Upon A Time

Chapter Eight Part One

He sighed. “I take it I’ve lost an eye as well,” he observed, slowly removing his hand from her grasp and allowing it to fall over his stomach. “I cannot open the lid no matter how I try.”

“Again, I am sorry.”

“I am only grateful my arm was spared,” he replied. “Will it be of any use?”

“Father said it was a bad break, but one that should heal.”

“I understand,” he glanced down briefly, then back up at her. “My face?”

She hesitated. “Sir…”

“Julien!” he insisted, and sighed. “It is enough, your reaction tells me all I need to know. I am a monster. Disfigured. Never to be what I was once.”

“You are certainly no monster, sir, please, be still now. Calm…” she spoke in as soothing a tone as she could manage and poured him a dose of medication. She mixed it with wine, then held the cup to his lips. “Take this, it will help.”

“Not send me back into sleeping, I hope. I have questions and my mind yearns for answers.”

“You are still too weak to ask much, sir… Julien,” she corrected herself so as not to upset him again. “You must rest.”

“I have done and shall do,” he replied, trying to hide his displeasure at the bitter taste of his medicine. “But there are things I must know, and you surely have questions as well.”

“I have many, Julien, but perhaps we should wait, save your strength. Speak when my father and Thomas return, so they may also hear.”

“I prefer talking now, before sleep takes me again. While I can so clearly recall what has occurred, power of mind not yet dulled by your heavy remedies.”

“I understand. I had best close the window first, though.” She did so, and her legs ached as she stood beside him. She was dying to sit down, but it was improper to sit in his presence without his consent, and she felt she should not ask for it.

“Please, take your seat, there.” He seemed to read her mind, and with a grateful nod, Charlotte sat. “Bring the chair closer, so I might speak softly and still be heard.” He lowered his voice again to a whisper, and Charlotte slid the chair until her knees touched the edge of the bed.

She had an urge to caress his good hand, to hold it in order to offer some comfort as he appeared plagued by the darkness of memory. Her fingers brushed over his wrist and she patted his arm before sitting with her hands primly folded.

“I am listening, Julien,” she encouraged gently. “What is it you want me to know?”

“First, I have questions you must answer, please.” He was the one who reached out now and grasped hold of her hand, clamping on so tightly her fingers tingled and began to go numb.

“Of course.”

“The King’s death. The reports of my death. What is the story you’ve been told?”

“That robbers attacked the private royal hunting party, when you were on the way to claim a prize for your bride.” Her tongue tripped slightly over the last word, then she continued. “That your father was murdered, and you were missing and presumed dead.”

“Then they’d be looking for my body.”

“No, days later they claimed to have found it, and to have buried it beside that of the good King, rest his soul.”

“Rest his soul,” Julien added, his voice nearly breaking. He cleared his throat and Charlotte took her hand away to offer him a drink of water. He swallowed it gratefully, but as soon as she was back in her previous position he reached for the solace of her hand once more. She felt too much compassion for his pain to refuse it.