The man forgot how difficult it was to navigate Strada Avenue. A street crowded with restaurants, cafes and shops. Cars parked along the sidewalk made the tight street narrower. Pedestrians either drunk or ill-attentive jumped out at odd moments. Drivers clutched their wheels and remained vigilant. Otherwise they had some explaining to do. The man parked beside a bistro with outdoor seating that pressed so close to the edge he feared the metal fencing scratched his car. A delicious smell of lobster and pasta aromatized the air and emptied his sated stomach. He sampled the delicious scents from nearby establishments like a connoisseur as he walked, the evening sky blurred into a canvas of orange and pink clouds. Parliament was massive. It cast a shadow across the entire square. Built with dragons in mind. Crafted out of their bones. Gave it a special pearl sheen. A chill crawled up his back the second he entered its shade. He tucked his scarf into his brown coat and continued.

The Great Rotunda. A national showroom for art. The entrance to the House of Governance. Corridors led east to the Commons and west to the Offices of Representatives. The north corridor opened to the Hall of Paintings. On its walls hung important moments in Arsenian history. The walls bore a physical presentation of the passage of time where the progression in style changed from the simplest almost childlike drawings of misshapen animals to those whose artists acquired a better grasp of human anatomy and greater understanding of geometry to the recent techniques soaked in darkness and color glorifying the country yet also immortalizing its worst moments as a reminder of what could happen when advancement was forgotten.

A boulder-like dragon lay curled in the center of the room. Niccolum Dracoferri. The dragon that harbors a special knack for finding, and eating, metals. Its curious concrete pigmented skin, perfect for life deep underground in the great metal deposits, gleamed in the weak sunlight. He stopped for the routine security check. The dragon unfurled its rock tipped tail. It wrapped it around his entire body and squeezed. He was released. Cleared.

"Welcome to Parliament, General." The security guard said.

He nodded and moved ahead. This man was Elias Baltasar. General of the Arsenian Navies and Arwen Mordecai's closest friend. He'd come to take him to the opera. Elias walked into the Hall of Paintings, impossibly large and spacious, made in such a way dragons could perch on the lofty columns. He passed smaller branch corridors crammed with art. When Elias visited, which was not often, he loved to sit for hours in these smaller passageways where curators couldn't choose which to display and simply hung up as many paintings as they could. His favorite work was, Drifting on the Open Sea, by William Somerscales. Sea and sky could not be told apart in this small canvas. A lone sailboat of smoldering red drifted in foam splattered waters. Somerscales' rough brushstrokes gave his application of colors a charming nuance that enamored Elias even though he knew nothing about art. Arwen could lecture for hours on the technical masterfulness of, Drifting on the Open Sea, and concisely express why he held this work in high regard. Elias, however, would simply say he liked Somerscales' art for no other reason than he liked it. Couldn't a person's appreciation of an artwork be enough to elevate it to greatness? Sailing the ocean was a lonely thing, but it was comforting that all rooms with windows in the sailboat had light. It was not just the captain aboard, but the crew and perhaps other passengers as well. Elias would imagine him and Arwen and... all of them on that boat together learning from him countless sea shanties until Arwen, flushed with alcohol and passion in the moment, began singing the lyrics jarringly off tune. Elias winced, a hand rising instinctively to protect his ear. He lingered underneath a rectangular arch, tempted to take the longer path. He sighed.

Next time.

Elias crossed the hall and briskly marched towards the Prime Minister's office. In Arseny's government, after votes were counted and results announced, the new Parliament stood for a portrait. The artworks served as a record of Arsenian political culture. Such was the long foyer he walked, The Autobiography of Arseny.

Master painters took years to complete one due to the sheer details included. Each member, drawn as an individual, had a trait or symbol fused with their person that brilliantly epitomized their city and or beliefs. A politician, their city known for its metalworking industry, sported a watch, its dozens of gears glinting with reflected light. A bronze fish pin clipped another's hair, showing they represented a southern city where fishing earned the people their living. One could even see a member cradling a book against their chest, a book about democracy by the great philosopher Telero, denoting that that politician was well read and had campaigned on transforming the system they were elected into. This, the oldest of a series of paintings at three hundred and twenty-two years, was the first hung in the foyer. There were others grander in age left in storage or museums as the walls did not have enough space for them all, especially since older paintings were enormous, some the size of cars, the figures depicted larger than life. When war erupted, Parliament thought it imprudent to commission these works amidst the suffering. Later, to boost morale, support artists, and diligently document history, the commissions resumed. Canvases became smaller, paintings less detailed, so much so that in the style of newer avant garde, people became impressions and labels had to be made to tell who was who. In a triumph of Arsenian ingenuity, along came cameras in the latter half of the 18th century. The first photograph taken was of that year's Parliament. Taken on the same battlefield shortly after a major victory as a show of strength. Elias, like the public, harshly criticized the Prime Minister of the time for that decision, considering it rash, nothing more than an impractical theatrical gesture endangering hundreds of lives. It was now the most famous and the most recognizable picture.

Alwena Mordecai, previous head of the Mordecai family and predecessor to Arwen as Prime Minister of Arseny, stood in the center of this grainy picture. She wanted Parliament to see the frontlines. To witness the carnage. Visit soldiers before their wounds were hidden by gauze and medals, and mourn the dead before their bodies were presented elegantly at somber funerals. Few smiled. Those who did fought to evoke memories from a happier time to put on a genuine smile, and failed. Alwena Mordecai became something more than a hero. From that time on, Parliament used photography as the medium for portraits.

Elias had stalled too long. He passed some offices, doors wide open. ASSR officers carried out boxes and escorted suspects. These rooms belonged to high ranked party members. To think they would be corrupt. A terrible thing. It wasn't unimaginable, but it was saddening. Misconduct hit so close to the heart of their government.

Elias arrived at Arwen's office and stood in front of the door. A door that's withstood the fiery ire of many dragons. It was difficult to match this level of craftsmanship nowadays. Elias traced the dragon's shape. The once isolated Arseny was no more. Changed so drastically within decades. When he was a child, candles lit their homes. Now they had electricity. Wonderful. He heard a commotion and saw a well known representative bolting towards him. ASSR officers pursued close behind. He widened his stance to fight, but the person simply collapsed on his knees, begging for Arwen. Elias grabbed the man by the collar and warned the Prime Minister not to come out. Arwen ignored him and opened the door. He was fixing the cuffs of his white dress shirt and had a jacket slung over his shoulder. Vulnerable.

"What's this?"

"Arwen, forgive me, forgive me, let me have one more chance, one more, please."

The Prime Minister sighed and waved a hand. Elias let go and the officers retreated.

Arwen helped the man stand, "Mr. Dagobert. Smuggling dragon eggs is..." He tightened Dagobert's tie, "It's an offense I believe punishable by death. However. We do not live in a lawful society, we live in a just one."

Arwen released him, "You are lucky it is only your career and reputation that will be executed." Though after all you've done, if I were you, I'd have the good sense to commit suicide."

The officers advanced. Dagobert clutched the Prime Minister's trousers, "Arwen, Arwen, please."

He crushed Dagobert's hand under his foot. "We're late, Elias."

They left the building and began the short walk to the opera house.

"Did he really smuggle dragon eggs?"

"Yes."

"I know your tricks, Arwen."

"I do not speak of the plight smuggled dragon eggs face so lightly."

Elias sighed. "Even I, having done questionable things as a military man, have reservations as to what you're trying to accomplish."

Arwen curtly replied, "I know what I'm doing."

"I'm thinking about retiring. For good. I think you should too."

Arwen stopped walking momentarily. "Where is this spontaneity-"

"Even the most stringent believers grow tired. I want to visit countries for leisure, not war. Enjoy a slow life. With you."

"My friend, if you can, have a child or find a wife to rekindle your faith."

"I am surprised that between the two of us it was you who found love," Elias said, stroking his long tawny hair.

Arwen smiled. "Your face is much too narrow to like."

Elias grimaced looking at him. "No, no. I have the more palatable face, but do go on. You were saying?"

A large riverboat, strung with lights reflecting colorfully against the waters, disembarked its well dressed passengers who milled in front of the opera house.

Arwen lowered his voice, "The people I love are in Arseny. Duty to country is the passion of my life."

Elias had a look on his face Arwen chose to ignore.

"I will retire when the time comes. My mother, you may recall, withdrew from public eye when she was one hundred and ten. If we are to travel, I suggest you stay alive until then."

Elias stifled a dissatisfied groan. Arsenians had longer lifespans than most. The Mordecai family, one of the five who helped the Royal Family establish the country, have greater longevity because of their special connections to the dragons.

"You are asking a lot from me, Arwen."

"I am confident in you. Who knows? If all goes well I might retire sooner."

"I should begin a coup and install a puppet to lead. I'd kidnap you and off we go on adventure," Elias mused.

Arwen stared at him with an intense spirit. "Do it."

"Too much work. The logistics would be terrible."

Arwen patted his friend's back and spoke words of encouragement. "This is your chance Elias. If we are to be sad old men in retirement, let us be sad old men together, for then, we won't be lonely."

Elias coughed into his fist to hide his smile. Arwen was too invested in something and he knew neither force or persuasion could move this stubborn man. Lighthearted banter was fine.

"Enough of this talk. Discuss something else."

Before they could, people realized the Prime Minister had arrived and hurried to talk to him. Elias kept a lookout for danger as Arwen entertained the masses. As he steered Arwen up the red felt carpeted stairs to their private booth, slapping hands off the Prime Minister and blocking suspicious folks with his body, Elias wondered why he let himself be coerced into watching yet another opera. He didn't even like this stuff, screeched in the ancient Arsenic language he couldn't understand. They sat in their seats.

Elias said, "I choose what we do next time."

"Sit on a boat sipping tea doing nothing?" Arwen mimicked the action. "I think not."

"It's relaxing."

"I can sit still but my mind can't. That is why I like opera. The singing preoccupies my attention. Besides, someone has to protect the Prime Minister. I'd rather watch with a friend than a stoic officer. This was the only compromise I could arrive at with Maks."

Elias doubled over, his fingers dug into his scalp in exasperation. So it was Meiers who disturbed his peaceful evenings forcing this task onto him.

"I'll have a word with Maks."

"When the boy has his mind set on something you can't change it."

"Inform him I won't be available the next time you see a play. There are important meetings I must attend."

Arwen shifted in his seat as the lights dimmed. "Has war begun again? Why was I not informed?"

Elias crossed his arms. "My duties are not limited to wartime leadership. I have ships to inspect, soldiers to maintain. That takes time and effort to coordinate. I have no time for this frivolity, and, I would think, neither do-"

"Very well. Next time, we will go on a boat and do nothing."

"I do hope there will be a next time," Elias muttered. He won, but at what cost? Time wasted, tasks left incomplete. The urge to escape nearly overtook him.

"For now," Arwen reached for a bottle of chardonnay in the bucket filled with ice and poured his friend a drink, "Enjoy the show."

Elias looked distastefully at the stage. "I'll do my best."