The Other Future Queen

 

I had ten minutes.

The privacy I was being given was a gift; a sign of solemn respect. These ten minutes of solitude were all I was expected to need to go from a young girl in mourning, to a woman ready to lead an army to battle.

I crossed the field to my tent briskly, stripping the ceremonial jewelry off as I went; the heavy gold bracelets off of my arms, the long necklaces from my chest, and finally, the sapphire encrusted combs from my dark brown hair. Set free, my hair cascaded down my back. Wild, untamed: more symbolic of my emotion than any of the traditional burial adornments I was now carrying.

“The Bastard will never sit on my throne, Vienne. I have renounced her as my daughter; you must remember that. She is not my daughter, she is not your sister; she is not our blood.”

I reached the haven of my tent and tossed the royal heirlooms into their casket. There was no time for the traditional weeping and wrapping of the burial wear. The Princess was supposed to take each piece, individually representing different precious qualities of the deceased, and fold it lovingly as she weeps. 

I looked at the generations of tradition and royalty scattered haphazardly in the casket. With a pang of guilt, I promised myself that once this was over, I would give my father the wrapping and weeping ceremony he deserved.

I locked the casket and began dressing for the march on The City of St. Diem. Breastplate. Neck guard. Sword. Items I had been wearing for months as a member of he royal army under my father’s leadership. Everything the same, only now the leader was me.

“Vivienne, are you jealous of me? That someday I will Queen?”

It was certainly a question I had pondered. My entire childhood I had been The Young Princess. I had never received the same attentions that The Future Queen had.

The day of Seyenna’s birth was celebrated every year with a grand procession that began at the entrance of the capitol city. Gifts of gold and silver were lavished upon her future subjects, at which point they joined the parade to the palace. There, she would greet the people with a beautiful speech. She always had a way with words, and her speeches inspired the soul into deeply rooted loyalty. After, the subjects then returned a portion of their spoils, symbolically showing their gratitude for her goodness to them, and their devotion to her crown.

Perhaps, in those beautiful moments, I had wrestled with some jealousy. The Young Princess was celebrated only once in her life: when she was dutifully married into the royal family of a neighboring country. The Young Princess’ responsibility lay in bringing peace to her people by creating allies.  Whether I had felt envy in my ignorance or not, I carried none of it now.

I strapped my sword to my back and finished by placing my soft, bear-fur coat over my armor. There were no cumbersome sleeves to put me at a disadvantage in hand-to-hand combat, but it would still keep me warm when the evening chill fell upon our army. Last, I opened the brass box that sat alone on the table. Inside laid the final gift my father had given me before he died. I pulled it out slowly and felt its cold, smooth touch between my fingers.

This year the joyful holiday celebrating The Future Queen would have no grand procession through our capitol city. This year it was to be the march of an army through The City of St. Diem. And those that showed their loyalty and devotion to The Future Queen Seyenna would be met with blows instead of bounty.

I turned and saw my heavy face staring back at me in a small looking glass. My ten minutes were up. It was time. Reverently, I placed the small gold circlet on my head.

This year The Young Princess Vivienne had transformed from a messenger of peace into the catalyst of a civil war: I was now The Other Future Queen.

Truth or (do you) Dare?

There is a new man in my building who is very ornery, domineering, and pretty much

 terrifying to me. And his baby is a truck.

You know the kind. Brand new, shiny, black, and enormous. 

This new neighbor has his assigned parking spot right across from mine in our underground lot, and the truck is so big, it sticks out and takes over about 1/3 of the space that is supposed to be for:

...Oh, I don't know,...

...pulling out and not hitting the car across from you?

Yesterday I saw him out by his truck, in the 12 degree weather (come on, Utah...,) washing off the salt and instantly wiping the soapy water off so it didn't freeze. So his trophy could be beautiful. 

Now, he may be an ornery, scary man, but that's some serious love for his truck. 

His baby. 

His obsession.

And today, I hit it.

"Hit" is a strong word. Lightly, ever oh so lightly tapped is more what it was. While doing my routine 4-point turn to ensure that didn't happen.

I jumped out and scoured both our cars. Mine had a tiny scratch, and his truck? 

Nothing. 

Nothing I could see. 

So, if nothing was there, it was nothing, right? 

And if it was nothing, then it was like it didn't even happen, right?

And he was so mean! And weird about his truck. He'd probably want the whole thing repainted, 

for a scratch only he could see.

And I've been saving up for a good pair or running shoes that I desperately need.

I drove away as quickly as I could. He would never know. Because it was nothing. 

Nothing happened.

The rest of my day was not good. And when I got home that evening, the truck, as it always is, was still sitting there; taking over my precious underground parking.

I sat in my car with the motor running, looking at the truck in the rear view mirror.

The beautiful, newly washed, shiny black truck.

That someone washed by hand in 12 degrees.

I took out a pen and scribbled the following note of a piece of paper:

"I tapped your truck with my car.

I am so sorry.

Please let me know if you see any damage and I will pay for it.

I am truly very sorry."

I added my contact information, and with a heavy sigh, left my note on the truck's windshield.

(Which I had to stretch up on my tip toes to reach.) 

It's not heroic. I left, after all.

But as much as I didn't want to face that angry man,

and as much as I think I need my shoes for my marathon 

more than he would need his bumper painted...

I didn't want to become someone who fudges lines to avoid consequences.

I would love for this story to have a happy ending;

This grumpy man texts me, 

moved and impressed by my honesty,

and thanks me for telling the truth, and says his truck is fine.

GOLD STAR!!

But somehow I'm pretty sure that's not what the sequel has in store. 

Either way: I didn't sell my self trust for a pair of shoes. 

And now, not only he knows that I'll be honest and accept consequences;

But I get to really know that about me too.

House Cleaning

Today I did an overhaul on my apartment. Moved everything around.
Felt very productive and super strong by lifting heavy objects.


The goal is a new, organized home. One I feel is mine and isn't constantly being haunted by my married past. I've been re-unmarried for over a year, and every now and again something of
the Was-band's pops up. I don't get rid of it. Like part of him is still here.


I'm so much stronger now than I was last year!


It wasn't intentional that this big home renovation would start at the top of the new year, it just kinda happened that way.
I got a big, amazing opportunity at work that is allowing me to work from home,
but this required an office. And that required some reorganizing.
And it started in January.


So as I've been cleaning, organizing, and de-cluttering,
slowly little remembrances are being let go of.


The jewelry box he got me on our first Christmas together.
Dried rose bouquet I've been justifying as charming home decor.
Art we chose out together.


Seemingly harmless things that, to me, remind me of him.
Keep him here.


But he didn't want to be kept here.
And finally I'm ready to let him go, and let my house be mine.
Truly.


Lots of great stuff is being donated to charity!
My mother thought I should sell it,

but I'm really a "let go" kind of person. I hate the clutter. Once I'm done with something, I'm
done with it, and it symbolically needs to be out of my life.


And now, someday soon, my home will be a mecca of cleanliness and organization.
And my craft world will magically never become clutter again.

Hey, I am still allowed to dream.

Saving Sebastian

The first thing Meg registered was the cold.

She stretched her arm out and felt the ground. A prickly powder flew between her fingers. She pushed them into the ground and grabbed a handful of the frozen floor.

Snow.

Her eyes fluttered open and looked up at the canopy of bare branches high above her. Icicles hung from them menacingly, sparkling in the fading light.

Where was she?

That was when Meg became aware of the pain coming from her left temple. Her hand instinctively flew up to feel it and found a large lump, sticky with blood. Touching it made her wince, and she closed her eyes tight, shivering from the cold.

What had happened?

The thought of her twin brother made her eyes fly open. Sebastian! She was looking for Sebastian! No, not looking...she had found Sebastian. He had been there.

It slowly starting coming back to her; the ball, Sebastian's death sentence, her plea to the royal court . . . oh---that had not gone well. She remembered the King's fury and his accusation that her brother had kidnapped the Princess Viola. She remembered her poor Bastian, tied up and bloody from obvious beatings.

Meg fought the vertigo and slowly pushed herself up. The pain was searing, and she grabbed the snowball she had created and held it against her head. She cried out but held it there, knowing she had to stop the swelling.

The idea that Sebastian could somehow be involved in such a crime was preposterous. But shouting at the King and Queen that they were being ridiculous had probably not been her wisest moment. And then the King . . . he sent his . . . stone gargoyles after her? No, that couldn't be right. Stone gargoyles coming to life? The bump on her head must have been toying with her memory.

Meg looked down and saw that she was still in the tulle gown, which would probably made her look like nothing more than a snowdrift to a passerby. She became aware of the white wool fingerless gloves and white fur caplet around her shoulders. Meg examined them with curiosity; they certainly weren't hers. The dress wasn't either, but at least she could remember how she got it.

Looking around, she saw nothing but bare trees and snow. No clues to help her remember how she had gone from being chased by . . . alright, for lack of a better memory, GARGOYLES, to being in a snowy wood with a bloody forehead. And another person's winter clothes.

But the way her dear, innocent Sebastian had looked away when she was defending him to the court . . . he hadn't even had the physical strength to lift his head. Meg's fury started to return. He had nothing to do with any Princess kidnapping! Meg's noble, courageous twin brother? Of course not! What would his motive be? Who were his false accusers? Probably the kidnappers themselves!

Some of her strength gathered, Meg started to gather up her enormous skirt. Romantic and breathtaking at a royal affair, impractical and clumsy in a snowy wood. At least the layers were staving off the cold. When she began to try and stand, she discovered just how soft and deep the snow was. This was going to be difficult. Never mind that she had no idea where she was headed; the trek through the woods was going to take a lot of effort...perhaps more than her head was ready to let her handle. She plopped back down into the soft ground and replaced her half melted cold compress for a fresh one. She could feel the pain subsiding as the snow numbed the mysterious lump.

It was time for a plan. How could she find her way back to the palace? And what did she expect to do once she got there? Break Sebastian from the prison? That was a stretch. Her best hope for saving her brother was to prove him innocent in the first place.

But what had happened to the Princess Viola?

"Margaret?"

The deep voice made her jump with surprise. She looked around to find its owner and discovered a tall stranger standing behind her.

"Who---who are you? How do you know my name? And where did you come from? And . . ." She paused as she realized that he was standing on the soft snow. "And how are you walking without sinking?"

"Shhh," the stranger soothed. "One thing at a time." Meg turned as best she could and watched as he unfastened large woven paddles from his boots. "First, let me see that bump." He knelt down next to her and took the snowball from her hand; his light blue eyes concentrating on her forehead. "I'm sorry I didn't have time to treat it; we just barely got away as it was."

Meg just stared, transfixed by his hypnotic eyes. Had she met him before?

"Are you in a lot of pain?" The handsome stranger asked.

"N--no . . . ," she stammered, "I mean, yes, but no. Not a lot of pain. It's much better than when I first woke up anyway."

"Well, here, I brought this for you." He looked down and reached into a leather satchel he'd had on his back. From it he pulled a jar of foul smelling ointment and a bandage. Brushing his blonde hair from his eyes, he began placing the medicine (at least, that's what Meg hoped it was) on her injury. The pain seemed to subside almost immediately, and she sighed from relief. He then proceeded to tenderly wrap the bandage around her head. "Is that better?"

"Yes, thank you."

He began putting the remaining items away and latching his paddles back onto his boots.

Meg took advantage of the silence and started again. "Who are you? Do you know what's happened to my brother?"

The stranger shook his head as he half-smiled and untied another pair of snow-walking-paddles from his back. "You really should take it easy; you got a pretty serious blow from one of the gargoyles."

Gargoyles. Well, there was one question answered at least.

He stood up and came around to her front and pulled her feet up one by one out of their three foot ditch. He then latched each of her boots (other new items, Meg realized) to one of the paddles.

"Alright Margaret, take my hands and I'll pull you up." She reached out and put her cold fingers in his warm hands. She had never held a man's hand before, and hoped she wasn't blushing. Or that if she was, he would attribute it to the cold. He pulled her up so quickly that she stumbled and found herself very close to the stranger. Their eyes met and he paused. So did she.

"Dizzy?" he asked.

"A little," she admitted quietly.

Neither of them pulled away.

"I'm Alden."

"Margaret." She said in exchange, then blushed again. "But you seem to know that." He smiled. "Do I know you? Have we met before?"

"No." He looked away decidedly but held on to her hand, and began helping Meg walk on the snow. "But I'm a friend of your brother's." He started leading her in the direction he'd come from. "Sebastian asked me to look after you, should anything happen to him."

Meg stopped, frozen with fear. "Did---did they---?"

"No, not yet. He's still being held prisoner. But his friends---we're going to save him. We have a plan, and we're ready. He shouldn't have to die for all of us."

"Die for all of us? For whom? And for what?"

Alden turned to look at Meg, his eyes serious. "Margaret, Sebastian kidnapped the Princess Viola."

---------------------------

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Snow Inspiration

Blame it on the freezing winter we’re having here, and the ridiculous amounts of snow (the likes of which I haven’t seen in years,) but I suddenly find myself inspired by the snow drifts and trees dressed in haunting wedding white. 

Here's an instagram photo I took (you can follow me @juliannajanayoung) of the woods by my condo. 

Inspiring, no? I wanted to throw on a beautiful gown and bound through it like the heroine I am, but sadly I am lacking in beautiful gowns. Okay, and I hate being cold. 

I suppose a story about it is in order then...

 

The Lion's Tamer's Palm

The Lion Tamer's Palm

“Please.” Ann said it with finality this time, and Aurelia knew she had run out of excuses. 

“Your right hand.”

Ann took off its white glove eagerly, and stretched it out to the gypsy. Aurelia took it into her own and started studying Ann’s palm as her grandmother had taught her.

“The hardest part,” her Nana had once said, “Is knowing what to conceal. Will it help or hurt?”

Help or hurt whom, Nana? Aurelia thought, as she began to trace the lines on Ann’s palm. Truthfully, she knew she was more afraid of what she might find here then Ann was. Aurelia followed the patterns with purpose, examining the exposed depths of the young lion tamer’s past, present, and future.

Ann watched intensely, itching with excitement. She tried hopelessly to conceal it. She has seen Aurelia's gift with her own eyes. Ann was there the night Aurelia's gift found the little village girl. And the way the magician's eye's had darkened when Aurelia had accepted his challenge and whispered his darkest secret into his ear. He had left without a word, and hadn't harassed the gypsy since. The seconds slowly ticked by, and each one felt like a drip of water slowly falling with a thunk into a bucket. But she could wait. Finally, it was her turn.

“The calluses in your palm exaggerate the lines and patterns. This speaks to your life. There has been movement. Restlessness. Confusion.” Ann listened, captivated by the gypsy’s words. “There is a break away from security. Family. Love. There is distance between this line and your path. Your choices have created this distance. This was deliberate.”

Ann nodded, feeling the weight of the words like a stone in her stomach. "Are they alright?"

"Your choices created distance." Aurelia repeated this with emphasis. "Too much distance for me to see anyone in your present but you."

Ann nodded again, trying to hide her disappointment.

“But this story,” Aurelia pointed to a long line that wrapped around the main crease she had been referencing, “this story shows that…” 

It was as Aurelia suspected. She felt the choke start to rise in her throat, but she knew what Nana would want her to do. 

“…Love. Security. Family. It is all very close to you. Right now and within your reach. It…it actually surrounds you. It waits...longs...for you.” She whispered this, as she traced the curvature of the love line around the life line. She hardened her gaze and looked up to meet Anne's wide eyes."This gift, if given to you, is not to be taken lightly. Do you understand?"

Anne was taken back by the gypsy's sudden forcefulness.  She shook her head with embarrassment.

"The things you lost---gave away, even! Those will come back to you. Not in the same way, but you will have another chance. Don't you see?" Aurelia pointed to the lines and spoke with frustration. "If you want it; Love. Security. Family. It wants you. He wants---"

“Lia?”

Both girls jumped slightly at the voice and looked up to see Adam at the entrance of the tent, shovel in hand. Aurelia’s heart skipped a beat. Had he become even more beautiful since she had seen him this morning? The dirt on the stagehand's clothes and color from being in the sun made him even more endearing.

Adam suddenly realized that he had interrupted, and took off his hat. “I’m sorry, Miss Ann, I didn’t know you were here,” he ran his fingers through his dark brown hair nervously.  “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“It’s no intrusion,” Ann insisted, and as she looked to him, her palm lightly fell from Aurelia’s hands. “Aurelia was sharing her gift with me.”

Aurelia hesitated and choose her words carefully; "I think we're done for now, Ann. I...we've seen enough."

Ann turned to the gypsy. “Thank you Aurelia.” Ann slipped the glove back on her hand and started out from the tent. She looked up to see Adam gazing at her. His eyes were so green. Soft, yet intense. Trustworthy. She blinked and willed herself out of his trance. With a small smile, and shake of her head at her foolishness, she pulled back the red drape and left the tent.

Adam watched Ann go, transfixed. And Aurelia watched Adam, her heart aching.

Will it help or hurt whom, Nana? She wondered again. Help or hurt whom?