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Still. She now only watches, sees her own body stop, fail. The steady rise and fall, faltering, then none. But still, the clock continues to tick, six o’clock.
Thoughts of training once forgotten return, she should jump in and start CPR she should do something, but it fades too quickly. A copy -or maybe the first- lay lifeless below her. This is it, she thinks, what now?
A knock, can dream ghosts knock? Well, one just has.
“Morning, your majesty.” It is familiar, more than that, its safety, comfort, warmth. The bear has a reverent look in his eyes when she meets them.
“Morning, Paddington. You wouldn’t happen to know what is going on… I think it must be an ominous dream of some sort.” She says, gently wiping her eyes and each delicate wrinkle below them, as they slowly become tinted red.
He merely holds out a small square handkerchief; there is a small cornucopia of fruits embroidered in the corner, it smiles warmly at her as her tears soak into its cotton, he then leads her through the intricate doorway to a small ornate wooden table. Where a quaint tea set is laid, she takes her seat, the cup now in her hands has a familiar chip out the top which catches her eye.
Paddington pours her tea as delicate as a bear can get, then guzzles straight from the pot. She laughs, truly laughs, not her practiced proper one; but her real, daughter, sister, mother laugh. He drones on until he is fully drowned out by tears and the rushing in her ears.
“I’m sorry… this isn’t a dream.” Paddington says tracing the delicate patterns of the tea pot, he thinks Aunt Lucy would like it but now is not the time (he has gotten better at knowing when that time is). Elizabeth just nods, she understands it isn’t a dream. What she does not understand is, why she is now in her old playhouse. Why her hands are smooth. Why her vision is obscured by brown curls.
“Paddington? I am not sure I understand.” Her head tilts slightly as he jumps down from the chair. At some point a brooch appeared on her chest, it’s gold glistening gleefully when Paddington moves from in front of the window.
“Don’t worry, your majesty. Someone has been waiting for you!” The blue toggle duffel coat is on, and the worn-red hat is secured on his small brown head. The question the wonder, who rings in her mind, who will have waited for me. But there is no reason she needs to ask that question, deep down she knows the answer. Their love is not forced; it is devotion and trust to the highest extreme. Even in passing.
“Hampshire? Paddington why are we… oh.” Her fists clench not in anger but in anticipation, at the figure slowly approaching, the one slowly regaining its former clarity. Phillip. How she has missed him, and having the entire world watch her mourn. That was hard, it was agony, it was pitiful. How she has yearned for just one more word or touch or kiss.
“I was waiting for you. You have excelled, my darling.” This embrace, the familiarity of it, too long for a normal hug perfect for one tainted with grief. Paddington is involved too, at the height of her brooch, pressed deep into the two amplifying the pure joy she finds in her reunion.
Unusual for England, the clouds fade away leaving a warm-toned sky and the pair (Paddington following close behind) arm in arm dawdling down the gravel path. Both have their eyes pushed shut by wide, happy smiles. Unexpectedly there is a woof (which sounds more like yip) behind them, on the path sits a dog, a corgi, her Susan.
“Oh, Susan the years it has been.” In only a blink and a breath, her majesty queen of England, is in a squat being dirtied by muck off Susan’s paws. Susan... just that name rekindles the memories of the little dog, her first corgi and the progenitor of all who came after. Phillip now bent at the knees, matching her height, one hand placed upon her majesty's shoulder the other clutching Susan’s blue-stained leather lead. Who does not like a dog? Paddington certainly does, Susan likes the scent of marmalade emanating from his pillar box-red hat.
With Susan now sat ‘politely’ whining for more love, she now understands. Just a glimpse is all it takes to read her watch 6:06 that was barely anytime at all, she thinks. With the taste of tea gone from her tongue it seems as long ago as when the reboot Doctor Who came out!
“Dearest Paddington, so much has happened just now, it feels several hours ago I was drinking tea. How has it only been 6 minutes?” Her majesty questions, picking up Susan gently, her hands wet from slobbery dog kisses, her mouth dry from questions left unspoken. Paddington merely nods, even though they are the same distance apart as they were before, he seems further away. Distant, like a friend before they disappear. Pressed tightly against his chest is his hat as he bows; once for Phillip, once again for Susan, and the final time for Elizabeth. His bow for her is the deepest, the one done with the most adoration in his gaze and filled with the upmost reverence.
“Your majesty.” He begins reaching into his hat, “Some, most are just like you when this begins… scared, anxious, and confused. I am simply a guide, one of many, who go to those who need a friendly face to help their memories progress without being shrouded or getting lost in angry, regret-filled moments.” A sandwich appears in his hand, a marmalade one. He does make fantastic marmalade that bear. And it is on soft white bread.
“But this is for emergencies?” She mumbles; it is wrong for a queen to mumble; she does it anyway. He simply does as always, places it in her hand like a gentleman and says his goodbye. He walks fast but not rushed until the path comes to a winding end. Then, with a click and a squeak, passes through a worn white door with it’s brushed copper hinges, which squeaks again as it shuts.