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...
"Meredith?" he questioned, still looking somewhat thrown off.
"I'm sorry, Sire," she said, avoiding his gaze. "If you'd like, I'll leave and finish later."
"No, no. I mean...Of course not. You're fine..." He watched her, as though confused. Finally he spoke again. "I thought that you were Isabella's companion?"
"I am," she said simply.
He laughed slightly, and shook his head, still looking somewhat confused. "Then why are you...doing this?" He gestured to the portraits. She had a sudden fear that he might have heard what she said to Rupert. She quickly shoved it to the back of her mind. Even if he had, there was nothing he could do to change anything now.
She instead shrugged, in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner.
"When I had to do housework, I didn't enjoy it much. But now that I don't have to, it's sort of...grounding. I like to remind myself of who I am every once in a while, and...it helps me think. It keeps me busy."
"I see," he said, quietly. She glanced at him to see that he was watching her thoughtfully.
She turned back and began dusting the portraits once more, forcing herself to keep from peeking sideways at him.
"Do you have an extra rag?" Antony said, suddenly. It was her turn to be confused. She turned her head to look at him, looking slightly dumbfounded.
"Do I...what? Why?" she finally said, before grabbing her extra rag and handing it to him, because he was, after all, the king and if he wanted the rag well...who was she to stop him.
He ignored her question and instead began to dust the portrait next to the one of Rupert the Third, a picture of his own uncle, Prince Edward. She watched him out of the corner of her eye.
"You're doing it wrong," she finally said, watching him pull the rag back over the same spot he'd already dusted, sweeping dust back over it in the process.
"Am I?" he said, stopping the movement and holding the rag as if it were a foreign object to him. If he weren't the king, and if he weren't looking so serious, she might have laughed at him. Instead she demonstrated.
"You have to sweep it once in one direction, then rinse the rag...like so..." She wrung out the rag. "And then you repeat...always going the same direction."
"Oh," he mumbled. "I see." He tried once more, but didn't get it quite right.
"No, like this," she said, taking his hand and moving it across the top of the frame. She suddenly realized what she had done and dropped his hand, swallowing.
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"Yes, you've got it now..." He heard her mutter as she let go of his hand and returned to dusting the picture of his least favorite uncle.
Antony didn't really know exactly what had made him ask her, a bit impulsively, for the extra rag and, therefore, the opportunity to do housework. If Aunt Therese knew...He almost laughed aloud at what her reaction would be. She'd be completely shocked. Really, though, when he had come down to take a walk through the portrait gallery before going to the library, he had been wishing for something to make him feel more...grounded. More sure of who he was and what-in-the-name-of -Rupert-the-First he was doing. It had seemed too perfect that Meredith should mention that housework did that for her.
Aside from that, he didn't want to return to his office for paperwork quite yet as he knew that there were innumerable charters, documents, and requests to review and sign.
He knew he must look like a fool, asking his cousin's companion to let him do housework but, at this point, he'd try anything.
However, he could tell that she thought that his presence here was strange. Perhaps he was even making her uncomfortable and he didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable. That was the problem with being king. He could make someone feel out of sorts simply by being in a room. He hated that.
"Is something bothering you, Sire?"
He turned to see Meredith looking at him hesitantly. He sighed and let his hand fall to his side, his fingers clenching around the rag.
"I'll be fine," he finally said. He turned back to face the portrait, avoiding her look of pity. He finished and moved to the next painting, one of his mother and his father.
He forced himself to simply stare straight ahead and show no emotion. He could feel her watching him. He sighed and looked at her again.
"I'm sorry," he said. "If I'm...bad company."
She shrugged. "You're the king. I'm a servant. I really don't think it's my place to judge what sort of company you are."
He shook his head. "Please don't. For once, in my life in this palace, can I not be the king?"
"But...you are the king," she said, matter of factly. "You're a king and I'm a servant. Neither of us can escape it...so why not just face it?" After a few moments, she spoke again. "Do you not like being king?"
"It's not all bad...I just...sometimes I don't know whether or not I have the abilities to be a good one."
She smiled a bit, then pointed at the picture behind her. "You're a vast improvement over him, if I'm allowed to say so." Suddenly, she looked as though she regretted what she had just said. "I mean...I'm sorry. I didn't mean any offense. I forget, sometimes, that he's a relation of yours. You're just so different from...how he was."
He allowed himself to smile. "No offense taken," he said.
They were both silent for a few moments, neither speaking as they dusted the portraits.
"You?" she said, suddenly. He glanced at the portrait she was dusting, then came to stand next to her for a better look.
"Yes," he said, looking at the picture of his family as it was when he was only an infant.
She studied the portrait, then studied him. "You have your mother's eyes," she finally stated, simply.
He stared into the eyes of his mother in the painting. He hated it that this was all he would ever know of her.
"I never really got to know what it was to have a mother..." he said out loud. "She died when I was only three." He felt his hand clench the rag more tightly, not taking his eyes off the portrait.
He felt Meredith hesitantly touch his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said.
He sighed and ran a hand through his almost-dry hair. He shrugged sadly. "I suppose there's nothing that anyone can do about it, so it's no good...wondering. About what it would have been like if both of my parents had lived."
"I...understand," she said quietly. He turned to look at her, finally. She nodded. "My father. It's just me, my siblings, and my mother now. He died...in battle. When I was ten."
He tensed, slightly, thinking of Ben's children, without a father all because of him. Meredith must have noticed, because she was watching him, concern in her eyes.
"What's wrong?" she asked, gently. "Did I...say something?"
"No..." he muttered.
"If it helps any..." she said after a while. "The servants, at least...we all believe you'll be a great king."
He frowned. Ben believed that too, and look where he ended up. He dropped the rag and turned abruptly to leave.
