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“Hi,” she says. Waves her little hand.
Ambrosius thoughtfully replies: “Um.”
*
It takes a while for the household to settle: the noble Sir Ambrosius Goldenloin, the brave Ballister Boldheart, and the ever moving flash of a peachy pink menace.
Windows shatter, furniture breaks, paint finds its way to strange places, and there are loud sighs and more than a few tears.
But it settles, it really does, as soon as:
*
“So. You are Gloreth’s kid’s kid’s kid’s–” (she goes on for longer than is historically accurate but he doesn’t interrupt) “--kid.” She has a smile on her face that doesn’t rise up to her eyes. No, her eyes are rather frightening in this moment, he thinks and ignores the familiar tingle he feels in his fingers.
“Yeah, I am,” he says. “I’m not sure what that means, but yeah.” It’s true. He really doesn’t; lineage gives him tremendous privilege but he’s never felt some kind of inherent heroism in his bones nor any particular wisdom in his blood. But he’s not about to spill out all his messy thoughts when she is–
She is looking at him closely now, her face moving towards his and her eyes searching. Calculating, measuring. “I’m–” is all she says as a warning before she roughly runs her fingers in his golden hair, clutches his chin, grips his arm, tickles him and then punches him in the chest. It all happens very quickly.
“It means something to you,” he says with a wheeze. “I can see that.”
“Yeah, it does,” she says with a frown and a frustrated grunt. “And maybe it shouldn’t but it does.”
Ambrosius feels the insidious rise of all his training; the tingle in his hand is to reach for his sword, the tension in his thigh is to move to an aggressive stance, and the itch in his throat is to say something cold and perhaps cruel. That is what is innate, more than whatever Gloreth passed down into his body. That is what he’s been told since he was able to listen.
if you see something, slay something.
Instead: he stays still as he can, frozen in place. Sometimes that’s all he can do when the muscle memory says one thing and his heart says another.
“I’m–” he attempts.
“She was so beautiful, did you know that?” she says. “I’ve never seen anything lovelier. Not in a thousand years.” It’s a dreamy sort of tone; a young sound. “The paintings get it all wrong, her eyes were watercolors and she had this funny scar on her shoulder and she could sing and sing and sing and her golden hair shone in the sunlight and her smile was so radiant it was–” she stops herself, looking at him.
He’s smiling, seeing this beautiful girl in Nimona’s eyes, his ancestor, his people’s anointed god. He’s smiling and she’s frowning and he’s not smiling and she’s glowering and he’s panicking and she’s narrowing her eyes and he’s moving away just a little because she’s moving closer.
“And she loved me,” she says like it’s a curse. “That beautiful girl loved me. And she loved me and she loved me until she didn’t anymore.”
Ambrosius can’t breathe. He had guessed, he hadn’t dared ask.
“I watched her,” she says, the words now coming out like a waterfall. “I was hopeful she’d grow out of it, that she’d remember. And I– I wanted to watch her. She grew up. She got impossibly tall and impossibly more beautiful. She had a way of getting people to listen to her, follow her, to love her. She was so easy to love.” She scoffs. “She fell for some big stupid man and had his big stupid babies. I watched her sleep, watched her cry alone, watched her build more and more walls to keep me out. I watched her because she never stopped looking for me, her sword in her hand.” Nimona pauses. “She didn’t know that it never left my heart.”
Her cheeks are so pink. “I haven’t told the boss,” she says. “He’d be weird about it.”
He blinks slowly.
She takes in a breath that feels like more oxygen than one human girl would need. “I’m hard to love you see,” she says and there’s scattering of pink lights before she’s a cat, hissing for a moment; she’s a fox, looking prim with a long luxurious tail; she’s a shark and all teeth; she’s a cloud of fog overwhelming his senses; she’s a fish flopping like mad on the floor; she’s a mouse at his feet, scurrying away.
“Don’t leave,” he says. “Don’t–”
She appears as a girl next to him again. She crosses her arms and doesn’t look at him.
And then: “I loved her, I loved her in a way I could not help.”
He’s had a taste of heartbreak, and it lasted moments compared to hers; a drop in a hungry and vast ocean. It’s a terrible idea but he goes for it anyway. He reaches out for her hand and is surprised that she lets him hold it.
She’s still not looking at him. “You sort of look like her. Like when I’m not paying attention or when I see you move out of the corner of my eye. When I’m sleepy, when you turn your head really fast and your hair– You just– It’s just a little, just enough to make me–” she stops.
He doesn’t pull away.
She continues. “But you’re not her.” Her hand in his adjust, now gripping his too tight. He holds back a wince; he can take it. “You’re not her,” she repeats. “You’re not even close.” She huffs like there’s a laugh she’s trying to smother but it comes out anyway. A chuckle, and then she’s laughing and laughing and laughing. “You’re so ugly,” she says, tears in her eyes.
He breathes out and smiles. “I really am,” he agrees.
“The ugliest,” she giggles and snorts until she stops. She’s looking at him again, and her eyes are ancient. Older and wiser than anything he’s ever seen. He feels measured, evaluated, judged. It takes all he can not to straighten his back, lift his chin, look the part of the noble knight with a famed ancestry. That’s not who she’s looking for, that’s not who she needs him to be.
“I tolerated you for Bal’s sake,” she says, sounding more like a grown woman than a little girl. “And I tolerated you because you love him.”
“I do,” he blurts out because it’s true.
“And he loves you more than you deserve,” she says. Chilling.
“He does,” he says, unable to stop himself.
“But,” –and his heart freezes in his chest – “I guess I like you. And that’s enough,” she says simply. In a scattering of pink light she’s a cat again, rubbing against him and crawling into his lap to settle. A big lovely mass of peachy pink fur, warm and heavy.
Ambrosius blinks again. Unsure but hopeful. He flexes his fingers first before gently running his hand along her fur. She makes a little purring sound and her eyes close. He breathes in and just lets it happen; petting her till he hears soft snores, petting her till he falls asleep himself.
Ballister walks in to take in this sweet scene and his heart aches in all the right places.
*
It takes a while for the household to settle. And when it does, some wounds start to heal faster.