Prologue: One Good Deed…

"This is outrageous! Absurd!" The man stomped his jackboots, face red with rage and eyes bloodshot.

Tomislav observed from his appointed seat on the table, he was a good 5 meters from him, yet even from here he could see the anger bursting from the soldiers every crevice. Between them stood his 'advisors', the King's own personal cabinet. His captors.

"As we have already told you, Signore Francetic" Emilio Arconni, his minister of foreign affairs, was quick to step in as he always did. His pure white suit made for a stark contrast to Francetices jet black uniform. "The Kingdom of Croatia is grateful for your service, and we thank you deeply for the many years you have given this country and its people-..." before the moustachioed italian could continue his sentence Francetic interrupted, once more pointing his finger through a leather glove.

"People?! What fucking people?! We're the last true Croats left! I knew it, I FUCKING KNEW IT!" Francetić's rant continued. "From the very first day I told Pavelić not to trust you jew-loving communist SHITBAGS!"

"Watch your fucking tongue." Enrico Bellini, the secretary of the interior of Tomislav's government, finally spoke up. "Be happy that we gave you this much, if it were up to the Germans you'd be in the gas chambers by now." he spoke with a quiet ferocity on his tone, another contrast to the stark-raving lunacy of Francetić's current tantrum.

"The Germans? Oh, the fucking GERMANS?! Those sons of Judas? Himmler was right, you're all just a gaggle of judeo-bolshevik cocksuckers."

Arconni looked not even an ounce distraught at the constant beratement coming from Francetic, while Bellini might as well have been shooting bullets with the stare he was giving the man. Yet while the argument persisted, Tomislav began to have his thoughts wander. He couldn't help but admit how right Francetić was, in some ways Tomislav was sure Pavelić believed his right hand during all those years, but was powerless to do anything. Since the very first beginnings of Ustashe rule, Croat and Italian influences were at a constant conflict with one another, a problem that only enrooted itself further as time went on.

"You…" Francetić cut himself off from his ramblings and turned to look at Tomislav. As the two made eye contact the Ustashe once more began pointing, this time directly at him. "This was your idea, I know it." the man's voice had become dangerously low. "Since the first time you came here you've been against us. I've seen the way you always looked at our men. No one wanted you here Italian, and no one wants you still. I wish Tito's little band caught you and not that piss poor excuse of a cousin you had back in Rome."

"That's enough!" Bellini's boiling point had finally been reached. "I won't have you speaking ill of our late king, you illiterate pig of a man!" Yet despite the old politician's voice bellowing throughout the entire room, Francetić did not spare him even a passing glance.

"This was your doing. You did this." Through Bellini's yelling he could hear Francetić muttering those words towards him. Once he had recognized he was being ignored, the secretary looked near ready to jump at Francetić from rage. "I will strangle you with my own bare hands, you Italian bastard."

Tomislav tensed, his gaze shifting between both Francetić and the guards stationed at the doors at an increasing pace, the closer Francetić was getting, the more Tomislav began to think he was actually going to try and kill him right here and now. Surely he wasn't that suicidal was he? Or was this all a ploy by Bellini to finally get rid of him? Will they all just stand aside while Francetić kills him in cold blood?

"Mark my words, I will-"

"No, you won't." Josip Novak stepped between Francetić and the King. The security minister, and only Croatian within the inner circles of the government, his representation to the nation's changes was equivalent to his own people's, that is to say, little to none. Yet despite his non-existent influence within the government, his tall stature and physique lent well to whenever he wished to exert authority.

Novak and Francetić stared each other down, the Ustashe was perhaps a full head shorter than the man, yet that same rage and bloodlust remained when he looked the defence minister in the eyes. "You fucking jew…" Francetić muttered.

Josip did not respond, he merely turned his gaze over to the two guards stationed at the door. "Scortato fuori." he ordered in Italian and the guards immediately responded. All the while Francetić did not break away from looking at the man.

"This isn't over." he said simply as the guard grabbed his arm. Shaking off the italian soldiers grasp, Francetić marched out of the room, the two soldiers following closely behind, weapons at the ready just in case.

Once the doors were closed, Tomislav breathed a sigh of relief. The hardest part was over, now came only the paperwork, and that, at least, he was used to. He was not alone in this sense of relief it seemed, as the four members of his cabinet all seemed to slowly begin loosening up.

"Well, that was quite the… event." Tomislav's economic minister, Petro Inogla, readjusted his spectacles before taking a big gulp. Throughout that entire meeting he stood seated and quiet as a mouse, no doubt in an attempt to not be noticed and remembered by Francetić. He most likely succeeded in that, what he lacked in actual economic knowledge he made up for with being a crony desk jockey.

"We should have arrested him right away, thrown him in a cell on one of those islands." Bellini commented, rubbing his brow from exhaustion.

"We would have had the army in open revolt then, something we don't have the manpower to deal with." Arconni argued as he too took a seat.

"And how is that any different then what we are going to have now? In the next few days about half our forces are going to desert with him into the mountains and it'll be the Checker War all over again." Bellini and Arconni were often at odds with one another, yet they kept it civil, which was appreciated.

"No." Novak interrupted the two's argument, he was the only one in the room now still standing, which further added to the man's imposing nature. "The Legion are loyal, they'll go with him, the others will stay." He was not a man of many words, a position that much suited someone of his more figurehead role, yet when he did speak those words commanded attention.

"Let's hope you're right then, Signore." Bellini sighed and rubbed his brow once more. "Otherwise, it's our asses on the line."

"No one will miss Francetić and his little goons, if it weren't for Tito they would have gotten the boot before the war was even over." Arconni jumped in once more, readjusting the loose-fitted tie around his neck.

"Yes, and this was an order from the highest standard, a royal decree if you will." Inogla grinned through his pencil moustache and shot a look over to the King. No doubt a snide remark, if there was anyone that rat felt confident enough in belittling it might as well have been him.

Arconni let out a chuckle at the comment, while Bellini and Novak stood stone-faced as ever. Tomislav himself had had enough of this whole ordeal. "Gospodo," he spoke in Croatian, which caught the Italian men's attention quite quickly. "If you shall excuse me." the rest he spoke in Italian, which at least all four of his advisors understood. "I think I shall retire for the day."

"Of course, your Majesty." Bellini said. "I can have a few guards come and escort you back to your-"

"That's quite alright Enrico, I'll not be heading to my room yet. I shall be in my office." Tomislav pulled aside his chair and finally stood back on his feet after what felt like days of being trapped in that damnable thing. "If there is anything else of importance… well, I'm sure you won't be needing my attendance for it."

As he walked out of the room Bellini seemed to be the only one to muster up enough effort for a salute, the standard greeting and farewell of the King, a standard many rarely followed. Upon his exit of the meeting room, he could still hear Bellini clearly before he fully opened the doors. "Now, onto matters of the army…" he did not bother to listen in on the rest.

'They've stopped even waiting for me to leave.' he thought grimly. No matter, Tomislav had long accepted his role as the puppet on a string, this was just all part of the play.

The Royal Palace was as empty as ever, with large and open halls lining the spaces of the building. Across it all were portraits, busts, memorabilia from the war. His cousins, members of House Savoy, stood triumphantly alongside artistic interpretations of old Croatian monarchs. Beneath them were busts, figureheads of olden figures that were thought to be "bulwarks" of modern Croatian values. It was like coming through a tunnel of lies and hatred, his stomach churned every time, trying not to make eye contact with the dozens of figures staring him down. In the end however, that corner was always there, a left turn that would take him to his office, yet he was always there.

Ante Pavelić's portrait stood tall at the end of the hall, an oak frame surrounding him with the heavy stone walls surrounding the picture, yet Tomislav could not grovel any longer, he lifted his head and stared at the picture, as he always did. The Poglavnik, that's what they called him. The two locked eyes, a silent moment once more. Somewhere outside the thick walls he could hear people walking and talking, going on about their daily lives. How many of those people would not see the light of day come next morning? How many of them are on their last legs from 12 hour work days at some factory or mine?

"You did this…" Francetić's words echoed through Tomislav's mind, and no matter how much he tried to shake them off it was to no avail. Once more his eyes found themselves locked with Pavelić.

'No, you did.' was all he could think. Funny, even in death, Pavelić and his little cronies would not stop giving him a headache. 'A cancer, that's all you were, one that needed to be cut out a long time ago.'

He recalled the first time they had met, all those years ago in the Winter of 42'. There with his cousin Vittorio and his brother Amedeo, the Governor had pulled out all the stops to make him and his family feel welcome. Indeed, at that time he still felt some tinge of duty for his position, but that feeling disappeared a long time ago, as did any sense of formality between the two men. In a strange sense, he was perhaps the only person Tomislav could be honest with, yet that did not mean they sat around a coffee table exchanging pleasantries. No, their conversations were of a much more volatile nature. But now Pavelić was gone, and with him perhaps any hopes of an Ustashe government. At least that is what Tomislav hopes.

He sighed, and continued to his office. Once seat to the many Bans and administrators of Croatia, now the official office of the King. Indeed, this entire building has been known as the Court of Bans, yet it was quickly refurbished into a poor man's excuse for a Royal Palace.

Once he was at the doors Tomislav moved to open them but was stopped by a voice. "Your Majesty, a moment." a low tone greeted him, and for a moment he had thought it might have been Francetić come to finish the job. To his relief, it was not, rather, it was his Defense Minister, Novak.

"Josip, how can I help you?" the burly man in uniform marched towards the King with purpose in his steps, it was clear he was here for something.

"I've come to thank you." or perhaps not.

"Me? What for?" The surprise on his face was obvious, Tomislav could not remember the last time someone had thanked him for anything.

"I know it was you who proposed the act against the Ustashe. Despite Arconni's inate ramblings that it was his idea or the Council's." Novak wore his uniform nearly at all times, it was rare to see the man without his medals and military cap, in some ways he reminded Tomislav of Amedeo.

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but perhaps you would be better to stick with Arconni's… ramblings. I know that you are still new to your position so-"

"No." Novak cut him off almost immediately. "I saw them in the meeting room just now, the only time they seemed sure of this whole decision was when faced directly with Francetić himself. Eyes darting left and right, grunts and sighs at every interjection, only you focused yourself entirely to the matter at hand."

"I do not know what your definition of focused is, however I doubt I could have participated much in that discussion, in fact I don't think I said even a word."

"You did not have to." Novak took off his cap and placed it under his arm. "A Decade and a Half we have endured them, your Majesty. The pain, the suffering, one can only shudder to recall it. Yet with nothing but a stroke of the pen and a royal stamp, you've possibly ended it all. You may think we hate you, your Majesty, in reality, I am sure many of my people do, but if it means anything, then know that today you have earned the loyalty of at least one of us."

He looked at the stone-faced minister with scanning eyes, not sure as to how to react. It had been so long since he had any sort of conversation like this, one where someone talked to him with even an ounce of respect.

"Careful who you proclaim your loyalties to, Josip." Tomislav said, his voice low and grim. "Your people did so happily to the Germans once. How are you sure you aren't just trading one jackboot for another?"

"You are right, it seems my people are doomed to forever be under servitude. That is the reality I have long accepted. Yet if that is the case, then I say better the Italian jackboot than the German cross."

Tomislav could only stare in disbelief as Novak gave him a sharp salute. This man stood before him, half a head taller and with a face lined with scars of wars long gone, he stood before him as loyal as a dog ready to have his collar put on him. How can anyone look at this sort of sight and not see only pity...

"At ease…"

Yet as Novak turned and left he did not see a beaten and broken dog, a slave clasped in irons. He saw a man in uniform, his medals pinned proudly on his chest, marching off with the same discipline as if it had been drilled into him his entire life. Who knows, perhaps it was.

'What difference is there between a boot and a cross if both will crush you all the same?' was all Tomislav could think of as he opened the doors to his office and entered, closing them behind him.

With a tired sigh he walked over to his desk where a single letter waited for him. On it, the seal of England, and the Royal Coat of arms for Britain. He placed a few logs into the fireplace and let it alight before opening a bottle of brandy and pouring it into a glass. As he sat on a chair opposite the fireplace, Tomislav finally opened the letter. Inside, a hand-written message, one with writing he could very clearly recognize.

Dear Thomas,

It has been a while since I've heard from you, an equal fault of mine I'm sure. No doubt a long time has passed since we have last talked or exchanged letters like this. I wanted to thank you for your suggestion of spending the Winter in your Diarnic Alps in Bosnia. It was quite fun, I must say I had forgotten how entertaining skiing was, Wallis loved it as well.

You shall also surely be glad to know that your family is doing well here in Buckingham. I do not know much of the troubles currently happening on the mainland, nor in your own Kingdom sadly, however when you wrote to me all those months ago asking if your family could stay here I assume you did so knowing I would never refuse. I had told your wife and sons of my intent to send this letter to you, they give you their best wishes and love, and your sons ask when next you will be able to visit them. Unfortunately, I was not able to give them an answer.

In regards to my own family, Wallis seems to have gone down with a cold, but otherwise she is fine, the vacation seems to have done her good all things considered, and she is no longer so downtrodden. Albert and Mary still refuse to talk to me, and while Mary is with her husband and son most of the time, Albert and his own family have decided to stay in Vancouver, they have not told me when, or if, they plan to come back home.

Even so, I must admit to you that a part of me is glad they have decided to stay in America. It might be rather uncouth to the no-doubt many German spies that will read through this letter, but I fear for their lives greatly. There have been many nights where I laid awake thinking of what could be happening to them, and how I would be powerless to stop it. But I say to hell with the Krauts, I won't let anything happen to Albert and the girls, my own head be damned.

Stay strong and be well my friend.

Yours sincerely,

David

Tomislav smiled, his letters with the English King were infrequent to say the least, yet they were a small bastion of light in his cloudy world. It was strange to think of the kinship the two had managed to find with one another when they met all those years ago. The Summer of 1948, the year the war had finally ended. A massive ball in Frankfurt was announced, with all of the important figures in this new Nazi world order being invited. The two then seemed to simply find one another, two Kings without crowns and without Kingdoms. Yet in their powerlessness they found some sort of solace in each other's company, and soon Tomislav found himself in contact with the King of England as a good friend.

Taking a large gulp from his glass he began to feel the warmth of the fire overtake him, and he could finally relax. Across from him Tomislav turned and looked out the distant window into even more distant streets. His palace, his gilded cage, the prison that encompassed not only this building, but the entire damnable country. He was glad at least that his wife and children managed to escape it, if only for so little a time.

It had not always been like this. Back during the war, when he was first crowned, there were still those who fought against the Germans. Nations, armies, allies who stood up against the hooked cross. Now all that remains is fractions, remnants of a bygone age that seemed like centuries past. When he was first crowned, Tomislav was far more than open in his disdain and distrust of both German and Italian influences seeping into the country. This country, his Kingdom. A King hailing from a country he was not even born in, to rule over a nation of peoples whose language he did not even know, a people who despised him.

No, it truly hadn't always been like this. All those years ago, he envisioned himself a different man, a man who fought for what he believed in. He saw himself tampering the influence of the Ustashe as some brave acts of defiance, yet in the end it proved as nothing more than small bumps in the road. Yet he did not give up. Five long years he did what he could, smuggling information, changing documents, hindering reports. Any small thing that could be done he did so gladly. Yet whatever fire that still burned within him was put out when the Germans took Moscow, when London was bombed to dust, when Washington was conquered. Five long years he fought, five long years of defiance all vanished in a moment when the war was lost.

Now all that remained was a puppet on a string, dancing to the tunes of the real masters.

His thoughts raced back to the words of Novak, and the sincerity of it all. It had been such a long time since he had seen someone look at him in such a way, a gaze did not speak pages upon pages of disgust or pity. In the end, the worst part of it all was that he was right, Tomislav was the one to put the notion of disbanding the Ustashe high command forth, the first notion he had put forth in many years.

"...know that today you have earned the loyalty of at least one of us."

'Loyalty.' Tomislav thought. This man who had spilled blood for a country that was not even his, who stood beside those that only looked at him as some sort of third-rate racehorse to show off in front of the cameras. Tomislav had earned that man's loyalty. 'It's not loyalty I want though.' he took another sip of his drink. 'I want to go home.'

Home, such a distant place it felt like now. His house back in Italy, with his brother. He knew very well that was no longer his real home. Croatia was his home. He was King Tomislav the Second, first King of the new Kingdom of Croatia. A sham kingdom, yet it was his nonetheless. But no, it wasn't, not even that. Prince Aimone's home was in Italy, yet Prince Aimone left his home a long time ago. Prince Aimone was no longer.

Tomislav downed what was left of the brandy in his glass and stood up from his chair. Hands folded behind his back he slowly walked up to the window overlooking the streets below. He saw people, his people, yet at the same time how could he call them that. He was not Croatian, he could speak their language, dress like them, act like them, but he will never be one of them.

Yet that did not mean this was not his Kingdom. The Ustashe are gone, and they will not be coming back. Though grim it may be, Tomislav could only hope that in the future these people, beaten, broken and bruised, may one day finally see the light of freedom they dream of ever-so badly.

'If my legacy is to be a King with an empty and meaningless throne, then may my actions today at least be remembered by you all. May this be the one good deed of my life…'