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ourplaceinthecosmosphff · 4 years

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Chapter 12. The Caged Bird Sings

‘i am sorry this world could not keep you safe may your journey home be a soft and peaceful one' rest in peace, Rupi Kaur

For as long as I can remember, every time we went out as a family, Louis, Lourdes, and I would fight for the window seats of the car. It's simply what happens when there's three siblings, and only two window seats. When it was a private occasion, my father would drive, mom by his side, and we would fight in the backseat. When it was a formal royal occasion, our parents would take a separate car and the three of us would ride with a driver and a security officer by his side, and we would fight in the backseat. That was how we drove that day, with one exception.

Lourdes and I were not fighting for the window seat.

The procession of the coffin was televised live. It rode through the streets on top of a royal carriage, draped with the Savoy flag with the royal coat of arms, a large arrangement of white roses sat atop monstera leaves, Louis' favorite, according to Peter, which we decided to use to underline the roses all over the church.

Cadie had informed me major networks from around 62 countries had applied for broadcasting rights and permits to send journalists to cover it. Savoy had never been a very famous monarchy before, the British usually took up all the air time, but today was different. Tragedy sells, I suppose.

The actual funeral lasted roughly two hours, from the moment we left the house on a stuffy and warm car, to the moment we left the church. I felt sweat in the back of my head and my hands itched, but there was nothing I could do. The gates were still crowded when we left the palace, but Lourdes and I found it difficult to look at the people; it hurt too much.

Though the streets were lined with people who’d gathered to watch us pass, watching the funeral on transmissions around parks, or listening to it on the radio, it was also unnervingly silent. The only noise was a general hum of sniffling, or sometimes loud crying, and the eventual shout from the crowd, with messages of support to our parents or ourselves, and promises to our brother that he wouldn’t be forgotten.

It was exhausting, looking stoically ahead pretending to be unbothered by the fact that my brother shouldn’t have to be remembered, he should have been here. He should have had the chance to leave his mark in the world. He had such plans for his country and the rule he’d play in it.

"Ma'am?" Joyce asked, from the front seat. "Do you need anything?"

Quietly, I shook my head no, and she repeated the question to my sister. Cadie would normally ride with us, but right before we left the palace, she had informed me it wasn't possible.

"Apparently," she had told me, "your new security protocol means you must have two protection officers with you at all times."

I pushed this new crum of information into a little box along with all the other questions I had about my new role within the royal family. My little box was heavy, full, cracking open against my will, but today was not the day to open it.

We walked behind out parents, Louis being carried ahead by the Royal Guards down the aisle to the sound of the Sainte Marie Madeleine Cathedral choir, a capella, singing I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say. The gothic Cathedral had been laid with white brick, which had become beige with time, but was still bright and lively, with purple and blue window glass and high domes.

"I heard the voice of Jesus say,

'Come unto Me, and rest;

Lay down, thou weary one, lay down

Thy head upon My breast'."

The Choir repeated the words until we were at the altar, where we stood, now a family of four, before my parents did the sign of the cross, and walked on to take their seats lining the sides of the altar, reserved for royals and family, and today occupied by us, our family on our mother's side, and foreign royals, who were always given family placement.

Unfortunately for me, Harry, his father and brother, had all been seated to the opposing side of the altar, which meant he was completely in my line of vision for the duration of the service.

Lourdes and I waited until our parents had walked on before we touched our foreheads, chest, and both shoulders in name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, before taking our seats next to our parents in the front row. It wasn't necessary to do the sign of the cross at the altar, though traditionally Catholics did it whenever we passed any church, but after a few tabloids criticized us for not doing it on church services in the past, simply because they didn't see us do it when we got out of the car, we had been instructed to do it as publicly as possible, so people could see.

Before out parents, place only former monarchs could occupy, sat our grandparents, so Lourdes and I lined up to curtsey and kiss their cheeks before taking out seats. Her mind was too far gone and she mostly didn’t speak anymore, but after I kissed her, my grandmother found my hand and held on tightly before I could move away. I looked at her, confused, and tried to give her a comforting smile; she reached over and cupped my cheek.

"Dieu vous bénisse." ‘God bless you’, she stuttered, voice rispid, low.

"Amen." I responded, on the same tone, squeezing her hand before standing up.

But she held me still, stronger than I thought she could be at her age. Instead, she pulled me down again, pulling my head beside hers to kiss my cheek.

Whispery, in my ear, she asked how I was. "Comment allez-vous?"

Avoiding the looks from my family around us due to the delay, I responded quickly that I was well. "Bien, grand-mère."

I pulled away again, but again she pulled me close. "Je ne te crois pas. Mais vous pouvez le faire."

'I don't believe you. But you can do this.'

Finally allowing me to go, she petted my hand and smiled. I lowered my head and took my seat.

The Archbishop began to speak as I braved to look at the first rows below, to make sure Peter was with friends, and in a close enough seat.

"We are gathered here today, to give thanks to our Lord, for the life of His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Louis-Adolphe of Savoy, seeking the comfort of the Holy Ghost for the hearts that will miss him most, after this untimely departure..."

I tried to tune out, but I couldn't. I heard every heartbreaking word. The Archbishop spoke of my brother's short life, of his joyful spirit that drew all around him closer, and asked that we may all remember him for his smile, and joy, and the joy he brought others.

There was a hymn, which I couldn't hear. When we stood up to sing, opening our programs, I remembered choosing the font, the songs, the paper. I remembered we chose On Eagles Wings, to be sang then by the student choir of the catholic boarding school Louis had attended, but the words did not register. Instead, I felt my heart beating in my head, almost lightheaded. Was it just me, or was it too warm? Had the Air coolers been turned on? I couldn't stop fidgeting with my gloves.

Finally, my mother reached out and held my right hand. The gesture took my by surprise, as she had barely looked at me for a week. She pressed out hands together tightly, but continued to sing following along to the words on her program.

She was wearing a black, wrap coat-dress with large, white lapels and cuffs, tight at the waist but round in the skirt that extended past her knees. Her large, round hat was black with white flowers on top, and I noticed that she wasn't wearing her usual statement necklace today. Instead, from her neck hang only a thin, gold scapular medal. I couldn't confirm without coming closer, but I suspected it was the Saint Sebastian scapular that had belonged to my brother.

We all got a scapular necklace on our confirmation day, as teenagers, and Louis had picked Saint Sebastian as his patron saint because he was the patron of athletes. The thought made me smile in that dreadful day.

After the song, we sat down as the Archbishop announced one of Louis’ closest friends from the Edinburgh University Polo team, of which my brother was the captain. He read a bible passage, and then there was another song. This was followed by the Prime Minister, a central-left leaning middle aged man, who took the stand to make a brief statement on how proud my brother had made his country, with particular focus to his time on the military.

There was yet another hymn, when I noticed my sister’s hands were shaking. I tried to think of something to comfort her, maybe hold her hands in mine like my mother had done, but this was when I noticed I, too, was shaking.

As the Cathedral fell silent after the song, Lourdes knew it was her turn to take to the altar and read the poem I had found her. But my sister didn’t move.

“Hey.” I whispered, leaning towards her. Her shaky hands fumbled with the program, which stated she was next, and me after her, but she still didn’t get up. “Lourdes?”

“Are you alright, dear?” Our mother asked, leaning over me. Lourdes gave her a quick, bitter look, and sighed.

“I can’t, Maggie.” She whispered, her voice nearly breaking.

I passed a hand up and down her back, comforting, and leaned over, so no one could see my response.

“It’s okay. I’ll go up with you. It’s just reading, you can do it.” I nodded, looking at her. She looked at me uncertain, so I nodded, encouragingly. “I’m next anyway. I’ll go with you. We can do it.”

She looked at the altar, down at the rest of the full Cathedral, and at the menacing cameras, “Nothing we can’t fix, right?”

I smiled. “Nothing at all.”

We stood together, and step by step took to the large, wooden pulpit, covered with black silk, avoiding looking at the coffin, or, in my case, at anyone else. I kept my hand to my sister’s back, hoping it was comforting, and she found the copy of the poem already at the altar, waiting for her.

“When great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder, lions hunker down in tall grasses, and even elephants lumber after safety.”

She did really well. She read poetry the way we were taught as children, enunciating the words clearly, reading each line slowly, taking pauses to look up and connect with the audience. She almost didn’t stutter at all, if it weren’t for the ending.

“Our memory, suddenly sharpened, examines, gnaws on kind words unsaid, promised walks never taken. Great souls die and our reality, bound to them, takes leave of us. Our souls, dependent upon their nurture, now shrink, wizened.”

I had chosen a poem slightly vague in the hope it would be easier for Lourdes, but even in her tender age of thirteen she could understand the final verses, the ones where it stopped being about trees, and started being about souls. That’s when she choked, paused, cleared her throat, and continued with a shaky, whispery voice the microphone barely captured.

“...And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly. Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us.” She paused again, and I saw tears stain the paper, “They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and be better.” She looked up, bravely. “For they existed.”

She took some time to fold the page, looking down, and then looked at me with trembling lips.

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head, drying her eyes.

“You did great.” I whispered, petting her back.

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

The question, the sweet, selfless concern for me even through her anguish, brought a knot to my throat that I had to swallow in order to speak. “It’s okay, you don’t have to.”

She stepped down from the altar and walked back to our seats, where mom reached out her hand before she sat down and pulled her over to my seat.

In the pulpit in front of me, right under Lourdes’ poem, sat the two pages with my eulogy, a letter I wrote to my brother, thanking him for being a wonderful, faultless, military man. Louis himself would have hated it -- we both knew our time in the armed forces was a brief rite of passage at best, a PR stunt at worst.

But it was when I looked down, and moved the folded page of Lourdes’ poem behind my letter, that I decided I couldn’t read it. The words were still visible, ‘we can be, be and be better, for they existed’.

Taking in a deep breath, I looked up, down the many, filled rows in the wide Cathedral, and did the one thing I had been taught from infancy never to do: I improvised.

“Dear--”, I cleared my throat, a little taken by the sudden volume of my voice in the microphone, “Dear--”

The thing is, we’re not meant to be personal -- royals, I mean. We’re meant to be an institution one should admire, but not necessarily relate to. If people relate to us it begs the question, why are we needed? Why are we special? But… as I bit my lower lip in anxiety so hard it actually hurt, watching all the faces in front of me, I knew there was simply no other option. I couldn’t do this to him. I couldn’t erase who he was over who the family needed him remembered as.

So instead of starting by addressing the congregation, I skipped to the part I knew was more important.

“This past week my family and I have experienced kindness like never before. Not only from our dear family and friends, but from people all over the country we have never had the joy to meet. We were born and raised here, and as such, each of us already knew that at the hearts of every Savoyen, by birth or choice, lays incomparable kindness and compassion to our neighbours.”

The next part was a thank you to every branch of government and official who had expressed their sentiments that past week, but it wasn’t important. So I skipped it. “My brother was Savoyen, and as such, he had that in common with all of you.”

I should have read the part about his time in the military and how it shaped who he became, but I knew it wasn’t true. It had changed him, sure, like everything in his life, but it wasn’t important either. So I thought of Louis, of his last pieces of advice, about standing up for myself and deserving nice things… and improvised.

“Louis-Adolphe always strived to highlight the best possible outcome to any circumstance. He seeked to always see people not for who they were, but for who they could be. He had some kind of innate goodness that always made me feel slightly guilty for not being better, which he would have been upset to find out, because he never allowed anyone around him to speak ill of themselves.”

I looked to the section of the Cathedral where his friends were sitting, his university friends, traveled from Scotland, and his old boarding school friends, who’d come from all over the country, and some from all over the world, to be here, to remember him.

“He went out of his way to make people feel welcomed, accepted, equal. I have heard from more than one old classmate that they never thought Louis really knew their name before he reached out and asked them, by name, if they wanted to sit with him and his friends for lunch, or be part of their group for a project. You may have heard similar stories over the past week, and I hope you’ll continue to as the time goes by. But if I’m honest, and I think my brother would have told me to be… as much as those stories are heartwarming and comforting at this terrible time… they’re only one part of who my brother was. They’re true, yes, but… my brother was more than that.”

I stared at the paper, more to distract myself from the confused looks from my older family members than anything else. My brother wasn’t just the achievements worthy of the family tree. He was more.

“The problem with remembering someone as a perfect, faultless public figure is that in memorializing them we also risk romanticizing them, and what is that if not erasing part of who they were in favor of creating a beautiful, shiny memory that is, if not real, just easier to remember?”

All eyes on me now looked… intrigued. Worried. I had a pulsating stomach ache and my heart was beating too fast, so I looked, at last, to my left, and found the pair of blue eyes that I knew would not be judgemental. I was right. Harry was looking at me with the same soft yearning that had made me so uncomfortable in London, only a week ago. It gave me strength to continue.

“I want my brother to be remembered, but I want him to be remembered for who he was.” I told them, “Louis… Louis was real. Real as in that quote from The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams, that our mother read to us as children, ‘Real isn’t how you are made. It’s a thing that happens to you.’ It’s what happens when you are loved for a long, long time. ‘Once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand’. My brother should have been loved much longer, but he was real.”

I felt the pain in my throat before hearing my magnified voice break. I paused, drawing in a long, deep breath.

“He had a… sarcastic, teasing sense of humor. He had a lot of opinions on things most of us don’t think too much about. If you weren’t drinking a Manhattan or a Sidecar, he likely had thoughts about your choice of drink. He thought cargo shorts should be abolished. He thought modern art was boring. He called dibs on the window seat in every car ride. He hated driving, but also hated having to walk anywhere farther than six blocks, and he hated peas.”

I heard a low chuckle, and looking to my right, I was faced with the sight of my own father silently laughing to himself, eyes closed, my mother’s hand in his. It gave me strength to continue.

“You heard from Jackson earlier how passionate he was on the Edinburgh University Polo team, and though I agree with him, I think he would agree with me that despite the passion, Louis wasn’t great at polo... He was okay.” I shrugged, casually, drawing a general chuckle from the piews. The smiles gave me strength to continue.

“He wasn’t some undiscovered genius, but he was really smart. Louis started studying classics in University, he loved literature and philosophy… but he later changed to social anthropology and social policy, because he… he wanted to better understand the world. He wanted to learn how to be better for, well… for you. For his country.”

“My brother should have been loved much longer, but he was loved.” In the front rows, after our extended family, I could see Peter. He had a friend holding his hand, but his eyes were on me, a smile in his lips. “Not just by us. Not just by you. By the people outside this Cathedral. By the wonderful people outside of our home right now, who have congregated at our gates every day this week to be together, to honor him, to bring flowers to a boy they should have had the time to meet. I’m so sorry you haven’t. You should have. He would have loved to meet you… He loved attention.”

I laughed, just as I felt two tears escape my eyes, and tried to catch them in my gloved hands as fast as I could, but my voice was now strained, shaky.

I stared at the paper, at the wishes of better days that would surely come, every word made more bitter than the last. So I didn’t read them. Instead, I thought of what my brother would have wanted.

“If I was a better person… Better yet, if I was Louis-Adolphe, I would finish this with an optimistic reminder to all the good that is yet to come despite the pain we are in today. My brother would want us to know that we can come together through hard times and come out stronger than before.”

But that was the biggest tragedy: my brother had wanted a lot of things. He wanted a graduation, parties, trips. He wanted to come out to our parents and to be his truest self while helping our country grow and thrive. But he would never have that chance.

“But I am not him. And I will continue to try to be the better version of me he thought I could be, but today, I am not.” Another tear fell down my cheeks, as I struggled to speak through an aching throat. “Today I am just his sister, who won’t get to see him graduate from University in six months, who won’t get to stand with him on his wedding day, or tease him when he inevitably became an annoyingly protective father. Today my parents lost their only son, my sister, who is too young to be wearing black, knows what grief feels like, and far too many people with a lot of love for my brother in their hearts, don’t know where to put it.”

In my seat, Lourdes was crying again. Our mother reached an arm around her shoulders and, this time, Lourdes didn’t flinch.

“Today I understand W. H. Auden when he said, ‘The stars are not wanted now; put out every one… For nothing now can ever come to any good.’ I understand Frost’s ‘Nothing gold can stay.’ Today I just… miss him. So, yes, as Louis would remind us, there will be good. We will come together. But today?” I sighed, as I caught another tear in my cheek. “Today he existed, he was real. And maybe just for today, that’s enough.”

There was a moment, a few seconds long, of silence, where I realized I didn’t know how to end it. So I merely looked down, and back up before saying, “Thank you.” And moved to leave.

As I turned, seeing the look on the Archbishop’s eyes, I remembered I was supposed to introduce the next song, so I turned around, back to the pulpit, just as we heard a loud, distant rumble from outside. Confused, I looked around, checking if there was some kind of emergency, but the doubt was quickly extinguished. It was the crowd outside. They were… cheering.

I looked at my father, uncertain, but he was smiling up at me with a sad look in his eyes.

“In honor of my brother, our dear family friend, Constance Parrish-von-Bernstein, will now perform one of his favorite songs to destroy at karaokes.”

It was Drops of Jupiter, and she did an amazing, if very Constance, job. My friend was wearing a midi length black dress and her short, freshly blonde hair, had been styled with fifties curls that matched the simple, round, black fascinator with a see-through fishnet partly covering her eyes. She was accompanied by the Cathedral’s orchestra, and started as poised as the occasion, and her look, demanded.

But after the first chorus, there was a drum beat, violins, and a soul vacation, chasing her way through a constellation, and I don’t think Constance could have sand the words ‘plain ol' Jane, told a story about a man, who was too afraid to fly so he never did land’ with any less energy than she did, which is precisely why she was the right person for this, because that was the only way my brother ever sang that song, if in a much worse voice. By the time she sang the bridge, Constance’s voice was louder, her hands were in the air, her eyes closed, and her performance so beautifully her own we couldn’t help but smile.

My cousins then took turns leading the standing congregation on the Lord’s Prayer, before a minister delivered a short message of togetherness on the face of tragedy. Then there was another song and by the end, my father stood and walked to the pulpit, ready to deliver his own eulogy.

He walked calmly, stood before the pulpit with unshaken hands, looked up with sadness in his eyes, and started speaking about Louis. He spoke strongly, clearly, but not without some nostalgia to his words. Every ‘was’ instead of ‘is’ in reference to my brother was, after all, a dagger to the heart. My whole life, my father had been a steady, stoic presence; it was in his nature, it’s how he was raised. He was born to be king and kings had a duty to be an unwavering sign of comfort and strength. At times such as today, it was hard to remember this facade may be just that: a mask; something he did for the country, not for us, not for Louis, nor himself.

“And thus, my son,” he went on, lively, if sadly, “was a powerful light through the darkness, not only in our lives, but I’m sure, in yours as well. In the lives of all those lucky enough to have met him. From an early age we knew he had in his heart a natural love for his home that so many of us can relate to, a need to see Savoy and its people standing strong, well represented, well cared for. It’s what he did, it’s who he was. A carer. I wish--”

He gulped, and one of his hands came up to cover his mouth in an anxious move. His hand was shaking.

“Today, I am sure Louis-Adolphe would have rested easy, knowing our future rests in good hands...” He paused, dramatically, staring down at his printed speech, “...that of my brave, intelligent, capable daughter, Crown Princess Marie-Margueritte of Savoy, who, as his older sister, helped us teach my son to love his home and, I have no doubts, will excel in this new role as she has in everything else in her life.”

Feeling my heart beating in my throat - and the eyes of the entire Cathedral on me -, I didn’t stop looking at my father. His eyes found me now.

“Her brother would have been as proud and supportive of her as we are.”

I looked down, motionless. He continued to speak for another while, before thanking the country for their support and stepping down. When he reached us again, he stopped before me, grabbed my hands in his and pulled me to my feet, enveloping me in a quick, strong hug, before stepping away again, back to his seat, his eyes avoiding mine.

I was so utterly confused it took me a long time to realize we had to stand up again. The Archbishop led us in a final prayer, blessed my brother’s coffin, and soon the choir was singing again.

I tried to focus, to center myself around the only thing that mattered today -- Louis. But just as I risked a look up, my eyes found Harry again. His lips moved calmly to the song, his eyes on the lyrics on his program.

‘...my brave, intelligent, capable daughter, Crown Princess Marie-Margueritte of Savoy’, the words ringed in my ears just as Harry looked up, his eyes darting straight to me, with purpose. When they met mine, I could see it: his hands on mine, his lips on mine, his life with mine, as one.

I felt a chill down my spine just as I remembered my father’s voice again, claiming his conviction that I would ‘excel in this new role as she has in everything else in her life.’ Painfully, I took my eyes from his, feeling my palms sweating again.

My sister asked if I was okay and I didn’t know how to respond. For a whole week, feeling lost and helpless, he had avoided me. Delegated his own son’s funeral to me, demanded no one call me Crown Princess, allowed my mother to self-exile in her room, avoided any request to meet with me, refusing to answer any pertinent question because it was ‘not the time’. One week when all I had was a moody teenager and a lot of plans that needed to be made, and I had nothing from him. Even in private, in his office, in our home, I was left alone.

One week when not only us, but the entire country mourned and waited with baited breath, probably wandering, as I was, if I was capable of my new role. All I wanted, all I had needed, was for him to tell me I was. To explain what I needed to do, what was coming, and all I had was nothing.

Lourdes pulled me to my feet as the royal guards prepared to carry the coffin out again; the funeral was over. The choir still echoed the words of Blest Are They as we filed behind my parents to make our exit, and I felt sick to my stomach. Walking out of our seat area, down the steps to the aisle, I stole one last look to the life I could have had; Harry was already looking at me, my sadness in his eyes. His brother was looking at him, intrigued. I gulped, and stared ahead.

I wanted to remove my gloves, but Lourdes was holding my hand and refusing to let go. I started biting my lower lip, trying to keep it from trembling as I felt a knot in my throat. We started filing out, the coffin leading the way, my parents behind, and each of us in the order of the line of succession, but I stopped.

I couldn’t move. My feet felt too heavy on the floor, the memory of my brother’s body inside his new wooden home, too heavy in my head. How was I meant to believe I could take on any of it? My own father couldn’t say it to me, even if he did seem to be able to say to the entire world. Did he even mean it? Or was that line about just one more thing he did for the benefit of the country?

On my left, Lourdes was holding on to my hand and asking if I was okay, reminding me we had to move. I felt myself breathless, heart beating painfully in my chest, when another hand reached for my right one. I looked over, finding Christopher.

“Hey, bunny.” He whispered, a small smile on his lips. “Are you okay?”

He’d been sitting in one of the first rows, close to Peter and Faye, right after the initial rows with our extended family members. It was almost right next to this spot I seemed to have frozen.

“It’s okay, love,” he added, grasping tighter to my hand with both of his, “I’m here, I’m right here with you, we can do this.”

He passed an arm around my shoulders and led us out of the Cathedral.

I didn’t stop to remember it was a bad idea. I didn’t think that Chris wasn’t family, and so had to wait until we were all out before he could leave with the other guests, I didn’t think of the optics. He was there, warm hand in mine, reminding me my life had been calm and happy once, when he was in it, and if so I could get there again.

So I just held on to the past and tried to ignore the awful, heartless present.

--- ---- ---

The burial was private and fast. The Priest who baptized Louis made a final prayer. My mother cried harder than I had ever seen before. Lourdes fell apart, but allowed me to hold her. I watched, struggling to breathe, wondering if we would ever feel anything other than that pain.

We didn’t have time to compose ourselves, we were just expected to, and then had to be presentable for the post-funeral reception where we stood, side by side, as a family, while our guests came by to give us their condolences and say nice things about the service.

In between people, I tried to talk to my parents, but never could. My father always had an advisor or politician in his ear about work; my mother was still glassy eyed and distant, and seemed to notice none of my words, just how my hat looked. Even if they did seem to listen, I found myself having to choose between them and Lourdes, who was neither eating or drinking, and eventually started to look like she was about to faint, so I found Natalie and had her and her sister Sarah take her to her room and make sure she rested.

Eventually, when we were done talking to people, I cornered my father before another official approached.

“Papa,” I started, as softly as possible, trying to remind myself to be delicate in these trying times, “I want to talk about your eulogy today.”

“Was it bad?” He asked, fixing a strand of hair behind my ear. “You did wonderfully, honey.”

“I need to talk about… this. About my new position, my new title–”

He sighed. “Not now, Maggie.”

“Why?” I asked. “You were willing to talk about it to everyone from the pulpit today--”

“The advisors told me there had been unrest about… all of this. Some assurance of our support was needed.”

“Is that it?” I asked, almost laughing, humorlessly, “Is the support even real or-?”

“I told you, not now, Maggie.”

“When? It’s been a week, I have questions, I have… a job–”

“Margueritte.” He admonished, harsh, but whispery. “Your brother’s body hasn’t been in the ground for one hour, I think you’ll find this can wait.”

Schooling his features to be as stoic as the public knew them to be, he turned away from me and the conversation was over.

I felt guilty almost immediately. I told myself he was right. It was too soon. There would be plenty of time. We didn’t need to rush this just because I was impatient… but my hands shook. A knot so big took over my throat I could no longer breathe. I turned around, ready to find the next person I had to talk to, but couldn’t. So I left the room in hurried steps and, alone in the hallway, ran towards the South staircase, taking off my shoes as soon as I could so I could run faster.

I knew this was stupid, I knew I was needed. It was my job, my duty, to stay and make conversation, build a sense of togetherness with our family and supporters. Still, my throat hurt from the knot I was trying to suppress, and my head hurt too much, and I was so tired of pretending to be fine when I wanted nothing more than to explode into a million pieces.

In the upper floor, closer to the South wing, there was a set of simple double doors to the servants’ passages, a set of corridors that in old times were used to get through the palace without being seen, and staff today used as shortcuts. It was emptier, more private, so I walked in and climbed up the stone stairs towards the west tower, no clue where I was going, but glad to be alone.

My shoes became too heavy in my hands and my head hurt too much, so I dropped my shoes to the floor, telling myself I could come find them later, and started trying to pull out the bobby pins in my hair to remove my fascinator, but there were too many of them, and my hands were shaking, and it was all too much, and I was afraid to trip on the steps, and finally I could only pull my hair and scream, throwing the few pins in my hands to the floor, closing my eyes tightly and hoping I could just pass out and wake up months into the future when things were… better.

I painted, breathless, and finally allowed the tears I’d been suppressing to fall freely down my cheeks.

“Marie--?”

Jumping slightly, I turned back to see Harry. He had my shoes in his hand like we were in Cinderella, if Cinderella had been in the middle of a mental breakdown when the prince found her.

Overcome by shame and regret, I cried harder, letting out a cold, sarcastic scoff.

“Mon Dieu, of course you’re here!” I patted my cheeks with my cheeks with both hands, trying to dry them as I continued up the stairs.

“Marie, I just want to help--”

“I’m fine!” I told him, not turning back, but he raced up, past me, blocking my way.

“You’re not,” he whispered, “and that’s okay.”

“I’m telling you, it’s fine, I’ll be fine!”

He held onto my arms when I tried to move past him, and I felt the knot in my throat get worse, and more tears escape my eyes, and my knees buckle as, back to the wall, I slid down to sit on the stone steps, now crying openly, against my will.

“I’m fine!” I said, rather uselessly, amidst a hiccup, “I’ll be fine, just go away.”

He sat down in front of me, still holding onto my arms, unbearably close.

“Okay.” He said. “If you want me to leave, I’ll leave. I just wanted to say… that you don’t have to be fine right now…”

I shut my eyes as the pain moved away from my throat through my whole body; I gave up trying to contain my tears, it wasn’t like he couldn’t see them, anyway. So, before he got up, I just reached over and grabbed two fistfulls of his suit and kept him in place. I didn’t so much lean forward to cry on him, as I just… fell. As if I didn’t have the strength to sit up anymore. As if his chest was magnetic; as if my head belonged in the crease of his neck.

His arms wrapped around me and, miraculously, I wasn’t ashamed anymore. I wanted to be, I felt I should be, but I wasn’t. I felt… hurt. Broken. Lonely. But not ashamed. I felt his warm palms smooth over my back in a calming motion, and my crying only got louder.

“I can’t do this.” I cried. “I can’t do this…”

“Hey, hey…” He whispered, “Of course you can.”

I shook my head, “My brother is gone, Harry.”

His arms tightened around me. “I know.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Of course you can.” He repeated. “Even he knew it. You were one of the smartest people he knew.”

“Even my father doesn’t think I can.”

“Your father is only human.” He looked down, cupping my cheek with his hand so I’d look at him. “He is flawed.”

I was unprepared for the blue hue of his eyes up close, after so long. I could almost count his faint freckles. The sight was so astonishing it almost calmed me. I sat back up, leaning back from his only slightly.

“And if he can’t see how amazing you’ll be at this, then it only proves it. I can see it… Your brother could see it… Those people outside of the Cathedral today could see it. Didn’t you hear them cheering for you?” His lips curled into a smile at the memory, “They can already picture you in a crown.”

I shut my eyes forcefully again. “It’s not, not that simple… I have a job, I have--”

“Marie.” He stopped me, holding on to both my hands with his, “I know. I know this is a lot… but there’s no part of this that I don’t think you can do.”

We let the silence sit still for a moment. When I looked at him, his profile illuminated by the window behind him, I was reminded of how handsome he looked in a suit. Feeling ashamed of this very thought, I raised my hand to feel my hair, realizing it was as messy as I had left it when he surprised me. I started trying to pull out the bobby pins when he looked at me.

“Heavy hat?” He asked, a soft attempted smile in his lips.

I scoffed, sarcastic, “Heavy is the head that wears the… hat.”

He sat up, coming closer to me, and tentatively, started to feel around my hair slowly with his hands for the pins. Finally realizing just how dramatic the moment had been, I finally felt the full embarrassment I had earned in the moment. But the silence was... comforting; it felt warm, and the touch of his fingers made me want to lay my head in his chest and fall asleep.

“I know it’s a lot.” He said, whispery. “But for whatever is worth, I liked your eulogy.”

“...I improvised.”

He smiled. “I thought you may have. It was good, sincere, and appropriate...ish.”

I took my eyes from his chest, finding his eyes focused on my hair, “I’m glad you’re here.”

He looked at me. “Here in… the stairs?”

“In the country. For the funeral.”

He nodded. “Me too. I wasn’t… I wasn’t sure it was, appropriate.”

“...Ish.” I teased, making him smile.

“Had to fight for them to let me come. They only said yes because you guys were over only a couple of days before.”

He pulled a couple of pins, and put them in his pocket to free his hands.

“...Did you ever wonder?” I asked; his eyes found mine, but he focused on my hair again quickly after. “What you would do if, God forbid, if this happened to you?” I explained.

His hands stopped moving; he brought them down, putting another couple of pins in his pocket. He seemed thoughtful for a few seconds, but still not any closer to an answer.

“No, of course not.” I answered for him. “Changes to lines of succession are such a thing of the past. With all our security and the eyes of the world on us, who could ever think something like this was possible?”

He sighed, and I thought his eyes might look watery, but it could have been my own.

Eventually he pulled the last pin and ran his hands around my hair one more time, slowly.

“I think that’s it. How do I--?” He pulled out my fascinator, and I smoothed my hands over my hair, feeling the presence of one more pin that I didn’t have the energy to pull out.

He held out his hands to give me the pins, but I was too busy looking into his eyes, so instead he put them all in his jacket pocket, and the hat next to my shoes.

“I want to say something, but all I can think of is asking if you’re alright.”

When I scoffed, sarcastically, he shook his head, blushing. “I know, stupid question. I just…” He looked at me, “I want to say something, but I don’t know what.”

“Me too.” We sat in silence, when I tried to lighten the moment. “Though I’m surprised you can’t think of anything. No inopportune questions? No sage wisdom about how to survive grief in the public sphere from the expert?”

He grinned. “Right, the expert… Prince Harry and his perfectly functional childhood, who never went to Vegas or wore a terrible costume to a party…”

And then I laughed; a sincere, heartfelt, short laugh. Can you imagine?

“I don’t know… you turned out okay.”

“I’m obviously not a great person to ask… but,” he sighed, “I guess, distraction. Distraction would be my best advice.”

“Use distractions to suppress the pain, got it.”

He laughed, something that still felt rare and exciting, even amidst all of this.

“Not what I said! Just… you know… time will do most of the work, you know? In… well, I hate to sound like a therapist, but in healing. You’ll need time. It’ll feel like too much time. It’ll feel like time is slowing down, but… time is the only thing that helps. And until time passes, there will be... a lot. The press, the rumors, as soon as they can’t milk the funeral for headlines anymore, they’ll start to make things up. So, from the pain and from the outside mess, I suggest…”

“Distraction.” I completed his sentence, and he looked at me.

“Yes.” He nodded. “And… try to be honest. About your feelings, with the people you love and who love you.”

I had to look away; it felt to me there was a question that needed to be asked here - are you one of those people? - but I couldn't ask it. So I looked away, leaning back to rest my back against the wall.

“Yesterday was supposed to be our first date.”

He gulped, and looked at me intensely for two brief yet long seconds, before looking away.

“Maybe in an alternate reality we would be going on our second one right about now.” He added.

From his tone, it was clear he hadn’t meant for this kind of distraction. But I couldn’t help it, I was desperate to talk about it; that alternate reality we almost had.

“I would have chosen the passion fruit sauce salmon.”

He smiled. “I would… I would have thoroughly researched the wine list to chose something fancy and make you think I’m sophisticated.”

I laughed again, softly, feeling my cheeks blush.

“And then would have ruined it by ordering something dumb like… like the French onion soup that would make you not want to kiss me later.”

His words hang in the air like perfume as our smiles faded. My eyes were on his, but he refused to look at me.

“I would have kissed you.” I whispered, and now he looked at me.

I knew I had nothing he wanted anymore. Or, better yet, I knew I had a lot he didn’t want now. I knew it should be enough to stop this conversation and make us both focus on our now very different realities, but it wasn’t. Because our reality at that moment was one: we were there, sitting in the stone, narrow steps of a staircase, facing each other, thinking of what we could have had which, only a week before, was all we had ever wanted. That was the only reality that existed in that very fleeting moment, and it was such a comforting one, such a peaceful one, that I wanted to stay in it. To drown in it. To forget any other existed. So I let that novel hope take over my heart, and leaned forward to press my lips to his.

“Marie--” his hand cupped my cheeks as he leaned back.

“I’m so tired of feeling pain.” I confessed, whispery, kissing his neck when he looked away. “I just… I just need to feel something else.”

I kissed his neck softly, running my hand up his leg as I did, moving up to his ear; his grasp became tighter, now in my hair. His breath came out heavy; his familiar smell taking over my every sense, “Help me.” Looking into his eyes, I brushed my nose against his. “Help me feel something good.”

But just before I could kiss him, his hands were in my arms again, this time pushing me ever so slightly away.

“Marie…” He said, looking away, his breath tantalizing as it his my lips. His hand resting above mine, pulled it away from his leg. “I just… I don’t…”

I looked away, now more ashamed than before, and gulped. “Of course. I understand.”

I grabbed my shoes and hat, and got to my feet.

“Marie, please, let me--”

“I get it!” I shouted, flinching at my own volume. “Sorry. I get it, it’s okay.” I said, calmer. “Of course it’s okay. Really.”

I climbed the final steps up, trying to will the floor into opening up and swallowing me whole.

I opened the first door out of the stairs space and walked out into a semi-chamber with cement walls and a set of wooden doors. I marched towards the one in the general direction of my room.

“Marie!” Harry called, following me in hurried steps. He held onto my elbow, pulling me back. “Please, Marie, just--”

“Stop calling me that!” I pulled my arm from him, feeling the familiar threatening knot on my throat as my eyes watered.

“...Marie?” He asked, confused. “It’s your name.”

“Yes!” I nodded, looking to the floor as I felt my cheeks wet again. “...but you never used it before.” I confessed, softly.

I cleaned my tears to avoid his eyes.

“Ma--” he stopped himself, so I never found out which version of my name he was going to use.

“I get it.” I told him, calm. Then, drying another tear, I tried to smile. “I know it doesn’t look like it, because of the crying, but I do, I promise.” I nodded, emphatically.

He looked at me, eyelids fluttering, eyes sad, hands fidgety.

I shrugged, still trying to smile. “I get it. Last week you flirted with a girl who was free to flirt back. I’m not free anymore.”

Turning around, I opened the door and walked out as fast as I could.

By the time I walked into the shared sitting room in our apartment, I had already cried again and dried my cheeks as well as I could. The dogs were walking around, playing together. In one of the sofas, scrolling through his phone, was Christopher, as if I had traveled in time back to when I came home to him everyday after work.

He looked up at me, and smiled. “Hey, baby.”

I walked over to him, dropping my shoes and fascinator to the floor. He put his phone away, brows creasing as he inspected my features.

When I got to him, his hands cupped my cheeks softly, as they’d done so many times in the past. “You’ve been crying?” He asked, concerned, before delicately kissing my forehead. “It’s okay, bunny. It’s gonna be okay.”

Reaching up, I pulled his hands from my face, and laced our fingers together. I made my way to my room, pulling him after me.

Then I closed the door, hoping to leave the pain outside.

--- ---- ---

Outfits

[A/N: Sorry about the delay! I’m home and so grateful to you for reading!!!! Let me know your thoughts????? THANKS]

#Princeharryff #prince harry fanfic #prince harry fanfiction #princeharryfanfiction #Princeharryfanfic #prince harry #brf #modern royalty au #modern royalty fanfic #fanfiction #OPITCphff #chapters

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thedeviljudges · 6 years

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I’m lowkey obsessed with the idea of one of the kids admitting to Steve they’re scared they’re gay and they’re really frightened about it and scared he’s gonna hate them and everyone will too and they haven’t told anyone else and Steve has never told anyone he likes boys before and he’s kinda like “me too” and they’re just like “what?” And he’s like “I think I like boys so I get it okay?” And it’s makes which ever kid lol feel so much better because Steve is so cool and he gets it

uhmm okay so i attempted this and well, i hope it’s okay!!! i chose will out of them all because i feel like he’s the go-to??? also cuz it seems to make sense. i hope this is okay.

The porch is not the most ideal place for life contemplation, Steve thinks, no matter how comfortable it feels out here, staring off into the distance filled with trees, dead leaves, and the quiet hum of the wind rustling the branches above.

It is, however, where he finds Will, the shy kid taking a breather from the commotion inside. Steve has never understood what it’s like to be smothered by family, thinks he ought to enjoy such a thing after baring witness to absentee parents for a good few years of his life. He also knows that because he’s not used to it, it’s exhausting as much as it is overwhelming, and it must be the case for Byers enough to wander outside by himself.

“You okay?” Steve asks because he’s not as familiar with him as he is with the other kids, regardless of his acquaintance with Jonathan. He doesn’t expect a reply, actually figures he’ll be ignored because what does Will Byers and Steve Harrington have in common aside from the Upside Down? Aside from Nancy and Dustin who’ve all merged together in a group of understanding despite the oddities that otherwise would’ve kept them apart as individual people, no paths to be crossed and definitely no reason for interactions.

But Will shrugs his shoulders, leans his head against one of the wooden poles that lines the stairs to the cabin. “I’m okay.”

It’s a lie. Steve knows a lie when he hears one; he’s given his fair share of them when he doesn’t want people to bother him, or more importantly, when he doesn’t know how to tell the truth.

Steve’s met with a crossroads then, choosing to ignore it in favor of respecting Will’s answer or finding another line of conversation that will attempt to crack Will open – if not to admit what’s on his mind, then at least a decent chat to distract him. Steve used to be a bit of an ass, but he’s working on it. Will doesn’t have to tell him anything if he doesn’t want to.

“I don’t think I am,” he says, blurts it out without a moment’s hesitation. It feels good to say that, to not have to smile at Nancy or Hopper or Joyce or even Billy for that matter, to have to pretend that splinters of exhaustion and emotion aren’t increasing the longer he stands on his feet. Steve wants rest; he wants the Upside Down to not be a thing that he – or anyone else – has to deal with, but along the way, he’s learned far too much about everything for his brain to catch a proper break.

Will startles at his comment, glances up as Steve walks forward, sits down on the steps of the porch. He leans on the opposite side of the rails, parallel to Will. Steve doesn’t want to crowd his space, doesn’t want Will to feel like Steve’s a looming presence after all he’s been through because no matter what he’s seen – what any of them have seen – it will never be anything as horrific as the experiences that this kid has gone through.

No amount of dreams, sweaty palms, or edginess will compare, and often, Steve feels guilty that he has after effects of the most mundane bullshit he’s experienced. It shouldn’t be a comparison game, but guilt is a very strong five letter word. “All this shit makes you think,” though he keeps his eyes trained ahead, on the moss and rocks across the ground that he hadn’t noticed before, “about who you are, what’s most important.”

“Everything feels different,” Will finally chimes in. His chin is pressed to his knees, hugging himself tightly like that might make all the bad thoughts go away. It won’t; it never does because Steve’s been there – been in bed and felt restless, felt like maybe if he held himself tight enough, long enough that he’d it’d make up for the lack of warmth he often experiences.

“It does.” Steve’s voice cracks, throws his gaze to his feet and picks at the hole in his jeans. They’re stretched across his knee, an old pair worn thin from multiple washes. It’s not fascinating, but he hates how the strings that weave the material together feel like an omen or, at least, a metaphor for all the connections his life has careened together. “Don’t even feel like myself sometimes.”

There’s a hitch in Will’s breath, so sudden that Steve turns to make sure he’s okay. The kid’s eyes are wide, maybe even a little creepy as he blinks at Steve. Though, the more Steve notices, the easier it is to pinpoint that Byers isn’t looking at Steve so much as he’s looking off in the distance of a memory, of a moment that Steve wasn’t a part of. “I think I’ve always felt that way.”

Steve doesn’t want to dampen the mood more than he must, but he’d like to counter Will’s statement with either you know or you don’t. There’s a certainty in life that he’s traveled through, solid in demeanor and tone. It’s not until you go through something, he thinks, that the limits of who you are are tested.

Unfortunately, Steve thinks he understands the hesitation radiating from Will, that he’d experienced much earlier than someone like Steve who’d had the backings of moderate stability and general popularity to keep him from questioning – or really, to keep others from questioning – the position he’d definitely been given.

Will on the other hand, from the murmurings and chatter from Dustin when Steve drives him to and from the arcade, paint a different story, that some kids aren’t so lucky. In all fairness, Steve wouldn’t’ve even had to look at Will to know the truth because Jonathan was a prime example Steve only paid attention to when others found it necessary to reduce him to mud on the bottom of their shoes.

Steve, before the ordeal with Nancy, had no qualms, no reason to bat an eye to any of the so-called grievances that might’ve been bestowed upon him least he were anyone else. It’s no wonder his existential crisis has taken this long to manifest.

Steve doesn’t really know how to reply to that. Another agreement would fail them both, sat in silence until one of them found the courage to gather themselves for the group inside.

Though, the longer they sit here together, it feels a lot easier not to do that, to let them be, let Will be, let himself just be. A speck in the woods, observing rocks and mud and the blue sky only seen from the parting of branches from the limbs of trees, feels significant somehow, special and quiet. Steve hasn’t had that in a long time.

So when Will shifts his body, Steve isn’t expecting it, isn’t expecting a thrown rock to go flying forward or the tapping of shoes against the wood staircase. And most prominently, Steve doesn’t expect Will to whisper into the woods like he hadn’t spoken at all.

“I think I like boys.”

Steve’s heart flips, stops, then goes again, crazy feral at the hands of such a confession. It hits him like brinks, wonders if maybe he’d said it instead, voice weak from the screams and grunts he’d used to keep himself awake and alive.

“I hate how everyone thought it before I did,” Will says in that same small voice, a little bitter, definitely field with sadness. “They didn’t even let me-” His breath hitches, and he stops, Steve finally turning, finally moving until he’s slide closer to Will.

That’s the part of the story Steve cannot relate to no matter how much he wishes he could. Steve had a reputation, had it easy under the prospects of linear succession of high school fame. As mediocre as it felt all around, it allowed him the easiest navigation in life – now, not so much, but he’s almost out, almost away, and it’s a part of life he won’t have to experience ever again.

Will on the other hand- “Me too,” Steve says, runs his tongue across his teeth as if acid found its way into his mouth. He’d been contemplating it, would up at the notion that maybe everything he thought he knew was different. It started with Nancy, graduated into the Upside Down and the existence of monsters, and now Steve’s stuck at level three of a video game he hadn’t planned on playing – didn’t even know existed, to be quiet frank – and now that he’s there, he can’t quite reach the end of the maze.

“What?”

Once again, Will looks like a wide-eyed teddy bear, confused and in disbelief. Steve watches the emotions cross his face, one of disbelief and anger that comes next. “Are you messing with-”

“Hey,” Steve says quickly, shakes his head because he might’ve been a dick – might still be if the right person asked – but he knows better than this. Knows better than this now. “I think I like boys, so I get it, okay?”

Will’s skeptical eyes goad Steve into backtracking, into calling his bluff, demanding that the joke be over. But Steve is just as relentless, just as frustrated with himself and the situation that’s born out of realizing that girls are not his only forte.

“You’re serious.”

His teeth dig into his lip, and Steve wishes for a moment of reprieve because he hadn’t exactly come out here to make conversation about his issues and the bullshit he was dealing with. Hell, he hadn’t exactly come out here to comfort a young boy either; he’d just happened upon Will who also felt like a breath of fresh air would do him some good. But despite unknowingly walking into a bigger issue than he’d intended, Steve feels like maybe he’s all the better for it.

“They’ll hate me,” Will says, finally understanding that Steve’s serious. His shoulders drop, fingers curling around the railing.

“Then I guess they’ll hate me, too.” Steve thinks of Dustin, of what that might mean, thinks of Nancy and Jonathan, of Billy and Hopper and Joyce. Steve thinks of them first before his parents because it’s not like they wouldn’t care, but he suspects they’d be too busy to notice whatever is going on with their son. If they don’t recognize the distress he’s in from nightmares or anxiety attacks, it’s safe to assume they’d not pick up on much else.

And even then, Byers might be younger than him, and he might be like Dustin – a young kid he could call his brother – but at least Steve can save him from ridicule, can be an anchor until he’s ready to make whatever decisions he needs to. If that means talking about it- if it means existing until he’s out of this hellish town, then Steve guesses he’s got a purpose after all.

It ends with Will launching himself at Steve, a quick hug that Steve only has half a second to reciprocate because as soon as his arms are full of Byers, the kid is gone. He’s pulling himself to his feet, smiling down at Steve with big, watery eyes. “I’ll be here,” he says because he guesses that Will doesn’t want to stick around until his tears fall, the only cure to find the others so he’s not wasting away outside on a porch talking to Steve Harrington while he cries over something that is not yet set in stone.

Will smiles, shoulders relaxing as he takes a few steps up the stairs. “Thank you,” he says, and then he’s gone, Steve immediately recognizing the shakiness in his voice.

He’d like to comment, like to admit that avoiding the emotions attached to something like this is probably not the healthiest of things to do, but if he’d look in a mirror, he could say the same for himself.

Steve sits out on the porch long enough for it to grow colder, long enough for Billy to come outside for a smoke, sharing it with Steve like he’s a natural. Steve doesn’t say anything, just passes the stick back and forth until he’s smiling, until nothing makes sense, until he realizes that sharing his space with Billy isn’t so bad.

It might even be worth the risk.

#x #harringrove #not really i mean implied at the end but uh i gotta tag it as something lmao #i actually kinda like this though???#Anonymous #answered

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