August 5, 1997, London Heathrow Airport.
The rain fell densely and coldly, casting a leaden gray light on the runway. Prince Charles's private jet landed in the morning mist, heavy as if it carried not people, but the entire Royal Family's twilight.
The cabin door opened, and Charles appeared at the top of the gangway. He wore no hat, his sparse blond hair was wet with rain, sticking to his forehead. His complexion was even more ashen than before he went to xico, the shadows under his eyes were impossibly dark. He refused the umbrella offered by his assistant, walking down the gangway step by step, his footsteps unsteady, yet at the mont he touched the soil of the United Kingdom, his back involuntarily straightened—a habit built over seventy years, the Royal Family's deanor engraved in his bones.
There was no grand welcoming ceremony on the tarmac, only two unmarked black Land Rovers, and several security personnel in plain clothes with sharp eyes. Foreign Minister Crabben stood by the car, not holding a briefcase, but clutching a folded copy of The Tis, the headline revealing a few words through his fingers: "…end…negotiations…"
"Your Highness." Crabben approached, his voice dry.
Charles glanced at him, said nothing, and walked straight towards the first car. The car door closed, isolating the sound of rain.
The car's heating was high, yet could not dispel the chill.
"Speak." Charles leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes, "How many have died in the week I've been away?"
Crabben's Adam's apple rolled, he unfolded the newspaper, the headline across the top read: "Historic Concession: Governnt Principally Agrees to England Region's Autonomous Parliant Plan."
The subtitle was even more striking: "Scotland Acquires Full Oil & Gas Sovereignty, Thirty Billion Compensation Paynt Tiline Confird; Wales, Northern Ireland Negotiations Restarted; Pri Minister to Announce 'Future Frawork White Paper of the United Kingdom' Later Today."
Charles's eyes snapped open, he grabbed the newspaper, his fingers trembling from exertion.
He scanned quickly, those legal and political terms like burning needles piercing his eyes.
"Autonomous Parliant…National Referendum…Written Constitution…" he muttered these words, his voice hoarse, "They don't even plan to keep the term 'United Kingdom'? What do they want to rena it? 'Voluntary Commonwealth of England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland'?"
"I'm afraid…yes."
Crabben lowered his head, "Scotland's McTavish got a fatal advantage, we have no choice. Over at the English Congress, Sarah Kent's stance is extrely tough; at yesterday's secret eting she brought a laid-off worker and a single mother, the demand wasn't negotiation, it was 'notification.'
"Single mother?"
"Did he co to show us how hard it is to bring up a child?"
"Notify us that the English people want to reclaim power. She gave us a 'dialogue basis,' demanding recognition of the Congress's legitimate representative status, imdiate initiation of constitutional reform procedures, and authorized local community pilot autonomy. She said…" Crabben paused, "'London can choose to cooperate, be part of shaping New England; or be bypassed by history, becoming an antique in ruins.'"
Charles laughed, "Antique…Well said. We are indeed antiques. Placed there, seemingly valuable, but everyone knows they're empty, rusted, falling apart at a touch."
"I, as a prince, am not even as good as a dog!"
He watched the scenery of London flash by outside the window.
The rain made the city appear blurred and unfamiliar, those old buildings still standing, but the aura had changed. No longer the heart of the Empire, more like a giant old machine slowly ceasing to operate.
"Mother?" he asked.
"Her Majesty is in Windsor. She…read all the reports. She asked to tell you: 'Do what you must, then co back. The family is still here, though the house might be leaking.'"
Charles's eyes grew hot, he turned away to look out the window. Windsor…the place he grew up in, now becoming the Royal Family's last, shaky refuge.
The car did not head to Buckingham Palace, but towards Downing Street. The Pri Minister wanted to have one last "talk" with the Royal Family before the "White Paper" was published—or rather, notification.
The atmosphere inside 10 Downing Street felt like a vigil. The staff walked on tiptoe, speaking in hushed tones. The portraits of forr Pri Ministers on the walls seed to carry a mocking gaze.
In the Pri Minister's office, smoke filled the air. The Pri Minister himself resembled a dried-out mummy, slumped in a chair, holding a cigar that had long since gone out.
Charles ca in, the Pri Minister didn't even rise, rely raised a hand: "Sit, Your Highness. The final act."
"Act?" Charles sat down, his tone icy.
"Yes, act." The Pri Minister tugged at the corner of his mouth, "We are all actors. We've played the 'Great Empire' for so many years, now it's ti for the curtain call. You've seen the script—Scotland becos an independent kingdom, Wales and Northern Ireland gain high autonomy, England establishes its own parliant. The Queen remains everyone's 'nominal Supre Leader,' but the power…all at the local level. London Central Governnt, from now on maybe will just oversee postage stamp designs and weather forecast alerts."
He spoke lightly, but every word cut like a knife.
"Military? Diplomacy? Currency?" Charles asked.
"Military? Scotland wants to build its own forces, Wales and Northern Ireland will surely contend for it too. What's left, will probably be enough to guard the coastline. Diplomacy? Scotland is already flirting with xico, Wales is in contact with the European Union. Us? We continue yelling slogans behind the United States, if they're still interested in us. Currency?"
The Pri Minister finally lit the cigar, taking a deep draw, "The British Pounds? Soon it will just be the English Pound. Scotland will surely issue its own currency. As for value…once the Golden Docunt is exposed, do you think it holds any value?"
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