The Royal Guardian

By: Sokai

Disclaimer: I, Sokai, do not claim ownership to the workings of W.I.T.C.H. - I leave that honor up to Elisabetta Gnone. Nor do I own Meg Cabot's "The Princess Diaries" series (even though this story isn't even really related to the series. Just don't want to hear law suit claims LoL). However, I can and DO claim to own this story and its inspired ideas FROM said series.

Note: Yay! It's been a while, I KNOW! I think a year or almost a year or whatever, I don't know. Meh. LoL Sorry for that, but a lot's been going on since the last post, one of which getting married and all that, so yeah. That ate up a good chunk of free time, among other, various life affairs. LoL

Anyhow! Please to be enjoying this chapter!


This chapter was created/written in November 2009.


Chapter Forty Nine

Friday, November 10th, Economics

I would really, truly, and wholeheartedly like to know, or, even more importantly, understand why absolutely unnecessary things keep happening to me (not counting the whole being a princess now scenario, of course, since, let's face it, absolutely unnecessary things have been happening to me long before then).

I'd honestly appreciate it.

I mean, I'm starting to wonder if the Cosmos or the Grand Design doesn't have it out for me, personally, perhaps for misdeeds and general bad karma I may have enacted and accumulated during a past life of mine . . . or two.

Maybe that's why I was chosen to be a Guardian in the first place, even. Not because I had anything super positive to contribute to the overall organization for Good, but because it was just a trickledown effect of leftover "community service" my former crap life self hadn't completed.

I'm seriously wondering all of this, journal.

All overdramatizing everything like I usually do aside, as well.

I'm starting to feel myself getting a bit past that pretty bad trait, anyway . . . well, today, or for now, at least.

Going into yet another hissy fit and either crying or screaming wouldn't change what's happened, anyhow. But I still can't help or stop the immense feelings of anger, confusion, and even betrayal which refuse to let up from within me.

And all in thanks to Ms. Wojick, her stupid, themed extra credit poetry assignment, and my ridiculous belief that anything written within her English class would actually be kept private.

I mean, if I really wanted to boil it down objectively, though, it was honestly my own fault for being a bit greedy, as it were, by having bothered to submit anything in for said assignment, given that I'm nowhere near in need of "spare change points" for that particular class, as we all know.

And, it is also my own fault for having moronically decided to derive inspiration from my once forlorn adoration for Caleb and write about him.

What was I thinking, seriously?

Of course, granted, I didn't name any names or even give too many specifics where he was concerned.

I'm not that asinine, after all . . . well, about seventy-six percent of me isn't that asinine, anyhow, considering the remaining twenty-four percent had decided to take a chance and submit that stupid piece in for a grade in the first place.

A damned grade I didn't even need, at that.

Still, at the time, I can remember that I was in such desperate need for emotional release about all of my bottled up feelings and other various emotions about the whole "Caleb and never-will-be I" calamity that I truly wasn't thinking of the involved risks.

All I'd heard were the words "extra credit" and "themed assignment: 'raw,'" while secretly gazing at the increasingly troublesome ex-Rebel Leader within the corner of my eye on that fateful day.

What harm could it have possibly done in the long run, you know?

Evidently, a great deal!

I didn't even remember having written the blasted, literary curse, to tell the truth, since it had been several weeks ago when I'd handed it in to Ms. Wojick for a grade.

Almost a month, now, actually, now that I think upon it some more.

And considering all of the equally, if not greater drama which has been transpiring within my life since that time, is it even a surprise?

At any rate, let me fully explain it all from the beginning . . . or, starting from the point after I'd arrived to English class, and once again employed my usual and trusty "Wall of Ignorability," as I call it, the moment Caleb walked in and took a seat next to me, as per usual.

I had actually finally managed to get our "study session" from earlier out of my head by that point, that I didn't want any sort of relapse related to him, you know?

But then, like I'd stated at the start of this entry, unnecessary things just like to happen to me.

So, the bell rings and we're all working on our 'I Am' poems once again for the majority of the shortened period, right (well, in my case, working on said poem while also writing up my previous entry on the side)? And then, out of nowhere, Ms. Wojick suddenly pipes up at around twelve minutes or so before the bell rang, and tells us how she's finally deciding to return those evil little extra credit assignments!

She's all, "Oh, right! Before class is over, I'd better give back the 'Raw' themed poetry assignments some of you had decided to do for extra credit a couple of weeks ago! Sorry it's taken so long to return, but my schedule has become increasingly busy, what with midterms coming up, especially!"

Eeeyeah. Tell me about it.

Anyway, this wasn't when I started to become directly affected by anything yet, though.

Nooo, no no. Far too early.

Not to mention the fact that, again, I didn't even remember the assignment, period, let alone whether or not I had decided to do it, myself.

And so, as a result, I just continued to keep on with my own affairs, choosing to keep my nose buried within my notebook and trying to finish the new, horrible draft I managed to make, while also continuing to ignore the right side of the room where Mr. Caleb dwelled.

All in all, things were pretty successful and progressing swimmingly.

But then, it happened.

Ms. Wojick just had to launch into another one of her "Moment of Pride" tendencies for her more gifted students, and continues on with, "Now, before I hand them back, though, and before I let all of you finish up your work, I'd like to read a few of them which I felt were truly inspired, creative, and absolutely captured the focus of the assigned theme."

Not even by that crucial point did I start paying better attention to what she was saying, as, like I said, I still didn't honestly remember whether or not I'd written anything for the stupid assignment, and so therefore, wasn't interested.

I just kept on within my mentally crafted little bubble of (dreadfully false) security.

That is, until I heard the eerily, as well as regrettably familiar title of "If Only" suddenly escaping from Ms. Wojick's lips and unavoidably wafting into the surrounding atmosphere for all to hear.

Immediately my brain had woken up and gone into overdrive in that instant, at the same time that I'd swiftly lifted my head up from out of my notebook.

I was sitting there, thinking various things at once, such as, Why does that title sound so familiar to me? Did I bother to do that extra credit assignment? And why did I in the first place, and what the hell did I write about?

Yeah, well, both me and the rest of the class were about to find out, unfortunately. Well, sort of, since Ms. Wojick at least always has the decency to keep things anonymous whenever she reads things any of us have written within the past aloud.

But, still.

Anonymous or not, and if it turned out to be my poem that she was about to read, after all, I was still going to feel every bit as uncomfortable as I naturally would have if my name had been revealed to the masses.

Oh.

Right.

Before I continue, it would probably help you better understand (and perhaps even appreciate) the gravity of the situation, in addition to the giving you the proper amount of sensitivity needed, if you also fully understood what Ms. Wojick had meant or had been looking for when she'd chosen "Raw" as the theme for the assignment.

See, what she meant was for anyone who'd opted to do said extra credit would have to choose any topic or focus they wanted, and then convey it within the most exposed or, as indicated by its topic title, as "raw-like" as possible.

Like, for example, if someone had chosen to write about falling off of a bicycle and bruising the hell out of their knee, or breaking their leg or something, they'd have to illustrate that relatively simple scene using painstaking detail.

We're talking every last blood spill, and excruciating physical impact that would be involved for the poor victim in that moment to be painted out onto the paper so emotionally that it makes the reader feel unavoidably connected and . . . well, raw afterward.

Or, as Ms. Wojick had also pointed out at the time, now that I remember the incident more vividly, we could have also literally written about the word "raw," itself, and what comes to mind when we think of it, as well.

So, basically, it was just about making the poem as riveting, descriptive, and honestly almost spellbinding as possible. You know, as a way for us to further think outside of the box and exercise our creative sides to grow more and more comfortable with each of our overall poetic capabilities.

Or, at least, that was Ms. Wojick's intention, anyway.

Needless to say, I don't think a lot of people bothered to do it, though, since, when I'd looked up and towards the front of the room where she was standing, I didn't see a whole lot of papers within Ms. Wojick's hands.

It was a pretty difficult or at least pretty tricky assignment, after all, by comparison to the regular poetry-related crap we've had to do thus far during this unit.

But, I guess I'd personally wanted to challenge myself, at the time, in addition to wanting a proper outlet in regards to my festering feelings for Caleb, evidently . . . well, either that, or I had been pretty desperate then, and didn't care about said difficulty if it meant having a formal excuse to write about the stupid guy.

And it was just for extra credit? Extra credit, again I will say, that I did not readily need within this specific class, to boot?

What could it hurt?

Famous last words. . . .

So, anyway, I'm sitting there, with my mind still struggling to remember for absolute certain if I really had contributed anything toward that God awful assignment, what it had been about if I had and, if "If Only" had been its title, after all, when Ms. Wojick had to go and start reading it.

Aloud.

To the entire class.

To Caleb.

I'd instantly remembered that it was my accursed poem the moment I'd heard Ms. Wojick read the very first sentence, and once said realization had effectively settled in, I'd immediately felt angry and betrayed, even, more than anything else, surprisingly. . . .

Why?

Because here was this blatantly emotional, revealing piece of literature, written under the unappreciated affectation that it would stay private . . . or, rather, stay simply between the writer and the teacher looking it over.

I never once thought, or expected that what I had ended up writing down and handing into Ms. Wojick would have apparently stirred up that much emotion within her as the reader, making her feel compelled enough to broadcast its contents to the rest of her freaking pupils!

But, then, I'd also never once thought that what I had written down was anything worth looking over twice at the time. I mean, I'm generally very tough on myself about my overall writing, anyway, but in this specific case, I didn't honestly give anything I had put down much thought.

That is, I do now remember my brain (or heart, as the case may be) taking over at the time, with just an overwhelming flood of pent up emotion gushing forth from inside of me and down onto the sheet of paper.

I wasn't too focused upon the poem's overall technical execution, or even whether or not it was as "emotionally exposing" as Ms. Wojick had wanted.

It was just me, a girl tragically in love back then, and deciding to immortalize a little piece of her everyday pain through the use of writing.

So, can you honestly blame me for feeling extremely handed over and outraged in that moment, regardless?

It was just all too much. . . .

I'm sure you're wondering, though, how the poem actually goes, right?

. . . . Well, fine, then, journal. Fine.

Now that I have it back within my possession and everything related to it is now clear as day once more, I'd be all too "happy" to share it with you, as well:

If Only

By Will Vandom

If only you could know
The things I long to say
If only I could tell you
What I wish I could convey.

It's in my every glance
My heart's an open book
You'd see it all at once
If only you would look.

If only you could glimpse
The feeling that I feel
If only you would notice
What I'm dying to reveal.

The dreams I can't declare
The needs I can't deny
You'd understand them all
If only you would try.

All my secrets, you would learn them
All my longings, you'd return them
Then the silence would be broken
Not a word would need be spoken.

If only it were true
If only for a while
If only you would notice
How I ache behind my smile.

I guess you never will
I guess it doesn't show.

But if I never find a way
To tell you so
Oh, what I would give
If only you could know. . . .

Now do you see why I feel the way I do about this? What the hell was I thinking, writing something that poignant, and about Caleb of all topics?

Damn it!

I don't care if I'm more or less getting over the guy, this really is just too much, and totally unfair!

Maybe if he had been absent today, or we didn't share the same English class, it might have been minutely better . . . I guess.

But, no! I couldn't even be granted that much luck!

I felt so trapped after Ms. Wojick finished reading my poem, made her usual, little congratulatory comments toward the "anonymous writer" and his or her literary skills, before moving onto the next poem to read aloud by another unsuspecting schmo much like myself.

I say I felt trapped because it's the honest truth.

I mean, within my life. About my life.

I can't really think of any part of it which I currently have active control over, including my Guardian duties since, come on now, the world is always going to be far more important than anything I have going on (or not going on) within my life.

But, yeah.

If I can't even have just a teeny tiny bit of control, or say, rather, over such a matter as this, something so theoretically miniscule by comparison to the far grander concerns like my newfound royal problems, or something, then I seriously don't have any power left within my very own life.

And it isn't as though I could have gone up to Ms. Wojick after class and expressed my dislike, either, since, number one, the damage was already done, and number two, she'd probably get all extra concerned and want to know some kind of specifics.

I may like her a lot (yes, still, even after this regrettable act), but I'm not about to dig my proverbial grave even further and exacerbate the overall issue by letting her know who the poem had been about.

Nuh uh.

For the last few minutes of English, I just felt as though I was within an honest trance of sorts, really, I was that consumed with my frenzy and helplessness.

I guess that was about the only "good thing" to have occurred during that period, seeing as I could only imagine how Caleb had reacted to the poem, and what his face looked like after Ms. Wojick had finished reading it aloud. . . .

Although, I did actually manage to catch a quick glimpse of him within the corner of my eye when I tried my best to reach out for the troublesome extra credit paper as swiftly as I could, but without being too obvious and drawing unwanted attention to myself (well, extra unwanted attention to myself, which wasn't already generated by my two "trusty bodyguards" being within the classroom with me as usual, of course).

At least Ms. Wojick apparently had had enough sense of mind and "courtesy" to discreetly fold the very tops of each of poem before handing them back to the appropriate owner, so that the titles would be hidden.

You know, just in case of nosy neighbors and other nearby Looky-Loos.

Anyway, when I pulled my poem toward me and began to stuff the devilish thing into the deepest recesses of my English folder, it was then I was able to vaguely see that Caleb was unfortunately looking at me, and rather curiously, at that.

Well, by curious, I don't mean that it was curious-strange that he was watching me. That part was obvious, considering what I was doing at that moment, and revealing that yes, I was an author to one of the four poems which had been read aloud before class was up.

No.

It was curious-strange within the "I don't honestly get why he's looking at me in that way" sense.

He had his left eyebrow raised, with green eyes narrowed ever so slightly, almost with suspicion, which, of course, instantly drained me of all of my previous feelings and replaced them with immense fear.

I wasn't feeling petrified that Caleb may have figured out or thought that the poem was about him, but rather petrified that he had figured out which one was mine in the first place.

And if he had somehow managed to accomplish that, what with his generally oblivious self (well, where I'm concerned, anyhow), then God only knows how long it may take him to figure out the rest of the puzzle?

I ended up spending the very last few minutes of that period just staring blankly at my open notebook, while trying my absolute best to speed up time, as well as attempt to feebly reassure myself that Caleb was still as much within the dark about everything as he's always been.

And as soon as that bell finally rang, I don't think I've ever bolted out of a classroom faster before than at that moment. I didn't even say goodbye to Ms. Wojick or at least wave like I generally usually do, either, which I'm sure she'd taken ample notice of.

But then, considering I was slightly ticked off at her for what she'd done, where's the real surprise?

So, I'm practically sprinting up the nearby staircase that I usually take to my next class, while lightly muttering several obscenities underneath my breath at the same time (and not caring whether or not I look crazy to passersby for a change, as a result), when I unfortunately hear Caleb calling after me.

I know.

Again?

God, it's like a good dream turned into some horrible nightmare from which you can never awaken, the way I'm suddenly generating so much attention from him today!

How ironic, n'est pas?

Not to mention that it's seriously like déjà vu, too, considering just a few days prior he'd done the very same action, although that had been about Guardian affairs.

But I knew better this time around.

Still. Boy, did I really wish with all of my might that he was on his way after me in that moment to talk about going on yet another magical journey to visit Elyon again.

Unfortunately for me, though, Caleb's constant physical training and nimbleness awarded to him as a result had to go and foil my desperate desire to get away in time and escape into my nearby Economics classroom, because before I knew it, he was already at my side.

I didn't even bother to say anything to the guy, or even really acknowledge him, since I knew that either way he wasn't going to leave me be until he said whatever it was he had to say.

Which, of course, I had the strong, mortifying feeling that it'd be about my poem, and of whom it was truly about. . . .

Sure enough, I hear Caleb go, with a slightly tense, yet quiet tone, ". . . . I'm sorry that Ms. W. went and read your 'If Only' poem aloud like that, Your Highness - And first, at that. . . . Still . . . it was . . . good. I mean . . . I can now better understand why she bothered to entrust my future overall grade - Where poetry is concerned, at least - within your hands. . . ."

Trying my very, very best to keep it as together as possible (even in light of the absolute, formal and premiere compliment that that otherwise vexing young man has ever given me in the history of our knowing one another), I forced a nonchalant shrug before coolly responding with, "I have zero idea what you're talking about, Caleb. . . . I mean, yeah, okay, I'd written something for that extra credit assignment, but it wasn't that specific poem. Why would I, anyway? I'm single, and have been for practically ages, remember?"

I had chosen to keep my focus upon the path of the increasingly crowded hallway ahead of me that entire time, for fear that everything I was currently feeling in that moment may have been leaking from out of my eyes if I'd taken a chance to gaze over at the ridiculously handsome brunet walking alongside me.

But I didn't have to bother, evidently, because before I knew it, I could hear Caleb give a sort of disgruntled sounding sigh, before unexpectedly saying a quick "Whatever," and began to walk on ahead of me without another word.

And I was honestly more relieved than anything else to have witnessed such a miraculous turn of events . . . that is, until my past life's bad karma had to go and rear its ugly head yet again, and caused Caleb to abruptly stop within his tracks and head back over to me.

I was so startled by that particular action, instead, that I, too, ended up becoming immediately glued within place, which nearly caused both the traditionally trailing behind Nova and Ernest to ram right into me in the process.

I honestly thought that Caleb was about to punch me in the face or something, based upon the intense, pretty annoyed look he carried upon his naturally tan countenance.

You know, more than I was thinking things like, Holy Hell! I'm done for! He's finally figured out my secret, for real!

Regardless, I never imagined he'd ever say what he did next.

Once he'd gotten close enough, he cleared his throat a moment before quietly saying, ". . . . Look, Princess. I'd actually appreciate if you wouldn't insult my intelligence from now on. That is, pretending that that poem wasn't yours or that I couldn't figure out that it was, considering you and I did just spend an entire period together reading one another's poetry earlier today. Well, you didn't let me actually read any of your past work, but the various writing tips you offered to me for some of mine seemed to correlate pretty strongly with the same sort of style that the 'If Only' poem conveyed," Caleb began slowly, his facial expression changing into that same, one eyebrow lifted and eyes narrowed ever so slightly "curious" stare I caught him giving me during the end of class. "So, I think that I'm now able to recognize your writing a bit better when and if it's ever read aloud in the future, thank you. . . . But, anyway . . . listen. I get that this definitely isn't any of my business, or even my right to say so, all things considered, but . . . if you're really in that much pain, I mean, about your feelings and being head over heels in love like this, then . . . then maybe you should just go on ahead and let Matt know how you feel . . . how you still feel about him, rather. . . ."

And with that, Caleb offered yet another one of his embarrassing, public bows of respect toward me, before parting ways once more, this time for good.

Can you believe that?

CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?

Of all the things I thought were running through Caleb's mind in that moment, and giving him so much credit for finally being so astute where I'm concerned, he goes and tries to give me advice about telling Matt that I'm still in love with him!

The guy totally managed to prove me right about him really being a freaking dunce when it comes to matters of the heart (especially relating to him and me), not to mention having left me feeling utterly flabbergasted!

He honestly thought that my "If Only" poem was about Matt? And, moreover, that I'm like, apparently so secretly heartbroken and bothered by our breakup and want him back?

How absolutely messed up is that?

I mean, I know that I was yearning and hoping like mad that Caleb really didn't somehow get the drop on me about the poem's true subject, if he'd somehow figured out that I'd written it (which, evidently, wasn't all that hard for the young lad to do. I just had to be picked to be his freaking "poetry coach," or whatever you want to call me).

But, still!

Now, not only does he believe that I'm still in love with Matt, but I'm also some pathetic, emotionally wounded reject who's absolutely nothing without him, for sure!

Then again, I already was some pathetic, emotionally wounded reject of sorts long before Caleb actively thought so, anyway, except it was secretly in regards to him, instead, that's all.

Now what am I going to do?

Well, that is, I'm not honestly worried that Caleb would go around, blabbing it around to anyone who would listen, not even to Cornelia, seeing as he's never been one for much gossip or general disrespect.

But now, it'll be so unbelievably awkward whenever he might catch me hanging out with Matt like I always have since our breakup, and probably think that while on the outside I'm smiling and joking around with him, on the inside I'm dying more and more and wishing my ex would give me another chance.

I wish I could say something like, at least that scenario is better than Caleb knowing the real truth about my (former) feelings for him, instead, but I don't think that I can.

Either way, this all totally blows.

Ugh.

Now I'm just feeling all the more defeated and angry all over again about it all.

Thank you so much, the Cosmos, the Grand Design and all that jazz.

Thank you so very much.

- End of Chapter Forty-Nine


(A.N. Wee, finally posted, I know. LoL Oh, and before anything's said, duh-UH, that poem wasn't written by Will OR myself, and yes, it's from TLMB. Just thought it rather befitting for Will and her ongoing – or FORMER, as she keeps telling herself – predicament about Caleb and all. That, and it's SUCH a beautiful and heartfelt song. HeHe The entire flippin' show is at that, but yeah. LoL

Ummm, I hate when you get to this point, and all the things you wanted to cover you'd completely forgotten. Ah, well! LoL Just know that the next chapter, if not chapter fifty-one, will be posted within the day or following day, so no worries! Wow. Chapter fifty! AND it's October again, which means the four year anniversary since this story's first been posted on here, anyway, is coming up, as well! It's funny to think, especially after all that's happened within the 'real world' for me and those I care for, blah blah, in addition to hearing that amount of time going by making it feel like it's taken this long to write in terms of consecutiveness. Nope. Life gets in the way. LoL

ANYWAY! Chapter fifty-one, as people had been anxious for, will be Will's 'royal' dinner! And yes, like I'd promised within the previous chapter, her luck IS going to change now. HeHe Okay, then! Later!)