Is a life without tea worth living? -Every British person
She tried to pay it no mind; her lack of a pinky finger that is, disallowing her from drinking tea the customary way, with the 'ear finger' out. It felt unnatural, very bothering so, despite how trivial she thought it was, breaking such simple, yet normalised etiquette of high society to have such an effect on her seemed ridiculous only two days before.
"Maybe I'm overthinking this," She muttered, clicking her cup back on her petite plate.
"Overthinking what, your grace?"
She flashed a brief smile. She reminded herself of his presence; he was very close actually, sitting just across from her. A luxury, which she would only afford to his most favourite prime minister. I mean, there IS only one, but she meant it overall, compared to all the other candidates.
She had invited him over to her most favourite Terrace garden to alleviate her boredom discuss productively about the businesses of the state.
She sighed, "I'm contemplating whether my discomfort is from the broken table etiquettes, or-..."
"Oh my apologies, did I break some protocols again?" Disraeli hurriedly fidgeted around his seat, attempting to correct an absent wrong.
The queen allowed herself a chuckle, as Disraeli attempted to first straighten himself against his chair, only to slide down helplessly as his new limbs did not have a knee to balance an upright position. He then desperately frailed with his hooves that thankfully still remained over the table to prevent fully sliding under, pushing himself up once he reached further into the centre of the table, to prevent it from tipping over from an applied force on the edge.
He sighed a breath of relief. Then snapped onto the chuckling queen. He could only sheepishly smile.
"-No, your worries are misplaced. You were quite satisfactory Benjamin, my slight actually comes from my own lacking." Victoria assured,
Disraeli lightly frowned in disagreement, "Surely, you turning into a griffon wasn't by conscious choice, your majesty?" Disraeli reattempted to straighten his posture, but ultimately resigned to simply lying in all-fours on the chair, his forehooves resting on the table.
Victoria shook her head, then sipped in the gap of her minister cutely readjusting in his seat. "No, no. Not that prime minister. I was thinking about how I couldn't follow the basic etiquette of holding a cup." Victoria shook her head lazily, "-Four digits. No pinky." She waved her empty claw in front of her minister, whose eyes blinked absently in understanding.
...
...
...
Queen Victoria jostled awkwardly in her seat, having wrongly assumed Disraeli would dispel any prolonged silences between them as he normally had.
She shouldn't have been too surprised by this, considering Disraeli had been slowly losing his homeliness and warmth from age and subsequent painful gouts that constantly distracted and rid him of his usual, charming joy.
But she knew that excuse was no longer viable since the 'mass-transformation-of-everyone-into-mythical-beasts-of-which-event-is-yet-to-be-named' had given everyone a 'second-wind' of sorts, curing existing illnesses and seemingly de-ageing those affected, evident from the jumpy elderly around Europe.
So she figured his withdrawnness was from a different source. Perhaps from work? She wagered.
"...So, any developments within the House of Commons?" She asked hesitantly,
"..." Disraeli didn't answer, instead, gazing at his rippled reflection offered poorly by the Chinese black tea. He made note of his squared muzzle; it seemed his long nose as a human had carried over, alongside his curly hair, now-mane, which looked just as messy as it had been before transmutation.
Thankfully, he has made other more positive revelations; he had discovered them far earlier, and many were unspeakably pleasant. "Like that ghastly gout that had haunted me! It's gone!"
Unknowingly, like his counterparts in Germany, Benjamin Disraeli had also felt what would be later coined (not really), the 'great de-aging,' which in reality, wasn't an actual regression in age, but the illusion of it, offered by the sudden intake of 'magic' abundant in their new environments into their diffusable new bodies.
The sudden influx of magic had unknowingly strengthed them both physically and mentally, lessening the effects of any existing diseases or in some cases, outright curing them. While the bacteria and viruses that were also transmigrated absorbed the ambient magic, they nevertheless pathetically withered away in a now-foreign body, wholly unsuited to parasitise or fell the now-pony/griffin/kirin/dragon/zebra cells.
"...Oh right. You are all on break, aren't you?" Victoria began reprimanding herself for her discommode, regretting summoning her presumably busy prime minister for her selfish want of small talk.
"Who am I kidding, of course he would be busy! He's the bloody leader of the conservative party!" She resisted biting her lips -huh? Where is my-, oh. Right. Beaks. in guilt, definitely because she didn't have one anymore; she definitely had enough self-discipline to refrain from doing so.
Disraeli, by-now, was staring at his most holy Queen at this point, hesitantly allowing a treasonous grin to splay goofily on his muzzle upon witnessing his majesty ostensibly attempting to bend the tip of her lower beak in reach of her front teeth to presumably chew it; obviously, it was futile.
"It is nearing February, your majesty, so you won't have to remind us that we're all 'wage-thieves.' as the tabloids mock-alleged." Disrael elegantly rose from his seat, more like tripped as he rolled underneath the table as he pushed too far back with his forehooves, causing him to tip over forward. But he managed a dignified stand, narrowly missing his head from the roof of the table.
Much ripples formed in the content of the cups and the chafing of the ground with the legs of his seat was accomplished. Completely breaking etiquette, he noted. as expected from a gentleman of my calibre.
He had tried to end the meeting early by leaving his seat and initiating the 'final stroll' which usually happened after an extended conversation, which, he had not the time for since the current state of chaos all over Europe had made being the Prime minister of Britain a busy position.
He had meant to imply this message most politely, but by the blank stare he was receiving from the queen, he figured she was least impressed by his display of amateur acrobatics and most disappointed at his early departure.
...
Victoria chose to ignore the last 1 minute.
...
"I-... I don't fault you for thinking this was a waste of time. -Truly, I should be the one apologising here." Victoria refused his prime minister's hand hoof for support rising from her seat; she had already pestered him enough.
It still felt weird to be on all-fours. Regardless of how natural it seemed to do so.
Disraeli balked, raising his hooves in between her and himself as if to protect himself physically from an accusation. "Oh, no! No time spent with your majesty is wasted time! It was the least of my intentions to offen-,"
"Oh hush, -Benjamin. Even a blind Irish peasant could've had the mental faculties necessary to deem my current act as most improper." She shamelessly stamped out, somehow retaining her regal aura in speech despite the bashing context, "You have to stop enabling me for once! You of all people should've refused to entertain my request as nothing but a wasteful effort by me to chase away boredom!"
Disraeli lightly shook his head in disagreement, "Do not beseech yourself, my queen. Recreation is as essential as food in preserving physical health as the former is for mental health." He took the lead on the 'stroll', as customs dictated a gentleman should, "Haven't I told you the story of the sailors of Admiral Drummond's crew?"
"Sir James Robert, Drummond? You mean the Usher of the Black Rod?" Victoria remembered very little of the man; even as she attempted to quickly jog her memories of the story Benjamin supposedly told, she could only make out that the mentioned man had been retired almost half a decade ago, and was always mentioned by his prime minister in passing, with only little details in his letters.
Disraeli nodded briefly, "The very same. During the Crimean war, -he was a captain then, his crew had lacked much equipment other than those to enact war, -namely a deficit of the means to distract themselves."
"Why would there be a need for distraction? Don't they reap enough from battle? Do they seriously need more? Does the glory-greed of the common sailors have any bounds???" Victoria blindly mocked, carefully tracing her hand claw along the long leaves of a plant, of which genus she had neglected to learn the name from her gardeners and botanists.
Disraeli frowned, but tried successfully not to look too annoyed by his majesties' ignorance of the horrors of battle, "Not all the time at sea is comprised of glorious battle, your majesty. In actuality, most time is spent by the common sailors in a stir-crazy mood, contemplating battle." He refrained from potentially lecturing her about the brutalities of war; much aware of Victoria's sympathy for the soldiers in the Crimean War. He did not wish to needlessly invoke the horrors of the conflict to remind her of war's ugliness.
"Good. Is it not? You want energetic sailors, correct?" Victoria accidentally pierced the thick leaf that she traced, her digit's unexpected strength and sharpness causing the tip of it to sink downwards, through the leaf and leave an ugly gash lengthwise. She hastily let go.
"Yes. But not crazed ones; possessed by their desires for battle, thereby ignorant of commands and lacking discipline." Disraeli huffed passively, masking his slight irritation that he had to explain 'this' all over again. "After all, the captain's greatest enemy is always never the actual opponents themselves. But the disease, starvation, dehydration and the general insanity of sea-faring and its effects on the crew's discipline are his true, greatest foe."
"How poetic of you prime minister," Victoria gauged his expressions, ensuring that her friend; no matter her senior, wasn't getting cocky. "This is from a man who has never sailed?" She cheekily jabbed,
"No. But it's a testimony from a trusted friend in that profession." He rebutted,
"From Sir James?" Victoria was getting sick of that name.
"No, but another who served in the Crimean War."
Victoria scuffed, "Blast that campaign. I have no love for Russia, but to throw ourselves into that diseased nation for the sake of another *sick man of Europe was almost comical of us, if only without all those tragedies." She spat bitterly; they had wasted so much men, money and effort to achieve basically nothing, as the Crimean War had done nothing to keep Russia's power in check, as they would seize the Balkans regardless after the war, placing the Greeks, Serbians, Montenegrians and Romanians into their sphere of influences.
*'Sick man of Europe' was a common name to reference the Ottoman Empire which had degraded much in status, especially during the Victorian era when they fell behind greatly scientifically and economically.
"I also share no love for that war, your majesty, but you must admit, it did a great service in reforming our militaries." Victoria rejectedly hummed in agreement, having long-before agreed with his assessment, albeit not happily, of the case that it was better to learn from a small mistake now rather than a later, much larger catastrophe. He had put it, "Rather a hundred men die for the sake of a thousand later."
"Yes, yes. You had already said as much in the previous correspondences. No need to rub it in any further." She waved him off, suggesting he change topics.
"-Ah, right. So, regarding your recreational health, it is very impo-,"
"Bah! Enough of your cuddling! I can put two-and-two together!" She rubbed her head in the most unladylike fashion; her wings behind her ruffling spastically subconsciously.
...
"... Isn't it strange how our clothes perfectly adapted to our bodies?" Disraeli spoke without a target, "Would that suggest it was the work of god? Only he would be so meticulous."
Victoria slowly faced his prime minister with a gloomy expression, "...Seriously? Tis' more of a work by the devil considering the chaos it has wrought." She huffed, "Also, stop with the cuddling Benjamin! If I wanted god-talk I would've just gone to the church!"
She accusingly pointed, but misjudging distance, pushed against the tip of Benjamin's long muzzle, creasing his nose and causing him to scrunch his face. Her coat could not mask the embarrassing blush. "Do not mistake this as a blessing Benjamin, Satan was meticulous in fooling Adam and Eve to take the apple, and is cunning still. Regardless, what benevolent god would punish us with such chaos?"
"...The same benevolent god that drowned all but two of every species?" Disraeli cheekily rebuffed.
"...Be careful with your words minister, you wouldn't want humanity to further feel god's wrath, hmmm?" Victoria smirked mischievously, unperturbed.
Disraeli scrunched his face in deep thought, "It still feels like a blessing... Perhaps I'm biased, your majesty, since the recent transformation had rid me of my wretched gout." Disraeli posed neutrally, shrugging his shoulder disarmingly, "Before 'this', I felt as though I was near death's door, but now I feel I could go another decade or two more!"
"'Bah! The devil acts in mysterious ways, Benjamin! It may be trying to lure us away from the divine forms our god had decided upon with promises of youth and unnatural strength to lead us astray." She meticulously recited.
Disraeli blinked, briefly appraising his Queen to ensure she had not been possessed. The maturity wholly unsuited her, and her prior thoughtful response had rattled him.
Victoria tried paying no mind to his oggling, convincing herself, no matter how futile, that the former's conduct of disbelief at her brief show of maturity was not insulting in the implications.
"How... Pious? Of you? Your majesty? Victoria, the queen?" Disraeli's mouth refused to string together the words his brain had instructed it to, for fear the insinuation would break the ears it heard back from.
"Oh enough of this! I can stand being cuddled, but insulted?! How cruel of you Benjamin!" Victoria mocked-scowled, boisterously stamping her paws into the ground in a 'click' to draw attention to the glare she would give him.
Disraeli knew this dance. He had played along before, and he would do so again today. With a preemptive disarming smile, with relaxed expressions to boot, he slowly faced his queen.
Now, two factors drastically changed how this usual interaction would go. One, Disraeli was now a unicorn, largely herbivore, and mostly prey. In general, neither side had any vestiges of humanity except their memories left.
Now, hypothetically, what would happen if a similarly mythical beast but comprised of half lion and eagle, specifically of Germanic predatory stock glared, regardless of harmless intentions at a prey?
The next scene is what happens
Disraeli immediately seized up from his monarch's glare, beads of sweat already coalescing and threatening to roll down and dampen his undershirt. His coat and mane similarly rose, prepared to insulate himself from an expected strike in case the dampness of his coat failed to slip from one.
His breathing became instantly erratic, heavy and painful. It took all the will and discipline honed from years within the political ring and refined with age to not immediately leap up and scramble away, craven.
"Great Scott..!" He squeaked; an audibly sharp intake of breath followed it, "OUR ROYALS ARE DAMNED VIKINGS!"
His panicked mind warped his perception; he could now only see those glaring eyes of his great, terrifying sovereign surrounded by an endless void. The same eyes seemed to now tower over him, with the radius of a lighthouse and similar luminosity, burning his skin.
He had never felt so little and helpless in his entire life. Despite this, he bravely held his ground. Of which action, he would forever be proud of, more than anything.
"Woah-, are you well Benjamin? You suddenly look dreadful!" He felt his Empress nudge him slightly in his ribs, "-Oh dear, is your gout acting up again?! I thought you said you were fine now." She proceeded to step back a bit, second-guessing what could've possibly made her friend so pale.
Thankfully, the distance now between them was deemed enough for his brain to snap him out of paralytic fear, supplemented by his Empress's ceased glare to one of worry.
"P-please don't do that again, your-, my Empress." He managed,
Victoria withdrew herself further in confusion, "Do what? Nudge you?" She sputtered, "Are you implying-,"
"Y--yo-your glare, my Eh-Empress!" Disraeli exercised all of his willpower to not scamper away in fear; I AM A MAN! I WILL NOT DISGRACE MYSELF! AHHHHHHHHH
Victoria gaped slightly in exasperation, "-That's what got you so rattled!?"
Disraeli nodded violently.
Victoria sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in annoyance, forgetting the sharpness of her claw, "Are you so frightened that I may punish you for my slight displeasure Benjamin? You know better than that!"
"OBVIOUSLY NOT THAT MY EMPRESS! IT IS YOUR EYES!"
Victoria recoiled further in confusion, "-My eyes?"
"YOU ARE A HAWK!" Disraeli screamed most elegantly.
...
"Ah. Right." Victoria crossed her arms defensively, turning her head to the side with a bored expression.
"AH RIGHT INDEED MY EMPRESS, NOW, WHERE MAY I LEAD YOU TO?!" Disraeli barked most gentlemanly; a distant drill sergeant blushing jealously.
"Hm. Let's just wrap this up. You probably have a meeting today, don't you?"
"RIGHT AS ALWAYS MY EMPRESS, THE HOUSE OF COMMONS ARE TO CONVENE TODAY EARLY! OF COURSE TO DISCUSS OUR UNPRECEDENTED SITUATION, OF WHICH DECISION YOU WERE CRIMINALLY NOT INFORMED ABOUT! WHICH WAS MY DUTY! WHICH I WOEFULLY NEGLECTED! PLEASE FORGIVE THIS INSOLENT SERVANT!"
Victoria squinted painfully.
"...Right. Toodles."
Henry Brand, 1st Viscount of Hampden and honourable speaker of the House of Commons, had his cheeks lazily leaned up against his hoof of which attached elbow? Was braced on his armrest.
Such conduct would've been unspeakably scandalous to any noble society, one he happened to be in. He would've been assuredly reprimanded for his 'common' etiquette, or even ejected entirely by his peers for supposedly appealing to the unenlightened masses through 'relatable mannerisms' to cheaply win votes via subsequent tabloids.
But brainless populism wasn't what he subscribed to. He was breaking protocol since everyone around him was doing so as well. And quite frankly, he was done with everyone's shit.
He couldn't really blame them though, or, -at least blame them any more than he usually did for their rambunctious, uncordial and generally obnoxious and uncouth behaviour in the House.
He usually would immediately shut down everyone at this level of discord, but he allowed them to 'burn-out,' so to speak, unwilling to sacrifice his throat again to shut them up for a mere second or so.
And so, he rested quite contently despite the unbearable noise being exuded by his degenerate 'peers'. He liked to believe he had been sufficiently immunised against it. But a hint of a scowl on his muzzle said otherwise.
He imagined what the tabloids would read, but mostly cared for how it would seem. Despite decrying the caricatures and cartoons within them as being 'childish,' he held a guilty pleasure for them. He specifically conjured a probable cartoon from Punch magazine, the incoherent dribble for the masses; an image of territorial cocks and stallions in a savage bout in the House of Commons. He could definitely see it.
Speaking of seeing, he was somehow able to recognise all of the individuals of the House of Commons, despite the transformation. He made an extra mental note to consult a scientist about why that was. They're probably all busy though... Brand noted.
The alternative was to consult a religious man. An available option, considering Brand was a religious man; I mean, who wasn't in this day and age? Hell, my fellow, Gladstone, the leader of the Liberals, wished to pursue a religious career! Before getting dragged into this shitty ring called 'politics'. Brand sighed. He hoped another, one more well-versed in the bible could unravel meaning in their current predicament.
Unlike most other people, Brand wasn't so presumptuous as to pretend to know why they had been transformed. He knew he didn't have the answers, nor was smart enough to figure one out."Wait... Is it pretentious to think others are pretentious while you aren't? -Damn the paradoxes!" Brand clicked.
So far, no single popular theory had been widely spread nor even proposed so far of why they had been transformed. Not to mention, why only Europe had been subjected to this ((((definitely)))) unjustified punishment.
"Reasonable since it had only been a few weeks," Brand thought, "Well, enough dilly-dallying around. Time to do my wretched job..." He sighed. He absolutely hated his job, but knew it was an important, necessary one. Most importantly, he hated the guy that preceded him more than he hated the job. So he resigned himself to this terrible role, as he dreaded someone else doing it, so better be the asshole with the gavel than an asshole without it.
Not that he really needed the gavel anymore... He had realised his hoof was a far superior implement in creating noise. Sure, it was barbaric, but hey, who wasn't in this house?
"ORDER! ORDER IN THE HOUSE!" Someone other than HIM called out those sacred words.
"WHO DARES!" Brand exploded from his seat, "WHICH 'HONOURABLE' GENTLEMAN DARED STEP OVER THEIR BOUNDARIES?!" He dangerously scanned over the benches, catching several of the MPs frozen in the middle of delivering their unholy insults and savage gestures.
He also noticed most of them were similarly standing, but not from rage like him, but out of necessity, as the benches were too narrow for the MPs to sit comfortably, at least for the ponies among them. It seemed the standing ponies of the house had instigated the griffons among them seated comfortably to rise as well; either in solidarity or as an escalating response.
"TAKE YOUR SEATS MAN! THIS IS A MOST SHAMEFUL DISPLAY!" Brand chided angrily, a stomp of his hoof resounding in each stop of his sentences. "-AND YOU SIR, WHATEVER DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!" Brand pointed accusingly at a pony MP, lying far too comfortably on his stomach horizontally on the cushioned seat. We must all suffer equally! What an unthinkable display!
The singled-out MP suddenly found himself the centre of attention of every member of the house; his head already risen and an uneasy smile stretched across his muzzle as he began to spot several of the opposition that sat across him, the Liberals, lean forward with squinted eyes to presumably rip into him.
"Uhhhh... It's comfortable?" The very same MP heard an audible face-palm behind him, prompting him to immediately posit a better defence, "W-what?! We're four-legged, aren't we? -And these pony legs aren't too suited to sit upright! I'll just slide right off!"
The Liberal opposition seemed poised to rip him apart as advertised, but many of the ponies among them visibly restrained their griffin compatriots to usher them over in a private discussion.
After much murmuring and Brand's own experimentation of the supposedly comfortable position in his seat, a convinced pony MP of the liberal's side firmly nodded, and lately replied,
"Finally something that has bipartisan support. Proposed by the conservatives no less! Perhaps the transformation did affect our intelligence. It definitely did for the gentleman across the room, after all." He nakedly jabbed with a smirk, but the conservatives smartly refused the obvious bait. But it didn't stop his fellow Liberals from cheering loudly.
Brand meanwhile had comfortably nestled into his seat, anxious and slightly guilty for how comfortable he felt lying on his stomach. His job entailed suffering. Feeling comfort was far too unnatural for him.
"Any more of your dry jokes, and you will soon turn London into a barren Sahara." A rebuttal came from an unknown MP from a sea of conservatives, followed by the usual counter-hooting and hollering.
"ORDER GENTLEMEN! While I would love to see you all engage in petty squabbling in manners dissimilar to schoolchildren. I, meanwhile, would like to actually do my job, and invite others to do the same, -TO RUN OUR DAMN NATION IN AN UNPRECEDENTED CRISIS!"
Thankfully, a tranquil silence followed.
Brand visibly relaxed, allowing a sigh to escape from his soon-to-be torn larynx. "I swear gentlemen, any more of these petulant attacks on one another, and I would mistake you for some obstructionist Irishman!" He allowed a chorus of chuckles from around him, glad that the mutual dislike of those backwards Catholics would sow a tad bit of harmony among the parties.
A particularly passionate MP of the Irish Home Rule party rose in offence, an incensed expression and an overstretched hoof accompanied him."Oi! Take that bac-!"
Except, he was restrained back into his seat, shocking considering one of his peers had orchestrated it; a hoof wrangled over the passionate MP's muzzle to halt him mid-sentence.
What was most shocking was who had done it. At least shocking to those who were new in the House of Commons, as William Shaw, the presider of County Cork and leader of the Home Rule Party, with great resignation and spite directed at the speaker of the house, pulled his fellow back.
Shaw wished for no confrontation as always. He would bide his time.
The Brits had already very little to no goodwill towards the Irish men of the House, so Shaw reckoned a confrontation, especially when outnumbered, would not bode well in increasing the likelihood his upcoming proposals would be heard.
A proposition, he correctly guessed, would be imperative in the survival of the Irish people to come.
Why?
Their greatest supplier of food, which had been the USA, had disappeared, or hopefully, only the trans-Atlantic cable connecting them telegraphically had disappeared... And by 'disappeared;' had recoiled itself and returned to the English branch warehouse of the US Atlantic Telegraph Company.
The labourers and managers there were still scratching their heads on how that was possible.
Regardless, with the repealing of the Corn Law, blessed be, Britain, and Ireland in extension were able to enjoy a nearly endless amount of cheap produce from the Americas.
Shaw shuddered at a time when the Corn Law had been still in effect; Irish people reeling and starving en masse by what would be known as the 'Irish Potato Famine', as they could not purchase the widely available U.S produces due to said law's tariffs on them.
Never again. Shaw thought.
Ironically the repealing of the Corn Laws had now exasperated their looming food shortage due to the destruction of domestic farmers via overwhelming American competition. It wasn't lost to Shaw, but he did not regret it. The famine had reaped far too many Irish lives after all. But the problem of where to procure the food remained.
His proposal stressed the prevention of another Irish famine through the purchasing of Russian foodstuffs. Shaw knew it would probably be at a premium, as most of Europe had also been relying on cheap U.S. produce, meaning they would have similar proposals that would massively drive demand, thereby cost.
It would be a tough pill for all in the House to swallow, so he was determined to bite the bullet l, and force others within his party to do so as well.
Regardless of who attacked them, the Home Rule Party wouldn't budge, he would make sure of that. Even if they were offended by the political 'opposition'.
*Context: The Irish Home Rule party were firmly on the side of the Conservatives before 1886, wherein Gladstone would sway them to the Liberal's side by promising a separate Irish parliament.
"...Are you in need of a bit there Shaw?" A Liberal minister mocked, "A bit?! Surely a riding crop is more suitable to reign in such a brutish beast!" Another joined in, "-A branding will break its spirit!"
A despicable wave of stomps rung out from the Liberal camp. Most disheartening of all, Shaw noticed his 'allies', the conservatives, merely observing apathetically, some even chuckling; none coming to his defence.
Bite the bullet, Shaw. For the Irish people.
"ENOUGH DADDLING! FIRST MOTION!"
Brand slammed the armrest, pretending not to notice the crack slowly forming caused by his hoof.
"-The honourable gentleman Gladstone wishes to import foodstuffs once sold by the American market... From the Russians!" Brand squinted at the last bit. Surely it was jest! Gladstone hated the Russians!
Actually, everyone here hated the Russians.
Brand also pretended to not notice Shaw collapsing in his seat with a loud groan. What got him so suddenly mad?
An orchestra of 'outrageous!' 'preposterous!' and a far few 'what of the great game?' was heard from the right, with one notable individual in particular who wielded great respect perhaps politically, but not personally among the MPs, rose from his bench as expected by pretty much everyone.
"...Earl Disraeli. You just can't leave the Russians be. Can you?" Gladstone rose in usual opposition, his peers fluttering around him to pat him on the back and shoulders in rowdy support of 'oo's' and 'yeah!'
Disraeli similarly received his complimentary pat on his back and an intelligible cheer of support for facing his famous rival in politics. "Same can be said for you, Right Honourable Willaim Ewert Gla-"
"Cut the formality, Disraeli, we all know that you only say it as a form of mockery of me," Both gentlemen glared.
"Hmph. Very well. -I was about to say that licking the hypothetical boot of Russia isn't also 'leaving the Russians be'." Disraeli heard a distant hush from the Liberal camp, roughly amounting to, 'like how you lick Victoria's,' which explained the shit-faced grin Gladstone was wearing while he prepared to unleash his rehearsed defence.
"No one is kissing anyone's boots. At least, not as much to earn that title, mi lord." Gladstone nakedly mocked his rival's circumstances of receiving his title as the House of Lords. He greatly disliked Disraeli's favour with the Queen, and especially despised how while he, a far more accomplished and popular individual was yet to receive any honorary titles, while this, -this lowly flirtatious Italian Jew had wriggled up to that blind, ignorant Queen and was being paid dividends for it! He masterfully hid his emotions through his usual, stoic face.
"Still upset you cannot speak with a woman Gladstone? We all also know your failures in your love li-"
"ENOUGH! Gentlemen, please! Refrain from acting like damn children! This bill will decide whether the British people will starve or not!" Brand tried to look displeased. He had to seem impartial after all.
"-So enough with your petty battles of ego and forfeit your immaturity at once -at least for now!" Brand then turned his attention to the 'whooping' 'spectators',
"-And both respective party's Members of Parliament! Stop encouraging them with your braindead hollering!" Brand growled as best he could for a herbivore, missing canine and all, but his threat was accentuated by a dangerous glow of his horn, unnoticed by the host. None in the house wanted to see what it could do. But they would definitely test it later.
Gladstone swiftly retook the initiative, "Ahem-, thank you, honourable Speaker. I have proposed a bill to purchase any and all edible foodstuffs from, primarily, but not exclusive to, Russia, in order to offset the predicted deficit of losing America as an exporter."
Gladstone waved a claw towards the table near the entrance which held a pile of documents prepared by him, to support his case. "If one honourable gentleman from each respective party would be so kind to distribute those papers to all of their peers-"
"We're not schoolchildren..."
"-that would be much appreciated. They detail the incalculable famine we expect to face if we do nothing in the coming MONTH."
Steadily, but surely every MP of the House received their reports, the face of despair and grim frowns following. Like a wave, it started quietly from those who received the data first, but crashed uproarastly as gloomy faces and mutters of doom accumulated over on every passed sheet.
"I knew we were reliant on the Americans! -But this much?!"
A Conservative MP loudly gasped, resistingly mightly to not reference the Corn Laws. The significance of which, having already been made aware by Shaw's imaginings.
Gladstone solemnly nodded, "Thankfully, we need not despair, for the Russians comprised roughly 37%* of all international market for foodstuffs before... This 'event,' meaning we may avert a complete disaster from skyrocketing food prices and their subsequent social unrest or, god forbid, a revolution like the French."
The Russians actually made up slightly under 30% of the food market by the 1900s, but since there are no conclusive data for the international market shares of 1880, I just made that 37% number up through healthy assumptions.
"Curse those Frenchies!"
"Curse them right to hell!"
"Yes, yes. A bipartisan policy I would zealously support; I too have no love for the French, but back to the topic. *Ahem* I already have some good news to disclose! -Of course from mine, and my colleague's efforts!" Gladstone declared triumphantly, subconsciously puffing his chest out in a victorious mood. Others watched on curiously by this display, most actually surprised that they didn't find the act awkward in any way.
"Despite my dislike of all sects of Christianity other than Protestantism; as you all should know by now *ahem*, I have found renewed respect for the Eastern Orthodox church! -For Emperor Alexander II, the ruler of Russia has decreed that he would not pettily stop any efforts on our part, despite previous grievances... To purchase any amount of foodstuffs to subvert famine!... For an agreeable price that is." Gladstone trailed off innocently with an unchanged expression, hoping no one would notice the appendix.
Lord Cavendish, a fellow influential Liberal helped hide his imperfection, by adding, "We must not forget that the Russians are not holding all the cards. They had many export partners outside of Europe. They would be a fool to limit trade with the richest European nation due to petty rivalries."
"You call a near century-long bloody imperial struggle for power a petty rivalry?" Lord Salisbury angrily denounced his Liberal opponent, perceiving Cavendish's statement as careless, and a grave insult to the British Empire and her history.
"Yes, I am. And I'm tired of you all for not seeing it that way." Cavendish lazily inclined in his seat, gazing boredly with eyes half-lidded at the infamously neurotic Cecil.
"Oh, why do you think the tabloids call it 'the great game,' and oh, why do the other nations make a mockery of us so frequently? -It's because of that stupid 'game of chicken' against the backward Russians!" A chorus of agreement rang out from his side of the bench.
A pleasant surprise also possessed him, as some hesitant nods of agreement came opposite him as well. "Need I mention the disasters in Afghanistan? Crimea? The Balkans or the Ottoman Empire? -All caused by our wasteful desires to limit the powers of a state that had no chance to even catch up with us in the first place! -They just look big gentlemen! They're. No. Bite!"
Cecil, the Lord of Salisbury, exercising his contradictory, yet nevertheless, usual level of caution, pondered on the means of furthering his attack against the political opponent. It was a testament to his somewhat blind passion; the will to enter partisanship regardless of the opposing party's stance, regardless of whether they were valid or not.
Usually, this would lead to his fellow members being isolated, and then subsequently humiliated when they blindly followed his lead in permanent contrarianism. Thankfully, he would be dutifully stopped by Disraeli's gatekeeper, Lord Lennox.
"...While I would usually detest whatever came from those loose mouth of yours, Lord Cavendish," Yells of 'aye's' was heard behind Lennox,
"-I am inclined to agree with you. Without your principals though. -Let me explain!" He gestured to his colleagues for silence, especially towards his friend Disraeli, who seemed to be on the verge of renouncing their valued friendship, built upon many years of shared hardships and tribulations, just then and there from the perceived betrayal.
"As first, I must dispel Cavendish's perception of our invincibility. For are we not, still, under a recession from the fallout of the railway boom*?"
*Context: There had been a 'railway boom' all around the world until 1870, which the British greatly benefited from. However, after 1870, the 'bubble popped,' sending Britain into a 'medium-sized,' recession/destitution. The Conservatives would be blamed for this, as despite their policy of Protectionism, their greed to exploit this 'boom' would lead them to enact numerous market-friendly legislation that even the Liberals would consider too radical. Gladstone in particular would use this as a prime opportunity to attack the morals of the Conservative party, which would be ultimately successful in the 1880 March election, wherein the Liberals would win in a minor landslide.
"And whose fault would that be?" Gladstone righteously injected,
Disraeli tossed him right back out, "Campaigning season is over Gladstone, leave your preachings outside the House of Commons."
"As always, we, the Liberals are left to deal with the Conservative's mess." Lord Granville dramatically sighed out, shaking his head dejectedly while placing a comforting claw over his friend, Gladstone's, shoulder. Who hummed softly in a similar, dejected tone, albeit slightly more mocking. While facing the Conservatives knowingly. His not-so-subtle targets didn't seem as amused as him.
Lord Lennox waved off this obviously inflammatory attempt to arouse scandalous reaction. Instead, opting to continue, maturely, with what he had to say,
"You can celebrate all you want with your self-assured victory, but I wouldn't further antagonise my fellows, gentlemen. This is a time when we should be working together, -to combat potential radicalism that may spring up! -Which reminds me of what I was going to say before, being that, Russia should not be our main concern, BUT OURSELVES." Lennox swallowed the bile rising from within him, expertly hiding his nervousness in breaking party ranks by daring to partially agree with Gladstone.
"-We cannot possibly hope to restrain another nation's ambitions while our own is rife with chaos and destitution! -In other words, to oppose Russia, we must look domestically, for victory!"
A relieving chorus of 'ayes' rung out across the House, although Brand's mile of solidarity unnerved him. Lennox briefly glanced at Disraeli, hoping his friend wasn't too displeased in him agreeing with a life-long rival.
"Hang on... Why would we even need to get permission from the Russian Emperor to buy foodstuffs? Don't we already have enough contacts with the Russian Landed Nobility?" Cavendish pointed out,
"The Germans have far more, friend, and it is definitely not foolish to gain the blessings of an absolute monarch to approve of the businesses conducted on his soil." Gladstone helpfully alleviated.
"AHEM." Everyone in the house was suddenly made aware of Brand's existence in the House. Especially since the former had slammed his armrests again with his convenient hoof, acting as a makeshift gavel. The cracks were now noticeable.
Oh, right. They were trying to pass a bill. Who could blame them for getting distracted though? The dialogue was interesting.
"While I do appreciate, -actually I DO NOT appreciate any sort of banter! No matter how friendly it is! Don't be the wage-thieves those blasted tabloids claim us to be! We'll be taking a vote, right now!" Brand hotly declared; they had a lot go through!
Disraeli anxiously gnawed at the edges of his lower lip. He cursed Victoria -but not really since he would never wish harm upon the empress, for the habit she seemed to have bestowed into him, albeit less ridiculously-looking since his muzzle was evenly shaped, unlike Victoria's beak.
This thought distracted him from the inner turmoil he was suffering from even considering agreeing with whatever Gladstone had proposed. His mind's knack for self-preservation, honed over a millennium by his late ancestors operated dutifully to shield the host's mind from admittance of wrong which would've surely broken Disraeli's fragile ego.
Alternatively, his mind masterfully deluded Disraeli's ego into believing acquiescing to Gladstone's position was actually, in fact, an affirmation of an opinion Disraeli had already held. Yes! That was it! You weren't admitting anything! You were just sad that your solutions aligned!
Disraeli's mind rebooted.
Brrrr... It just gave him the chills just thinking about it! But he was right, and it would be pointless trying to take away his credit like last time by proposing a more extensive bill, as it seemed his rival had learned from his mistakes and had perfected the proposal; void of flaws.
"He must've written this bill far earlier... Definitely before this whole 'transformation' ordeal... Lucky bastard..." Disraeli briefly glared at his rival,
"This bill is almost perfect for this situation... Too perfect... Any other time, and he would've been chased away from Britain for being a Russophile!"
Disraeli sighed, knowing he could prove nothing. "Just... Pass the bill, sir Brand, this all seems meticulous enough."
"This is all too foolish! Trusting those devilish Russians to not turn-coat! What if they poison, -or, -or outright refuse to sell us the foodstuffs once we reach their ghastly ports?!" Cecil ranted most improperly, discomforting his adjacent peers who, while appreciating his 'passion,' wished he would just shut up for once and stop being his usual neurotic self.
"Surely you don't think the Russians would refuse an opportunity for easy cash, Lord Salisbury? Stupid as they are, the only 'danger' is that they will use this new capital to further cement their industrialising efforts." Lord Lennox unsuccessfully cooled off his passionate colleague, but still managed to shut him up long enough for the Speaker to call up another essential bill.
"-This is very unorthodox, but WHAT HAS BEEN ORTHODOX these past weeks, right honourable gentlemen? So! The bill is passed with an unspecified majority! Let the tabloids take that as they will! -Those obnoxious pigs... Brand shifted through another pile of documents haphazardly, causing several pages of identical papers to fall around, alongside the crumbles of his right armrest.
Thankfully, again, for unexplainable reasons, his, and all the other ponies' hooves had a 'phantom' grip to them, allowing for similar motions expected for a hand, albeit far clumsier and thicker; as if they had a thick glove or mitten at all times. What was most disturbing, however, was how deceivingly the hooves grasped at things, as the sole of the hoof never fully coiled around anything that was being held, only seeming to be curved slightly while the held object hovered thinly over them.
Eh, let the scientists figure it out. Brand shrugged, as he finally retrieved the cover for the second bill.
"Ah! There we go! Another from The Right Honourable Gentleman, Gladstone!"
"Another from him?! Don't you think you're being biased LIBERAL Speaker?!" Cecil dared,
"Well, MAYBE if mi Lords of the House spent the last week formulating bills instead of planning his Queen's tea parties, MAYBE there would be more Conservative bills on top of the pile." Gladstone was relentless in his crusade against Disraeli. He absolutely despised him and the Queen, and like a stubborn bulldog, would not let go of his battered chew toy.
"Is the honourable gentleman seriously bragging that being able to propose your own bills slightly earlier is worth not having a social life? -I'll have you know, I work as long as you do, you pompous p- uh, no-gooder!" Disraeli struck back, shifting the analogy of him as a simple chew toy into a prickly cactus.
Brand quite frankly didn't give a shit. The only analogy in the House he was aware of was of a man being repeatedly fucked. Because that was him right now. Fucked by these detours and brainless idiots that just watched on and did nothing. Maybe they were the wage-thieves the tabloids accused them of.
With a raised brow, Brand queried, "Are you done? -Good. Gladestone's second bill proposes two possible routes of resolution to the problem of our currently over-bloated military." Brand boredly threw said proposals in the general direction of the Conservatives, not-so-subtlely implying his opinion of them.
Jokes were on him though, as Lord Lennox cooly snatched them mid-air and passed it to Disraeli, who smoothly received it as if rehearsed and promptly began scanning its contents.
Gladstone began by summarising his proposal, dumbing down his points by an insulting amount, for no one's behalf in particular. But first, he provided some context, as if no one in the House of Commons knew it already.
"It should've been obvious by now to all of you gentlemen, that everything that once belonged to the British Empire, including her people, soldiers, goods and etcetera had been transferred over, to here. -Which, so far has shown every sign to signify it isn't Earth." Gladstone tapped the proposal in his claw with two slightly folded digits, exuding an aura of thoughtfulness.
"These... 'Belongings' include the colonial officers and personnel from our various colonies, -most significantly, the British Raj." A synchronised nod from all MPs encouraged him to continue,
"There used to be a manageable 100,000 men within the regular British army. NOW THERE IS 300,000! -Tripled from our armies overseas, not to mention the settlers alongside them, adding at least a million more souls into the pool of our hungry citizenry." Gladstone wiped away a fake sweat, portraying the stress they all, and the Empire was about to be in.
"Luckily, they had transferred with them all their provisions, clothes and other civilian goods, meaning we won't need to provide for them. Unfortunately, though, they have also brought with them their guns, ammunitions and other far more destructive instruments of war."
"-And why is that a problem Gladstone? All I hear is that we can finally stand up against other Great European powers." Cecil interjected, much to his own party's dismay,
"...The only necessary means of defence we need is our navy, Lord Salisbury. We are an island after all, and you should be especially happy to know that all of our ships, including merchant convoys, have dutifully accompanied its master." Gladstone swept the Duke aside for now,
"Regardless, despite our standing army increasing triple-fold, it is still numerically lacking when against the German's 400,000. Thankfully, all our soldiers are professional, while the latter's numbers are primarily comprised of conscripts." Gladstone assured the Warhawks of the House, some literally.
"Not mentioning the Russian's one million when counting reservists. ALSO mostly conscripts by the way, but more like uniformed peasants when comparing them to the enlisted Germans." Gladstone chuckled, and many followed.
"-But that is not my point, as-"
Lord Lennox helped dumb it down further, but mostly interjected to move the discussion forward, "He's worried that the soldiers will incite civil unrest. A reasonable concern considering there's a finite supply of provisions transferred over to keep them from starving."
"And we're going to have to have to cut their pay. Or reorganise the entire colonial army for civilian duties so that our voters don't think paying them is a waste of their taxes. -Even if that is what is keeping the said party from bayonetting them." Disraeli added, further going above by mentioning the voter's general tendency to shoot themselves in the foot.
"But critically,/an army this size is utterly unsustainable for our devastated economy!" Disraeli declared,
"That brings us to my first sub-proposal, gentlemen." Gladstone flipped his page loudly on purpose, hinting others to follow less subtlely,
"Due to the constraints of time, I will make it brief as we can decide on the finer details later. But as a tidbit, of which, we gentlemen, must continually remind ourselves is that those soldiers aren't going to wait for us to sit on our fannies and deliberate while they starve." Gladstone cleared his throat of his previous threat,
"Option 1 basically entails that we reorganise our overseas armies that have found themselves stranded in Britain to take up 'civilian duties,' such as policing, guarding and riot suppression. -We'll definitely need them for the chaos to follow." Granville reminded,
"-But the people won't stand for it. Must I remind you how difficult it was for our predecessors to form even an unarmed police force due to our citizen's paranoia against authority? -Many still today think it should be abolished, believing it was an organisation created by the rich due to their phobia of the poor." Disraeli pointed out,
"Well, we know better that it is for everyone's good, Disraeli. I could counter by saying many in the poorest district of London appreciate the constables, for all the safety and security they brought to that lawless pit of Tartarus." Granville swayed,
"But the majority of people still don't." Disraeli deadpanned, "-And while I also shiver at the prospects of returning to the thief-taker system, the people of Britain still prefer living in fear of each other, rather than the government. If 'option 1,' as you call it, was to be passed, it may subvert a military insurrection, but may cause a far larger, and more devastating civilian uprising!" Disraeli declared with sudden stress, evident by his faintly glowing horn.
Was it getting hotter in here?
Several of the Liberal MPs looked to move to defend Gladstone's position, however, were halted by the very man they tried to defend whose claws were raised to order restraint among his peers.
"I actually agree with the House of Lords's assessment. The people of Britain are already presumably shocked, afraid and irrational from the ordeals of weeks ago, and will probably act negatively on what they perceive as an overreach by the government alongside that. They abhor tyranny. Reasonable. But they detest it regardless of its low magnitude and will most likely tip their repressed emotions from the week's chaos to snap back at us, most unreasonably." Gladstone solemnly said.
"...Then you prefer 'option 2?... Disbanding our army?!" Lord Lennox paled, re-reading the proposal in front of him again to make sure he hadn't been mistaken. What of the implications?! -The consequences of what such an action would reap!
Loud murmurs spread pandemically around the room, the variants of potential consequences mutating in severity as they passed from one MP to another.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please! It would've been unlike me to propose something exclusively destructive! What do you take me for, -an imbecile?! I-"
"A loner is more accurate."
Gladstone scowled, he didn't even have to look to know that Disraeli had said that, but for the sake of Britain! He would overlook it! "-I of course made a detailed plan to undertake this action with as minimal risk as possible. But as of now, I believe the worst-case scenario that Britain could feasibly fall into, currently, is for the military to become too powerful and subsequently, corrupt. We, for the life of us, CAN NOT allow our Empire to fall into the same trap that the Ottoman Empire or the Sikhs had fallen into!" Gladstone spoke without stutter nor pause, his training to become a preacher dully paying off.
"The military MUST be neutralised under the primacy of civilian administration for a democratic, prosperous nation to be possible! Say whatever you want about the Germans achieving prosperity as an '*Army with a state,' but their people's desire does not align with ours, and their noble want of liberty! -Ultimately, if the army is not crushed by us now, the people will do it themselves eventually, with too much needless bloodshed, -so we must act now, in the people's 'stead!" Gladstone declared,
"-That is why I propose that our domestic armies demobilise, disarm and otherwise disband all the former-overseas armies of Britain. -While the colonial officers may resist, -likely so due to their sudden loss in authority, I have full confidence that the loyal soldiers of the British Empire will dutifully lay down their arms for the good of the state, -for the good of the people who they swore to protect and enrich." Gladstone finished with solemn tones. His eyes, just ago widely awake, had progressively become half-lidded then tiredly closed, from his emotional preaching. Many in the House, even those from the opposition prepared to spontaneously applaud such a passionate display in the concern for the people.
And they would have, if not for Disraeli's existence.
"...You forgot option 3,"
Gladstone repressed a sinking-feeling in his stomach, as he regretfully peeked an eye open to witness a practically glowing Disraeli, a reflective, toothy grin of self-satisfaction all-present.
Cavendish rapidly flipped through his own copy of the bill, uncaring how his stumpy hoof kept creasing the centre of all of his pages as he recklessly swiped them over another, "Did...? We get the same copies, Lord Disraeli? There are clearly only two options." Cavendish asked with a raised brow.
Gladstone resisted the urge to slide his claw down his face, "Don't make this any worse man..." He so wished to say,
"Great eyes Lord Cavendish, but 'option 3,' is actually from one of my own bills, presumably buried in the deep crevices of today's pile." Disraeli directed a hoof towards said imposing soul-drainers.
"I will debrief in laymen's terms, as my fellow, Gladstone, generously had." He retrieved a neatly folded page from his breast pocket, which he impossibly unfolded into an entire 50-page-ish bill.
"How the fu-?" Gladstone's eyes snapped open, his brain already filing the paperwork to arrest the dorsolateral prefrontal right cortex for spreading misinformation via visual mediums.
Thankfully, logic, or lack-of, came-a-knocking, pleading for its innocence, "Oh. Right... We got turned into magical, fairytale creatures overnight, SO WHO CARES WHATEVER ELSE BREAKS THE LAWS OF PHYSICALITY?!" He reminded himself to consult a scientist after this. Again. Hopefully, if they had not already all committed suicide out of despair.
"-While our colonial armies pose a significant threat to our internal security and domestic stability, it would be unwise to demobilise such a well-trained, professional corp of troops while there are other, far less intrusive ways to neutralise them." Disraeli lazily glanced around the room with a presumptuous smile that somehow managed to not seem insulting.
"-By, of course, making use of them, that is." Still, many within the House seemed unimpressed, Disraeli's opening seeming to be a boring repeat of what his rival had just professed.
Granville scoffed heatedly, his usual patience and reservedness having decayed away, as was the norm when speaking with the utterly hopeless Russophobic House of Lords, "-If you so dare to even mention using them for a war against Russia, I will rip your bal-"
"That is farthest of my intentions!... But similar... In that, the soldiers would be helpless to disobey." Disraeli preempted a triumphant grin.
Gladstone felt momentarily lost. Now, despite whatever opinion of Disraeli he always had, he was sure that the latter statesman wasn't truly an imbecile. Compound that with his amicable memories with the man before the whole economic crisis and wasteful bloody conflict with Russia over saving some eastern heretics had ruined their friendship, he knew Disraeli to be at least a well-read intellectual, but now? He was beginning to question this.
After all, it wasn't uncommon for those near death to become incoherent or outright delusional... And just weeks ago he seemed to be on the verge of death's door! -No but wait... They were all rejuvenated by the transmutation... So had he always been stupid? Or had he misjudged him at the start? Or possibly, he was misjudging him now. -Because no matter how much he wrapped his mind around the issue, he could not find a better resolution to the colonial army issue, as Disraeli was seemingly, so confidently was about to reveal. Gladstone conveyed all this internal turmoil through a blank stare at his rival, long-ago friend, Disraeli.
Disraeli, exercising his convenient denseness, failed to notice the meaning behind Gladstone's stare, allowing the time between his rival's great battle against himself to be used most succinctly in a follow-up, "All of the machinery, machine tools and agricultural goods have also been transported over gentlemen! Do you know what that means? -We can immediately establish a colonial administration on virgin land, extracting its resources, guarantee our food independence and keep our colonial soldiers busy without any civilian or army backlash! It's a win-win-win!"
It was time for a Liberal, one Lord Granville to gape, "You... -Your plan to save us is an idealistic gambit?!" He snapped furiously, much contrary to his usual personality, "You will really gamble our Empire's fate on the slim possibility of finding land?! PREPOSTROUS! INCONCIEVABLE! -If your idealistic dream were to fail, our people would be the ones left repaying for your burdenous loss! IRRESPONSIBLE! MONSTROUSLY RECKLESS!" He madly reprimanded, willing others around him to echo his insults. Yet, there was calculated silence. He greatly misjudged everyone's desperation.
Cavendish spoke first in solidarity, "Desperate times call for desperate measures!... Is what someone in a similar position as mine would probably say." He announced non-committedly, which didn't stop a supporting 'there, there!' from hesitantly resounding around him.
Noticing, and not willing to ruin their rare bipartisanship, Lennox refrained from attacking Granville, instead nodding agreeably towards Cavendish, "We achieved greatness through great risk-taking, Lord Granville. We may resort to realist politics to preserve that greatness, -of which effort from you predominantly, is greatly appreciated, -at least from me. But those times are rightly over, good gentlemen." Lennox looked around, seeking confirmation from his peers to continue.
"Our grandeur, once come from our boastings of the sun's obsession with us are conclusively over, for the star has abandoned our empire for the last weeks, finally setting as our imperial possessions lie a world apart!" Lennox seemingly lit up the House's atmosphere, filling everyone with patriotic fervour and optimism, once doused by the negative news from the prior bill,
"Have we not always felt inferior? Felt lesser than our great grandfathers who allowed us to live in such luxury?! -It is time for us to shed ourselves of such humiliation! Prove our worth to our fathers and our distant sons! Make the future generations praise our names and sing of our efforts as we do for our ancestors today! WE! WILL! MAKE! HISTORY!" He threw his fist violently into the air, as if punching villainous fate, who had nefariously put them in this situation.
Stubbornly refusing to be swept along, by what he perceived to be blind optimism, Lord Salisbury gruffed with a hardened scowl,
"Hey, -hey! What are all you hopeless adventurers fantasising about?!" In particular, he attempted to hold back two of the most prolific idealists of his Conservative party,
"You are basing our success entirely on assumptions! We're mature, learn'ed adults for Christ's sake! We make decisions based on proven facts and logic! -And there is no logic in presuming that there will be new lands outside of Europe just because it was the case on Earth! -This isn't Earth! And I will not! -Allow this House to commit idealist suicide for the want of foolish adventurous men that selfishly want a stake in history! I WON'T ALLOW IT!"
Cecil indignantly crossed his arms, his scowl somehow deepening beyond perceivability as it now had a physical effect of exuding a threatening aura that promised others an obnoxious snapping if approached too closely.
"...I agree with option 3."
Granville painfully snapped towards the source of the voice, silently thanking whatever deity that gave him such a flexible neck but paling from the realisation of whose voice it was. "Et tu, Gladstone?!"
Gladstone nodded soberly, briefly flashing Granville an apologetic glance to hopefully remedy his friend's sense of betrayal for falling to idealism. "All my options were similarly idealistic anyways. They were also based on assumptions... Foremost, it would be foolish of us to depend on other Europeans for basic necessities like food, iron or other raw materials. Let us not forget why we were in an era of 'Splendid Isolationism;' -it was because of continental Europe's instability to provide such goods reliably. Wars and such, not to mention the 'continental system' imposed by Napoleon." He waved tiredly,
"While I consider Russia a relatively minor threat to our prosperity, us trading with them means they could become the thorns the Conservatives perceive them as. The threat of them becoming a reality, so to speak, as if they industrialise, they will prove to be an annoying competitor in the global market. If such a case is to happen, our ability to retain the isolationist policies our forefathers graciously leveraged through sweat and blood to guarantee us peace would become untannable." Gladstone gravely remarked,
"-For the future of this country, we prospect for new land now, rather than later, to guarantee our splendid isolation through resource self-sufficiency." He summarilarily declared, rippling mixed emotions among the benches.
"...You know this is reckless. We're talking about gambling with our finite resources! If we were to lose them, and subsequently anger the soldiers, it will mean the acceleration of our downfall!" Granville sputtered desperately, holding onto the slight possibility that he may be able to sway his friend's mind back to the realm of logic.
"Yes, accelerate. I couldn't put it in any better words man, but our downfall is inevitable. Only if we don't find any virgin land." Gladstone determinedly declared, convincing many of the fringes of his party to convert from that simple statement. After all, what was Britain without its colonies? Just a damp, wet, depressing Island off of Europe. That's what it was.
Disraeli smiled, but enshrined caution so as to not come off presumptuous or arrogant in his triumph to preserve solidarity. "Not to cause alarm, though gentlemen, but I had already taken the initiative yesterday by ordering, through the Queen, as is convention, to launch as many colonial expeditions in as many available directions as possible. -Now, say whatever you want of me being dictatorial, but you all ended up agreeing to it anyways, so the end res-!"
"You did the right thing. There's no time to lose, right? And it is quite expected for a man gambling everything, -including their career, reputation and the damn entire nation to also bet on that we'll agree with your proposal." Gladstone spat with a noticeable venom in his voice, but still retained his intentions to fold, much to Granville's dismay.
Said Lord softly nudged his friend in his side, requesting his ear, "I hope you know what you are getting yourself into friend... I also back Gladstone... But let it be in the record that I did so with great reluctance!" He huffed indignantly,
"So... That would only leave Lord Salisbury left as opposition?" Brand looked around the benches, and presumably found only Cecil with a negative expression, his putrid permanent scowl especially noticeable among the comparably bearable faces of the Conservatives.
"...Let it be recorded that Disraeli's bill was passed unanimously by the House!"
"Hey!" Lord Salisbury bitterly snapped at the insinuation, and he would've stood to give a piece of his mind to the speaker, but he was stopped by the least likely of persons, again... The Home Rule party leader, William Shaw, Who by now thought the description of being footnotes of today's gathering was an exaggeration, as they were more comparable to the dust lining the underneath of the benches in their level of participation in the discussion. At least the dust had moved throughout the session.
Regardless, Shaw had placed a comforting hoof on the flaming shoulder of Lord Salisbury, hushing a quiet, "First time?" Under his breath.
The victim of this unidirectional commentary simply stared confusedly at the inconsequential Irishman, his brain refusing to process the fact that he had been degraded to the point of associating with whom he, like other members of Parliament, considered as pests.
"-MOVING ON! WE'VE GOT A LOT TO GET THROUGH! Fourth bill! -From the honourable gentleman, Viscountt Chaplin!... About... Oh. Oh, dear..." Brand trailed off; a hoof magnetically clamping against his face in sorrow.
A slight glistening followed between his hoof and face. He had promised not to cry dammit!
A Liberal MP, having already grabbed a copy of the bill and having briefly swept over it, lifted his face from the pages to deliver a single word with deathly seriousness; his claws visibly shaking while his grip on the documents strengthened every second, threatening to either rip the paper apart or irreversibly crease it to illegibility.
"Tea." He shakily, yet so-bravely declared. An ultimate testament of the unknown MP's indomitable will.
"Tea."
Several Conservative MPs echoed, some even standing up with one claw or hoof across their chest, a sign of respect one would normally display for a lost, comrade-in-arms.
"Tea."
The entire House erupted in similar grievances.
"-I..." A Conservative MP revealed a letter from his inner pocket, garnering his fellow's attention,
"I... Have a eulogy for the honourable Chinese Black Tea; the drink that flows in our blood, comprises thirty percent of our economy and had made us resort to peddling drugs to procure..." He held back a sad gasp.
"Undoubtedly the drink that well and truly defines us Brits. A part of us, you can say, which makes this ever more tragic, since its loss will mean a part of us has forever died." He orientated his letter properly.
Then, most elegantly, he began reciting the eulogy.
.
.
.
The flags of Britain all rose half-mast that day.
.
.
.
They had gone to war to avenge Boston's tea.
They would've waged war on heaven itself to get back at god.
Only if they could find him, or his realm.
Imagine being so addicted to tea that you are forced to sell LITERAL OPIUM, one of the most addictive substances on Earth to pay for your tea addiction. The British are just built differently, man. But tbh I would also rather be addicted to tea than opium.
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imma just post the work I have saved up, one a day.
also, sorry if ur not into long chapters. I tried dividing this up, but it ruined the flow.
Well, the Brits at least have a plan. Every direction eh? I pity the Southern Expedition. They'll likely run into West Zebrica, whether that's Saddle Arabia or Abyssinia I couldn't say. To the north they're very likely to get to Southern Equestria before the Balkans do despite their proximity, given the wars going on. To the West... They'll likely run into Kiria and I think they're Pre-Silence given the timeline. Or Western Griffonia if they go more North West, which is Riverpony lands. Might see Grover II take a spear. Wonder where they'll try to conquer and where they'll just set up ports.
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Don't worry some of us love reading long chapters, also this chapter was brilliant, I really love the scene of Parlimant, the ending was perfect it depicted the sheer madness of the situation with something so British.
Also good to see your engines still running ,thought you gave up the ghost after you canceled "The Iron Chancellor", hope your doing well.
...You are really good at writing these bizzare word strings, you know that?
Also I have almost never been THIS hyped over a FimFiction story. The fact this has any dislikes is a crime!
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my sleep-deprived brain inserts itself in my writing with tidbits I'm learning at uni. I get so confused when I occasionally reread my stuff because of this.
Never had I thought I would be interested in politics
Also great story telling
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Storytelling?
You mean reality?
Thx for the support
So it looks like it will be the British who will make first contact, now we just need to know where