Orenda

Chapter 2: EMNA OL

Sorry and thank you for the wait.😔

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A middle-aged country sat in the center of the expanse of his study. Stacks of documents laid out on his desk as he skims for the main details of every paper, occasionally stamping or writing his signature above a straight line. His left brow creased downward. For him, this particular part of being a head of state is most mentally taxing, but only when he gets weary. The physical stress of his right arm is what irks him, he should really get someone to assist him with these documents.

The country pulled back into his chair, letting his stiff shoulders slump a bit. His attention was caught by the grandfather clock, immediately telling him it's past dinner. He's been physically spent these past few days, gatherings and delegations to attend to. The strife among other countries was brought to a standstill, instead it was perdure by increasing their influence amidst other countries under their ruling. And Britain's outlook is unprejudiced. He could care less about this grandstand of leadership, not anymore.

Shifting his gaze back to the table and to the burning candle inside the lamp, he noticed the rolled up parchment sealed with a wax stamp beside it. Ah yes, the message from his governor general.

He begrudgingly leaned forward, and brought it on the documents he intended to finish, rolling it out and letting the candle light unveil the dark written ink. Upon reading it, the crease on his forehead deepened. The drumming of his fingers on the desk became furious. He then reached a gloved hand on one side of his temple, massaging it, attempting to calm his boiling temper. After reading the last sentence, he crumpled the parchment and threw it on his desk with flimsy effort as it bounced and fell down the edge. He sighed through his nose exasperatedly, and leaned back once again. He can't lose that capital, but the main product of his trade is now being denied by the importer. Though his affiliations are in concrete treaty, the trading routes will be affected. He can't afford discrepancy to his major company branches.

There was a knock on his door. Looking up from his plush armchair, he removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, come in." His voice, heavy and gruff, yet still carried the velvety voice.

"Your grace, your dinner had been set in the dining room," a brunette maid of Albion manor stated politely, she cleared her throat and spoke again, "And Philip has returned." She added, keeping her place by the door, awaiting for her orders.

"Very well," he stood up, wearing his glasses once again, "He will join me for dinner." Britain then peeled off his coat, tugged down on his waistcoat, and began to roll up his sleeves.

"Yes, milord.." the maid answered, shifting her gaze to her feet and back to the country. The Britton then discerns her unnecessary presence prolonging.

"Is something the matter?" His brows furrowed a little.

"I humbly ask for your grace to give the cook more time to calorify the main dishes, since she's the only one working in the kitchen." She said bowing her head a little.

"No need, he's not that picky anyways." Britain said in a matter of fact way, while putting his desk in order.

"Yes, your grace. Thank you, your grace." The human girl tipped her head down as she leaned her weight on one knee, she turned her heels then gently closed the door after her.

The Britton glanced back to the grandfather clock, "He's late."

It's not the first time he comes home late, but every night he does, the worry and anxiety builds up by every drop. Most of those nights he questions himself if it was right to let him have a little way of his current life. It was a good decision, to say the least, yet Philip isn't exactly safe from others and himself. He can't put him in a curfew, just because he's wary of the people in the concrete jungle doesn't mean he should restrict the boy's freedom, that would be selfish.