Euwe
The President's Summer Garden. At the top of the Alpha Domes, overlooking the artificial rosefalls. Lovely this time of year. A garden party for the High Council and their families. For the most loyal followers, like Bercol, Rontane, and Euwe Bray, the Councillor for Foodstuffs and Rationing, who is always invited to dine.
And, of course, for the President's most beloved, most faithful Supreme Commander, who is always by his side, delicately browsing on the finest that the Alpha chefs in his service can provide.
The food is wonderful, as always. Aurigan dragonflies on wildflower sauce, creamed starshrimp with tropical fruits, tiny sweet and savoury patacki cake, a whole faux-Jabberwock fashioned from eight rare meats and stuffed with songbirds from all the Innerworlds... so clever, so typical of this finest and greatest of presidents. Eighty-five different wines, seventeen classic shampayns, six alien alcoholic milks, and the coffee tastes - well, almost - authentic, amazing.
A fine thing, to be the intimate of a President who can offer such fine eating, such good company, such wonderful living: the truly important things in life. Bray's loyalty is his for life... until death.
~oOo~
The President's Residence One. In the Great Hall, surrounded by gleaming mirrors and crystal and silver... probably real. The President and Supreme Commander would show nothing less to her intimate friends and advisors. Such as Durkim, Joban and his family... and Euwe Bray, the Councillor for Provisions and Distribution, who was her devotee when others followed that false, now dead, now nameless sham before her.
A formal dinner, for the senior military ranks. Good, virtuous martial food such as Spacefleet chefs excel at - seared blackfruit, medallions of hellhund in blood sauce, deathwyrms in burnt butter and red gravy, and over sixty spirits and liqueurs from military posts all over the galaxy. Altogether, just as good as one can get now - after the sacrifices and losses of the War. Bray has been told that, and believes it without question, without thought. One can only loyally applaud the President for her respect for her guests by serving military... cuisine, surely a sacrifice for one whose refinement, whose taste, whose greatness is so widely proclaimed.
She does seem fond of the blood sauce, however. Of course it is very good... of its type. Very rich. And with the widespread destruction in the Great War, those delicate, decadent creations of xenofauna and alien fruits must be put aside, forgotten... she has promised they will return soon. And for such a fine promise, as well as such - fiercely virtuous - sustenance as this - as for a host of careful, cautious, essential causes, Bray's loyalty is forever hers, until death.
~oOo~
The President's Hunting lodge. A modest, 172-room citadel built on the ruins of the Alpha Incognita base, or rather being built... following the brief, dreadful reign of that monstrous, murderous, now nameless usurper, funds are less bountiful than they were, even for the most magnificent, most brilliant, greatest President ever. It is better that luxury be - not hidden, just kept from the vulgar gaze of the public and the poor, and anyone who might see beneath the image.
A weekend retreat for his closest advisors and associates, after the long, drawn-out bloodshed of the Deposition. Like his good friend Joban, the sons of the late Minister Bercol, Madame Morag... and Euwe Bray, the Councillor for Produce and Apportionment, whose skill and dedication have always been, will always be, without peer, without question.
Treats from Earth and the Inner Worlds... elephants and wild felines roasted in their skins, tropical fungoids, rich creams, wargs' eyes and giant flutterbies' wings... and all of it cunningly created from processed gourmet protein and Centauran sky plankton. Or so young Bercol (a gourmand like his father) told Bray. So clever, so simple... and one can almost fancy that the finer things destroyed during the usurpers' war have returned. As she promised, and failed to deliver. As the new President, one can imagine, delivers. The drinks are cold, thin and sparkling with that faint, bittersweet touch of what he is told is essence of something called Pylene... or moondust. Perhaps both.
It is a fine life, as good, if Bray chooses to think that way, as long ago. And for the appearance of such fine gastronic grazing, the facade of the old wealth and ease, the likeness of a wonderful, untrouble, unthinking life that this President brings, Bray's loyalty is forever his, devoted and faithful as always... until death...
-the end-
(Done for a 'random song' challenge... and the piece of music, people?
J S Bach - 'Sheep May Safely Graze')