This story is completely set in an alternative universe. King Simon is alive, Robert is still dead and will likely stay dead and the Balmoral Castle is conveniently located not in Scotland but near the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland. I love writing fantasy and weird shit, so this is me enjoying myself with some good ol' Len and Jasper. I'll switch between this one and Amative. Amative's first in line for some edits and a brand new chapter.

A modern day retelling of the legend of the City of Ys. Because Eleanor is not a saintly Princess, but neither is Jasper the Knight he pretends to be.

Obliquity

Eleanor.

King Simon resided in Blenheim Palace. It was close enough to London to arrive there within two hours in case of emergencies, but secluded enough he and his family could enjoy some privacy. When his oldest child, Robert Henstridge, tragically found his untimely demise in the wreckage of an airplane, however, the palace started to feel more like a prison and the privacy they had so coveted, put a strain on them all.

His Queen, Helena, urged him to put on a brave face for the people, because the monarchy must not crumble, but as he tried to do so, be brave for the people, the walls of his own home were vastly dissolving into dust.

The Heir Apparent, and it felt weird calling his middle child this now that his firstborn had passed away, wasn't acting up per se, but Liam rarely stayed at the Palace, always moving from dorm to dorm, never staying more than a couple of nights. He seemed restless, in search of, and Simon knew it was because the Palace simply wasn't a home anymore. Not without Robert. And not with Helena, always hammering on about appearances.

It wasn't the Heir the King was worried about, though.

His little one, the baby girl.

His Princess.

Eleanor.

Now she was acting out. She had always been a wild child, his wild child, and he loved her for it, but ever since Robert's death she had lost all her brakes. Spending nights away from home, drinking and snorting and swallowing all sorts of illegal substances Simon did not even want to know the names of. But she was still his baby girl, the little one, his Princess.

Eleanor.

It's when there was yet another front page shot of her, smirking at the camera's all drugged up and exposing a lot of her Royal Beaver to the paparazzi that King Simon decided enough was enough.

When he entered her bedroom that night, seeing her motionless, stretched out on her belly, it almost broke his heart. Some coke remained on her bedside table, but he could also see the evidence of her drug abuse still lingering 'round her nostrils.

She used to be so beautiful, this pretty girl of his, still was. But he refused to see her like this any longer. She could spend nights away from home, she could dance until the early hours in some shady club, but she had to stop this. No more drugs.

He ran a hand lightly over her long, dark hair. Sighed.

'Dad?' And she rolled over, bumping against his knee, rubbing a hand over her face.

'What are you doing here?' she asked and he tried to shush her, but she pushed him away, narrowed her eyes at him.

'Get out of my room,' she said and her voice was hoarse. 'Go.'

But the King shook his head.

'Eleanor,' he started, 'this has to stop.'

'What has to stop?' she asked stubbornly and he wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her.

'Eleanor,' he said, louder this time. 'It's enough.'

He shifted, tried to make eye contact but she turned away from him.

'Robbie is not coming back, Eleanor,' he said softly. 'He isn't.'

He laid a hand on her arm and sighed.

'I know you miss him,' he continued. 'We all miss him. But he's not coming back.'

'Don't you think I know that,' she spat, and the venom in her voice took him by surprise. They were both quiet for a moment, only the sound of Eleanor's heavy breathing filling the room.

'He's never coming back,' she whispered eventually. 'But he's everywhere.'

So when the King asked her what she wanted, asked her what she needed to stay off the drugs, and she told him she wanted to move to Balmoral Castle, he wasted not a precious second. The great Balmoral castle, dug out of the silver cliffs of Moher, standing slightly above sea level, hidden, almost, inside the rock, was not fit to live in, but for the Princess it was made habitable within mere months.

They moved there, the King and his Queen, his Heir and the Princess, six months after Robert's passing and the King hoped his family finally could start to heal.

Fate, however, had different plans.

He saw her climbing to the top of the cliffs at night, at first alone. Eleanor spend her nights shouting at the sea, cursing the wild waves for taking her brother away. But after a while he would at times see two figures going up the cliff and disappear out of sight. Two people, not just her. Sometimes two would also come back down, other times only one. Her.

He stopped watching her climb the cliff at night, whether alone or with company, when the first body washed upon shore.

And he wondered what had become of his little one, the baby girl, his Princess.

Eleanor.