My Lady

He didn’t know her very well in the past. They called her the land maiden and accused her of giving away the secrets of the Astrii, and he was nothing if not bound to the covenant of his father’s secrets. There were oceans between them.

Before that, though, they called her the webspinner for the way she and her kin wove tunnels to the surface as deftly as sewing with a needle. He spoke to her in passing, once: she told him that water was the thread and magic her loom. He looked at the tapestries in the palace differently after that.

Now, she’s something else. A siren, perhaps, in the way he finds himself drawn ever closer to her, swaying with the sound of her voice. A ribbonfish, bright flashes of silvery blue darting through the ocean as she swims, her mermaid tail deft and strong. Or maybe, beneath all of that, simply a friend.

“Gwyn, what are you thinking about so deeply?” Her voice is musical, but not in the whimsical and airy sense; she’s grounded.

“Nothing, my lady.” His answer is automatic. It is not the way of a prince to allow his burdens to fall upon the shoulders of others.

Fjara runs her fingers through her hair, sapphire locks swirling around her head like a halo. “It’s only that you’ve been lost in thought for so long. And you know I’ve told you many times to be honest and drop the formalities!” There’s a playful glimmer in her eye, but also the familiar sense of a conversation had many times before. “When you’re here, you’re not a prince.”

Gwyn opens his mouth to say that he’s always a prince, that that’s how it works, and that he can never shirk that duty — that weighted inheritance — but she anticipates his words and puts a finger to his lips.

“When you’re here, you’re just Gwyn. And I’m just Fjara. And we’re equals and— and friends, aren’t we?” She chews on her lip slightly, the only sign of any self consciousness.

She’s so assured. Sometimes, he envies that.

Sometimes, he wishes they weren’t just friends. Sometimes, he wishes he could come home to a place with her waiting for him, pearls in her hair and laughter ringing through the corridors like bells. Somewhere that isn’t cold and heavy with his father’s judgment, as much as he yearns to live up to those expectations. Somewhere like this little pocket realm, where the outside world doesn’t matter at all. Where if they clasped hands and brushed kisses over each other’s lips, no one would have to know. Nothing would change.

But that’s wishful thinking and a prince must not neglect his duty, least of all that to his family. He owes his father everything.

Fjara removes her finger from his lips. He traces the place where the soft weight lay with his tongue.

“You’re allowed to speak now,” she says. She’s flushed ever so slightly, barely enough to be visible.

Gwyn allows himself the smallest of smiles in return. “I was just thinking of you, my lady.”

Fjara blushes like a vibrant seabloom. “No titles!”

He’s not sure if it’s irritation or something else, something softer. Or perhaps he’s deluding himself with the possibility that it could be anything other than what it is, which is Fjara, hotheaded and demanding and caring and gentle as ever, reprimanding him once more for his excessive politeness. He’s not in the court right now, she’s said many times, and so he should dispel any notions of manners and propriety.

“As you wish.” A breath of a laugh, so quiet it’s barely caught on his own ears, escapes his mouth. “I was thinking of the past. Our past.”

Fjara raises an eyebrow challengingly, a bright smile on her face. “I wasn’t aware we had a past.”

Gwyn takes only a moment to understand her implication and then he’s the one flushing beneath her gaze. “You know what I meant.”

At that, her eyes soften and her palms reach up to cradle the pendant by her chest. The chain, woven from magic itself, hums lightly beneath her touch.

“I know what you meant,” she replies, and it’s as soft as anything. It’s rueful, maybe, or just reminiscing. Gwyn has always found it harder to read her plain honesty than he has picking apart the intents of the twittering court ladies.

“Do you ever wonder—” He cuts himself off. It’s too much to ask.

“Yes,” she breathes. “All the time.”

Gwyn swallows heavily, the weight of what he’s about to say heavy on his tongue. “If things had been different. I should have greatly appreciated your friendship over the years.”

When he looks up to meet her eyes, there’s something brewing in the depths of them, swirling and confusing. Emotion of some sort, but Gwyn was never taught to understand emotions beyond what was deemed necessary. He feels like he’s leaning in, swaying towards her, but his body is as still as a moonless night. There’s only the illusion of being drawn in, over and over.

What is she feeling? Her face is so open, but he cannot tell.

“I would have liked that,” she says eventually, barely a whisper, her hand still covering the pendant he gifted her all those years ago.

He wants to cover her hand with his own. Never has he felt so acutely the lines drawn between him and others before now.

“I would have liked it too.”