Picture Perfect

She stood there, at her mother’s bedside, stone-faced. Dainty hands clenched in tight fists as she watched the cleric of Lucian, god of justice, draw a white sheet up over the queen’s ashen features. As a strong, reassuring hand fell on her shoulder, she spun on her heels and sprinted from the room.

“Isadora,” King Darius called after her.

Golden curls bounced wildly as she shook her head and raced down one corridor after another. At last, she skidded to a stop in front of the bubbling fountain at the center of the royal gardens. She dropped onto the cool stone edge, her delicate frame trembling. With every fiber of her being, she willed herself not to cry.

A lean figure entered the garden and stood in the shadow of the archway. He folded his arms over his chest and studied the princess.

“What would you have of my, my prince?” a voice behind him questioned.

The prince waved him off. “We leave for the Titans’ Guard immediately after Mother’s funeral.”

“Yes, my prince.”

Once certain his man was gone, the prince strode toward the fountain and plunked down beside his sister. He guided her head to rest against his shoulder. “We have to be strong, now. For father, and for our people.”

“I know,” she sniffed, still refusing to allow herself any tears. “When are you leaving?” Her steady gaze cut into him.

“I want to leave for the Titans’ Guard after the funeral,” he answered evenly.

Her head shot up and she glared at him fiercely. “Gordon, how could you?”

The prince held up his hands defensively. “I’ll be old enough within a fortnight. Father doesn’t need me getting under foot while he’s trying to help the kingdom recover from this loss. You’re far stronger than I am in this arena.”

She folded her arms over her chest and continued to glare. “Just because you’re the prince and heir to the kingdom doesn’t mean you should be running off when Father needs us both at his side.”

His eyebrows shot up. His hands raised defensively.

Isadora jumped to her feet and stomped from the gardens. She stalked to her rooms and made ready for the evening meal.

That night, the royal children sat flanking their father. Both wore dark garments.

The overall move was somber. There was little conversation. The bard strummed softly on his lute but did not sing along. No one danced after the meal. The nobles simply filtered out with nods and murmured condolences to the royal family.

Long after the staff had come and cleared the tables, Isadora sat beside her father. Straight-backed and silent, she stared off into nothingness and listened to him weep.

As the torches burned low and the magical lighting subsided, she placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Father, we should go.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

King Darius cleared his throat, straightened his robes, and stood. He offered his daughter his arm and the two departed the great hall.