M E R E D I T H is a princess without a country. Her family, formerly the royal family of Borgavia, has been exiled from their home, forced to live under the rule of the Empire of Astoria.
A N T O N Y is a prince who doesn't want a crown. Soon to be...
He made his way down the dark hallway, into the section illuminated by the light and stood quietly in the doorway. Queen Olivya sat at the piano, her hands dancing over the keys gracefully, forming a melody that filled the room with music.
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Olivya finished the song and sat at the piano bench for a few moments, a soft smile on her face. She hadn't played in a long while; it was so good to do so again. She sensed someone behind her and turned to see her grandson standing in the doorway.
"Antony," she said, smiling gently at him.
"Grandmother," he said, entering the room and coming to stand behind her. "I've never heard you play the piano before."
"I haven't in a long time. Too long, perhaps. It's almost like visiting an old friend; the piano used to give me so much comfort when I was troubled."
Her grandson frowned, as if thinking, and glanced at the floor.
"Tell me, dear," she said. "What's wrong?"
He looked as though her were about to deny that anything was the matter, but she spoke once more before he could.
"Do not tell me it is nothing. I've noticed that you look tired, and tense. It might do you good to talk about it."
He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair as he always did when he was distracted or agitated.
"I have trouble sleeping," he finally said.
She smiled sympathetically. "Most people have some time in their lives when sleep seems a stranger."
He looked skeptical.
"Do you not believe me?"
"I would not believe it, looking at you," he said, after a moment's pause. "You always seem so...strong. Composed. The opposite of how I feel."
"Everyone is weak in their own ways. No one can be perfectly strong throughout their entire life."
They were both silent then, for a while.
"Do you ever think about it?" said Antony, suddenly. "About how they died...what they felt?"
She had, many times. They were her sons; it was her instinct as a mother to wonder if they died quickly, not having to suffer, or if they had been in pain, with no one to comfort them, to reassure them. She even wished she would have been there for Rupert, as he died, even though her eldest son had had no love for her.
"I do," she said aloud. "Often."
Her grandson clenched his fists, and stood stiffly before her, staring at the wall across the room.
She recognized this emotion in him, for it was one she had felt herself.
"Anger will not help anything, Antony. It will not bring them back to life, and it doesn't justify anything."
"I feel justified," he said, bitterly. "For the grief I've felt these past years, for the nightmares...I feel as though my anger is perfectly justified."
She shook her head slowly.
"No," she said. "Does it help you, your anger?"
He seemed to think for a moment, before sighing in frustration. "Yes. I mean no. I mean..." He ran his hand through his hair once again. "I don't know."
She smiled gently.
"Forgiveness, Antony. That is the only way that we can ever be free. Putting it behind us and moving on."
He turned to meet her eyes, the anger and grief and bitterness evident in his gaze.
"I can never forgive the people who killed my father."
"Antony..." She stood and reached out a hand to touch his shoulder.
"No," he said, firmly, shrugging her hand away. Then, his words full of more anger and venom than she had ever heard him before: "I will never find it within me to forgive the kingdom of Borgavia."
And he turned and stalked from the room, leaving her standing there, looking after him, full of concern for her grandson.
