Note: My apologies for this one – but you say "WWI" and "royalty" and I think, "Romanovs!"
Tsar Nicholas & family were indeed in Spala, Poland, in the late summer of 1912, where Alexei suffered a near-fatal episode of hemophilia.
They're over the Aegean, nearly to Constantinople, and there doesn't seem to be enough time in the day to do everything that must be done. Alek marvels at that. Surely, at some point – with no one attempting to shoot them down, with all the ecosystems of the ship running smoothly – surely there must be a few idle minutes somewhere for the crew of the Leviathan.
But Dylan assures him that this is impossible. "There's always some sodding thing to do on this beastie," he says. Cheerfully.
Right now Dylan is walking Tazza and Alek is returning to his cabin (from whence he will go on to egg duty for Dr. Barlow) from his shift piloting the port engine. Despite their two conflicting duty schedules, there are always moments like this. It's a good feeling, that he has a friend who seeks him out.
"Do you know," Dylan says, "I've only just realized. If Dr. Barlow's so important, and those mysterious eggs of hers are so important, she'll go straight to the sultan. And since she'll likely have me dragging along behind her, doing all the work, I could meet him too!"
"Don't put a knife to his throat," Alek says.
Dylan scoffs and punches his arm, just hard enough to hurt. "Of course not! I'm not barking mad. But wouldn't that be brilliant? Me! Meeting a sultan!"
Alek looks at his friend. He feels a pang of jealousy despite himself; of course Dylan will meet Sultan Mehmed. The sultan will probably be impressed and offer him a job. "I suppose."
"Did you ever" – Dylan glances around, drops his voice conspiratorially - "meet him?"
"No," Alek says. Then, prompted by that selfish pang, he adds, "I met the czar once."
Dylan stops in his tracks. "Really?" he demands.
It's warm inside the Leviathan, heated as it is by both the Mediterranean sun and its own internal workings. Alek takes the pilot's goggles and hat off of his head and undoes the top few buttons on his leather jacket. "My parents and I visited him when he was on vacation in Poland, with his family."
There's a long moment of silence from Dylan, and then he breaks into an enormous eager grin. "Blisters! What was it like? What was he like?"
Alek thinks. He remembers meeting Nicholas, watching the man talk with his father. "Quiet," he says finally. "Tired. He wasn't what I expected. None of them were."
Dylan looks at him in blank astonishment. "Them?"
Instead of saying, The czaritsa, czarevich, and the four grand duchesses, which might sound suspicious, he says, "His wife, son, and daughters."
If it's possible, Dylan's eyes grow wider. "You met them all?"
"Of course. It was a family vacation," he says, and his friend shakes his head, disbelieving and impressed all at once.
He's secretly pleased that he's finally outdone Dylan. At the same time, it brings no real joy, because he himself did nothing to merit admiration. All he did was sit beside his mother on a very long and dull journey. Volger had come along, so he hadn't even gotten out of fencing lessons.
He feels guilty now for mentioning it in the first place.
"Well?" Dylan says, walking again. "What were they all like, then?"
Alek thinks of what he could say in answer. The czaritsa is high-strung and fluttery, prone to nerves, but she was gracious to Mother, which earned her Alek's approval. The girls… Two are older, and beautiful, and ignored him. The other two are closer to his age, and hung around the czarevich's room.
Maria wasn't too bad; she spent most of Alek's visit giggling over every soldier she saw. But Anastasia – what a holy little terror she was. Pinches, slaps, trip-ups, insults, and mocking imitations dogged him everywhere. When he complained to his mother, he was told not to be rude; when he complained to the czaritsa, she fluttered and did nothing. And Anastasia only intensified her attacks.
He sincerely hopes never to see her again.
"I don't really know what to tell you," he says now, shrugging. "I spent most of the time playing toy soldiers with the czarevich."
Dylan says something, but Alek doesn't hear it. He's been struck by the truth of that visit in the late summer of 1912, after his father and Volger returned from their own wanderings.
It hadn't been a political nicety. It hadn't been, as Alek had vaguely assumed, a family trip to appease Mother. No: Father had gone to tell the czar, who had tried in vain to help sort out Alek's inheritance, about the pope's dispensation.
And Father had brought along Alek so that the future Emperor of Austria-Hungary could meet the future Emperor of Russia.
Together he and the younger boy will rule half of Europe and most of Asia.
Alek played toy soldiers with him. Had been privately incredulous about his poor behavior. Had wondered, again vaguely, why Father had asked him so many questions about how he got on with the czarevich.
Alek and Alexei. My God, he thinks, distantly, they'll need to use our full titles just to keep from confusion.
He comes back to himself with a painful jolt; Dylan has punched his arm again, in precisely the same spot as before. "Don't nod off in the middle of the barking story!" his friend exclaims fiercely.
"Sorry," he says, rubbing at his arm despite himself. Dylan knows how to punch. "But as I said, there isn't much more than that. I can tell you Alexei would join the Russian Navy in a moment if he was allowed. He lives in that sailor uniform."
Dylan wrinkles his nose. "Who wants to join the navy when they can have the air service?"
They reach the cabin Alek shares with Volger, who isn't in. Probably the count is off spying on the captain. "Or the army," Alek says, and is amused when Dylan snorts in disgust.
But there's something to be said for solid ground beneath one's feet. This being aloft makes him dizzy when he think about it too long, for all that he spends hours at the engines.
He strips off his heavy, wind-resistant piloting togs and stows them – neatly because otherwise there will be no end of criticism from Volger – and while he does Tazza noses about and Dylan shares scuttlebutt regarding Constantinople.
Alek listens with one ear. He's thinking about the four Imperial Grand Duchesses.
In order to stabilize the Continent – whatever's left after the war – and assuming he's around to take power – not a certain thing either – he may have to marry one of the czar's daughters. Or at the very least, court them. That would be nice; political goals achieved without actually finding himself related to the erratic House of Romanov.
Perhaps he can even do so entirely by mail and diplomatic envoys. Girls like love letters, don't they?
Or… perhaps he won't have to do any of that at all. Perhaps he can let His Serene Highness, Prince Aleksandar, fade into the murky depths of war and history, and simply be Alek, who is a crack Stormwalker pilot and friends with a half-mad Scot.
He knows that it's impossible, but for a moment it sounds wonderful.
"I don't think they're very happy," he says, pausing in the doorway of his cabin, and Dylan stops talking.
"Who now? Oh, them." Dylan tugs on Tazza'a lead. "Aye, all those palaces and jewels – who wouldn't be miserable?"
Dylan's sarcasm is hard to ignore, but Alek does. He's silent for a long moment, thinking. "I don't think I was very happy," he finally says, mostly to himself. He looks at Dylan. "I think I like this life better."
" 'Course you do," Dylan says, not surprised at all. "It's the British Air Service."
Alek is taken aback. Then he laughs.
"Of course," he agrees, and he and his friend go on.
