Marching On

The halls and rooms were dark behind the exterior walls of Dronningens palæ. The Queen’s Palace was located far from the bustling, loud, intrusive city of Copenhagen.

Melted candles, some lit and some at the end of their life, littered every surface. There were giant candles standing alone and clusters of small candles that created the only light in the old mansion.

Unfinished paintings sat on antique furnishings and spare easels; the paint still wet. Some were nearly complete while others were marked with only a few brushstrokes.

The only modern light was coming from a television in the day room. The thick, patterned curtains hid the outside world. Books were pulled from their places and left in piles on the floor; a few had pages torn from them. Dozens of teacups were scattered around and filled with forgotten tea. Every pillow from every room had been stacked on the floor, in the center sat Lavin.

The confident Queen Lavinia was gone. In place of her was a frightened, depressed little girl who longed to be held in the arms of her father.

Her blonde hair was dull and unruly; her eyes red from immutable tears; her clothes and skin marked with paint.

A pale, cold hand extended from the pillows to grab the warm glass of wine from the hardwood floor. Lavin drank generously before replacing it.

The liquid burned her throat, gritty and raw. The taste was unfathomable, disgusting, but she could not resist the help it offered.

Her left hand was gripping the VCR remote. She rewound the video tape for the umpteenth time, taking only a few minutes to return to the beginning.

Lavin did not need to watch the video again; the images of herself and Harry were burned into her memory forever. But with a hard press of a button the Valentine’s Day video began to play once more.

Lavin clutched the blanket closer to her body and stared at the screen. Her cold heart banged noisily against its rib cage with deep longing as she watched the two people on the screen.

These two people were in love.

They were everything she wanted.

They used to be her and Harry.

She hugged her knees to her chest as she continued to watch, remembering everything as though it were yesterday:

Lavin grabbed the old Panavision video camera, the one that filmed in only black and white and held it to her eye.

She could feel her eye lashes bend against the rubbery plastic of the eye piece as she zoomed in on Harry, his head against the pillow.

“What do you want me to say to it?” Harry said, blinking into the opposite end of the camera, Lavin’s extended eye.

“Introduce yourself, if you want,” she said.

“Hello,” he started awkwardly. “I’m Harry.”

There was a pause, neither of them said anything. Lavin waited for Harry to continue while he tried to think of what else to say.

“Just Harry?” Lavin said, her grin just visible behind the camera.

He nodded. “Just Harry.”

Harry grabbed for the camera but Lavin pulled it out of his reach.

“Put it down,” he pleaded.

“No,” she answered. “I want to capture you on film forever.”

Lavin resituated, moving her bare legs under her bare bottom; the sheets falling away from her.

Harry stared at her now.

“Come here,” he whispered.

Lavin bit her lip, shaking her head. “No.” She grabbed the sheet that Harry covered himself in and slowly dragged it down his body, the camera following. His skin looked gritty on the ancient camera’s screen, but it looked solid and perfect to her.

She watched her hand move over his stomach in the eyepiece; his muscles contracted as her delicate fingers tickled.

“Enough,” Harry said, eyes closed.

“No,” Lavin told him, retracting her hand and moving it to the top of the camera.

She felt Harry’s hand on her leg, warm on her thigh as he began circling his thumb in large uneven motions.

Then Harry lifted himself up and reached for the camera again. “Let me see it, you should be the one on film.”

Harry’s face came very close just before he grabbed the camera.

Lavin paused it here.

Harry’s face was life-size now.

Lavin was on all fours; crawling towards the television and the frozen image of Harry. The blanket slid away from her body, exposing her bare legs that were marked with paint and unshaven.

She folded her legs under her when she was in front of him. Her eyes did not leave his face. They were inspecting it, and then her hand moved toward Harry. A gentle buzz sounded when her cold fingers touched the warm screen. Lavin traced the outline of his lips; caressed her hand down the side of his face; and tried to run her hand through his hair.

“Harry,” she muttered, her voice hardened and quiet.

Another swell of tears filled her eyes and took no time to overcome her. Her tiny body was wracked with sobs; she pressed her face against the television screen.

“Please… .”

She only wanted to be held; to be told that everything was going to be all right, that she could do this job and have Harry by her side.

But that would never happen.

Shortly after Fredrick passed Lavin had hope that he left a letter addressed to her. The letter, she imagined, would say that she was free to marry who she loves and that the Danish people would respect her choice no matter how long it took for them to have a married queen.

But Fredrick’s letter was never found. Lavin knew in the depths of her heart that such a letter did not exist.

Lavin fell asleep curled into a ball beneath the glow of the television. Hours later, she woke up with hair stuck to her face and sour breath. Her throat was dry; and even though there was the beginning of a headache her mind seemed to have cleared.

She stood, her legs shuttering beneath her. She clutched her stomach. The growl told her it finally needed something more than wine.

Lavin entered to the kitchen and flicked on the lights. Her eyes took a while to get used to the brightness and she found the fridge through squinted eyes.

She found nothing in the fridge but half-empty bottles of wine; but in the pantry she found a bowl of microwavable soup.

“What time is it?” Lavin asked out loud. Her voice echoed, and looking out the window she saw that it was dark.

Lavin needed to get to her phone.

She found it upstairs in her bedroom. There were no texts or calls from her family. They had all known of the two week break that she’d been given from duties. They knew where she was and knew she was safe; and that she was not to be bothered unless there was an emergency.

However, there was an email.

_____________________________________________________________

From: Tom Werth

To: Lavinia Denmark

Sent: Wed, Aug 31, 2011 5:21 pm

Subject: Labor Day Weekend

Dear Lavin,

Sorry it’s taken me so long to write you! I’ve been bogged down by work since I flew back to Boston. Things have finally slowed down, and just in time too.

But first, I really have to tell you how sorry I am about your father. He was an amazing man. I

Also, congratulations on the new job. I’m sure it’s been stressful!

But, back to ultimate reason I emailed. I was wondering if you were interested in coming to the Hamptons. Remember my parents’ beach house? That’s where we’ll be going. I've invited a bunch of our friends from college, and you could bring anyone you want or not. Totally up to you.

Everyone has said they’re coming, so far. We’ll spend Labor Day weekend (Friday-Monday) there.

Hope you can make it.

Look forward to hearing from you!

Yours,

Tom

_____________________________________________________________

Lavin was moved that Tom had thought to write her after her father’s death. But… . a holiday weekend in America?

She had six days left in her vacation.

“Why not?” Lavin said. “I deserve it.”

Lavin quickly typed a response.

_____________________________________________________________

From: Lavinia Denmark

To: Tom Werth

Sent: Sept 1, 2011 2:54 am

Subject: Re: Labor Day Weekend

Dearest Tom,

Thank you so much for taking the time out of your busy schedule to send me your condolences. My father’s absence is felt everywhere in our country and it has been a somewhat difficult transition for me to go from princess, to crown princess, to queen in the matter of a year.

However, I’d like to take you up on your offer. A vacation far away from home would do me wonders. I’ll get a flight and will probably arrive sometime in the afternoon, your time, on Friday.

Once again, thank you for including me in your plans and your thoughts. I look forward to catching up this weekend.

Yours,

Lavin

_____________________________________________________________

Lavin’s finger hovered above the ‘send’ button for a long moment.

Was this a smart thing to do?

Tom was trustworthy and so were her friends from college. She felt her heart warm at the thought of seeing everyone after all these years.

Maybe this was the smart thing to do… .

Get out of Denmark and into a country that had little to no clue who she was; to be anonymous without responsibilities would be a blissful respite from the Greek tragedy that had become her life.

And plus, Tom had been a perfect rebound before.