Cara Lugo [Complete]

Chapter Four: Your Majesty

"I have to cut my hair again. It's grown past my ears." She furrows her brows. "And never mind about going out front, I suppose. Hello, mum. James."

Lara had indeed become too exhausted to deal with the stranger and had brought ­him to Cara. She had tried, she really did. It was not as if she was trying to be rude to this traveller, but she had things to do and this was all taking too long.

"Hello, Cara darling." She surveys the room. "Here, Mr James. If you don't mind the mess in here, then I'm sure Cara would happy to talk to you here."

"And Robert." James inclines his head to the man in question, but his eyes flick from surface to surface, as if he couldn't quite figure out where the mess was. "Lovely to meet you again."

"You're in our house. Where's the meeting part of this all?" Cara says.

Robert sighs. "Lovely to meet you again too, James." He says, all polite, but the distant, cold tone belied any goodwill he felt towards this intruder. "What brings you around this time?"

"To talk to you both, of course," James said, amicably. "We need to refine the things discussed. I hope you both have had time to sleep on it and come to a decision."

Lara took that as her cue to leave. She grabbed her husband by the arm and exited swiftly, not wanting to hear the reason that someone wanted to talk to both her children. Whatever needed both order and chaos did not bode well, and it was better if she was not in the know. At all. Ever. About anything. Camron, definitely thinking the same thing, let himself willingly be dragged away.

"My original agreement still stands," Cara says.

"As does mine." Robert puts in. "You keep her safe with your crazy plan, and I watch her."

Cara wanders over to the worktable and picks up a pair of scissors. She inspects them, snipping them in the air a few times to check. What she wanted to check was questionable, as one can never measure the sharpness and accuracy of a pair of scissors by cutting air. Although a lot of what Cara did was reasonably questionable, and it was a common practice. Obviously satisfied, she uses the bright, mirror-like quality of the Beast and gets to snipping away at her hair. She had always been too impatient for a hairdresser. The appointment, then the endless talking, and worst of all, they could never get it right. Her hair was fairly easy to control. Cut it short, out of her face, and all was well.

James remained unfazed during it all, and Robert didn't even blink. It was common practice after all. There wasn't even a reaction when she sat down behind him and started cutting his hair.

"I have not set out to bring harm to your sister." James says, hoping he sounded sincere. "I came to her as she seems a good bet to finalize our plan. The best bet, if she proves to live up to the tale."

Robert was quick to pick up on the sub-text, this time for a crucial point. "This is a no-go if you can't promise her safety. Dying is a long step up from getting tossed in a cell for a few days. Perhaps you personally will not bring about her harm, but there is a chance that she might get into some trouble she can never get out of again."

"I cannot keep people like puppets on strings." James protests. "I can promise you my hand would never deal out a killing blow, but I cannot promise that no one else will ever lay hands on her."

"Well, then the deal is off," Robert says decisively.

Cara makes a noise of protest and claps a hand over her brother's mouth, just barely remembering to use the hands that did not hold the scissors. "We do not decline. My little brother has never, and will never, make a decision for me. I'm in. Tell me what to do."

James nods in acknowledgement of Cara's declaration. "So, you will not join us?"

"I do not even know what 'us' is, but I'm keeping her head on her shoulders and all her insides in her body," Robert mutters in final defeat.

Cara had won again, using that sheer, stubborn will that she bashed on the daily. She spoke of brains but as far as Robert could see, she never used hers. She used her bitter and bruised heart to rule. Robby with his muscles was also the one to think.

* * *

Writing:

Emotion is dismissed as irrational and senseless in politics. But is it not someone's passions that decide our very fate. Was it not so that decisions were made by opinions (however provable they may be), which take root from the seed planted by an emotion. Is this opinion bad? Good? Who knew, because that was a feeling.

If the emotion of these townspeople had been more vivid and bright, rather than a cloud of grey apathy, then perhaps a rally to freedom would have happened generations ago. As it was, the fire in their eyes had been put out by the tears they've shed over lost hopes and loved ones. The orange and red crackle of flames had been replaced by the permanent mark of blackened soot.

Emotion is fuels our everyday. It is what makes us choose the flower over the thorn or the thorn over the flower. Both passion and lack thereof was a feeling. Whether your chest burned with unspoken words or if it crushed you like an empty husk falling in on itself, you felt something and wanted something and therefore did something.

We are taught emotion have no place in politics and therefore pretend it doesn't exist. But what when a king feels joy, compassion, and empathy? But what when a king feels bitter resentment, anger, and anguish? What if he felt love for the whole country or only for a select few? It could change everything.

As it stood, the king of this land felt very strongly towards certain people. Certain subjects. He ruled with emotion, as any other human being would. He loved his daughter above all and wanted the perfect country for her to inherit. He loved his ways and loved the peace that came with it. He loved the land, but perhaps not the people. He felt compassion towards the hungry and the starving, always wanting to make sure there was enough food on the table for everyone. None should go hungry under his watch. He felt a great passion for his overflowing chests proclaiming wealth. He wanted his name to be shouted from the rooftops and hated each minute it wasn't.

You would be a fool not to do so. A fool not to want to live in thisland with it's blossoming apple trees and waving corn fields. A fool not toaccept the little you were given to create a life you never dreamed of, but nowyou certainly would never dream ofanother. If you were a fool, you were theharbinger of bad news, and no one wanted that around.