Upon awakening, King Harold's first thought was, What if our firstborn doesn't live? Would the deal transfer to our second baby, or would the deal be off?
Opening his eyes he stared at the white ceiling, and he worried. He thought about his betrothal ceremony to Princess Lillian, and he worried.
What have I done?
He should have left everything alone. Granted, the love of his life would hate him, but at least it would be her own natural emotions; and not something he'd meddled with.
Or hired somebody to meddle with for him.
He put hands over his eyes and rubbed slowly, feeling the burn of exhaustion. He didn't want to get out of bed, but he knew as a king he had duties to perform. With a sigh he stood and shuffled across the room to his armoire, and began picking out his clothes.
He felt like a fool. How difficult would it have been to leave Princess Lillian's emotions alone? Now, he was to be married; and the fate of their firstborn was in the hands of some lady.
But...
Would it really be horrible? As long as the child would survive the sacrifice his choice had cost her, and as long as he was there to help her through it...Maybe he could learn to live with his decision. Maybe, in time, he would be able to forgive himself.
But would Princess Lillian, if she knew?
Could he really go back to being just her friend, and not even her best? And if he did decide to back out of the deal...what would happen on the day of their betrothal?
He had to tell her the truth. It was the only way he wouldn't break under the pressure.
After getting dressed, he spent a few moments in front of the mirror, combing out his bedhead before exiting his room.
He immediately noticed the change. It surrounded him. Being a prince had, of course, been wonderful; everything was provided to him before he could ask. While that had remained the same, something else was sure different; and it was in the way his people greeted him. Instead of a chilly Good morning, Prince Harold they now bowed or curtsied while saying Good morning, sire.
He weaved his way through the living room and stepped into the kitchen, where his mother sat, staring down at a newspaper and taking slow, deep breaths.
He sat next to her, but she spoke before he could bid her good morning. "After your coronation ceremony, whenever that is," she added curtly, making him blush, "I'm leaving the kingdom."
"What? Why?"
"My post is over, Harry. As I said last night, you will reign with your queen. I need to get away for awhile. Clear my head." She took a slow sip of her water. No, King Harold realized with a start, her wine.
"Mother, you're drinking now? It's...it's eight in the morning!"
Her only response was to take another sip.
"You don't have to leave," he began, and she was quick to interrupt.
"I want to," she stated blandly. "I have to get out of here."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely." She set the cup down on the island with perhaps more force than was necessary, then wiped her mouth with a napkin.
"So Dad's dead, you're leaving, and I'm going to be stuck here?"
"I'm not leaving for good, Harold." Her brown eyes slitted as she looked at him askance. "You're a king now. Try to remember that. You're not a boy anymore."
He accepted a muffin and a cup of tea, and the pair sat together in total silence. Basically his mother was telling him to strap on a pair.
How humiliating. He looked at her and, with another choice that thrust him out of his sudden anger toward her, he decided he would tell not his bride, but his mother.
"I made a deal with the Fairy Godmother," he said crisply, breaking off a bit of his muffin.
His mother drew in a sharp breath, "Why on earth would you do that? You know she's bad news."
"I know nothing of the sort," he retorted. "She's the reason Lillian loves me. Without her help, I wouldn't have a bride."
"Yes you would."
"Not Lillian."
"Perhaps not," she said softly. "But Harold, sometimes...in this family...a prince and a princess are handfasted no matter how they feel about one another. It's their duty to unite the kingdoms. It's tradition."
"Well, tradition is stupid," he bit, and right away he knew he'd overstepped himself.
She struck out at him. "You watch your mouth! Tradition is very important."
He held his stinging cheek, looking quietly at her. You're not a boy anymore, and yet it was okay to slap him across the face as if he were a petulant child?
She looked at her hand, then at her son's red cheek. "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. But it is important, to me. And it was important to your father."
He drew in a breath, angry at her all over again. "Don't hit me again," he said, in the cold and bitter voice of a stranger. Reaching blindly into his new position as the most powerful man of Far Far Away, he abandoned his breakfast and his mother and left the kitchen.
His feet found their own way, and soon he found himself standing in the throne room.
She was plastered. But that wasn't really a good excuse...
...Was it?