Vignette: A Father

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Vignette: A Father Post by Saint-Just on Today at 3:58pm

“The heart of a father is the masterpiece of nature.” ~ L'Abbé Prévost

Public perception aside, there is little worth mentioning in regards to power when speaking of the Minister of War. It appears to be a lofty position, certainly, for the Minister of War sits at the head of the council of Noble Generals, that body of martial authority composed of the most impressively mustached gentlemen in all of Durant. Facial hair aside, they are little more than a smoking club.

To understand this, one must understand the composition of the Durantian government, in particular the reign of Saint-Just. Recognizing the excess of time and attention present in the upper class, it entered Saint-Just's estimable head that they would soon begin to expect a greater say in things. After all, for some time the government was limited to the military, the church and the Archduke, with no room at all for civilian involvement. The trick, then, was to ensure the continued dominance of the Archduke whilst creating an illusion of activity amongst the aristocracy. This was realized in the formation of the Noble Generals, the Cultural League and the Diplomatic Corps. Each of these exclusive organizations is headed by a Minister of varying influence, and each organization has no practical power whatsoever. The active aristocrats are thus given an outlet for their civic energies, and the Archduke is able to keep a very close eye on their discussions whilst leading the country unfettered.

Some nobles were less pleased with this method of administration than others, foremost amongst their ranks the Minister of War, Duke of Morand and consummate statesman Gideon Belgrave. He had never been exceedingly fond of the strings installed in his back for the convenience of the Archduke, nor the blatant disdain with which the monarch treated him. Belgrave understood his position; he was a figurehead. Through his efforts, the warmongering men of the upper class were kept amused while Saint-Just directed the proper Martial Generals personally. It was a necessity. It was brilliant, even.

But Gideon Belgrave hated it.

He had never been a simple man. On the contrary, Belgrave was the patriarch of the longest recorded magical dynasty in the northern states. He was a student of the great tacticians, a philosopher in his own right, a brilliant capitalist and an all-around likeable man. He deserved a proper, influential post in the government. Had he chosen to assume his hereditary Ghalean citizenship he would no doubt be on the board of Deans, if not the Headmaster General. Yet here he was, a false minister to an uncaring god, wasting away in the quagmire of high society. What did his son think of him, he wondered?

Ah, but the answer to that was all too clear. He hadn't seen Noah in weeks, and the reason was distressing; Noah had fallen in with the Inquisitors, that revolutionary movement so popular amongst the young aristocrats and the middle class. The Archduke had urged tolerance, refrained from destroying them outright, taken only the most minor steps toward asserting his dominance. Did he refuse to take them seriously? Could it be, perhaps, that he wanted them to succeed? He had always been a curious proponent of change for one in so favorable a position. Alternatively, Gideon pondered the rumors of the Archduke's son being intricately involved in the revolutionary activities. If so, he had to pity the Archduke; they were in the same boat, after all. Poor Arden Saint-Just. Poor Noah!

Reclining in a great nest of a chair, rounded and deep and covered in leather of the deepest green, Minister Belgrave stared into space. He had retreated to his family estate in Port Dewhurst, the solitary settlement upon the lonely island forming the majority of Morand County. Through the small, hoary porthole of a window set between bookshelves he acknowledged the distant presence of the glass domes of the Colbert Conservatory, foliage of some sort vaguely silhouetted beyond the layer of frost. Some may have been dissatisfied with so small and obscure an estate, but Belgrave considered the seat of Morand to be the most lovely gift the Archduke had ever given him. Originally he had been offered Chlymes County, the Archduke evidently intending to convert all of Morand into a conservatory and seeking to recompense the longtime owners of the land, the Beglrave family, with a sufficiently grandiose parcel of land to make up for the inconvenience. Gideon had responded with opposition as adamant as was appropriate, perhaps a touch beyond, for he deeply loved the isolation and the snow. Shockingly, the Archduke had grasped his shoulder, nodded solemnly, and simply stated "We understand entirely."

So it was that the conservatory was built around the port, left undisturbed and firmly under Belgrave rule. Gideon would always be grateful. That did not prevent him from deeply resenting the way in which he was treated, but it was... something. Perhaps it was just enough, in that show of kinship, to prevent Belgrave from losing faith in Saint-Just. It had not, however, been sufficient to have the same effect upon young Noah. He had vanished, supposedly on an errand of the revolutionary leader Royce Luxon, last seen in the far north of Ghalea delivering a request for aid to the scientists of the Lucretzia compound. The letter had been delivered directly to the Archduke upon refusal by the compound, forcing him to take action against what was undeniably treason. As Noah had not reported this himself, he and Luxon had both been declared seditious elements, bounties being set upon their youthful, handsome heads. Noah was such a quiet boy, reflected Gideon... had he always loathed the government so? Did he loathe his own father? Struggling to push back the nagging terrors known only to fathers, Belgrave rose from his leather nest to absently stare at the spines of books.

"Wilmore's Commentaries... Gilded Hawk... Royal Blood, Royal Bone..." he murmured, taking no notice of the titles as he pronounced them. Where was his son? Was the boy even alive? The answer was always avoided, the subject changed, whenever he broached the subject with the Archduke. Overcome with apprehension he cried out, striking blindly at the shelf before him. As the aged volumes tumbled to the ground he clutched his head, kicking a copy of Saint-Just's 'Gilded Hawk' with such terrible brutality that the concerned maids at the door reconsidered entering, hesitantly retreating to their chambers whilst whispering excitedly.

"Fie on politics, fie on society, fie on Saint-Just, fie on Luxon, fie on Durant!" he howled, sending the battered volume into the hall with one final strike. "Where. Is. My. Son?!" With each word he demolished another shelf, his greying hair losing its shape, a hopeless curl flopping about upon his wrinkled forehead. Collapsing against the unhappy shelf in a paroxysm of hysterical sobs, the minister shook violently, a string of desperate profanity gurgling from between his lips.

"Where... where is my son..."