Guarding His Queen

Chapter 1

My father always warned me of hardship associated with bearing a crown. As exciting and as luxurious as the idea may seem to a commoner there were thousands of agonizing moments in the life of royalty. We were constantly under scrutiny, always forced to follow traditions that were far from realistic or even reasonable in the modern world. Though there were waves and cheers from those who adored us there were also countless threats from those who hated us. No matter what we did we could not please everyone. We were supposed to live a life untouched by the common man then somehow make decisions that would affect a day life we did not lead.

In my twenty-two years I had faced heckling and been torn apart by the media. I had been trapped in a palace for the entirety of my life and yet I was supposed to have the knowledge to carry a country on my shoulders with only the help of a small counsel in parliament who all had white beards and thick glasses.

But nothing in this world was harder than sitting beside my father's bed, holding onto his hand as he slowly faded from his body. The strong king was now so frail and so weak.

It was customary that the King's wife be present when he was on his death bed, but my sweet, light hearted mother had passed away three years prior, just days before my nineteenth birthday. And now, it was my father's time to join his wife, to finally be with her without all of the stress of running a kingdom that constantly drove them apart.

But, when he finally joined her, I would be alone.

"Zara," my father croaked, his hand trembling in my own.

"Yes, father," I answered immediately. My body pitched forward as I tried to hold onto each weary sound.

He had to take three labored breaths before he spoke again. "I wish we had more time together."

"I do too," I whispered, feeling so close to tears. I had always known that he wished he had had his children earlier in life. I wondered if the heart break would be the same if I had him for another ten years.

But I wouldn't cry here. I couldn't. my father lay so still on the bed with his sunken cheeks and pale skin, but the room was alive with activity around him. Doctors whirled around, checking his pulse, his vitals, and keeping a constant eye on me to make sure I didn't have some hand in foul play. Because all of that was tradition as well.

"You still have so much to learn," he gasped.

"Don't worry about any of that," I whispered, smoothing his silvery hair off of his forehead. The skin was slick with sweat. I wished so badly that his final moments would be peaceful, but he always told me that a king never rested. That seemed true, even in death.

"Take care of Cecilia," he managed.

And then he was gone.

The doctors didn't seem to know it as soon as I did. But I could feel it, like his soul had brushed by mine as he passed on. His fingers went limp in my hand. The breath caught in my throat when his eyes closed.

For a moment I felt like it wasn't true. I counted to twenty, watching his chest to see if it would rise. when it didn't, I counted to twenty again. Still no movement. But I must've been counting too fast so I did it a third time. And when I finished my last set doctors were swarming him from every angle. They lifted his eye lids and shone lights directly into his eye. They looked for pulses, they checked his temperature, they swabbed the inside of his cheeks.

I slowly unfolded my legs from the chair I had been perched on and turned away. This is not how I wanted to remember my father.

He was a stoic and stern man, but I could remember the approving smile that shone so brightly when I had announced my engagement. He had always loved Edmund and there was undeniable delight when I had chosen his front runner to be my husband. It had been his final wish, that I chose someone reliable that he could approve of while he was still alive. And because I had done so I would remember his massive grin.

With a perfect posture and unbreakable composure, I strode out of my father's bedroom.

There I found my little sister, Cecilia, in the hallway, pacing as she wrung her hands together.

"Oh Zara," she blubbered when she saw me. She knew what my arrival meant. In an instant, her arms were thrown around me and her collapsed into my arms. Tears soaked through the material of my sensible grey jacket in a matter of seconds. And I just held her, rubbing her back and stroking her bleach blonde hair with dry eyes and tight lips.

I didn't cry when she begged me to tell her I was lying.

I didn't cry when she tried to go into my father's bedroom and was forcibly removed by two guards.

I didn't cry when she crumpled to the floor, utterly inconsolable.

I left her with a couple of guards and maids to attend to her. I walked down the halls that had always seemed so grand with all of the marble and elaborate paintings. It certainly felt like they were closing in on me now with only the sound of my heels clicking on the stone floors. And with each step I wished more and more that I was Cecilia. I wanted my legs to give out so I could drip down to the floor in a heaping mess of running mascara and trembling lips. I wanted so badly for someone, anyone, to console me.

But I was not Cecilia. So, I demanded that my legs carry me. I forced my mouth to remain in a rigid line. My hands stayed at my sides. My breathing was even and slow.

Today I had done my best to comfort her.

In a week I would do my best to comfort the country.

When I got to my own bedroom I kindly dismissed my own maid. She insisted she stay to help me get undressed, but I was firmer and told her to leave. Every second she stalled, every time she asked me if I would be alright alone, was torture. Finally, my neutral expression and clear eyes seemed to convince her. She bobbed down into a small curtsy and disappeared.

I settled myself in my overstuffed chair next to the empty fire place. Then I glanced around to make sure that I was completely alone, that no staff members were lingering, that the curtains were drawn. And just as my hands began to shake my retriever mix placed his head in my lap. Yukon's brown eyes stared up at me as he began to whimper, sensing the distress that no one else could pin point.

Then, I began to sob.