Ivana
Even though I had picked a tray up several times and taken it to the prince, somehow it was still a nerve-racking action. And even though I had seen him at least a million times, even though I had memorized the curves of his face, even though I had ingrained in my memory the shape of his stupid bow and how full his lips were, seeing him there—it was like the first time I had laid my eyes on him. And my foolish 15-year-old heart did not fail to remind me that I was a person, a teenager, who had seen her first love.
No, it didn't matter.
And so I lay the tray at his table while we waited for him to finish pull-ups he did in front of his window. There was that too—watching the trail of two beads of sweat drip down his dark hair all the way down to disappear in the waistband of his sweatpants.
My poor mind began to wander. I had, after all, begun a new fascination with romance novels. I cleared my throat, stopping myself from wandering even more so.
"Oh come on, Ivana," his voice was strained as he let go of the bars and turned. "You know I have to get this done."
He picked up the towel behind the lounge chairs in his personal dining room, laid it over his neck, and plopped down at the head of the table.
"Sit," he said. "Oh come on, you know I don't stand for stuff like that."
He gave me a small wink, sending yet another fiery fit of madness through my heart. My knees buckled. I reached for the chair simply to hold me in place—and of course, I sat.
"Wasn't so bad now, was it?" he taunted.
But it was bad. It was so bad, if my father saw me, he would fall into an epileptic shock. And if the experienced maids saw, they would throw a fit to last generations.
I watched him pick up the spoon, dig into his specially made soup, and thrust it into his mouth. He had taken three spoonfuls before he suddenly started coughing—choking—grabbing onto his neck, his skin turning a deep shade of pink. His wet hair flopped over his eyes as he suddenly grabbed onto the sheets.
And me? Foolish me simply stared at him with wide eyes, unsure of what to do.
I stood up, ran to the door, flung it open, and yelled at the two guards permanently stationed at his door.
"I don't know what's wrong with him! He's choking! He's not feeling well!"
Tears began to stream down my eyes as I watched the man I loved gasp for breath. His pink skin began to turn blue as he fought to breathe.
But his eyes—his eyes were all I needed to know. They were focused on me, brimming with so much anger and, with the last of his strength, he forced out a few words:
"She's trying to kill me."
He pointed straight at me, his index finger directed clearly at me.
At first, I thought he was talking to someone behind me, but it was me—clearly enough.
"No."
I shook my head, backing away several feet until I hit the wall and slipped down, tears streaming down my face.
"No," I said louder now. "No!" I screamed—
And suddenly, just as abruptly, I woke up.
My heavy breathing shocked me. But not as much as the surroundings did.
I was in the hospital—at least, that's what the white ceiling and the beeping sounds told me.
In front of me was Kyla, Hank, and, strangely enough, the void, slunking in at the edge of the room.
"I mean, I totally get that other people have childhood trauma," I raised my eyes to Hank, "but looks like you have some terrible demons—'cause for you to be talking in your sleep like that?"
"Not talking," the voice said from where she sat. "It wasn't talking.' More like screeching, moaning, and groaning—like dementors were chasing you in your dreams."
I grumbled something about the sleep paralysis demon before I began to try to sit up straight.
Kyla put a hand on my shoulder and gently eased me back. "A spiritual person of interest was very clear that we do not let you sit up and that you must have suffered a concussion or something like that."
I squinted, genuinely trying to think through her words.
"Did he bring me here?" I wanted to ask.
"What happened?" my mouth settled on spewing forth.
Kyla and Hank looked back and forth between each other and then to me.
"There was a bomb," she said.
"Makes sense," I mumbled, ensuring I still kept my British accent.
"And the bomb was very close to where apparently you and the King were. It's a miracle you came out alive—more like he carried you alive, bridal style. Which I think was very heart-wrenching, watching him with his head bleeding like that, limping with you thrown across his arms."
She placed a hand on her chest and the other on my arm.
At first, value-wise, I was emotionless. But deep down, my heart pounded away to oblivion, my mind beginning to run through several thousand scenarios of how the King would come into my room and know exactly who I was.
But there was nothing too certain there, right?
And most importantly—who the heck would have tried to kill the King? Couldn't the person have waited till I wasn't there?
"Why?" I asked out loud.
Kyla shrugged. "Because the King is the kind of person that takes shit from nobody."
My eyes found the Void smacking away at her keyboard.
"Let's say there's, like, a million different things." She raised her hands, interlaced her fingers, and pushed them outwards so they all popped simultaneously. Her eyes met mine—striking and gray.
"The King is not accepting a lot of foreign aid. Eventually, he's stepping on a lot of people's toes because he doesn't accept it. At the same time, his father and grandfather plunged the entire country into debt, and now he has to pay them back somehow—but he's not accepting help from anybody. At the same time, everybody wants him—well, more like they want us, because of what we have."
"Really?" I coughed. "It's not because he's just wicked? It's not because he's brutal? Last I heard, he's a bad King, and it's time this country moves from one argument to fucking democracy—it's the 21st century, right?" I chuckled.
The Void said nothing. She just bluntly stared at me.
I looked to Kyla and Hank and found similar stares on them.
"Not exactly." Hank shook his head. "People from outside view him differently. People from inside look at him very, very much differently as well. It's night and day—the reality of things here and the way it's told from an outsider's perspective. But of course, I would expect you to understand, Little Miss England."
He poked me on the shoulder, laughing and waving off the serious matter.
But I wanted to sit on it. I wanted to hear—or rather, make them see.
And who would have thought I had gained a heaven-sent defender of my honor?
My eyes widened.
No one needed to tell me who it was. His voice was so distinct, so deep, so filling, that as soon as I heard the first word, I knew the King was there—and I knew he had heard me.
Fuck. I was in trouble yet again. But this time, it would seem to be real.