A/N: The continuation/conclusion of "Vindication". An aside: Christian's native language, jordiska, is meant to be an offshoot of Swedish, much as American English deviates from British English. Thus, I've taken liberties with the Swedish language to reflect that jordiska, while derived from and very similar to the parent tongue, is a language in its own right. (Just in case I get any linguists, or native Swedish speakers!) The story is still in progress as of the original post date, so bear with me and you'll get the rest soon… Once again, many, many thanks to Harry2, PDXWiz, jtbwriter and BishopT for all your wonderful and welcome reviews and comments.
§ § § - June 29, 2001
This time there was no press conference: Prince Carl Johan had the dreadful task of informing the media that the king had died, and the announcement immediately appeared on television broadcasts, interrupting programs the world over. Arnulf lay in state in the castle entry for the next two days after his death, while countless citizens of Lilla Jordsö made their way to the castle to pay their respects. The hallway accesses to the royal family's living quarters were carefully sealed off, and the Enstads sequestered themselves completely out of view while military guards handled the vigil and saw to it that the procession of mourners paid their respects in a quiet, orderly manner and didn't try to bother the grieving family. A heavy emotional pall overhung every move anyone made.
In those first horrible hours after learning of Arnulf's death, Leslie had spent a good hour or more just holding Christian, enduring his spasms of grief and guilt, now and then reminding him that she loved him deeply, no matter what. Before the short northern summer night had faded completely, Gerhard, Liselotta, Christian and Leslie had packed up and joined the rest of the family at the castle, barricading themselves in unison with them. Just before leaving, Leslie had called Roarke on Fantasy Island and let him know that Arnulf had died and they would have to remain for the funeral at the very least. Gerhard had gently suggested she tell him that they were likely to be incommunicado for a few days, and she had duly informed Roarke, who had understood completely.
Today, June 29, was the day of the funeral. Christian and Leslie, who had taken over Christian's old bedroom at the castle, lay limply in the bed, finally fitfully asleep in the sheer dark. The bedroom was located in the castle's interior and had no windows, so that even in broad daylight there was no sense of time. Christian, racked with guilt, had been refusing to see anyone else, and on the few occasions family members came around trying to connect with him and Leslie, she had to tell them he wasn't able just yet.
At the moment Christian was in the depths of a nightmare, one of several he'd had since Arnulf's death. His endless nervous twitching brought Leslie from her uneasy doze, and she lay listening in the utter blackness, dreading the end of the dream. She made no attempt to awaken him: she had tried this before, only to find that it was impossible to get him out of the dream so he could find some relief. He would eventually come out of it on his own, but it would be a violent end; and she braced herself, tears already trickling down her cheeks. His torment was almost as hard on her as on him.
Shortly he began mumbling in his sleep; she heard him shifting restlessly under the sheets, felt the mattress giving with his movements, but couldn't see him. She wasn't sure she wanted to; she had turned on the bedside lamp the one time she'd tried and failed to pull him out of the dream, and the self-loathing on his face had nearly made her ill. She fully intended to stick it out with him, but she wished he would make some attempt to talk out his debilitating grief, to work through it, instead of letting himself wallow in it. He seemed to believe he deserved the torment he was enduring.
Now he was calling out, speaking in jordiska in pleading tones. She understood only the "nej, nej, plissa!" he constantly repeated: "no, no, please!" Oddly, she had guessed the final word herself; at one point, when Christian was relatively calm, he had told her that Swedish had no word for please, and jordiska-speakers had compensated for this by borrowing and adapting the English word. It was pronounced very similarly and was easy to recognize.
Leslie screwed her eyes shut and waited, trying to withstand the emotion rolling off Christian in waves that seemed nearly tangible. Her head ached dully, as it had been doing since Arnulf's death due to lack of sleep, and her heart felt shattered. Christian was crying out plaintively in his sleep and she started to cry outright; his pleading cut right through her. She could no longer stand it and reached out, just as he abruptly began thrashing in the bed as though fighting physical constraints. Leslie reached over and turned on the lamp, hissed a terrified curse, and lunged at him: he was dangerously close to falling off the bed.
"Christian, stop it!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.
"Jag slådde honom!" Christian shrieked and came back to consciousness with a convulsive jerk that actually threw him into a sitting position. He sat there with a wild, huge-eyed look, panting with rapid shallow breaths. "I killed him," he said aloud.
"No," Leslie said, her voice hoarse. How many times had he said that, and how many times had she contradicted him? She'd long since learned that "jag slådde honom" meant "I killed him", from sheer repetition; it was always the last thing he said before waking up.
"Yes," Christian said flatly.
"No," Leslie repeated, drained. She no longer had the energy to go on like this and turned away, stumbling out of the bed and across the room to the rather lavishly appointed bathroom that adjoined the bedroom. Once inside, without warning, she felt a surge of nausea so strong there was no battling it, and in seconds she was throwing up what felt like the last week's worth of meals. Christian's emotional trauma was making her sick, she realized, between abdominal spasms that produced enough cranial pressure to convince her that her head was going to explode.
It was a torturous ten minutes before she was certain her stomach had ejected everything it possibly could, and she gingerly rinsed out her mouth and buried her face in a towel. She was at the end of her rope; she just didn't know what else to do. Leslie dropped the towel on the edge of the sink and stepped slowly and carefully out of the bathroom, breathing deeply, her head hanging and her arms wrapped around her stomach. Her abdomen felt sore from the sheer violence with which she had vomited.
A frenetic and persistent banging on one of the doors made both Christian and Leslie start violently and stare. She glanced at him, but he made no move to disentangle himself from the rumpled bedcovers; so she tottered to the door and pulled it open, staring hopelessly at their visitors—Carl Johan, Gerhard and Anna-Kristina.
"Herregud, Leslie, you look like hell!" Carl Johan said, shocked.
"Where's Uncle Christian?" Gerhard asked urgently.
"He's…" Leslie began, but couldn't seem to finish. She made a vague gesture behind her and turned away, falling into a chair at last and bending over double, inhaling and exhaling as if to consume all the oxygen in the room.
Carl Johan and Gerhard looked at each other and came inside, taking in their surroundings. Christian looked to be off in another world altogether, staring blankly into space and sitting utterly still in the same position in which he'd awakened. Behind them Anna-Kristina edged into the room, herself looking pinched from grief, and made a sudden face. "Someone was sick in here," she exclaimed.
"Me," croaked Leslie, lifting her head to stare at her. Anna-Kristina looked horrified, kneeling beside her chair.
"Aunt Leslie, you look…you do look like hell, just as Uncle Carl Johan said," she said softly, her expressive blue eyes filling with tears. "What happened to you?"
"What's wrong with Christian?" Carl Johan put in urgently.
Leslie tried to straighten in the chair. "He thinks he killed Arnulf," she said, watching with a curious detachment as their faces filled with astonishment. "He refuses to listen to me when I tell him he didn't."
"How could he have killed Arnulf?" demanded Carl Johan impatiently.
Before Leslie could reply, Christian said tonelessly from the bed, "I didn't care if he lived or died. I hated him for years. This is the price I pay now…"
"I can't do any more for him," Leslie wailed, breaking down all at once. "Please, help me…I can't get through to him, and it's killing me!" Anna-Kristina immediately began to cry alongside Leslie, but managed to find enough inner strength to reach out and hug her aunt, trying to soothe her as best she could.
"Did you hear that, Christian?" Carl Johan snapped at his brother. "You may be wrong about killing Arnulf, but if you go on like this, you'll definitely kill your wife. What the hell is the matter with you? It's not like you to give in to such hysteria. Snap out of it, you fool, and pull yourself together! No one is responsible for Arnulf's death!" They all looked at Christian, including Leslie with the last of her hope gleaming in her eyes—but he only shook his head and turned away.
Carl Johan cursed. "Fine," he said with disgust. "Maybe if you're left to yourself for a while, you'll come to your senses. But Leslie comes with us. Anna-Kristina, get her some fresh clothing, and Gerhard, find Christian's mobile phone. I think we'd better put through a call to Mr. Roarke and see if he has any advice."
A few minutes later Carl Johan and Anna-Kristina lent support to Leslie, with Gerhard behind them turning on Christian's cellular phone and checking the preprogrammed numbers. "Is your father's number here, Aunt Leslie?" he asked her.
"I don't know," Leslie mumbled, trying to stand fully upright and wincing. "Oh God. I feel about two thousand years old. What are we going to do about Christian?"
"Nothing right now," Carl Johan said firmly. "He seems determined to take blame where there's none to take, and all we can do is give him room. You were ill?"
"I threw up," Leslie admitted, nodding. "I've never been that sick, not with that much force. My stomach hurts…I can't even stand up straight. And the funeral…"
"That's not till this afternoon," Gerhard said. "We have about six hours before we have to leave here for the procession. That's far more than enough time for you to have a good hot shower and relax. Far, maybe we'd better get the castle doctor to look at her."
Anna-Kristina nodded agreement with her cousin. "Yes, I'll go to get him, then. I've never seen Uncle Christian like that. He cried, like any of us, when Grandmamma died, and he was very calm when Grandpappa died…what does he mean when he says he killed Pappa? I don't understand that."
"It goes back to all the years your father and grandfather tried to control the direction of his life, Anna-Kristina," Leslie explained in a tired, trembling voice. "He resented them both all that time, and when we saw your father the day before he died, on the way there Christian admitted to being very angry with him—so much so that the possibility of his death didn't seem to touch him. But that lack of feeling left him with a horrible sense of guilt, and that's what's eating him alive now. I wish he…" She closed her eyes, and tears leaked out from under the lids. "Sometimes I don't think he sees me anymore."
"Sooner or later he'll start thinking beyond his own madness," Carl Johan said. "He's too grounded not to. Try to calm down, Leslie, and think about yourself. You're in nearly as bad shape as Christian is, and if you don't concentrate on yourself for a while, you won't be able to help him at all. Both you and Christian will have to be in the funeral procession, no matter how you're feeling. Gerhard's right—you should see the doctor. We have a live-in physician here; our staff of servants is large enough to warrant it, and he treats the family as well. He speaks good English, Leslie, so you can tell him what you need to."
"What's Mr. Roarke's telephone number?" Gerhard asked, still scrolling through the programmed numbers in Christian's cell phone.
"Zero-zero-one," said Anna-Kristina and met Leslie's surprised look with an unexpected little grin. "I made sure I would never forget." They both giggled faintly.
"There must be more to it than that," Gerhard said impatiently.
"Look for a number that ends in those three digits," Leslie suggested. "Christian's phone service is still based from here, so there's probably a country code. We're 261 from this country, according to your telephone book."
"It's not here," Gerhard said. "I'm sorry, but I guess he didn't put it in."
"That's all right. I can make the call myself," Leslie said softly. "Gerhard, how's Liselotta doing?"
Gerhard looked up sharply, then softened and smiled gratefully at her. "Better than I am, to be honest," he said. "She's been my rock through all this. I only wish Uncle Christian could appreciate your efforts as I do hers."
Carl Johan sighed. "Just for now, forget about Christian," he said. "Here, Leslie, this is Amalia's and my room. Feel free to use anything you wish in the bathroom, and take your time about it. Gerhard and I will wait out here, and Anna-Kristina will bring back the doctor, so that he'll be here when you're ready."
Leslie thanked him, accepted her clothing from Anna-Kristina and shut herself in the bathroom, as lavish as the one in Christian's old room. Moving somewhat painfully, she stripped and climbed into the shower. The hot water felt good; it revived her a little, and she managed to wash her hair and indulge in a good sudsy scrubbing with an exotically-scented shower gel. She concentrated on the sensation of the soap on her body and in her hair, carefully blanking out her mind. She needed to think clearly enough to talk with the doctor; if she thought about Christian she'd cave in to despair.
When Leslie finally emerged from the shower and dried herself off, she found that Anna-Kristina had chosen jeans and a T-shirt for her to wear. She dressed with some care, trying to accommodate her irritable stomach. At last she hesitantly stepped out of the bathroom, immediately catching the attention of Carl Johan, Amalia, Gerhard, Liselotta, Anna-Kristina and a somewhat portly, balding older man she had never met. Carl Johan spoke up, "Leslie, this is Dr. Salomonsson. You can trust him as you would your doctor at home."
While the others waited quietly, watching in concern, the doctor examined Leslie, asked a few questions, and then took a blood sample, to her surprise. Unsure as to what his purpose was, she settled into a chair, absently rubbing her sore stomach while Dr. Salomonsson appropriated the bathroom to process the sample.
When he came out, he said, "Your illness is caused by emotions, Princess Leslie: you are not pregnant." Oh, Leslie thought detachedly, that's why the sample. Not that I needed to hear him say it, I already knew. "You should be very careful with your stomach after that vomiting episode. Eat lightly and don't overtax it." He glanced at the others, then added kindly, "I believe it's best that you do not see your husband until the funeral. I would suggest not for at least a day or two, but Prince Carl Johan tells me you must both make appearances. When you see him there, do not try to make him speak, simply let him be. If he responds to you in any way, that is fine; if he does not, then leave him to himself. Do you understand? This is not something you can do for Prince Christian. He must find his own way."
"I understand," Leslie said softly, though it hurt to accede to this.
"Good," said the doctor. To Carl Johan he said, "Your Highness, the princess is best off with the family. It is my opinion that Her Majesty would benefit from seeing her."
"We'll arrange it, then," said Carl Johan. "Thank you, doctor." Dr. Salomonsson gave a quick shallow bow, meant for the group collectively, and departed.
Leslie looked up. "How is Queen Kristina doing?"
"Mamma's better," Anna-Kristina said. "Very sad, of course, but she is calm. I think Dr. Salomonsson's right—she would be happy to see you. Just say when."
"Anytime, I guess," Leslie murmured, shrugging. In the wake of her separation from Christian, she had gone numb; she supposed Roarke would diagnose her state of mind as emotional overload. That was all right with her; she was tired of feeling. She was tired, period. "I wish I could sleep," she said without thinking, her right hand moving of its own accord to rub her wedding and engagement rings. Only then did she realize she didn't have them on. "My rings…I need my rings…"
"Leslie, you'll be fine without them for a while," Carl Johan said kindly. "Don't worry about those just now, all right?"
Leslie could feel the first tendrils of creeping hysteria and tried to fight them off. "Please," she said helplessly. "Just the rings…please?"
Carl Johan looked at Amalia, who shook her head at him. "It's a small thing," she said in good English, though with a fairly heavy accent. "Gerhard, why don't you go and get your aunt's rings for her. I think it will help her."
Gerhard rose. "Where are they, Aunt Leslie?" he asked.
"On the bedside table," Leslie said. "I left the lamp on when you came and took me out…they should still be there." Gerhard nodded and left the room.
Anna-Kristina looked worriedly at Leslie, then at Carl Johan, and fretted, "What can we do about Uncle Christian? I know you said just to leave him, but I don't think that will help him either. We should have sent Dr. Salomonsson to him."
"Christian needs a psychiatrist, not a physician," Carl Johan grunted. "And at the moment, Leslie doesn't need to hear about Christian at all." He slumped wearily in his chair. "As if all this weren't enough, we have to prepare Gabriella for her coronation ceremony, and you know the law: no longer than two weeks can pass between the death of one monarch and the coronation of the next. I hope Mr. Roarke can spare you that long, Leslie, for you and Christian must be here for that as well."
"Father will understand," Leslie said quietly, still feeling strangely detached. "He always does. He knows the protocol…sometimes he knows things I don't, and I'm the one who married into royalty." At their soft chuckles, the ghost of a smile flitted across her face, and then she withdrew into herself. She didn't think she could face anyone, not even her well-meaning relatives.
"Has she spoken with Mr. Roarke?" Amalia asked.
"No, we haven't called him yet," Anna-Kristina said. "Gerhard has Uncle Christian's mobile with him, but the number isn't already in the phone."
Amalia nodded. "Then I think perhaps you should handle that, Carl Johan, and in the meantime Leslie should sleep if possible. I can see the signs of sleeplessness."
Leslie spoke in a monotone. "Christian's had so many nightmares, I'm amazed either of us has slept. He dreams, and I lie there witnessing them."
"All the more reason for you to sleep now, when you're away from him," Amalia said firmly. "There is a quiet room just across the hall from here, and you're going there to have a nap. I think it's the very best thing for you."
Gerhard returned then with Leslie's rings and handed them to her. "Did you have any problems with Christian?" Carl Johan asked.
"No…as a matter of fact, Uncle Christian wasn't even in the room," Gerhard said. "He must have gone off somewhere." Leslie, sliding the rings onto her finger, looked up.
"Is anyone going to look for him?" she asked. "You might find him upstairs, in one of the old servants' rooms."
The others looked at each other in amazement. "How do you know that?" Carl Johan asked. "He could be anywhere."
"Try there first," Leslie said and smiled faintly, then suddenly yawned. "Oh dear, Amalia's right. I really need to get some sleep."
Amalia got up and escorted her out; when they had left, Carl Johan held out his hand. "Give me Christian's mobile, Gerhard. I'd better explain things to Mr. Roarke. At the very least, he should know what's happening; if we're lucky, he might have some answers."