The Prince and His Butterfly

Chapter 1: Beckett

Chapter 1: Beckett

Current Day…

I was awoken none too gently. Usually Matilda, who was once my wet nurse and was now my official nanny (even though I was 18 and legally allowed to kill my father and assume the throne), woke me up but today there was no coffee and the blinds were thrust wide open. I propped myself up on one elbow, shading my slightly sensitive eyes from the sun’s harsh rays. A large figure, identifiable only by the silhouette of the crown on his head, stands in front of the sun.

“Da,” I groan, burrowing myself under the covers. “It’s early, let me sleep.”

“Beckett,” he began.

“Oh, here we go,” I say, rolling my eyes. I reluctantly get out of bed, pulling a black shirt over my head and yanking on yesterday’s jeans. Matilda handed me a cup of coffee, an apologetic look on her face. “It’s cool,” I told her. “He would have done it anyway.” Tears of gratitude filled her eyes, and leaned over, kissing one of her aging cheeks.

“Beckett!” He repeated forcefully. I turned to look at him; no one could refuse our king. “You are a prince, and the sole heir to my throne,” he pauses. “Though I would have preferred a daughter,” he says in a quiet offside. I’m not fazed; in the kingdom of Waneta, women are regarded as goddesses. Father only had the throne because my mother was no longer here, though he refused to remarry, gaining the kingdom’s support. “You have to act befitting your stature.” He started towards the door. “Walk with me; I have something to tell you.”

Matilda gave me a travelling mug and I shot her a quiet “Thanks,” She smiled and started to make my bed.

Da, or Your Majesty to others, walked in front of me. “She is a wonderful woman, that Matilda. A good choice,” He turns and looks at me critically. “You love her?”

“Like a mother, Da,” I said. Realizing what I have said, I backtrack. “Though I miss Ma, Matilda has filled the gap rather well.” He nods, pleased with my answer.

“What would you do if I released her from service?” He says, stroking his goatee.

“Hypothetically?” I ask. He nods. “I would use money from my own inheritance to provide her with a comfortable living.”

“I would do the same; or would you rather she stay here as a guest for the rest of her days? I have become fond of her as well, and I think she will do well to be rewarded for her services. She has been around since I was a boy, after all.”

“I agree, Da.” I say, sipping my coffee. I’m addicted to it, I swear.

“Are you going to ask why?” He says.

“No, you have your reasons Da,” I say, taking another sip. He slows down and looks at me with a twinkle in his eye. It was only then that I realized her was wearing full-regalia council clothes.

“There once was a time,” Da began, my question left hanging on my lips. I closed my mouth. “When you could never stop asking questions. And now,” he says, smiling. “You don’t at all!”

“Ok,” I say. “One: Why are you letting Matilda go? Two: Why do you think that I don’t need her anymore? Three: Are you going to council?”

He laughs, a hearty guffaw from his belly, and he claps me on the shoulder as we walk towards the Council Chambers. The paintings of the Queens of Waneta, and their Kings in smaller frames, lined the hallway leading towards it. The eyes seemed to follow me, and when we passed by my mother’s portrait, I stopped. Her painting was beautiful; her blue eyes, an exact copy of mine, rested on my face. It wasn’t creepy at all for me, it was comforting. Right after her death, I would sleepwalk and wake up looking at it. Father had a copy of it in his room. Her dark hair was informal compared to the other Queens’, but I knew that this loose braid was one of the only styles she incorporated.

“Oh, how I do miss her Beckett,” he said, solemn now. “Oh, how I miss her.”

“Me too, Da, me too,” I say. I clap him on the shoulder with the hand not holding the coffee and steer him away; I feared that if I had not, he would miss the council meeting, instead gazing at this painting. A servant passes us in the hallway and I hand him my cup with a quick thanks. It’s a waste, but Da needs my attention more.

He seemed to gain himself once again as he walked down the rest of the hallway, empty for the future Queens of Waneta; we had been around for 10,000 years with 300 or so Queens and only a small part of the hallway was covered in portraits. The rest of the walls were covered in royal purple velvet.

He clears his throat. “You don’t need her anymore,” he began, but I interrupted.

“Why?”

“Because, I think you would be a better ruler than me. You are 18, a man. It is your turn to be king—you need a queen. She is leaving because the future king cannot have a wet nurse; I daresay your wife will like it either.”

“You have chosen her for me?” I say. He hands me some folders.

“You have three choices, but I think you will like the last file the best.” I flip through each one. Two are of some royal blood, one is not. The first one has thick dark hair and eyes a startling black with skin as pale as a corpse’s. I shudder; her eyes hold no warmth. The scene in which the picture is taken is at a ball; she is dancing with her father, a wealthy businessman. She looks stiff and fake in every way.

The second one has blonde hair and grey eyes, steeled by stubbornness. Her lips are full and plump, and she is slightly appealing. Her skin is a perfect light tan, but that’s what sets me off. The picture is of her and the beach with a dog, but it too looks set up. It looks too perfect, and life isn’t that way.

The last one is of a girl with blood red hair; she’s lying informally on a bed wearing sweats and a tank that clings in the right places. A puppy lies on the foot of her bed. The book’s title is When Doves Cry. She’s smiling at the camera, though not directly at it, at the person behind the lens. One hand is reached out, as if beckoning the photographer to come closer. He eyes are a brilliant shade of emerald.

I find myself tracing a finger around the glossy outline of her face, and Da smiles.

“I knew you would,” he says.

“Tell me about her!” I say excitedly. Something had just clicked for me when I saw her face. He takes the file from me.

“Reed Jonah Ferguson,” he says. “5 foot 3 inches. Red hair, green eyes. Guardians, Kage and Amy Ferguson. Birth Date: September 14. Age: 17. Sign: Virgo—“ He laughed. “You’ll have a real virgin on your hands Beckett!” I smiled; I hadn’t seen him laugh out of happiness in a while, only a second too late when someone else told a joke.

We stopped and I looked in front of us. Huh, we were already at the doors. Before he could swing open the doors and announce himself to the council, I stopped him with one last subject.

“Is she one of us?” The question hangs stolidly in the air for a moment while his hands rest above his head on the door. It seems as though he is leaning on it heavily as he turns his head slightly in my direction, to his right.

“Yes,” He said before pushing the doors wide open.  His voice, full of bravado, while still being the voice of a leader, swells into the silent room. It instantly seems to warm the room and voice begin to greet him.

“King Rory!” A voice calls out, and he addresses them all.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Dames and Knights of the Council, I welcome you humbly to my home. As you know—“

The doors shut and him and his tenor voice disappear leaving me alone in a purple hallway.

Reed Jonah Ferguson.