Princess

 Shushing noises filled the hallway. Skirts and slippers brushing the stones as she walked. Her hands flexing and relaxing, pinching the sides of the fabric. Her head was high, her hair hung loosely down her back. The dress was soft to the touch, worn more in some places where her fingers picked when she worried. A thin bronze band was settled onto her forehead. It was weightless, and he'd worn it so often, she barely noticed it anymore. Today, however, it seemed to weigh more than it ever had before. 

The walls were lined in tapestries, displaying the achievements of the past. A war here, a hunt there. She kept walking, the thought creeping back into her mind, questioning the worth of it all. Questioning the worth of her own position. 

She stopped at the double doors at the end of the hall and adjusted her skirt. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and the nodded to the doormen. They opened the doors for her, pulling them inward and she stepped through them. Her pace was different from how it had been in the hall. Her face held strength and dignity, her lips carried the touch of a smile. She looked straight ahead as she walked slowly through the room toward the dais where her father sat. He nodded to her and waited for her to settle on the throne just below his. She adjusted her skirts, then looked up at him and nodded. He smiled at her, the smile comforting, proud, and full of love. She breathed it in, allowing it to fill her. 

The room began to fill with conversation and hubbub again as the first petitioner came forward. Whisperings lined the walls. They seemed to hang in the air, flitting from one ear to another before being absorbed by the walls of the throne room. She wondered what stories these walls held. The depravity they'd seen. The hope they'd witnessed. 

She reined herself in and focused on the man on his knee before her father. He was requesting aid at his farm. It had been raided by brigands the night before. They had taken a horse and a cow. He had had to walk here. She clenched her fists in her skirts. The injustice of it all filled her with frustration. She took a deep breath and released the anger. Her father nodded to her and let her answer the man. She apologized for his loss, and promised that the brigands would be tracked down. She also sent him to the treasurer to provide funds to help cover the giant hole this would leave in his livelihood. She prayed it wouldn't harm his family, and knew her meager offering would not be nearly enough, although the gratefulness that shown in his eyes told her he was thankful regardless. The frustration that emotion hid broke her heart, as she could picture his family in her minds' eye.

The next petitioner stepped forward, this time a monk. His request was full of pain and injustice. A story of fields burning, a chapel being burned to the ground. People dying. She took her time in answering this one, phrasing her response carefully. Her father's gaze was on her, and she knew it. She kept herself in check for the man, but her mind was already whirring. Someone needed to go look into this problem. The solution was tantalizing, but she couldn't slip. Wouldn't slip. 

Breathe. Keep cool. Answer and move on. Take notes for what will need to be done later. Done to help people. To get around the corrupt court that was still filling the room with whispers.

The next petitioner stepped forward.

Glances from the women. Cutting looks like glass. Lecherous looks from the men. Knights with eyes that linger too long. Ignore them. Breathe. Focus. Answer. Be kind. Move on.

The next petitioner stepped forward.

Guards shift change. Exchange acknowledgement with the new ones. Address this new problem. No fidgeting. No moving. Keep reactions to a micro level. Submit to the king. 

The next petitioner stepped forward. 

Listen. Comfort. Pay attention to the room at large. Participate in the dance between ruler and subject. Acknowledge their needs and offer what you can. Pass them on to where there is help. Address the next one. Keep it up until the line dwindles and the king rises to his feet, announcing dinner.

She stood after her father and accepted his arm. She joined him in walking through the side door below the dais. They left the room and entered the small hall between the throne room and the mead hall. He stopped her there as the door closed. They paused in the small room, only a handful of paces long. He held her at arms-length and smiled at her, kingly demeanor dropping for the moment they're alone. His smile is that of a proud father, and then he pulls her into a hug. He holds her for a moment, letting his daughter lean on his strength, before they break the hug and step back into their roles. He pauses her before they go into the next room, arresting her with a touch. 

"I know you've made mental notes on issues you will follow up on personally," he said quietly. "I learned long ago not to try to stop you, or to ask too many questions. As your king, I ask for no details and remain in ignorance. As your father, I ask that if you're doing this to be careful, to be safe, and trust carefully."

She nodded and hugged his arm a little. She would be meeting with her compatriots again after the meal. Her father knew it. She knew he knew it. It was the thing she could do to serve her people. If the best way to do so while she was in this position was grow to be the strong leader they needed, she would do that. If another way was to join the "reprobates" in the woods for another evening, then she would set her crown and gown aside, leave her slippers in exchange for boots, and strap her knife to her belt instead of hanging it in a secret sheath under her skirt.