Author's Note: This was an interesting chapter for me to write. It's not often that I write from Stella's perspective; she's an important character in Henderson's and my Strangeland mythology, but I haven't ever really focused on her. So I struggled a bit, trying to find her voice. Hopefully I was successful.
This chapter focuses around the stage of anger. It seemed appropriate to me, having Stella be the angry one, though like Billie in the last chapter she comes to some surprising conclusions for dealing with her emotions.
Disclaimer: I don't own Stella, Mike, or Henderson. Still don't own Joey (damnit). I do own Roxie; Gloria and Ryan kind of belong to me, but really belong to Henderson.
I shifted in my throne, equally irritated with the heavy silver tiara on my head as I was by the long skirts of my black mourning dress. I never thought I would miss the skirt and blouse I'd worn earlier in the week for the formal announcement of the princes' deaths, but it was infinitely preferable to the formal court clothes we were forced to wear any time we were acting as The Royal Family.
I shifted in my seat again, looking out over the assembled people. I could pick out my numerous cousins, my aunts and uncles, my father. Some people were dancing, some were indulging in the banquet table at the Crown's expense, most were standing around in groups talking. It was mind-numbingly boring, but we'd all been required to go. Even Aunt Roxie, who you'd think would be able to issue a royal decree forbidding crap like this. But apparently the Guardians thought that the people of Strangeland needed to see that their rulers were strong.
I could've laughed at that. Anybody who doubted my Aunt Roxie's strength was an idiot. Same thing went for my mother and Aunt Jinx. Even my siblings and cousins, all of whom were younger than I, couldn't be faulted for mental fortitude.
As for me, however… my strength, and more importantly my patience, were rapidly diminishing. If I didn't get out of here soon, I was going to scream.
I looked around the room again. Any time my gaze fell past my Uncle Billie, my heart would lurch and my stomach would clench until I remembered that it was him, and not his eldest son. The physical similarity between father and son had been a constant comfort and a continuous source of pain for me this week; I could see so much of Joey in his father… so much that I would never see again.
Though he tried to keep his face unconcerned, Uncle Billie's gaze flicked to Aunt Roxie every few moments, keeping a constant watch on her. Just as everyone knew that Roxie was strong to a fault, they knew that Billie was an overprotective son of a bitch, almost more protective of Roxie than her brother Jimmy had been. The protectiveness came from almost equal mixes of undying love and adoration, and fear that she would be snatched from him at any moment. It was a quality that he had passed on to Joey, something that at the time I had found irritating, but now would do anything to see again.
Tearing my eyes away from my father-in-law reluctantly, my eyes happened upon my Aunt Jinx and Uncle Tre. The normally happy-go-lucky Tre Cool was still and sober now, his eyes revealing that he'd recently been crying. He was seated against the southern wall, which wasn't a wall so much as a line of thick columns that let in the air. Aunt Jinx was seated next to him, her arms around his shoulders, her head resting on his. Their hair clashed horribly; Jinx's is dyed orange and yellow and Tre's was reddish-brown (a natural color for once!), but they fit so perfectly together. They belonged with each other, always had, despite the three-year age gap.
I shook my head, my eyes now falling on my father. Mike was walking through the crowd, stopping to talk to the people he knew, but his eyes were always sweeping the room, searching for my mother, Henderson. Daddy had something of a white knight complex when it came to her; anytime he got the faintest feeling that Mom would be upset, he would instantly hare off to find her, whether or not she thought she wanted him there.
I blinked back tears. Aunt Roxie had Uncle Billie, Uncle Tre had Aunt Jinx, Mom had Daddy, I had… nobody.
Fortunately for me, my infant son Ryan chose that exact moment to stir and start crying. Reaching over the arm of my throne, I picked the three-month-old up, rocking him gently, but nothing would soothe him. Aunt Roxie glanced over at me and smiled wearily, reaching her arms out for her grandson, who I willingly surrendered.
"Somebody's tired," she commented, rocking Ryan and kissing his cheek, cooing to him softly with the ease of long years of practice.
I nodded. "I'd better get him and Gloria up to bed."
Aunt Roxie nodded. "Don't bother coming back down, with any luck this thing'll be over in an hour anyways and we can all go to bed. Stay with them, they'll need you tonight."
I smiled, a tiny gesture that didn't reach my eyes. Kissing Aunt Roxie on the cheek and retrieving my son from her arms, I walked off the dais, ignoring the people who bowed to me. I walked through the crowd, looking for the blond-haired holy terror that was my two-year-old.
"Gloria?" I called. "Gloria Rebel Adrienne Isabella Pritchard-Armstrong, where are you?"
"Here I is, Mommy!" came the giggle-laden voice of my daughter.
She was very comfortably entrenched in her grandfather's arms. She waved at me merrily, but I could see sleep starting to take over her eyelids. I walked over to my father, trading tired smiles with him before focusing attention on my daughter.
"Time for bed, Gloria," I said.
Gloria sniffed, shaking her head, her curls whipping around her face. "I can't."
"Why not?" I asked, holding my temper in check and working to keep my voice even.
"Cuz," she sniffed again. "Daddy always sings me to sleep."
It felt like an iron fist had crushed my heart in its grasp when I heard those words. Blinking back my tears, I tried to smile at her.
"Baby, we've got a CD full of songs Daddy used to sing," I said. "I'll put that on and keep playing it till you fall asleep, okay?"
Gloria nodded, a fat tear falling from her blue eyes. "Okie."
"I'll carry her up for you," my father said, kissing my forehead before carrying Gloria off.
I followed behind him, still rocking Ryan, my mind on nothing but getting as far away from the ball as possible. I wasn't so much walking out of the ballroom as I was running away. Running away from things one doesn't want to face seems to be a genetic trait in my family, one for which I fully blame my mother. But I couldn't fault her for this tendency; it was damned useful in situations like this. My aunt/godmother/mother-in-law might have the mental fortitude to put up with shit like this, but I don't.
"Where's Mom?" I asked, to take my mind off things.
Daddy glanced back at me, a faintly amused, slightly exasperated look on his face. "Hiding."
I couldn't help but chuckle. "Sounds like her."
Daddy nodded. "I'll probably find her in a couple hours, out back smoking or in a closet somewhere."
My daddy stayed with me long enough to help me put the kids to bed. To my relief, they both quickly dropped off to sleep (for once). I walked through my suite to see Daddy out the door. He paused in the doorway, giving me a concerned look.
"How're you holding up, baby?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I'm happy it's all over with. Other than that… I'm numb. It doesn't seem real."
He nodded. "Get some sleep, Stella," he said, kissing my forehead.
I threw my arms around his shoulders and hugged him, squeezing my eyes shut over the tears. If Daddy knew I hadn't slept in a week, he would not be pleased. I didn't need him worrying about me.
"I love you, Daddy," I said, sounding like a little girl again.
"I love you too, Stel," he sighed.
A moment later, and he was gone, and I was alone again. Ha. I'd been alone for a week now, why should it matter if one more person physically left my side?
I walked into our- my- bedroom, ripping off the formal clothes and pulling on a pair of jeans, one of Joey's hoodies, and a pair of chucks. Sure that my children wouldn't wake up any time soon, I slipped outside and took off at a run for the gardens.
It's an unfortunate lesson that my mother and I have learned the hard way- no matter how fast you run, you can never outrun your problems. The farther you run, the faster they catch up with you. But my mother and I are the Patron Saints of the Denial for a reason; we both stubbornly believe that someday we will be able to outrun our demons. We'll keep trying, at any rate, probably until it kills us.
I had told my father that I was numb. That was true, in part, but not the entirety of my reaction to what had happened. It still didn't feel real, but I knew it was. And knowing that my husband was dead made me incredibly angry.
We had had an entire life planned out, Joey and I. Someday, long years in the future when Aunt Roxie died for real (and for good), Joey would be crowned King of Arcadia, and I would sit beside him as Queen. We would lead our siblings and cousins as the next generation of protectors and Saints. Maybe we would give our parents more grandchildren to spoil. And we would be happy.
We had never doubted that this life would come true. We grew up together, he and I; I had been as much raised by Aunt Roxie and Uncle Billie as I had by my parents, and the same held true for Joey. Maybe it was only natural that we had fallen in love; maybe it was fated to happen. But by the time we were 13, we'd known that we were in love, that we would someday be married. Joey had asked me to marry him when we were 15, and we had gotten formally engaged two years later. Our mothers had been perfectly fine with it; ecstatic, actually. They loved the idea that their children were soulmates, destined for each other. Our fathers- especially my daddy- had taken a little more convincing. But eventually they had caved, and Joey and I had been married as soon as we were both 18. I had quickly become pregnant with Gloria, and then with Ryan. It had been like a fairy tale.
But this was one fairy tale that wasn't going to have a happy ending.
It wasn't that I was disappointed that I wouldn't rule beside Joey. I was lucky I could take care of myself and my children, to say nothing of an entire country (another trait I share with my mother). But I had spent my entire life assuming that my future was secured. Everything I had been taught, everything I had done, had been learned and done with the assumption that someday I would be Joey's queen.
Now, my entire life had unraveled. Every assumption I had made about my future was now undone. I wouldn't be Queen, Joey and I wouldn't be the protectors of our country, our family wouldn't grow in size, I would no longer have my soulmate by my side.
As I ran through the grounds, I couldn't help but feel that a part of me had died with Joey. I didn't know what to do with myself. I felt like I was adrift in a sea, with no anchor or buoy to hold me in place. I felt young, so very young and unprotected. For as long as I could remember, Joey had been there, the one thing that kept me firmly anchored to the ground. Now he was gone, and his absence was like a black hole, sucking what was left of me into oblivion.
My feet began to move of their own volition, carrying me back to my anchor. I brushed aside the branches of the willow tree, not needing the glow of the waxing moon to tell me which grave was Joey's. It wasn't that I had memorized where his grave was positioned; I just instinctively felt it, automatically knew where he was. It had always been like that with us in life; we hadn't needed to see each other to know where the other was. Apparently it would be like that in death too, and the familiarity of the instinct was an unexpected comfort.
I stood before Joey's headstone, staring at the marble bust of his face. In life, Joey had never looked this formal and still. The marble features were his, alright, but life and youth had softened them, and leant them a vitality that stone couldn't convey. My gaze turned blank as I drew his face up from my memory, feasting my mental eyes on the features I knew better than my own. His hair had been reddish-brown, like Billie's, but he had kept it shorter than his father's. His features had been nearly a carbon copy of Billie's, but just the faintest bit elongated, sharpened. His eyes had been a keen, penetrating green, never as unfocused as the eyes chiseled into the bust.
Though Joey had looked almost exactly like his father, his personality had been all Roxie's. He shared her sharp intellect, her sense of humor, her fierce protectiveness, her utter devotion to the ones she loved. The very best of Billie and Roxie had combined in their eldest son, and I had been the lucky recipient of that gift.
I blinked back tears. That was something else I had inherited from my mother- tear ducts wired to operate when I was stressed, sad, or angry.
"Why did you leave?" I asked him. "I need you! Our children need you! You've never lost a fight in your life, damnit. Why didn't you fight to stay with us?"
I wrapped my arms around myself as the sobs started. I knew I was being completely unfair; Joey had fought, hard. I knew what had happened that day; I had seen it in a dream, as clear as if I had been there. I knew that Joey had fought for his life, for his brother's. But in the end, it hadn't been enough. He had died, and he had left me.
"What do I do, Joey?" I whimpered. "I can't do this without you."
I sank to the ground, leaning against the headstone, staring at the ground under which lay my husband's coffin.
"Aunt Roxie offered to make Gloria her Heiress Apparent," I sniffed, wiping my cheeks free of tears. "Since she's the next Jesus, and all. I told her no. I know you didn't want our kids to have to deal with ruling Strangeland, on top of everything else." I drew a deep, steadying breath. "I can't fight without you, Joey. I don't work without you. I'm like Uncle Billie; my life revolves around the person I love. And you're gone. What can I do now?" I shook my head. "I can't be the Patron Saint if I don't have my Jesus. I'll take care of our children, I promise. I may be my mother's daughter, but I know better than to try to kill myself. You'd come back from the grave and shoot me if I tried." Despite myself, a weak laugh left me at that. "I'll teach them to fight, to be strong. But I don't want it anymore. Please don't me mad at me."
I stepped out from under the willow tree, and walked into the open, where I was bathed by the light of the moon and stars. I've always loved the stars; Daddy named me Estelle because he said I was his little star. As I looked up, seeking out my favorite constellations, it felt like Joey was looking back at me, that he approved of what I was going to do. That reassured me that my chosen path was the correct one.
"I renounce the title of the Patron Saint of the Denial," I said softly, but surely. "I give back the power that was given to me by the Guardians. I have no wish to retain the magic that killed my husband. I ask only for enough magic to train my children in their destinies."
There was no bright light or rushing of the winds to announce to the world that they had lost a Saint. I didn't even feel much; only a slight hollowness deep in the pit of my stomach. But finally, I felt at peace, and that was compensation enough for what I had given up.
I would withdraw from public life. No longer a Saint, I wouldn't be called upon to fight anymore. The title and powers of the Patron Saint of the Denial would fall to the next person in Henderson's line; in this case, my son, who would have assumed the title anyways. I would raise my children in the palace, but I wouldn't have to act in the capacity of the Crown Princess anymore. I was free to be only Lady Estelle, the Dowager Princess. I could live quietly, free from the pressures that ruled the lives of my family, free to spend my days and nights remembering my husband, and seeing him in the stars.
