Disclaimer: It is not mine.

Prince

He had an angular face, the little boy. Big round eyes filled up most of it, covered by soft, pale hair. He was in and out of hospital, missing school for weeks at a time. His handwriting was always neat and regularly slanted, unlike that of most of his classmates.

The sun waited to greet the children; it was the last day of school. Inside the paneled classroom, fingers drummed on desks to count down the remaining minutes. Pens closed, opened and scratched paper. The teacher sat at the front, watching her class contently. A large blackboard stretched for most of the wall, proclaiming 'Bonnes Vacances' in cursive chalk. She placed her chin on woven fingers and rested her elbows on the desk.

Such a thoughtful face for such a little boy. His illness made him older, quieter. He tilted his head to one side as the large clock ticked, and looked at the teacher with admiration. Her long, blonde hair seemed to shine in the July sun, and her blue eyes were so peaceful, so happy. She had told them all that she had got married the week before. He smiled for her, yes.

Another lifetime, another person, seemed to rise within him and move him so. A horse, and silk clothes. An older sister with a songbird voice. The rustle of chiffon and ruche satin, a graceful stride, the eyes of an angel – his mother, surely. What of his father? He could no longer tell his own family from the family of the Other Person that lived inside. Ah, his kind hearted father. It seems natural that he should wear a crown.

The teacher watches the little boy dream into the end of the school day. She looks at the faint glow of his light yellow hair through her thick eyelashes, and lets a smile spread over her face. Just another few moments of classroom peace, and then she will be free to join her husband. They are going away, don't you know. They have a summer house in Arras.

The teacher watches the boy, he feels her eyes on him – they burn straight through his thin skin and into his small bones, his tiny heart and sick lungs. Once before. So many years before. The haunting vision of a white horse rushing in the winds, the rider astride casts her golden hair to the movement of the race. But those eyes burn not at all for him. The teacher's passion is directed at only one man, whom he had often seen at the school gates. How he envies that man, that adult, healthy man.

The summer for his school friends is filled with berries and rivers, and rabbits and wild flowers and forests and camping. The bell rings, and he keels forward as harmless slaps on his back acknowledge the long parting between friends. Shelves are emptied and children pour out of the doors everywhere. The dream is interrupted. He sees her put her books away into a leather carry case, now she walks to the door, so elegant in a trouser suit. A smile is her gift for him. His summer is one of physicians and hospitals.

Yet they all know that there is a chance, if only slight, that he will not be joining them next year.

Ah, he sighs, dragging his empty lunch bag behind him as he leaves the small classroom. Ah, you said that you would wait for me to become a strong man. Ah, you said…you promised…