The Royal Proposal

The clink of the porcelain was the most beautiful sound in my world. Jimmy, my son, my only child, my little bird, poured the jasmine tea with a concentration that bordered on the sacred. His slender fingers, pale and long like his father’s, but without the coldness, wrapped around the pot’s handle. He loved this. Playing servant. Anticipating my every need before I even knew I had it. A cushion for my back before I could feel the ache in my spine, a refill of my goblet before the last sip had grown warm. He was nineteen, but in these moments, he was my little boy again, and the world was as it should be.

“Thank you, my sweet,” I boomed, my voice filling the morning room, rattling the chandelier crystals just a little. It’s a loud voice. It always has been. Harold used to say it could strip paint. But to me, it’s the sound of life. My own life, lived fully.

Jimmy smiled, a small, fleeting thing, before his gaze dropped to the rug. He set the teapot down with another delicate clink and started to fuss with the fold of a napkin, a deep furrow etching itself between his brows.

“James,” I said, using his full name, the one that demanded attention. He flinched, just a tiny bit, and looked up. “What is it? You’ve got a shadow over you today. Come, sit. Tell Mama.”

He hesitated, then perched on the edge of the ottoman near my feet, a proper supplicant. He was so small. Not a child, but slender and short, a willow next to my oak. I could have scooped him up and held him in my lap, and often wished I still could.

“Nothing. It’s nothing, Mother. I’m fine. How are you?” he said, a little too quickly, the cheer in his voice just a tad too obvious. I found myself pleased with the fact that he was such a terrible liar, it meant I never had to guess what was in his heart.

“Is it the treasury reports? Those dreary ministers with their dreary numbers?” I took a loud slurp of my tea. Delicious.

“No, it’s… Lady Elara came by with her mother this morning,” he said at last, his expression curdling.

Ah. The fog cleared. “The Earl of Mar’s girl? The pretty little red-head?”

“Yes.” He picked at a loose thread on his tunic. “Her family… they’re proposing a marriage.”

Proposing… ‘a marriage?’ No, he meant proposing a marriage TO him. My poor boy was so distressed he had to use the passive voice to describe his own betrothal.

I leaned forward, the chair groaning in protest under my shift in weight. “And? What is so terrible about Lady Elara to put such a frown on my son’s pretty face? She’s from a good family. She has a sweet face. A bit quiet, perhaps…”

Jimmy looked up at me then, and a genuine giggle escaped him. It was a high, light sound, like wind chimes. “She’s too short, Mother.”

I blinked. Then I threw my head back and laughed, a great, bellowing laugh that shook my whole body. “Too short! Oh, my darling! That’s the worst you can say of her? A deficiency in height?”

He was smiling now, the shadow lifting. “She comes up to about here,” he said, holding a hand to his own chest. “I’d have to stoop over just to hold her hand.”

“Well, we can’t have that. Dreadful posture for a king.” I grinned at him, warming to the game. “And what of Lady Beatrice? The Duke of Atherton’s daughter? She’s tall enough, a veritable beanpole.”

Jimmy’s nose crinkled. “Too skinny. All angles and sharp points. Like hugging a sack of kindling.”

“A vivid, if unflattering, image. And Lady Catherine? She’s got a lovely figure, and a pleasant, melodic voice.”

He shook his head slowly. “Too… quiet. Too passive. She just smiles and agrees with everything anyone says. It’s like talking to a very pretty mirror. I’d have no idea what she actually thought about anything.”

A warmth began to bloom in my chest, separate from the tea. “So you want a wife who is tall and solid, with opinions, and a voice that can be heard?”

He nodded eagerly. “Yes. Someone who knows her own mind. Someone assertive. Like…”

He trailed off, but I didn’t need him to finish the sentence. The warmth in my chest flared into a sudden, blinding sun.

*Like you*, his unfinished sentence screamed in the sudden silence of my mind.

I looked at him, really looked. At the adoration shining in his hazel eyes as they rested on me. I thought back over his litany of faults. Too short. Too skinny. Too quiet. Too passive. All the things I was not. I was tall. I was gloriously, substantially plump. My voice was a force of nature. My will was iron, my opinions were legion, and I was about as passive as a stampeding bull. I was the measuring stick. And every eligible lady in the kingdom was, in his eyes, coming up short against… me.

For a single, horrifying moment, the sun in my chest went cold. A shard of ice, Harold’s voice, lodged itself in my heart. *What have you done, Annie? What have you made of your son?*

Did I do this? Did I wear gowns cut too low in my widowhood, seeking the comfort of admiring eyes, even if they were his? Did I hold our goodnight hugs a beat too long, breathing in the scent of his hair, the only safe male scent in my world? Did I love him too fiercely, too completely, filling the void his father left with a devotion that should have been shared with a wife of his own?

The questions swirled, a nauseating maelstrom of guilt. And then, just as quickly as it came, the cold receded, burned away by that fierce, protective sun.

No.

The thought was absolute, a granite foundation beneath my feet. No.

My love for Jimmy was not a mistake. It was the one pure, untainted, glorious thing in my entire life. It was the only warmth in a cold castle, the only light in the long, dark years of Harold’s contempt. My love for Jimmy was good. It was right.

If other women were disappointing him, it was *their* fault. It was their failing that they could not measure up to the standard of love and companionship I had shown him. It was the world’s failing, for producing such pale, flimsy imitations of womanhood. Not mine.

And as I looked at my son, my sweet, shy, perfect boy, another thought followed, this one suffused with a selfish, wonderful relief. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to him yet. Marriage would take him away. It would give him to some simpering, short, skinny little thing who wouldn’t appreciate the gift of him, who wouldn’t understand his quiet soul, who wouldn’t let him serve.

Harold.

His ghost drifted into my mind then, unbidden. I saw his sneer as he looked at me across the dinner table, his eyes sliding over my form as if I were a piece of unsightly furniture. He’d preferred them slender, those concubines of his, all sharp hipbones and trembling submissiveness, women who looked at him with wide, adoring eyes and agreed with every vapid thought that crossed his mind. My height, my presence, my voice, my opinions—they weren’t just unappealing to him. They were repulsive. A bother. He wanted a simpering sycophant, not a queen. He wanted a echo, not a voice.

And here sat my son. My son. Who adored the very things his father despised. The parts of me Harold rejected—my commanding height, my comfortable girth, my loud, assertive, living, breathing *self*—were the very same qualities that Jimmy cherished. He didn’t love me in spite of who I was. He loved me *because* of it.

I was his ideal. His only ideal.

“Mother?” Jimmy’s soft voice broke through my reverie. “Are you alright?”

I reached out and took his small, cool hand in my large, warm one. I wanted to pull him into my lap. I wanted to wrap myself around him and never let go. “I’m perfect, my love. I was just thinking.”

Just then, the great oak door to the morning room swung open, and a stuffy-looking footman cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, Prince James. The Chancellor requests an immediate audience regarding the trade negotiations with the Northern Isles. He says it’s urgent.”

Jimmy’s face fell, the shadow returning. He looked at me, a silent apology in his eyes, and began to rise.

I wanted to hold his hand tighter. I wanted to yank him back down, to shout at the footman to go away, to tell the Chancellor and his dreary trade routes to go hang. But I couldn’t. Not yet. He was still a prince. He still had duties. He still had a life that was not solely, completely, mine.

He squeezed my hand once, a tiny, fleeting pressure, and then he was gone, following the footman out the door. The room felt empty. The warmth from the tea was gone. I was alone with the thunderous, world-altering idea that was beginning to take shape in my mind.

Marriage to me was impossible. The law, the church, the entire world would scream against it. But even if it were possible, it wouldn’t be enough. Marriage would just be a ceremony. He would still be a prince. He would still be heir to a throne he had no appetite for. He would still face a lifetime of choices he’d flinch at, demands he’d shrink from, duties that would call him away from my side, that would burden his gentle mind even when he was with me. The crown would crush him. It was a heavy, spiked, iron thing, and his skull was too thin.

Perhaps it wasn’t too late to toughen him up. He idolized me, followed my every word. But I didn’t want to push him in that way. I loved the man he was today, not the person he could be twisted into in order to fit a role he didn’t want.

But what role did he want?

I sat in the silent room for a long time, the idea growing, solidifying, gaining weight and beauty until it was no longer just a thought. It was a solution. A perfect, gleaming, radical solution to every single one of our problems.

The next day, I summoned him to my private solar. No servants. No interruptions. Just me, and him, and the crackling fire.

He entered hesitantly, his eyes scanning the room for a task, a teapot, a cushion. “You wanted to see me, Mother?”

“Sit, Jimmy.” I gestured to the chair opposite mine. He sat, his hands folded in his lap, waiting. He was always waiting, for me to tell him what to do, what to think, what to be.

“I have a few important questions for you,” I said, my voice gentle for once, a low rumble instead of a roar.

“More important questions, my favorite,” he said. He was deflecting with a joke, which I knew was a silent plea to talk about anything else, a plea I was about to ignore. Hopefully, I thought, this would be the last time he would ever need to attend to serious matters.

“They are important. And I need you to answer me with complete honesty. Can you do that?”

He nodded, his eyes wide and trusting.

“First. What do you love best about being a prince?”

The question caught him off guard. A practiced, polite smile flickered onto his lips. “Everything!” he exclaimed, a little too quickly, a little too brightly. It was the automatic answer of a boy trained from birth to be grateful for his gilded cage.

I met his gaze, and held it. I didn’t smile back. I just waited. The cheery facade didn’t just fade; it crumbled. His eyes dropped, his shoulders slumped, and the small, sad truth of him was revealed.

“…nothing,” he whispered. His voice was so faint, so choked, it was barely a breath. A half-choked sob.

My heart clenched, not with sorrow, but with a fierce, righteous joy. I was right. He hated it. He was miserable.

“There must be something you look forward to,” I pressed, gently. “Being a husband, perhaps? A father? One day, a king?”

He shook his head, a tiny, miserable movement. “No. No, none of that.” He finally looked up at me, and his eyes were swimming with a desperate, vulnerable light. “I look forward to visiting with you. Preparing your tea. Hearing about your day. Sitting with you while you read. Just… passing the time with you, Mother. That’s all. That’s the only part of any day I truly want.”

The words were a balm, a confirmation, a key turning in a lock. The final piece.

I leaned forward, my voice dropping to an intimate hush. “Jimmy. If you could marry me, would you?”

A violent blush erupted across his pale cheeks, painting them a brilliant crimson. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Answer me,” I commanded softly. “Truthfully.”

He swallowed, his adams-apple bobbing in his slender throat. Then, so quietly I had to strain to hear, he whispered, “Yes. I would marry you.”

I didn’t smile. I held his gaze, letting the weight of his confession settle between us. Then, I spoke the words that would change everything.

“What if I told you I have an idea that’s even better than marriage?”

He blinked, confused. “Better?”

“Marriage would mean we’re together,” I began. At this, his eyes sparkled, so brightly and so eagerly that I lost myself in them, and nearly forgot my train of thought. Only the glint of his crown, in the candlelight, brought me back to my senses and reminded me of my purpose.

“But… you’d still be a prince, eventually, a king. You’d still have a kingdom to rule, heirs to produce, a council to answer to. They’d still take you away from me. They’d still put that heavy crown on your head and crush the happiness right out of you. We’d have moments together, snatched between duties, but they’d never be enough.”

His face fell again, seeing the truth in my words. The hope that had flickered for a second died.

“Jimmy, my love. My son. What if there was a way for you to give it all up? The crown, the throne, the duties, the expectations, the whole miserable, heavy world of being a prince? What if you could renounce it all, and belong only to me?”

I rose from my chair, and it creaked a little with my weight. My hips also gave the slightest groan as made my way towards him. I could have heard those sounds as signs I was too big, too old, but instead I chose to hear them as the world trumpeting in celebration of what I was about to do.

I walked over to him, my large frame blocking the firelight, casting him in my shadow. Then, slowly, with a grace I didn’t know I possessed, I lowered myself. I got down on one knee before him. The carpet was soft, the position awkward for my bulk, but it was perfect. I was proposing.

I took his small, limp hand in both of mine. I looked up into his bewildered, beautiful face.

His breath hitched. I squeezed his hand.

“What if you became my eunuch servant?”

The words hung in the air, shimmering with a strange and potent light.

“You could spend every moment of every day with me. Serving me. That’s what makes you happy, isn’t it? Pouring my tea, arranging my cushions, being near me. As a eunuch, there would be no council meetings, no trade negotiations, no foreign brides. No crown, no throne, no need for heirs. Nothing would ever distract you from me, or me from you. We would live for each other, and only for each other, all day, every day. We would be closer than any mother and son, any husband and wife, any two people have ever been.”

I saw the idea take root in his mind, saw the dawning comprehension, the wonder, the desperate, aching hope.

“So I’m asking you, James. My son. My heart. My everything.” I took a deep, steadying breath, my voice ringing clear and true in the quiet room. “Will you be my eunuch servant?”

For a moment, he was utterly still. Then, a smile broke over his face, not the small, fleeting thing I was used to, but a wide, radiant, ecstatic smile that lit him from within. It was the smile of a prisoner seeing the sun for the first time in years.

“Yes,” he breathed.

I shook my head, smiling up at him. “Say it again. Louder,” I said. It was asked playfully, but in truth, I was asking because I still couldn't believe my own ears.

“Yes!” he said, his voice stronger.

“Again!”

“YES!” he almost shouted, and then he was laughing, a full, joyous, uninhibited laugh, and tears were streaming down his face. “Yes, yes, yes! Oh, Mother, yes! Please! Please, I want to! I want to be yours, only yours, forever!”

I was still on my knee. He knelt down too - lower than I could go, and rested his little head on my knee.

“Yes,” he whispered at last. “I beg you, please. Yes.”

The soft words somehow sank in when the loud shouts didn’t.

I held him tight against my chest, feeling his body shake with sobs of pure, unadulterated relief. I stroked his hair, my own eyes wet with tears of triumph.

“Shh, my love. It’s alright. Mama’s going to take care of everything.”

The ceremony was held that very night, in my private chambers. Just the two of us.

I wore my wedding dress. The one Harold had barely glanced at on our wedding day. The ivory silk still flowed over my curves like a river of moonlight. I had my hair done. I put on my finest jewels. I was a bride.

Jimmy wore a simple white tunic I had chosen for him. He looked like a sacrificial lamb, pure and beautiful and terrified and thrilled.

We stood before the fireplace, the flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. I had written vows for us.

“Jimmy,” I said, my voice strong and clear. “I, Annie, your mother, take you, Jimmy, my son, to be my eunuch servant. To have and to hold, from this day forward. I vow to be your sole purpose, your only love, your entire world. I vow to protect you from all the duties and expectations that have ever caused you pain. I vow to keep you by my side, in my service and in my heart, all the days of my life.”

His voice, when he spoke, was steady, clear, and true. “I, Jimmy, your son, take you, Annie, my mother, to be my queen. I vow to forsake all others. I forsake my title as prince. I forsake my duty to the crown. I forsake the very idea of a life that is not spent in your service. I give myself to you, completely and forever. All the days of my life.”

We didn’t need a priest. Our love was the only sacrament required. He leaned in and gave me a tentative peck. His lips were shy, but in his eyes I saw a fierce and beautiful hunger. I leaned forward, held his back as I made him dip low, then gave him a real kiss. It wasn’t just beyond a mother’s kiss, it went beyond a lover’s kiss. It was a seal. A brand. A promise. He breathlessly shivered and squealed, and when I finally pulled back, he wear wearing the biggest smile I’d ever seen - bigger and grander than any crown in any kingdom in the world.

Then came the certificate. I had drafted it myself. It was a legal document, a renunciation of his title and all claims to the throne. It was our marriage license.

Prince Jimmy, heir to the throne of our kingdom, hereby freely and willingly renounces his title, his birthright, and all claims to the crown. From this day forward, he is no longer a prince. He belongs, body and soul, to his mother, Queen Annie, to serve her as her eunuch servant for the rest of his natural life.

He signed it “Jimmy,” without a title. He was no longer Prince Jimmy. He was just Jimmy. My Jimmy. I signed it as a witness. I rolled it up and tied it with a white ribbon.

Now came the final, most sacred part of the ceremony, as we walked to the edge of the room together. Jimmy reached into his pocket and threw a little handful of rice into the air with each step.

He finally glanced at the table I had prepared, the shimmering silver instruments, then back up at me.

He nodded, his throat working as he swallowed. “Will it hurt?”

“Yes,” I said, honestly. “But I will be with you. And the pain will pass. And then there will only be us.”

He lay down on the table, his slight frame making it look enormous. I pulled down his pants. What a wedding night this was turning out to be, I thought. Then I tied his hands and feet loosely with soft silk cords. It wasn’t to restrain him, but to comfort him. To let him know he was in my care.

I picked up a clean cloth and a small vial. “This is a tincture of poppy. It will dull the pain and make you sleepy. Drink.”

He obediently opened his mouth, and I let the bitter liquid fall onto his tongue. I waited, stroking his hair, humming a lullaby I used to sing to him when he was a baby. Gradually, his eyes became heavy-lidded.

When I judged the time was right, I picked up the knife. It felt cool and heavy in my hand. I looked down at my son, my Jimmy, his body bared and vulnerable before me.

I thought of the first time I held him, a squalling, bloody bundle placed in my arms. I had cut his cord then, severing the physical tie that bound him to me, allowing him to become his own person. Now, I was doing the reverse. I was cutting away the part of him that could ever belong to anyone else, binding him back to me in a way that could never, ever be undone.

It was a sacred act. An act of ultimate love.

I was precise. I was careful. I was his mother. The knife was sharp, and my hand was steady. There was blood, of course. But I was prepared. I cleaned and stitched and salved, my large, capable hands working with a gentleness I didn’t know I possessed.

Through it all, he drifted, lost in the poppy’s haze. He whimpered once or twice, and I shushed him, my voice a soft, constant presence in the room. “It’s alright, my darling. I’m here. Mother’s here. It’s almost over.”

When it was done, I cleaned him and myself, and wrapped him in soft, clean bandages. I removed the silk cords from his wrists and ankles. Then I sat on a stool beside the table, took his limp, cool hand in mine, and waited.

He slept for a long time. I watched him, my heart so full it ached. I watched the rise and fall of his chest. I watched the color slowly return to his cheeks. I watched him, and I thought about the future. Our future. Mornings with his head on my knee. Afternoons with him reading to me. Evenings with him preparing my tea. A lifetime of peaceful, perfect, undisturbed devotion.

Finally, his eyelids fluttered. He looked up at me, his blue eyes hazy but clear.

“Mother?” His voice was a dry whisper.

I leaned over him, my face filling his vision. “I’m here, my love.”

He tried to move, and a flicker of pain crossed his face. Then, a look of realization. A new sensation. He looked down at himself, then back at me. My always ironclad confidence began to show cracks. Would there be a pang of regret, I wondered? Would he resent me for encouraging him to talk down this road? Would he forever mourn what I had just took from him?

“Is it done?” he asked.

“It is done,” I said.

A slow, beautiful smile spread across his face. It was the smile of a soul finally at peace. “I’m yours,” he whispered.

“You are,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. I leaned down and pressed a long, tender kiss to his forehead. I could feel the faint dampness of his skin, smell the clean, sterile scent of the room mixed with the earthy smell of him. My son.

I pulled back and looked at him, this perfect, precious creature I had brought into the world and had now, in a very real way, brought back into my world. Permanently.

“I am so proud of you, Jimmy,” I said, my voice strong and true. “And I am so, so happy.”

He tried to take another step towards me, and from the wince, I could see he was still in pain.

“You shouldn’t be on your feet until you’ve rested,” I insisted.

“But how will we get back…” Jimmy began. But this time, I didn’t have to think, worry, or plan. This time I knew, instinctively, exactly what I needed to do.

I scooped him up in my arms and carried him. I was now the groom and Jimmy the blushing bride. What I’d recently taken from him was only an ounce or two, but I swear, he felt lighter in my arms than I could have ever imagined.

I carried him over the threshold into the bedroom, and laid him down on the bed. He smiled again, a sleepy, contented smile, and closed his eyes. I kissed his forehead, and
I held his hand, watching him drift back to sleep. The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The world outside this small, white room continued to spin, full of its noisy, pointless demands. But in here, there was only peace. Only us.

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