Work Text:
Lizzie is not a princess.
Well, prophetically speaking, she is. But it’s not a title she would have ever chosen for herself. “Princess” is a word that comes with frills and lace, dramatics and grandeur. A word that calls attention to itself and handles it gracefully.
Lizzie does not think herself dramatic or graceful. She’s not the diva that her sister is, and she certainly isn’t commanding or decisive. She possesses none of the traits of textbook royalty.
That wouldn’t have mattered to Bartholomew of Sandwich. Naming her “princess” was just owed to his affinity for wordplay and Lizzie’s blood relation. Her leadership capabilities were irrelevant as long as she could break the code.
And she did break the code in the end. To the Underlanders, that was that. She fulfilled her part in the prophecy, thus solidifying her as the princess. Or, a princess. And not even an actual princess, so really, it shouldn’t matter that the title doesn’t sit right with her. It’s just a title. And now that Lizzie is back in the Overland for good, that title will never hold any weight ever again.
Except it does hold weight. It holds weight over her. Or rather, it’s the type of weight that she feels all around her. Like an ill-fitting blouse that rests uncomfortably on her sides, sagging oddly at the shoulders, and there’s an itch somewhere that never seems to go away. The blouse is heavy, too heavy to ever take off, and what else would she wear anyway?
Of course, the blouse isn’t meant for her. It fits Boots nicely, perhaps because Boots is too young to know any better about what she’d prefer to wear, but it fits her nicely all the same. Maybe that’s what Lizzie feels so bad about. Stealing her sister’s title. Being the last of her family, save for Grandma, to have any part to play in the Underland, and it wasn’t even her own part. Maybe she just wishes she could have been more original.
But no, that’s not it. Lizzie doesn’t care for originality, not in the way she’s supposed to. She knows there’s nothing wrong with standing out, but she’s found that blending in is easier, and maybe taking the easy way out isn’t always a bad thing. The truth is, Lizzie would have chosen not to be involved at all with the problems of the Underland.
Except… no, that isn’t quite true either. She liked being a part of something. It was scary and it pushed at every button in her brain in all of the wrong ways and it stole the breath straight from her lungs — but she liked it. She liked the camaraderie she shared with her fellow codebreakers, the commiseration and, eventually, rejoicing at the fruits of their painstaking labor. Being able to say that she did something.
But to be called a princess…
Lizzie isn’t sure when exactly she decides that it’s the word, specifically, that she has a problem with. Princess. She can unscramble the letters in any way she likes, but eventually, she has to accept that nothing brings her more relief than dropping the last two letters of the word altogether.
Prince.
She never says the word aloud, though sometimes she lets it dance on the tip of her tongue. Tastes it. Mouths it silently to the wall as she lays wide awake at night, the faintest smile touching her lips as she does.
Lizzie knows (or thinks) that to be a prince, you have to be a boy. But she’s as much of a boy as she is a princess — that is to say, she isn’t. She’s more girl than boy, and yet, more prince than princess. It's all rather contradictory, but the statements make sense individually in her head. More girl. Not boy. Not girl? Not princess. Yes prince.
But it’s not just a matter of prince over princess. It’s all of the other words that twist her stomach into knots. It’s Mrs. Cormaci kindly calling her a young lady. It’s Dad saying goodnight to “little miss Lizzie”. It’s Mom referring to her as her daughter. It’s Boots learning how to say sister. It’s—
“Gregor,” Lizzie says one day. “Do you think Sandwich was ever wrong?”
Her older brother looks around to make sure Mom is nowhere near. They try to keep Underland-talk to a minimum for her benefit. “Sandwich?” He repeats in a hushed voice.
“Yes. Do you think he could’ve been wrong?”
“About what?”
“About me. Being a… a princess.” The word feels clunky. Misshapen.
Gregor offers her a smile. “I think maybe Sandwich was wrong about some things,” he admits. “But not about that.”
Lizzie’s heart sinks. “Oh,” she manages, looking down at her hands.
“I just meant that you’re capable,” Gregor says quickly, noticing her disappointment. “You’re smart and talented and—”
She cringes. “I just don’t think it fits me,” she mumbles. “But if Sandwich says that’s what I am, then…”
A long silence ensues. It’s clear she’s caught Gregor off guard. She regrets bringing it up. No one else needs to deal with her stupid, vague, nonsensical worries.
Then Gregor says, “Ripred thinks Sandwich was wrong.”
Lizzie glances over at him curiously. “Really?”
“Yeah. Before my battle with the Bane, Ripred pulled me aside to tell me that he thought the prophecies were all fake. That we all bent over backwards trying to complete them, but really, we were responsible for all of the things that happened. It was all…” He pauses to search for the word. “Self-fulfilling.”
Lizzie considers that for a moment. “Why did Ripred tell you that?”
Gregor hesitates. “Because…” He looks around again, ascertaining that no one else will hear him, and lowers his voice once more. “Because the Bane was supposed to kill me. I was supposed to die. That’s what the prophecy said.”
The words hang in the air around them for a long time. Lizzie feels herself go numb with retrospective terror. Gregor could have been taken away from her. He could’ve… he was supposed to…
“Why didn’t you?” Lizzie asks, her voice a near-whisper.
Gregor shrugs easily, but his expression is grim. “I’d never considered trying to defy the prophecies. But Ripred thought I stood a chance. So I tried. And then… And then Ares…” He looks away like he always does when he talks about Ares. Or Hamnet. Or Twitchtip. Or too many others.
Lizzie puts a small hand on his shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault.” She believes the words as she says them, but she can’t imagine the guilt her brother must be consumed by. How do you live with that? Knowing someone has died in your place?
“Anyway,” Gregor says, wiping his eyes. “My point is, the prophecies… I’m living proof that they don’t have to be accepted as truth, I guess. Does that help?” He asks.
Lizzie nods slowly. “I think so,” she replies. “So, the princess in the Prophecy of Time. That doesn’t have to be me?”
Maybe it’s the hope that seeps into her voice. Maybe it’s something closer to desperation. Whatever it is that changes in her tone, Gregor hears it, and when he looks back at her, there’s a funny look in his eyes. His gaze is fond. Knowing.
“You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be,” he tells her gently. “You definitely don’t have to be what some crazy guy named Sandwich said you are hundreds of years ago.”
She giggles, relief coursing through her. “Thanks, Gregor.”
He pokes her in the side, his smile returning. “I mean it. You just worry about being yourself. And we… we love you. No matter what.”
And then he wraps his arms around her in a hug, his chin resting on the top of her head. Lizzie gratefully nuzzles up against his shirt. The weight around her lifts just a little. She’s not a princess. She’s not a princess any more than her brother is dead. She is defying the title given to her just as Gregor defied his own fate. Lizzie is not a princess.
And when she gets a little older, she’ll figure out why accepting this truth was so important to her. She’ll find the common denominator between “princess” and “young lady” and “little miss” and “daughter” and “sister”. She’ll find the language to put to how she feels. She’ll find that “they” and “he” are words she likes to use interchangeably with “she”. She’ll find that there are so many other titles waiting for her, and that her family will be by her side as she figures out which ones she likes best. She’ll find her own epithet, and there will be nothing to hold weight over her any longer.
But for now, she is eight years old and daunted by the future. The past year has been one of hardships, and Lizzie knows that things still aren’t perfect now, not really. They all have pain and grief to work through, money to budget, tears to shed. She doesn’t know yet if things will ever get better. She doesn’t know the person she sees when she looks in the mirror. And she knows she is young, so young, but she’s also seen just how quickly time can be taken away. She wonders if she’ll ever truly get the chance to figure out who she is.
But still, she sits in her room that night, buzzing with quiet excitement. For the first time, she says the word aloud. “Prince.” And then she says it over and over again, with no one else around to hear except the darkness and the walls of her bedroom. Prince, prince, prince. Lizzie falls asleep a little easier that night, a smile still on her face.
It’s a start.