Reminds me of the masterpiece that is the Gay Adventures of Friedrich the Great, King in Prussia in AfotAM
The Regency Crisis of '75: An Imperial Russian Tale
- Thread starter Greg Grant
- Start date
You know you’re on AH.com when there’s gay slashfic of a Prussian king floating around
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIII
Having left behind a five Romanov strong council to write out the official announcement on the sudden death of Tsar Alexander IV and his regency, Gavril Ioannovich retreated to his lodge, one last time. Well-wishers came and went, and he took it all in stride, adopting the mantle of Olympian aloofness.
"Let me be the latest to congratulate you on become Regent," said Major-General Count Dolgorukiy when at least he managed to make his way to his lodge brother.
"No thanks to you," said Gavril Ioannovich.
The Count blanched, but did not dispute it. He drew himself up straight.
"Oh stop sucking in your gut, Fedya. You hurt me. But then again I hurt you. Happens. Power is a mad thing. I was ready to make a deal with Uncle Vasya to get it. But that's all over now. First things first, you will dismantle the Okhrana."
General-Major Dolgorukiy nodded with delight.
"Secondly, the trains will stop."
"Trains?"
"The trains to the middle of nowhere. No more 'habitual offenders.' No more bloody exiles."
The Count exhaled, in regency Gavril Ioannovich was fulfilling his secret hopes.
"Thirdly, you retire to your estates."
The Count's face dropped.
"You talked yourself into Alexander Alexandrovich over me, Fedya. I cannot forget that. But if you destroy Okhrana and retire in peace, your nephew will be made a general and I will put him in charge of the Quartermaster Corps. Oh, and that cousin of yours, who runs all the secret coppers in Moscow, get him involved in Okhrana's destruction as well. I haven't made up my mind where I am going to send him, but the better job he does, the warmer shall be the destination. Now, I have some calls to make."
His Serene Highness Prince Kropotkin hung up the phone, and exhaled.
"Yes," asked Natalie Kropotkina.
"I am to be made Governor of Magadan."
Magadan was one of the few provinces in the Russian Empire which could boast to be east of Siberia, and be colder and even less sparsely populated. On a positive side... Well, there was no positive note. Natalie Kropotkina's nails dug into her palm, and drew blood.
"Sunny," said Katerina Borisovna breathlessly when a grinning Nikita Necktareyevich bowed before her at her villa. They were in the study, alone. "Sunny," she repeated, feeling dizzy, then crossed the room, grabbed him and hugged him tight. For a moment, she contemplated doing something more, but only for a moment. Romanovs were not Spanish Habsburgs. And kissing cousins was how several Romanovs got into a frightful mess. She pulled back, and they were both embarrassed by the intensity of their emotions. But he was smiling all the same, and so was she.
Suspected serial murderess Alena Rudolfvna Zhaton was taken into custody at Palanga in Couronia, trying to cross over into neighboring Prussian Memel under a false passport. Court-Councilor Zub quickly flew out to get her, but found he had been beaten to the punch by some enterprising Under-Colonel from the Special Section. Colonel Snobkov had the requisite paperwork, and he was deputy to the mighty Special Deputy Minister of Internal Affairs for the Northwest. Naturally said worthy was still in Riga, and was nowhere near Palanga. Zub nodded half to himself and went outside, strolling to a nearby park, and contemplating life, career and fate, while fumbling for his cigarettes.
Someone poked Zub in the side with an umbrella. He turned to tell the fellow off, but instead it was a woman. He suddenly realized he could not see her face, due to his vision clouding. And he could not speak. He sagged, and a man stepped out of nowhere to help grab him and bring him over to a park bench. A woman sat down on the other side of him and spoke in high-society Russian:
"In five minutes, you will be dead. Or you can tell me what I want to know and continue living. Do you wish to live? Nod once. And then I will ask you a series of questions. If you answer them all truthfully, you shall be allowed to live abroad, and give us more answers. Or you can stay here and die. Choose."
Zub groaned and nodded.
Tony Miles found the process of being fitted for a suit to be utterly bizarre, but he manfully withstood it.
"By the by, Caroline Munro did reach out," said smoking Najdorf.
"What?"
"She was wondering if you would be willing to be her plus-one at the Royal Wedding."
"Christ, I had already said 'Yes' to Jenny Agutter."
"Ah, well, I am sure there will be another opportunity."
"Oh really? Is there another Royal Wedding?"
"No, but I am sure after the election there shall be some sort of social event."
"That's good thinking, Mick. Yes, yes."
Penfield's father, a mining electrician, had little flair or patience for the dramatics, but was talked into wearing a blindfold nonetheless. Penfield stood outside and watched his mother guide him out of the house. His mother spotted the thing first, and let out a startled gasp. She looked to Penfield, who grinned and nodded, and then she shook a bit, the poor thing.
"What is it, woman?" asked James Penfield (Senior, though he would never countenance such a suffix).
"You can take off the blindfold now, da," said Penfield, Magdalen, Oxford disappearing from his voice.
James Penfield (Sr.) took off the thing and blanched. Before him stood a brand new Hillman Imp, Deluxe. And one could tell it was the deluxe model because of the proud "Deluxe" sign near the front driver's side wheel well. James Penfield (Sr.) looked to his son, who smiled and nodded.
"Yours?"
"No, da. Yours."
James Penfield (Sr.) blinked. His son still dressed in dungarees, open collar shirt and suede jacket, and his shoes were neither hand-made, nor of the type the City junior bankers wore (per the magazines his wife bought and he at times perused while on the toilet). As far as he knew, his oldest still wasted his Oxford education on some nonsense clerk position at some small firm on the wrong side of Thames. But yet, yet he had saved up enough to buy a car, for him. James Penfield (Sr.) coughed to try to rid himself of a lump in his throat. It did not work. He resorted to clearing his throat, but still the lump would not leave. His left eye twitched, and came perilously close to becoming watery. He once more cleared his throat, fiddled with his brigade polyester tie with his right hand and swiped at his left eye with the other hand. He sniffed the air, coughed and gave his son a nod. Then thrust out his hand. Penfield shook it, then his mother hugged him and began to cry.
"I don't understand," said General-Major Baron May-Mayevsky.
"The Kovno Imperial Army Academy for Middle Ranking Officers is ranked 55th out of 59 in the Empire. They need help. You shall provide it, Zenon Zaharovich, by taking charge of it, and improving it."
"But what of my...? What of my current command and Research & Development of...?"
"Others shall take up that burden now, my lord the Baron."
"Have you now or have you ever been a member of an ecclesiastical order of the Russian Church?"
"I find this line of questioning demeaning and disgusting," roared out self-titled Vladyka Aleksandr. The once leading light of the Motherland Party and the now self-appointed spiritual father of the Faith and Fatherland Party then went on a tear, delivering a half hour long monologue which only ended when his throat began to hurt and he had a coughing fit and had a drink from the glass of water.
The stony faced official from the Ober-Procurator's Officer of the Holy Synod of the Russian Church merely checked to see the tape was still running on the recorder and repeated the question.
His Highness Prince Ioann Gavrilovich, son to the Regent, was having a very busy afternoon, and his valet noted he now had applied a wet cloth to wipe the sweat off his master's brow for the fifth time in three hours, as the young man sat in the chambers of Peterhof, in his stiff and formal clothes. No sooner had the valet retreated then His Highness Prince Yuri Kirillovich Romanov walked up, holding a folded piece of paper. Ioann Gavrilovich gestured for his cousin to sit. He waited for the preliminaries and small talk, but Yuri Kirillovich was quite forward and simply thrust the paper out.
"My shit-list, cousin. And my wish-list, as well."
Her Grand-Highness Princess Khioniya Nikolaevna studied the hastily compiled report nicked by His Highness Prince Nicholas Pavlovich. It was unsigned, and the evidence was paltry and what little of it present was inconclusive, with many weasel words sprinkled throughout to give the terrified medical experts attempting it a way out, but it showed the horse which killed Tsar Alexander IV during the Fatal Race belonged to Vladimir Konstantinovich, son of Konstantin Ioannovich, now brother to the Regent. Khioniya Nikolaevna set down the report and studied the trembling face of Little Nikki.
"I am glad you brought this to me, Nikki. In time this will become quite useful."
The young man's twisted in pain and his mouth gashed open. She stopped him with a look.
"But for now, we will not use it. However, rest assured, this will help you, and me, heal the breach between you and your father. I have a meeting with him this very day, and I shall begin the process of your reconciliation. We are family, and we must stay untied, against our many foes."
Nicholas Pavlovich gave a shuddering exhale. He had been told what he wanted to hear.
Alexei Avianovich found out the Gathering's result before his father had, and broke the news to his father in their Cretan villa. Avian Mikhailovich exhaled and leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck.
"We've been had," said the older man.
"I've been had. And I dragged you into it, for which I am sorry."
"Oh get off the cross. As if we had a chance to win with that sorry lot the Baron assembled. And we did gain something out of this mess. It may not matter a great deal now, but so long as you marry right and we keep our noses relatively clean, in a few years it may matter a great deal. And in the meantime, our lawyers are hard at work. If papa did marry a convert to the Russian Church, then it would make me a Grand-Prince, and that would mean two million rubles a year for me and a quarter million for you."
Alexei Avianovich managed a nod, for his old man's sake. Even if it was proven his grandfather followed all the Imperial House rules, someone would still have to repeal the Article 183. And only the Tsarevich could do it now, which meant the Regent. And he did not think Gavril Ioannovich would be so merciful.
"Gavril what-now?" said the Prime Minister of Her Majesty's Government.
"Gavril Ioannovich, oldest son of the Konstantinite clan," said the Home Secretary.
"Hmm, and Ogg was sure it would be this Pavel Pavlovich fellow."
"Perhaps his Secret Intelligence Service is not as well informed as my Bureau, Harold."
The PM studied Margaret for a moment, and something of a twinkle appeared in his eye.
"What sort of man is this Gavril Ioannovich?" he then asked.
"The Bureau prepared a file, here. But the main thing, we can do business with this man."
The chief of the Bureau reviewed the first interrogation of Court-Councilor Zub.
"This is quite good."
Detective-Inspector Shepstone smiled.
"I trust Northridge is doing well?"
"She has had an initial debrief in Tehran, and all certainly appears well."
"When is she scheduled to arrive to England?"
"In two days, my lord."
"Give her another three days in Tehran."
"How fares the progress in the local automotive industry?" asked Kitty.
"Not well," reluctantly admitted Thorne. "It seems hiring all those alpha males who are used to getting their own way is causing some... 'leadership challenges,' I believe is how they say it in the City."
"Hmm," said Kitty and tapped the ash from her cigarette onto the glass ashtray precariously perched atop Thorne's massively hairy chest.
"I have it on good authority they are going to make you Detective-Lieutenant."
"And stick me behind a desk."
"You went Over There on three different high-profile missions. They cannot risk you. And, ugh, besides, you are blown, are you not? They have your photograph."
"Yes, but running an operations team is not what I had in mind when I got started."
"Yes, well, things change. May I ask after your brother?"
"You may. I will not answer. But you may."
"I heard he has a good chance of winning Hammersmith for the Liberals."
Kitty shrugged. Domestic politics bored her to tears. Though she supposed it was the Liberals winning office or the threat of them taking charge which caused a wind of change to blow through the Bureau and enable opportunities for women, so perhaps it did matter who sat in Downing Street. She finished her cigarette, ground it out and Thorne removed the ashtray, and drew her to him.
The crowds began to line the route of the wedding before dawn. Thousands were already out on the streets by the time the wedding breakfast was served to the early arriving royal guests (lobsters, oysters, grey partridges, asparagus with seven sauces, and peppermint ice cream, per the Echo). And the crowds swelled to a half million by the time the Scottish State Coach carried the Queen and the Queen Mother, accompanied by the (Life) Horse Guards. They were followed by the carriage with the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York, accompanied by the (Life) Horse Grenadier Guards. Then came the bride and her father, in the Glass State Coach, escorted by the Royal Horse Guards. Lastly, it fell to the Royal Dragoons to escort the carriage with Princess Margaret; her husband Welf Heinrich Ernst August Georg Friedrich Wilhelm Ferdinand, the Prince of Hanover; the chinless groom and his gorgeously obese mother.
There were cheers and many a flag waved. Slowly, the procession made its way to the Westminster Abbey, where television cameras were set up to beam the proceedings to an audience of 50 million Britons and a worldwide audience later to be estimated at half a billion. It was a most glorious day.
Inside the Abbey, the Leader of Her Majesty's Most Loyal Opposition looked tanned and if not relaxed, then something approximating it. To avoid the dreadful social faux-pas of going stag, his hard-working PPS got him a date for the occasion - Gillian Perrin, the badminton conqueror of Europe. Much was made of it. The Knights of the Shires made snide remarks, amongst themselves. Janet Fookes sat with the Christ Church mob. Willie Whitelaw conferred with the Lord Carrington. The latest opinion poll numbers were bleak, and they knew the general election was in the offing, with the Tories projected to lose as many as 24 more seats. Soon, a grim task would fall on either Willie or his lordship to be the Blind Pew and deliver the black mark to their leader. But for now, they were enjoying the great event.
In Downing Street, Mrs. Wilson was impatiently sitting on the sofa, while the Prime Minister slowly got ready. He was pleasantly recalling a life lesson. During the Coronation of the Queen, Churchill had his driver circle around the block of the Abbey, to ensure he would arrive after all the other senior politicos. The man knew how to make an entrance. The PM was not quite as grand, but today he would make sure he would arrive last. There was a commotion outside the bedroom, low voices, and then a gasp.
The door opened and Honor Balfour walked inside, ashen faced.
"Harold, Iain... Iain is dead. Heart attack."
These are some very normal thoughts that people are having with regards to their cousins
And the Secretary of State for the Dominions is dead—wonder if there will be jockeying for the position before Thatcher inevitably appoints a new one
Information: Select BBC Declarations
Select BBC Declarations
Full Election Results to follow in today's afternoon/evening post
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I see the new Czar proclaiming the end of the trains to the middle of nowhere, habitual offenders or more bloody exiles as 'Christian Charity'. They will also say that some members of the Okhrana abused the trust of the Czar and are being removed and that mistakes were made. However, the Czar is still the tsar-dear father and now it is time for the nation to move forward. Pass books and records will be updated over time.
The Imp was quite an innovative design, with many good features, which tended to be outweighed by the bad ones - the aluminium engine caused maintenance difficulties, as dealers/garages were unused to them. And (naturally) there were large numbers of industrial disputes, from a workforce at Linwood only used to making ships.
ITTL Rootes won't have been taken over by Chrysler.
She'd never have been allowed to marry Armstrong-Jones in this world - duty would have been firmly imposed on her. Nor Peter Townsend, though of course he wouldn't be an air ace ITTL. (Townsend was apparently the only Fighter Command pilot to survive ditching/bailing out in the North Sea in the Battle of Britain, fortuitously coming down near a trawler. The RAF, responsible for defending the air around Britain's coasts, had neglected to provide an air sea rescue service).
I see Enoch's Gower speech had some effect.
Select BBC Declarations
Some pretty massive variations in constituency size, look at the difference between Deptford and Dover. I wonder if Liverpool Scotland is still around.
Stay tuned!
More British car makers are alive and well ITIL and American imports are not making it into Britain, neither are the French ones. Some German cars and some Italian cars are trickling in, and although there was an attempt to get some Austrian vehicles, it just did not work out.
Correct. The sun never sets on the British Empire, and the Queen's own sister cannot muck about with the commoners or even aristocrats who cannot claim to have their blood blue for at least a couple centuries. The British are finding it easier to do the same thing the Russians are doing - import royalty of German kingdoms.
Yes, Enoch had quite a night, as the novelty of his message is resonating in England and Wales in the mining seats and beyond.
The restructuring and reforms of constituencies is much slower in coming ITTL. Older, odder seats still exist (e.g., Appleby), and although in the general election of 1975, 116 constituencies were merged, adjusted and created from the 1970 election (based on recommendations of the Parliament committee setup in 1965 when things began to look odd enough to even the most reactionary of MPs), things are uneven. Liverpool Scotland is no more as of the 1952 election, thanks to the changes Liberals pushed through on boundary changes and adjustments during the Liberal dominated 1942 - 1947 Parliament.
Information: UK: General Election of 1975
| Party | Stood | Elected* | Gained | Unseated | Net | Votes | % seats |
| Liberal | 635 | 322 | 16 | 36 | -20 | 12,556,433 | 50.31 |
| Conservative | 639 | 297 | 37 | 14 | 23 | 11,778,533 | 46.41 |
| Labour | 111 | 14 | 0 | 9 | -9 | 4,717,035 | 2.19 |
| Scottish National | 40 | 4 | 4 | 0 | 4 | 355,655 | 0.63 |
| Plaid Cymru | 32 | 1 | 1 | 0 | 1 | 139,544 | 0.16 |
| Irish Social Democratic | 5 | 2 | 1 | 0 | 1 | 93,753 | 0.31 |
| Independent Liberal | 23 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 78,456 | 0.00 |
| Independent Labour | 33 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 62,092 | 0.00 |
| True Brit | 12 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 32,454 | 0.00 |
| Ecology | 48 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 11,586 | 0.00 |
| The Officially Silly | 26 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 3,477 | 0.00 |
| League of Empire Loyalists | 17 | 0 | 0 | 1 | -1 | 1,161 | 0.00 |
| Mebyon Kernow | 1 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 857 | 0.00 |
| National Front | 11 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 711 | 0.00 |
| Independent Sillies | 3 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 516 | 0.00 |
| English Independence | 1 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 325 | 0.00 |
640** | | | | 29,832,588 | 100.00 | ||
| Liberal majority over Conservatives | 25 | ||||||
| Liberal majority over all | 4 | |
* 116 constituencies were combined, eliminated, newly created, or had their boundaries significantly adjusted since the previous election.
** Based on mutual agreement of the Conservative, Labour and Liberal parties, due to the death of sitting Liberal MP Iain Macleod, the Rochester & Chatham constituency was not contested in the general election and will instead be contested in a by-election, whose date is as yet to fixed.
That's far too tight a majority to make it through a full term of deaths, scandals and elevations. The only saving grace for the Liberals is they Tories are going to be torn between those who want to stick with Heath for one more heave versus those who appreciate Powell for getting them into a such a close position. Still the real loser is Labour, I'm guessing from the success of the SNP they were quick off the mark and ran a "it's Scotland's oil and it should be a lot cheaper".
