Keep Your Head Up
Book: TRR/TRH Post-series
Word count: ~2325
Song Inspo: "Keep Your Head Up, Princess" - Anson Seabra
Warning: fairly fluffy (no one dies!); tiny sprinkles of angst, mentions of bullying
A/N: I am participating in week 21 of @choicesflashfics prompt challenge! I chose prompt #2: "I look at you and my heart breaks because all I see is loneliness.” The prompt will be in bold.
A/N 2: Most of the characters and some of the plot points belong to our friends at Pixelberry. Please excuse my errors! Also, if you are curious about Royal Roulette: it's a fun little challenge you can do anytime for yourself! Take your music and hit mix! Take the first song that pops up, and use it as a muse for a fic! No need to credit me, but do tag me if you do it because I LOVE reading other RR!
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"Where is she?" Liam grits his teeth, frantically glancing around the ballroom before turning back to his head guards. A strangled-growl drips from his words, a crimson hue coating his vision. "Can anyone tell me where the hell she went?"
Not waiting for an answer, he pushes open the heavy, ornate double doors to exit the ballroom before bounding down the side corridor that leads to the grand staircase. Each step he takes becomes quicker, angrier, and despite being in full regalia, his walk becomes a run. Once he reaches the living quarters of the palace, he takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches her room. And he knocks softly.
When she doesn't answer, he raps against the polished wood once more. "Love?" But again, she doesn't answer.
He sighs, his jaw ticking, knowing that he needs to speak with her. To hug her. To hold her.
To tell her that he loves her.
He turns the doorknob, inviting himself into her room; but upon entry, he notices the darkened room is empty. Her bed is still made, her belongings untouched.
He lets out a heavy sigh, turning on his heel to search elsewhere– that is until he hears the soft rustle of taffeta from the large, oak wardrobe on the far end of the room.
A smirk grows across his face as he saunters to the closet. Of course, she would pick this as her hiding place. Her favorite book was The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe from C. S. Lewis's The Chronicles of Narnia. Staying quiet, he cautiously approaches, leaning in closely, just to verify he heard correctly.
And suddenly, a breath hitches as a quiet, almost inaudible sob continues.
And the fibers of his heart begin to splinter, shattering into a million shards on the ground.
He thought he could protect her and shield her from the snide comments and hateful glares. The judgment from the public was bad enough, but the turned up noses and undercut statements made by nobles could be relentless. Seeing her bright light and contagious laughter stolen at the ruthless words of bullies seeped a new level of sadness into his heart.
He gently taps on the door of the wardrobe. And instantly, the movement stops, retreating back into hiding. "It's me," he softly whispers, "Daddy."
After a brief, silent pause, the hatch unlocks, the door swinging open to reveal six-year-old Eleanor tucked in the corner underneath her winter coats. Her pink ball gown is scrunched up around her body as she hugs her knees, her trusty stuffed lion Fabian under her arm for cuddles. Her freckled, cherub face is swollen and blotchy, wet from her tears. Her hair remains in a blonde French braid with pink jeweled barrettes, fixed by her mother for the evening.
"Eleanor?" Liam quietly crawls onto the floor, pulling his ankle under his knee to crisscross his long legs. He takes a deep breath, his crystal gaze matching hers as she coyly watches him like a frightened animal. "What's wrong, Squirt?"
A large tear slopes down her nose as she tucks her head lower into her arms. She remains silent.
Liam gently clears his throat. "Why aren't you down at the Baron's ball?" Again, the young princess remains quiet except for her rhythmic sniffles.
He turns his attention to her feet, noticing her beloved pair of black Converse high tops. And he can't help but smile. Gosh, he loves his girl.
Eleanor has always marched to the beat of her own drum. She showed interest in so many different things, playing with both dolls and toy cars, eager to play soccer and climb trees while also hosting tea parties and playing in her mom's makeup. She was rough and tumble, but loved glitz and glam. She wasn't too fond of wearing heavy, itchy ball gowns, but when Riley suggested she wear her Chuck Taylors like a comfort item, their daughter couldn't wait for the next royal function.
That event was tonight.
"Princess," he sighs, "I look at you and it breaks my heart because all I see is loneliness. I want to make whatever this is better, but I can't unless you talk to me." When she doesn't budge, Liam glances back to her high-tops, and remembers she was debuting them tonight. He taps on them. "Did you show your friends your cool sneakers?"
Eleanor looks up with a scowl before putting her head back down. "They're not cool," she cries.
Liam's eyebrows furrow with curiosity. "What do you mean they're not cool?" He reaches over and grabs her foot, playfully inspecting the shoe. "These look pretty cool to me, but then again–" he tickles her knee, "--I think the person wearing them makes them the coolest shoe ever."
Eleanor looks up with a pitiful smile, wiping at her face with her arm. Her brilliant blue eyes match her father's, more ablaze from being red with irritation. She quickly climbs out of her corner, and reaches for her dad; but before her arms could reach him, he was already pulling her into his own embrace. She clings tightly to his neck as his large hands rub endearing circles on her back.
"They said they were stupid."
"What?" Liam looks down as his daughter readjusts to sit in his lap. "Who said your shoes were stupid?"
"The other girls," she holds out her feet, knocking the toes of her shoes together. "They said that real princesses don't wear boy shoes."
"And how would they know? You're the only princess in that ball." He boops her nose causing her face to scrunch with a genuine smile. "Uh, Squirt, where are your glasses?"
Her elation died at her dad's words. "I don't want to wear 'em, Daddy."
Liam extends his arm into the wardrobe, pulling out the purple bifocals, holding them out in his hands. "Why not?"
"'Cause…" she fidgets with her skirt, "I'm not pretty with them on."
"Squirt," he places his finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. "It's impossible for you to not be pretty. In fact," he smooths out her dress before pushing back a gold wisp of hair. "You are the prettiest girl I know."
"Daddy," she bashfully singsongs.
"What?" He sits up a little taller. "I know these things. I am a king." He chuckles. "Now, about these glasses–"
"--I don't want to wear them."
"But they look so pretty on you, Eleanor," he unfolds the glasses, offering them to her.
"They give me four eyes. And-and I don't want four eyes, Daddy! What if they turn into five… or six?" She drags her fingers down her cheeks.
Liam titters to himself. "Who told you glasses give you 'four eyes'?"
She crosses her arms. "Stupid boys."
"Eleanor," Liam warns, "you know we don't say words like that about others."
She pouts harder, slumping in her father's lap.
"Let me show you something," Liam points to her eyes. "You have one… two eyes right here, but you need glasses to help you see, right?" She nods. "These," he looks at the eyewear in his hands, "are like having another set of eyes. See?" He points to each lens, "three... Four."
"Oh!" A wave of understanding crawls across Eleanor’s face. "Four eyes!"
"Right," Liam snickers, placing an endearing hand around her back. "People say it to try to be rude, but honestly, all they're pointing out is that you wear glasses. That's it."
"Oh," Eleanor considers her father's words before continuing. "But they said I was ugly in them. And I don't want to be ugly, Daddy."
"Hrmmm," Liam thoughtfully looks at her glasses, and then slips the small pair on his face. Clearly made for a child, the eyewear pinches tightly at his nose and across his temples. "Am I ugly?"
"No," Eleanor giggles, holding a hand over her mouth.
"But, I thought these glasses make people ugly–"
"Daddy!" She squeals, "you're being silly!"
Liam chuckles, hearing her laugh again. He takes off the glasses, cleaning them off against his shirt. "Eleanor, do you know why princesses wear crowns?"
"Because they're princesses," she answers proudly. "And crowns are pretty."
Liam reaches over to a wooden chest next to the wardrobe that is filled with costumes, play clothes and accessories. He pulls out a plastic, gold crown with bright pink jewels glued around the band.
"Crowns," he continues, holding the toy crown in his hand, "help princesses keep their heads up."
"Nuh-uh!"
"Yeah, huh!" Liam jovially retorts. "See, some people can be very mean. And because you are a princess, you're an easy target for people to be mean. But do you know why they're mean?"
Eleanor innocently shakes her head, her attention glued to her father's words.
"They're mean because they're jealous."
"Jealous?"
"That's right," Liam nods. "You have something they don't have. It can be a pretty dress or a pretty smile," he pinches her cheek. "Sometimes it's simply because someone else hurt their feelings, and they want someone else to hurt, too. They're jealous of your happiness. They think that if they're mean, it will make them feel better."
Liam takes the toy crown and fixes it to her head. "Being part of the royal family means you have a lot more things, that you are given a lot more opportunities than people not born into nobility--which, you should never, ever be ashamed of. But we live our lives in the public eye, so people from around the world know how privileged we are."
Eleanor taps her finger on her lips, knitting her brows together. "So… they get jealous?"
"That's right, Squirt," his lips slowly curl. "They can."
"But, Daddy? It… it still hurts my feelings."
"I know it does, baby," he pulls her in close to his chest, "I know it does. But just remember: those mean words are not true." Liam looks up at the gaudy crown on his daughter's head. "So, that's why princesses wear crowns. That's why you wear a crown, Squirt. It's there to remind you that when people say mean, untrue things about you, keep your head up. Don't listen to them. You don't want your crown to–"
There's a sudden thud on the ground.
"Oops!" Eleanor’s hands fly up over her mouth as she looks at the plastic crown that slipped off her head, crashing to the floor.
Liam rolls his eyes before offering a kind expression towards his daughter. "Come here, Squirt." He wraps his arms around her, placing tender kisses in her hairline.
"Daddy?" She slides on her glasses. "Is it too late to go back to the ball?"
"Ehh," Liam shakes his wrist, his watch turning for him to read. "It looks like the night is over."
"Aww rats," Eleanor deflates, "Uncle Maxwell was going to play Baby Shark for us to dance to."
"Well," Liam stops, glancing down at his daughter. "Do you still want to dance?"
Eleanor’s eyes light up as she eagerly nods her head. She grabs her father's finger, guiding him to an open area of the room. "What should we do for music?"
"I've got an idea." Liam bends over, holding out his hands, curling his fingers into a C-shape with his thumb. "Ba…by… shark! Do-do-do-do!"
Eleanor squeals, joining in with her father singing and doing the hand motions. They both dance around the room, creating their own dance party they both would never forget.
------
Baron's Ball 10 Years Later…
The rubber soles of her Converse high-tops tap hypnotically against the polished ballroom floor. She anxiously chews on her nails as she watches the other noble children laugh and dance amongst the parents.
She had spent the better part of a day getting ready for the annual event: hair curled, pinned and hair-sprayed into place; make-up carefully fixed to the features of her classic beauty; her baby blue ball gown perfectly tailored to her budding womanly curves. But even though she felt beautiful, she remained nervous of facing the other kids, and she knew she would probably be left alone, no one wanting to dance with her.
Life for Eleanor didn't get easier at royal functions. The bullying and backhanded comments continued over the years. It hurt, but the desire to hide and cry became weaker and weaker as she remembered her father's words so long ago.
Keep your head up…
"May I have this dance?"
Eleanor’s pedal pink lips curl into a bright smile as she turns towards the familiar baritone voice. "Daddy, you said you were going to stay in the–"
"And miss the chance to dance with my beautiful daughter?" He beams.
A soft blush crawls across her cheeks as she takes his hand, following his lead to the dance floor. After a cordial bow, they begin to waltz, their feet gliding across the floor with ease.
"Thank you, Daddy."
"Oh, Squirt," he nervously titters, "someday you'll be queen, and these dances with you… well, they'll just be an old man's precious memory."
Eleanor scoffs. "I will always save a dance for you."
Liam laughs. "You might want to take that up with your husband. If he knows how much of treasure you are, he'll never let go–"
"Excuse me, your majesty?"
Liam and Eleanor stop at the timid voice, turning to see Bartie Beaumont mid-bow.
"Son?" Liam gives a curious, yet humored glare.
"I was wondering, that is, if it's okay with you… oh! And if it's okay with your daughter… um…" clearly nervous, the young man takes a cleansing breath as he wipes his palms against his slacks. "May I have this dance?"
Liam turns to his daughter, noticing her eye's brightening by the moment with anticipation. And he smiles. He takes her hand, guiding her closer for Bartie to take it. As they begin to bow, Liam clears his throat, making both Bartie and Eleanor freeze.
"I'm watching you, Beaumont."
"Y-yes, sir," Bartie swallows thickly.
"Daddy," Eleanor growls.
Liam takes his cue and begins to walk away–that is, until he turns around again. "And leave some room in between–"
"Daddy!"
~🖤~
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