sixthiterationlogs | 001 👑 Salve Regina

Entry tags:

001 👑 Salve Regina

WHO: Elizabeth Windsor
WHERE: Fountain; Inn; garden behind the Inn
WHEN: 6 April - 8 April
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: None
STATUS: Yes

Domine salvum fac reginam

Elizabeth had arrived late in the afternoon on a day that wasn't terribly auspicious in any way at all. Given that her life of late had been more unsettled and undone than she'd like, she'd rather enjoyed that this was a day where she could settle in and have tea with her family and not have to concern herself with the nonsense going on outside her own four walls but, apparently, that was not meant to be. Having politely excused herself from tea with her mother and sister to go and see about her children (who were supposed to be having naps and were likely not, as the case usually went), she had not expected to find herself sputtering and flailing in a murky pool of water.

Her natural inclination was to shout, call for help, and that simply caused more water to sink down her throat and into her lungs causing them to burn. She'd learned to swim as a girl - first in small ponds and then, later, in the freezing waters of the oceans off Scotland. She could do this. Once she had her head about herself she pushed herself upward where it seemed there was light and gripped at the stone edges of this strange pool.

She coughed and sputtered, coughing up the water she'd swallowed, and pushed the mop of her wet hair off her brow in order to get her bearings. She didn't recognize the place. It certainly wasn't the palace or any of the associated gardens, places she'd known most of her young life, and the sun was brilliant and bright, almost warm against her skin.

"I don't think this is England," she said, half a whisper. A knapsack floated up beside her and without a second thought, Elizabeth plucked it out of the water. She had no idea what was in it but it could prove useful later and she was nothing if not practical.

et exaudi nos in die qua invocaverimus te.

After having made her way away from the fountain park and the fountain, Elizabeth eventually found her way along a road to an Inn. It was a simple place, to be certain, and was not in possession of a telephone or any electricity. It was all right. She'd done without before and had lived under heavy rationing during the wartime years so this would simply be another time of austerity. She wasn't too good for that. Unlike her sister, she had never really developed a craving for the finer things and while they were nice, they weren't the things that were necessary. She could be content with very little, so long as her family was taken care of and her people were all right.

The thought of her family, her children - it pained her every moment that she was away from them and she had to actively push it down and remind herself that even in her absence, they would want for nothing. They were children of a sitting sovereign, after all, and her son would ascend to king if the worst were to happen.

The only way to avoid that particular sort of brooding was to keep herself busy and so she had. She'd changed into dry clothing upon arriving at the Inn and set herself to any task that was asked of her - she'd lit fires, fed fires, helped prepare the morning and evening meals. She had dressed a chicken and set it to boil in a large pot on a wood-burning range and felt, for all the world, like she'd done something when she finally sank down in a chair before the fire and let out a little sigh of exhaustion.

Perhaps if she simply worked herself to the bone each and every day she wouldn't have the time to dwell upon her unique situation.

et nunc et semper et in saecula saeculorum.

Elizabeth had taken herself out into the garden early and while she had no hat to shield her face from the sun, she still wanted to work and contribute to the collective effort. It was no mean task, to weed a garden, and while she occasionally liked to work with flowers or things of that nature this was no flower garden. This was a tidy and well tended vegetable garden full of edibles and this garden was part of the effort to keep the villagers in a healthy diet. There were no markets here, after all, and the only things they had were the ones they caught from the river, gathered from the woods or grew with their own hands.

It was a stark difference from her own life, a life that was sheltered and full of comforts even during wartime. She had always had the option of fleeing to Canada, after all, and that luxury hadn't been afforded to many. Her family hadn't availed themselves of it, her father being a frugal and practical sort such as herself, but it had been there. They'd actively made a choice. Here, there weren't many choices to make. From her understanding, one worked and one ate and eked out a survivalist existence in hopes that some sort of disaster didn't cause one to start over again.

As she knelt in the garden, pulling weeds by hand to keep them from choking out the tender shoots of the edible things growing along side them, sweat beaded her brow and her palms ached from blisters. She'd ridden horses, yes, but she was no woman to work with her hands on a daily and consistent basis. Until she built up proper calluses, it would continue to pain her. Well, unless she could get her hands on a pair of proper gardening gloves.

Elizabeth straightened a bit, flexing her right palm and wondered if this was one of those situations where her hand might get stuck a certain way if she overworked it. She'd been through that nonsense in Australia and wasn't looking for a repeat of the situation.

"Perhaps I should simply take a quick break from all this and come back, yes?"

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"For a surety, I can say that it most certainly is not." It is eerie, to be back here. She has avoided the fountain park since her own arrival a mere handful of days past. Ever since, she has been hard at work, either tidying what she has decided to make her home or in cooking meals at the inn. It just so happens that she had been exiting that selfsame establishment when the sight of a woman's head peeking over the roughened stone of the fountain had drawn her.

Now, she offers her hand without thought, sorry that she has no coat or cloak to offer the woman for warmth. Perhaps, as it had been for her, the presence of a countrywoman might be a comfort.

Though her appearance reminds her much of Peggy, which mans this woman must be from her future. This could be a mind-boggling conversation for them both.

"Here, come with me. There is in inn down the path, and we can speak more once we have you seated before a fire."

It continues to be somewhat chilly outdoors. This woman will catch her death should they dawdle.

Neil had walked past the new arrival a few times without getting a good look at her face- it wasn't until she was seated that he had a chance to see her features plainly. Features he'd seen before, in pictures, in news clips- he'd been trained to recognize people he'd seen before. And he knew a member of the royal family when he saw one.

He stopped by her table, clearing his throat slightly, pitching his voice low. "Beg your pardon, your highness. I didn't know that you were... here."

Edited 2017-04-08 03:06 (UTC)

Much to his chagrin, the path that Henry took for hunting lead him past the fountain, a place that still held a great deal of dread in him. Nothing had been explained about how they were brought to this world, leaving him to suspect and conclude that it was magic of some sort. Regardless of the answer, he would have prepared to avoid the fountain all together, at least until he found his footing.

He had never expected to see someone emerge from the water as he had before. Upon seeing the woman, Henry quickly removed the flimsy doublet (jacket? Was that was it was called?) and offered it out to her. While the weather was warm, indicating that spring was coming, she still risked growing sick from the exposure to the cold.

He blinked in surprise at the mention of England. "No, I am afraid we are far from England." He waited so long to return home and only when it was in his grasp, he was ripped away. "There is a place where you may get warm, my lady. There is an inn not far from here."

That Robb still had no proper weapons or tools of his own was still a bit of a wrench. Everyday he passed the blacksmith's hut, no blacksmith to run it and no supplies beside. There was no fletcher but his own two hands, and while he wasn't terrible at arrow-craft, they never turned out as nicely as he wanted and often performed poorly. He knew he ought to be grateful for the cache of weapons he could borrow from daily, and he was, but it was always a bit difficult to give them back.

He had just descended the stairs from doing that very thing, his head full of competing thoughts -- Had he done enough today? Would his father be disappointed? Would difficult questions be asked over the evening meal? -- when he spied the young woman sprawled in a chair.

"That," he remarked as he stepped closer with a soft chuckle, "is precisely what I'd like to be doing right now."

Just sitting, and not thinking about damned thing.

At first, Peggy thought that perhaps she had been going mad. She had been walking through the garden in order to check on the seedlings she had given to the communal cause when she had seen a face that she's more accustomed to seeing on news reels during the propaganda films they'd shown to keep the spirits up, during the war. Days ago, she had met a Queen from the past, but it seems that now she's going to meet a Princess, one that's been in her attention her whole life.

It's enough to have her slightly speechless.

Then, the woman was speaking and there was little doubt in Peggy's mind precisely who this was. She'd heard that voice on the radio and in the films, which meant that she was encountering someone who ought to be in a palace, not a garden. "Are you sure you should be doing that at all?" she finds herself asking, the words slipping out before she can stop herself.

"Unless you prefer your hands to ache for the next few days."

Graves responds simply, hands in the pockets of his coat. It doesn't take a detective to know that this is a woman unused to physical labor; her face is unfamiliar -- Graves likes to think that he at least has most of the villagers' faces catalogued, whether in passing or otherwise, and hers does not register.

The day is fine out, a far cry from the events the past few weeks, and Graves had meandered from his route to the neatly kept vegetable patch to acquaint himself with the goings-on of the village, curiosity and deep-seated wariness demanding regular investigation. Now, it seems, his attention is caught on the anomaly of a woman unused to outdoor physical labor deciding to apply herself to work like this.

"It's not something you've ever done, is it?"

"You'd think right," the woman who had been passing when the sounds of splashing in the fountain had halted her. It's one of the first she's seen since her own arrival and she can't just walk away from her. Turning slightly she reached over to offer the woman a hand in pulling her out.

"It's no New York, either," She adds, "or any other place anyone seems to know." Save the people that had been here a while, but even those didn't have this place to call one they know. She offers an apologetic look, however and glances to the bag the woman had plucked him.

"That'll have more clothes for you in it."

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