TEN YEARS AGO
“Excuse me. I have a meeting with the Prime Minister.”
The guard blinked, and blinked again. Somewhere in his maw something coherent was forming, but would fall apart by the end of his tongue. Persistent blinking did not aid him in his duty, nor did it transform the Union Jack stretched over tan biceps into something his pay grade could manage.
“You’re,” he stammered; the rest didn’t come.
“True Blue,” the man smiled behind his beard. “Blue to my mates, or Duncan.”
There was a quality to him that few men possessed; one that could be read from a glance. Skin like leather spoke of experience tempered by the wisdom of his silver locks smoothed on the sides. His smile sparkled and overpowered the shadow of his brow; anyone who knew to look might have seen eyes once so full of hope on posters and billboards without their typical luster.