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houseofbrat · 3 months

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For the record, I wish Kate well and a speedy recovery for whatever problem she has been admitted to The London Clinic for.

Because I do not believe for one second that she was admitted for "abdominal surgery." That was "planned." And needs to be in the hospital for 10-14 days, even though it's "non-cancerous."

Once you've eliminated surgeries related to cancer, then you've eliminated a whole bunch of surgeries that have long recovery times.

Hernia surgeries don't require three months of "recovery," and in the US, they certainly don't require you to be in the hospital (aka germ factories) for 10-14 days.

I suppose being in the hospital on iv antibiotics for a diverticulitis procedure is a possibility, except that the recovery from any kind of diverticulitis surgery is A LOT LESS than three months.

Easter is on 31 March 2024. Saying she won't do any public duties UNTIL April is two and a half to three months of "recovery."

And no, hysterectomies do not take that long to recover from.

Just ask Camilla.

12 APRIL 2012 The Duchess of Cornwall is to have a hysterectomy, it was announced last night. Camilla will undergo surgery to remove part or all of her womb at the beginning of next month. She will spend around four days in hospital then a further six weeks recovering. The 59-year-old duchess will still go on a ten-day visit to the Gulf states with Prince Charles, beginning next Monday. It is thought royal gynaecologist Marcus Setchell will carry out the operation at the private King Edward VII Hospital for Officers in London soon after she returns. She has cancelled a string of engagements.

That's right.

Clarence House announced when Camilla would be out of the public eye BEFORE the surgery happened. Not after she was admitted to the hospital.

Somehow Kate's "abdominal surgery" was "planned," yet William's entire schedule needs to be reworked all of the sudden? As in, announcing today that he needs to not do any public duties for a certain period of time until Kate is okay at home. Hey, it's not as if Kate has two parents who are retired. Two siblings. Other relatives. Or a nanny. Housekeeper. Other staff. Etc.

Because if this really was a "planned" surgery and not a sudden emergency, then why were KP comms teams leaking a trip to Rome less than a month ago?

And Russell Myers was leaking that Will & Kate were going to go abroad to visit the British military LAST WEEK???

Someone isn't being honest about what is going on, and it's definitely not me.

It sounds to me that The Princess of Wales had a nervous/mental breakdown and needed to be hospitalized. Except that they can't say that, so they're going with "planned" "abdominal surgery."

Because if it really was "planned" and not cancerous, then why wouldn't William be able to do an engagement here or there over the next few weeks? If the KP comms team is going to pretend that this is just a routine surgery--not urgent or emergent--then why is their behavior NOT matching the statements?

Crown Prince Haakon does engagements even when his wife, Crown Princess Mette-Marit, has been ill.

Prince Albert works even when Princess Charlene has been ill.

But William's ENTIRE schedule needs to be reworked even though Kate's parents are retired and she has two siblings nearby and other friends and relatives? (And and other helpers...)

Yup. There is another announcement coming soon.

Not one that anyone else in the world is expecting--well, except for @mysteriouslytransparentwitch and myself.

It's that Dragon energy already coming in even though the lunar new year doesn't start until 10 February. That Green Dragon is bringing lots of surprises with it.

Super cold in the USA. Volcanic eruptions in an area of Iceland that hadn't had anything in 800 years.

And Princess Basement Baby!

Because Wales fandom ARMAGEDDON is almost upon us.

And is the Wales fandom prepared for it? Nope.

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charles-and-camilla-fanfictions · 7 months

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All The Time in the World - Chapter 1

Part 1 Devoir

Birkhall, January 2020

I wake with the howling of the wind and curl so that every part of me is cocooned in the warmth of the blankets but my nose is exposed and complains about the temperature. Reaching my hand across, I can feel that the other side of the bed is empty, although the compression of the pillows tells me that my husband came to bed last night. Sometimes he falls asleep at his desk and that leaves him with pain in his back and a niggling disposition best avoided. I grimace as the wind fights its way into the house and I hear the lash of rain against the window panes belabouring them. Today will be difficult. He acts like the incarceration in the house is the fault of everyone around him rather than the inclement weather. I settle back into the covers and shut my eyes to postpone commencing the day.

“Your Royal Highness, Ma’am?” The knock against the door is tentative. I hate being disturbed prematurely and this house is meant to be where we take our holidays, not where I should be harassed at indecorous hours of the morning. “Why are you in my room, waking me up?” “So sorry, Ma’am, His Royal Highness, The Prince of Wales has asked for you.” “The sun hasn’t risen. He knows not to wake me before then.” I’m being petulant. The sun never rises early at this time of year and certainly not this far north. “Sorry Ma’am, he asked for you.”

The initial irritation dissolves into unease. “Fine.” I wriggle out of the covers and prop myself up on the pillows. The air cools through my nightdress and brushes my bare shoulders like frost, making me shiver. Almost immediately, the lamps are switched on in the room and I find a thick cardigan placed around me, a cup of black tea in my hands, warming them. “Tell me, Martin, what exactly is wrong with my husband?” “He’s most perturbed, Ma’am.” “Meaning?” Martin colours most magnificently when he’s embarrassed. Watching the shade of his cheeks, I can sometimes work out the truth before he’s admitted to it. He doesn’t look at me and I repeat my question with a Grandmotherly sternness I know works well with him. “He’s striding around his office, shouting at anyone who enters.” “What’s happened?” “I think The Prince would want to tell you himself, Ma’am.” As I raise my eyebrows at him slightly, I see his endeavour to remain loyal to my husband waiver at my expression. I just need to probe correctly to break him. “Is it that Chinese virus?” “That what, Ma’am?” “Corona Virus?” His blank face tells me it’s not. “Harry then?” I watch his face rouge, not able to lie to me and then crumple as he folds. “You need your iPad. There’s a message on Instagram.” “Tell me. I don’t know where my glasses are. I don’t even know how to work Insta-whatever-it-is, I just scroll through the pretty pictures.” “It’s Their Royal Highnesses, The Duke and Duchess of Sussex. They have announced they’re stepping back from the position of Senior Royals.” “Get me the iPad.”

It’s a strange emotion that hits my stomach. The anger is instant and prickles my skin, and the grief for my husband settles down in my heart as an old companion. Swallowing, I attempt to rid my mind of any unfavourable comparison but my stomach is churning, a contorted mixture of unease born of wounds from long ago, and guilt from what feels like a different age, salted in a deep-set resentment. I feel leaden as I read the message four, five times over, memorising it before removing my reading glasses to look at Martin. He’s worried about my reaction but I’m not my husband. I sigh heavily, not wanting to get up, but one benefit of my position is that someone will aid me with everything, especially when my bones are too old to move quickly at this time of day. “Send for Emma.” My poor husband. Anger laps at me but I know I have to be calm, even as my stomach pangs. I bet Charles hasn’t eaten yet. “And tea for his office…” “Yes, Ma’am.” “And something sweet.” “What sort…” “...Duchy biscuits are fine,” I snap, then pause to correct myself and continue with a more neutral tone, “Ready for when I get there. And toast and honey. Send Emma up now.”

Dismissing him, I breathe in deeply, feeling the air inflate my lungs, feeling my blood disseminate the oxygen around my body, to my tired muscles, calming me, preparing me for my job, my vocation. The lifetime I’ve spent talking gently to my husband, teasing him, bullying him, calming him down. There is never the time to process each new disaster with his family and sometimes I feel reminiscent of a firefighter, faithfully attempting to extinguish one crisis as several others ignite around me, but it seems churlish to complain when we’ve spent so many years striving for what we have now.

~*~*~*~*~*~

2000, Highgrove

We turn on the television to listen to Big Ben, to hear the countdown and watch the fireworks and I feel his hand reaching for mine. I clasp it firmly. The camera pans onto a closeup of his mother’s face and I smirk. Sat there with the Prime Minister, she looks as pissed off as her public persona allows. He kisses my cheek and I know he’s noted my expression. “She looks happy.” That makes me chuckle and I pull away from the screen and turn to face him. The hubbub around us is quieting now to the hush which always accompanies this precise moment in time, that pause before the countdown to the New Year begins. “I wonder if the telly’s going to crash at the stroke of midnight?” “Perhaps everything will go down?” “Your mother will be trapped in the dark.” “That would be funny.” “Do you think the little bug thing will crawl out and take over, reign over us?” That makes him chuckle and he reaches down to kiss me. “Last kiss this year.” “Last kiss this century.” “Hold my hand. I want to enter the new millennium with you.” The countdown starts but I’m looking into his eyes. I want his eyes to be the first thing I see. Or the last, if the world does indeed come to an end in five seconds time. But, of course, it doesn’t and I’ve almost completed saying the obligatory blessing before he kisses me again, then presses his forehead against mine. I can hear the celebrations around me. The corks popping and the choruses of ‘Happy New Year!’ We’re jolted slightly from side to side as our friends turn and greet in the new year in the time old fashion but I can’t draw away from him. Not until I feel people tugging me, grasping for my hand and then the spell is broken and I’m back on earth, singing along with all our friends, laughing with them, bouncing our arms to the beat of the song, grimacing at the sound of my voice as I warble along with them.

The deep boom of fireworks exploding outside sets off an excited chatter and I find myself hastily bundled into a coat, his coat. My nose burrows to inhale the scent but I’m manhandled outside and his arms hold me to him as I try to watch the display. “Start as we mean to go on.” “Being shoved outside, you mean?” I hear him chuckle against my ear and then his lips against my neck make me giggle. “Resolutions, Darling.” “Oh, I’m dreadful at these. I always say the same things. I’ll give up smoking. I won’t drink as much… One week of January and the sheer tedium of the month bores me straight back to my old habits.” “That’s because you had no intention of ever giving them up and you’ve said it for show.” “Probably.” “My resolution is to be with you.” “You are with me, Darling.” “To fight for you until there’s no longer any need.” That makes me smile. It will be another millennium before people accept our relationship. “What’s my resolution, Darling?” “You’ve got to make it. I can’t tell you what your resolution will be.” I feel his fingers poking in my side to tickle me and smile. “I resolve to love you through everything.” “You can’t resolve to love me! You’re meant to already love me!” “I do ‘already’ love you.” I turn my head to kiss him, to reassure him and manage to find his chin. It’s rough against my lips. “I said I will love you through everything. Through everything that hits you, hurts you, damages you. I will love you through every crisis. That’s the resolution.” “I think I’m getting the better deal.” “You most certainly are. You need to up the stakes with yours.” “I can’t. The only thing you want, I’ve done for the past thirty years, regardless.” “What do I want?” “You want to be loved and to feel loved. I can’t resolve that I’ll always love you. It’s just a part of who I am. I’m far too old to change now.” “Don’t change.” “When have you ever known me to change?” “Well then you best make up for the discrepancies in our resolutions!” “I will make you my Queen, Camilla.” “Whether I want it or not?” “Something like that.” “Sounds like a threat.” “It’s meant to be an honour.” “Let’s just concentrate on the moment. The bug hasn’t taken over, has it?” I turn in his arms so I’m facing him and bat my eyes at him, making him laugh. “Don’t sound so hopeful!”

His eyes sparkle at me but even my joke can’t distract from what he’s just said to me. The crowd around us seems to me to be separated from us by an invisible force, hushing the noise, and I feel like we’re suddenly so far away from the rest of the world. “Your resolution isn’t about me. It’s about what you want.” “It’s also about you being treated with the respect you deserve.” “That isn’t important to me.” “Only because you’ve learnt to live without it. It is still important.” “I’d prefer to be with you than to be ‘respected’.” “I want you to have both.” I know he does. I won’t let him shatter traditions and demand it happen now; I’m not sure that would even work. But I know he means it and once he makes a decision, he sticks with it. “It would be nice to not be the most hated woman in the world…” “I wish people could meet you. Then they’d love you as much as I do.” “This is the perfect time for wishes. Make them to your heart’s content and then hold onto me tightly and just savour that we’re here together.”

I hardly dare allow myself to wish for anything. It feels like tempting fate. Turning my face towards the spectacle in the heavens above me, I push my head back against him and wish for time together. Just us. But even as I wish for it, I know it will never happen. Ironically, we saw far more of each other when we were married to other people, almost a different lifetime ago, when we both had fewer scars, before the trauma of the past few years. I’ve got a better wish. My wish is that I can make him happy, that I’ll be allowed to do that. At the moment, everything is an uphill battle for acceptance, dodging the grenades thrown at us from his own family, riding the wave of public contempt. I don’t desire to be a part of the Royal Family, I never have; I would happily flee the country and live out the rest of my life with him. A simpler life. No responsibilities. But it would break him and put the responsibility onto his son’s shoulders, shoulders far too young for that weight. So perhaps, instead, my wish is for the strength I’m going to need in order to make him happy when the world is desperate for us to be ripped apart. They don’t realise it’s far too late for that. We won’t be parted from each other now. I wrap my arms around him and pull him close to me. We are starting the new millennium as we mean to go on. Together.

~*~*~*~*~*~

1970, London

His body tenses as I wrap my arms around him but I ignore it and I feel his hands gently pat my back. “Do people not usually hug you, Sir?” I pull away, my eyes grinning at him. He is bright red, his cheeks so flushed they match the rouge of the wallpaper behind him. “Usually I initiate it. People don’t tend to assume they can hug me.” “How dull.” That makes him laugh, a little giggle which sets his face alight. This has been my challenge all evening, to see if I can make this very serious young man loosen up a little. The giggle is almost apologetic and he brings his hand up to his face to hide behind. I want him to laugh openly with me. I’m not sure why. Objectively, he’s very attractive, if you’re into princes. He’s got the education, certainly, some of the topics of conversation have tested me to my limits tonight but he seems to have enjoyed himself and he appears to have been a very good distraction from the mess my love life is currently in with my on-off boyfriend Andrew and his various conquests. Lucia, our mutual friend, was naughty but right to introduce us and her little soiree has been an unmitigated success.

“Careful you two,” Lucia draws on her cigarette to drastic effect, “you have genetic antecedence…” She blows the smoke out to form a perfect smoke ring and I’m more than a little impressed. “Sorry?” He’s really sweet when he’s confused. “I think, Sir, she was referring to the fact that my Great Grandmother was your Great-Great Grandfather’s Mistress…” That makes him blush, from his cheeks and up his ears. “He had a great many mistresses, which particular one are you referring to?” “Alice Keppel.” “Oh… That one. She was considerably more than just his mistress, wouldn’t you say?” “I suppose…” “According to my sources, she was the love of his life. You certainly had best watch out. I apologise in advance if I fall in love with you. I won’t be able to help it, you see. Genetic antecedence.” “She was also meant to be exceptionally good in bed.” Lucia’s drawl makes me cough out my own inhalation of smoke and turns his cheeks a deeper rose colour, although his eyes are sparkling at me. “Is that genetic too?” I laugh and watch his face break into a great smile. “Would you like to know? Or are you destined to be a virgin until you’re married?” “There are no rules about me being a virgin.” “How unfair.” “I guess it is, rather. Tell me this, Miss Shand, how is it that you are single when you talk such tantalising talk?” “Apparently others find me less attractive. Perhaps it’s all a facade and I become boring the more time you spend with me? Then you require more variety?” “Somehow I doubt you’re ever boring. Andrew’s an idiot, by the way. My sister is a wonderful woman but she will drop him like a stone when she’s finished with him.” The fact that he knows about me and Andrew shocks me but I don’t let it show on my face. Perhaps Lucia has told him. The other, inconvenient truth being that Andrew’s current squeeze is Princess Anne, is evidently public knowledge and I ignore the pang of pain which goes through me. “Oh, I’m quite sure he’ll survive. If he doesn’t already have someone else on the go, I’d be really surprised.” “Then it appears I meet you at a fortuitous time.” “How’s that?” “Well I take it that you’re very much ‘off’ with Andrew?” “Very much so.” “Hence the fortuity.” “Oh, well, I only had eyes for him and he only had eyes for everyone…” “That explains why you fell over a cliff.” I look at him, recognising the line and seeing his eyes looking at me, anxiously willing me to laugh, “You rotten swine, you!” “You have deaded me!” That does make me laugh. “Foiled by President Fred!” “Quick, get behind the screen, Gladys.” His mimicry is so on point, he leaves me with tears rolling from my eyes and I’m doubled over with laughter as he recites line after line of my favourite radio show with perfect accuracy. In the end, I have to stop him, to allow myself space to breathe and just looking at him sets us both off again, laughing all my makeup off. Neither of us noticed Lucia disappearing and it’s only her reappearance later which switches our conversation to something else.

I like the way he looks at me as if he’s searching for my approval when he speaks, checking that I agree before continuing. I can’t quite believe how funny he is and how interesting his stories are. I could listen to his soothing voice for hours. Not that I’d admit that. The time dissolves whilst we talk and I don’t notice the fading of the light, nor the various candles which appear around the room until we run out of time and Lucia shows us out of her flat. We saunter down one flight of stairs together. “Goodnight, Miss Shand.” That makes me giggle; it’s so antiquated and suits him to a tee. Now I can feel myself flirting with him. “Goodnight, Sir.” “I’ll walk you home.” “It’s just down the corridor. I can surely manage.” “I’ll walk you anyway.” “Then you’ll know where I live.” “Yes, I will.” “I’m not sure that’s entirely suitable.”

I can’t stop myself from flirting with him, batting my eyelashes, glancing at him sidewards, ensuring he sees that I’m looking. The darkness of the hall is illuminated by the glow from the moon as all the lights have gone out in the power cut, a sign of the times which is usually irritating, but today seems romantic. It makes his skin glow with a silver sheen and I want to reach up and touch his face. I don’t, of course. Instead, we linger by my door, leaning against the wall, talking, giggling quietly as I unsuccessfully attempt to desist with the flirting. “Can I kiss you goodnight?” “Of course not.” His question shocks me and I kick myself for my immediate knee jerk answer. “Well, would you come dancing with me?” “You’re a Prince. Can’t you just order me.” “Possibly. I’d prefer you not to come by force, however.” “Would take some of the fun out of it…” He giggles, nervously, and it makes me smile. I pretend to consider, my eyes meeting his and seeing the fear in them. “Not tonight.” “No, of course not. Tomorrow?” That makes me chuckle and I nod, turning the key in my door. “When shall I pick you up?” I shrug and slip into my flat. “Seven thirty?” “Yes.” “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I close the door in his face and smile to myself. I feel slightly giddy at the thought of him calling on me. This should be fun.

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