leaping out of her before a gentle touch on her thigh snapped it back. She glanced to her right. Her aunt Isabella looked sympathetically at her from the corner of her eyes. Now is not the place they seemed to say but we both know she is wrong.

The woman across the table, older with attempts at counseling such fooling nobody but herself, continued. "Besides, there is no telling what such proximity to so many men will do to her fertility."

"Duchess Fabien." A male voice that Amelia recognized as belonging to Count Hubert Soriano from somewhere in Albion called Downton tartly interrupted. "I do not believe this is appropriate conversation to breach here nor anywhere for that matter."

"The Count forgets his rank." Duchess Fabian preachily spat. "Besides, what would you know of these matters. You are here for your connections, nothing more."

Amelia's teeth dug into her tongue past the point the iron taste of blood began to leak across it. Count Hubert was a kind man and did not deserve this. Aunt Isabella squeezed her thigh again, but Amelia hardly felt it.

Duchess Fabian continued unperturbed. "Besides, if something were to happen, we would be without an heir for the first time in modern history. Not to mention what it would do to her prospects if one of those animals you call the common service man acts as you know they will."

The audible gasp by several of the table's occupants at the implied barbaric act was the final straw. Amelia snapped; the frothing rage replaced by an icy calm behind a pointed mental dagger. "Perhaps the Duchess means to imply that she is only capable of proceeding carnally joined with those who cannot overcome their animal instincts." She glared across the table; eyes filled with fire.

"Excuse me young lady." The Duchess recoiled. "Nobody gave you permission to speak. You clearly have a long way to go to become a passable wife."

"The Duchess forgets her rank." Amelia replied while standing. "I am the Crown Princess; it would do you well to remember that. Much like it would do you well to remember that your so-called days of beauty are far past and the money you married into cannot buy you an ounce of respect as much as it could buy you a faithful husband."
"How dare you speak of these things." The Duchess replied, tone indicating Amelia's barb had struck several raw nerves.

Amelia turned to Count Hubert "Count Soriano, please accept my most heartfelt apologies for the Duchess's remarks. I bid the rest of you a good evening." Amelia curtsied to the Count as he hurried to stand. She then turned and left though one of the large doors into the garden, the Duchess still spluttering at the table.

The calm focus began to crack as the cool night air brushed Amelia's skin the further she moved from the door. Her hands began to shake with rage and sadness as the lights from the palace faded behind high hedges and partition walls, leaving Amelia bathed in the soft light of the full moon. She followed the path mostly by instinct, having explored every inch of these gardens since she could first walk. Finally, she turned a corner and saw the large formal sitting room where her father sat with several important nobles. She wanted nothing more than to burst though the door and tell her father what had happened. It took three steps in the direction of the door for her to catch herself. That might have worked when she was a little girl and had wet the bed or cut her arm, but now she was seventeen and the heir to the throne. Acting that way in front of a collection of nobles would make her look weak and likely confirm the bias many of them likely had about her future, hopefully very distant, ascension to the throne.

As quickly as she had advanced, Amelia ducked back into the garden and out of site of the windows. Finding a bench next to a small fountain, she sat and held her head in her hands. For how nasty and short sited the Duchess's comments had been, they had struck a nerve within Amelia's personality. She feared that she would never be good enough to truly fill the several roles that had been thrust directly and solely upon her that fateful April night almost a year before. While her confidence in preforming the governmental duties had grown considerably, confidence in other aspects had waned. Amelia greatly feared that she did not possess the beauty to catch the eye of men, the wit to entertain them, the prowess to love them, and ultimately the ability to make them love her in return. She feared that her future marriage would be the sort of arranged one where it only served the purpose of making heirs, not the loving partnership that her mother and father had. Above all, Amelia feared being alone. Isolated by the power her lineage would bestow upon her, forever at the top of an ivory pedestal, admired by all but genuinely loved by none.

"Excuse me miss, are you, all right?"

The male voice pulled Amelia back to the moonlit garden. She lifted her head from her hands and looked in the direction of the voice. There stood a young man, most likely in his early to mid-twenties. The polished brass of his Marine uniform buttons softly reflected the moonlight.

"Crown Princess Amelia!" The exclamation was followed by a deep bow. "Apologies for not recognizing you. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Eugène Charpentier, heir to the Dutchy of Gascogne."

Amelia stood and curtsied, quickly observing the rank on the uniform. "A pleasure Lieutenant Charpentier. Are you here with your father?"

"Yes." Eugène replied. "The emperor's hospitality has been excellent." Eugène smiled as he continued. "The food was wonderful at dinner, though I do find fault with the Italian wine, Aquitanian is unquestionably better."
Amelia opted not to suppress a playful giggle. "I believe you would incur the wrath of several of our chefs with that remark."

"I do apologies for not introducing myself sooner, we did arrive rather later than we wished." Eugène started to continue but halted as his gaze caught on a detail of Amelia's face.

Amelia preempted the obvious question, embarrassment dripping from her voice as color rushed her cheeks. "Yes, my eyes are indeed two different colors. It's a rather unfortunate defect one really cannot hide."

"I do disagree that one would want to hide it." Eugène replied "I do hope my observation has not cause the Crown Princess any discomfort or embarrassment. If a further comment would not be out of line?" He paused to allow for an answer.

"It would not, and you are most polite for asking." Amelia managed a faint smile underneath her fierce blush.

"I find that it enhances the already resplendent beauty of the Crown Princess and that those who think it a defect are as wrong as it is possible to be wrong." Eugène practically came to parade-prefect attention as he spoke.

The blush of embarrassment only burned hotter on Amelia's cheeks, but was joined by a nervous tingling in the pit of her stomach. "Lieutenant you are far to kind in your remarks. Thank you." The cutting bite of Duchess Fabian's remarks melted into the tingling pit.

"Would m'lady care to join us for some evening refreshments?" Eugène offered. "I'm sure your presence would be most welcome in the warm indoors."

"I very much would like that." Amelia replied. "Should we go in?"

"It would be my honor and privilege to escort you." Eugène offered his arm.

Amelia took it gently and let Eugène escort her into the sitting room. She was received warmly. The night went late and only when all the guests had retired did she finally bid her father good night and returned to her room. The evening had done much for her confidence.

April 16th, 1913. Saint Rochelle.

Dana Carlyle turned the gate of the waist-height fence surrounding the small house plopped into a neat line with others like it. While there were slight variations in color and details, the buildings were largely the same up and down the row. A side effect of the rapid expansion of Saint Rochelle, and one that afflicted many streets. As the gate closed, a large black shape practically exploded though the light door and shot into the yard. The midnight black Labrador bolted straight at Dana, flecks of saliva flying off its jowls. Following the dog out the door was a young girl, running as fast as her short legs would carry her.

"Daddy's home! Come quick Mommy, Daddy's home!" she gleefully cried in the direction of the door that was now banging against the frame.

The dog reached Dana first and lept at his face, tongue reaching out to give his master a proper welcome. "Hello there Kaliopie, it's good to see you to." Dana said as the dog almost knocked him off balance.

"Daddy!" The primal cry of the almost four-year old human missile sounded again just before impact. Poor Kaliopie was bulldozed out of the way as the girl plowed into Dana's chest.

"Nellie!" Dana managed to excitedly reply as his daughter attempted to smash the air from his chest. "Did you miss me?"

"So so much." Nellie's reply was muffled by Dana's uniform jacket. "I tried to stay up until you came back but mommy wouldn't let me."

Given Dana had been gone for a month, that would have been quite an impressive feat. "I'm glad she made you get some sleep; you need it with how much you have grown."

Nellie pulled away from Dana and beamed. "Look at how tall I am now." She puffed up to squeeze every millimeter out of her tiny frame that she could.

Dana scooped Nellie up in his arm and carried her back in the direction of the house. "So big I can hardly carry you." This was of course untrue, but it didn't hurt to let Nellie believe. "Now where is your mother?"

"Right here my darling." Peggy Carlyle pushed the door open, allowing her incredibly pregnant belly to exit without impact. "Welcome home."

"Hello Peggy." Dana set Nellie down next to a hovering Kaliopie and pulled Peggy into a loose embrace. "I missed you dearly."

"As did we." Peggy replied guiding Dana's hand to her belly. "I thought for a moment that someone was going to want to greet you in person. Please thank the general when you see him again."

"Of course. I came as soon as I could." Dana replied. "What did the doctor say?"

"He does not know why the false contractions came on so strong." Peggy replied. "But everything is still..." She was cut off by a wince as Dana felt a tiny foot impact his hand. "Still fine. Any hour now I'm bound to pop."

"I'm glad I made it home before that happened." Dana replied.

"I had to run to the nice policeman!" Nellie piped in pridefully, toothy grin splitting her face ear to ear.

"You did," Peggy grabbed her daughter and pulled her into the family hug. "and you were so excited."

"I just want to know if I have a little brother or a little sister." Nellie poked Peggy's belly. "You can come out now, Daddy's home."

Peggy winced as the small finger jabbed. "Indeed, he is. Now I would love to get inside and get off my feet."

"A wonderful idea." Dana replied. He then opened the door for Peggy as she pulled Nellie inside, Kaliopie following. It was good to be home with his soon to be larger family.

---

While Captain Dana Carlyle was settling in at home, Général de Brigade Manuel Sforza engaged in the timeless pose of a man lost in thought. His eyes squinted at the object of his focus, left hand stroked his right cheek as the lines of supply documents on his desk refused to become simple for him. He set the documents down and returned to looking at the large map laid out on the conference table in the center of the room. The map showed the colony of Novus Francia in stunning detail. Rivers crossed with new railroad lines that sharply defined the web of major settlements and industrial endeavors. The New World was quickly growing to mirror the Old. What this map also showed was what Manuel and the rest of the Roman military staff in Novus Francia had begun to fear greatly for the last eighteen months.

Along the southern and western edge of the boundaries of Novus Francia, the Azteca Domain had slowly been assimilating land. Blossoming out from the boarders they had held since 1910, the tumorous growth had slowly but steadily confined the Roman colony in a potential vice grip. Left unchecked the rich territory could be surrounded by Aztec holdings. Should that occur, even the vaunted Roman Army may not be able to hold forever. Less so if the Navy could not do its damn job and keep supplies from the arms factories of western Europe flowing. However, the Aztec holdings had not continued to caress the boarders of Roman territory and had swung to the west. Now there was a sizable gap, but not an insurmountable obstacle should the Aztecs be attempting to lure the Imperial forces into complacency. The terrain was rough, but not entirely inhospitable. Holding it would make the attack of Roman territory overwhelming, or the defense of it much simpler.

Atop the map were multitudes of small markers, each representative of various military units. The majority of these, and by far the more detailed, were Roman units. Lesser detail was available for known or expected Aztec troop concentrations, the identified units lacking much detail compared to their Roman counterparts. Manuel's eye flitted over the map, the scenarios of a practiced strategic mind playing out repeatedly. As yet another permutation of a hoped-unnecessary hypothetical began, the door to the briefing room was thrown open and slammed into the wall as a helplessly young Aspirant who had been manning the desk outside burst into the room.

"Maréchal D'Espèrey to see you Général!" The excitable youth spouted the statement at parade ground volume into the quiet room, the words almost echoing.

Manuel came to attention and saluted as D'Espèrey entered the room. "Maréchal D'Espèrey, to what do I owe the pleasure sir?" Both Manuel and D'Espèrey knew what was to be discussed, but the Aspirant did not need to know that.

D'Espèrey returned the salute. "More of the boring redundancy, I fear. Perhaps your doorman could fetch us some refreshments?" The code for we need to talk alone.

"An excellent idea." Manuel replied. "Aspirant, go fetch us some Iberian Whiskey, ask the kitchen staff, they will know where to find it."

The excitable young man came to attention and saluted both men. "Yes sir Général, Maréchal." On the salute being returned, he bolted from the room and closed the door.

"Iberian whisky?" D'Espèrey suppressed a chuckle.

Manuel cracked a smile. "Will keep him occupied for a while. To have that enthusiasm again."

"If we have to take the foolhead that comes with it, count me out." D'Espèrey gestured to the table and the unit markers atop the map. "I hope you don't like the position of those."

"We have been given the go-ahead then I take it." Manuel's mood lost the thin humorous edge from the Aspirant's quest. "Do we know the company we can expect?"

"No." D'Espèrey's reply was curt. "So rather than make this a light, natural expansion its going to be more along the lines of conquest. This move will shorten the portion of the boarder that matters by a not insignificant distance. Should the day come, we can trade space for time."

Manuel scowled at the map. "Indeed we can."

"It will mostly be a calvary operation. There will be some infantry for the garrison of major settlements and the like, but its wide-open terrain. Not a lot of room to hide and lots of room to maneuver. I have managed to shake a couple scout aircraft, including two Albatross." D'Espèrey had begun to shift some of the unit markers around.

"And how did you manage that? I've been asking for any one of those flying contraptions for months, and then you get multiple Albatross's?" Manuel had joined the movement of unit markers.

"If we have company, we need all the visibility we can get." D'Espèrey replied.

When the two had finished moving markers around, the planned grab of more land in the name of Trajan VIII was visible on the table. Right in the thick of the plan sat Manuel's old unit, the 44th Dragoons.

Nit-pick:  Southern and western edges of Novo Francia.  Me and the Mayans are picking on the eastern edges.

Good stuff, though.

What I get for posting shortly before midnight. I'll fix it shortly.

September 18th, 1913. Mancunio, Wessex-Londinium.

The cold morning air was delightfully clear. As the low sun gently caressed the hills and trees, the beauty of the day was almost lost upon a small crowd of people gathered around a large grass field with a wide barn-like structure at one end. The imposing doors on the field side of the structure were open, and most of the crowd clambered for a look inside. The sign on the left door read A. V. Roe and Company, with Caprioni Aviation Partner in smaller lettering underneath.

While the people of Mancunio had grown more familiar than average with various strange objects in the sky, the first flight of more published types still drew large crowds, both locals and travelers. The plane being moved out of the barn by a handful of A. V. Roe employees was quite modern and sleek compared to older types that were more jumbles of fabric, wood, and wire. A few other company employees worked to clear a rout for the plane, while a senior employee stood on a conveniently placed box and began to address the crowd.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to present to you today the latest aeroplane from the A. V. Roe Company. This modern marvel of aviation as been created with the partnership of the Italia-based Caprioni company. Equipped with the finest rotary engine making eighty horsepower, it is sure to prove another wonder of our modern age. I give you the Beagle!"

He gestured gratuitously at the aircraft to scattered applause. "I am also thrilled to present to you one of, nay, the finest pilot in all the world. Please help me give a fabulous welcome to Mister F. P. Raynham!"

The exclamation was again met with scattered applause as a younger man quickly stepped on to the box, waved to the crowd, and then left as suddenly as he had arrived. Returning to the group pushing the Beagle out onto the marked runway, he engaged a man with grease-covered hands and forearms.

"I don't know why they insist on parading me around like that, its not like I'm the only pilot in existence." Raynham said to the mechanic.

"Because to them you may as well be Bleriot." The mechanic replied between breaths as the Beagle neared the end of the grass field.

"That is true." Raynham replied "Is she ready?"

The team of men finally positioned the aircraft at the end of the field and most began to retreat in the direction of the barn. Raynham clambered into the cockpit as the mechanic moved to the propeller at the front affixed to the rotary engine.

"As she ever will be." The mechanic replied affectionately tapping the propeller. He then grabbed it along with another man and looked at Raynham.

Raynham gave the two men a thumbs up and they turned over the propeller. The engine coughed to life as the mechanic and other man ran out of the way. Raynham opened the throttle and the Beagle surged forward down the grassy field.  After a short time, the bouncing stopped and the Beagle clawed its way into the air.

Note: This is going to be a multi-part story, not sure how many parts yet.

October 6th, 1913. Brest, the Hotel Vesuvio

The soft sound of violins and the sharper tone of brass instruments spread throughout the Hotel Vesuvio's tall lobby, dining rooms, and grandly appointed ballroom. The controlled tremor of strings spilled softly into the grounds outside pushed by horns, filling nook and cranny with enticing sound. People in formal attire milled around the marble columns of the entry way as more arrived via horse-drawn carriage and motor cars. Seeing friends or acquaintances, the people gradually filtered inside where tables full of fine food were scattered about the minutely manicured space. Hotel staff with not a thread out of place carried never-ending trays of various refreshments and hors d'oeuvres. The dancefloor of the grand ballroom held many couples, a formal waltz guiding the pairs around in circles. The full grandeur and luxury of the Republic's upper class was on display, and not a moment was to be wasted.

Above the cavernous grand staircase, Amelia looked discreetly over the crowd, hoping nobody noticed her face beside the ornately carved trim. Nerves played a part in her descression, but also formal protocol as she had not yet been announced. Formality was stifling. She ducked back around the corner, satisfied that nobody had seen her, and returned to pacing the breadth of the hallway. A new waltz began to play downstairs, wrapping itself in the smell of fine food and drink as it drifted to the Princess and the others with her. At this moment, she had two companions, the ever-present Ploussard in splendid Marine dress uniform, and a handmaiden named Aurélie Orlando in a fine evening gown. It was the latter whom Amelia approached as her hands moved to her head to fuss with a small tiara.

"Why wont it just say in place." Amelia whispered exasperatedly. "Its going to fall off as soon as I step on the stairs." Amelia folded her legs under her dress and sat on the hall floor.

"Don't you touch it." Aurélie replied. "Let me handle it." The slightly older woman waited for a moment for Amelia to finish sitting, then began carefully examining the tiara. "It has not budged an inch m'lady."

"Are you sure?" Amelia questioned, reaching for the tiara again with gloved hands.

"Perhaps if m'lady had taken the advice offered and worn the tiara ahead of time, she would feel more comfortable with it." Aurélie answered while gently swatting the gloved hands away from the tiara and surrounding hair. "You trust me, don't you?"

"Of course, I do." Amelia stopped attempting to alter the position of the tiara. She paused to chew gently on the inside of her cheek momentarily before continuing. "I look ridiculous don't I."

Aurélie managed to suppress a sigh to everyone but Amelia. "M'lady, I know its hard for you to comprehend, but you are quite the attractive woman. Don't you agree Ploussard?"

The older man glanced sidewise at the two young woman, both young enough to be his daughters. "It does not matter if I agree or not, you are both my charges this evening and I do not relish the inevitable task of dealing with any young men that choose to make fools of themselves on account of the beauty possessed by both of you."

Amelia felt her cheeks burn hot with blush at the compliment. Even she had, grudgingly, admitted that the dress she wore was quite stunning with her in it. The base was an almost green shade of blue, like shallow ocean water, in a soft, luxurious, Chinese silk. The fabric began above her breasts, perhaps a little lower cut than some older ladies would find appropriate, but still quite modest, with a bundle over each shoulder to support the gown. It followed her form rather fitted to her waist, where the skirt flared out and cascaded to the floor. A second layer began at the top hem line, this one made of a semi-translucent purple silk, that fell to around her knees. This second layer split around her belly button and the skirt ended gathered to the outside of her knee on either side, showing the first layer from the front and back. A thick gold silk sash sheathed with an almost invisible diaphanous pink fabric pinched the top of the gown to her ribcage, the long thinner tails hanging over her backside to about mid-calf.  The straps had some short sleeves made of the same fabric as the dress that covered her shoulders. Adorning the rest of her arms were elbow length eggshell white gloves.

The gown was not all that Amelia had unique to this evening. A stern woman who had commanded her to sit in front of a mirror and be silent had performed the small wonder, in Amelia's eyes, of taming her hair. Normally falling in an unruly state to her shoulders, its natural semi-curled appearance masking some of its length, the brown strands lightened by much Mediterranean sun had been coerced into a reasonably ornate bob with most of her hair collated around an silver hairpiece behind and above her left ear. Somehow firmly secured was the silver tiara, inlayed with fine ruby stones that winked red in the light. The woman had also applied faint amounts of makeup to Amelia's face, not much was really needed. The ensemble was completed by the gilded-wire wrapped emerald necklace that had been presented to her by the Incan ambassador, which hung close to her neck above the hem of the dress.

"He is right about one of us you know." Aurélie replied "Next to you I'm as good as invisible." She winked as she finished speaking.

Aurélie's dress was less ornate, but no less stunning. It had much the same outline of Amelia's but the second layer did not have the split in the skirt. The gown was themed on a black silk, with a red sash. The sash was also much thinner.

"You are joking right?" Amelia cracked a faint smile.

"I would never m'lady." Aurélie fainted insult in a friendly tone. She giggled.

Amelia giggled in return; a slight amount of tension broken. The waltz playing below faded into its last notes and was not followed by the start of another. The almiglation of voices the music had covered gradually faded. Amelia knew what this meant, and with Aurélie's help stood up. A man's voice began speaking at volume to the crowed downstairs, his words distinguishable, but ignorable. Ploussard appeared at Amelia's left side and offered his arm.

"Are you ready Crown Princess?" Ploussard asked, looking down from his towering six-foot height at the shorter Amelia.

"No, but its to late to do anything about that now." Amelia finished the statement with a gulp.

"You know your father would be here if he could." Ploussard's quite sincere backing of the statement shaving off room from the normal bluntness of his tone.

"I know, thank you." Tinges of pain leaked around the edges of Amelia's reply. "I'm sure he will be well by the time we return."

The pair, followed by Aurélie a step and a half behind, began to walk to the top of the stairs as the voice addressing the crowed below arrived at the apex of his speech.

"It is now my pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, to introduce our honorable guest for this evening. Crown Princess Amelia!"

Happy birthday to me Amelia though sarcastically as hundreds of eyes turned to her from the hotel floor.

I'm having fun with this one, sorry for the length.

October 6th, 1913. Brest, the Hotel Vesuvio

In Amelia's private opinion, someone had worked a small miracle this evening. Not even the slightest instability had struck as she descended the grand staircase, escorted by Ploussard. The tiara, strange as it felt, had remained entangled correctly in her hair as she moved throughout the cavernous halls greeting various important attendees. The luxurious gown remained free of stains, despite the almost continuous flow of food and drink. The expected calamity of klutziness that Amelia had dreaded never materialized, the only reasonable explanation to its absence being a divine intervention. That intervention was truly to be put to the test, as the orchestra began the formal prelude to a waltz to conclude the formal diner service. Couples began making there way to the edges of the dancefloor, hesitating at the border, waiting for social permission to begin. Social permission Amelia would need to provide.

Ploussard stood up from his seat at the table, the seat her father should have occupied, and turned to Amelia. He bent almost ninety degrees at the waist in a formal bow while extending his gloved hand. "Crown Princess, may I please have the honor of first dance." The statement-masked-as-a-question only just audible over the swelling vibration of stringed instruments on the air.

Amelia gulped internally before replying. "The honor is mine, Sergeant Major." She stood up and accepted Ploussard's outstretched hand.

Ploussard lead Amelia onto the dance floor. The conductor of the orchestra moved to conclude the prelude and begin the waltz, the soft bite of woodwinds joining the strings as the pair reached the middle of the dance floor. Ploussard began to gently lead Amelia around the floor, the pair moving reasonably in time with the music. The miracle of the evening continued, as Amelia did not waver or trip over her own feet. As the song wore on, others moved onto the dance floor and joined Amelia and her escort until they were but a pair on a sea of dancers. The conductor had chosen a long song, and by its conclusion it was difficult for Ploussard to escort Amelia back to the table. Fortunately, the necessary social permission did not require continued dancing, and the table was a welcome breath from the crowded party. On return, Ploussard excused himself to procure some additional beverages, leaving Amelia and Aurélie alone.

"Would you look at that, you survived without injury." Aurélie commented jestingling as Amelia sat.

Amelia discreetly stuck out her tongue in a juvenile manner in reply. "Survived is the apt term, look at that crowd."

Aurélie almost began to continue the conversation when something behind Amelia captured her attention. Amelia belatedly noticed the change in focus and with all the social grace of a scared animal in the middle of a roadway, rapidly spun in her seat.

Behind the pair stood three very tall men. All shared a similar build and common facial features. Their blond hair, with tasteful colorations of grey on the older two, was close cropped in a more military style than most Roman nobility would sport. Contrary to the haircuts, the men wore fine evening jackets, not military uniforms, tho even to Amelia's untrained eye the cut was foreign. Two of the men sported a pair of piercing blue eyes, with the third only having one. The spot where the sixth eye should have been was covered by a simple black patch. These men were clearly not from the Republic, they were Wilnoan. Amelia stood up and faced the men, feeling quite shorter than normal. The man with the eyepatch stepped forward and bowed deeply.

"Crown Princess Amelia, it is an honor to meet you. I do apologies sincerely for the lack of formal introduction." The man returned to his impressive upright height. "My name is Erwin Zientek, I am here with my brother, Duke Świętopełk Zientek of Silesia."

The oldest of the trio stepped forward and bowed. "It is my pleasure, Crown Princess." He politely took Amelia's hand and gently kissed it. "Please allow me to introduce my son, Wiktor." He gestured to the youngest of the party.

Wiktor stepped forward, restrained confidence dripping liberally from his stance. "Crown Princess, it is truly an honor." He then followed the lead of his father, bowing deeply and kissing Amelia's hand. "I hear it is also your birthday, let me be one of many to wish you a wonderful year to come."

Amelia curtsied in return, wondering how well the makeup applied hours before was disguising her blush. "You are most kind, thank you. What brings you gentlemen all the way from Silesia?"

The Duke replied "We are visiting our cousin, Count Penthievre, who is in attendance tonight. When it was discovered our visit overlapped with this lovely event, he was able to arrange for our attendance."

It was at this moment Ploussard returned, casting an inquisitive stare in the direction of the Zientek trio. "I have returned with refreshments, m'lady."

Amelia knew her expected role and what needed to be done. "Sergeant Major Ploussard, please allow me to introduce Duke Zientek of Silesia, his brother Erwin, and his son Wiktor." She then turned to the Zientek trio. "Duke, gentlemen, please allow me to introduce my escort for this evening, Sergeant Major Ploussard of the Roman Marines, and my handmaiden, Aurélie Orlando daughter of Duke Orlando of Tuscany."

Ploussard nodded in greeting as Aurélie curtsied. "Would you gentlemen care to join us for a refreshment?" He slightly raised his hand in the direction of the nearest waiter.

"We would be honored, if it is not an inconvenience." Duke Świętopełk replied.

"Please, have a seat." Ploussard gestured to the table as the waiter materialized next to him. "Please see that these gentlemen have a beverage."
The waiter bought enough time for Amelia, Ploussard, and Aurélie to sit back down. Ploussard sat to Amelia's left, Aurélie to the right. Duke Świętopełk sat next to Ploussard, Wiktor next to him, with Erwin rounding out the table, leaving one open space between him and Aurélie. As quickly as he departed, the waiter returned with more drinks. Conversation between members of the table began, Amelia trying her best to stay out of anything to involved. Wiktor however was keen to engage with her and didn't seem to take a hint to the contrary. After some attempted deflections, the message had still not gotten across.

"This is quite the party; do you attend events like this all the time?" The Modern Latin getting garbled by the Polish eccentricities of Wiktor's accent. "I've been to my share of fancy parties, some as fine as this."

"No, not often." Amelia replied, taking great effort to keep the tone diplomatic but flat. "Not since my brother passed at least."

"A great shame to hear of the Crown Prince's untimely death." Wiktor continued. "My sincere condolences."

"You are too kind." Amelia responded.

"I myself have three younger brothers, I care a great deal for them." Continuing without acknowledgment of responses seemed to be Wiktor's forte. "And I understand I am soon to be an uncle, as one of my brothers had a, productive, visit with a family friend."

"Wiktor!" Duke Świętopełk interjected. "How dare you insult the Crown Princess with such accounts."

Amelia bit back a lashing response in favor of restraint. "No harm done Duke Świętopełk." She turned to Aurélie. "Would you please accompany me, I could use a pinch of fresh air. Please do excuse me gentlemen, it is perhaps a little to warm in her for my sensibilities. I shall return shortly." Amelia stood, curtsied, and began walking leisurely to the nearest doorway. Aurélie followed and hovered half a step behind as Amelia stopped several times to respond to greetings. Finally, the pair reached the door and stepped into one of the luxurious gardens of the Hotel Vesuvio.

"I cannot believe the nerve of that Świętopełk brat." Aurélie burst not quite out of earshot of the nearest partygoer. "Talking about something as, private, as that in front of anyone and so crudely."

"Indeed." Amelia replied. "I could practically hear Ploussard's eyes attempting to penetrate Wiktor's skull."

"Crown Princess?" A male voice called out from behind the pair.

Amelia turned and saw a familiar face. "Lieutenant Charpentier, how nice to see you." She was unable to keep a sheath of excitement from her voice and her heartbeat steady as the handsome Marine officer approached.

"The pleasure is mine." Eugène Charpentier gently grasped a gloved hand and touched it softly to his lips. "May I say you look resplendent this evening."

The tingle in Amelia's spine and guts was difficult to keep out of her voice as her cheeks burned hot. "May I introduce my handmaiden, Aurélie Orlando daughter of Duke Orlando of Tuscany. Aurélie, this is Lieutenant Eugène Charpentier heir to the Dutchy of Gascogne."

Aurélie curtsied "A pleasure Lieutenant."

"The pleasure is mine, m'lady." Eugène responded, lightly bowing. "I was about to procure some refreshment, may I retrieve anything for ether of you?"

"A beverage would be lovely, if it is not an inconvenience." Amelia replied.

"Of course not, Crown Princess." Eugène looked to Aurélie, who nodded. "I will return momentarily and allow you your fresh air." He then bowed and turned to walk back into the ballroom.

Amelia caught herself exhaling though tight lips as Eugène disappeared inside, softly whispering "Thank you." An elbow jabbing into her ribs partially snapped her back into the moment.

Aurélie's face was plastered with a sly smirk. "I take it you didn't notice the way he was looking at you?"

"What ever do you mean by that?" Amelia replied, slightly flustered. "Of course, he was looking at me, we were conversing."

"So that is a no then." Aurélie's tone was matter of fact in only the way friends could be. "I guess that's because you were too occupied to look at what he was doing, because you were looking at him." The inflection of the latter half implying something just over the boarder of polite conversation.

"I was not!..." Amelia began to protest, then deflated. "How obvious was it?"

"For what is worth," Aurélie chuckled, "he didn't seem to notice as he was occupied looking at you. "I told you I was as good as invisible next to you."

Ameilia unintentionally ignored the last part of the comment. "I wonder if he would ask me to dance?"

"You could always ignore everything we have ever been taught about being proper lady's and ask him." Aurélie offered. "If he declines I'll hit him."

Ameilia smiled "I quite like that idea, I think I may if he does not offer of his own volition."

Good stuff.  Glad we Wilno folk make impressions.

Another long one, I'll try and make the next part a bit more concise.

October 6th, 1913. Brest, the Hotel Vesuvio

The autumn night air was beginning to cool Amelia's skin beyond a comfortable level when Eugène returned with three drinks. She smiled softly at him as she took one of the small glasses, the second going to Aurélie, while Eugène kept the third. Amelia caught herself examining Eugène's nose in detail as he spoke.

"If I may, a toast." Eugène's genuine tone wrapping the words like honey brushed on a biscuit. "To the Crown Princess; may this year, and her life, be filled with nothing but the best wonders and happiness. Happy Birthday."

Amelia could do nothing to stop a smile splitting her face as she mirrored the raising of the glass and took a large sip. The liquid burned its way down to her stomach, she had to fight to suppress a cough. Aurélie failed at the latter task, two expulsive exhalations momentarily masking the music from inside.

"My apologies miss Orlando." Eugène had apparently no trouble with the drink. "Perhaps I should have procured something less strong."

"Its quite fine." Aurélie replied. "I was not expecting such stiffness is all. Please excuse me for a moment." With that she partially stifled a third cough and stepped away.

"I do hope she is ok." The concerned tone genuine on Eugène's voice.

"I believe she will be." Amelia replied, the drink's erosive effect on her innate shyness making conversation easier. "It was quite stiff." Her eyes met his, and she hoped the pleading question behind them was received. Ask me to dance.

"My sincere apologies." Eugène bowed to accent the point. "I did not mean to cause you any discomfort."

"No apology is required." Amelia replied. "I find it quite invigorating."

"Should we wait her for miss Orlando's return?" Eugène asked deferentially.

"I'm sure she will be able to find me wherever I am." Amelia responded. "She always seems to know. Perhaps we could go back inside, this air is a little to chilled for my liking."

"Of course, Crown Princess." Eugène replied, while offering his arm. "May I escort you?"

Amelia welcomingly took the offered arm. "You may, and please, if it is just us you may call me Amelia."

"I accept the honor, but then you must also call me Eugène in similar circumstances." His reply came with a smile. "I wouldn't dream of not reciprocating the familiarity."

The pair entered the grand ballroom. The last notes of the band's music hanging in the air. A voice addressed the crowd. "We will be taking a short break. Music will resume momentarily."

"If I may borrow some of your time," Eugène inquired "I would love to reintroduce you to my father, he was thrilled to meet you at the palace and would be remiss if he was unable to properly convey his well-wishes."

"I remember the Duke well." Amelia responded. "It would be my pleasure to speak with him again."

"Splendid." Eugène replied and began to lead in the direction of his table.

At this point Amelia caught Aurélie out of the corner of her eye in the crowd. Her handmaiden winked playfully, as if to say good luck, and turned to return to Ploussard. Amelia normally hated being lead places, but something about the way Eugène preformed the formal social interaction was very humanizing. Somehow this felt more like guiding than leading, like Amelia was allowed the choice to follow, rather than dragged by the nose. She stole another glance at Eugène, lingering perhaps too long on the features of his handsome face. Before much time had passed, the pair arrived at the table occupied by Eugène's family.

"Mother, father, it is my pleasure to announce Crown Princess Amelia." Eugène acknowledged his parents as he disengaged his arm from escort mode.

Duke and Duchess Charpentier were quick to stand. The Duke spoke first. "Crown Princess, please allow me to wish you a happy birthday and many more. It is a pleasure to see you again." He bowed deeply.

"The pleasure is mine Duke Charpentier and thank you." Amelia did a very formal curtsey. "Duchess Charpentier, a pleasure to meet you."

Duchess Charpentier finished her own curtsey. "The pleasure is mine Crown Princess. Would you care to join us while the band recesses? I'm sure you have many offers to dance that require responses." The eyebrow raised in her son's direction was, almost, invisible.

"It seems my lack of dancing accolades have proceeded me." Amelia replied. "I have, perhaps fortunately, been limited to the formal requirements of the evening." She sat down in a chair.

"Nonsense." The Duchess replied while taking her own seat. "I'm sure you greatly underestimate how well you preform. Your escort for the evening was quite skilled during the first dance, surly because of your presence."

"The Sergeant Major is an accomplished dancer." Amelia gave a friendly smile. "I was lucky to have an experienced partner."

Conversation with the Duke and Duchess was much easier than with the Świętopełk trio. Amelia was made to feel talked with, not talked to. Eugène had clearly inherited this capability quite will. While there was still formality to the conversation, it felt so much more natural than any other she had had this evening outside of Aurélie and Ploussard. A natural lull in the conversation faded in as the first hints of the band beginning another dance slowly overran the background noise of many conversations.

"Ah, do you hear that." The Duke turned to the Duchess. "I recognize this song, one of your favorites. Would you do me the honor of a dance?" He stood an offered a hand to the Duchess.

"Of course, darling." The Duchess took the hand and stood. "I presume the Crown Princess does not mind?"

"Of course not." Amelia smiled. "Please enjoy, it would make me happy."

The look from the Duchess to Eugène was subtle, as she followed the Duke's lead to the dance floor. After they had moved away from the table, Eugène stood up and took a brief moment to straighten his uniform jacket.

"If it would please the Crown Princess," Eugène's formality returning a slight edge to the soft tones of his voice. "I would be honored to have this dance." He offered his hand.

Amelia felt her heart skip a beat or three. "It would please me greatly." She placed her hand in his and stood up.

The closer Eugène lead her to the dance floor, the more the ball of nerves inside of Amelia's guts felt like it was about to explode out of any hole it could find. At the edge of the floor she briefly thought she might void herself. For how steady its climb had been, the tension vanished in the moment that Eugène shifted from leading her to taking the pose to start the dance. As one hand took one of hers and the other softly grabbed the opposite shoulder, all the worry and fear seemed to vacate though his fingertips and palms. As before, the leading felt like an acceptable suggestion, not a forced act. As skilled as Ploussard had been, though no fault of his this was not comparable. Eugène lead Amelia around the floor, the longer the song ran, the less Amelia felt distinct from Eugène. She felt as if she was becoming an extension of him, and him of her. This new feeling mixed with the other tangles of emotion and provided a smoothing clarity. Amelia almost missed the end of the song, as the other pairs broke apart to polity clap, she held on every last moment she could before doing the same. As the band began their next song, she turned back to Eugène and leaned a little closer than necessary to whisper.

"May I have another, Eugène?" Amelia did not feel any blush burning her cheeks.

"It would be my pleasure, Amelia." Eugène replied, his breath tickling Amelia's exposed neck.

One more dance turned into several, until Amelia's feet had to practically beg her to stop. Before their revolt could become more dire, the song began to fade to its last notes. The pair broke apart, as did the rest of the dancers, to applaud the band.

Amelia leaned closer to Eugène "I could use some time off my feet and some more fresh air. Would you join me in the garden?"

"If it pleases you." Eugène replied, "then I would enjoy it greatly." He offered his arm.

Amelia took the offered arm and allowed Eugène to lead her from the hall. He guided her to a bench a short way outside one of the grand double doors. It was the perfect spot, still visible so as not to invite impolite whispers from others if they were discovered but far enough away to provide for a quite conversation. The pair sat, finally having an opportunity for elevating knowledge of the other. Amelia learned of Eugène's family, his love of dogs, that he could not stand the taste of white wine, and perhaps most importantly to her in this moment that he was not betrothed to anyone. She told him of her impending term at the Naval Academy here in Brest, her love of dogs, and how sometimes she preferred non-Italian wines and how hard she worked to ensure the palace sommelier did not lean this fact. The conversation had steered back in the direction of military service when Eugène unknowingly dropped a live grenade in the conversation.

"I suppose it is important to know the enlisted leaders." Eugène was responding to a question about how best to interact with non-commissioned officers. "Ultimately they will have been in these possessions longer than you will be and have the heartbeat of the enlisted men in a way you cannot. Its something I intend to be highly mindful when I arrive in Tamara Insula."

"So, you are being sent to the New World?" Amelia managed to, almost, keep the crushing weight that impacted her soul out of the question.

"Yes. I ship out in two weeks." Eugène replied. "I hear the weather on the island is lovely even in the winter. I am quite excited for my first real command. My first real chance to show I can lead. The challenge is there, I must seize it."

The show of bravado inspired something in Amelia. "Would you care to walk the garden while we continue the conversation?"

"That sounds lovely." Eugène stood up and offered Amelia his hand.

Amelia took Eugène's hand and let him lead her around the corner by his arm. Eugène then changed the subject. "So, what is the best gift you have received today?" The sounds of the party became more muffled by the garden as the pair moved further into its maze-like pathways.

"Its hard to pin down." Amelia replied, surprising herself with how almost flirtatious the tone was. "As perhaps I have not received all gifts yet. Not that I need more, people have been most generous."

"I do now regret not finding something small to present to you." Eugène replied with a playfully hurt tone. "I do not wish to disappoint the Crown Princess and her need for gifts." He flashed a heart-softening smile.

"But you have already given me a wonderful gift." Amelia returned the smile. "A willing dance partner who said nothing about the quality of the dancing offered."

"Amelia, you are quite wrong about that." The soft, warm familiar tone in Eugène's response wrapping the words. "Just as you are to harsh on yourself about your appearance. Far and away you are the most beautiful woman here tonight."

A slow burn of nervous energy began to worm its way around Amelia's abdomen. "Eugène you are to kind, but there are clearly more attractive women here than me. More wonderful gowns..." The thought trailed off. Amelia noticed they were now standing near a small fountain at the intersection of several paths, the soft glow of the electric lights of the hotel distant, the half-moon augmenting the artificial light. Not another person was in sight.

Eugène stopped walking and took both of Amelia's hands in his. His intensely soft eyes, practically the same green as her necklace stone, penetrated her one brown and one blue eye. What would have been a worrying encounter from almost any other man felt somehow right. Amelia felt herself moving closer to Eugène, the air gap between his uniform and her dress getting smaller and smaller. The nervous energy acting like a magnet pulling her closer, spreading down her arms and legs threatening to undo all the social conditioning Amelia had ever been given regarding her interaction with the opposite sex.

"Amelia," Eugène's reply began softly, sincerity woven into the very space between the words. "I know its wrong to say this, as you have likely far more suitable prospects than anyone else here. But since our first conversation at the palace, I have been unable to drive the though of your beauty from my mind. Both of your personality and your physicality. I know even confessing this is wrong and I fully expect you to leave..."

Amelia did the opposite of leaving. Almost without thought, she was on her tip-toes, pushing her chest into the bottom of the jacket's breast pockets. There was not a moments hesitation as she, perhaps a little aggressively, touched her lips to Eugène's, cutting him off mid sentence. The kiss lasted for what felt infinite, the softness of Eugène's lips amazing against hers. The roaring nervous energy detonated inside her, replaced with a feeling of euphoria and detachment that vibrated every millimeter of her body. She could live happily in this moment forever.

After what could only have been counted in seconds, Amelia gently pulled her lips back, slowly returning her heels to the ground. She maintained eye contact with Eugène all the way down, not quite able to tell his reaction. She noticed that her breathing was coming in shorter, sharper intervals, her heart hammered in her chest, and the nervous ball of excitement had lodged itself in her abdomen. She beat the shocked marine to any reply.

"I'm sorry." A vortex of feelings raged in Amelia's brain as it tried to verbalize an excuse for the actions of the heart. "That was very improper. I don't know what came over me. Please forgive me Eugène." She realized that Eugène had not let go of her hands or moved away from her.

"Of course, I forgive you." Eugène replied. "Please forgive me, I should not have reciprocated."

"There is nothing to forgive." Confusion reigned in Amelia's response as words began to run together. "You only did what as natural. What's natural would be for you to kiss me, not me to kiss you. Im so sorry I never..."

Eugène cut Amelia off, again making eye contact. "Perhaps I am misreading this, but I must ask. May I kiss you?"

"Please." A singularity of relief, longing, and excitement exploded inside Amelia's mind, drawing out the response to an almost begging tone. "Please, please, please kiss me."

Amelia felt Eugène let go of her hands and softly wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against him. As before, she rose onto the balls of her feet, this time wrapping her arms around his neck. She only had to wait moments for the embrace to reach its conclusion, Eugène's lips meeting hers. The second kiss was longer than the first, but the intensity of the feelings was greater. After their lips parted and Amelia return to flat feet, she held Eugène tightly in an embrace that he continued to reciprocate. After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a minuet, Amelia pulled away. She grabbed Eugène's hands as they slid over her hips.

"Eugène," Amelia made no attempt to hide the shaking in her voice. "that was wonderful."

"Agreed." Eugène still sounded a little shocked.

"We should probably return before anyone comes looking for us." The rational part of Amelia's mind was, slowly, beginning to take back over.

"Agreed." Eugène parroted his last word. "Should I escort you or should we leave separately?"

"I think it is reasonable for us to have taken a walk together in the garden." Amelia replied "Nobody would expect a fine, respectable, officer such as yourself of any impropriety."

"I would hope so." Eugène replied as he offered his arm.
"Let us continue our walk then." Amelia replied while accepting the arm. She leaned her head into Eugène's shoulder. "And to answer your previous question, I received my best gift from you."

The couple returned to the ballroom after meandering the garden to find Aurélie waiting. Eugène excused himself and Amelia returned to her table in the company of her handmaiden. It was difficult for Amelia to stop slightly smiling for the rest of the evening.

And last part on this. We will return to your regular news after this post. It should be something about ships or politics right?

Later that night, more accurately extremely early the next morning, Amelia said her final farewell and excused herself to retire for the evening. Aurélie followed, both women walking slightly wavy lines from the many beverages of the evening. They reached Amelia's room and Aurélie opened the door. Once inside, Amelia collapsed into a chair next to a crackling fire while Aurélie went to the dresser and began removing Amelia's nightgown.

"I can handle it Aurélie." Amelia tossed the comment in the general direction of the wardrobe. "Just give me a few minuets for the world to become a little more still."

"You just want to look decent," Aurélie's reply was laced with friendly sass "In case that dashing Lieutenant comes calling."

Amelia could not control the smile that came with recollection of the garden. "Are you suggesting I aim to be improper and unladylike?"

Aurélie moved with the nightgown next to the chair. "I saw the way you looked at him and I doubt your thoughts were pure as the driven snow. I doubt his were ether. Do you want to tell me what happened after that drink I didn't quite handle?"

"No, but yes." Amelia replied "Its late and I really should get some sleep."

"We both know you wont be asleep for a while." Aurélie had begun to undo Amelia's ornate hair, setting the tiara on the vanity counter. "Unless something happened..."

"He did ask me to dance eventually." Amelia's mind drifted back to the feeling of being lead around the dancefloor. "I did enjoy it; he is a good dancer."

"And you shared more than one dance with him." The gest in Aurélie's reply bit softly as she continued removing various jewelry items. "Think of the scandal."

"There is nothing wrong with sharing more than one dance with a talented dancer." Amelia retorted. "Besides, it was only a couple and I did have other partners." She stood up.

"And what about the excursion to the garden?" Aurélie had begun to undo the back of the dress. "And I appear to have found something worth discussing."

Amelia realized how much she had tensed up when Aurélie had mentioned the garden. "We talked about our lives, nothing more." The dress fell to the floor and Amelia stepped out of it, the light silk underlayer still hanging from her shoulders.

"You have this haste to your voice when you lie by omission." Aurélie retorted as she collected the dress and returned it to the wardrobe. "Is there something scandalous you don't want me to know."

Amelia met Aurélie's eyes with a pained expression. "Yes." She sat back down in the chair, slumping defeatedly.

"Out with it." Aurélie plopped herself in the other chair. "You know I can pry it out of you, but I'm also tired."

"I...I might have..." Amelia struggled for form the right words. "I kinda...I kissed him."

"And that explains the dumb smirk on your face for the rest of the night." Aurélie clapped gleefully. "Don't worry, your little secret is safe with me as always. Did he kiss you back?"

Amelia recounted the garden events, Aurélie hanging on every word. The story turned into an outlet for many very confused feelings, one of which burned to the forefront.

"...and he is being deployed to the New World in two weeks' time." Amelia buried her face in her hands "Its like I made the worst possible choice out of worst possible choices."

"If you will allow me," Aurélie's tone was consolatory. "I might be able assist you. But not now, let us both get to sleep. I know I don't need to tell you to have good dreams tonight."

Amelia smiled. "I don't think that will be any trouble at all."

---

October 18th, 1913. Brest.

Amelia spun herself around in front of the mirror. "I don't see why this sort of dress is not more popular." Rather than a formal gown or something woven of fine fabrics, the dress Amelia now wore was a cozy, but course wool. Cut roughly, it was not something most royalty would be caught dead in, but for today it was the prefect disguise. Over the last week and a half, Aurélie had worked some small act of wonder. She had managed to set up a discreet meeting with Eugène. For his part, Eugène had been the prefect noble gentleman. Amelia had received a lovely note thanking her for her time and attention at her party, but no other formal communication.

"I'm glad I managed to find one that fits you so well." Aurélie replied. "It will leave a lovely impression of what he will be missing." She winked playfully.

Amelia could not help but feel butterflies at the though of physical attraction. "For once I agree with you. Come now, I do not want to be late."

The pair discreetly exited the hotel, carful not to attract attention. They made their way down to the waterfront district on foot, the activity of the harbor and weekend crowds creating a noisy audio background to the smells of the mixing of city and sea. Walking along the waterfront for a way, the duo eventually arrived at a small, nondescript restaurant. The owner of this establishment was a close friend of some acquaintance of Aurélie's. He greeted them politely, but aloofly, and guided them to a small, private back room past the tables lightly sprinkled with lunchtime diners. Once there, Aurélie instructed Amelia to wait while she returned with the proprietor to the dining room. It felt like ages before there was a gentle knock on the door and Aurélie returned.

"Look who I found looking around outside" Aurélie smiled as she opened the door to allow a civilian clothed Eugène inside. "I'll give you two some time." She then closed the door.

Amelia practically threw herself into Eugène's arms, drawing him into a firm embrace.

"Hello to you to, Amelia." Eugène chuckled as he returned the hug tightly.

"I simply had to see you again before you left." Amelia's reply was muffled by Eugène's chest. "I have some things for you."

"I have something for you first." Eugène replied.

Amelia pulled back to look up at Eugène. Before she could ask, Eugène leaned down and kissed her. When he went to pull away after a short time, she followed him up, not allowing for an end. The long kiss began to turn into a chain of kisses, the passion building the longer the chain grew. Finally, before the passion overcame both, Eugène managed to disengage as Amelia's heart felt like it was about to explode out of her chest. Both of their breathing was heavy, a passionate gaze holding between them.

"A wonderful present." Amelia said trying not to pant. "Can you forgive my greed if I ask for more?"

"Of course, I can." Eugène replied "But our time is limited, and we do need to talk as well."

"Agreed." Amelia replied smoothing her skirt. She produced a small package wrapped in paper. "My gift to you, to remember me with."

Eugène accepted the package and produced a small one of his own. "For you."

They each took a moment to unwrap the gifts. Somehow, they had both settled on the idea of a handkerchief. Enclosed with Amelia's was a short note which Eugène read silently.

"The note is to help you when you are in need of a better day." Amelia added sheepishly. "Perhaps it will help some."

"The thought is most kind." Eugène replied "I shall keep it on my person at all times." He gave Amelia a gently peck on the cheek.

"Also, I would like to write you, formally." An adamant undertone rode with the comment as Amelia met Eugène's gaze. "I would most enjoy continue correspondence."

"Will that cause you any difficulties?" Eugène seemed concerned

"None which would not be outweighed by the joy of reading your words." Amelia smiled. "Is there anything you would like to add?"
"Only that I am going to miss you very much and also look forward to reading your words as well." Eugène replied. "Is there anything else you would like to do before we take a lovely seaside stroll?"

"I believe you forgave some greed that has not be satisfied?" Amelia pulled Eugène close and whispered coyly in his ear. "Or have you forgotten the feeling of kissing me already?"

After another chain or three of kisses that came close to passionately boiling over, the couple left the back room and shadowed by Aurélie at a shot distance enjoyed a lovely walk along the shoreline. When it was time to depart, Amelia took a brief detour into an ally to steal one last kiss from Eugène before wishing him well and allowing him to depart. Aurélie and Amelia returned to the hotel without anyone being any the wiser to their absence. It was however, impossible to notice that Amelia was slightly more melancholy for several days afterwards and was feeling unwell on the 20th, a simple cold per Aurélie that mostly cleared up the next day.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=25QyCxVkXwQ (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=25QyCxVkXwQ)

8)

Oh my, ambassador Manko wispered . "It seems kids are the same all over the world."

I have to admit, I never have tought Miss Amelia would support the princess in such a wonderful thryst. On the other hand, it's a surprise you did learn about it. 
But, what will you do with this information? It can be a big lever if properly used.

Don't worry Sára, this little secret is just that, a secret to be kept, and in a few years, if life permits, to be laughed with as a story shared between friends. I think both young people will have a secret supporter in this. If you won't object?

November 22nd, 1913. Fort Verdun, Francia.

Nestore Piccirillo shot upright from a light sleep as the door to the barracks crashed open. Someone else fell loudly to the floor off to his right, a startled yep echoed down from the far left end of the hall.

"On your feet right now vermiculus!" The yells from the group of uniformed men bursting though the now open door were harsh and cutting on the ears. "If I had permission, I'd start kicking manhoods to give you an idea of the pain a real wakeup would be like! On your fucking feet NOW!"

The floor of the barracks was cold and unyielding, Nestore struggled to keep the bite of the temperature change from affecting his steps as he rushed to readiness. On went a pair of pants over the undershorts he was sleeping in, a shirt could wait. Boots encased his feet to quick for socks. He came to as tight an attention as he could at the foot of his bed, others were doing the same but slower. The general sense of panic in the room rapidly approached a full boil as the uniformed men continued screaming. As suddenly as the whole affair had began, a loud whistle blast sliced though all words in the air. The barracks fell silent as a duo of older officers entered.

"What have we here Drill Sergeant?" the more senior of the two officers replied as the other scanned a clipboard.

"Sir." The Drill Sergeant replied. "Here we have a lot of very dead conscripts because getting woken up in the middle of the night is a great inconvenience for them."

"It seems some of them did manage to put themselves approximately together?" The officer's tone was quizzical as he walked down the line of men in various states of dress.

"Indeed, some of them did sir." The Drill Sergeant replied.

The officer stopped in front of Nestore. "Your name?"

"Sir!" Nestore snapped off an almost-prefect salute that sent a vein bulging on the Drill Sergeant's forehead. "This conscripts name is Piccirillo, sir!"

"Conscript Piccirillo, why are you one of the only men in this room anywhere near a state to fight in?" The question dripped from the officer's voice.

"Sir, Conscript Piccirillo is a light sleeper and assisted his father with emergency veterinary services which required being alert at a moment notice sometime late at night." Nestore replied, still holding attention.

"You may stand at ease Conscript." The officer replied. "Drill Sergeant, do you have an opinion of Conscript Piccirillo?"

"Sir, I believe you would find Conscript Piccirillo to be one of the least disappointing conscripts in this group." The Drill Sergeant replied.

"Is that so?" Curiosity ever so slightly peaked around the edges of the reply. "In that case, please ensure that Conscript Piccirillo is informed as to what the expected role of Barracks Leader are for his class and ensure he is understanding of this responsibility. After, of course, the barracks is disciplined for their lack of readiness."

"It would be my pleasure sir." The Drill Sergeant grinned maliciously. "YOU HEARD THE MAJOR, YOU BUNCH OF WORTHLESS GUTTERSCUM HAVE TWO MINUETS TO BE READY FOR A DOUBLE-TIME RUN AROUND THE HILLS AND BACK AGAIN! MOVE! You stepped in some serious shit now Piccirilo!"

Nestore scrambled to finish getting ready along with the rest of the men, wondering what indeed he had stepped in.

Poor guy.

January 19th, 1914. Imperial Roman Naval Academy, outside Brest, Francia.

The morning air hung still, little moving beyond small birds and rodents. The sun was still mostly below the horizon, but it was light enough out to see unless one was looking for fine detail. The sharp bite of winter Atlantic air seeking any skin not covered by hair or woven fabric. The smell of the sea was strong, and alluring. Brest held both the main base of the Atlantic Fleet and the Naval academy; such had been true since the 17th century. It had seen many firsts, and in the 20th century it had welcomed another.

Amelia's first term at the academy had begun with little fanfare, the only thing separating her from any other student was the ever-present Marine guard. The private room was not even unique, it was a perk afforded to many from prominent families. For the first time surrounded by those her own age, and male at that, it had been quite the shock. Amelia found quickly that she was able to tell those who were at the academy due to status, and those there due to passion or raw talent. She found herself striving to keep up with the latter, feeling that like them, she needed to earn her place rather than take what was given. So far in the classroom, this had proven doable. In the physical activities, there were difficulties.

The cold January air burned Amelia's face and lungs with each breath, coming in cadence with her footfalls. Running had never been a favored activity of Amelia's, but she had always thought herself passable at it. Yet her small frame and short legs had her at a clear disadvantage compared to some of the young men in her class. As she rounded the corner of the favored path, a stich in her side finally cried enough and she was forced to slow to a walk. Tilting her head back as she walked to the short fence along the seawall, uncomfortable pain bound its way around her legs. The ubiquitous Marine guard, this one a Corporal named Sourd, gently came to a stop a couple steps behind. Comparatively, Sourd's breathing sounded like a smooth turbine next to to Amelia's years past its replacement date piston.

A third set of footfalls came into earshot, much more rapid than Amelia's had been. Around to corner materialized one of the other students, a giant specimen named Tristan Airaldi. Tristan was the second son of a butcher from a small town near the Wilnoan boarder close to the Albian Channel. His frame was stretched and lanky, Amelia seemed to have stuck in her head that he measured over two meters tall. Tristan was also quite the runner, having recently broke a long-standing Academy record. Amelia took a quick gulp to try and slow her breathing and Tristan saw her and began to slow down.
"Lovely morning here gentle..." Tristan took a second to recognized that it was not two men in front of him "Apologies mlady, I didn't recognize you."

"No harm intended, so none received." Amelia replied. While normally attending classes in a skirted version of the standard student uniform, Amelia had acquired a pair of the standard male workout attire, a wool sweater and pants, to use for the morning runs. So far, Tristan was not the only person confused by this, tho he had handled it far better than some.

"Lovely morning for a jog, isn't it?" Tristan asked politely while taking the opportunity to stretch a little bit.

Sourd replied before Amelia could open her mouth "It is, should you not continue?"

Amelia quickly followed up. "Please do forgive my escort, it is perfectly alright for you to have stopped." She tossed a quick glare in Sourd's direction. The Marine, having received the message, murmured an apology.  "Now that we have all remember our manners, it is indeed a nice morning for a jog. What you call jogging I call sprinting however."

Tristan let out a single guffaw. "I do think you are too hard on yourself."

"Am I now?" Amelia replied. "I do believe you would not be saying that had you ever seen me try to keep up with you. It would perhaps be possible for a stride, no more."

Tristan thought for a moment before replying. "Perhaps you are right, and I would not dream of asking you to test it."

"Your honesty is appreciated." Amelia replied

"Don't worry" Tristan replied cheerfully "I really should be off to finish before breakfast. Have a good remainder of your morning jog." With that he was off as quickly as he had arrived, long legs propelling him in miniature leaps.

Amelia took a deep breath and began to jog again, Sourd dutifully following a few paces back.

Amelia's story is a good one, snip.

Thanks Rocky, I'll try and throw some other viewpoint characters in from time to time as well.

QuoteFebruary 15th, 1914
Lieutenant Charpentier,
I hope this letter finds you well. Know my thoughts are with you for the safety of you and your command. In my life things have never been more enjoyably hectic. The Academy keeps my quite occupied, but the work and learning are enjoyable. Is this a feeling you experienced as well, or it is another one of my more eccentric traits? The weather here has been cold, typical for this time of year I am told, but not what I am used to. In Rome it would be far warmer. I presume that you have far warmer weather than I, I hope it is not too much. I only have a few more moments to write before I must return to my studies. Have your expectations of field command changed greatly since we last spoke? I wish to know all about your experiences. Waiting with patience for your reply, I will write with more thoughts in the meantime.
Sincerely,
Amelia

P.S. I do hope you find the included package of sweets enjoyable. My understanding is they are quite hard to come by in the New World.

QuoteMarch 30th, 1914
Crown Princess,
Your letter found me quite well. Your thoughts are appreciated and closely considered. I cannot say I took to the academic aspects of my training as you appear to be. More a poor reflection on myself than any sort of negative on you. The weather here has been far to present for late winter, it feels closer to late spring or early summer. I have been told by some of the more seasoned officers that the afternoons of proper summer are quite difficult to tolerate. We shall see when that time comes. Command has been a learning experience, there is only so much that can be taut. Someday I will need to tell you of some of the events that have transpired in person, they are to fantastic to be properly conveyed in writing. I have included some notes and observations of local wildlife, there are wonderful specimens here. Someday I would enjoy showing you them. Some of your other notes have arrived as well, and I will respond to them each individually.
Sincerely,
Eugène

P.S. The sweets were indeed wonderful. I regret that I lack anything worth sending along.

QuoteMay 7th, 1914
Lieutenant Charpentier,
The descriptions you provided of the local wildlife in Tamara Insula were fascinating to read. You have a good ear for descriptive words, it is the next best thing to seeing these creatures with my own eyes. I hope the news regarding the negotiations around the Southern Bahamas are not troubling. I do hope that all involved see reason before it is to late and diplomacy must be extended with the point of a spear. As always, my thoughts for the safety of you and your men are constant and unyielding. I wished to communicate this as quickly as possible, and you should expect another letter with more continuation of our conversations.
Sincerely,
Amelia

P.S. I have not forgotten about the sweets, please expect more.

Sometime in Late May 1914. Foreign Ministry, Rome.

This is an excerpt from a secure meeting of high level members of the Roman Government. Knowledge of exact topics are limited to the members of the meeting.

"How much time do we have until this is beyond stopping?"

"Define stopping, because depending on what you mean it may already be too late."

"Those are comforting words to hear."

"Atlantic Command has already transferred 2nd Battle Division and some additional supporting ships, but that was in the works long before this began to take the spotlight."

"I presume there are good faith negotiations underway?"

"Of course, we are not trying to pull our own San Diego here."

"Good, we need to be able to truthfully say this was an event with decent warning, not surprise. Should it come to pass, of course."

"Are we sure this is the right course of action?"

"Yes, we will have now tipped our hand enough that this will be our best opportunity. Anything later, well I would not want to be the one explaining to the Senate that we made the choice."

"Only a few weeks until the die will be cast, and there will be nothing for us to do than sit back and pray."

June 3rd, 1914: IRS Supremus, somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.

Quotenvsjgomwrfhbbqeyicsyzcmseqsqnwayytznfmvpqvwrpqnmpxmxmnlxkccmidewqsczgteunagncrkxrjdsoyiqwrlmvfdstajfaovxgsddazhrwovqlqj

The message wove its way through Alessandro Valli's mind as he stood on the starboard flying bridge of the IRS Supremus, a lit cigar pinched between the fingers of his right hand. The cooling soft breeze of the sea air past a ship in motion somehow felt different out of sight of the shore. The Supremus steamed at a leisurely eight knots, behind her followed her sister, the Emperor Trajan VII. Ahead, offset to port and starboard respectively were the iIRS Parisus and the IRS Neapoli. Further back was all four of the Larui class cruisers, and the ten fearsome G-Class destroyers. Modern light units with old battleships, not traditional cruising partners. Ten days had already passed, and the squadron had ten more to arrive where they had been sent. Leaving behind the other ships of the Atlantic Fleet, including the four powerful battleships, the reason for the voyage remained obscured from all but a select few, including Alessandro.

One of the other men who knew the true purpose of the group joined Alessandro as he scanned the Neapoli with idle observation. The second man, Rear Admiral Albrici, pulled out a pipe and after a few quick attempts with a match, lit the tobacco within.

"Lovely weather for a smoke, Captain Valli." Albrici attempted to strike up conversation while also turning his gaze to the Neapoli.

"Yes, it is sir." Alessandro replied. "We should take these chances while we can."

"Indeed." Albrici replied around his pipe. "A hazard of our career choice."

Alessandro raised his cigar in a cheers motion before returning it his mouth. After a brief stay, it left followed by stream of exhaled smoke. "Your younger brother is in the Foreign Ministry, correct?"

"He is." Albrici answered. "Always had to have an overstuffed chair waiting for him wherever he might land." He cracked a smile and chuckled at his own comment.

Alessandro smiled, then his expression turned serious. "Did he have anything to say about our current circumstances?"

Albrici took a moment to think before replying. "I don't believe that no news is good news on this subject. So no, nothing good."

"So, the same situation as it has been." Alessandro replied. "We wait for the famed Foreign Ministry to swoop in and save the day at the eleventh hour and fifty ninth minuet?"

"Unlike West Africa, I do not believe that even the Foreign Ministry can stop what is coming." Albrici again paused to inhale smoke. He continued after exhaling though his nostrils. "One only needs to look at a map to see why. We cannot allow the way things stand too much longer. We hold to long, and who knows what happens when the inevitable conflict comes. They are heathens, not idiots; they see and understand the same thing we do, just from the other side."

"So, the powers that be have decided if the risks in a future war are to great, we will take the one we can start now." Alessandro replied. "It would not be the first time in history, and it surely will not be the last."

"Indeed." Albrici's reply wove between trendles of pipe smoke. "I would hate to be related to anyone in the Marines right now."

Alessandro nodded in agreement. "Thank you for the company Admiral." He then flicked the cigar over the side, where it fell with a faint hiss into the Atlantic. It had sunk far beneath the surface by the time the trailing two G-Class destroyers pass the spot where it had been discarded.

Sunday, June 14th, Saint Rochelle.

The sharp crash of something heavy hitting the floor of the house startled Nelly Carlyle awake. It was far too dark, the half-moon hanging high in the sky providing faint stains of light peaking around the curtains drawn over the open window. The shot of adrenaline that had woken her prevented her from returning to squeezing the stuffed horse that shared the bed with her and resuming what had been a lovely dream about a fairy and its magical friends. It was then she heard her baby brother crying, over which carried the shouted whispers of two adult voices.

"Why can't this wait until morning Dana?"

"Because the orders didn't say until morning, they said immediately."

"Why so sudden, what is happening?"

"I don't know Peggy, I don't know!"

Nelly's curiosity carried her from her bed to the door of her room, which eased open quietly on well-oiled hinges. She tiptoed down the stairs, a knitted blanket dragged softly behind her. On reaching the foot of the simple staircase, she confirmed the voices where those of her parents. Her baby brother Alfred cried from his position in her mother's arms. Kaliopie watched intently from a pillow on the floor, tail tucked firmly underneath the dog's fur.

"You were supposed to have another two weeks, the General knows this."

"Of course he does, you know he would not recall me if it was not vitally necessary."

"What could be so necessary Dana. Are we in danger?"

Nether of the adults seemed to notice Nelly, whose thumb had without though made it into her mouth to be gently chewed on. Her father was finishing adding some items to a heavy suitcase, likely the source of the sound that had woken her. The arguing continued. Nelly realized that she had to pee quite badly, and it was far to late to do anything but let the inevitable happen. She lifted the blanket away from the expanding puddle on the floor. Then her mother noticed Nelly.

"Nelly, are you ok?"

Nelly's only reply was to shake her head as her eyes fell to the now-wet floor.

"Its ok darling." Her mother thrust her brother in the direction of her father, who took the boy in his arms. "Its ok darling, did you have a bad dream?"

Nelly shook her head again, tears of shame welling in her eyes. "I heard a bang, then yelling. I didn't feel I..." the remainder of the reply was lost to a sniffle.

"Its all right Nelly. Accidents happen." The soft smile of her mother helped cut the shame. "Come let us get you cleaned up. Dana, can you put Alfred back in his bassinet?"

Nelly watch her father return Alfred to his sleeping location and continue packing as her mother assisted her in cleaning up. Once changed to a dry nightgown, Nelly was sufficiently collected to engage in the age-old childhood pastime of asking parents why.

"Mommy, why are you mad at Daddy?" The pleading eyes where a look Nelly had found typically got her answers, and they backlit the question.

Her father came over, having closed the suitcase. He grabbed both Nelly and her mother's hands before answering. "Mommy is unhappy that Daddy can't stay as long as he thought."

"When do you have to go?" Nelly asked.

"As soon as I'm ready." Her father didn't try and hide all of the pain in his eyes. "I don't know when I will be able to be back."

"Why?" Nelly pleaded. "Why do you need to go now?"

"Because" her mother replied, eyes dampening with tears "Daddy has something very important to do. He cannot tell us what it is. You know the important things Daddy does."

Nelly nodded. "He helps keep us all safe."

Her father tossed Nelly's hair with his free hand. "I try my best to do that. Can you help me finish packing?"

Nelly slightly smiled and nodded. Setting her blanket down on a chair, she set about helping her father finish getting ready to leave. Alfred clearly did not like missing out on the family moment and was crying again. Her mother scooped the baby up in her arms and he began to quiet down, the cries changing to a soft cooing.

Finally, it was time for her father to go. He stood at the door, suitcase in one hand, a canvas bag in the other. He set both down to pull Nelly into an enveloping hug.

"I'm going to miss you darling." He said, a slight waver of sadness in his voice.

"I'll miss you more." Nelly replied into his chest. "So that way you have to come home."

"Of course, I will." He replied. Then he stood up and pulled her mother and Alfred into another hug. "I'm going to miss you to Peggy."

"Dana, please come home safe." Her mother replied, tears now carving paths down her cheeks.

Her father blew both one more kiss as he walked down the front path. Then he swung the gate out of the way and climbed into the waiting car which quickly pulled away down the street.

---

Peggy Carlyle looked down at her daughter, holding her son tightly against her chest.
"Come on Nelly, let's go back to bed. You can come and sleep with me?"

Nelly nodded, the accident all but forgotten and the reality that Dana had left not setting in yet.

Peggy took the outstretched hand and walked with her daughter, wondering when she would see her husband again. Please let this be nothing. Please let this be nothing serious. Please don't let it be war. She thought to herself. Nelly and Alfred still needed their father.

June 28th, 1914. Fort Lombard, Novus Francia

Général de Brigade Manuel Sforza watched yet another company of uniformed Roman soldiers march out the main gate of Fort Lombard. Shiny bayonets gleamed in the harsh afternoon sun. Beyond the walls, a steady stream of horse-drawn 75mm field guns moved west alongside the better part of the 142nd Legion. Every man moved with urgency; the air hung thick with it and the clung to every surface. Fort Lombard's slow but steady development had been jolted onto another level about a month before.  More men and their weapons arrived, the temporary earthworks grew to permanence, large howitzers emplaced, smaller artillery sighted, and the newer Naylor Model 1911s seemed to be breeding somewhere within the fort's armory. Two almost factory new Avro-Caprioni Beagles sat next to a cleared strip, a Caudron Quail across from them under a large fabric tent swarmed by men.

The last time Manuel had seen this kind of buildup had been prior to the landings that had brough him to Novus Francia at the head of the 44th Dragoons. Their opponents then had been stout but outclassed in technology and tactics. The same could not be said of the Aztecs. Manuel had read accounts of the Aztec warriors before arriving next door to them, what hat transpired since had done nothing to provide an alternative viewpoint. The accounts of San Diego and reports from various minor, and in everyone's opinion inevitable and inoffensive, boarder encounters painted a picture of primally terrifying combatants. While they were perhaps the finest individual soldiers in the world, they only had a finite amount of them. Rome had much more lenient limits in this regard.

Manuel knew some details of what was to come. All of this over some islands, he had first thought. That though quickly gave way to the reality of the situation, those islands sat like an unseiged fort along his supply lines. Given time and provocation, those islands could spew forth the havoc of raid after raid on the lifeblood of supplies from Europe. It was true, his men would not starve should the umbilical be cut; Novus Francia could grow plenty of food. How they would continue to fight as artillery ammunition became scarce and machine guns ran out of fresh barrels? Against the Aztec warriors, without these technological equalizers, it would be a far shorter fight than Manuel or the other Roman commanders would ever admit to even each other. Manuel was a firm believer in the power of logistics.

The clatter of the Quail's engine, tho distant, gently pulled Manuel's mind back into the moment. Watching the wood and fabric contraptions declare war on the very idea of gravity had still not lost its luster to most. As the airplane lept free of its caretakers and began bouncing down the runway, as he had heard some men calling it, Manuel caught himself willing the contraption into the sky with a stopped breath. As it finally departed the dry dirt and began climbing higher and higher into the air, he recalled a phrase that one of the other generals briefed by D'Espèrey had said aloud.

QuoteThe Dove may Dive on the 1st of July.

As the Quail made a pass over the fort before swinging northwest, Manuel wondered if that poetic phrase would be remembered as the beginning of a great conflict, or a diplomatic triumph. He was not alone in preparing for the former, while hoping for the latter.

Sára, the situation around the Caicos seems to be painfull.  But I have lore from there. 
The young officer that has Crown Princess Amelia's interest , Eugene, was last seen when he was leading his men trying to break the defences.
It was described as an abatoir.
But also, the Aztecs, ferrocious and warlike, are also honorable, and they collected all the wounded and cared for them as good the surroundings allowed. 
Even the dead got, as far as the Aztecs are concerned, a good burial. With all regards and honors.

And here I feel conficted, one of my factors recently sold a large amount of white cloth to the Aztecs.

Yes Manko, I see your point. Can you at least try to find out the fate of our dashing hero Lieutenant Charpentier? But what has the white cloth to do with it? Why would you feel conflicted on selling  bleached cloth to the Aztecs?

That could have been an indication they expected a lot of burials.  With the Aztecs, since they went all muzel, interment is done wrapped in a white shroud.

Oh, or, it is a coincidence, or being very cocky...

A decent time later, Inca Embassy, Aztec lands.  Fortress city of Tenochtitlan.
A Chasqui arrives with a message scroll.   Telegram style

August 2nd, 1914.  Imperial Retreat at Lago di Vico outside Rome

The warmth of the day's light was slowly fading to a more palatable cool as the sun fell lower in the sky. Around the small estate there was little artificial noise, the silence allowing for the sounds of small wildlife to be clearly heard.  There was a serene peace, one that was not mirrored inside Amelia's mind. The news of the disaster off Grand Turk had shaken the public, but they had not been told the full story. Reading the newspapers, it would be possible to believe that the IRS Sublimis was merely heavily damaged but out of the fight, that Admiral Kilian De Campo had been killed not by his ship exploding from under him but by Aztec shells. Amelia knew the hidden truth. Sublimis was no more and the marines she and her escorts had guarded were ether back in Tamara Insula or still on Grand Turk, fate unknown. It had taken time to find out, but the moment Amelia had been told that Eugène's regiment was the first onshore and therefor abandoned, her very soul had cracked. In all likelihood he was dead, another blue-grey uniformed body on a tropical beach. Something would not let her move past this, a small but persistent part clinging to the thin thread of hope that he might still be alive.

Amelia was sitting alone alongside the lake, gazing with distant mind over the rippling waters, when she heard the approaching footfalls on the soft ground. Taking a moment to gather herself and dispose of a stray tear, she turned in the direction of the footfalls.

"Corporal Sarto, I still wish to be left alone." Amelia threw the comment with a more acidic tone than the poor guard deserved.

"He does understand your wishes, my little waterlily, but I do outrank him by a significant amount." Emperor Trajan VIII replied.

Amelia was surprised by her father's appearance. "Father, I though you were retiring for the evening?"

"I was going to, but I realized sleep would not take me just yet." Trajan gestured to the other side of the stone bench. "May I join you?"

"Of course." Amelia scooted on the bench to make additional room for her father. "Is something on your mind that I can help ease?"

Trajan's eyes focused across the lake, not meeting Amelia's. "I'm afraid so, though I do not expect it to be eased." He coughed before continuing. "Amelia, I have always strived to give you space to make your own choices."

Amelia interrupted, knowing the use of her name at the beginning of the comment implied seriousness. "Have I done something to anger you father?"

"No." Trajan's reply was succinct and final. "You have done nothing to offend me, but I perhaps failed to prepare you for what has happened."

"If you are talking about the war," Amelia responded, "you know better than I how far from over it is."

"This is true." The tone of Trajan's voice had shifted as he continued. "The personal cost has been high so far for you. I know you care for the people of this country, as do I, but the sadness I have seen from you as of late has been the lowest I have seen you since Alonzo's passing."
Amelia scrambled for a reply and settled on denial. "I do not know what you mean father..."

Trajan firmly cut Amelia off. "I know about Eugène Charpentier."

Amelia reacted as if she had been stuck in the chest by a 340mm shell. It felt for a brief moment as if she were suffocating. She had been so careful to keep knowledge of her and Eugène's relationship confined. Clearly she had failed. The only reply she could manage gurgled out like a frog croaking. "How..."

Trajan finally turned to face her. "Your discretion is to be commended, but his mother could stand to take a few lessons on the subject."

Amelia felt the flask of raw despair inside of her slipping its cork. "Father, I meant no harm. Nothing improper happened, well nothing incredibly improper and he did not start..." The tail of the comment was consumed by the effort to suppress a sob that set fresh tears rushing to her eyes.

"He is a good man." Trajan's gentle reply accompanied by softly grabbing Amelia's hands. "Clearly you care deeply for him."

Amelia only managed a spurt of nods in reply, words refusing to come out.

"It was not hard to deduce the cause of your sadness." Trajan said, "Clearly you know he was one of the first on Grand Turk." He did not allow for a reply before continuing. "Know he is in my prayers, though I suspect it gives you little comfort. I wish his safe return more than all but three people in this world, his parents and you. If will enough were able to save him, his health would never be in doubt. Come, will you walk with me back to the estate?"

Amelia's reply was broken between short gasps for breath. "I don't wish to be seen like this. I need to be strong for the country. Strong for all the families missing loved ones. I can't be this way."

"Amelia, being this way means you truly care." Trajan replied, pulling her into an embrace, "Care that I know you feel for all the men on Grand Turk and in Novus Francia. Let us stay here a while and return when we have both had time to feel."

The pair sat on the bench for another hour, sharing in the collective grief for the soldiers fighting in the New World and their families.

November 17th, 1914. The Senate Chamber, Rome.

Septimius Rocchi was not the most outspoken of men. The shorter Sicilian refused to live up to the stereotype of his fellow island politicians. However, his reserved presentation masked an instinct for bureaucracy and tenacity that was all but unmatched among his peers. While others would bluster on and on about accomplishments, Septimius was the one making the machines of Roman government tick and twist. A member of the more centrist Publica Magnam coalition, Septimius rarely asked to be walked out into the spotlight of speaking on the Senate floor over the coalition's more eager orators. Today was one of the first times in years that this had changed. As Septimius approached the lecturn facing the Senate leadership, including the Prime Minister, the murmur of voices from the sides of the hall began to soften.

"Gentlemen of the Senate," Septimius began after a small clearing cough. "Members of the Imperial Assembly, I thank you all for the time to hear my words on this pressing matter. I come to you today with a heavy burden on my conscience, which by the grace of God I will lift today. Those assembled before me in the leadership of this body, which stands to represent the ideals of the people of this great nation to govern themselves, has in fact failed the very people it so claims to embody the will of."

A flurry of whispers darted around the room, broken by some scattered applause. The Senate Magistrate banged his gavel. "Order. We will have order in the chamber." The silence returned.

"It is fact that the leadership of this body, elected to the seats they hold by the people and there peers, have lead this country into a conflict with the potential to ignite a far greater war than could ever hope to be controlled." Septimius projected the statement to every inch of the chamber. "They have put us, though stroke of luck and the skill of our valiant armed force, not though their own means, at a crossroads. We now stand to escalate maters by continuing to embark upon this conflict as if all nations involved agreed to play by the same set of rules. Since the beginning of this venture, leadership of this chamber has proven to be no match for their counterparts across the Atlantic."

The verbal firebomb thrown at those in front of Septimius set the chamber alight behind him with affirmation and condemnation. Cries of support and opposition rained down upon the lectern and leadership, Septimius pausing to allow the Magistrate to attempt to restore order as the Prime Minister glared from his seat. With what must have been the final bang before the gavel shattered into splinters, the chamber finally began to settle down.

Septimius continued from the interruption. "As such, for the good of the nation, I feel I must speak on behalf of those who's voices in this chamber have been silenced. Those who would send our fighting men into harms way as a function of so-called diplomacy, treating it as an inevitability rather than a last resort, have forgotten that those same fighting men are the very folk them claim to represent. Does anyone else know how many of their constituents have died in this endeavor thus far? I do, five hundred and fifty of the people who's voice I bring to this body I can no longer save with my words here today. I cannot spare their families the pain of loss. Perhaps however, I can spare the five hundred and fifty first's family the same pain."

Septimius paused for an unintentional dramatic moment while he took a breath. "It is for these reasons today that I stand before you, to call for a vote of No Confidence in the leadership of the Senate."

Septimius met the wrathful eyes of the Prime Minister with the determined gaze of his own as the Senate erupted again and all the willpower of the magistrate in his entirety could not bring order.

---

December 1st, 1914.

That Septimius's speech was only the highlight of the Roman newspapers for less than a week and a half had been both a blessing and a curse. Days before the vote on the No Confidence measure, a sensationalist piece had been published in a Londinum newspaper. The author, concealed behind an editorial pseudonym, claimed that a second attempt to land troops in the Caicos was underway. This came as little shock, but the claimed casualty numbers were scandalous. According to the author, entire companies of Roman Marines were being annihilated whole cloth for nothing more than additional grains of sand on the tiny islands. Those with an understanding of events in the military knew this was far closer to the truth than fiction, even with allocation for embellishment.

The public backlash had been muted, but notably visible. In the short time between the publication of the piece on November 27th and the scheduled vote on December 1st, what had been understood to be a formal objection by Septimius before a quite resignation and retirement had erupted into a full grown crisis. Given the Senate was not typically briefed on official figures, some of the more radical members, mostly Aquitanian, had spent as much energy as they could muster to force the No Confidence vote to be a formal affair. Seeing a grab for power from the more conservative Morsus de Libertatibus was now possible, Publica Magnam had discreetly backed the push. The coming floor debate and vote was now anything but a formality, it was its own battlefield for the leadership of the elected Roman government.

Septimius watched the points and counterpoints fly, tempers rising thought the room. He remained silent, his mind already made up and knowing he had already done what he could to influence others. As the morning turned to afternoon, the debate raged like a fire in a dry forest. Finally, as the sun sank low on the horizon, the Magistrate called the vote. Septimius voted for the measure of No Confidence, paying little attention to the tally as other cast their decisions. It was this that lead to his mild shock masked behind a neutral expression when the magistrate announced the results.

"The measure of No Confidence in the Prime Minister and his Governing Ministers has passed. Beginning tomorrow we will begin deliberations to select a new Prime Minister. The Senate is adjourned until ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

Septimius remained in his seat as the chamber slowly emptied and quieted. This was not the result that had been anticipated, nor seriously prepared for. Several other Senators stopped to offer brief words, both supportive and degrading. The now-former Prime Minister exited the chamber opposite Septimius, furry tense in his shoulders. Long after the chamber fell quiet, Septimius remained. He was supposed to have resigned by now, the final agenda item for the day. Instead the protest had resulted in his continued service to the people of the Imperial Roman Republic. The enormity of what had transpired weighed on the experienced politician. Lost deep in his thoughts, he did not register the footsteps behind him until their source was right next to him.

"Senitor Rocchi I presume?" The voice of Emperor Trajan VIII echoed softly throughout the otherwise silent chamber.

Septimius was quickly drawn back to reality as he stood and bowed deeply. "Your majesty, my apologies for not greeting your properly."

"A transgression I can hardly fault you for Senator." Trajan gestured at an empty chair. "May I join you for a moment?"

"It would be my pleasure your highness." Septimius answered. He waited for Trajan to sit before taking his seat again.

"So it seems the Prime Minister's political luck has run out on this day." Trajan observed "I seem to recall that you were the cause of this change in the landscape."

"It is true, I did call for the measure to be put to vote." Septimius replied.

"Perhaps fortunate that you did." Trajan dryly observed. "It did give the Aquitanian delegation a nice release direction in light of that newspaper story."

Septimius opted not to suppress a faint smile. "Yes, angry Aquitanians can cause trouble."

"So I'm afraid I am slightly out of touch with the Senate these days." Trajan began "After all, most of our attention has been occupied elsewhere. Could you perhaps enlighten me on who may succeed Bonnay?"

"I'm afraid I have been similarly distanced from those discussions, your highness." Septimius replied. "As I believed this to be a matter of formal principled protest and had quite frankly planned to resign on its failure to pass."

"So you would not consider yourself among the candidates to replace him?" Trajan's question cut directly to the point.

Despite being taken aback by the direct question, Septimius maintained his composure. "I would not."

"It is a shame." Trajan continued. "As I suspect getting a majority to rally behind another candidate will prove difficult and time consuming. Especially if Imperial Endorsement is not immediately forthcoming."

Septimius quietly mulled over the mention of Imperial Endorsement. "Is there a candidate that your highness would have in mind?"

"I suppose you are going to make me say it." Trajan's tone shifted slightly joking. "That would take all the game out of it, and someone once said I could never play politics well."

"It would simplify matters, your majesty." Septimius replied. "Decoding subtly has never been my best trait."

"And you are as good a politician as they say." Trajan replied. "Which I why the candidate I have in mind is you."

"If I may," Septimius replied. "a question."
Trajan nodded. "Please."

"Why choose me?" Septimius could see no gain from beating around the bush. "I am far from the most influential or popular choice."

"That is exactly why." Trajan answered quickly. "Because in times such as these we do not need leadership that is in it for their own gain. We need leadership that puts the people first. I perhaps know more of you then I let on, and I know the words you said in your indictment of Bonnay's leadership are how you truly feel. I am not alone in these thoughts and if you could find it within yourself to serve this country in the greatest civilian capacity you could, you would have my support. As public or private as you wished. Think on what I have said, and should you choose to throw you hat in the ring, as I believe the term goes, I would be honored to have your leadership of this elected body." Trajan then slowly rose to his feet. "I can tell I have given you much to think on, so I will allow you time for your thoughts to wander again. Good Evening Senator Rocchi." With that Trajan turned and began walking back to the door he had entered from.

Septimius returned to his chair after bowing to the Emperor as he left. His mind alight with possibility and problems.

December 11th, 1914. The Imperial Palace, Rome.

Amelia stood facing out of one of the receiving room's large windows, examining the sky with a detached contemplation. The clouds threatened rain, as they had for the last few days, but had yet to carry out the deed.  Further north they did not hold back their deluge, and Amelia's train from Brest had been obscured by rain for most of the day's journey. Being summoned back to the capital for the occasional event or official business was something that provided random disruption to her academy education. This was yet another such event. The only other occupant of the room at the moment was her father. The Emperor sat on one side of a low table, on which some beverages resided on a tray. The chair on the other side of the table sat empty, awaiting the arrival of the reason for Amelia's return.

As had become routine for these sorts of events, Amelia had been provided with a packet of information to catch up with on the train. Typically, one of the Marines would provide it to her after boarding and depending on the time of day it would ether be opened right away or left for a more sensible time after the next meal. It was through this packet that Amelia had learned in far too great a detail what exactly the No Confidence measure had ment. Now the men who had been forced by circumstance to include her were no longer in the positions of power they, for the most part, had looked down on her from. Given the extenuating circumstance of the war, the government had taken the drastic measure of appointing an interim Prime Minister. Amelia understood that the interim was merely a formality and that the man elected by his peers would be fully confirmed for a formal term when the process had been played out.

It was tradition that a new Prime Minister had to gain the permission of the Emperor, or Empress, prior to assuming the mantle. While in the past the occupant of the Imperial throne had the final say, in the modern era the permission was more a formality. No Emperor had attempted to override the selected man for the job since the founding of the Imperial Republic, which is not to say that undesirable candidates hadn't been conspired against to prevent their election in the first place. The sharp clang of the small bell mounted above the door closer to the empty chair drew Amelia's attention back to the room from the clouds. She moved quickly but silently to take the smaller chair next to her father. The door opened and a Marine guard stepped into the room, holding the door open for the not yet visible visitor.

"Senator Rocchi has arrived." The guard stated plainly. "Does your highness wish him to be admitted?"

Trajan replied softly with a wave of his hand. "Please allow Senator Rocchi to enter."

"By your grace." The formal tone of the guard unshifting. He gestured to someone standing outside the door. "The Emperor has asked you join him Senator Rocchi."

Amelia watched as the Sicilian, though considered short he still had a height advantage on her, enter the room. Septimius Rocchi's reputation had been another item helpfully outlined in the packet. Amelia knew little of him outside of that information, a testament to his quiet attitude. Amelia's opinion of career politicians would be considered low at the best of times, so Septimius' reputation did not endear him to her in the slightest. However, she knew the game that needed to be played and kept that feeling bottled up inside, focusing on a disinterested inquisitive expression. Her father rose from his seat as Septimius approached the table. Trajan waited to begin speaking until the marine had left and closed the door behind him.

"Senator Rocchi, a pleasure to see you again." Trajan greeted Septimius warmly. "I do hope you have been well since we last spoke?"

"I have your highness. I pray the same is true for you always." Septimius replied rising from a deep ceremonial bow. Without missing a beat, he turned in Amelia's direction and again bowed deeply. "Crown Princess, it is my privilege to make your acquaintance." He returned to his full height before continuing. "I hope this dreary day finds you well?"

Amelia curtsied, allowing a momentary pause before replying perhaps more aloofly then she intended. "I am quite well, thank you for asking."

"Please take a seat Senator." Trajan gestured to the plush armchair opposite his own on the other side of the table. "Would you like a beverage?"

"Thank you, your majesty, I am fine without one." Septimius replied while planting himself firmly, but comfortably, in the armchair.

Trajan chuckled "And right into the point as always Senator, though I gather you are here to force me to undo the habit of calling you Senator?"

"If your majesty were to allow it, then yes." Septimius allowed enough of a smile to contort his face to appease the Emperor.

"I take it the Imperial Assembly did allow for the interim posting then?" Trajan inquired. "I'm afraid my constitution kept me from being able to observe the proceedings."

Amelia lost the thread of the conversation between the two men momentarily. He didn't mention he was feeling unwell again. I do hope it was nothing more than an unsettling meal, goodness knows that is a family weakness from time to time. What if something more serious is wrong? the latter question had been known to rattle around her mind more frequently with each snippet of news or denial of any issues by her father. She was pulled back to the conversation by a question from her father.

"...then I do feel compelled to ask." The Emperor's voice was steady, but gentle. "What are you planning to do about the pressing matter of the day, the war with the Aztecs?"

Septimius took an almost imperceptible moment to gather his thoughts and draw a breath. "As your majesty well knows, the landings that are again underway are not progressing as well as we had hoped. Perhaps with less time for the defenders to prepare the results would have a glimmer of silver around the edges. But I fear unlike most dark clouds, this one does lack the traditional lining. By the projections you have no doubt seen, we would need to continue landing our brave troops on the various islands that make up the contested region for the better part of 1915, and that is if the action in the northwest of Novus Francia does not require an additional influx of troops."

"I see." Trajan replied while unconsciously touching his chin. "And of course, that allows far more time for another party to become involved in the conflict, making it far more difficult to continue justifying as we have continued to do."

Amelia spoke before ether man had a chance to reply. "Senator Rocchi, with the way the landings are progressing, do you know what our anticipated casualties of continued action would be?"

To his credit, Septimius did not noticeably faulter at the sudden interruption. "It is unfortunate that such projections are needed, Crown Princess. They have in fact been made, and the cost in the lives of our brave soldiers would be quite high."

"I wish to know the numbers," Amelia interjected curtly. "How many men would we expect to die?"

"The projections do vary." Septimius' reply was already laced with the obfuscation of someone experienced in promising nothing. "However, we would perhaps be looking at the almost complete destruction of three to five legions and significant casualties to the remainder of the existing Marine legions."

"You say that over forty thousand, perhaps up to sixty thousand, men" Amelia failed to keep the daggers out of her voice "would die attempting to take these islands? In addition to the thousands at Ironclad Bay and those left to fend for themselves in July?"

"Yes, those would be within the estimates we have." Septimius seemed genuinely saddened yet hardened with resolve. "Which is why, with the permission of the Emperor, on becoming the interim Prime Minister, I intend to authorize and instruct the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to open a dialog regarding a cease fire and a return to a diplomatic solution. It is my opinion, supported by many members of both the Senate and the Imperial Assembly, that the previous government fatality underestimated the Aztec Sultanate. It is therefor now in our best interests to make the best peace we can so that we can begin preparing for whatever may come next with the full might of our great nation."

"Both of you deserve to be rewarded for your candor." Trajan gently eased his way back into the conversation. "Mister Prime Minister, you have my permission to form a government and to address this crisis with the Aztecs in the way you and the government of the people of the Imperial Roman Republic best sees fit. Rest assured that I, and my household, will always back you publicly and we will happily discuss concerns in private to come to mutual understandings over any disagreements we may have. Now, the day does grow later, and I know we have more to discuss then the war. I do hope that both of you will continue to engage in all the topics we are to cover."

"It would be my pleasure, your majesty." Septimius replied. "The Crown Princess has quite earned her reputation for being of sharp mind and sound, if passionate, communication. I do also hope she will not hesitate to add thoughts or questions to the conversation."

As the comment registered, Amelia wondered what the politest way to remove one's jaw from the floor was in such a formal setting. "The Prime Minister's words are most kind, you have already shown more interest in me as a person then your predecessor did in me as a woman."

Septimius smiled. "In that I have no doubt, Crown Princess. Shall we continue?"

As her father and Septimius moved onto some domestic topics, Amelia worked to begin reforming the freshly shattered expectations of the leader of the civilian government. She wondered how quickly his desire to end the war would bear fruit, and how many lives it would indeed save.

February 4th, 1915. Imperial Roman Senate, Prime Minister's office.

Septimius Rocchi was still getting used to the ever-so-slightly overstuffed chair behind the grand desk in the Prime Minister's office within the Senate building. He was constantly catching himself making minor adjustments to his sitting positions while in conversation. Now was another such time, as Albin Confortola took his seat across the desk.

"Minister Confortola, a pleasure as always." Septimius did not extend his hand for a traditional shake, Albin had a dislike of them.

'Prime Minister." Albin was curt but formal in his greeting. "The conference on Bermudez is underway. My understanding is that Bastian has yet to give away the entire farm, but we may be less some livestock when it is said and done."

"You sound doubtful regarding the choice to send him." Septimius stated rather than questioned.

"In that choice, I have no doubt." Albin replied. "The parameters, or lack thereof, he was given on the other hand..." the thought trailed off.

Septimius filled the void. "I know you are as familiar with the Aztec concept of the Warmaster as I am. I know that the discussions around giving Bastian the same levels of freedom were, spirited." The polite euphemism for the argument that had resulted in at least one rapidly relocated glass of liquid hung in the air for moment longer than necessary. "We need to trust him Albin. Having him need to run to us at every decision or question makes us look weak and puts his foothold on the negotiating table untenable."

"But what if he returns a deal we cannot hope to publicly justify?" A tinge of panic flirted with the edges of Albin's voice. "That would be the end of the government for sure, and that instability would be looked on negatively throughout Europe."

"Fortunately for us, our government does not exclusively hang on this outcome." Septimius replied. "Starting this conflict was far from the only mistake of our recently departed predecessors. I trust Bastian because the Emperor trusts Bastian. If the Emperor will back the deal produced, we have little to worry about."

"I must confess, this is a thought path I have too followed, but come to a differing conclusion on." Albin turned to ensure that the pair were still the only occupants of the room and the doors were closed. "You know as do I that his health is not as it once was."

Septimius grimaced. It was indeed true that Trajan was not as well as he had been. While it would be an improbable reach to get where he guessed Albin was going, it was not an impossible scenario.

Albin continued. "What if he were to pass? God willing, he will not." Albin crossed himself during the later half. "Would the Crown Princess continue to support us?"

Septimius recalled the conversation with Trajan months before when Amelia had been present. The fire behind her eyes as she threw casualty numbers about with the weight of each family they represented dragging her spirt down a dark hole still lodged in his memory.
"I believe she would Albin." Septimius replied solemnly. "She will be a force to be reckoned with from the throne when the time comes, and I for one do not wish to stand in her way."

Albin threw one final thought into the air. "And do you think others will have that same respect for her when the time comes?"

Septimius did not have an immediate reply, and Albin seemed to take the silence as all the answer to the question he needed.

"Let us hope we need not find out." Albin finished. He placed a folder with a few sheets of paper inside on the desk. "Bastian's latest report. I'll leave you to read it." With that, the Foreign Minister stood and left the room.

June 18th, 1915. Estate of the Barre family, outside of Bordeaux.

"...and so, it is with this spirit that we award all the participants of the landings on Grand Turk with this commendation."

Amelia did her best to project a pleased smile from her perch behind the podium. In front of her sat around two hundred of the men who had endured under Aztec imprisonment from July of the previous year until a few short months ago. Overall, the men were looking much better than they had on arrival, long-term physical issues like slight malnutrition or learning to walk on one leg and crutches, were slowly progressing to normalcy. Seemingly of their own accord, many influential families had volunteered estates and staff to provide location for the returning wounded to convalesce at. Various fundraisers had been held to create a fund to ensure families could travel to where any wounded members were settled for their recovery. The whole endeavor had been incredibly well-received and functional.

This same sort of ceremony had been held at various places in both Europe and the New World. Despite the decision not to continue the landings, the undertaking of the war was still painted positively in the press. Admiral Fabron had begun a tour of the country to raise money for various veteran organizations. Overall, the public perception seemed to be that Rome had accomplished something and that blood had not been spilt in vein. Of course, there were some that felt different, but those voices were quieter. Amelia had presided over one other of these ceremonies and attended a few others with her father. This one however, had been the one she had been looking forward to, and dreading, the most.

The day the letter appeared on her desk was almost otherwise forgotten. The words were not. Months had passed without knowing, all logic pointing in one direction but a thin unbreakable thread of hope tugging in another. Months of not knowing ended with the written script on a small envelope. On opening and looking at the first words on the page, her eyes had filled with tears and her knees buckled, dumping her into a blubbering tangle of fabric and flesh on the floor. Once able to focus her sight, the words on the page wrapped around the flask of despair that had sat heavy in her heart since war broke out and squeezed it until it was no more.

Quote
Crown Princess,

I do sincerely apologies for my lack of communication. There has been nothing under my influence that could have changed this fact, but nevertheless it eats at my soul that you have perhaps suffered grief at the silence. Let me reassure you that I am alive. I cannot provide more detail at this time, but know that I have been a prisoner of war. I have been treated as well as could be expected under the circumstance. I am told we will be returned to Europe at some future time, and should you wish I will communicate to you when that occurs.

Sincerely,
Lieutenant Charpentier, Imperial Roman Marines

It had taken a while longer before she found the second note that had fallen on the floor.

Quote
Amelia,

If you read the other letter first, I do apologies for its stiffness, but I wanted to ensure something got to you as soon as possible.  I have much to tell you, but it sounds as if an opportunity to do so in person may be closer than I dare hope. Know that I am well, despite my injuries. I hope it is not unflattering of me to say that there were days where the thought of you was one of the few bright lights that held me back from total darkness. There was not a day that passed where I wished to let you know I was ok to ease your grief. Please forgive me in this regard.

Yours,
Eugène

Whether or not her father had known when he assigned her to this ceremony that it was the location where Eugène was recovering, Amelia did not care. Before the day was out, she would see him again. Even if she had to fight off an Aztec infantryman. Prior to the formal ceremony, the enlisted men present had been presented with the medals. Later, it would be time for the officers, but first the official schedule indicated lunch. Amelia had another plan.

Aurélie Orlando, ever the trusted co-conspirator, had handled the arrangements, and now met Amelia at the back of the small stage the podium stood on. "Lovely speech."

"I only practiced it for a week." Amelia sounded jokingly offended, the butterfly colony in her stomach threatening the burst. "Am I following you?"

Aurélie quickly looked around to ensure the pair of young women were not noticed. "Yes but keep your voice down." She then began walking in the opposite direction of the lunch spread laid out under a large tent the rest of the crowd was moving towards.

"Have you seen him?" Amelia pestered. "I still don't know of his injuries..." the though trailed off.

Aurélie paused, turned around, and grabbed Amelia by the shoulders. "Listen, you and I both know it doesn't mater how he is hurt. He is alive, that is all that matters."

Amelia nodded in return, the only appropriate response. After a minuet or two more, the pair arrived at a small garden with several benches surrounding a delicate looking fountain. Aurélie deposited Amelia on one of these benches and without pause vanished around the corner. Amelia found herself absentmindedly bunching her dress up in her hands repeatedly as seconds stretched to minuets which stretched to what felt like hours. What could have been no more than five minuets later, but felt like hundreds, a familiar voice came from around the corner.

"Just though there then. Thank you, Miss Orlando."

Amelia was on her feet without realizing it, forcing her hands to unclench from the fabric of her skirt, allowing the blue fabric to fall back down to her feet. Her heart pounded in her ears and breaths came quicker and quicker. The echo of two footfalls accompanied by the sharper clicks of some sort of assistive device neared the corner. Amelia felt the breath catch in her windpipe as Eugène turned the corner.

Amelia caught herself almost franticly scanning the marine from foot to head quickly and repeatedly. No limbs seemed to be missing. In his right hand was a cane, which he seemed to lean ever-so slightly on when putting weight on his right leg. A jagged, but healed scar line started outside of his right eye and ran down his cheek, stopping slightly under the jawbone. The scar added some character to the still handsome face, which broke into a smile as his eyes looked to hers.

"More beautiful than I remember." Eugène stated, coming to a stop a step and a half away. "I do hope you can forgive me for the silence, I would have written every day if I could."

Amelia closed the gap quickly, stopping far too close to Eugène for polite conversation between two unwed nobles. She reached up and gently ran her fingers along the scar. "Was this serious?" The only question she could muster both entirely inadequate and cracking as over a year's worth of feelings were slipping their metaphorical cork.

"Almost." Eugène's reply was soft as he reached to brush away the first of what looked to be many tears lining up to run down Amelia's cheeks.

"The leg?" Amelia succeeded at croaking the question out through quivering lips.

"Healing," Eugène answered "but quite possibly never to where it once was."

"Where else?" Amelia's vision blurred as she made one final attempt at failing to keep her emotions in check before breaking down.

"Nowhere else." Eugène's voice was wavering slightly as well. He wrapped his arms around Amelia. "At least no where else that your presence cannot fix."

The final comment snapped the last taught threads of restraint on Amelia's emotions. Thousands of feelings exploded in a mixture of chaos. All her control went to ensuring she continued to support her own weight rather than fall into Eugène or on the ground.  She felt herself being guided to the bench and taking a seat. Wrapping her arms around Eugène, she felt his wrap around her. One lower near her waist and the other around her shoulders, softly directing her head into his left shoulder. It was all too much, and Amelia was unable to stop from breaking down into gasping sobs. Eugène held her tightly and let her feel.

Minuets passed, then the tears began to subside. Amelia gently removed herself from Eugène's embrace and returned upright before reaching up to wipe the last tears away. "I feared you dead Eugène Charpentier."

Eugène's cheeks were also tear stained. "It will take more than that to kill me. You know that."

"When I found out you were in the first wave," Amelia seemed not to fully register the reply. "I feared the worst. To be honest I believed it for a long time, but I missed you every day."

"I missed you every day as well." Eugène answered the unasked question. "I do not lightly say that thoughts of you guided me though some dark moments."

"Glad to be of use." Amelia slightly joked and mimed a seated curtesy.

Eugène chuckled, then turned slightly more serious. "I do hope you can forgive me."

"Of course, I forgive you." Amelia replied. "You had a duty to preform, I knew nothing could have stopped you and you would not have forgiven me for trying. Besides," Amelia scooted closer to Eugène on the bench. "if I didn't forgive you would I do this?" Without hesitation she leaned in and kissed him.

Eugène was taken slightly by surprise but returned the kiss. "No, I suppose you would not."

"That said," Amelia let some playfulness slip into her tone that surprised her "If you do try and storm a beach again, you might have to fight me to get of the ship."

Eugène chuckled. "A fight I'm sure I would lose."

Amelia smiled. "In that you are correct." She felt Eugène grab her hand. "It's been far to long since I was able to touch you."

"And I you." Eugène replied. "I do hope I can see you more frequently."

Amelia blushed. "About that. I suppose its only fair you know something, its nether bad nor good, just a fact. My father knows about us." She met Eugène's eyes with a concerned expression.

Eugène's face turned contemplative. "Well, I suppose it was going to get out at some point. My mother, bless her, truly cannot keep a social secret."

Amelia smiled. "The Emperor said as much."

Eugène continued. "I suppose that would introduce a certain formality into things. Can you handle that stifling decorum?"

Amelia leaned in close, replying with a low whisper. "As long as I can steal a moment alone at times to kiss you without the judgment of others."

It was Eugène's turn to smile. "Is there paperwork that needs to be filled out? I don't recall my etiquette classes instructing on how to formally court the heir to the throne."

Amelia laughed louder than she intended to. "I don't know ether. I do know that you have a standing invitation to dinner, just you, me, and the Emperor."

"If he sees fit to throw me in a dungeon to protect your honor, would you visit me?" Eugène jested while acting quite concerned at the possibility. "It would get quite lonesome beneath the palace."

"I'm sure I would be in the next cell over." Amelia replied. "Or stashed away at the nearest nunnery."

"A fate worse than captivity indeed." Eugène replied.

Amelia leaned against Eugène's chest again. "I have until sometime after lunch before my absence is noted. I'm going to stay with you."

"It would be my honor." Eugène replied, pulling Amelia in tightly.

The two stayed wrapped in each other's arms, talking, for almost an hour before Aurélie returned to collect Amelia. Amelia stole one final kiss before leaving Eugène to return to the ceremony. Amelia could not keep herself from a far more genuine smile when presenting Eugène with the metal.

August 18th, 1915. Prince Lafayette Proving Grounds, northwest of Cagliari, Sardegna.

Carmine Duval approached the other well-dressed man who stuck out like a pimple between the milling men in grease-stained coveralls carrying toolboxes rather than briefcases.

"Mister Charles?" Carmine called out from a short distance away.

"Yes," The man replied. "That must make you Mister Duval then."

"Indeed it does." Carmine extended his hand. "Please call me Carmine."

"The pleasure is mine." The man grasped the hand and shook it enthusiastically. "Please call me Ettore."

Carmine stole a quick glance at his pocket watch. "I do believe we should be on time if we walk quickly. I would hate to be late for the test."

Ettore nodded in agreement. "Yes of course."

The pair began following a well-marked path, striking up a cordial conversation as they walked. The pair continued until they arrived at a small building beyond which lay an open field. Closer to them was a small, modified flatbed railway car, on which was perched a smaller naval cannon. The cannon was mounted in the middle of the car, and a boxcar behind it seemed to hold ammunition and other accessories. A traditional small crew car rounded out the small engineless train. Further away sat a truly monstrous gun carriage. Suspended between two six-axel rail bogies, the massive 340mm gun pointed out over the breaking waves into the Tyrrhenian Sea. While the smaller gun and its train seemed to be able to move along the rails almost at will, this larger gun was far more heavily emplaced. It lacked the dedicated train cars of its smaller counterpart, instead having its supporting assets strewn about behind it in various temporary structures.

Carmine and Ettore were greeted at the door by a Roman Army Major.

"You must be Misters Charles and Duval." The Major warmly acknowledge the two men. "Welcome to Prince Lafayette, you must have a wonderful sense of timing, we are just about to begin the test. Please follow me to the observation room."

Carmine and Ettore followed the Major inside as activity around the large gun increased. As they arrived in the observation room, a loud siren began to blare.

"For safety." The Major unsuccessfully tried to shout over the rising cry of the alert. "We have sixty seconds till the first firing."

Carmine pulled out his pocket watch, and Ettore did the same. A silent nod confirming that both intended to measure the results.

'Fifteen seconds." The Major remarked. "I advise you open your mouth before the gun is fired."

Both men followed this advice, while watching the final preparations of the guncrew.

"Ready Gentlemen?" The Major asked.

Any reply ether man would have attempted would have been buried back into their larynx by the thunderous crash of the massive cannon. The carriage almost unnoticeable digging back into the dirt as the end of the barrel vomited forth fire. Nether man could hear properly for almost a minute, the gun crew must have been totally incapable of processing sound. Each man kept one eye on their pocket watch as the gun crew sprang back into action. Seconds turned to minutes, but progress was made on getting the gun ready to fire again.

"Its going to be close." Ettore remarked, checking his watch again.

"Agreed." Carmine replied. "I do hope we are close, I have quite the bonus riding on this."

Ettore chuckled. "It seems our superiors made the same choices regarding motivation."

As before, the siren began to scream and shortly thereafter the artillery piece sent another round to greatly inconvenience some local aquatic life.

Carmine could not quite restrain a little bit of joy from creeping into his voice. "Almost three hundred and sixty seconds on the dot."

"Just as we promised." Ettore smiled. "It's a pleasure having done business with Melara."

"As it has with Schneider." Carmine replied, again extending his hand.

Ettore grasped it with far more enthusiasm. For the next hour, at almost prefect six-minute intervals, the naval gun belched fire from its railway carriage. Somewhere in the world, someday, a fortress would feel the wrath of this weapon further inland than any ship could ever hope to shoot.

September 9th, 1915. Foreign Ministry, Rome.

"So, we hurt them that badly then?"

Nerio Cino tossed the question at Albin Confortola, whose desk they sat on opposite sides of.

"I would not be so sure of that Director." Albin replied. "To me, this has Japanese intent all over it."

"I don't entirely disagree with you." Nerio replied. "I think it will be interesting to see who decides to attend or not."

"And which of those categories do you think we should fall into?" The Foreign Minister's question was of course the reason for Nerio's appearance, and that of the several admirals and other naval staff waiting outside of the room. Albin was taking the time to feel out opinions on the topic one by one before a communal discussion.

Nerio took a moment to gather his thoughts before answering. "At the risk of sounding more like a diplomat than an engineer, I think we need to be in the room at least. As with design, what you know about you can plan for."

Albin did not noticeably react beyond nodding and making a note on a sheet of paper. "Anything else to add?"

"I don't think so." Nerio replied. "As you have almost all of my bosses outside, I'm sure you will hear a lot more before this afternoon."

Albin's gaze did not depart from his notes as he motioned to the door. "Please send Admiral Rossi in as you leave."

Nerio showed himself out of the room, nodding to Rossi as the uniformed officer held the door for him before entering the Foreign Minister's office.

---

Later that afternoon, the smaller conference room down the hall from Albin's office was perhaps filled with one person to many. Nerio found himself seated next to Admiral Rossi. Albin sat at the head of the table, declining to stand before committing to beginning his remarks.

"After discussion with the involved parties regarding the Aztec proposal for a conference, we are going to accept the invitation with a couple of caveats. First, we are going to send minimal personnel in case the situation on the ground is less than amicable. Second, should it look like anything binding is going to come out of the conference, it will be required that such an agreement be approved by both myself and the Minister of the Navy before proceeding with any formalization of such an agreement."

Albin looked up from his papers and scanned the room before continuing. Seeing no questions bubbling up in the crowd, he continued.

"The delegation will be led by Jean-Marc Lefebvre." Albin gestured to the man sitting to his right. "and I believe Admiral Joseph Rossi will be representing the Navy's interests?"

Rossi nodded next to Nerio. "Yes, that is what was agreed. I believe Mister Cino will be detached from the construction and refit department as well."

This was the first Nerio had heard of it, and he quickly attempted to reverse his failure at containing the surprise. "I believe you are correct, Admiral."

Albin hardly noticed, and continued with his remarks.

November 25th, 1915. Imperial Retreat at Lago di Vico outside Rome.

Eugène Charpentier exited the cab of the motor car and stepped out into the cool air as the sun began to flirt with the horizon. He thanked the driver before returning his kepi to his head. The Imperial Retreat seemed far more subtle than he had expected. The grandeur of the palace in Rome, and the various other more public properties of the Imperial Family, was not on display here. The smaller estate, nestled against the hillside on the northeastern end of the lake, hid the power of its occupants well. Eugène took a moment to look out over the lake, eyes following the small path from the side garden down to a small boat dock. As the car rattled down the lane, the silence slowly consumed his ears. In what could have passed for hours, but was perhaps only a minute, he stood taking in the sights.

"Lieutenant Charpentier." A male voice came from behind Eugène. An older, balding man in a tuxedo stood between Eugène's position where the car had dropped him and the now open doors of the villa. "I've been instructed to show you to the parlor." Waiting just a moment, the man began to reenter the villa.

Eugène hurried to follow the man into the entryway. Inside the villa, a staircase began an assent on the left side of the double doors, stopping halfway between the floors at a large landing. The marble columns stretched to the ceiling at evenly spaced intervals. Every so often, a dark wooden door broke the uniformness of the wall to indicate the presence of another space. At the end of the hall opposite the door which the pair had just came though, a large window extending to the second story above looked out over the central garden, surrounded on the other three sides by an open walkway.

Eugène did not have time to observe the space in great detail as he was quickly led off to the right and though one of the dark wood doors into a smaller room. Bookshelves packed tightly with bound spines of new and old literature, interspaced with the occasional larger object such as a collection of preserved insects, wrapped the walls. Against the interior wall of the room, a large marble-clad fireplace hosted a happily crackling log. Next to the fireplace where two overstuffed couches and a large armchair around an ornately decorated coffee table. An assortment of beverages was placed in the center of the table, the large containers flanked by more serviceable smaller drinking vessels. Eugène was silently directed to one of the couches, where he came close to sinking into the cushions for good, before the man spoke again.

"Please help yourself to any drinks you may like." The man's formal tone stiffly backing his voice. "I do not know when our host will be joining you, please wait here until then."

Eugène nodded his understanding, and without another word the butler exited though the door they had come in and closed it behind him. Eugène poured himself a small glass of water, and quickly finished it. He allowed his eyes to wonder around the room, and eventually his curiosity drew him away from the confines of the couch to the ornate wooden desk in the back corner of the room. The desk was tidy, hardly an item was out of place, but clearly used as a workspace. On the desk was the item that had drawn Eugène's attention, a small model of a warship in a glass case. He leaned in to inspect the model closer, examining the details. His attention was focused enough that combined with the well-oiled hinges the first clue that someone else was in the room was a male voice from behind him.

"She made that you know."

Eugène turned around, unable to fully suppress a shocked expression when he saw who the statement had come from. With the precision of parade ground drill, he quickly shot to attention, then bowed deeply. "You Majesty, please forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive Lieutenant." Emperor Trajan VIII replied almost dismissively. "Please, allow me to join you." The Emperor slowly made his way across the room to the desk.

"It's quite detailed." Eugène stepped to the side to let the Emperor be closer to the model. "The ship named for your father if my memory is correct?"

"Indeed, it is." Trajan replied. "It was a gift from Amelia on my birthday a few years ago. I later understood that she was working on the night Alonzo died. I don't think I've ever seen her looking at it since I received it."

Seeing that Eugène was struggling to form an appropriate reply to the mention of the late Crown Prince, Trajan continued by changing the subject. "She is a person of many talents. I understand you have been exposed to some of that curiosity?"

"Indeed, I have." Eugène replied. "While I was stationed in the New World, she was most curious about the local flora and fauna, for example."

"An affliction she undoubtedly inherited from me." The Emperor gestured at one of the nearby insect displays. "Come, let us sit by the warm fire for a while." Without waiting for a response, Trajan began to move in the direction of the nearest couch. He sat and let out an audible sigh. "Just what my feet have been waiting for. Join me for a drink?"

Eugène took a seat on the opposite couch. "It would be my honor, your Majesty."

Trajan smiled while reaching for a decanter with a light brown liquid in it. "We can dispense with all the formality. As my dear daughter would say, it can get stifling. Besides, I understand we should perhaps begin to develop a relationship beyond the one typically found between an Emperor and the heir of one of his most important Duchies?" Trajan had finished pouring two glasses and handed one to Eugène as he finished the question.

Eugène suddenly found his foot was metaphorically lodged in his mouth. The reply he choked past it was hardly eloquent. "Yes, that seems a likely trajectory."

Trajan chuckled loudly. "Ah, the head of a young man attracted to a young woman. Don't worry yourself to much, I fondly recall the time I felt much the same way about my dear Catherine. Come, let us share a drink or two and allow me to get to know you."

---

Amelia heard the loud guffaw of her father from the top of the stairs. Clearly the time spent between him and Eugène was progressing well. She descended the staircase quickly, skipping a step or two along the way. From the base of the stairs, she crossed the entryway and arrived at the slightly ajar door to her father's library. She paused to listen momentarily as the dregs of laughter faded.

"That is marvelous!" The Emperor exclaimed from the other side of the door. "Simply marvelous."

Amelia gently pushed on the door and it swung open with hardly a sound. Eugène and Trajan sat on opposite couches, the Emperor facing her while Eugène's back was turned. The flushed cheeks indicated the laughter was gregarious and uncontrolled. Amelia stepped in thought the doorway and stopped just inside the threshold, waiting to be noticed.

"Ah, there she is." The Emperor exclaimed. "My beautiful daughter, please come join us." He gestured to the unoccupied chair.

Eugène turned in his seat and smiled at Amelia. "Hello Crown Princess." He stood up and wobbled almost unnoticeably before bowing.

Amelia curtsied, eyes finding and lingering for a moment on the nearing empty decanter of light brown spirit between the two men on the table. "Hello to you father, Lieutenant Charpentier. I have been asked to inform you that dinner is ready."

"Wonderful." Trajan replied "Come now, let us dine together. The three of us. Lieutenant, if you would do me the honor of escorting the lovely Crown Princess to the dining room, I will join you both momentarily." The Emperor then picked himself up off the couch and ambled his way to the door and out into the hallway.

Eugène walked over to stand next to Amelia. "Crown Princess, I am happy to see you again." He stayed a respectful distance away. "May I escort you to the dining room, wherever that may be?"

Amelia playfully pouted a little. "Only if you agree to treat me entirely like a fragile doll the entire evening."

"As her Majesty commands." Eugène replied with a sweeping bow.

Ameila's face was split by a grin. "And just how much have you had to drink with my father?" She closed the gap between them and took Eugène's hands in hers.

"He wished to start with a drink or two." Eugène replied "I believe we ended up a bit higher than that."

"I will forgive you for this." Amelia replied, a joking tone underpinning her voice. "As long as you kiss me once before dinner."

Eugène let go of Amelia's hands and pulled her close while wrapping his arms around her torso. The kiss was gentle and restrained, but the feeling underneath the surface was one of bubbling passion.

Amelia pulled away before the kiss lingered long enough to be discovered by anyone else. "I missed that Eugène. Now, we should probably arrive at the dinning room before my father, let me show you the way." She took Eugène's hand and led him into the hallway, following the scrumptious smell of food further down the hall.

Note: This one is a little long and does contain a couple more graphic descriptions.

November 26th, 1915. Imperial Retreat at Lago di Vico outside Rome.

Amelia was unsure of what had awoken her quite acutely from sleep. The dream that had danced across her mind quickly faded into the folds of a mildly prodding headache. Warm, heavy, soft blankets pulled at the strings of sleep, but whatever had caused her to wake granted her mind the agility to throw the tendrils off. As she took stock the room from the light of the waning moon pooling though the window, the memories of the evening played back quickly.

Dinner had been scrumptious, every bite a clamor of sweet or savory that hung on the tongue just long enough. Despite her misgivings about the clearly many drinks shared between her father and Eugène before the meal, they seemed to have done wonders to lighten the conversation. When it continued in the proper parlor after the food had been concluded with a rich cake for dessert, the more intimate setting proved welcome. At some point in the evening, the Emperor ended up in front of the room's small piano and had played many songs. Whether he did not notice, or chose to ignore, that Amelia had scooted close enough to Eugène to rest her head on his shoulder, Amelia did not know. When her father had excused himself for the evening and Amelia and Eugène had a moment alone in the parlor, they got much closer to each other. As Amelia kissed Eugène and Eugène kissed her back, hands slowly began to move across bodies, each touch on an unfamiliar area eliciting a new response. Amelia began to seriously consider locking the doors, but after a pause to discuss, they both agreed that such a consequential step was too much. After taken a moment to straighten up, Amelia and Eugène had retired to bed. Falling asleep was easy for her.

Unable to find the source of whatever had woken her from her position within the bed's embrace, Amelia sat up. A second examination of the room again yielded no cause. She slid her feet out from under the blankets, noticing the cool of the night air before sliding feet into waiting slippers. Standing up, she grabbed the thick robe from the hanger near the fireplace. Wrapping it over her thinner nightgown, both to preserve modesty and warmth, she made her way to the door of the room as she tied the belt around her waist. Pausing for a moment to listen, she heard no sound. Gently, she unlatched the door and swung it into the room before poking her head into the hallway.

Looking from left to right, Amelia saw nothing out of place. Moonlight pooled on the floor under the windows. Amelia stepped into the hallway, gently closing the door to her room as silently as she could. The click of the latch was unnervingly loud, but brief. Her room sat near the end of one hallway, a large window at the end looking out over the lake. Amelia approached the window and looked out. It was then she noticed the garden gate was open. A few steps away, headed in the direction of the lake, was Eugène. Much like Amelia, he had pulled a robe over his pajamas. Even from this distance, Amelia could tell something was off about Eugène's mannerisms. He was looking around frequently, but seemingly unfocused. Something about his body language indicated terror. Without thinking, Amelia was moving in the direction of the stairs that would put her near the garden.

The cool night air did its best to pry inside the robe as Amelia traversed the garden to the open gate. She responded by pulling the robe tighter as she passed through the gate and continued down the path after Eugène, who was now at the small dock. Her pace slowed as she approached the foot of the dock. Eugène stood about halfway along, hands now pressing against his temples. He was whispering to himself, while Amelia was unable to make out specific words the tone was an unknown blend between anger and fear.

"Eugène," Amelia softly said as she stepped onto the dock and hesitantly approached. "Eugène is something the matter?" She began reaching her right hand out of touch him on the shoulder.

Without warning, Eugène turned around. His right hand shot out and clamped hard around Amelia's forearm. Eugène's eyes were filled with the same blend of anger and fear that his voice was. He squeezed and pulled her arm in towards him.

"Eugène!" Amelia's cry was soft but filled with pain as her arm was twisted and compressed.

Something changed quickly on Eugène's face, the terror replaced by sudden realization and confusion. He let go of Amelia's arm almost as quickly as he had grabbed it.

"I'm so sorry." The tone of Eugène's voice begged forgiveness. "Amelia I'm so sorry, are you hurt?"

"No, I'm not hurt." The lie rolled naturally off Amelia's lips, she sensed it was a detail that the truth would only hurt. "I'm scared, but not hurt."

"I'm so sorry." Eugène repeated. "I'm sorry." He mashed the heal of his palms into his eyes.

"I am all right Eugène." Amelia replied softly, doing her best to keep any fear out of her voice. "Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry Amelia." Eugène repeated. "Please forgive me."

"Eugène, you are forgiven." Amelia again reached out her hand. "Eugène tell me you are all right."

Eugène looked up, tears falling down his cheeks. He timidly reached out and took Amelia's hand, far gentler than he needed to as if she were made of dust. "I am not further harmed. I'm afraid this is the result of an affliction that time has yet to mend from my experiences."

Amelia reached with her left hand a brushed a tear off Eugène's cheek. "Can we sit and talk, my darling?"

"Yes." Eugène replied, an aura of calm beginning to return. "If it is all right, can we stay outside? I would prefer that."

"As long as you keep me warm." Amelia answered, as a shiver mixed between the cool air and pumping adrenaline scurried along her spine.

Somehow, nobody else seem to have heard the cry, and Amelia and Eugène were able to sit on a nearby bench overlooking the lake undisturbed. They sat close together, holding hands, while Amelia leaned against Eugène's side. As much as she felt he needed to be the one leaning, the sizable difference in heights prevented this. She gave Eugène's hand a firm squeeze, then waited for him to speak. Time passed before Eugène was ready and began.

"I fully expect you to think me a broken man." Eugène's tone was deflated. "Honestly, I hoped to hide this from you, believing that after time had passed it would no longer be a subject needing discussion."

"I will do nothing of the sort." Amelia replied while attempting to squish every molecule of air from between her and Eugène.

Eugène gave Amelia's hand a gentle squeeze before continuing. "Sometimes, when sleeping, I have these vivid recreations beginning with the day we stormed the beach through our eventual repatriation. The level of detail the mind can remember of such chaos astounds me. Even the smells come back, the smell of burned flesh is particularly unique." He trailed off, seemingly unable to find where to continue.

"Are the events discrete or is it more a general sense?" Amelia asked.

"Mostly general." Eugène replied. "But those are never what brings on something like what just occurred. Those are discrete events I wish I could forget but cannot seem to banish."

"Do you want to tell me the one you had which awoke you this evening?" The question was carefully filtered by Amelia to lack any sort of curiosity in its delivery.

Eugène exhaled heavily though his nose before answering. "It is not a memory suited for conversation, are you sure you wish to experience my retelling?"

"Yes." Amelia's reply was firm. "I want to understand."

Eugène turned his head to meet Amelia's gaze. "If that is what you wish." He leaned down and gently pressed his lips to her forehead. He resumed staring unfocused at the far side of the lake before beginning.

"The Aztecs are masters at close combat, that is something we learned quickly had been understated. They have these, I am not sure if you can really call them swords but it's the best I can do, which split flesh as clean as the sharpest surgeon's knife. Even a grazing blow could cleave flesh from bone if it landed. So, when we found ourselves in close combat, the bayonet proved less useful. Rife stocks became clubs and sometimes fists where all that could be used to give the illusion of preserving one's life. On the morning, before we learned of the mauling the navy took, there was an attack on our position. The group, we were so mixed up at this point its worthless to call it anything else, I was in command of took the brunt. Our Naylor crew was down to their last belt of ammunition, and once the Aztecs figured out the gun was dry they were in among us as if propelled by lightning. I found myself, rifle in hand, facing an Aztec officer. He carried one of those swords, and by what I assume was the blood dripping off it clearly knew how to use it. The sound he made as he charged, was almost inhuman. I screamed back at him and lunged with my bayonet but missed. Fortunately, my momentum carried me almost out of the path of the sharp edge. Its how I got this." He paused to brush his free hand over the scar on his face.

Eugène took a breath, then continued. "We turned to face each other again, but there was no more room to charge. The Aztec lunged at me and knocked me off my feet, as I fell, I reached out for a small digging shovel that was nearby. My hand managed to wrap around it, and as the Aztec raised his sword to end me.  I remember screaming, both in pain as his weight was pressing against my wounded leg and as a last-ditch attempt to intimidate. Everything slows down in my memory as I swing the shovel from the ground. I can see the edge of the blade as it enters my field of vision, though I was focused on his face and sword. He is bringing his blade down, I don't know where he was aiming at. The edge of the shovel blade connects with his head just about here." Again, Eugène used his free hand to gesture to the spot.

Eugène turned to look at Amelia. "Do you want me to continue?"

"Yes." Amelia replied, unwavored by the feeling beginning to edge into the back of her mouth that she might vomit.

Eugène nodded, then began again. "Again, this is all going very slow in my memory, in reality this took fractions of a second. The best I can describe it is that the shovel blade pealed back half of the Aztec's face. It didn't sever it, so what was cleaved off hangs by what must be the remains of his nose. He is upright for a moment, straddling me. Then he falls, the full weight of his body landing on my torso. I can hear the last gurgling breaths, feel the spasms as his body stops having a functioning brain. But the dead man almost manages to push himself back up. I cannot move the body off me, my leg is in too much pain. So I lay there, his blood running over me, as I scream and scream. Sometimes it ends, as it did, other times it does not. The dead man has come back before as well; those times he proceeds to swing his sword at any millimeter of flesh he can reach. I feel every cut but wake up with not a scratch."

Amelia was losing the battle against the urge to vomit following the graphic description, but demanded her body cooperate. "Eugène, that's horrible."

"As I said." Eugène replied "You should think me a broken man."

"I will do no such thing." Amelia forcefully answered. She sat up and looked at Eugène before continuing. "You are a changed man, combat has done that to every man, woman, or child who has seen it since Cain struck Able. That does not make you a broken man, it makes you a man."

Eugène sighed before replying. "Sometimes when I am in that moment, in my nightmares, I know a piece of me is trapped on that beach. That it is still there, fighting. I cannot get it back Amelia. I want to, so I can be whole again, but I can't. I am broken and perhaps I should have never left the Caicos."

Amelia suddenly found herself filled with anger at Eugène, and the reply bit far harsher than she intended. "You remove that foolish thought from your mind right now Eugène. Remove it and never speak of it again!" She felt tears welling in her eyes and paused to sniffle before continuing. "I'm sorry, I should not be yelling at you. That though scares me Eugène. It scares me so much, because for months I lived in that reality. A reality where I could never be with you again so long as I lived. That you even at your darkest question whether you should have returned scares me. I know the Eugène I waved off when you left for the new world is not entirely the same one that returned; I don't care. I have you back and I never want you to leave again. I don't know if I could take it."

Eugène attempted to interject. "Amelia..."

Amelia ignored Eugène and continued. "I will always be available to you to talk about this. Always. You are not alone Eugène, you are not alone and I refuse to let you think that."

"Amelia," Eugène tried again. "Can I respond?"

Amelia collected herself from the rant. "Yes, I'm sorry Eugène. Please."

Eugène took both of Amelia's hands in his before beginning. "As I have said before, there were days were the only thing which pulled me though to the next day were thoughts of you. Knowing that if I did not do everything in my power to survive, that I would not get to see you again. You have done more for me than you could possibly know. I only wished to keep this from you to protect me, because the idea that it would end our friendship was to agonizing for me to confront. I'm sorry you had to find out in this way."

"I understand." Amelia replied. "I only wish you would have told me sooner, so I could have helped you sooner."

Eugène silently accepted the comment with a nod. "Can we stay a while longer?" Eugène asked. "The peace of the night is calming."

"I would stay with you even if it were snowing." Amelia replied. "I would stay with you until I turned blue from the cold."

"I hope that will never be necessary." Eugène responded. "I would be there for you as well, should you wish me to."

Amelia leaned against Eugène again, scrunching herself against him for warmth, and to ensure to him that her affection was sincere. The couple sat together for some time, before Eugène assisted Amelia back to the villa. The long kiss they shared before departing to their separate bedrooms was not one of passion, but one of acknowledgment that they both wished the other to be there, so long as they lived.

Note: I don't expect that anyone not in the room would have knowledge of these events. If you've got a story you want to play off it, lets chat via PM first.

December 5th, 1915. Catăna, Sicily.

The somehow bustling and sleepy city of Catăna on Sicily's eastern edge held many charms for those with interest in the architectural feats of eras past. The city had many grand structures dating back to its rebuilding in 1169. Its traditional warm winter weather also helped attract tourists year-round. This flow of unfamiliar faces made it easy for those who wished to travel incognito to blend in and remained unnoticed. Even those with a high public profile, such as the Prime Minister of the Imperial Roman Republic, or even the Emperor himself with enough discretion.

The anonymity of the tourist haven was what had drawn Septimius Rocchi, among other important career members of the Imperial Roman government to the vacation villa of a local family located to the south of the city along the coastline. The secluded location was guarded, but discreetly. Secrecy was paramount, but nobody in attendance fully knew the reason for their summons. Septimius did. Next week, Emperor Trajan VIII was to undergo a surgical procedure of some sort. This was to be a necessary, but unlikely needed, meeting of planning should the worst happen. Every man in attendance knew that something along these lines was to be discussed, the possible urgency was what needed concealment.

Septimius waited near one of the side doors to great the Emperor when he arrived, the others having gathered in the large dining room. The motor car pulled up, trailing a small dust cloud behind it, and the valet quickly moved to open the door. Trajan VIII stepped out, politely but firmly dismissing the offered hand of help from the valet. He walked over to Septimius and extended his hand.

"Mister Prime Minister," Trajan's tone was warm "what a pleasure it is to see you again."

Septimius shook the extended hand. "The pleasure is as always mine, your Majesty."

"Should we join the others?" Trajan began moving in the direction of the door. "I do not wish to keep them waiting, I'm sure they have more important business to return to."

"None more important than wishing your Majesty a healthy and long life." Septimius replied, quickening his step to open the door as the valet was still grabbing the Emperor's bag from the car.

The pair walked the short distance from the side entrance to the dining room where the rest of the assembled men waited. On the Emperor's entrance, they all stood and waited for him to take the seat at the head of the large table, Septimius sat to the Emperor's right. The seat to the left remained empty, where the heir would have traditionally sat. Septimius silently wondered how many of the other men in the room speculated about Amelia's absence. After taking a large drink from a glass of cold water, Trajan stood to address the room.

"Thank you all for coming." Trajan began after clearing his throat with a light cough. "As I trust you all understand, what we discuss here today is not to reach anyone not sitting in this room until such a time I personally allow for it." The obvious connotation that nobody was to inform the Crown Princess hung in the air for a moment before Trajan continued. "As I'm sure you are all aware, I am to undergo a medical procedure in about a week's time. As such, in accordance with the laws of succession, a plan should be in place if time allows for such a plan pending the untimely death of yours truly during such a procedure."

One of the other men at the table seized a pause to call out. "Long live your Majesty!"
Trajan allowed a smile to crack his face. "The enthusiasm is appreciated and message welcome. Thank you." His face returned to its more serious expression. "However, I feel at this time it is best to discuss the reason for this procedure. It is to remove a mass from my liver, a mass which the doctors believe to be cancerous."

Not even the strictest of nuns would have been able to maintain silence in the room. Whispers flew about rapidly. Trajan allowed a moment for this to continue before motioning for silence.

"This procedure if successful, is at worst expected to improve my quality of life for the remainder of my life and perhaps grant me some additional time. At best, it will remove all the cancer and I will be free of it. The doctors who support this opinion I find to be optimistic. The reality of the situation is gentlemen, I am dying."

Septimius sat in stunned silence. He had not known about the extent of the Emperor's illness. Nobody in the room did. The Emperor's seeming abrupt dealings with his own mortality were shocking.

Trajan continued. "It may be that I do not survive the procedure, it may be that the cancer takes me in a year's time, or I may yet be around to gloat over you all for another ten years. We simply do not know. But, in the interests of the Republic, I feel it is best to assume that we will much sooner than we like be dealing with my death. Where do you gentlemen feel the discussion should begin?"

An older, bald man stood up from his seat near the head of the table. "Long live your Majesty." The call was joined by all the other participants before the man continued. "I feel it is best to, should your Majesty wish, to begin with the succession."

Trajan took his seat and nodded. "You may begin, mister Bellini."

Bellini nodded back. "We know that the Crown Princess, Amelia Vittoria Sforza, will succeed your Majesty in the even of your passing. However, she is as of current, unmarried. This is not abnormal for the age of twenty, but should something happen to her it would introduce some variables into the situation that would increase the difficulty of maintaining continuity. I propose that an item of agenda should be ensuring that the Crown Princess is joined in marriage within a reasonable period of time."

Several other affirmative murmurs came from the others around the table. Septimius remained silent.

Bellini continued. "I'm sure this has been a subject of deliberation for your Majesty as well. Do you have anything you would like to add before we discuss?"

Trajan rose from his seat again, Septimius found himself much more aware of how tired the Emperor's body seamed. Trajan exhaled though his nose before replying.

"It has indeed crossed my mind," Trajan began. "but I am afraid that should any of us wish to remain in the Crown Princess's good grace that the issue has been decided by her already. I for one do not wish to attempt to change her mind on this issue."

"You mean to say that Princess Amelia is being courted?" Bellini's tone was carefully but artificially neutral. "Why is this the first we have heard of this?"

"There was the small matter of the courter being held prisoner on Grand Turk for six months." Trajan replied. "Which given the understanding of the logistics for this young marine to be involved in the first wave of the invasion and its aftermath, should fill most of the time gaps. He was only recently cleared for return to duty."

"Is there any reason to believe that his experience in combat has impacted his.." Bellini gathered his words before proceeding. "The ability of your Majesty's line to continue?"

"I can't say I've thrown a nude milkmaid at him and waited to see what happened." Sarcasm coated Trajan's reference to a well-known scandal surrounding a candidate for marriage to the only daughter of an influential duke being forced to successfully impregnate one of his household staff before he was allowed to marry. "From what I understand of his medical reports there is no reason there should be any difficulties on that front." He continued with a more serious tone. "Gentlemen, nobody in the room should be under any illusion as to the Crown Princess's feelings on this matter. Though she would of course respect the traditions surrounding royal marriages, she would not forgive a soul in this room were she not allowed her say in the matter. The suitor is a good man, of noble stock, and has by all accounts accorded himself in the finest tradition of our armed forces. For better or worse, the era of marriage as a means to a political end is likely itself at an end. While I may not be able to advocate her interests beyond my passing, those who would wish different for her in this matter do so at their own peril."

Bellini seemed to accept this, and nodded. "Your Majesty is clear in his wishes."

Septimius stood. "If I may speak?" No objection was forthcoming, so he continued. "I know not all of you have had the pleasure of meeting the Crown Princess. I have. Know that what his Majesty says is true, she is of strong will. I trust her judgement in personal matters such as this and our interference in them would serve only to bread resentment."

"Well said Prime Minister." Trajan said. "So if anyone does wish to cross the Crown Princess on this matter, I suggest you do so if you wish an early retirement. Now, as we seem to have agreed to let matters in progress take their course on this front, what is the next item of discussion?"

---

That night, Septimius sat alone on the balcony of his room in the villa. A bottle of wine continually made its way into a glass in his hand, an empty bottle nearby having suffered the same fate. His tenure as Prime Minister was supposed to be focused on improving the lives of the people of the Republic. Now it was all but certain that at some point before his term expired that he would need to be a part of the transition of the throne. He hoped that he had not misjudged Amelia's readiness for the task which would be her's sooner than she realized.

December 27th, 1915. Estate of the Duke of Gascon, outside Bordeaux, Aquitania.

The wind-driven rain splatted rhythmically but disorganized against the large windows and stone walls. Inside, a fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Its warmth gently radiating out to the sitting area around it. Amelia stood almost past the perimeter of the fire's effect, the colder air doing its best to bite the warm back. The soft overcoat pulled over her shoulders and the mug of hot cider in her hands did more than enough to keep her warm.

Amelia had spent the Christmas holiday with her family in Rome. Her father, almost recovered from a surgical procedure, had been joined by her uncle Manuel, his wife Isabella, and their children. Amelia had learned that she was to be an aunt, as her cousin Yohann and his wife Sacha had announced they were expecting their first child sometime in the early spring. The time with family had been wonderful and it marked Manuel's return the Europe for several months. In a tale as old as time itself, as the days wore on the family presence became overwhelming and when Amelia had departed from the train station on the 26th, the sadness on seeing family waving her off was joined by a slight relief to be away from them.

Departing the train in Bordeaux hours later, she was greeted by a waiting motor car that whisked her away to the Duke's estate. The home of Eugène's father was more modest that most of his stature, at least from the outside. What the well-weathered but maintained building hid inside were fine works of art and many old scientific apparatuses on display. Collections of books sprouted from every other room and the smells from the kitchen somehow managed to float their way into what felt like every corner.

This was the first time that Amelia had met some of Eugène's siblings. The most rambunctious of whom was his youngest sister, Vanna. Almost ten years younger than Eugène, she still had the wild imagination of a child. Next oldest were two brothers, Federico and Hercule. Last, but not least, was Clarissa, Eugène's oldest sister. Clarissa and her twin brother Amaury, where two years younger than Amelia. Unfortunately, Amaury was not home as he was starting his first term at the Tor di Quinto calvary school. Amelia found herself reminded of her relationship with Alonzo as Eugène interacted with his siblings, clearly there was something universal about being the oldest male child in a house full of youngers.

Stealing moments alone with Eugène proved difficult, but not impossible. The couple had managed to sneak in some dancing to music provided by one of the Duke's phonographs. Respite from the constant observation was short, as a giggleing Vanna had been unable to control herself on bursting into the room and ran squeeing from Eugène as he tried to prevent her from misrepresenting the event. Some sweets and gentle conversation had prevented any misunderstanding. Now Amelia enjoyed the quiet of the study, waiting for Eugène to join her. A soft knock at the door tugged the threads of her thoughts back to the present.

"Who is it?" Amelia called politely.

"It is Eugène." The familiar voice came from the other side of the door. "May I make a request?"

"Of course." Amelia replied, setting the mug of cider down on an end table. "What is it?"

"If you would be so kind as to face away from the door for a moment." Eugène answered. "I have a surprise for you."
"Really?" The gears of curiosity began to spin in Amelia's mind as she turned to face the window. "I do hope it is nothing to elaborate. I am looking away from the door."

Amelia herd the door open behind her, and the shuffling of more than one pair of feet were audible. After some brief unintelligible whispering, feet returned in the direction of the door, which then shut.

"May I turn around now?" Amelia enquired.

"Yes." Eugène answered.

Amelia turned to find Eugène standing next to a large box with a purple bow tied across the top. "What is this darling?"

"Your Christmas gift." Eugène's answer was straightforward and his expression almost unchanged.

"You should not have." Amelia gently chided as she walked from the window to Eugène. "This is clearly something ornate."

"It is nothing not befitting of you." Eugène smiled.

"If I didn't know better, I would expect that you wished me to guess what it is." Amelia playfuly accused.

"Now where would the fun be in that." Eugène nettled back. "But I do not thing you would get it within three guesses. I consider myself..."

The comment was interrupted by the box, which let out high pitched yip followed quickly by a bark that transitioned into a low wine. Eugène deflated slightly and glared at the box.

"I thought we talked about this." He scolded the box. "You were supposed to be quiet until she opened the box."

Amelia could not help herself and smiled broadly. "Eugène, you did not."

She stepped up to the box and pulled the bow. Removing the lid, Amelia looked inside. Staring back at here was a scared little male Cane Corso puppy, no more than a week or two weaned from his mother. The puppy had a matching purple bow around its neck. Amelia reached into the box, moving her hands slowly towards the nervous black brindled canine. She gently picked the puppy up and held it to her chest.

"Merry Christmas Amelia." Eugène said, reaching a hand out to tousle the pup's ears. "We had a litter at just about the right time, and if memory serves you have not had a dog in a while."

Amelia was distracted by gently reassuring the pup that everything was ok. "Thank you Eugène, he is so cute!" Amelia held the pup up in front of her. "Now you will need a name. Let me think."

She looked over the puppy before walking over to one of the couches next to the fireplace and sitting down. The puppy ended up in her lap, where it kneaded Amelia's coat for a moment before curling up in a tight ball.
"How about Tiberim?" Amelia scratched the pup's ears during the question. "Is that what I should call you?"

The puppy reacted by rolling over and attempting to lick Amelia's hand, the little pink tongue poking in and out of its mouth.

"Well, I think that is as close to a yes as I'm going to get." Amelia laughed and picked up the puppy. "Hello Tiberim, its so nice to meet you."

Seeing an opportunity, Tiberim lunged at Amelia's face and began licking it all over. Amelia laughed again, allow the assault to continue for a moment before pulling Tiberim out of reach. Eugène sat next to Amelia, who responded by placing Tiberim in prime licking range. She laughed as the puppy smothered Eugène in kisses, before sneaking in one of her own.

January 5th, 1916. Saint Rochelle, Novus Francia.

Nerio Cino stood at the landward end of the massive drydock that now dominated the harbor of Saint Rochelle. The massive almost quarter kilometer pit was only a little over halfway filled by its current occupant, the armored cruiser IRS Argonauta. Perhaps the most damaged survivor of what had become called the Battle of Ironclad Bay during the Caicos War, Argonauta's repairs had been held back until the drydock had been completed. It was felt that the ship's condition did not allow for a safe transit of the Atlantic. The IRS Triumphus, the only other contender to the most beaten but floating ship, awaited her turn in the dock for similar reasons. The old battleship still sported obvious damage from Aztec 280mm and smaller guns, plus a notable list.

Nerio had been asked to remain behind after the false start of the Acapulco conference to provide his expertise to the repairs of Argonauta. The project had been running smoother than expected for such a new yard, but there were still issues aplenty. Nerio had plenty of work to do, but the Argonauta was taking her repairs well. If things continued according to schedule, the warship would be back in the water within the next few months.

Nerio had always felt some small kinship with the Argonauta. His first major role as a Senior Designer was as part of the team working on the unique hybrid propulsion plant. In some ways, Nerio felt as if the Argonauta was one of his children. While he would never say this to his wife or biological children, Argonauta filled an odd-shaped hole in his sprit. It was only fitting that now; he was privileged enough to help nurse the steel offspring of his mind back to fighting health.

March 14th, 1916. Imperial Naval Academy, Brest.

thudthudthud

The sound of fist against door awoke Amelia in an instant. Quickly she was out of bed, hastily pulling a robe over her nightgown as she approached the door.

thudthudthud

Whoever was on the other side of the door had a sense of urgency that set the hair on Amelia's arms on end. "Who is it?" She inquired.

"It's Ploussard, Crown Princess." The firm male voice from the other side of the door seemed ever so slightly tenser than the normal tone.

Amelia opened the door without hesitation. Ploussard's expression did not give away anything to the other two members of her guard that accompanied him. Something about his eyes was unsettled however and Amelia knew there was not much that could disturb the normally stoic Marine.

"Sergeant Major, to what do I owe the pleasure at this early hour?" Amelia did the best to cast any grogginess from her voice.

"Please forgive my intrusion Crown Princess, and my haste." Again, Ploussard's tone displayed the smallest hint that something was disturbing him. "I do not have time to fully explain until we are on the train. You have five minutes to dress and gather any essential items, then we must depart."

Amelia nodded in understanding. "I will be out as quick as I can."

She then closed the door and hurried to the closet for a simple skirt and blouse. Once quickly changed and after locating a pair of shoes, she franticly flew around the room to gather some items into a small bag.  Four minutes later, she opened the door again. Without any further words, she followed Ploussard.

---

March 16th, 1916. Imperial Palace, Rome.

Amelia sat in a solitary, rather uncomfortable, chair in the hallway next to the door to her father's bed chamber. She had not slept a moment since Ploussard awoken her and having had far too much time alone with her thoughts, the lack of sleep was beginning to wear on her. Once on the train, which had all but leapt away from Brest with the urgency of a startled game animal, Ploussard explained what had prompted such a hasty departure. Exceedingly early in the morning on the fourteenth, her father had been discovered collapsed while out of his bed. The servant that found him had no idea how long the Emperor had lain on the floor, but the pool of blood from a wound on his head had already begun to dry. The only other detail Ploussard had was that the Emperor was alive, but not yet awake.

Thoughts of this event had spiraled around Amelia's head for the day's train ride from Brest to Rome. At a stop to top off the coal reserve, more information had arrived. The Emperor had briefly regained consciousness, but only for a short while. The doctors were hopeful that since he had woken up, that he would awake again with time. By the time Amelia had arrived at the palace early in the morning of the 15th, her father had still not awoken. It was late in the afternoon that he finally began to show signs of improvement and later awoke again. Amelia had only been allowed to see him briefly from a distance and had only been occasionally updated by one of the doctors. Sleep had not come that night, and the breakfast delivered personally by the palace chef remained mostly untouched on a tray next to the chair.

The door slightly down the hall from the chair opened, and the head doctor on the palace staff stepped out. The balding, rounder, man approached Amelia. She looked up from the uncounted time carefully inspecting the fabric of her skirt when it was clear he was stopping to speak with her.

"Crown Princess." The Doctor gave a short bow.

"Doctor Manfredi." Amelia could only manage a small nod in response. She waited for the doctor to begin.

Manfredi wasted no time. "I understand that nobody has provided you with an adequate update on your father's condition." The use of Trajan's relation rather than title was clearly intentional.

"I have been told snippets." Amelia declined to keep some of the acidity out of her tone, lightly nibbleing the doctor's head rather than biting it off wholesale. It was likely not his, total, fault.

"For that you have my most sincere apologies." Manfredi bowed deeper this time. "I am more than happy to provide as detailed an account as you wish."

"When can I see him." Amelia skipped over any formalities. "I do mean properly see him, not just though the doorway blocked by one of your staff." The staff member in question had of course not blocked her from entering the room but had been in place to stop her from making it too far into the room. Manfredi did not need to know that in this moment.

"He is awake now." Manfredi replied. "However, I would like to give him another quarter of an hour to ensure his condition remains stable before allowing any visitors. Is that acceptable?"

"Yes." The curt reply from Amelia left nothing to interpret. "While we wait, you may provide your account of events."

---

Amelia felt the door to her father's room swing shut behind her, the gentle thunk as Manfredi closed it muffling the sound from outside. Across the room, the Emperor lay in his bed. Propped up by some pillows, his head wrapped in bandages, Trajan's gaze took noticeably longer than normal to come into some sort of focus on the room's new occupant.

"Catherine?" The name cleared Trajan's lips softly. "Catherine, my love, is that you?"

Amelia froze a step away from the door. The almost whisper of her mother's name fluttered around her ears, burrowing for perch in her mind, digging up old memories that had remained buried for almost eight years. No response to her father's inquiry made it from mind to mouth.
"Please, come closer." Trajan called out. "Please."

Slowly, with great intent placed in every step, Amelia began to approach the Emperor. Any reply she attempted caught in the back of her mouth as if she were gagged.

Trajan's facial expression suddenly changed, quickly passing though realization and into regret. "Amelia..." The comment trailed off.

Finally, some words dislodged from the dam at the back of Amelia's mouth. "Yes father, it's Amelia."

"Please forgive me daughter." Trajan's tone underpinned the sincerity of the request. "I mistook you."

"I forgive you father." Amelia sat on the foot of the bed as she replied.

"You have so much of your mother in you." Trajan replied "From the way you carry yourself to your ease in allowing my transgressions."

"I don't see how." Amelia felt an old mental scar beginning to open, but pushed the tendrils of pain back out of her voice.

"Amelia," Trajan's eyes focused a little more intently on his daughter. "There are far more similarities than you allow yourself to see."

Amelia opted not to reply, but to move the conversation along. "Doctor Manfredi talked with me about what happened. I'm happy you are improving."

"It will take more than one of these fine floors to remove me." Trajan allowed the topic change to proceed uncontested. "However, they clearly did try. I will need to have the offending section given title, so it does not think it worthy to try again." The attempted joke fell flat.

"You gave everyone quite a scare for a while." Amelia continued. "When I was on my way, they were unsure if you would wake again."

"I am, perhaps, more resilient than they give me credit for." Trajan's tone suggested the reply intended to provoke a more positive emotional reaction. On seeing it fail, his mood took a more somber turn. "Amelia, I know you have worried for my health. I have not been entirely truthful with you on this subject for some time now. There is something you need to understand and then something we must discuss."

Amelia felt her heart leap into her throat.

---

March 18th, 1916. Between Rome and Florence.

As the lights of the capital fell further to the south, Amelia felt the bracing against the crushing weight of the conversation she had with her father two days prior giving way. Knowing what was to come, she excused herself from the day car of the small train taking her back to Brest and returned to her sleeper car. She closed and locked the door, the latter step not one normally taken. Leaning back against the door, she let the solid wood take her weight and sank slowly to the floor. Sitting against the door, the tears she had held in for the last forty-eight hours sprang forth. They carried with them the fear, sadness, and realization that these last four days had brought, and try as she might Amelia could no longer arrest them. Unsure of the passage of time, mountainous waves of emotion broke over her in never ending rhythm. At some point, she moved from the floor next to the door to her bed. Only after there were no more tears left to give did sleep finally begin to probe the extremities of her mind. Once asleep, she did not wake until the train had almost arrived at Brest. Nobody who saw her after she left the train would have known anything was amiss. When she arrived back at her room, she penned a letter.

"Thanks for hiding your serious medical condition from me," said no child ever.

Good work, snip.

April 25th, 1916

Aztec Embassy, Vilnius Union

Consul Atl's door rattled under the knocking of the night guard.  "Sir, you're needed in the communications room".  Groggily, Atl rose from his sleep, pulling on a robe and slippers as he walked to the door.  The Eagle Warrior Lance Corporal stood there, coffee in hand.  "Right this way sir" he says, taking off at a brisk walk to the secure communications room. 

Walking there and gratefully drinking the offered coffee, Atl thinks about the last two years.  How his fortunes had changed.  He had once been the Ambassador to Rome, but in the chaos and then war, he had found himself functionally demoted. Two ambassadors couldn't exist at the same embassy, and so he had been entitled 'Consul of Roman Affairs', which normally consisted of keeping in touch with what remaining contacts he had in the Imperial Republic and reading Roman papers. 

Reaching the communications Room, the duty sergeant hands him a sheaf of papers.  Reading them, his eyes widen.  The recognition code is one he has rarely seen, and the authorization number for the requisite seals and signed and embossed paper for the message he is to deliver....they match those of the seal on the small safe kept in his office.  Consul Atl rushes to retrieve the required materials as the duty sergeant rouses a secretary to type the letter and sends the Lance Corporal to the railroad station to secure passage on the next trains headed to Rome.

By 0800hrs, Consul Atl and an embassy attache are on a train, in coach, rattling towards the Roman border.  He looks at his hastily assembled itenerary with chagrin.  Eight trains over four days with only one stay in a hotel between here and Rome, many of the trains in 2nd class or Coach with no sleeper cars due to the late hour of the bookings.

May 1st, The Imperial Palace, Rome

Consul Atl approaches with his credentials in hand.  The staffer behind the desk takes the credentials, Atl saying "I have a message of the utmost importance for the Emperor, I would request an audience".  After an eternity that was only probably an hour or two, an Assistant Minister from the Foreign Ministry comes out to meet the Consul.  Atl smiles, "Giovanni, I see you got promoted".  "Atl, it is good to see you in Rome again" he replies.  "I am sorry to tell you, but His Majesty is under the weather I'm afraid and is not taking visitors today."  "I am sorry to hear that, is it serious?".  "Nothing more than a cold", Giovanni replies, "but I can write you in for some time next week?  Thursday morning perhaps?"  Consul Atl ponders a moment and replies, "I'm sorry my friend, but this message must reach his Majesty immediately.  It is from his Majesty and I received orders to have it delivered no later than today. Can you see that he receives it?"  "Certainly my friend, I will take it to him myself."  "Thank you Giovanni" Atl says and then departs, leaving an envelope embossed with gold print, or is that actual gold leaf, in his hands.

Inside the envelope, sealed with gold-flecked green wax and the seal of the Sultan, is a letter on gold-edged paper, reading:

To his Imperial Majesty, Trajan VIII


Your Majesty, or designee, are cordially invited to the dedication of the Caicos War Memorial and Cemetery

The ceremony to be held on the 20th day of September, 1916, at Providenciales Island and Port, the Caicos.

Accommodations, Entertainments and Victuals to be provided by His Majesty, Ali 8th, Sultan of Aztecs

All Roman persons present for the ceremony are hereby to be considered Honored Guests of His Majesty with the privileges and guarantees thereof.

Response Requested so that arrangements can be made.


Your majesty, I hope you find this letter in good health.  Our nations have striven at cross purposes these last years.  But we both respect the sacrifices made by our soldiers, and I would wish this memorial and cemetery to bridge the gap betwixt our peoples and honor the valor and sacrifices of those who can no longer go home.  And maybe symbolize the ending of an era of war between our peoples and the opening of a new era of peaceful cooperation and respect.

Signed,

(The letter is hand signed, as this is from the small stock of hand-lettered signatures that each ambassador keeps on hand for state missives when required)

Ali 8th, Sultan of Aztecs

Catching up after being a little occupied due to getting our office space ready for everyone coming back from remote work. This coming week is when everyone gets back, so might be a little sparse for another week or two. I'll try and get the storyline caught up to the endish of 17H1 as quick as I can.

May 7th, 1916. Brest

"I don't know what to say."

Amelia brushed a cluster of unruly hairs back behind her ear as the wind blowing off the Atlantic again dislodged it. She wiggled a bit on the bench she sat on to adjust her overcoat, not replying to the comment.

"What else did you discuss?" Eugène asked, taking the non-reply as a request to move the conversation forward.

"Nothing of substance." Amelia replied. "He needed some rest, so I left after he fell back asleep. Since he was clearly out of danger at that point, I returned to the academy the next morning."

"Have you seen him since?" Eugène's tone was soft, letting the question hang in the air.

"Yes," Amelia began her reply still looking at the horizon. "I've been down for a few weekends since. He asked about you."

"Good things I hope." Eugène's reply was jesting in tone.

"Of course." Amelia turned and smiled sweetly. "He did hint that some have been giving him pressure about me."

"What sort of pressure?" The question came off tinged with a note of understanding the answer, Eugène knew full well what it was.

"The whole unmarried heir..."Amelia's though trailed off. "Unmarried sooner-than-she-wants Empress topic."

"I'm sure your enthusiasm was contagious." Eugène replied, letting a smile split his face as the light barb was thrown.

Amelia ignored the response. "Its something I know I'm going to hear more about, but that is not the thing that bothers me most. Since I was small, I've always kind of though about what my wedding would be like. Its one of the few girly things that I've come back to. Of course, the details have all changed throughout the years. There was always one constant, that my father would be there. I don't know if I can see such an event without him."

"I understand" Eugène said. "Or at least, I'm trying to and am sympathetic."

"Thank you." Amelia warmly replied.

"I suppose at some point, the question of marriage should be answered." It was Eugène's turn to break eye contact and look out over the Atlantic. "I believe I understand my feelings on the matter, but I gather you are perhaps a little less sure of yours since we last spoke about it."

"I don't think less sure is the right way to put it." Amelia responded. "It's the details that matter and its not just our feelings on the subject to consider."

"Can you imagine the scandal if we walked into a random church right now?" Eugène's question was jesting.

"I do think it would cause several heart attacks." Amelia answered far more deadpan than the question had been.

"My mother among them." Eugène paused momentary before continuing. "Not mine tho."

Amelia caught the now off topic reply on her tongue and responded to the last comment. "What do you mean by that Eugène?"

"What I mean to say," Eugène began without any sort of disclaimer. "Is that if it were truly your wish to marry in a smaller less formal ceremony, I would support that decision. Given it could mean the difference between your father attending and not, your feelings and desires on the subject are most important."

Amelia leaned her head onto Eugène's shoulder. "Thank you. I'm sure my father would be understanding of the point."

"You are most welcome." Eugène rested his hand on Amelia's shoulder. "That only leaves the matter of telling my mother."

"You would be right." Amelia replied. "If, that is, you had actually had an engagement to announce. I am going to make you ask directly and not just by implication." She looked up and smirked.

Eugène laughed, then stood up. "If you insist, Crown Princess." He then got down on one knee, facing Amelia. "Crown Princess Amelia Vittoria Sforza, would you do me the honor of taking my hand in marriage?" Eugène capped the question by producing a small box from his pocket. He flipped the lid back, revealing an elegant, but simple ring.

"Yes Eugène Charpentier." Amelia could not keep from smiling even if she wanted to. "I would love to marry you."

Eugène breathed an over exaggerated sigh of relief. "You have truly a talent for making me nervous." He chuckled once before slipping the ring onto Amelia's left hand. After it was securely in place, he stood up.

Amelia stood up to join Eugène and pulled him into a passionate kiss. When she broke away, she locked eyes with her fiancée. "I love you Eugène, with all my heart."

November 11th, 1916. Abbazia di San Martino al Cimino.

Amelia cocked her head slightly as she examined her reflection. It was difficult to believe the reflection staring back was real. The white silk gown she wore spilled from shoulders to floor, sinched just below her breasts by a royal purple sash. The front of the skirt had some light gold embroidery, and the fabric was folding in such a way as to make her hips appear a little more prominent. The dresses sleave fell from her shoulders to right above her elbow, where they were met by white gloves. Atop her bobbed hair sat a thin silver crown over which a vale was currently thrown back over her head. Around her neck hung a single strand of pearls on a gold chain.

Absentminded, Amelia found herself fingering the pearls. This strand had belonged to her mother, the only one of the available possessions Amelia had chosen to wear on this day. Her father had left them for her, an unnoted gift in a small box on her dressing room table. She remembered the same pearls from a photo from her parents wedding day, they hung around her mother's neck to almost the same place as they fell on her own. Amelia's relationship with her mother had been strong before the accident. Processing the untimely death of a parent was difficult for adults, much more an eleven-year-old child. With the passage of time, the grief grew less but sometimes came rushing back with vigor.

Before such an event could take place as each pearl was moved between thumb and forefinger, a knock at the door pulled Amelia's attention away from her past dwellings. The knock was lighter than it would have been months before, but the cadence was as consistent as ever.

"Amelia." Emperor Trajan VIII's voice came softly from the other side of the old door. "Are you decent my waterlily?"

"I am papa." Amelia replied, turning to face the door. "Please come in."

Trajan slowly opened the door and stepped inside. His gait had slowed and his features were drawn gaunter than they had been months before. The sickness slowly eating the old Emperor from the inside continued to progress, and while the doctors expressed hope, the Emperor had developed a tendency to chastise them whenever the subject of recovery came up. He was dressed in a formal suit, a royal purple cloak drawn over his shoulders falling to the floor over the black jacket fabric. Despite a recent adjustment by the tailor, there were some areas where the cut of the suit was almost unnoticeably baggy. On seeing Amelia, Trajan's eyes widened slightly, and he drew in a breath sharper than the last.

"Dearest daughter, you look simply stunning." Trajan's soft voice was laced with excitement and joy. "I am unable to articulate more than this."

Amelia felt herself blushing. "Papa..." A tear threatened to carve a path of untold destruction though expertly applied makeup. She quickly dabbed it with a light tissue.

Trajan wiped his own tears from the corners of his eyes. "I'm afraid the effect is contagious. I suppose we will find out when he sees you."

Amelia's hear skipped a beat. "Is it time?" She approached the doorway where Trajan stood.

"Yes my waterlily." Trajan smiled, eyes slowing swimming with tears. He offered his arm. "It is time."

---

The main hall of the small church was far less crowded than a wedding of the heir to the throne should have by any right been. This was by design, and a function of time. With on a matter of months to plan rather than over a year as would have been typical, sacrifices had to be made. The small crowd of witnesses clustered to the front of the pews, in front of which rose the alter. The old stone structure was draped with traditional cloth and dark royal purple bands of fabric. Two men stood next to the alter, one in a bishop's robe the other in a Marine dress uniform. When a door off to the left side of almost the final row of pews opened, every eye in the room turned. Gentle swells of sound flowed from a small choir of four backed by an organ.

The pair that emerged from the door slowly made their way to the central isle. The old man's purple cloak a stark contrast spilled across the ground behind them alongside the woman's white vale. Slowly, at the old man's pace, the pair approached the alter. On reaching the first step to approach the alter, they stopped. Whispered words and hug lead to the pair parting, an aid helped the old man to his seat in the front right row of pews. The woman watched the old man take his seat then turned and climbed the steps to the alter.

The bishop began to speak to the assembled crowd. The young couple took each other's hands. The bishop turned to the Marine on completing his opening remarks. The man then spoke to the woman, his words provoking chuckles from her and the assembled witnesses.  The laughter faded and several tears were shed by most in the room as he closed his remarks. The bishop then turned to the woman. Her speech drew a far more reverent reaction. On finishing, the woman turned to the bishop again. At the bishop's gesture, one of the choir members produced a small box from which two simple rose gold rings were produced. The bishop handed one to the man, who placed it on the woman's left hand. Her smile lit up the room. When it was handed to her, she placed the other ring onto the man's left hand. The bishop said one final short statement before the couple shared an almost to passionate kiss.

---

The applause still echoed from inside the cavernous hall of the abbey as Amelia and Eugène exited the main door. Outside, some of the townspeople had gathered. They cheered the couple to the waiting carriage hitched to two stout brown horses with no hair out of place. Eugène helped Amelia into the bench seat and then joined her. He signaled to the driver and the horses were encouraged into motion within a heartbeat.

Amelia squeezed her husband's hand tightly. Her makeup had run slightly from the emotions the ceremony had inspired. Where before there had been nervous energy now resided pure warm happiness.  Today was a grand shining memory, something to cherish for the rest of her life. There was still a little nervousness, since now there was no social construct which would get between her and Eugène after the reception dinner had finished, and the guests had slowly trickled off to leave the newlyweds alone. All the places that could now be explored without repercussion. A shudder of preemptive pleasure raced up Amelia's spine, which Eugène felt.

"Something the matter, my lovely wife." The goofy grin that split the lightly scarred face betraying how giddy he felt.

"Nothing at all darling husband." Amelia's lips broke into a toothy smile before she leaned in and kissed Eugène. The kiss lingered almost to long for as public as the carriage still was. She moved to whisper in his ear. "I have a surprise for you later, Eugène. Something for your eyes only. Are you curious?" Amelia's grin of happiness turned more mischievous as eager longing overtook Eugène face. Waiting would be difficult, but worth it.

February 28th 1917, Imperial Naval Academy, Brest.

The knock on Amelia's door had the energy of attempted forced entry rather than notifying the room's occupant that someone was outside. Amelia started awake, the bed occupied by her alone. Like the other married officer cadets, spouses were only allowed the occasional visits on campus. Eugène alternated between his family home and finishing up his duties before beginning permanent assignment to a more suitable location for the spouse of the heir in Rome. Amelia would never ask Eugène to give up his commission, but she would confess if prompted to pulling on a couple strings to ensure that on her graduation and return to Rome her husband would be there too. Pushing the longing thoughs for Eugène's touch out of her mind, she called out without checking the time.

"Who is it?"

The voice that answered back was sharp and unmistakable in its originator and urgency.

"It is Sergeant Major Ploussard, Crown Princess. Please make yourself decent for travel as quickly as you can. You are needed in Rome."

Amelia had already sprung into action, gathering items and changing. "Have you been informed what for?"

"Your father." Ploussard's tone added more weight to the two words.

"Has anyone sent for Eugène?" The quarry's worth of heavy stone that settled in her gut only allowing this though to pass her lips.

"Yes, however he is currently in transit in Pannonia and may not be able to join you until late tomorrow." Ploussard's reply was matter-of-fact.

Amelia opened the door, unkept but decent. "Let us go to the train then, I can finish preparing on the way."

---

Bedchambers of Emperor Trajan VIII, Early Morning of March 1st 1917.

Amelia slid gently through the gap in the doors. The well-oiled hinges gave no protest as the doors were gently closed behind her. Her father did not instantly react, the raspy shallow breaths came in a slow rhythm. Amelia closed the door and stood hesitantly. Her father's head turned, and his eyes attempted to focus but failed.

"Catherine, my darling, is that you? After all this time is it you?"

Amelia attempted to swallow the welling geyser of emotion inside of her. "It's Amelia papa."

The emperor let out a raspy sigh. "I'm sorry my little Waterlily, so sorry. Please forgive this old man for his longing for those who have passed."

Amelia took several steps necessary to cross the room as her father spoke, sitting down in the chair next to his bed. Tears began to gently roll down her cheeks. She took her father's hand. "It's ok papa, I miss her dearly as well."

Trajan VIII's body convulsed with a long, hacking cough that made Amelia recoil slightly. "I'm afraid..." the thought trailed off into another cough. "I'm afraid that I will be added to the people you miss dearly soon. I hope you can forgive me for this as well."

"Of course, papa." Amelia choked out. "Of course, I forgive you. I wish I need not, but I forgive you."

"Amelia," The old emperor's eyes semi-focused gaze met his daughter's. "Please do this dying man the honor of listening to one last request." He did not wait for any response before continuing. "You have a pure heart, my little Waterlily, the best your mother and I could give you. When those who will advise you are unsure of themselves and look to you for guidance, and you yourself are unsure, trust your heart. Trust what it tells you to do and head its advice. At the risk of offending someone I am about to meet, I have always felt God speaking strongest to me though the heart. While you and I view faith differently, I ask you trust."

Amelia choked out a reply between silent sobs. "I will papa, I will."

Trajan continued, seeming not to have heard. "You will face many challenges on the throne. Some of which you understand, others which you don't. Attempting to go alone is the gateway to the path of madness. Surround yourself with good people, like your darling Eugène, and trust your heart. Now, I'm quite tired and would like some rest. Would you be so kind as to send the gentlemen waiting outside the door in?" The old man sank back into his bed with finality.

Tears flowed freely across Amelia's face. "Goodbye papa." She stood, gently kissed him on the forehead, turned and walked to the door. She took one last look back as she opened the door. Emperor Trajan VIII did not reciprocate, gaze locked onto something far beyond the ceiling. Several men acknowledge her and then stepped into the room.

Amelia exited the hallway and began walking in the direction of her childhood room. Once she felt she had put enough distance between herself and the gathering of people waiting outside the door, she broke into a run. By the time she arrived at her room, any pretense of presenting a ladylike decorum was thrown to the wind. Tears streamed freely, breaths came in gasping sobs, and as soon as the door was closed, she collapsed to the floor. Amelia curled up against the foot of her bed and cried until there were no more tears to cry with. That did not stop the gasping sobs.

Sometime later, Amelia was startled by a sharp knock on the door. A familiar voice called out from the other side.

"It's Sergeant Major Ploussard m'lady. May I come in?"

Amelia stared at the door from behind her knees. "Are you alone or do you have company?"

The hushed arguing from the other side made it clear that Ploussard was not alone at all. Finally, he replied. "There are several of us here m'lady. These other gentlemen have agreed to do as you wish." The glare accompanying the last words was audible.

"Is my husband her yet Sergeant Major?" Amelia forced the question out without waver.

"Not yet m'lady, my understanding is his train will arrive within the hour." Ploussard's voice carried cleanly though the door.

Amelia wiped at her eyes with her hands. "Just you may enter Sergeant Major, but to appease the other gentlemen you may leave the door open."

The door swung open, and Ploussard stepped inside. A gaggle of other men stood outside and peered into the opening. Ploussard walked over to Amelia and looked her in the eye. "May I join m'lady?"

"Please Sergeant Major, I do apologize for the lack of seating." Amelia felt the geyser of emotion begin to boil again. She knew why Ploussard was here.

Ploussard made no move to sit and came to parade ground attention. "M'lady, it is my solemn and sad duty to report to you that Emperor Trajan the Eighth passed away a short while ago. I have been told he went peacefully and in little, if any, pain. Please let me be the first to offer condolences to m'lady for her loss. Know that the men under my command, and myself, are at m'lady's service." Done with the formal part of his duties, Ploussard spoke again, softer while helping Amelia to her feet. "I'm so sorry Amelia."

Amelia shakily replied. "Thank you, Sergeant Major,..." Then the geyser of emotions erupted. Amelia felt as if she were falling, unable to find anything to grab onto.

Sergeant Major Ploussard stopped the falling. He pulled Amelia into a tight embrace and held her as the flood of emotion poured out of her. Then, he answered a question that Amelia had asked him time and again, that he recognized answering now would do the grieving woman some infinitesimally small amount of good. "Please call me Maximilian, if it pleases your Majesty."

Good stuff.

Except him dying on my birthday.  That's a bit awkward.

March 2nd 1917

Sultan Constantin XII is very affected by the death of Emperor Trajan VIII.
The Ambassador of Byzantium will attend the funeral of the Emperor.
Due to the Emperor's attachment to the Navy, the Sultan will be personally represented by Grand Admiral Izmar, Commander-in-Chief of the Byzantine fleet. The Admiral will travel quickly to Rome with the cruiser Enteia.

Sigismund VIII Vasa, Queen Sophie, and the people of the Vilnius Union wish to express their sincere condolences to the family of Trajan VIII and the people of Rome on the loss of their beloved emperor.

The Vilnius Union's royal family will travel by train to attend the funeral.

I had stuff I wanted to do between the above and this, but given how behind I am thought it best to continue. Onward to the Coronation, which will be on July 15th, 1918.

June 15th, 1918. Imperial Palace, Rome. 0324.

Amelia awoke with a soft start, the transition from idle tossing to semi-alertness less than ideal. Rolling her head to the left, it was apparent that the pillow next to her was unoccupied. Her feet felt the presence of Tiberium, the now massive Cain Corso curled at the foot of the bed. The dog softly snored, oblivious to the world around him. As the fog of slumber began to slowly peel back, Amelia lifted her head and scanned the room. As expected, the French door leading to the balcony was open. Amelia sat up, inserted her feet into some waiting slippers, and pulled a robe over her shoulders. She chose not to tie the sash as she stepped into the still night air.

Amelia found Eugène leaning against the railing, gaze passing over the mostly darkened city and focusing on something far beyond. His elbows attempted to gouge into the stone as his left hand covered his mouth and right hand clenched and unclenched over and over. Amelia approached her husband, unconsciously being careful not to make her footsteps to quiet.

"Eugène." Amelia softly called out. "May I join you?"

Eugène's focus visibly returned as if by the snapping of an elastic band. "Did I wake you?" The apology, unspoken, dripped from his voice.

"No." The little white half-lie slipped through her lips with practiced ease. "I can't really sleep ether."

"It is less than a month away." Eugène took Amelia's outstretched hand as he spoke and pulled her gently closer. "If the nerves are keeping you awake now, its going to take a minor act of God to get you rest the night before."

"I'll be fine." Amelia replied, hoping the shaky confidence that Eugène was in fact right did not show cleanly though. She changed the focus off herself. "The nightmare is back?"

"Yes." Eugène's reply was flat and emotionless. "Slightly different this time, wounds in different places, some more important than others."

"Do you think that's because of what I told you today?" Amelia ventured the question timidly.

"Maybe, but that is not your fault." Eugène broke eye contact and returned to scanning the skyline. "I can't help but worry, what if something is wrong. What if something is wrong and it's my fault. If what happened comes to pass again..."

"Eugène." Amelia reached up and brushed his cheek. "I know it was hard before, I still wonder if I could have done anything to change the outcome, but this time is different. I know you trust me husband, this feels different. I can't explain it, I just know."

Amelia guided Eugène's hand to her lower abdomen and gently placed it on an almost unnoticeable, but discernable bump.

"You are going to be a father Eugène." Amelia could not and would not stop the smile parting her lips. "I'm pregnant, and that will not change until it is time to welcome this little one into the world."

Eugène returned the smile and pulled Amelia into an embrace. The soft passing of his breath along her neck came smooth and strong. The pair stood entwined for a extended moment, allowing the night air to circle around them. The soft sound of paw on stone interrupted the stillness as Tiberium came to see what his humans were up to. Letting his tongue flop out of an open jaw, the dog sat down and awaited the attention he though he so deserved for being clever enough to find his humans.

Eugène reached out and tossed the dog's ears around. "I see I woke you up to."

"On the contrary." Amelia joined in by scratching Tiberium's chin. "He was snoring when I came to find you. So, my fault there. Come, we should all return to bed."

Amelia gently tugged Eugène's hand and began moving back towards the door. In a month, she would formally become the Empress of the Imperial Roman Republic. Some time after that, she would become a mother. The excitement and terror of both looming milestones mulled around, suppressed by a massive layer of happiness.

July 17th, 1918. Rome.

Amelia nodded at what felt like the thousandth dignitary, who bid her farewell and shuffled off down the line. She closed her eyes and inhaled perhaps a little too loudly.

"Are you all right dearest?" Eugène's whisper cut though the background noise with practiced efficiency.

"Yes." Amelia replied. "Thank you for checking. How many more of these do we have?"

"You wont like the honest answer." Eugène replied, a slim coat of jest on his tone.

Amelia sighed again. "Its not helping that this gown is just a smidge tighter than it should be."

The comment was delivered in a hushed tone, as Amelia's pregnancy was not to be widely know until after the coronation. The gowns were altered at the last moment to best conceal the increasingly obvious bump, but there was only so much that could be done and still maintain the illusion.  As if powers beyond mortal influence conspired to bust the secret out into the open, the background noise in the room took an acute dive at that exact instant in time.

"I take it our guests from across the Atlantic have arrived." Eugène commented.

Amelia turned to look at her husband, cutting a dashing figure in his full Marine dress uniform. "Are you sure you are ok with this." The question rolled off her lips like a statement, which was intentional.

"Of course." Eugène's reply was diplomatically neutral.

The arrival of the Aztec delegation had been an affair in and of itself. The HMS Eagle and HMS Implacable had been met at sea by the IRS Jeanne d'Arc and IRS Agincourt. On arrival, the Aztec ships were formally welcomed by the IRS Imperito. That one of the Ironclad Bay survivors preformed this duty was no accident. The general mood had been welcoming, but the occasional voice of displeasure bubbled to the surface.

The Aztec delegation paused at the point where they were to be announced, the Pretorian Guardsmen subtly stiffened. Amelia caught her first glimpse of Queen Fatima. The Aztec was older than Amelia, but anyone attempting to guess would place the gap much smaller in Fatima's favor. Her white linen dress was clearly meant for a far more humid climate than that of the Mediterranean. A white and green scarf circled her neck, able to be pulled into a more traditional face covering should the occasion desire. Various rubies and gold adornments twinkled playfully in the light. The single female bodyguard trailing half a step behind drew more inadvertent attention, the new world cavalry uniform more tailored to feminine curves distinct from the more traditional uniforms sported by the various male European officers who had filtered through since the reception had begun.

"Announcing Queen Fatima of the Aztec Sultanate." The court crier's voice carried without aid to the far corners of the vast receiving hall.

Fatima closed the gap between her and Amelia at an almost to quick for formal pace. The bodyguard behind her in followed with no variation in distance. Amelia wondered if the cavalry officer also served as a translator, or if Fatima's Modern Latin was far better than her Aztec. Fatima arrived at the protocol-demanded spot and faced Amelia and Eugène. Whereas the Roman and other European dignitaries had bowed or curtsied, Fatima and the young woman behind her only bowed their heads in respect. Amelia took no offence but could be sure she heard at least four hearts skip a beat among the court officers. Amelia politely nodded in return before speaking.

"Queen Fatima." Amelia began the well-rehearsed lines she had already spoken many times that day. "Please accept my welcome invitation to the Imperial Roman Republic. We are honored by your presence."

Fatima's eyes danced over Amelia and the faintest flash of realization broke over her face. Disappearing as quickly as it appeared, Fatima spoke in heavily accented Modern Latin.

"It is my pleasure and delight to be in attendance." Fatima's voice was smooth and filled the air despite its restrained volume. "It is truly an honor to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure is mine." Amelia replied with a less artificially warm tone than she expected. "This is my husband, Eugène Charpentier."

Eugène bowed. "A pleasure, your majesty."

"I hope your journey was uneventful?" Amelia offered the question with a formal politeness.

"I am told it was just that." Fatima answer. "Unfortunately, I have no frame of reference as this is my first time in Europe."

"Perhaps if the opportunity were to present itself, I would be able to show you some of the sites of the city while you are here?" Amelia asked pleasantly.

"I would find that agreeable." Fatima's answer was pointed. "I will have my staff reach out to yours."

One of the men standing behind Amelia politely cleared his throat.

"As much as I do not wish to cut short our meeting, I'm afraid the schedule means I must." The apologetic tone sincere in Amelia's voice, she continued. "Thank you for making the long journey to attend and please inform my office if there is anything you require."

"Your hospitality is generous." Fatima replied, then continued with a very knowing tone. "Please take care of yourself and your family, may the future bring you joy and happiness."

Amelia caught her right hand moving to her swelling belly unconsciously. Fatima smiled softly. The two women exchanged a knowing glance before Fatima bowed her head again and departed.

Exiting the throne room, Fatima and Atlacoya return to the phalanx of five additional guardswomen of Queen Fatima's light cavalry, these in full ceremonial weaponry as well, with scimitar sheaths gleaming from their baldrics.  Obviously the Praetorians standing at the throne room doors had not been keen on letting a number of armed Aztecs into the Imperial Presence, even if they were devoid of their pistols or carbines.  Falling in with them, Atlacoya lags behind her Majesty, walking beside her old Comanche Wars comrade turned Major, Ohtli, Captain of the Queen's Guard.

"How was the Empress?" Ohtli asked, in hushed tones as they walked back to the waiting cars.  "Young" Atlacoya answered, "about your age, though you can see that the crown, and other things, weigh heavily upon her already.  You can see the steel, that she was born to rule, but you can also tell that her ascension is weighing upon her mind, not unlike our own sovereigns, especially during the war.  I do not envy her task, her father was a strong Emperor, and she can be nothing less in these times, lest she be devoured by their politicians." 

Ohtli nods.  "The Praetorians seemed professional enough, though you can tell that some of them were nervous with our presence."  Atlacoya chuckles at the remark.  "Well trained, but without the quiet confidence of those who have slain their enemies face to face and survived in many battles" she replies, "A common affliction of ceremonial guards I've heard".  Ohtli then says "The courtiers were most interesting, a mix of gawking and haughty looks.  Some even appeared to be taken aback, it seems they have not seen women who go to war before."  Atlacoya replies "It's not every day that they do, I suspect.  And to see the honors won in battle, at the expense of their countrymen no less, the combat cavalryman's badge, and the Texas Campaign Medal probably annoyed more than a few of those who were a part of the old government.  After all, the reverses we inflicted upon Rome were some of the first major reverses by what they'd consider a minor power in centuries, and our stand at Grand Turk and our campaign in Texas caused quite a number of their politicians to fall from power and grace."

Walking down the steps to the waiting rented cars, Atlacoya and Ohtli cast their eyes about, feeling reassured when they saw the waiting pairs of drivers and Guards, these carrying their pistols and carbines respectively and being dutifully watched by a squad of the Praetorian Guard.  The firearms were unsuited to the purposes of ceremonial duties in any palace save that of the Sun Throne, but both women had been confident that if the Empress had been a weak ruler and willing to stoop to treachery, or a cabal of politicians had taken designs upon making an international incident or political move, the Praetorians in the palace would have learned to their horror the efficiency of Aztecs with the blade, something never publicized like the Japanese and their Samurai traditions, but a storied tradition of valor and excellence nonetheless.  Fortunately, it seemed that the Empress was what she appeared to be, and maybe Rome had not lost its sense of honor.  These were good signs for future relations.

(Sorry, the end of June through early August was disrupted)

The Parthian Royal family will send their condolences.
The Parthian Ambassador* to Rome shall pay their respects.

*given the travel distances, Royals attending the funeral is likely difficult to arrange.

Quote from: The Rock Doctor on July 25, 2021, 08:02:21 AM
Sigismund VIII Vasa, Queen Sophie, and the people of the Vilnius Union wish to express their sincere condolences to the family of Trajan VIII and the people of Rome on the loss of their beloved emperor.

The Vilnius Union's royal family will travel by train to attend the funeral.

Quote from: snip on August 11, 2021, 11:15:25 PM
I had stuff I wanted to do between the above and this, but given how behind I am thought it best to continue. Onward to the Coronation, which will be on July 15th, 1918.

For this, there is adequate time for Parthia to send suitable royals. :)

July 18th, 1918. The Vatican, Rome.

Septimius Rocchi, Prime Minister of the Imperial Roman Republic, had given many speeches in his life. None had, perhaps save one made slightly under four years ago which had set in motion his elevation to Prime Minister, been as important as the one he was about to give despite its length. Less men than could be counted on two hands had given a speech like this. Septimius had yet again fallen accidentally into a small group of Roman politicians.

As he stood off to the side of the entrance to the cavernous interior of Saint Peter's Basilica, trying to avoid sweating to much in the stifling suit which stretched across his broad Sicilian shoulders, the fuss of a small commotion reached out to his ears and drew his attention outward. It was far to late for any additional guests to be arriving, which meant such commotion would be reserved for one individual. Septimius turned, and his suspicion was confirmed.

Crown Princess Amelia and the small gaggle of assistants that had been buzzing around the poor woman likely for hours had turned the corner. The deep purple gown spilled from shoulders to floor, the deceptively simple pattern made grander with fine white fur trim. While from the distance most would observe from the gown maintained the illusion which need only be maintained for a matter of hours longer, Septimius could tell from the shorter distance that Amelia was clearly pregnant. He respectfully met Amelia's gaze and nodded to her. Amelia politely motion for the swarm of handmaidens to give her some space and approached Septimius.

"Crown Princess Amelia." Septimius bowed deeply as he allowed the formality of the occasion to return the proper title, despite knowing how annoying its continued application would be. "May I say you are positively glowing."

"Prime Minister Rocchi." Amelia responded while curtsying. "Thank you, you are looking quite sharp yourself."

"Only the best for this day." Septimius accepted the compliment. "Is there anything I can do for your Majesty before we begin?"

"I do believe it is all taken care of." Amelia's tone contained not a hint of audible worry. "What comes after today, I will require your assistance with."

Before Septimius could reply, a sharp ring of a bell cut though the entryway and the space beyond. One of the handmaidens rushed over and whispered into Amelia's ear, a glare from one of the planning staff borring into the back of the unfortunate girl as she retreated without waiting for reply.

"It appears the time has arrived where they need someone to coordinate mister Prime Minister." If this fact made Amelia nervous, it did not come though in her reply. "If you will excuse my acute exit from our conversation..."

Without waiting for an answer, Amelia stepped away from Septimius. He bowed deeply as Amelia was shuffled away by the various attendants. Septimius stood waiting, and watched as Amelia was guided into position behind a large set of double doors. With no queue, they swung open away from the Crown Princess, the room beyond falling into an impossible silence. Amelia turned her head to Septimius, nodded once, then looked forward again. Pulling her small frame as strait as possible, rolling her shoulders back, she stepped forward without another glance back. Septimius would not have stifled how impressed he was at the confidence projected by Amelia with a gun to his temple.

---

Despite the outward confidence she steadfastly maintained since the moment her foot first touched the stone of Saint Peter's that morning, Amelia's inside was filled with turmoil. Throughout the ceremony until this point, her actual involvement was minimal. With the conclusion of the anointing, that was about to change. For privacy, the anointing was done under the cover of a small tent. Amelia felt a streak of oil running around her belly towards the floor from where it had been wiped on her chest.

She followed the bishop across the floor, keeping the outward confidence resolute. In front of her stood a small, elevated platform, the three tiers which made it up forming a simple stair. Atop this platform sat a grand wooden chair, accented with ornately upholstered red cushions, and covered in intricate carvings. Another church official, this one a deacon, stood next to a table to the chair's right, on which sat three open chests of various sizes. These contained some of the final steps of the coronation, completing the appointment to the job that as the youngest female child, by all right never should have fallen to Amelia.

On the first step she thought of her brother, Gian. The middle of the three siblings, he had died after a long bout with illness eleven years before. Amelia had a more active relationship with Gian, only four years her senior. His death was her first real experience with the loss of a family member and as such had not been an easy experience to process at eleven years of age. At the time, she had not understood what Gian's role would have been, but he would have found himself were she was now had he lived.

On the second step Alonzo filled her thoughts. By circumstance, Alonzo was twelve years older than Amelia, a fact he did not let the young girl forget for the longest time. The tragedy that was 1907 softened their relationship, and the pair grew constantly closer until Alonzo's untimely death six years ago. Alonzo's roll had always been clear to Amelia since she was old enough to understand, Alonzo was to be Emperor. The memory of being held by her father in the pouring rain the night of Alonzo's passing still bubbled to the surface from time to time, the acute pain of the moment filed ever softer with time.

Taking the final step to reach the top tier, Amelia though of her parents. Her mother, Catherine, had been loved by all who met her. Taken by the same illness that had killed Gian less than a month later, what had not quite been understood about his death was blown to the highest proportion with Catherine's. To this day, Amelia found herself comparing anything she did to the smallest detail to her mother. Never letting anyone see how those comparisons brough an unstable mixture of happiness and pain which would slosh around inside her.

For all his faults, Trajan VIII always tried to be a good father. Distant from his only daughter for most of her early life, the death of his wife and male children forced the gap to close. What Amelia had sometimes attributed to malice, she later discovered to be mainly ignorance. Trajan had prepared her to the best of his ability for a task which he never foresaw her undertaking. Amelia wished for one more conversation with the late Emperor, both for some token nugget of advice that had remained ungiven and for one more chance to provide her father with thanks for what he had done to prepare her for this.

Amelia reached the appointed spot in front of the chair and turned to face away from it, looking out over the assembled crowd. The deacon approached her, the first item held across his palms. He offered the scepter to Amelia, who took it in her right hand, ensuring the correct end was held aloft. The deacon then shuffled away, and returned with the second item, a gold orb with a cross on the top of it. This was placed onto Amelia's outstretched left palm, its weight requiring a slight adjustment lest it drop to the floor. The deacon returned with the final item, an ornate crown. Emerald gemstones and diamonds adorned most of the base and sides, with the top being a small orb with a cross placed at the peak. Holding this orb were the wingtips of golden eagles whose feet gripped the base of the crown. As the deacon was much taller than Amelia, she hardly had to duck for him to place it atop her head. It was somehow lighter than expected, but a great weight settled across her shoulders as the deacon's hands moved away.

"With these items, the scepter, orb, and crown of the Imperial Throne, I declare the Empress of the Imperial Roman Republic. By what name shall your subjects address thee?" The deacon's question swept across the cavernous chamber, chased to every corner by silence.

"They may address me as Empress Amelia." Amelia allowed her voice to project over the assembled crowd.

Amelia surveyed the crowd, and saw Septimius Rocchi stand from his seat in the nearest row of chairs. "Will your majesty allow me the honor of speaking?"

"You may speak, Prime Minister Rocchi." Amelia's voice was flat and controlled.

"Allow me the honor and privilege of being the first of your subjects to address your majesty by her chosen name." Septimius' voice honed by years of public oratory was heard by all. "Long live Empress Amelia!"

Septimius repeated the sentence but his voice was joined by a chorus of others. With each repetition, the call grew louder. Silently, the deacon retrieved the orb and scepter. Amelia took half a step back, and slowly sat on the throne that was now formally hers. As the chant trailed off into silence, the Empress of the Imperial Roman Republic felt her child stir for the first time within her belly. She smiled and waved from the throne, maintaining the mask of calm over a maelstrom of emotion.

Good stuff as always.

It can be assumed that the Union's royal family are present, if that somehow matters for narrative purposes.

November 4th, 1918. Imperial Roman Naval Base, Genoa.

Amelia sat as comfortably as she was able to as the ceremony proceeded on the stern of the IRS Jeanne d'Arc. While the appearance of the Empress at a typical changing of command ceremony was uncommon, that the command of the most modern large armored cruiser was being passed to a now years-long family friend of Alessandro Valli made for an exception. It was also likely to be her final public event before the arrival of her child. Eugène sat next to her, more attentive to the proceedings than she was.

Amelia suppressed any contortion of her face as for what was the latest in a mostly irregular cramp radiated down her belly. While the discomfort had been present for some time, initial she felt it was tied to something eaten the previous night. Something about this instance felt different enough that she wondered what else would be the cause. Between this thought and the droning of the admiralty officer speaking, the next cramp was a surprise which forced a sharp exhale despite all effort to suppress it.

"Everything all right?" The whisper from Eugène was calm and collected. "Can I fetch you anything? That's the third time you've become tense in the last quarter of an hour."

Eugène's helpfulness lead to a revelation, that something which seemed so irregular was in fact rhythmic.

"Do you know how long until the ceremony concludes?" Amelia did her best to keep the tone of the comment neutral.

"I'm sure nobody would bat an eye at a request to shorten the proceedings on your account." Eugène gave a non-answer. "They are after all, your subjects." A playful gest.

"It is not on my account at all." Amelia replied. "Rather, someone has decided it is time for an introduction."

Someone else must have noticed the change in Eugène's expression, the normally unflappable Marine officer façade cracked from within by the expectant father. "Now? The doctors said we had another two to three weeks?"

"Well doctors can be wrong." Amelia tossed the statement gently.

One of the ship's stewards noticed the conversation and approached. "Is there something I can do for you, Your Majesty?"

Amelia turned and smiled professionally as another labor cramp began contorting her insides. "Actually yes there is. Would you please fetch the ship's surgeon, my driver, and the head of my staff. Please tell them at the conclusion of the ceremony that I will need to be taken to hospital."

"Of course mlady." The steward replied. "May I inform them as to the need? The surgeon is very proud of the ship's facilities and may insist on treating you here."

"As skilled as the surgeon is, I do not believe he would wish to press this issue." Amelia failed at stopping a slight grimace as the cramp concluded. "Unless, of course, he has experience with delivering a child."
The steward, to his credit, kept a strait expression. "I will inform them right away Your Majesty." He departed without another word.

The speaking Admiral had noticed the attention of the crowd shifting to the rapid departure of the steward and turned. "Is something the matter Empress."

"Nothing unnatural." Amelia allowed her hands to settle on her belly. "But if we could perhaps finish quickly, I would be grateful as somebody else has so rudely decided to seek the attention of the moment. I will apologies now for my quick departure at the conclusion Admiral, I do not believe that labor will wait.

---

Eugène had been dismissed from the room as soon as they had arrived at the base hospital. Left in a small waiting area, he felt helpless. Time crawled by, moments stretching longer as the cries of his wife in pain grew more frequent from her room down the hall. How he longed to be there with her in this moment, but every time he attempted to approach the door, a stern nurse rebuffed him. While overpowering her would have been trivial, it would not have improved the situation. This is woman's work, let us help her.

Minuets ago, the screams had reached a crescendo, then fallen to relative silence. The time gnawed at Eugène's sanity, mind racing as to all the outcomes. Finally, the stern nurse appeared around the corner with the doctor behind her. Eugène found himself bracing for soul-crushing words to hammer his ears. The fear did not come to pass.

"Congratulations." The doctor walked over and shook Eugène's hand. "A perfectly healthy delivery. Please come with me."

Eugène felt the shock of relief wash over him. "Of course, doctor."

The doctor paused at the door, which he held open. "She insisted you have some time with her, alone."

Eugène entered the room and herd the door close behind him. Sunlight filtered though the curtains, dancing across the floor. The softer glow of electric lights illuminated the room. Amelia lay in a bed, tilted upright. Her normally semi-curly hair was matted to her face with sweat, which shown across her exposed skin and drenched the gown which covered her body, pasting it to her figure. The one blue and one brown eye dance with emotions; exhaustion, pain, joy, and happiness. Held in her arms, nestled snuggly against her chest, a small bundle. A bundle which cooed softly.

"Amelia..." Eugène began.

"Eugène, my darling." Amelia smiled, lips parting slightly.

"I tried; they would not let me in." Eugène's excuse present as comment to a unvocalised regret.

"It will surely make you feel better that they did not listen to me ether on that subject." Amelia replied. "Something about being too delirious to know what was best for me, the Empress. Now, come here." She slightly shifted her hips to make a little more space. "Its time to meet your daughter."
Nothing in the world would have stopped the grin that split Eugène's face ear to ear. Without a word, he took the offered seat on the bed and looked down at the bundle held against Amelia's breast. Staring back at him was the most adorable face he had ever seen despite the trauma it had just been though.

"Hello little one." Eugène said aloud without meaning to.

"Do you want to hold her?" Amelia asked softly.

With great hesitation, Eugène gently took his daughter from his wife's arms. The baby stirred and began to fuss within the confines of the swaddle.

"It's alright daughter." Amelia reached out a hand to brush the baby's cheek. "This is your father, the most kind and caring man in the world. He already loves you more than you know."

Amelia leaned her head against Eugène's shoulder as he held the baby. A few minuets passed, then she returned to holding their daughter.

"I do suppose we should come to a conclusion on a name." Eugène said. "I'm sure that someone will ask me as soon as I leave the room."

"Of course they will darling." Amelia replied. "I know we had a few ideas, but I may have had a last minute addition."

"Do share." Eugène asked.

"In some way, I feel she had an idea of her own." Amelia looked down at the baby and smiled.

"If its what I think you are thinking." Eugène also looked down at his daughter. "Knowing you, as I do, wife. I like it."

---

Announcement from the Imperial Palace, dated November 5th 1918.

Announcing the birth of Princess Jeanne Cathern Sforza.

Empress Amelia and her husband welcomed their first child, a daughter, yesterday. Born in Genoa, the Princess arrived late in the afternoon. Both mother and child are doing well and are expected to return to Rome later this week. The couple has asked for privacy until the princess's formal introduction at a to be announced date.

November 6, 1918

On behalf of the Vilnius Union, Sigismund VIII Vasa, Queen Sophie and their family convey their congratulations to the Empress and her husband on the arrival of their daughter, and wish continued health and prosperity to the family.

November 6 1918

The Sultan of Byzantium, Constantine XII rejoices and congratulates the Imperial Roman Family for the birth of the princess. Peoples of the Byzantine Empire and I wish to the Princess Imperial a long and happy life.

June 6th, 1921. Imperial Palace, Rome.

Septimius Rocchi tried not to make himself too comfortable in the push chair of the waiting area outside the audience room. Despite many visits since his ascension to Prime Minister at the end of 1914,  the palace had never wavered in its daunting history. It was in these halls that the machinations and scheming of hundreds of years of Imperial Power had operated, the secrets that these walls knew could occupy most historians till the end of time. The quite reflection was brought to a quick end by the opening of the door adjacent to the chair.

"Mister Prime Minister, the Empress will see you now." The Pretorian sentry announced matter-of-factly.

"Thank you, Sergeant Furlan." Septimius replied. He saw himself through the door.

On entering, Septimius observed he and the Empress were not alone. Amelia had her back almost turned to the door, bent at the waist to bring her eyes more level with the room's third occupant.

"Jeanne, it is time to go see your brother." The stern motherly tone a practiced fit for Amelia's voice without being so sharp as to inflict mental injury. "I have a meeting with the Prime Minister."

"Can you wait mommy?" The pleading question from the two and a half year old girl not quite fully formed but at slightly to great a volume for the space. Jeanne accented this request with a pouty lip.

The gentle click of the door latching behind Septimius came a fraction of a second late to keep the mechanical sound hidden under the girl's request.

Amelia turned around, the Empress scooping the Princess up in one smooth motion as she did so. Jeanne came to rest on her mother's hip, not protesting but instead smiling toothily at the sudden motion.

"Prim Mister!" Jeanne exclaimed excitedly.

Septimius smiled slightly at Amelia's expense as she failed to completely banish an exasperated expression from her face at Jeanne's outburst. He bowed deeply.

"Your Majesty, how lovely to see you on this fine day. Princess Jeanne, how are you?"

"Good." The simple reply from Jeanne rang true.

Behind Amelia, a door opened and a subtly panicked looking nanny practically dove into the room.  Covering the distance from door to Empress with impressive speed, the girl curtsied deeply.

"My apologies your Majesty." The meek statement almost inviting reprimand on its own.

"No harm done Carmina." Amelia replied. "Please take the Princess to see her brother, I will come join them once the Prime Minister and I are finished." She returned Jeanne to her feet while replying.

"Of course, your Majesty." Carmina took Jeanne's hand a bowed again.
Jeanne waved at Amelia and Septimius as she left the room, the door closing afterwards.

Amelia closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose a little too loudly before addressing Septimius.

"It's that poor girl's first day." Amelia's tone was level. "Nobody is at fault, but I do question the wisdom of letting the last nanny go have a child of her own."

Septimius smiled gently. "There are some things in this world that we cannot control. Young love among them"

Amelia nodded reflectively. "Luciana was very good with Jeanne. Did you know she had twins? Can you imagine? I will say I pulled a couple of strings to ensure her husband was able to postpone his deployment overseas for a while to help get her settled in."

"Your grace knows few boundaries." Septimius replied. "How is Prince Antony?"

"An appetite as fierce as his father's." Amelia smiled speaking of her 6 month old son. "Looks to match as well."

"Wonderful." Septimius replied.

"And I am fine as well, before you feel compelled to ask for politeness's sake." Amelia answered the next question to be asked.

Septimius declined to suppress a chuckle. "You are as sharp as ever, your Majesty."

"Thank you Septimius." Amelia signaled the formal addresses were to end. "Now I believe you wanted to discuss growing tensions in the New World."

"As much as it pains me Amelia." Septimius replied. "It seems the clouds of war are threatening to darken again."

---

An hour later, Septimius walked out to the waiting motor car which would take him back to the Imperial Senate. His mind drawing parallels between what had marked his rise to the office he held now, and the events which may now lead to another crisis while he held it. Intertwined with these thoughts were recollections of a long-ago meeting in that same office; the opinionated young woman who had been present and unafraid to speak her mind now occupying a much different position. Septimius hoped it would not need to be discovered how that same woman, now the most powerful in the nation, would react if similar circumstances arose but now she possessed the power to mold events. His trust in Amelia was unshakable, his trust in the world giving her a fair opportunity far less so.

February 15th, 1921. Port facilities at Portus Arturus, Novus Francia.

Mario D'Antonio sweat heavily under his coveralls, a combination of hard work and nerves. His work crew had finished setting up a massive ramp leading up to the bow of an otherwise unassuming civilian freighter.  The bow however, was quite radical. Clamshell doors opened, allowing the ramp access to the interior of the ship. Now the workers stood around waiting for the ramp to be put to its intended use.

Getting large cargo off of ships was not new to Mario or his team. This load however had a few key differences. First, it was a single object which boasted so much weight not a multipart bundle. Second, somebody who would now almost certainly be done in with a pipe wrench if they ever set foot on the shipping docks again, had decided that this load needed to be driven off the ship rather than lifted. Finally, the load was going to be driving itself off the ship.

Silence overcame the assembled persons, as a rough mechanical growl began growing louder from inside the ship. Slowly, carefully, and guided by several people who made the scale of the object easy to discern, the snorting mechanical beast wiggled its way onto the end of the ramp. The ship's stern began to notably rise as so much weight was shifted so far forward. The ramp moaned as if in pain. The passage of time ceased to have meaning as the lumbering steel shape put more and more of its weight onto the ramp, which protested noisily. Finally, the equilibrium tipped and the whole the monster was on the ramp. The ship trying to return to its natural waterline made the ramp swing far to frequently and Mario felt his whole body tighten up as it looked like the connection to the ship may give way and dump the whole mess into the harbor.

Somehow, after what must have been a quarter of an hour, the massive vehicle sat firmly on dry land. A small group of Army mechanics began to fuss over the snarling steel contraption. A officer approached Mario.

"Well done. Please confer my thanks to your team for the safe delivery." The officer lit a cigarette and offered one to Mario, who accepted. "If you would be so kind as to allow the Army to buy the first round tonight as well."

"Appreciated." Mario answered "Now the smaller ones should be nowhere near as difficult."

"Yes, they are around one tenth of the size." The officer replied. "And I can safely add that my report will suggest in the strongest words we do not try this again."

"Appreciated." Mario offered the same answer. "How much does the big one weigh again?"

"Nobody told you?" The officer seemed surprised. "That's sixty nine tons."

Mario was now far more impressed by the feat and surer that the originator of this operation was short a few critical thinking functions. "And what did you say it is again?"

"Portable water tank." The officer replied a hair too quickly.

The lie hung with Mario for the rest of the day, before being forgotten in the bottom of a beer late that night.

Now, who figures out what just got RoRo'ed first...

(https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/3c/Char2Cpainting8.JPG)

And we have a winner!

November 25th, 1922. Imperial Palace, Rome.

Amelia stood next to a bench across from one of the many garden fountains dotting the grounds of the Imperial Palace.  The grand reserves of patience she had acquired since ascending to motherhood almost unnoticeably drawn as two pairs of approaching footsteps met her wait was nearly over. The owners of said feet rounded the corner, one of the Praetorian Lifeguard and her uncle Manuel. The Praetorian stopped a respectful distance away, saluted Manuel, then began his return to the palace. Manuel approached Amelia.

"Your Majesty." Manuel bowed deeply. "What a pleasure to see you again."

"Général." Amelia nodded in return. "The pleasure is mine. Now that we have dispensed with the pleasantries, how are you uncle?"

"I am well niece." Manuel chewed his next words carefully. "The news from the new world troubles me, I do hope a resolution can be found."

Amelia sighed lightly. "It seems I do not need the bridge I was preparing to get into that conversation. Please, walk with me." Without waiting for an answer, she began down the nearest path.

Manuel followed. "I do seem to have a knack for bluntness. Sometimes it serves me well, other times not."

"A distinction I wish we could all improve on." Amelia replied. "As I'm sure you are aware, what is happening with the Mayans is a complex situation. They are not backing down from the claims made, and its going to likely prove impossible to come to a satisfactory resolution. Since the Valdemosa incident I feel we are lucky to have not had any more sunken warships."

"So, I do understand correctly then that military intervention is still a possibility?" Manuel's question did not betray in which way his thoughts on the subject fell.

"Unfortunately, that is still an exceedingly large possibility." Amelia replied. "War with the Mayans would be yet another conflict in the New World. What do you think, Général?" The insertion of the title expressed a desire for a professional response.

Manuel's reply was delayed for a short time while he gathered his thoughts. "We are in a much better position than we were in 1914. Not only have we come to realize the flaws in some assumptions but have some measure of practical experience to draw on. Additionally, there have been many technological improvements which provide additional capabilities we did not possess in 1914."

"All true." Amelia replied. "While I am far from the military mind you are, I do suppose us sharing a land border with the Mobile territory does simplify logistics somewhat. Much different from the Caicos."

"Your Grace would be correct." Manuel chuckled internally under the stoic outward response.

"Uncle, unfortunately it is these events which have led to my invitation here today." Amelia stopped and looked out over the city of Rome sprawled out below the garden. "Before my father passed, he gave me many items of wisdom. I find myself circling back to one of those as this crisis continues. It flows right into another such token, that I should always trust my heart."

Manuel nodded, following Amelia's gaze over the city.

"This is, at least to my vantage point, the first major international crisis of my reign." Amelia spoke slowly, letting each word take time to hold in the air. "I need someone I can trust to handle this situation on the ground. That is not to imply that I don't trust my commanders, on the contrary. The New World behaves differently than the Old, and with recent retirements there is only one officer of the appropriate rank who I fully and unconditionally support being the one person who all our miliary in the New World answers to. If you were in my position, Général, whom would you choose."

Manuel mulled the question before replying. "I would ensure that said officer had experience in the 1914 war. That officer should, without question, be trustworthy to be given a degree of freedom. The situation can change faster than new orders can be debated, drafted, and issued from here in Rome. As contrary as this sounds, you need a man with something real to lose. Something which grounds him into making rational decisions. That is the kind of officer you need for this post."

Amelia did not miss a beat. "What is it that you have to lose, Général Manuel Sforza."

"The trust of my Empress." Manuel replied. "The respect of my niece. The honor of my country."

Amelia smiled. "All good answers. I'm sorry to have to do this to you. I know you and Aunt Isabella were looking forward to retirement."

"I serve at the pleasure of the Empress of the Imperial Republic." Manuel bowed deeply.

"Know you have my trust." Amelia turned to face her uncle. "I sincerely hope I have merely given you what amounts to a final professional liberty trip."

Manuel let out a single chuckle. "We can both hope that."

"One last item before I will let you go begin preparing. I believe it is unfitting for someone with such responsibility to remain a Général." Amelia produced a box, which she opened. Inside, a red baton adorned with gold eagles, each end capped with gold. "Congratulations Marescallus Reipublicae Manuel Sforza. The Republic's citizens entrust you with their protection. I, Empress Amelia Sforza, entrust you with their protection."

Manuel knelt, seemingly pushed down by the weight of responsibility. "I will serve the Republic, and my Empress, with my utmost ability and devotion."

February 28th, 1923

Announcement delivered to all major embassies in Rome.

Due to the current situation in and around the Caribbean Sea, the Imperial Roman Republic would like to inform the other nations with territorial concerns in the region that various units of Roman military forces will be redeployed within the region to protect the neutrality of uninvolved parties, including Roman. Roman forces will be abiding by applicable neutrality laws should they be near areas of active combat. Additional information will be made available in the event that Roman forces are compelled to exercise force in self-defense.

---

Headquarters of the Novus Francian Miliary Command, Saint Rochelle.

Marescallus Manuel Sforza presumed the message had been delivered in Europe. It was only natural, was the consensus agreement. Roman assets bordered the hostile areas in great quantity, a now active naval warzone far too close for comfort to the tether the Old World. Nobody should think twice. Repeating the statement in his mind drew it no closer to the absolute truth Manuel sought.

"For all we know, this is merely a boarder conflict." Manuel said to the otherwise empty room. "At one point we believed the Aztecs and Japanese to be as tight as they are portrayed. Perhaps we will not know how close we came to proof, one way or another, in 1914."

A gentle circular twist of Manuel's wrist sent ice nestled in a dark brown liquid moving in a glass. The clinking filling the space where words had been.

"May it all be over soon." Manuel followed the statement with a sip from the glass.

If it wasn't, Manuel's plan would be slowly put into action. Some, from comfortable villas and castles in Europe, viewed Roman involvement in this conflict as an inevitability. Reopening of old wounds with the Sultanate the better's undoubted favorite. In some circles, hushed discussions about the People's Republic could echo off stone walls, the same logic that launched the 1914 abound. Rome cannot have a loose cannon on its colonial lifeline, and the Mobile colony was a very large cannon. Men who had never set foot in the New World would debate these with no real mind for the consequences beyond their own interests.

Regardless of if the conflict receded quickly, or boiled over into continued war, Roman forces in Novus Francia were slightly overdue for a major exercise. As such, pursuant to his responsibilities, Manual had began laying plans for Exercise Tide. Scheduled for the latter half of the year, there was no need to announce anything internationally yet. Known only to a few select staffers, Exercise Tide was cover for a quartet of operation. The possible operation, adding Sapphire, Topaz, Emerald, or Ruby to the Tide codename, denoted the true plans. One of them was for the exercise, a planned full-scale wargame. The other three would trade that wargame for quite real war. The politics of Europe may decide a color, it would be Manuel's task to paint with it.

Note: Date adjustment on this story is possible for a few days due to ongoing simmed events.

March 5th, 1923.

QuoteTO: DIVISION COMMANDERS, ATLANTIC FLEET
FROM: ATLANTIC FLEED COMMAND.
SUBJECT: TIDE TRANSIT PLAN ACTIVATED
DUE TO WAR BETWEEN PEOPLES REPUBLIC OF MAYA AND THE AZTEC SULTIANATE, FLEET TRANSIT PLAN TIDE IS ACTIVATED AS OF THIS MESSAGE. INTENDED TRANSIT COMPLETION DATE OF 20APRIL. TASK FORCE AND DIVISION GROUP TRANITS PLANNED. DETAILS TO FOLLOW.

CANCEL ALL LEAVE FOR PERSONAL EFFECTIVE 6MARCH.

March 12th, 1923. Portus Adurni Naval Base.
Jindřich Nisi, Lieutenant Commander Imperial Roman Navy, observed the bobbing line of D-Class Motor Torpedo boats that made up the 22nd Motor Torpedo Boat Division. Twelve small 40t boats dwarfed by the large merchant ship they were to be loaded onto. The cradles on the deck waiting, cranes on the ship's deck just beginning to reach trendles of cable down to the first boat. Jindřich's boat was fourth in line. He turned to scan what else of the largest Albian naval base of the Imperial Navy that he could see was up to.

Since the message a week before, activity had slowly picked up. The first ship he had noticed absent, sometime overnight on the 9th, was the minelayer IRS Crispico. Her sister, IRS Murmuro, lay at anchor off shore. The sleek hull seeming to tug impatiently at its mooring lines. Elsewhere, knifelike destroyers took on fuel. The large Rainier Marion's were a far cry from the small E-Class which had been shot out from under two of his uncles during the Battle of Grand Turk. Somewhere not visible from where Jindřich stood, Admiral Cedric Fabron's flagship from the annihilation of the Royal Aztec Navy at Ironclad Bay the IRS Invicta was making ready for yet another trip to the New World. It appeared Rome had taken at least one lesson of the 1914 conflict to heart, whether those lessons would be tested against the Aztecs, nobody at all, or someone else entirely a question Jindřich pondered as the first of 22nd's boats cleared the water.

April 27th, 1923. Tamara, Tamara Insula (aka Havana, Cuba)

There was simply no hiding the bulk of the IRS Tullius Leofric. Taking up almost a quarter of a kilometer in length and tipping the scale at over forty eight thousand tons fully loaded, in spite of being officially designated a Large Armored Cruiser, was arguably at this point the strongest warship in the Caribbean. The comparison was made further stark by the massive warship's proximity to the IRS Argonauta. Once the largest warship in Roman service now made to seem positively petite next to the current title holder.

Alessandro Valli, the promotion to Rear Admiral sometimes still stubbornly refusing to overtake Commodore yet in his head, stood on the bridge wing of the Tullius. Ascension to command of the formation containing the Tullius as well as his former command the IRS Jeanne d'Arc had been a mild surprise. The promotion had come shortly before news of the Mayan aggression broke, and Alessandro had little peacetime to acclimate to the role. Two months ago, the orders to move the rapid deployment sections of the Atlantic Fleet to their deployment assignments in the Caribbean had chewed at his mind that something else was underway. Sending the Ironclad Bay veterans over made sense if one's goals were clearly defensive. Invicta and her sister were slow, something which could not be said about Tullius or Jeanne. Sending his ships spoke to offensive intent.

The meeting today had confirmed that intent was real and that it now had a timeline. In what was best described as weeks, Rome would again be at war in the New World. This time, it would not be the Navy alone on the offensive. Free, to an extent, to fight a more fluid campaign it would soon be time to show the lessons of 1914 had not been forgotten, but had forged a stronger force.

Alessandro's contemplation was interrupted by the familiar voice of his adjunct.

"Admiral Valli." The adjunct formally stated. "Commander 6th Destroyers has arrived. We expect Commander 4th Destroyers within the next quarter of an hour."

Alessandro pinched the bridge of his nose as he replied. "That's Aafjes and Eikenboom respectively?"
"Yes sir." The adjunct's tone was level.

"Have Aafjes shown to the chart room." Alessandro stood up and turned to face the adjunct. "Send Eikenboom when he arrives. Please have coffee and other beverages sent."

The adjunct nodded, then turned and walked back inside the bridge.

Alessandro took another breath of fresh air before himself heading inside to brief his escort commanders.

April 14th, 1923. Novus Matisco (aka, Vicksburg, Mississippi)

Novus Matisco had come to exist almost by accident. Due to various oddities of the river banks and the desired destination of the railway lines which had belted Novus Francia after the territory was settled by Rome, what had been a nearly nonexistent village had increased in size by orders of magnitude over only a few years. Now a proper bustling small city, its location ensured that it had a detachment of the Roman Army permanently based there. While initially the facilities were intended to be the major supply depo close to the norther boarder, expansion up the river had seen those plans dashed. Recently, the largely understaffed base had slowly seen more blue-grey uniforms rotating though. The bodies within the uniforms almost constantly changing, the true number was hard to discern.

Private Giacomo Lamberti stepped of the train far after it came to a stop. The last hour of fitful sleep not near restful enough, but ensuring he was at the back of the column of blue-grey jackets. His bag heavy on his shoulder, Giacomo walked in the direction indicated by some carefully placed signage. One of the other soldiers at the back of the line noticed him.

"Nice of you to join us Lamberti." Private De Rege called out. "I see your beauty sleep only made you uglier!"

De Rege and several other men laughed at the blunt joke. Giacomo rolled his eyes.

"Did it take you five minutes to come up with that one?" Giacomo lobed the question as if delivering it to a toddler.

De Rege accepted the laughter turning against him with a rude gesture.

The line continued moving forward towards the officers providing direction.

"Stow your belongings in your assigned barracks, then report for special training exercise."

Giacomo wondered what sort of special training was apparently so short as to be conducted in an afternoon.

---

Giacomo found himself second in line near a large metal door. This was not a typical barn door or rolling workshop door, but more like a large watertight hatch on a ship. This was the only door on this side of the building, and Giacomo had not seen any of the previous soldiers which had entered the door exit again, so there must have been another door elsewhere.

All the soldiers standing in line had been issued a new piece of equipment that Giacomo had not seen before. Looking down at his right hand which held the equipment, what could almost be described as a face looked back at him. Two metal rings held pieces of circular glass inlayed into what felt like a rubberized burlap. These soulless sockets stared back at Giacomo, elastic straps dangling beath like two incredibly thick stands of hair.

With the sound of metal on metal, the door began to open. An officer stepped out; what Giacomo held in his hand covering the man's face like some sort of mask which would be used to scare a child. It was then that Giacomo noticed an uneasy quiet had come over the building, something mechanical inside had stopped moving.

"The next twenty, follow me." The officer stated before proceeding back thought the door he had came though.

Giacomo gulped, hopefully inaudibly, and followed the man in front of him though the door. After eighteen more men had passed though, the door was closed as a bank of electric lights was turned on. Giacomo saw the officer from before, along with three more, standing at the front of the room. The first officer stepped forward.

"You are here for a training session on the use of anti-chemical hoods." The officer's voice was muffled slightly by his mask. "These hoods are designed to protect you from the adverse effects of chemical irritants. Please see the direction signs on the wall for instructions on donning your hood. Myself or one of the other officers will be around to check on the proper application of the hood."

Giacomo had already been reading the instructions and set about donning the hood. As instructed, he ensured that the glass portholes were over his eyes, as close as the standard sizing allowed. He was suddenly very aware of how hot and moist his breath was. The air from his lungs reflected off the clearly partially non-permeable material back onto his face.

One of the officers stepped into his limited field of vision.

"How well can you draw breath Private?" The voice was further muffled.

"With difficulty sir." Giacomo replied.

"Good." The officer noted and moved down the line.

The sound of his own breaths now much more present in his ears, Giacomo did not need to wait long for further instruction.

"Now that all of your masks are fixed appropriately, it will now be demonstrated how effective they are."
The first officer spoke again. "A chemical irritant will be introduced into the air in this room. Please notice how it does not affect you."

The words were accompanied by a hissing sound, a whiteish mist began leaking from some pipes on the ceiling. Giacomo felt panic begin rising in his chest.

"See how you are still capable." The officer's voice carried though the room. "Now, it is time for you to experience what will happen to you if you do not use the hood when necessary."

Giacomo doubted he was the only one who gulped.

"Remove the hood." The order came with no deflection or tone, just calm words.

Giacomo complied. Almost immediately his eyes began to burn and tear up. The back of his mouth down to his lungs prickled sharper and sharper. Unable to stop a wracking cough from destroying his posture, he placed his hands on his knees as his body attempted to expel the gas from his lungs. All this succeeded at doing was drawing more gas in, repeating the cycle. His vision was completely blured by tears. Suddenly, a blob of light shown from off to his left as a mechanical wirring kicked in over the coughing and reaching of the other nineteen men in the room.

"Head towards the light." The officer's calm voice pushed the order over the cacophony of the room.
Giacomo staggered to comply, and shortly found himself outside. Gulping fresh air like there would be no more, he collapsed on the ground. The clouds spun above him as tears continued to stream out of his eyes.

It was clear to all the men who passed though that chamber how important the call of "Gas!" would be, if it were ever ordered on the battlefield. None of them wished to repeat the experience.

May 26th, 1923. Rome

"I speak into this?"

The curious nature behind the question suppressed by the need for decorum damped Amelia's tone.

"Yes, your Highness." The technician answered. "There is no need to lean in, you can be heard from your current seat."

"Thank you." Amelia replied, eyes falling again to the metallic ring suspending a grid-cut ball at just about mouth level a short distance from her.

"Fifteen seconds." The voice's originator not immediately apparent but belonging to the producer of this endeavor.

Amelia took a precious third of that time for a deep breath, the next third to ensure her notes remained on the stand within eyeshot. She drew her shoulders back as the producer reappeared.

"Five, four, three..." The producer counted down, dropping corresponding fingers. The two and one were silent, only the fingers fell. His pointer finger following his eyes to Amelia's face.

"Good evening. Yesterday, under the approval of the elected government of the Imperial Roman Republic and myself, a declaration of war was issued against the Peoples Republic of Maya. Since the conflict initiated by the Mayans began in February, we have continued to monitor events and position sections of our military forces to intervene if deemed necessary. Due to events beyond our ability to influence by peaceful means, the Peoples Republic represents an unpredictable element in our desire to safeguard the freedom of trade over the areas where said freedom allows for the safety and prosperity of all. As such, it is with the same resolve that the men of our armed forces process that I must ask of them to prosecute the protection of those freedoms with force of arms. To prevail in this conflict is to ensure that lasting peace can be restored to the region and Roman citizens there are free from threat of violence. My prayers are with the men of our armed forces, may God bless them and return them safely to their families."

A red light that Amelia had not noticed blinked off a second after she finished speaking.

"We are clear." The producer said, voice cutting over the soft buzz of various electronics "A wonderful job your Majesty. I do believe you are the first monarch to address their people via radio."

If only the cause for such a milestone was a positive. Amelia thought to herself while nodding in reply.