WITH THE CORONATION of Ericia Charlotte Avington as
Queen only five days away, there is a hustle like there has never
been in the palace. Ericia is forbidden from leaving the palace –
even to go outside for mere moments to enjoy a bit of fresh air.
Vynierian and Phillimont soldiers are posted all around, patrolling
the palace grounds through endless shifts.
It’s a lonely process for Ericia, but she doesn’t feel very much of
it.
Ericia stands before the picture of her mother. It is a portrait
framed in gold and hung in a corner of the Queen’s study, just
above a mahogany desk holding a vase with the departed Queen
Olivia’s favourite flowers –pink roses- and a jar made of Jade,
holding her ashes.
King Charles made it impossible for the late queen to be buried
in the royal cemetery –he forbade it- but Ericia was determined to
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find justice for her mother even now, and so she kept a small
funeral on where her mother was burnt –the only attendees being
a few of her servants, some good friends of her mother, and oddly
enough, Prince Henry, though he had been standing at the back of
the crowd the entire time, watching on.
Prince Rowan and Princess May had nothing to do with the
ceremony –they were not obligated to attend, nor did they seem
to be even slightly intrigued by the idea of it. This only annoyed
and hurt Ericia more. The Wright royals were so shallow, only
filling and spreading in the place of another’s opinions –
specifically the King’s.
Ericia places a freshly picked pink rose, which she had begged a
servant to pluck from the garden since she could not go outside,
into the vase of other roses before staring up at the picture. With
the incidents of late, she has become numb; numb to emotional
pain; numb to physical pain. She hasn’t spoken much. She hasn’t
eaten much. She hasn’t done anything –she’s barely left her room
even to go to the Queen’s study.
The door to the study opens. She turns to find Prince Henry.
She doesn’t speak –she only bows until he’s standing just before
her.
For the past few days, since Ericia found no reason to speak to
anyone, she had especially not spoken to Henry, and this
behaviour towards the heir of Phillimont was less of a response
from the Queen than she had given to Rowan and his sister, being
annoyed at their inconsideration in being absent from her
mother’s funeral.
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“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I’ve been aching for an
answer,” Henry says, suddenly. He seems anxious; anxious as
though whatever he’s about to ask has been eating at him for quite
some time.
“To what question, Henry?” she asks him, her placid disposition
narrow.
“Why did you go to your mother’s cell without me?” he asks,
sounding offended. “If I sound out of place for saying this, then let
it be so and I shall leave if I must. Your father must have done
what he did that day because of your impulsive behaviour.”
Ericia clasps her hands over her stomach as gracefully as her
mother once had, determined to remain calm. “Was I to wait on a
man who could do nothing to help her?” her brows furrowing.
“You told the King that you had nothing to add when he asked you,
though I’m sure you had seen proof in the evidence that it was at
fault. If I’m wrong for applying a false accusation upon such a
highly esteemed individual as yourself, Your Highness, then do
tell me at once so that I may be obliged to fix it. I’ve no time to
waste talking.”
“You’re right,” Henry says, suddenly. He sounds defeated.
Ericia listens. “There was nothing I could have done to help your
mother, Ericia. If I had chosen to do something, I would be long
gone, as would you.”
“You stand for a kingdom worthy of nothing less than the best
and yet listen to yourself, Prince Henry Darwin of Phillimont, you
are the worst coward of them all.” Ericia holds nothing back as she
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spitefully verbally attacks him. “At least Rowan is honest in his
iniquities but you...” she starts laughing in utter disbelief, “You
really are unbelievable.”
Prince Henry doesn’t know what to say. He stares at the Queen;
hurt. He wanted to help –truly – but the trap had been laid so
slyly that any small move against it could cause the rebel to be
destroyed.
Both Henry and Ericia don’t know how long it’s been since he
stood there in silence, hurting.
He sighs. He bows. “Forgive me,” he says, “I’ve made a terrible
mistake.”
He walks away, leaving Ericia dumbfounded, her heart crushed.
It’s true that he had done nothing to help her mother even
though Ericia was sure he could have assessed the situation and
terminated the matter as flawed. Now, things are different. Now
all three neighbouring kingdoms know of a traitor for a queen –a
traitor who had rightfully been put to death for treason; a traitor
who would have foiled the plans of alliance among the three
nations.
Most people agree that it’s better off without the ‘problem’ that
Queen Olivia was –most of them think she had done something
terribly wrong.
Even King Edward Darwin of Phillimont, upon hearing the
word of it, had advised his dearest son to keep an extra eye on the
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crowns, though he very fortunately decided not to end the
upcoming alliance.
As for King Stephen and Queen Carol of Lystotia, they had
come to the agreement that this should not stop the marriage
between Rowan and Ericia, and in fact believe that because Ericia
is now falling into the line of the Queens she would be more
responsible and build a true legacy.
Through all of this, Ericia could only think of her mother. She
cannot sleep without seeing the face of her mother –the arrow,
piercing into her heart, the hopeful eyes turning white as the
queen lost consciousness, the fall –Ericia would only wake up to
the servants in her room trying to calm her down; trying to warm
her with a blanket as she shivers and trying to cool her sweating,
trembling skin and bones with water.
Yes; Ericia’s nightmares have returned. She can no longer
contain everything she had worked so hard to masterfully hide
within.
The last dream Ericia had was only another reminder of her
mother –the reminder that she had burned in fire and coals, her
legacy destroyed, her image removed from the earth. Ericia could
not even cry at her mother’s funeral; she had grown too numb on
the day of her mother’s execution. Instead, everything built up
within her only exhausts to the point of overflowing as she lies to
sleep.
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Ericia returns to her throne at the end of the room as the doors
shut behind the retreating Prince. Avie, standing close by, doesn’t
say a word.
***
Prince Rowan sits with his sister in the garden until they spotthe Queen roaming about with Avie. Rowan waves and makes his
way over to her.
“Your Majesty,” he says, bowing. “How has your day been?”
“Lovely, Rowan, just lovely. There is much to do; many
challenges I have to overcome, but it’s only been a few days. I’ll
find the strength to get used to it,” Ericia says.
“Why are you still wearing black, Ericia?” Princess May
suddenly asks, clearly out of place in tone and statement. “Are you
still mourning the departed?”
Rowan laughs anxiously and glances at his sister before turning
to Ericia. “Forgive her, as you know she’s quite blunt and is the
epitome of mischief.”
Ericia smiles at the nervous Prince but then turns to May. “I just
lost my dearly beloved mother a few days ago, Your Highness. It
may have been an act of treason, it may have been by the breaking
of a law and by execution –which I must not fail to remind you; I
had to watch happen before my very eyes. I don’t believe such a
question is one that takes into consideration the feelings someone
in grief.”
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The smile on Princess May’s face fades into something sombre.
Ericia doesn’t bother looking or behaving even half a bit polite.
“I really must go, Rowan,” Ericia says to her betrothed,
“they’re organising a lot for the coronation ceremony to come –
aside from that,” she says, smirking, “I would die if I stay outside –
apparently. I’d better sneak back in the way I snuck out.”
“They’re also sorting out a lot for the Flower Festival,” Rowan
says, remembering it. “I’ve seen and heard the servants scurrying
about. It’s drawing near, is it not?”
Ericia almost laughs; she utters a low hum. “I’ll be the one in
charge of that,” she says, “which is why I must go now before the
time vanishes and I haven’t prepared anything for it.”
***
Prince Henry stands in an aisle of the royal library, scanning theshelf for a book he might enjoy referring to in his next training
subject with the Vynierian army. A dusty, maroon, leather cover
catches his eye at the top of the sixth shelf. He reaches it and pulls
it out without effort, his eyes gleaming with intrigue.
It’s a book called ‘Defending; The Arts’ –something Henry had
often read as a child, even long before he was able to fight in wars
with his father or participate in the truly dangerous training.
He stands there, dusting off the covers and watching the
particles float about in the evening air –it’s that time of the
evening when the sun is setting; the brewing light is shining
through the glass windows of the library and bringing a warm
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colour to the room, the particles visible in their journey to
another landing point.
Henry opens the book, flipping through it. It’s just the same as
the copy he has in his own room –except there is something
more.
On the fifteenth page, there is a long, brown leaf that had been
placed there as a bookmark. On the leaf, there are drops of what
Henry knows is blood. The fifteenth page is the start of the
chapter on fencing.
Fascinated, Prince Henry is careful as he lifts the leaf. He turns
it around and finds a note, written in black ink, the writing messy
and cursive.
‘First day of practice... cut my finger.’
Henry turns the leaf around, staring at the blood. It couldn’t
have been anyone else’s besides Ericia. He smiles –too slightly to
be noticeable- and then he places the leaf back into the book and
shuts it, dust flying once more. Henry decides there is much more
than simply referring that he would like to do with this book and
so, with the intentions of his heart in mind, he takes it to his
room.
***
Dawn breaks. May is already in the courtyard shooting arrows,Rowan watching her from the entrance arc. She’s hitting every
bull’s eye –even in the darkness- and she’s already sweating like
she’s been on a hunt for hours.
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“You’ve surely taken the concept of making yourself at home to
heart,” Rowan says, strolling over to her with his hands in his
trouser pockets.
“When we have work to do, dearest brother,” she says,
shooting another arrow -it flies –it hits the bull’s eye – “we have
no choice but to make ourselves as comfortable as possible.”
Rowan hums as he tries to internalize her statement. “What
work could a visiting princess have here?” he asks her, “I thought
you had only to stay for a bit of amusement and rest.”
May pulls another arrow from her quiver and sets it into the
bow. She stares at the bull’s eye in the distance. “If I were only
here for the pathetic satisfaction of someone’s amusement,
Rowan, I would not have dragged myself all the way here.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Rowan says, sitting on the grass,
looking up at her. He clears his throat. “So tell me, then –and tell
me honestly, May- why are you really here?”
“Don’t pretend to be ignorant, brother,” May says, focusing on
the arrow, “you were the one to ever so pleasantly mention the
great Prince Henry Darwin of Phillimont in your delightful little
appreciative and persuasive letter. I’m not a foul-brained animal
without reason. You want him out of the way.”
“Do you still think of him as you once did?” Rowan asks, just as
May shoots the arrow.
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The arrow flies; it misses the eye. May clenches her teeth and
turns to her brother, sitting beside her. He stares up at her,
awaiting the obvious answer.
“What I think of the Prince is my business,” May says. “All you
need to know is that I’m here to do you a great favour. You’ll be
indebted to me yet again, my brother,” she says, almost smirking.
“But I know that you’ll keep your word to me as you have done so
before.”
Rowan recalls the last time he had done something to repay his
sister. Though he wants to frown and erupt in a violent fit of rage,
he can’t, because it was his mistake in allowing her to have her
way the last time.
“What happened then,” he says to her, sombrely, “won’t
happen again.” There is regret in his tone.
“Ah,” she says, smiling brightly now, “but brother,” she asks,
innocently, “what happened the last time?”
And it’s this that haunts Rowan. It’s the idea that what he had
done had not only been terribly wrong and disgusting; it’s the fact
that the aftermath of what happened was nothing. There was
nothing to prove he had done something. Everything was put to
silence; buried under internal conflict, regret, guilt, and loads of
shovelled earth.
May returns to her archery when she notices her brother go
completely silent in thought. “If you’ll allow me, Rowan, I’d like
to return to my sport. I think best when I’m alone. I think best
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when I can focus, and never forget, dear brother, that when I
focus on my target,” she aims –she shoots –the arrow flies –it hits
the bull’s eye – “I never miss.”
***
“The fever may be gone,” King Charles says to Seth, “but themigraines have not left.”
“Have you been getting enough rest, Your Majesty?” asks Seth,
gently, sitting at the end of the King’s bed. “Have you been able to
relieve any stress?”
“I’ve had far too many priorities to attend to,” says the King,
rolling his eyes and running a hand down his face in a fret. “The
work is never over, Seth.”
“I understand, Your Majesty, but if it is possible, please try to
space the time out –buy some time if you can, and spend a while
in the simple pleasure of nothingness. It is a need of everyone
sometimes, Your Majesty, even the greatest of kings.”
“The maids have stopped bringing the medicine,” King Charles
says, “is there anything you can prescribe for the pain?”
“I have a couple of remedies in mind,” Seth says, nodding. He
pulls out a book and flips through it in an attempt to find the
remedies which help with migraines.
***
168When King Charles decides to stroll across the ground floor of
the palace, there is much work being done by the servants in
preparation for the upcoming Flower Festival. Usually, King
Charles visits Aeriston, where the members of the most noble and
highly positioned caste members live, accompanied by Queen
Olivia. Princess Ericia, though she goes, has always been
instructed to stay in the carriage which is mot inconspicuous and
not to come out even for a moment. She is unable to see the
celebration, given that the carriage window is opaquely shielded
from both the inside and the outside, and she stays there with a
few of the servants –including Avie- listening to the voices of the
crowds. The excuse for hiding Ericia that the king used every year
was the same. The Princess must be protected; highly secured at
all times. She was, after all, his only heir.
At the memory of Olivia, basking in the glory of a beautiful
evening gown and an adorning crown atop her head, her smile
radiating, Charles feels a tug at his heart. He stops walking and
tries to catch his breath, though he’s not having any problems
breathing. His chest aches, and when he tries to make a sudden
move, he feels the pain like a shock, moving through his entire
body. He stands there for a few moments hoping not to draw any
attention to himself.
He spots Prince Henry in the distance, walking towards him. He
smiles.
“Henry,” says King Charles, “how are you today?”
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Prince Henry, his face neutral, walks over to the king and bows.
“Every day is a bit of work with all the training, Your Majesty, but
we’re getting somewhere.”
“That’s good,” King Charles says. “That’s wonderful.”
“Your Majesty, if I may,” Prince Henry says, sounding almost
sly. “I know that it is a topic already silenced –a situation of the
past- but the questionable idea has struck my mind.”
“Well, don’t leave me in the dark,” says the King, heartily, “do
tell.”
“On the day before the departed Queen Olivia’s execution,”
Prince Henry says, lowly, “there seemed to be something
incredibly off about the letter, though I can’t seem to pin point
what it might be.”
King Charles, whose smile had faded into something suspicious,
responds, “I would believe you to be the wisest in the matters of
court,” he tells the Prince, “so I’m sure it must have been quite a
thing of thought. It certainly was unfortunate, in entirety, the
situation. I would not lie so much as to say I do not regret what
happened to Olivia.”
Henry listens to the King, internalising everything from his
words to his tone of voice to his body language.
“In the very least, Prince Henry, I’m satisfied with the fact that
we know there is one less factor leading to the war that may stand
ahead. Solving as many problems as we can as soon as they sprout
is a must. In doing what we chose to do, we eliminated a problem
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–and what could have been a massive problem, indeed- and thus
we have created a wider road; a more open space for opportunity.
I know that everyone including you and who you represent,
Prince Henry, appreciates the efforts we can all make to help
things run along smoothly.”
Prince Henry almost thinks that such a statement from the King
is a slap in the face. He knows that the king is implying that he
should carry on swiftly along with things – that he should accept
what happened and move on, forgetting it and dwelling in
question of the actions taken – that is the basis of all that King
Charles has said.
The evidence presented before the members of the court during
Queen Olivia’s trial crosses Henry’s mind. She had supposedly
been written to by the king of Yemen who was hoping to form an
alliance with Vynier through her? Why, then, would the Middle
East wage a war against the three European kingdoms? Henry
allows his mind to save the questions. He would do the
calculations later.
“I do appreciate the efforts, and I’m sure my father and my
kingdom does as well,” Prince Henry says, smiling. “And I would
like to take this opportunity, Your Majesty, to thank you for your
hospitality and consideration of us all. I speak for the Royals of
Lystotia as well.
Prince Henry, though he faces most interactive sessions with
others with a neutral expression and rational words and actions,
knows how to break into the character of people in a manner of
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seconds just by analysing what they do. He wasn’t always able to
do such a thing, but he learnt to, over time.
Though Henry is wary of the king, he sent word to his father in
Phillimont, speaking of the goodness of Vynier and the palace. His
father in no time returned a letter discussing the uproar in
Phillimont at the news of the late Queen Olivia Avington. The
news had spread across the three kingdoms, the belief that Queen
Olivia was a traitor executed for treason being the only reason the
people of Vynier hadn’t caused a rebellion. Those fooled by the
false evidence believed King Charles was just, but there were still
citizens who believed her death was uncalled for, knowing her to
never be the type of queen to betray her own.
Everyone had also heard of the king’s declaring of Ericia as
Queen, and most of them began to prepare, looking forward to
the coronation ceremony to take place in the nearing days.
“It’s my pleasure,” King Charles says, smiling at the Prince.
Henry bows, “I’ll be off, then,” heading back to the courtyard.
***
Avie sits in the field, the sun hitting her skin and burning her upin the mid day heat. She takes a sip of water, catching her breath.
“It’s a wonder you don’t do this more often,” says a familiar
voice to the young woman. She turns to her left to find the man
she had once been helped by. She rests her cup down, about to
stand. “Don’t,” he says, smiling brightly, “please. It’s alright.” She
fixes her skirt and slowly picks up her cup again. “May I?” he asks,
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gesturing to the place beside her. With her mouth full of water,
she nods, swallowing. He sits.
“My name’s Carter,” he says, smiling at her. “Carter
Westford.”