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It's not being together,

It's just following the rules

- from "Destiny Rules" by Fleetwood Mac

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"I expected you to join your travel companion in the ship's surgery," Volger says as Alek shuts the door to the stateroom. This one is fitted out as an office rather than a lounge. Volger's office, specifically. A desk, chairs, little else. Currently the desk boasts a great deal of correspondence and an aluminum coffee service.

Because the airship is an official vessel of the Kaiserliche und Königliche Monarchie, there is also framed portrait of Alek on the wall, which he glances at before looking away with a grimace.

"I would only be in the way," Alek says, seating himself in one of the aluminum-frame chairs. It's true, and it neatly sidesteps the actual reasons why he isn't hovering at Deryn's side now that they're aboard the Kétsas.

One: it's incredibly difficult to watch her be in pain, and have no way to alleviate it.

Two: she's furious with him, if the cursing and scowls are any indication.

Three: he's rather furious with her, as well.

He's also tired and cold, and hasn't begun to work through the complicated knot of guilt and regret that comes with killing two men. He's in no mood to have the conversations he knows he needs to have with Volger. The conversations he will have, because as emperor, he has no choice.

It says something about one's job, he reflects, when the most enjoyable part is running for one's life.

Volger has taken the seat behind the desk. Technically, this is an insult, as Alek has the higher rank and therefore should have the more commanding seat. Now he says, "She seems a charming girl."

Alek isn't fooled by the bland tone; this is also, technically, an insult. He gives Volger a dark look. "Hauptmann Sharp was injured in service to me."

One eyebrow lifts. "Indeed."

"She's saved my life several times this week."

The eyebrow remains up.

Alek resists the urge to squirm in his chair like a disobedient child and instead says, voice level and brisk, "I made her an offer of marriage."

Volger sighs.

"You'll be pleased to know that she declined," Alek adds. This time he only sounds bitter.

What she had actually said, standing atop the castle tower, moonlight gleaming on her hair, the glacier and his heart laid at her feet, was You bloody sodding Dummkopf, what are you thinking? I'd rather be dead than be an empress!

The abbreviated version serves just as well.

He'd said something in reply – something perfectly stupid, he's sure – and it had swiftly devolved into a lot of angry words. He can't remember the specifics, only the wretched hurt of it. Then she'd stomped down the tower stairs, refusing his assistance, and would no doubt have limped straight across the glacier to the Kétsas had the landing party not reached them first.

He cannot understand it. He was certain – on the train to Lyon, she had seemed – and whenever they'd stopped for rest on the walker portion of their journey, she'd practically clung to him –

But he was wrong. She would rather be dead than his empress.

Would it truly be so awful? It is a lot of work, a lot of scrutiny, and occasionally a lot of danger - but one also lives in palaces and has every luxury available. Not to mention that it would mean that they could be together.

Yes, how odious. God's wounds.

Volger makes a noncommittal noise and silently gives over a cup of hot coffee, which Alek needs more than he cares to admit. He drinks, then simply holds the cup with both hands, appreciating the warmth. Outside, the engines change pitch, the floor lurches, and they are off.

Does the surgery have portholes? It must. He wonders if Deryn has a view of the mountains, or if she even cares to see. Perhaps she's preoccupied. Has the ship's doctor begun his examination yet?

How badly is she hurt?

It doesn't matter. She doesn't want to marry him, which means she's merely a captain of his Air Corps, and he will not trouble himself over her any further than that.

When she'd cried out and fallen -

No. No, he has other things to worry about. Alek tries to put away his fear for her health and the humiliation of his disastrous proposal, and to focus on something more pleasant, like the pending loss of his crown. "Vienna, I assume?"

"Eventually," Volger says. "We have a few more urgent places to go first."

Cryptic. Of course. Perhaps that's why Alek finds Deryn's straightforwardness so refreshing; he's spent the last five years receiving vital information in the smallest possible morsels, and being forced to beg for more.

Unfortunately for Volger, Alek doesn't care to drag out any further details about their destinations. He drinks his coffee and stares at the electrikal light affixed to the ceiling.

He almost misses the unsteady, sickly green glow of Darwinist lamps.

"How bad is it?" he asks, because he must. "How many of my ministers are part of this?"

Volger meets his eyes for a long, steadying moment. "Half."

Alek curses and pushes a hand through his hair. Half. No doubt the same half who have been bickering and grumbling about all of his reforms. The same half who have hounded him to marry a Catholic princess but were suspiciously silent when his trip to Britain was announced. The same rabidly traditional half who would have been in a fury about his proposal to Deryn.

The same half who will be unavailable for protest once he has them put on trial for high treason.

It's a grim sort of satisfaction, but he takes it. "And who is behind it?"

"Princess Stéphanie of Belgium."

The name is so wholly unexpected that it takes Alek a moment to understand it, then another to remember where it falls in the tangled family trees of royal Europe. He sets his empty cup on the desk. "Kronprinz Rudolf's wife."

Volger nods, his face impassive.

Crown Prince Rudolf, whose death saw inheritance of the empire shift to Alek's father, and thence to Alek. It hadn't simply been a death, though. Rudolf had killed one of his mistresses and then himself; a personal tragedy, a family tragedy, a dynastic tragedy, a national tragedy, a shocking scandal, an impossibly heretical last act from the future His Most Catholic Majesty.

In the devastation afterwards, his wife and daughter had faded into the background, though it seems the princess has only been biding her time.

Alek would like to be as impassive as his former fencing tutor, but he can't keep the incredulity from his voice: "Who is she putting forth as claimant? Herself?"

Volger has poured himself a cup of coffee, and he sips it calmly. "The prince's daughter, of course. Archduchess Elisabeth Marie."

Alek stares. "A woman can't inherit the throne."

Otherwise the double-eagle crown would be resting on the capable head of Franz Joseph's oldest daughter, and Alek would be a minor prince from a side branch of the House of Hapsburg-Lorraine.

"Still less a devoted Socialist," Volger says, dry. "One suspects the princess didn't consult her daughter's wishes on the matter. My agents report the archduchess has been taken from her home and is being held at the princess' Pressburg estate, presumably against her will, as they openly loathe each other. We shall retrieve her."

After the week Alek's had, storming a castle to rescue an archduchess sounds positively dull. "And half of my ministers are supporting this - this farce?"

"The archduchess is a direct descendent of Franz Joseph, and has three sons from an equal marriage." Volger folds his hands in his lap and leans back slightly in his chair. "And her mother has access to considerable funds."

Ah yes, because Princess Stéphanie is the daughter of King Leopold II, who owned - and exploited - the lucrative Congo Free State. That answers the question of who paid for the assassins.

"While I have only a papal dispensation," Alek says. One that's already been challenged in legal and ecclesiastical court. The ecclesiastical case is still ongoing, in point of fact. If Archduke Karl had been intent on becoming emperor three years ago, Alek would have been on shaky ground indeed - but his father's cousin had been glad to pass the throne on to someone else.

Alek doesn't lean back in his chair; he slumps, propping one elbow on an armrest and cradling his forehead against a sudden headache.

This is not a farce.

A direct descendent of the previous emperor, with three male heirs already extant and a close connection to another royal house, could very well outweigh Alek's claim - particularly if the archduchess is only named as a regent for her oldest son. It's precisely the sort of maneuver that would-be kings and kingmakers have been pulling since before the Roman Empire, never mind the Holy Roman Empire.

And half of his ministers are championing it.

For the first time, it seems that losing his crown is not merely possible, but the most likely outcome.

All of that effort, fleeing across Europe - and Deryn's injury. How badly is she hurt? And is it to be for naught?

Though perhaps she'll marry him if -

Volger lays two folded newspapers on the desk, one atop the other, precisely in the center of the blotter. "Heaven also seems to have dispatched an angel."

"An angel," he repeats, uncomprehending, then looks at the newspapers. The top one is Die Presse, published in Vienna two days earlier.

BRITAIN'S ANGEL AIDING EMPEROR, it proclaims. The headline is accompanied by a photograph of Deryn Sharp arriving at the London party where they first met, beautiful and strong and clever. Angelic, in a word.

Alek fairly snatches up the newspaper, his heart racing. According to unnamed, "highly placed" sources cited by a certain Eddie Malone, the decorated British lieutenant from his initial story has been revealed as Miss Deryn Sharp, formerly of His Majesty's Royal Air Service, and previously believed to have been discharged from the military in some disgrace.

Malone asserts that this was all a ruse; that as a virtuous, patriotic young woman, Miss Sharp has long been working as an undercover agent of sorts for the British government; and that she was sent along by King George V himself, who wisely feared for the safety of his guest and ally, Emperor Aleksandar. There follows an impressive recounting of Miss Sharp's valorous exploits during the war and in service to the emperor, as well as the promise that she will be acting as a liaison for the empire's Darwinist allies.

In the end, she does sound rather like Joan of Arc. Or, as Malone repeatedly refers to her, the Angel of the Airships, which is no less ridiculous than his original Angel of the Air, but at least more descriptive of her area of expertise.

Die Presse concludes by exhorting the people of Austria-Hungary to support their emperor.

"Most of this is false," Alek says to Volger, returning the paper to the desk, photograph facing upwards. His heart is still pounding. Diabolically clever of Malone - but false.

"Of course it is," Volger says. He seems most unimpressed. "May I ask - how did you meet?"

"At this party," Alek says, tapping the photograph. There had been photographers lurking on the street outside, he remembers, probably to take pictures of him; he's glad one of them captured Deryn instead. "She offered to show me London from her balloon."

Volger makes a noise that exactly indicates his opinion of such forwardness. "An offer you took at face value, as you did the telegraph recalling you home."

Alek counters the barb with one of his own: "That telegraph came from your office."

Volger does not say I taught you better than that, but the sentence hangs in the air nonetheless.

Alek sighs and takes up the second newspaper. Wiener Zeitung is the official publication of his government, and as such, it's far more staid. The long editorial supporting his claim to the throne is only to be expected - but the equally long editorial singing Deryn Sharp's praises is a surprise indeed.

"What's this?" he asks. Accuses, rather.

Volger's eyebrow lifts again. "In order to strengthen your claim to the throne, Your Majesty, you need to hold the morally superior position, which you cannot do if you appear to be frolicking around Europe with a foreign girl of dubious virtue."

Alek begins to protest on Deryn's behalf, then reconsiders. Volger's correct, for one, and for another, he doesn't need to advertise exactly how much he knows about her virtue. "We were hardly frolicking."

Volger finishes his coffee. "Regardless. You will agree that it was clever of the British king to have dispatched such an exemplary agent to safeguard you on your journey."

"One who will serve as a liaison with the British government, which now must support me, since Malone has established it before the world as a fait accompli." Alek finds himself grinning. Perhaps he'll knight Eddie Malone, too, because where Britain goes, the rest of the Allied nations will follow.

A papal dispensation, an angel… and half the world. He'd like to see Princess Stéphanie match that.

"Miss Sharp's story has seized the imagination of the masses as well. Romanticized drivel, obviously. My agents report that a film serial is already being made." Volger refolds the copy of Weiner Zeitung and sets it aside, although Alek half expects him to use the paper to sweep away the zeitgeist he so clearly disdains.

"A film serial," Alek says. He's still grinning. "Brilliant. We'll have it screened at the Schönbrunn. Or the Hofburg, if need be."

Volger does not share his enthusiasm. "Appearances must be maintained, for the benefit of the Darwinist nations and your hoi polloi, but after today, Your Majesty, you would be wise to limit your time with the 'Angel of the Airships'."

Alek's eyes go to Die Presse's photograph of Deryn, almost despite himself. He picks up the newspaper again before Volger can, studying the picture. She looks bright and lively, unlike the exhausted, scowling, filthy young woman currently aboard.

Scowling, filthy, and so dear that he'd insisted on carrying one pole of the stretcher they'd used to transport her to the airship.

It seems a lifetime ago that he heard her laughing from across a room in London. He remembers the magnetic feeling that drew him toward her. The way he could not bring himself to end their conversation. His pleasure at the prospect of spending more time with her.

Had he somehow known, even then, how important she would be?

Guilt and worry crowd back in, along with frustration and anger - at himself, this time. What was he thinking? He'd gone about it completely wrong. Tossing out a proposal so casually, before even telling her of his feelings for her! Of course she refused him.

God's wounds. He'll ask her again. Properly.

She has to agree.

I had to fly, her voice says in his memory, bleak and lonely, and the gears click into place.

Suddenly, abruptly, he understands why she refused. The insight leaves him reeling and slightly nauseous.

She was right; he is a Dummkopf.

A crown on her head won't be a gift, nor a palace a luxury; they will be anchors, permanently mooring her to the earth. Denying her the freedom to do what she loves, what she excels at doing.

He can't imagine a life without her. Yet how can he ask her to imagine a life in a cage?

He's gripping the newspaper so tightly that it's threatening to tear. He takes a deep, steadying breath and relaxes his fingers.

"You shall need to minimize her actual involvement with any decisions, as well," Volger is saying. "Perhaps she can serve as secretary during meetings, although I shudder to think about such a creature's penmanship."

"I've asked her to advise me regarding air combat," Alek says, still looking at the photograph although no longer seeing it. His voice sounds strange to his own ears, and he swallows. It helps his throat, though it does nothing for the hollow sensation in his chest.

"Reasonable," Volger allows. "I trust you won't feel honor-bound to actually take her advice."

Startled, Alek frowns at him. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Indeed," his prime minister says, scornful. "Why wouldn't you propose marriage a mere week after meeting her?"

Alek sets the paper aside. This is beginning to feel like a fencing lesson, and he doesn't want to fence, or be taught a lesson. He wants to check on Deryn. Speak to the doctor. Fix his mistakes. "You told me to propose to Princess Mary sight unseen."

Volger gives him an unamused look. "Princess Mary expects a diplomatic marriage. The best Miss Sharp should expect is payment in exchange for her silence."

Anger flares. "She deserves more than -"

Volger brings the flat of his palm down on the desk with a sharp crack and a sharper, "Enough!"

Evidently Alek isn't the only one growing angry.

"Your Majesty," Volger says. Low. Angry. "You have more important matters to deal with. She has been useful, and she may very well be the most perfect woman in all existence -"

Alek scowls, his own anger growing. "No, but she is amazing, and I won't have -"

"You will need to maneuver carefully -"

"Easier to do with a capable empress -"

Volger ends the argument with a furious, "This ruined your father!"

The words cut into him. Deeply. As they are meant to. Even as Alek flinches from the wound, even as he readies a return strike - he looks at Volger. Truly looks at him.

His fencing tutor. His guardian. His prime minister.

More than that: his father's oldest, dearest friend.

The nearest thing to a father he has left.

He closes his eyes. Takes a breath that only makes the hollowness in his chest ache more. "I know," he says quietly. Opens his eyes. The man on the other side of the desk looks suddenly old and tired and human, and it makes Alek flinch all over again. "Volger. I know."

He'd thought the same thing, after all, on the train to Lyon. Thought it, then blithely disregarded it, exactly as he'd cast aside any consideration for Deryn's feelings on the matter. As he's doing to Volger's concerns now.

Perhaps this is indeed a farce, though not a very amusing one. He runs a hand over his face. "If you wish to resign..."

Volger scoffs. The sound is familiar, expected, and Alek draws his next breath around a small splinter of relief. At least he hasn't ruined everything. "You can hardly do without me, Your Majesty."

Alek inclines his head in acknowledgement. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

"A cabin has been prepared for you," Volger says after a long, watchful pause. "There should be hot water in the officers' baths as well, although not much of it. Damned inconvenient way to travel, in many respects."

Alek nods. "I think," he says, then stops. "Thank you. I'd like to speak with the captain after I bathe, as well as the doctor, if he's available."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

Alek stands, and Volger comes to his feet too, as protocol dictates.

"I can't marry her," Alek says. Each word hurts.

Volger shakes his head. Slowly. Not without pity.

Alek is cold, tired, full of grief and regret and worry and fear, and for a brief mad instant he wishes Volger was his father, for then he could let all of it show. He could collapse and be forgiven. But such a thing is unthinkable, when they're still using Sie with one another. When he is the emperor.

An emperor cannot collapse, even when his crown is killing him.

"Thank you for the rescue, sir," Emperor Aleksandar says. And he goes.

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Very Long Author's Note: Die Presse was first published in 1848. Weiner Zeitung ("Viennese Newspaper"), founded in 1703 and formally taken over by the Austrian government in 1810, is one of the oldest newspapers in the world still being published.

Princess Stéphanie! As much as I feel kinda sorry for her, she sounds like… not a fun person. Later in life, she wrote a memoir entitled "I Was to Be Empress". Bitter much, Steph? Plus, her dad was a genocidal monster - the term "crimes against humanity" was coined in 1890 to describe what Leopold did to the people of the Congo. Actually, it's weird she's not used as a villain more often, she's definitely got the right ingredients.

More about Archduchess Elisabeth Marie to come, because Erzsi may be my favorite Hapsburg yet.

I can't do justice to Rudolf, poor Baroness Mary Vetsera (WHO WAS 17, EW RUDOLF), and the Mayerling Incident in an author's note, but you'll find plenty written about it out there.

The Schönbrunn Palace was the imperial summer residence; the Hofburg was the principal residence, and also the winter one, because why not.

Finally, in German, du is the informal form of you while Sie is formal. It's a whole thing that makes me glad English dropped its informal you a long time ago (RIP, thou). But yeah, there's no way Alek and Volger are using du with each other. Shame, 'cause that boy needs a hug. Maybe he'll get one next chapter!

Happy 2021!