upright ending
You’re dressed up as if it’s a celebration.
A buttercup yellow dress lined with teardrop-shaped yellow sapphires. Great, puffy sleeves, and a great, puffy skirt to match. Hair braided and pinned into the shape of a flower, another tiara placed on your head. Elizabeth and the other handmaidens — now aware of your allegiance — speak freely in front of you, though the mood is sombre and heavy. As it should be.
Behind you, Elizabeth’s fingers trail over the lines of jewellery on display, searching and searching for— “Your grandmother’s bracelet, it’s—”
“I gave it to him.” Through the mirror, you see Elizabeth exchange a glance with another handmaiden. “Choose another.”
Her voice dies in her throat. “O...Of course, m’lady.”
You’ve had this feeling in the pit of your stomach ever since you returned from Steven’s cell; this hopeless, lost feeling. A wave of foreshadowing, of pain — a sensation that assures you that nothing will be the same after this afternoon, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Many times you’ve lifted your hand for some reason or other, only to find that you were trembling so much that you were better off abandoning whatever task it was you were attempting.
The handmaidens are… trying to continue to work as normal. But they move around you like you’re glass — almost too scared to touch you, to speak to you, to interact. It makes you feel even more alone, and not for the first time, you wish that Natalia was beside you. She always knew how to make you feel better, even when everything felt hopeless.
This situation feels monumentally worse than hopeless.
A flight of doves sweep past your window.
Above the fireplace of your parents’ solar hangs two double-barrel shotguns.
Made from deep, russet mahogany, carved with great detail and excellent craftsmanship. Fixed with shining plates of gold and patches of dark leather engraved with swirling vines and roses, the twin weapons belonged to your great, great, great grandfather — King Sirius II, the first of your family to enter royalty after overthrowing the previous king. They were your father’s pride and joy, a symbol of your lineage and power — still loaded, your father used to boast, with exactly four bullets.
As a child you would try and reach them, hopping on the tips of your toes with your fingers outstretched, hoping to reenact the great battles you’d been told of as a youngling — but you were always shooed away with naught more than a warning call of your name and a tap to your head. By time you had grown tall enough to reach them, you had also grown disinterested.
Staring at them now, you suppose there is some irony in their very existence; in their ownership.
(If only you could channel the spirit of your ancestor — channel his courage and bravery, pluck a shotgun from its brackets and fight for what you believe in, but—)
Steven told you not to do anything. He told you to let it happen, to let him go, to carry on his legacy alone. He said that it had to be done. That you would endanger yourself if you acted. But wasn’t that going against everything the rebellion truly fought for? Weren’t his emotions clouding his own judgement, just as they often clouded yours?
There is some truth to his words, you know. People are unpredictable — you could be put in danger. It’s very likely, actually. But if you do nothing your people will continue to be threatened. Steven is clever, yes. Smart, yes. Unbelievably powerful, yes. You trust him with your life and the lives of every Azurelean who has ever been. But this palace is your home. These people are your duty. You’ve sat aside once before. You can’t — won’t — do it again.
Your mother passes in front of you, dressed in the deep blue colours of the royal sigil — were it not for the fatigue in your bones, you would have jumped. It takes more strength than you’d like to admit to keep your face calm — you feel as if she can suddenly see through you, read your thoughts and ascertain your sudden change of heart.
Blinking, you steal a glance out of the window just opposite you — the sun is high in the sky. It is almost noon; in a few hours, crowds will have gathered to watch the execution of the most notorious rebel leader on the continent. And you will stop it.
Pierce will be there, as well as his men. They’re unfalteringly devoted to him, and they’ll be armed and dangerous. Of course, you can’t simply storm the execution alone and expect to get anywhere, and so… You will need to sway the loyalty of the guards — which won’t be too hard. As Elizabeth had said, they fear your father. Their loyalty is borne from fright, not from respect. Once the guards are with you, you can free the rebels from the dungeons. There must be thousands of them, overstuffed into those horrid cells. It’ll take a while, but less if you gather a group of guards and even your handmaidens to help you free them. Then you can travel through the catacombs to the armoury and—
“______, are you alright?” Your mother sets her teacup down, peering over at you in concern. “I… I didn’t want to say anything, but ever since you returned you’ve looked so — so down.”
Oh, what a cruel understatement. You almost want to laugh, but you begin thinking instead. You need an excuse to miss the execution if you are to carry out your haphazardly-made plan without suspicion.
“Forgive me. I… I’m feeling quite sickly, mother.”
“Is this — is this because of the execution, my darling?”
Your mouth runs dry. How much you longed to run to her like you did as a girl, sobbing into her stomach, divulging every problem and thought that was running through your head. Maybe, a more hopeful part of you thinks, she would understand — maybe she would take pity and side with you. But the idea is quickly quashed by the rest of you.
“You know I’ve never had the stomach for violence,” you say. And you’re not lying — you feel as if one breath amiss might turn you inside out and upside down. You’ve been fighting the urge to get sick for the past hour. “I… I think I’d prefer to stay here, mother. Please.”
Your mother hesitates. “Your father won’t be pleased.”
“But he’ll understand, no?” You find yourself scuttling across the room, smoothing your dress down hurriedly as you slot yourself onto the seat beside her. Seizing her hands in yours, looking between her eyes as if trying to find something. You must look hysterical, you realise, because your mother stares at you, wide-eyed, scared. Or maybe she’s scared because she understands now that something more happened during your time away.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” She murmurs, her hands tightening around yours. “I… notice you aren’t wearing your grandmother’s bracelet.”
“I… I lost it. I’m sorry.” You’ve never lost anything in your life. Your mother knows that, and she knows how you look when you lie, and—
Her answering smile is delicate, almost pitiful, and you’re hit with the sudden suspicion that she may know more than she’s let on — especially when she cups your cheek, smoothing her thumb over your skin like she used to when you were a girl. “Of course.” … “I’ll tell your father that you’re feeling unwell.”
“...Thank you, mother.”
You both know that you’re thanking her for more than a quick cover-up.
As soon as your mother leaves, you call your handmaidens into your parents’ solar. Elizabeth, Bethany, Mary-Jane and Dolores, who are equally befuddled when you shut the door quickly behind them and cross the room to the fireplace without explanation. It’s only when you lift one of the shotguns from the wall brackets that Mary-Jane speaks.
“M’lady, what are you doing—?”
The gun is heavier than you had expected — not uncomfortably so, but slightly weightier than Steven’s. The handle fits perfectly in your hand, wrapped in cold, firm leather. Mary-Jane continues to fret to herself behind you as you check the gun’s chamber, balancing the hefty weapon in your hands.
This is your legacy. Rebellion, not tyranny.
“I need your help,” you start softly, turning back to them. “I — I need to get to the dungeons to free the rebels. Before Steven’s execution.”
“But — what — this is—!”
“She’s gone crazy. She’s gone mad!”
“M’lady, I really don’t think—”
“_____,” Elizabeth murmurs, stepping forward as the others descend into some form of controlled chaos. She watches as you step back to check the gun’s aim, just as Steven had taught you. “Think about what you’re planning to do.”
“I know what I’m about to do, and I’ve set my mind on it. I can’t stand aside again.” You glance between them, the girls who had done nothing but support you ever since you’d returned. You may not know them as much as you did Natalia, but you trusted them almost as much. “If you don’t want to help, I understand. It could be dangerous—”
“Don’t be a fool, princess,” Bethany interjects. Her normally gentle face sets itself into a determined cast “What do you need us to do?”
You take the most clandestine hallways to the dungeons — mostly because you can’t be spotted carrying a weapon without rousing some suspicion. You stick to the servants’ passages and corridors, often slipping into empty rooms to avoid company.
Now that you’re on your way to doing what needs to be done, it’s like all of your anxieties have melted away. Your hands don’t shake, your breaths don’t come laboured — you have been replaced with some hard, assured woman who knows what needs to be done. And although your heart pounds with every close call and your hands find themselves readjusting their grip on your gun over and over, you find solace in the certainty that no matter what happens today, at least you will have tried. At least you will have inspired someone — a little girl, an old maiden, a weary guard — to continue what you’ve started. What Steven had started, all those years ago.
The entrance to the dungeons approaches quickly; a long, broad corridor with no windows, dimly lit with torches. At the end, a set of tall iron wrought gates, bound shut with five locks exactly. A single bored-looking guard stands watch, with at least 50 more dispersed within the expansive dungeons themselves.
It’s only when the guard looks up that the first seed of doubt plants itself in your mind — what if you had underestimated the guards’ allegiance? What if, instead of hearing you out, he simply shot? Bound your wrists for treason?
“Your Highness…?”
You come to a stop before him. “I need access to the dungeons, please.”
His eyes, past the metal of his helmet, drift to the four women behind you — then, almost comically, to the gun in your hands. “My apologies, m’lady, but I can’t possibly—”
“Open the gate.” And after a moment’s pause: “Please.”
“I — I have orders from the King,” he replies, hand edging hesitantly towards his weapon. He looks completely and utterly torn, unsure of whether pointing a gun at his Princess could be considered treason if she was acting against the King. “Nobody’s allowed past this point, m’lady.”
“Her Highness is ordering you,” Dolores interjects from behind you, but you quickly hold up a hand.
“If you want the end of the rebellion to come about — if you stand on the side of my father, the oppressor — then remain by your post.” His mouth stands agape at your words — a complete declaration of treason. “But I don’t believe you will. Never in my life have I met an Azurelean guard who is deliberately unjust. Scared, maybe. Kept in the dark, fearful of retaliation — but not unethical.”
“I — I —”
“My father won’t be able to hurt you,” you promise, taking a step forward. You place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I give you my word — but if you act against me, he will continue to hurt the people of this kingdom. And I can’t allow that to happen anymore.”
Maybe this was the true test of faith all along. Your entire cause now rested on the shoulders of this young soldier — a man who probably never even wanted to enter this life, but had to in order to provide for his family. A man trained from a boy to serve and uphold the dictatorship he had little to no idea existed.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” you continue softly. “But I will if I have to.” You won’t shoot him, no; but you know a good hit to the head will render even the strongest man unconscious.
Luckily, you don’t have to — the man, after a few seconds of deliberation, nods his head, and steps aside to slot in the heavy iron key. When he turns it, it resonates throughout the hallways with a loud snap! — so loud that you almost jump, yourself. It seems you weren’t quite as lionhearted as you had thought.
“Thank you,” you say sincerely. “I won’t forget your assistance, dear soldier.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” He stays at his post as you and your handmaidens pass through the formidable gates — and just as you’re about to disappear around the corner, he clears his throat. “I — I’m glad that it’s you. That you’re the one to do this. We trust you.”
For a moment you don’t answer. It’s strange, thinking that after everything you still hold the trust of your people close. You never lost it, no matter how many nightmares had plagued you, no matter how long you had remained ignorant, nothing. You were still their princess.
You bow your head. “I… I only hope I can live up to be the queen you and the rest of the kingdom deserve.”
And with that, the darkness of the dungeons consumes you. That heavy stillness hasn’t changed; still presses down on your shoulders with each step, still forces your lungs to heave with the effort of holding your breath. But you realise quite quickly that the menacing aura of the dungeons is nothing but a figment of your imagination — if anything, it’s just sad, because while you realise that there must be some imprisoned for good reason, a majority of them were incarcerated for speaking against the crown.
The first guard you happen upon jolts at the sight of you — you send him off to spread the word of the rebels’ emancipation, as well as a plan to meet at the southernmost stairwell. The second and third and fourth are sent off to do the same thing. The fifth guard you meet stands to attention, hand seemingly glued to his forehead in salute, and it’s clear that he’s not very often out of the dungeons; his skin is pale and almost sickly from a lack of sunlight, and he sways dangerously on his feet.
“You need to rest,” you tell him as your handmaidens begin to unlock cell doors. “You’re not in fighting condition.”
“It — it is my duty to — to protect you, Your Highness—”
“And you can’t if you can barely balance yourself upright,” you reply gently. “You’ve done your job, good sir. Rest — but first, I need directions. Have you seen a woman amongst these rebels, pale skin, bright red hair? Or, perhaps the Captain’s advisors...”
“Advisors,” he mutters to himself, as if to rouse the memory. “Advisors… D-down this corridor, two right turns and… take the second corridor on the left. The cells there have been reserved for them.”
“Thank you,” you say earnestly. “Thank you.”
And you take off down the corridor, as explained, your shoes slapping against the cold stone floors — then, two right turns into another passageway, dimly lit and so thin that your shoulders brush off the walls. From there, the passage widens again, only slit-like windows allowing light in. The hallways echo with noise and life, no longer unnervingly still; voices carrying from all directions, yells and hollers of joy in the rush to rendezvous at the stairwell. You finally come to your crossroads: three doorways on the left, three doorways on the right. You don’t hesitate — you slip through the second on the left, and—
“Halt!”
You’ve been through this so many times that you don’t even bother stopping. You charge towards the guard, your bayonet loose in your hands. “The keys, please.”
“Princess, I’m forbidden—”
“I am your princess,” you interrupt. You can’t help but feel a tad impatient, glancing at the unassuming iron doors that line the hallways. Just beyond them, your friends. “And I am releasing these rebels. All I ask is that you help me in overthrowing my father.”
You hold out your hand, expectant. The guard’s hand shakes over his ring of keys, unsure, but not scared. “The keys. Please.”
And they’re dropped into the palm of your hands, cool and inorganic, a ring of about six identical rings. Your face softens. “The rest are gathering at the southernmost stairwell. They’ll explain the rest.”
He leaves just as quickly as the rest did, and as you fumble with the keys and move for the first door, you’re suddenly hit with the fact that your plan had worked. Ill-prepared and hasty, but it had worked, all because of some kindness and a little loyalty, and now there’s hope—
“____?” This cell is — you squint through darkness — Anthony’s. “____! What are you doing here—?”
“I’m getting you out,” you say hurriedly, swinging his door open. “We’re going to save Steven! Quickly, up!”
Your voice begins to rouse the others from their thoughts, from their sleep, from whatever it was that they had used to preoccupy themselves — you hear James next, his hands thumping against his door— “_____? Princess! Quick, let me out!”
You don’t have the time or energy to tell him that shouting at you won’t make the door unlock any faster — you simply rush over, jamming the key in and twisting as quickly as you can. You don’t stop; you move onto the next door immediately, and then the next, and the next, and the next, and the next. And when the last door opens, you turn to look at those who had emerged. They’re pale and clearly underfed, dark circles under their eyes, busted lips and bruised cheeks. James, Samuel, Anthony, Clinton, Thor, Rhodey, Natalia — even Banner, standing unsurely at the doorway of his cell.
“It’s good to see you,” greets Natalia, her eyes glassy as she captures you in a hug. “I almost thought you weren’t coming.”
“Had half a mind to,” you manage to joke, and there’s a lump in your throat that you have to swallow down. You turn to look at the rest, still keeping hold of Natalia’s hand. “Steven is... to be executed at noon. I’ve released the rest of the men — they’re reconvening at the southern stairwell. From there, we’ll make our way to the royal armoury, and… well… I haven’t thought much after that. The execution is taking place in the throne room.”
“We’ll have to hurry, then,” Natalia says, tugging you along. “Sun’s almost overhead.”
“Thank you,” Anthony adds breathlessly as they begin to hurry along beside you. “We won’t forget this.”
“We’ll have time for thank you’s later,” says someone — you don’t bother turning to see who exactly, too preoccupied with retracing your footsteps and remaking a path towards the stairwell. You follow the sound of voices, too, the steady din of chatter rumbling through each corridor. It’s not too hard to find out where the entire rebellion has gathered — especially since, due to the cause’s large size, people are spilling out into the hallways that radiate out from it, soldiers and rebels alike. You simply follow the stragglers, until the halls are so dense with bodies that it feels like you can barely breathe—
But then somebody catches sight of you — and then suddenly there’s a hush falling over the previous bustle like a sheet of snow, and the men begin straight down the middle, pressing themselves against the walls so that you and the generals may pass. You find yourself glancing at the faces as you progress past them, finding your own courage in the respect and gratitude painted on each visage — and at the end of the path, your handmaidens.
(And — if it hadn’t already — it suddenly occurs to you that this is it. There’s no turning back, no changing of the mind. You have made your decisions and taken your sides, and there’s no doubt in you that you have made the right decision.)
You realise that they’re waiting for you to say something; looking up to you, awaiting your words. That had been Steven’s job, before — to encourage his troops, instill that unwavering loyalty in them. Now the metaphorical baton has been passed to you, and — swallowing the dryness in your throat — you step forward.
“I expect you’re waiting for me to say something,” you call first, hesitant. “I… I must admit I haven’t much experience with this, and time is steadily escaping us. All I can tell you is the truth — we were betrayed by Alexander Pierce, and your captain is to be executed for treason.”
Murmurs ripple throughout the crowd, but you power on. “I won’t let that happen. We won’t let that happen. Not after everything he’s sacrificed for the greater good of this kingdom.”
You shift your rifle in your hands, casting an unsure glance back at the generals — you get a series of encouraging nods, and you turn back to the men. “Some of you are soldiers. Some are rebels. Some are farmers and tradesmen simply fighting for a good cause. But we’re all here because we want better for this kingdom — so we’re going to get to the armoury, storm the throne room, and we are going to save the Captain. Is that clear?”
And the response is — is like a roar. So loud that your ears ring for a few seconds after, but you’re beaming at the sound, even as Rhodey and Clinton begin to lead the men into the tunnels with the help of your handmaidens.
They’ve all gathered in the throne room to watch him get his head chopped off — nobles, highborn, all congregated and murmuring between themselves. The room itself is a marvel of architecture and grandeur — if he wasn’t about to be executed he might have stared. As it is, though, he is about to be executed; dragged from the dungeons by two guards in the early morning, when dawn had barely broken, and placed in a new cell. A cell barely big enough to hold him, really, hidden behind a clandestine door in the side of the throne room. They left him there to stew in his thoughts, and most of those thoughts were… were of you.
He mourned his family, of course. His Samuel and Anthony and James and Natalia and Clinton and Rhodey — mourned how they had followed him into a fight that had slipped through his fingers. They had known the risks, of course — so did he, but still. He mulled over the life he could have had if he had just — if he had just been more critical of Pierce. The happy ending that had been just close enough to touch—
His fingers had trailed over the diamonds of your bracelet, heated by the warmth of his skin. He remembered his promise to dance with you at your wedding — fast-paced and giddy, spinning you round and round the way he had at the bonfire. You’d been so luminous then, glowing with light and happiness, dizzy off love and that lightheartedness that had been taken from you. If he’d… if he’d just been more careful—
“I will afford you your last words,” the King says easily, tearing him from his thoughts. The monarch sits, reclining back on his throne, the picture of effortlessness — he wouldn’t even have to move to see Steven die. It puts a bitterness in his mouth. “Speak, treasoner.”
The trial itself had lasted all of five minutes. They’d called his name and kneeled him before the block of wood that had been brought in from outside — the block of wood that would help keep his head stable when the axe flew — and then they’d listed his crimes: murder, thievery, treason, and another few that completely went in one ear and out the other. There’d been a minute long deliberation by the jury — a jury composed of the King’s advisors, of course — before the sentencing was finalized.
Now, looking up at the king lounging in front of him, it hasn’t quite settled in. His death is imminent. He’ll cease to exist, and the world will go on and on and on and on — the earth will spin, the sun will shine, there’ll be kings and queens and wars and peace treaties.
He can only hope that he made a difference in the short time that he was alive.
Last words. Last words...
He’d hoped that his last words would come years from now, old and grey and laying on his deathbed with you and your children beside him. His last words would be ‘I love you’, and he would drift off into that endless sleep, at peace with the world — and for that simple reason, he considers saying nothing. He won’t get the end he wants, and so they won’t get the performance they want—
But...
...But the circumstances are bitter and unfair, and he is angry — he is angry and enraged and furious that good did not win. That his men will die and the rebellion will fizzle out with them until another brave soul takes their place.
(But you will live. You, the last light of the rebellion.)
“Long live the revolution!” Steven bellows — listens to it echo eerily up to the high ceiling and out to the hallway and out the windows, till it takes on such a sonorous quality that it sounds as if someone speaks down to them. The crowd shifts and shuffles, discomfited.
The King’s lip curls. “Very well. By order of the crown, Steven Grant Rogers, I hereby sentence you to be executed for your crimes. Effective immediately.”
He’s already at the chopping block. How convenient, he thinks wryly, peering over at the masked axe-towing man who would sever his head from his shoulders. He refuses to shut his eyes — stares right out at the crowd of nobles as the executioner positions himself behind him. Searching for a familiar pair of eyes, a soft pair of lips, a saccharine smile that never fails to lift his spirits.
You’re not here. That’s good. He doesn’t want you to see — although he is embittered to think that his last sight will be the King and his corrupt court.
And the King raises his hand.
The executioner lifts the axe.
Steven grits his teeth.
The crowd stills, all bated breath and horror and satisfaction, really, satisfaction to see the end of an era before their very eyes—
Bang!
Is that what being beheaded sounds like?
The crowd goes dead quiet — and then, screaming. Panicked, breathless screaming—
Steven opens his eyes, and fuck—
You’re standing there, rifle in your arms, still poised towards the spot where the executioner once stood. Blood splattered all over the perfect marble floors and across the fabric of your pretty yellow dress, eyes hard with defiance.
Your father’s face is the picture of horror. Your mother has gone a deathly shade of grey. The guards are frozen in shock.
“Put down the gun,” booms your father. “Now, you foolish girl!”
“I’ve had enough of your orders.” You inhale, shaky, but your hands are steady. “I have had enough of you poisoning this kingdom and its people!”
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” the king hisses. “Or I’ll—”
“You’ll what? Send them to kill me, like you ordered before?” A wave of whispers erupts from the crowd, and you smile. “Oh, now that wasn’t common knowledge, was it? The assassin you sent to choke me to death — an assassin you had disguised as a rebel for years? And I wager these highborn folk have no clue of what’s actually happening outside the city either.”
“Guards!”
But not one guard moves — and Steven realises that the mass of people behind you aren’t highborn, they’re rebels. Rebels and guards who’ve torn the royal sigil from the patch on their biceps. He can’t see much, with his arms tied behind him and his chin pressed to the chopping block, but he knows in his heart of hearts that the rest of his family are in that crowd.
“They’re loyal to you because you pay them,” you say. A victorious smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Not because you instill loyalty, or trust, but because without your pay, their families would fall to the same fate as all others outside the city — death by starvation, or disease, or—”
“Your head has been filled by lies—”
“I have seen it,” you announce, turning to the crowd. Your father’s brow trembles at your audacity to turn from him while he’s still speaking, but you continue on without even a glance in his direction. Steven beams. “Whole villages burned down by Azurealean soldiers on orders from my father. Starving children with only rags for clothes during winter. People forced to survive off broth and nothing but broth. The people of our kingdom are suffering and we have enabled it. It will only continue with my father on the throne.”
“Ah, I see this for what it is,” the king chuckles. “A bid for the throne. Accuse the king of oppressing his people and steal the power right from under his nose. I won’t let you take my throne. You are naive, and ignorant, and—”
You only raise the rifle again, jaw set. “This rifle was once used by my grandfather to overpower a king like you. Don’t make me use it once more.”
In that moment, it’s pride that blooms in Steven’s chest. Fierce and fiery and enough to ease the tension and anxiety in his stomach, only growing ever-stronger when your eyes flicker momentarily to his. He can see the relief hidden there, the adrenaline that comes from any close call — and this, he thinks, glancing down at the still body of the executioner, was a very close call.
“I’m giving you a chance to surrender,” you continue, and he’s surprised to see the desperation in your eyes — but this is your father. Some part of you must think that he’s still redeemable. Even Steven waits with bated breath, awaiting your father’s answer, wondering if he really has the capacity to turn his back on his own tyranny, but—
“You’ll raze this kingdom,” your father only warns. His voice trembles with restrained anger, and your shoulders slump as you realise that the surrender you’d hoped for wasn’t coming. A reluctant sense of acceptance comes to paint your face.
“Restrain them,” you demand, then, only turning away from your father at the last second. “All of them.”
“And then what happened?”
Your voice comes to a halt, and Steven sees you cast a look over to where Margaret sits, practically thrumming with energy. The little girl — only 6 name days old — has heard this story time and time again. She begs for it at bedtime, asks about it at breakfast, tells her tutors about it when she should be learning. She knows every detail and every event, and very often chirps up to remind you of points you’d forgotten — and still, without fail, you tell her the story every other evening. Steven wouldn’t have it any other way — he thinks, secretly, you enjoy telling it as much as she enjoys hearing it.
“You know this story, little one,” you tease her gently — but you slip from your place on the chippendale sofa to join her in front of the fireplace, letting her climb into your lap. You still haven’t taken any notice of him — he wasn’t supposed to be off duty until midnight, and the clock has barely struck eight. He resigns himself to leaning against the doorframe, a fond smile on his face. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“Well—” Margaret takes a great, heaving sigh, wracking her brains— “You freed papa first, and then — and then you locked grandpapa in the dungeons, and you became queen… and then grandmama married you and papa, and you danced at your wedding, and then you had me!”
It’s such a simple timeline, but it does the job quite well. She didn’t quite know yet about the night terrors that plagued you after taking the life of the executioner, or your mother’s initial refusal to believe your father’s depravity — didn’t quite understand your father’s execution or the redistribution of highborn lands to lowborn citizens, or the large-scale farming efforts that reduced famine and heightened the standard of living exponentially within months. She’d come to know, as she grew. The history of Azureal would be one of the most important subjects for the future queen, after all.
“This story again?” Steve finally interrupts, beaming when Margaret gives a gasp and scrambles to her feet to reach him. You watch with a small grin of your own as she scampers to her father, practically leaping into his arms.
“Papa!”
“My little princess!” Despite the fact that he’s been in and out of council meetings all day, training new soldiers and discussing the reformation of the Azurealean army without break, he still finds the strength in him to scoop her up easily. She’s wearing her nightie and her hair is freshly washed and she smells like lemon soap, his little princess. “Look at you, always so pretty.”
“It’s because I look like mama!”
“And here I thought you took after me,” he says offhandedly — quietens down just the slightest bit as you approach. You still do that to him, he finds, even 6 years later: he’s still rendered speechless by you, by your beauty, by your grace, by the affectionate smile you send him before you kiss him. He can’t help the soft sigh that leaves his lips when you pull back, one of your hands on Margaret’s cheek and the other on his. “My queen, my love, the light of—”
“Papa.”
“Alright, alright.”
“My king,” said with a hint of surprise, “You’re back early.”
“Mm. I wanted to see my girls.”
“Well, one of your girls is off to bed,” you say, shooting Margaret a warning look. “Or at least she promised to if I told her a story.”
“But I want to be with papa,” Margaret whines, pouting her lips. She really does take after you, Steven thinks — and just like you, she’s wont to get her way with naught more than a simple pout and a flutter of her lashes, especially when she’s cuddling into him the way she is. “I don’t want to sleep.”
“But papa is tired, and you’ll see him at breakfast tomorrow, won’t you?”
You watch, this time, as he heads towards her bedroom, easily convincing her to slip under the covers and try to sleep — his murmurs are soft and loving, barely distinguishable as you watch from afar. He’s always praised you for the refined way you’ve navigated both motherhood and your ascension to the throne, but now, watching him talk so tenderly and quietly with his daughter, his royal mantle still clasped onto his shoulders, you can only think the same for him.
Who would’ve thought that the fearsome Captain all those years ago — the one who’d chased you through the trees on the back of his horse, the one who’d lugged you onto the back of his steed — would sing lullabies for his daughter? That he would start each day with a kiss to your forehead, that he would stand his daughter on his toes to dance around your quarters? Through the fighting and the conflict and the unsureness of everything — it’s given you this. A family of your own.
You remember the feeling of the rifle in your hands, the perspiration that had dotted your forehead as you stood down your father, the sheer relief you’d felt when your eyes met Steven’s in the throne room. All the pain and the suffering and the fear. The betrayal and the sadness, the reluctance and discomfort — all of it has given you this.
A life of comfort and security, of love and trust and understanding. Where duty to your kingdom and duty to the man you love don’t clash, but intersect.
“She’s off,” Steven whispers, shutting your little princess’s door quietly behind him. He immediately reaches for you, his lips pressing hard to your forehead, his hand crowding the back of your neck. “All is well, dove.”
All is well. Your eyes find the same two rifles hanging above your own fireplace — loaded with three bullets, now, instead of four.
All is well.