Snow fell quietly across the city of Ottawa.
It drifted in slow, deliberate flakes beneath the pale glow of streetlamps, settling upon rooftops, sidewalks, and the dark cars that moved through the capital’s quiet avenues.
Winter had co early that year, and the cold had settled firmly over the Canadian capital like an unwelco guest that had decided it would not soon leave.
For the residents of the city, it was simply another evening. For the n arriving in black governnt motorcars, it was sothing else entirely.
The convoy pulled to a halt outside the stone façade of Parliant Hill. Engines idled softly as uniford Canadian guards opened the doors and the passengers stepped out one by one.
The n wore heavy overcoats against the cold, their breath visible in the frozen air as they climbed the long staircase toward the building’s entrance.
Once, these n had represented the most powerful nations on Earth.
Tonight they gathered as guests.
Inside the great hall, the lights burned warmly against the winter gloom outside. Canadian officials moved quietly through the corridors, guiding their visitors toward the chamber that had been prepared for the eting.
The room itself was modest by international standards; far smaller than the grand halls of London or Paris, but it had served its purpose for several years now.
This gathering had beco sothing of a tradition. Each winter, the remnants of the old Atlantic order ca together in Ottawa.
The French delegation arrived first. Their governnt, still loyal to the republican institutions that had once ruled France, had been operating in exile since the end of the First Weltkrieg.
The remnants of the Third and Fourth Republics had arrived in Quebec in different decades and under different circumstances. But both had ultimately found themselves in exile as a result of the German Reich.
While the oldest arrivals had been here since as early as 1915, the newest mbers of this clique arrived only just a few years prior during the fall of the Fourth Republic and de Gaulle’s regi in 1938.
Paris itself remained under the restored monarchy of King Henri, whose governnt maintained cordial, if cautious, relations with Berlin.
But these n from exile had never accepted that reality. Nor were they welco in the holand they had long since fled.
Shortly afterward, the British representatives arrived. They were fewer in number than in previous years.
Britain still existed, of course. The island kingdom remained sovereign, its monarchy restored to a position of authority not seen since the days before Parliant had dominated political life.
Yet the old parliantary governnt, the one that had led Britain through the wars, had long since found itself unwelco at ho.
Like their French counterparts, many of them had taken refuge across the Atlantic. Canada had offered them both hospitality. After all, it was a nation of dual culture and language. Ottawa housed the British exiles, and Quebec housed the French.
Despite their generosity, what Canada could not offer these exiles of the old order was relevance.
One by one the delegations entered the chamber and took their seats around the long wooden table. The room grew quiet as the last of the participants arrived and the doors closed behind them.
For a few monts, no one spoke.
Outside, the snow continued to fall over Ottawa, and inside, the defeated architects of the old world prepared to discuss the new one.
Albert Lebrun opened the discussion by reading the words of a letter in his hand. A transcript written directly to them by the King of France. A token gesture of mockery, one that was sent yearly in words that seed nothing but sincere on the surface.
"My daughter, Marianne, celebrated her birthday this past September. Soon she will be old enough to marry a German prince."
"The French delegation held their heads low"
While the British scoffed and called out the absurdity.
"Must he really mock you so?"
Lebrun crumpled up the letter and tossed it aside. He was among the oldest mbers here, and the most senior of them.
After all, he was the French Minister of War when the Third Republic Fell, and had been lucky enough to find his way to Quebec before the civil war took his head like it did many of the other politicians who were foolish enough to stay behind.
He simply sighed, that is until the maid who was serving them all tea and pastries spoke her mind without invitation.
"I didn’t even realize the King of France had a daughter nad Marianne...."
Lebrun cast a glance at the woman as if he had just witnessed a peasant speak out of turn. His words cut through his teeth like the wind passing through the blade of a knife.
"He doesn’t... it’s a taphor...."
The maid instantly realized she had spoken out of place and perford a proper curtsey before running off.
"My apologies... I shouldn’t have spoken just now... Please carry on."
The n sighed and shook their heads. With one of the British exiles speaking his thoughts on the matter.
"I’m just glad the Tsar hasn’t pushed his forces east of Anchorage. Canada managed to survive the wars... That is sothing that the United States can’t say the sa...."
The United States... A na not whispered in these halls for several years now. What had beco of the land of stars and stripes was a sad state of affairs.
And none of them pressed the matter further. Instead, they simply lifted their cups of tea in solemn solidarity.
"To liberty!"
The words resounded throughout the hall, but the rest of the evening without any splendor. They drank, they snacked, they spoke of better tis, and a world that no longer resisted. And in the end, they returned to their hos in Ottawa and Quebec, to live the next year in irrelevance.
They would not convene again until next year’s winter. And when they did, there would be fewer among their ranks.
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