Heir to the Realm

Transcribed by Charity

Through the trees and up the rope ladder. Where was she? Where was that dazzling creature that had cast her spell over him like a net, in that fervent first meeting only days before? John had dressed, prepared himself, ran rakish fingers through lanky blond curls. He desired to make a good impression... yes, there she was! Inside a woven bower of brush and leaves that made up a charming nook.

She looked up, and although for a moment a look of irritation surfaced, it was wiped away in a dazzling smile that broke forth like sunlight through the clouds. "You came back," she said softly, almost disbelieving. "Why?"

John rested a hand upon the structure, his playful countenance warm and welcoming as she lay aside her book. Honesty, he decided, would be the safest course. "I wanted to see you again," he quipped, and her face drew together almost forcefully, as if she had to intimidate herself into a look of condensation.

"I should be very angry with you." Her tone was firm, and yet those eyes... haunting him, teasing him without meaning to... enjoying his company, he was sure of it. 

"And are you?" 

The smile again broke through and she shook her head helplessly. "I don't know," she admitted freely. "I haven't decided yet." She watched as he carefully approached, sitting down beside her in the nook. After a moment, he edged closer, and leaned forward, as if to brush his lips against her cheek. Like a frightened deer, she bolted, biting back tears, trying to calm herself with a trembling hand. John rose involuntarily behind her.

"What is it?"

She turned to him, tears already staining the flaxen cheeks, the brown eyes doubtful and penitent. "You don't know," she said softly, "how much danger you're in."

What danger could exist in this fantasy world, ruled by such a magnificent queen? "I don't care," he said gently, terrified that she would flee. "I want to talk to you and get to know you better."

"You can't!" The outburst was unexpected, and frightened even Lorna. "When you know more," she softly digressed, "you'll hate me."

"Why would I hate you?" John asked in surprise. What evil could emerge from this creature's soul? Nothing but glimmering shafts of light!

"Because!" her tone was forceful, for it had been pulled from her, "I am a Doone!" Her anger intensified, half in tears as he stepped back in something akin to horror. "They call me their queen. I am heir to this little realm of violence!" 

John looked as though he had been struck violently across the face. His eyes, disbelieving, desiring her to recant and say it was no true; his soul battling with violent memories -- his father at Porlock, murdered by a Doone. The cold stare of the brutal Carver, the harsh tones of Sir Ensor who had sent them away when they begged for justice. Lorna sensed his apprehension, and in a tearful but plain tone, asked, "Now will you go?" Something desired to stay, but the truth, the pain, the pressing memories, were too much and he bolted. Bolted into the wood, away from that little nook and the raven princess who became lost behind him in her own tears.