There was a vase with a single flower, its petals wilting and plucked from the stem, under a crystal chandelier. Half of its candles had been spent which unevenly illuminated a reception hall, stripped of wealth and anything that was not nailed down. Its priceless paintings were stolen, and its furniture were snatched and sold. The moonlight intruded the hall having battled through the snow to reach the windows of the palace whose image was reflected on the icy ground outdoors polished by the howling wind battering the glass. Gratitude was owed to its designers as the windows failed to budge, staying the wild weather out and keeping the warmth within. Every door was closed, the heat from a fire burning in a pit in a wall trapped, forming a new atmosphere that tensed by the minute. Soldiers with pointed helmets, armed with rifles, stood by, their corporals and captain bearing their silver sabers. But it was exactly their regular, commoner-like uniforms that suggested they did not belong to the noble court that was the palace unlike its usual guards. They nonetheless stood to attention in the presence of important souls and names, where and when on that evening, dozens of blue-bloods had gathered. Murmuring, the lords and ladies consulted their lieges and vassals, surrounding two families who huddled around one table in the center. One blank parchment and one pen laid unused, its ink which ran onto its tip began to dry. There were two queens and two princes, sisters who were princesses, then beside them were the kings of Zhermannen and Lechen, stood on opposite edges of the table, glaring at each other. Of equal rank, some would assume that they would vie to be the most-spoken man under the palatial roof, but neither of them were dim enough to want to speak first. Though they were once former enemies, they have come to convene as allies with their respective factions of nobles accompanying them. The expected infighting never occurred and the lords were, for the most part, rather civil. But that night, it did no good to simply be civil.
The young Zhermanner prince stood by his father’s side, holding onto his jacket, overwhelmed by the numbers around him. Curiously, he looked around, seeing faces of hopelessness. Ahead, the Lecher royals had long kept away from politics, trusting their own king to judge on the matter. The prince watched the droplets of wax drip down a candle that was set on the table, but he did not warn anyone that its bowl had begun to overflow. Hot wax melted onto the surface of the parchment and a new stick of candle was required, yet in the hours that they have spent debating, the convention would not conclude.
“This is the devils’ work!” A count continued his heated rant, a patriot who would not yield a single step away from his stance. “It would be no better than to die with our arms bound and our eyes veiled.” He discussed the lack of prospect if they were to turn in favor of surrender.
Stroking his pointed beard, a baron sighed. “I am afraid Count Ruppin speaks true.” As one of the lower ranking nobles who was swayed, the gentleman agreed.
There were mumbles of agreement but were oft with sighs like his. Refusing to believe that it was the only path, their countrymen however felt confident that they were perhaps left choiceless.
Looking at his comrades who surrounded him, their eyes watchful for what he would suggest, another count offered a path to salvation, “I say, fellow honorable lords, we dispatch our swiftest riders under the guise of dark.” Leaning in with a quieter voice, it was deemed that the soldiers who protected them could not be trusted with their plan. “Let us rally the Bawarer, surely they would not oppose our rule over the Rus.” He pulled together a fist, sounding sure that it could be done.
“Yes…” Count Ruppin seemed uncertain, pinching the tip of his mustache, but he did not deny his excitement to return the favor of war that the enemy had brought to their shores. “Lure the damned Rus into the Hof Corridor and they shall know hell.” Envisioning aloud, his scheming voice captured the hope of the many ignorant nobles who had no prior study on grand strategy.
With a sickly cough, clearing his throat, although it might have purposefully turned the nobles’ attention to himself, one assumed a more active role. “Might I interject, my lords?” A margrave interrupted the lesser-ranked, his lungs weak and his posture fragile. “What do you all think will happen once this cursed alliance inevitably falls?” His body may have been frail but his mind did not ail.
As his court position ranked higher and greater than most, his presence alone silenced the lords. The talkative suddenly joined the two kings and their families in quiet contemplation, to think before they spoke, and the chatter of the room abated.
When peace was introduced to the meeting, rarely found in times of strife, the margrave furthered, “There is no reason to lose our heads to a war we have already lost.” Even if he was in death’s embrace, he demonstrated his will to survive longer but more so, he was skeptical of his comrades’ suggestion.
“I must agree with the margrave.” A third count joined the discussion, persuaded by his argument. “Existing under the Confederation would certainly be a lighter fate than becoming non-existent.” His reason was emphasized and it was not necessarily untrue.
The nobles tapped their fingers on their belts which had been stripped of their personal arms. Their predicament had split the camp, having taken a detour and returned to where their talks began. The debate soon cooled, nowhere nearer the answer to the problem than when they had gathered. Staring at the empty parchment, they hoped that the silence could usher in the first words that could solve the crisis, to decide whether the nation should surrender or fight on as a whole. But none were willing to confidently state their cause and the pen stayed still. Equally, the two kings’ counsel had not been heard and it was clear that their thoughts had been confined by the constant discourse that has tolled their health. Either suggestion seemed enticing however, they refused to be the reason for defeat if their plan was ever foiled. Looking at each other, the Zhermanner king, Friedrich Wilhelm the Fourth, and the Lecher king, August the Fourth, understood their counterparts to be moderate leaders. Shying away from making a decision, their eyes broke contact. Friedrich turned his eyes to the parchment and leaned forward, held up by his fists on the table. When his knuckles met the hardwood surface, he realized that the only man who could provide treasurable insight had not yet uttered as much as a word. Hidden in the shadows, he too, stayed away from political talks.
The Zhermanner king lifted his head and turned to his side. “You have been quiet, Grand Marshal Meyer.” He summoned his trusted soldier.30Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡplzzjPODh2
