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"I'd love you until the end of time," She'd said, "And then I'd do it again, and again, and again."
"Well," She'd smirked, lifting her chin at her, "What's stopping you?"
She'd glanced down at the hilt of her sword before meeting those amberish eyes she loves oh so much.
"Everything."
"You have to come with us today, dear." The queen insists, caressing the curve of her daughter's jaw with a feather-light touch, the sensation of the pads of her fingers sending a shiver down the princess' spine.
"To what?" She backs away from the touch like she'd been scorched by the show of affection, so few and far between these days. "Shake hands, smile, pretend I care?"
She's always been dragged to these kinds of events the moment that she could walk and talk on her own. The people love it when a royal kid says something charming or childish, and she's still plagued with 'silly stories' of such things from officials she swears she's never met, but must have at around four or five.
Doesn't help that today's event is rather formal. Nobles are being sworn into their roles as the promised protectors of their families, their homes, their villages within the kingdom. It'll be her job to be the princess who trails behind her parents, shaking the hand of the person who last shaked her father's hand, then her mother's hand… she's just the cooldown act from the real show.
"Yes," The queen huffs, clearly pretending not to be too bothered by the way in which the princess backed away. She turns to a dress draped over the divider of her daughter's grand bedroom, taking it into her hands and holding it up to be seen.
It's purple and ankle-length, bedazzled with gems that no doubt cost them a small fortune. The sleeves are translucent, puffy at the top that relax into loose sleeves hanging lazily from her forearms.
"Must I?" She inquires, folding her arms and hunching her shoulders. Dresses are fun – can be fun. Prim and proper is where it gets uncomfy. They're always scratchy, the gems and beads and sequins are always stitched into the fabric in such an awkward way that it irritates her skin. And don't get her started on the usually turtleneck collars of the dresses. Suffocating. And all for what? Fanciness? Royalty?
"You must." Her mother says firmly, but it's brimming with that tone of motherly gentleness, like a plea, that the princess takes the dress right from her hands and dips behind the divider to change.
She was right. It itches, it scratches, it's loose in all the places she hates. It's tight in all the places she doesn't want it to be. The ears atop her head pin to her skull, and the princess knows that her mother will pick that body language apart if she doesn't prick them back up. So she does. She tugs them out of their muscle memory and makes them stand to attention.
The princess walks out from the divider, wearing the dress, and a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"I love it."
Boring. Boring. Boring and Boring. As predicted.
It's so Boring you need to capitalise it. Her father would lightly smack the back of his hand on her shoulder for misusing capitals in such a way, but she can't bring herself to care too much. Not when she's been placed in the uncomfiest chair known to her, forced to press back against the irritable threads pulling sequins and gemstones against her skin.
She folds her arms bitterly until her mother mimics that exact same light backhand against the shoulder and she drops the pose. She always has to just… assume what she's doing wrong. It's never said aloud.
So she relaxes her posture and waits. The nobles are apparently getting ready in another room, clad in fancy uniforms unfit for battle, but fit enough to wield your sword indoors, she supposes.
Her father will knight them all later, but for now it's just a glorified meet and greet.
"They're ready for you now, your majesty." A messenger calls out from the grand double doorway, posture as stiff as a board.
They'd decided to go against the norm this time around. Usually, the nobles would stand in a line, and they'd all go along the line, chat for a few brief moments, and shake their hand before moving on.
However, that doesn't really give any of them the chance to get to know the nobles… so each noble has been given their own room, each room side by side so that they can go through the next door and meet the next soon-to-be knight.
The issue? The princess doesn't have her mother or father to fall back onto. As the heir, they'd decided to have her go into the rooms alone, after her parents had already been in. The king and queen would be one step ahead in the next room over, while she's stuck making small talk about how gracious and wonderful her parents are.
Lovely.
Greeting nobles is not something she enjoys. Not when her last, lost love had been a noble, banished from the kingdom of Menagerie for eternity, and for good reason. Attempted murder and for forming a treasonous relationship with the princess. She didn't get the criss-cross scar on her side from a mere dagger, now did she? No, he'd fully intended to kill her with the very sword her father had knighted him with. The princess will admit with her entire chest that her trust for nobles has been crushed as a result.
The king and queen go on ahead, and she can hear the muffled faux intrigue from her mother and the indifference from her father; he always tries to intimidate with acting like he doesn't care at all, when really he probably cares more than the noble he's speaking to.
She can hear the voice of the noble, prim and proper too, but strained from fear and concern that she may not be offering the best first impression.
After they move on to the next room, it's the princess' turn.
The noble is a rather tall woman, strong, polite, well-informed… and muscular, too. The princess manages idle chit-chat and small talk for the five minutes they're allowed, keeping away from the personal questions her father is privy to asking. She heard how uncomfortable she was outside the room, loud and clear despite the thick double-door buffer.
They just about get through, and the princess is whisked off to the next room. Quickly, she realises she didn't pay much attention to her parents speaking to this man from the other room, but she makes do.
This noble is a shorter man, his most notable features being his bright blond hair, wispy and curly and sticking up in all directions. A boisterous one, she finds, without much of a filter. An excitable blond monkey tail sweeps behind him, betraying his cool and calm persona. She copes in his presence, finding his bluntness refreshing from the company she's used to, all walking on eggshells to ensure she's most pleased. This one – he couldn't care less.
She shakes his hand and moves on.
The next room is… brighter.
Not because the sun shines through this window more – though she swears it does – but because there's someone standing in the ray of sunlight, formal, white garbs trimmed with gold glistening under it. Luscious, wild golden hair flows behind her despite it being pulled into a high, tight ponytail, blonde wisping all directions like licks of flames.
And the princess stops, because she knows the nobles aren't allowed to turn their heads to greet the royalty that enter; they must wait until addressed to break their stiff formation. That, the princess realises, gives her a moment to admire the woman before her.
Well-built, visible even with the formal clothes covering her presumably toned muscles, and a set to her jaw that tells her immediately that this one is here to stay. This one isn't going down easy.
Clearing her throat, she makes her way forward, brushing a lock of ebony black hair from the side of her face anxiously; he hates the way her ladies in waiting prepare it. It itches her cheeks – at least this time it proved useful in breaking her out of her strickenness, giving her the push that reminds her hey, you only have ten minutes to talk to this mystery woman. Make it count.
Taking her place in front of the noble, she offers her hand. Finally breaking out of her stiffened soldier-like stance, she brings one hand from behind her back, takes the princess' hand in her own, and dips to one knee.
The other nobles had not been so formal, nor as tender. The first had shook her hand with such enthusiasm that the princess was sure it would break. The second had taken her hand with such gentleness you'd think he thought her ready to shatter.
This one is… a pleasant surprise, you could say.
Her knuckles ready the noble's lips, a shiver running through her body; not unpleasant, mind you – more like exhilarating. This was new. It was welcome. The sensation of her lips brushing against her soft knuckles was something she felt saddened she hadn't committed to memory once the feeling was lost.
"My princess," The noble breathes, her breath brushing against the tender skin on the back of her hand. She shivers again – being called princess constantly, hearing it constantly, had become irritating. You'd think she didn't have a name with how little it's spoken aloud. But this… this makes her wish she could hear this dashing knight say it over and over and over again until she's sick of it once more – but that's if she could ever be sick of it when it's spoken with that gravelly, deeper-than-expected voice.
The woman stands up again, firm and solid, letting her hand fall back to her side. Their eyes meet for the first time, eyes and hair reflecting one another almost comically so, and they both end up cracking slightly apprehensive sighs.
Small, anxious chuckles sound in the form of sharp exhales from their noses. The noble bows her head momentarily to clear away a giddy grin, as if it's a mistake that must be erased.
When her eyes meet her own again, she's far more composed, but still wearing that same slightly nervous smile.
"Yang Xiao Long," The noble says, "Of the Xiao Long family. My father was–"
"Taiyang Xiao Long?" The princess asks, apologising with a small shake of the head for the interruption before she continues, as if she isn't actually sorry, but ecstatic to be having a conversation with this person. "I remember him. He worked at the palace when I was a young girl,"
"Your father's– the king's knight, yes." Yang cuts herself off, clears her throat like she's apologising for the slip-up, and goes on, much like a pianist making a mistake during a recital. You'd barely notice that mistake was there. "Been a dream of mine since I was a kid to follow in his footsteps."
"Ah, I see." The princess smirks, "So you dream of working within the palace?"
"Oh– not for those reasons, if that's what you're thinking." The knight smiles softly, gently correcting her. "I grew up on a farm. Being a knight, a noble – it's been my dream to be a hero since the moment I could read stories about them." She shrugs, lifting one of the arms from behind her back momentarily to scratch an anxious phantom itch at her temple. "The glitz and glamour isn't my style. It's not what I'm here for, so don't worry."
The princess' eyebrows slide up at that – not her style.
"Not your style?" She smirks knowingly, "I'd say the outfit is most definitely your style."
Like she hasn't been expecting such a flirt for a princess, Yang's cheeks flush rosily.
"I–" She stutters, "It was a pain to get into." Tugging at one of the many loose threads on her shoulder pad, she chuckles nervously before casting her sight back to Blake, her eyes wandering up and down her frame – not at all subtly. "Your dress is… definitely your style, too."
Not expecting the counter-compliment, the princess is sure her cheeks must glow with the heat they radiate at such a simple compliment. It was barely even a 'your outfit looks good' or a 'you look beautiful' like many nobles try to woo her with at the many balls her parents host. As a matter of fact, it's so shy that it's endearing.
"Why thank you," She beams, trying to keep her cool around this woman. Despite her charm, despite how much she is sure she's probably head over heels for her, she knows not to get attached.
This job is your life. She won't ruin Yang's.
They chat back and forth for what must be around the nine-to-ten minute mark, because the bell chimes for the next room to be entered before they even know it. They'd joked, laughed, complimented one another's hair and voices, and suddenly… it's over.
The princess sullenly makes her way to the door, casting a last glance over her shoulder at the way the blonde noble is standing.
Stiff as a board. Ceremonial. Beautiful, each and every inch of her, and the princess is sure she conducts the sunlight to beam right down on her at this moment.
She swallows her pride, and eyes the doorknob she has her hand readily grasping, knowing none of the many upcoming nobles shall leave the same as Yang Xiao Long.
She breathes.
"Blake." She says without looking up, without casting a glance over her shoulder. "My name is Blake."
Yang knows this. Obviously she knows this. She has trained for years in order to serve the woman before her as a knight in the army she will eventually call her own. Of course she knows the princess' name.
But this is different. A different admission, a different introduction.
"You've met me as your princess," Blake looks over her shoulder, finally, finding the bemused, softened eyes of Yang, gorgeous lilac illuminated in the warm light. "Next time we meet, it will be as friends."
Blake turns the doorknob, walks through, and leaves Yang behind.
When she shuts it, this time she doesn't take the time she's given to admire the noble before her. She uses that time to compose herself after what she'd just done, and to prepare herself for the many incomparable nobles to come.
"Your last knight wasn't the best, we know."
"Not the best?" The princess practically snarls at the general in his stupid formal garbs, something Blake had always found odd. Definitely not an outfit you'd want to fight in, as heavy as it looks. "He tried to kill me."
"We know." The general says softly, looking down regretfully at the desk separating them both, "And… to apologise for our clear lapse of judgement when picking that atrocious man as your companion, I'd like to reassure you that this knight was handpicked by me." He sounds so sure of himself, black hair with greyish roots glinting in the overhead lamplight of the office. "As a matter of fact, she's family. I'd trust her with my life."
Blake's ears perk up at that, previously slumped, drooped, and downtrodden. The idea of a knight accompanying her twenty four-seven had always been something she despised the concept of, even more so after that knight had almost ended her life.
They'd kept it contained, luckily – the princess is indisposed, they'd announced at every event she was meant to attend for the following year.
In truth? She was recovering from a horrifically severe stab wound, several other injuries, and a sudden influx of trust issues that meant talking to practically anyone she didn't know was akin to the pressure of defusing a bomb.
She'd gotten back on track, enough to crack jokes and hold her own and to know when someone's just messing with her. Doesn't mean that the slashes engraved into the skin at the left of her stomach hurt any less.
The general, she knows, was related to her father's former private knight – something like that, anyway.
"His ex-wife's brother," Her father had told her one night after finding out they were related as the dusty blond man stood to attention by his chair at the dinner table. The king had insisted upon explaining it for him so that he didn't have to.
In the end, they didn't explain at all. They just left it at that – their family ties.
"If I must have a knight, then may I at least meet her first?" The princess tries to connect the dots as though they're blatantly laid out before her. It had been some weeks since meeting the nobles, most of them just now finding their places in society. City patrol guards, knights in the army, guards in the palace… and some, it seems, have opted to become private knights, or rather private guards.
"I think you already did meet her." The general informs, scratching at his stubble beard. "She should be sparring right about now, if you're willing to accompany me to the training ground to see her."
Blake is pretty sure she's never nodded so fast.
Because a thought – a wistful, fleeting wish – popped into her head mere moments ago. The hope that this knight is the one she'd been unable to get out of her mind ever since they met.
They make their way to the ground together, side by side. The knights bustling about the area nearby to the training courtyard practically slam themselves against the wall at attention whenever they pass, armour clicking and clunking with each step.
General Branwen opens the great, heavy door for her and watches her step through. He closes it behind them with a sudden bang, but it barely jostles the many, many knights and soldiers training in the courtyard.
Most of it is out of the sunlight, apart from the sparring pits. A few steps down from the current height they stand at – each pit has a sandy floor, and you're required to set rules before a match begins. Armour or no armour, weapons or no weapons, certain attacks allowed or not, etcetera.
And, clearly, it seems a match is taking place.
A huge crowd of soldiers outline the area, chanting and pumping their fists into the air with many clinks of metal and armour.
The general gently pats the princess' arm – again, as if she may shatter at a harder touch – and ushers her to the side.
There, behind an alcove, is a set of stairs leading up onto the wall that surrounds the courtyard. From above, you can peer into each individual square open air skylight at the fight taking place below – front row seats.
The general rests on one of the jutted parts of the wall casually, looking down before pointing for the princess to look too.
And when she does… she finds herself proven correct, and she feels like celebrating.
The fight below consists of two of the nobles she'd met – both blonde. The blond with the excitedly wagging monkey tail, and the blonde she hasn't been able to get out of her mind for weeks.
Yang Xiao Long is sparring before her, and winning.
Sweat gleams across her taut muscles, the fight rules etched on a chalkboard to the side of the arena. No armour, no slapping (with a picture of the blonde man almost incriminatingly drawn for that one, alongside a terrifying monkey tail slap), and no hair grabbing with a Yang scribbled next to it, looking infuriated.
Amidst the crowd, there's a clear consensus that she's winning, and that she's the favourite to win regardless of the final outcome.
The two watch the fight together, watching them both grow weaker and weaker as the fight goes on, though it must've already been going on for quite some time now.
Finally, the blond man gathers up all of his remaining strength from across the pit, ducking a little lower and charging, arms out at his sides and ready to rugby tackle Yang.
Blake's heart jumps into her throat just by watching, but the general tuts.
"Bad move." He grumbles, never taking his eyes away from the fight.
Refocusing, the princess catches them both just in time as the man is about to reach her – with the grace of a trained dancer, Yang steps out of the way with a spin and falls back, making sure to grab the others tank top straps; the top is tight enough that, as the sandy ground nears, he's tugged back with her. Without missing a beat, her legs move up swiftly, the soles planting against his back and kicking with great force, sending him tumbling over the top of her.
Using the momentum created, Yang kicks up and lands steadily on her feet, dusting off her sand-riddled hands as cheers sound from the crowd; the blond isn't getting back up, slapping a pile of sand twice to admit he's tapping out.
Blake watches in awe as a towel is thrown to each of them and many other knights passing give them hearty slaps on the back – the two shake hands as they wipe sweat from their brows, muffled congratulations and rematch plans already being made.
"Yang!" The general shouts from above, "Get yourself up here."
The noble's eyes glance up, and the moment she sees Blake, she's sure she sees her eyes dilate. That lavender she'd grown to adore and see only in her dreams had returned to her life once more, this time with far more permanence than expected.
She's up on the wall, having taken the alcove stairs, in no time, her towel still draped lazily around her shoulders. The knight sports a tank top and shorts, the sheen of sweat covering her entire body marking each and every dip, every curve, every toned muscle across her entire body for Blake to admire.
Yang looks at her, a knowing smile on her face, as if she'd expected such a reunion.
"My princess," She bows slightly at the hip, a tight-balled fist slamming against her chest almost painfully. When she stands back straight, she sends a gleeful smile Blake's way before turning to the general. Her hand raises in a salute, "General–"
"I'm your damn uncle." The general waves a dismissive hand, "Cut it out. I don't think the princess here minds all that stuff."
Yang already knows Blake doesn't care much for the formalities. She made that clear as day by telling her her damn name outright, after all, and insinuating that they could be friends.
A farm girl turned knight, and a princess – sure. Likely story.
"I'm sure you've already heard about your promotion." The general raises a knowing brow, glancing up and down at his niece – knights are meant to at least keep their chainmail on in the training grounds unless they're taking part in a no-armour duel. "I'd like you to spend a day with the princess here. Neither of you have appointments, I personally made sure of it."
"Promotion?" Blake chimes in, wondering. Sure, she already knows the answer, but the official title is lost on her.
"Regiment leader, and the princess' escort." Yang informs with a toothy grin, casting a brighter glow upon Blake than the sun itself.
The princess' ears flit slightly at the sight, fond and fluttery alongside her lovestruck heartbeat. She tilts her head, eyeing the blonde, wondering why she doesn't feel the slightest need to protest this new factor within her life.
"I'll leave you two to it." The general moves by the princess, patting his niece on the shoulder. He turns back to Blake to make a quick bow, hand pressed against where his heart should be, through his armour. "Excuse me, princess."
Giving a slight nod, the general turns and walks back towards the stairs, disappearing below the short walkway walls.
"So," Blake hums expectantly, taking a step to round her knight. "Princess' escort?"
"And regiment leader." Yang follows her steps, rounding her at the same time until they're at opposing sides from where they started.
"Oh, don't act like you aren't more excited about one than you are the other."
A smirk crosses the knight's face, far more daring than anyone has even thought to be in her presence.
"Maybe you're right." Yang admits, pulling the towel from around her shoulders and tossing it over the side haphazardly. There's a cry from below; similar to the blond man she'd been fighting a mere few minutes ago. "But I have my orders, and my orders are to spend the day with you, princess." She makes a small bow at the waist, a curt smile crossing her face as she holds out her hand, waiting. "What do you say?"
"I say," Blake's hand reaches the halfway point to Yang's, hovering carefully, fingertips barely brushing. "You should drop all of this and do what I asked when we first met."
"Oh, I would." Her knight admits with such enthusiasm that she doesn't need proof of her acceptance. "But I fear this isn't exactly the place for that, princess." She stands up straight again, clearing her throat briefly. "Plus," She adds, "It may jeopardise me. My position,"
"Ah." Truly, the princess hadn't thought that far. It's a good job she brings it up as boldly as she does – she probably wouldn't have realised how bad it may look for her knight, either. To her, her knights had always taken her orders unquestioningly, without a word against it. This is… a nice change of pace. "You may be right."
Yang frowns then, regretful, like she wishes things were different. Like she hopes that, one day, her name may pass her lips without a second thought, without a single worry.
"I'm sorry." She utters, bowing slightly again, a hand pressed over her heart.
"Don't be." The princess shakes her head and turns swiftly, her heart pounding in her ears. "Let's just go while the day is still young."
When her back is turned, Yang doesn't even try to hide her frown.
Neither does Blake.
"We're meant to be on stage for your speech within five minutes." The princess' knight follows at her heel, clad in lightweight armour, white with gold trims and multiple weapons sheathed discreetly at her hip, her back, her thighs and, the ones she clearly uses the most, gauntlets around her wrists ready to click into place over her knuckles the moment she needs them to. All were designed by the royal armoury – the best of the best. "Have you practiced your speech?"
They reach the stage curtains, a sliver of light peeking within, separating the two of them like a wall. Yang accompanies her everywhere. Even onstage during speeches. She stands outside the bathroom when she needs to excuse herself at public events. She presses against her through crowds and never strays far even during the night.
They're barely ever apart.
"Dear people of Mistral, I come to you today to present the grand opening of the yada-yada, etcetera etcetera," The princess wafts a hand, her voice monotonous and bored. Once more, so Bored it needs to be capitalised. "I can't wait for this tour to be over."
"Not long now." Her knight assures, "And you'll be back home in your own bed."
"Bliss," The princess sighs dreamily, "It feels a whole world away."
Yang's hand, gentle and delicate, places a feather-light tough against the small of her princess' back, urging her forward when the crowd beyond the curtains and stage erupt into uproarious applause and cheers. Right. She was meant to listen out for her cue.
"You're up." She tells her, quiet but with enough conviction to make her take a step forward towards the curtains – not before her knight steps back in front of her, fingers curling around the lip of the heavy blackout fabric. "Best of luck."
Blake huffs a chuckle, mentally going over her speech in her mind to distract herself from the way Yang still glows even in such minimal lighting. Gods, travelling each and every day with that face requires some self restraint.
It's to the point where best of luck doesn't even translate to her speech, but to whether or not she can keep herself at bay. Whether or not she can keep herself from committing high treason.
"I'll need it."
"I've been looking for you for the last ten minutes."
"A record, I'd say." The princess hums playfully, tracing the leaf of a begonia flower in the great gardens of her parents' castle. It's grand – a labyrinth in many ways. Ever since she was a child, she'd been unable to traverse the grounds alone, despite it being what most would consider their house, their childhood home, somewhere they know like the back of their hand. Not Blake. Sometimes she still finds rooms she never knew of, rooms like cupboards or secret passageways the cooks discreetly show her as if to get into her good books or to be marked a friend. Never. Their tricks never work.
This new person in her life, however, is different. She's welcome.
The princess had always known how to get to the gardens. It's as second nature as the simple actions of taking a step, putting a foot in front of the other, swallowing or breathing or blinking. The garden, when things got rough, was always her safe space.
Back during the days of her recovery, it was the one spot she'd often escape to. A safe haven where she was no longer the princess of Remnant, but just Blake.
"It's in my top three places to look, but the castle is still rather large." Her knight confesses, standing before her. Today, she's clad in lesser armour than she usually dons on their trips abroad to the various nations of Remnant, a simpler suit made for soldiers not prepared to be in immediate combat, alike to the one she wore the day they first met, but lighter and streamlined in the way that the glamorousness is toned down.
The gold is cut back, the white of her suit has been ironed and pressed to perfection; there are as few buttons as possible, and yet she still wears the damn cufflinks the princess got her for her birthday every single day since. Never missed a single one.
Another thing – her collapsible gauntlets are hidden into bracelets, kept snug around her wrists by her fingerless gloves.
"It's a maze." Blake breathes exasperatedly, rubbing a rubbery petal between her thumb and index fingers. "You've barely been here six months, and you already know my house better than I do."
"House is toning it down a bit, don't you think?" The noble glances over her shoulder at the castle towering over them, even though they aren't all that close to the entrance they'd both emerged from. "You're living in a castle."
"A fortress, more like." Blake tuts, eyeing Yang discreetly for a second – although it isn't so discreet, considering the blonde catches the glance and meets it with her own purplish gaze.
"It's a gorgeous place, I have to say." Yang approaches the flowers, fixing her sight upon the begonias that her princess is admiring. "Begonias. You like them?"
"You know what they are?"
"I grew up on a farm, my princess." Yang smiles, not even trying to hide the affectionate roll of her eyes – another thing Blake has taken to about her knight. Before, her escorts were all so stiff, treading so carefully through each day of their life. This one, however, couldn't care less. She just wants to see Blake crack a smile. "I assure you, I know what Begonias are, considering I used to handle the flower side of our stall at the farmers' market."
"A businessman."
"Indeed I am. Was," Her knight knuckles, proudly flashing a smug grin towards the princess, who exhales sharply through her nose in the form of a slight chuckle. "A lien a begonia, a lien a chrysanthemum… I could go on." She mocks a childishly voiced version of herself.
"I can imagine you doing that." The princess laughs, "I have to admit, your upbringing shines through."
"Hm? How so?" Her knight wonders, tilting her head curiously, her hand never moving from the hilt of the blade clasped at her hip – the one that's practically just for show whenever she has her gauntlets.
"You're rather boisterous." Her princess admits without a single shred of hesitation, "You're homely."
"Homely," The noble beams, like she'd just been offered the highest compliment. "I'll take that."
They won't deny that their relationship has taken many steps since they first encountered one another at a ceremony which the princess didn't, initially, wish to go to. They'd grown closer, touchier, more fond of one another.
"It's growing cold." Her guard announces, holding out her hand. "What do you say we head back inside? I have the kitchen staff preparing us some tea."
Ah, a perfectly concocted bribe.
"You're bribing me to come back inside." Blake laughs, "What a cheap trick, Sir Xiao Long."
Holding out a waiting, gloved hand, Yang shakes her head fondly, ready to pull Blake to her feet.
"I'm asking you to have tea with me, Blake."
The name reverberates through the princess' head like a gunshot. Never yet had her knight abided by her first wish when they initially met due to the fear of her actions being viewed as treachery. But there it is, clear as day; her wish granted and eternally spoken into the evening air.
"Yang," The princess takes her knight's hand and smiles, probably the widest and brightest she has in many, many years. "I'd love nothing more."
It had been many weeks since their first 'date' (though not necessarily a date since neither classed it as such aloud – but they were both thinking it) and neither of them had made a move.
As a matter of fact, it was as if they'd drifted apart somewhat.
Neither wished to impose upon the other. The subtle brushing of fingertips and knocking of shoes under the table they'd sat at for their tea in Blake's bedroom felt romantic enough as it was, playful and giddy and lovestruck.
But that seemed to have fizzled out, like a drink turning flat, no longer enjoyable. Perhaps Yang had overstayed her welcome, the princess attempted to reason, despite the clearly growing emotions overflowing within her.
It feels like froth bubbling and boiling over the rim of a pot, scalding all who get near the steam. She can't contain it. Just seeing her knight train – venturing to the training ground to watch her like it's a sport – has sent her over the edge. Her sweat-slickened state, that dumb smile she wears that never fails to be contagious, that golden hair that glistens when the light hits it just right, her unbelievable smarts and fighting technique, her charm, her humour… She truly is the full package.
Until finally, she'd had enough. Overwhelmed by the sight of her knight bubblier than ever amidst her knight friends only for her smile to drop the moment it fixes upon her, she'd ran as far as her legs could carry her.
Which, by the way, she isn't allowed to do – it's lucky that the guards sleep half the time at the back gate, because she wouldn't have been able to get out otherwise. No chance.
She finds herself barefoot at the beach, the coast of the kingdom she will one day rule malleable beneath her feet.
For some time, she merely strolls along it, wondering of the uproar she must be making by disappearing from home. Will Yang be in trouble? Will she be okay? Maybe she should–
Her toe clips a large seashell, gazing down at its form. Dark brown and glistening in the moonlight, it stands out to her amidst the rest she'd seen, mottled and patterned to the ever after and back.
It isn't long after that she finds herself whittling away at the large shell; it's width is thick enough, she realises, to be made into something she is often forced to wear for public engagements.
Whittling away at one shell with another shell, she eventually breaks through and carves the shape she needs.
She's unsure just how long she must sit there, brows pinched with utmost focus.
And, even after she's finished and fine-tuning it, it's only a specific voice that breaks her out of her daze.
"Princess!" A voice bellows from not so far away, "Princess, are you out here?!"
A rustling sounds, trees and shrubbery parting like waves to reveal her knight, clad in her usual casual (yet not at all casual, more like ceremonial) outfit, her sword unsheathed to carve through the forestation.
Her lavenderish eyes set, unmoving, on the woman before her, the princess quickly rising to her feet and dusting the sand from herself. The remnants of the seashell fall back to the ground, her creation wrapped in a tightly balled fist.
"Oh my gods, Blake!" Yang sprints towards her, not even bothering for the formalities. She's wrapped up in her warm embrace in mere seconds, a hand cradling the back of her head like she could slip away again at any moment. "You scared me! I– I didn't know where you'd gone to,"
"I'd never go far." The princess mutters into the fabric covering her knight's shoulder, nuzzling into ticklish, golden locks of hair. "Not when I have you to return to."
Taken aback by her boldness, her knight releases her from her hold, only for her hands to come up and cup her cheeks instead. Their foreheads meet with a soft bump, the tips of their noses nuzzling ever so slightly.
And even despite the proximity–
"This is forbidden." Yang sighs softly, even as she tilts her head to give herself more room.
"Is that why?" Blake wonders, angling her head to give herself the perfect opportunity to dive forth and capture her lips should she wish to. "Why you've been avoiding speaking to me?"
The knight shrugs. "You're tempting." She admits, her nose nuzzling her princess', "You're hard to resist."
"I could say the same about you." They're barely speaking above a hushed whisper by now, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing, breath tickling one another's skin.
"I have never, ever wanted anyone more than I've wanted you." Yang admits.
That's all Blake needs to hear. Without missing a beat, she pushes forward, their lips locking for a tear-salted, lingering kiss.
It doesn't last long enough, clearly, because as they part – guilt ridden all over their expressions despite their lust – they dive back in for more, savouring the taste of each other, kissing, nibbling, devouring.
It turns from soft and sweet to greedy and ravenous rather fast, the two clinging to one another until they have to break away before they pass out from a lack of oxygen.
"Gods," Yang pants, "They'll kill me."
"They won't." Blake swears, "I would never let them."
"You can't promise me that,"
And she's right, there's no possible way that a promise like that would hold. It's as solid as a wall of paper mache, soggy and feeble and torn down by the slightest breeze, because she has to ascend to a role where such a promise holds any certainty first.
She's just a princess, and that's all she'll ever be until– until the unspeakable happens.
It's treasonous to even speak of.
"I can't," The princess' voice wavers, her ears pinning to the top of her head like she's finally realised the complexity of their situation, and yet she continues to hold onto her partner like she's a tether, a lifeline. "But I'd do anything to ensure you won't leave my side."
I don't know how I lived before, without you in my life.
"Princess," The sound of Yang's voice croons like a lullaby in her ears, "It would take a death sentence to take me away from you."
And that, Blake's stomach sinking at the thought, is too reasonable an ending to their story for her knight's words to put her at ease.
A comfortable rhythm had begun, the spring and step of a bubbly summer song surrounds them whenever they're together. Finishing one another's sentences, humming each others' favourite songs they'd played with vinyls in Blake's room, and most of all, touch.
Touch had become so normal, so wanted, so welcome. Touch was a brush of fingertips here until they got the memo and interlocked hands. Touch was the ghosting of lips across a table and forehead, promising a kiss as a reward after whatever gruelling task they had to do was done. Touch was secure hands gripping her waist, leading her into a slow dance her knight insists her father taught her. Touch was placing her hands on her shoulders in return to steady herself; because of course the princess already knows how to slow dance, but letting her dashing, charming guard take the lead felt more romantic than anything she'd ever done in her entire life.
It took a while for the kisses to progress from chaste pecks to cheeks and childish recoiling of hands after they brushed to actual kisses, actual physical affection – it was like they were schoolgirls with cheesy crushes they couldn't quite fathom.
No one is allowed in Blake's room unless given express permission by her herself – if she's out, then it's fair game to the cleaners, but otherwise – they can do whenever they want and get away with it, so long as they remember to recollect themselves in the few seconds they're granted when an intruding knock breaks through their comfortable tension.
Eventually it progresses to more than just touches, just kisses.
Sure, it takes a while for a knight to adjust to the fact that she can, in fact, bed the one she's sworn to protect. It takes many, many weeks of suggestions and hunting from the princess to even spur the thought.
But they get there.
And when a knock sounds, they fling clothes across the room at one another to tug back over their heads as Yang yells hindrances like 'The princess is getting changed! You'll have to wait.' while sneaking a wink over to Blake, fumbling with her dress at the other side of the bed.
Yang smooths her hair down from its wild, bed-messed state, clears her throat, and walks to the door and answers it with the coolest persona she can manage.
When the door closes behind her, she turns back to her princess with a wild grin as they both break out into a fit of laughter at how close they keep cutting it.
"The Atlesian army is advancing."
Of course. They'd always been the wild ones – big ambitions, big plans, and not enough shits given across the world for them to be heard out. Remnant was united, had been United after many, many years of war – but they don't care about that. They just want to rule.
As ambitious as a floating kingdom, as impossible as magic. Atlas just wanted to be the cream of the crop, and to do that, they'd first need to take down the rest of the world's army to get to their king.
Yang was called from Blake's room abruptly at the news, clothes pulled back on and hair smoothed as she planted one last 'it'll be nothing, I'm sure if it' kiss to her forehead. Moments like this are nothing short of terrifying – the possibility of her knight being found out, torn away and killed without her even knowing it, is her worst nightmare.
So when her partner returned with a sour expression, insisting upon gathering her things and heading to train, her worry didn't quell.
That's why her legs led her, without even thinking, to the throne room.
"And you want–" She has to stop herself from blurting Yang – being on a first name basis is frowned upon, "You want Xiao Long to lead the charge?"
"As deputy general." Her father explains coolly, like placing the life of so many soldiers in jeopardy is nothing to him. Like he's done it before – because he has. "Her uncle is still the general. He will lead. She will simply be his right hand."
That, if she wasn't terrified already, sends her tumbling down the endless hell that is a jagged cliff edge. Yang was going to war. A war she may not return from.
The next location she walks to without a single thought to prompt the action is the training courtyard, where she instantly lays her ravenous eyes upon a sweaty figure gleaming in the overhead sunlight, battling against a different man, this time around.
Black hair with a pink streak, putting up far more of a violent fight than the blond man had. As a matter of fact, it's… rather scary just how hard they're going at it.
Teeth bared, sweat flying, hair grasping and wrenching, punches thrown and bruises formed, blood pouring from nostrils and burst lips and chipped fingernails.
The princess had been to many, many of Yang's sparring matches; it was a form of eye candy, a form of entertainment, because she never ever lost. And no, she isn't losing now, either, but… she'd never seen her fight like this. With such ferocity, fueled by such anger and rage that you'd think she was an erupting volcano.
Blake makes her way to the overhead walls and watches, a few of the Knights around the edges of the pit chanting 'Fight, fight, fight!' noticing her presence above. It doesn't help that she casts a slight shadow, ears pointed and honed in on her blonde, watching and waiting for any hint that they need to stop before things get dangerous.
But as Yang spins out of the way of one of the man's charges, her eyes meet the sandy ground and fix upon the shadowy outline of her ears, perked in the skylight.
Her gaze flits up, wondrously, her battered and bruised complexion put vulnerably on show for her princess for a moment, just a moment as her eyes soften, her lips part, about to call out to her, and the princess' heart jolts because if she says her name here–
The man runs again, grabbing Yang's legs and hoisting her over his back, flipping her in the air until she lands agonisingly in a jumbled heap on the ground, her pained groan felt in Blake's very soul.
But she doesn't venture down to see her. She watches and waits for her partner's tender lavender to meet piercing gold before she disappears beyond the short wall, an order unspoken.
Like history is repeating, she watches Yang trudge up the stairs and along the wall, standing in front of her with a sheepish, embarrassed look in her eyes, the eyes she adores oh-so much, her favourite colour amidst the beautiful array the world displays. All the paintings in their halls and galleries couldn't compare.
"He's sending you away."
"I know."
"So fighting your allies is going to help?" The princess snaps, "Is bruising yourself before you even go away going to help you come back to me?"
"No! I–" Her knight's hand smacks against her forehead, sliding down to cover her shameful eyes, the other arm, bruised beyond comprehension, braced on her hip. "I've been a knight for years, Blake." She drops her stiffened posture, slumping instead. "Yet I've never been to war."
"You've also never fought a fight you couldn't win." Blake moves forward, a half raising to caress Yang's cheek, "You told me that yourself."
"I just lost." Her knight wafts a frustrated hand towards the pit below, her voice raised in anger and irritation at the turn of events neither of them had predicted. Their safe haven, their comfortable constant, had been interrupted, thrown to the ground, and stomped on for good measure. "I might lose out ther–"
"Don't." Her princess demands, her hand stilling its movements as her voice wavers without an edge of control over it. "Gods, don't say that. Don't say that. You'll come back,"
"Blake–"
"You'll come back."
This time, it's her knight's hands that raise, cupping both of the princess' cheeks in her palms, their deepened shade reflected in the heat against her skin, the salty tracks down her cheeks–
"Let's go somewhere else." Her blonde says like it's a sworn promise, or something close to a protective command in a moment most dire. "Somewhere where we can just be us."
The beach. The sun glazes the water's surface, growing wider and wider towards the horizon. The miniscule waves ripple at her feet, lapping between her toes as she stands metres away from Yang.
Coming up with something to say right now was… not easy. She'd heard stories of their soldiers' partners giving their spouses kisses of good luck, a promise to come back safe – and when they don't, they mourn, and they move on with great difficulty.
It always sounded much simpler than it feels. The gnawing worry, the feeling that she's being torn in two, two halves of herself she didn't even know she had before Yang Xiao Long came bounding into her life with a sunny attitude and sunny smile and sunny personality, too bright for her shadows.
"I want to come back to you." Her knight swears, "But I can't promise that I can."
"But you can promise to try." The princess snaps over her shoulder, "Gods, Yang, I need you here. I need you."
"And I need you all the same." The blonde takes a few steps forward, uncaring for whether her boots are sullied by the salty ocean water. There a tears carving paths down Blake's cheeks, and that's what she's most concerned with.
Something breaks in the princess then, because she'd been carrying this damn thing in her pocket for months, waiting for a perfect moment that never came. Lying cuddled in bed. The exhausted aftermath of tickle fights and teasing play fights to get her moody mindset diminished from her pile of documents to read through and sign. None of them were perfect.
And neither is this moment – this moment, two people on the brink of breaking, one being sent to possibly die and the other wishing she could die at her side, is not perfect in the slightest.
But it could be the last moment that's even close to perfect.
She reaches into her pocket and procures the ring she carved from the seashell that day on the beach. Without missing a beat, she grabs her knight's hand and pushes it onto her ring finger.
"Bring it back to me." The princess orders, "Bring it back to me, and… and we can do whatever we want."
The noble looks at it, admiring the way it glints luminously in the orangish sunlight. Her eyelashes flutter, her gaze flitting from the ring to her partner, knowing exactly what this is.
This moment, right there, right now, feels too much like a curtain call for it to mean nothing.
"If I bring this ring back," The knight treads cautiously, "If I– if I come back," she reiterates, much to her princess' sorrow, who sobs. "Then… we should get married. In secret,"
The princess would be lying if she said the thought hadn't crossed her mind. It's what makes her answer too easy.
"Yes," She breathes, as easy as the beating of her heart. "Yes, please, yes."
The gap between them closes in an instant, lips tasting and chasing and locking, getting everything out of every kiss they'd shared from just this single one. Every moment between them reflects in these seconds, akin to your life flashing before your eyes before you pass on.
They part, breath brushing one another's lips.
"You don't need a ring for me to come back." Yang speaks like it should be obvious. "I'd love you until the end of time," She admits, "And then I'd do it again, and again, and again."
"Well," Blake smirks, lifting her chin at her, "What's stopping you?"
It's a hint at something more, a hint at a plan that would get them killed if they dared find the guts to so much as try.
Her knight glances down at the hilt of her sword before meeting those amberish eyes she loves oh so much.
"Everything." Yang speaks weakly before clearing her throat, resolve solidifying in her soul. "But I will." Her lips meet her princess' forehead, breathing and speaking against her skin. "If we are unable to be happy in this lifetime, then I'll guarantee that we can be in the next, and every one after."
"You can't guarantee that."
Her knight beams that same cocky grin she hadn't seen in some time, as playful, dashing and charming as the first time she saw it, a kiss planted to her knuckles.
"Watch me."
It had been five days since the knights had left for battle.
Not a single one had returned.
It wasn't uncommon for battles to be waged for days, for soldiers to be running on no sleep while killing their foes without a second thought. Her father had told her so – he's fought as a prince, after all.
After a while, however, he too seemed worried, sending a messenger to the battlefield to retrieve news of how it's going.
Blake has never been as anxious as she has been in these past days. The whites of her nails nonexistent, bitten down and down and down. Lines where her nails have dug in have sunk permanently into the sides of her arms, her waist, holding herself in embraces that Yang can't give her.
It's on the third day that something – she doesn't know what – breaks within her.
Like a rope snapping, the floor giving way beneath your feet, your legs failing to move. She collapsed to the floor in the middle of a meeting with a sinking feeling in her chest that she couldn't quite place, feeling completely, totally, and utterly alone in this world.
Her father ordered her to be put on bedrest as a palace guard carried her back to her room and set her down in the bed that smells too much like her partner.
She tries not to think of Yang that day. She tries not to think of what it could mean. She tries not to feel the lightness of her pocket with the ring no longer occupying it. She sleeps on the upright chair in the corner of her room because her pillows are still scented of ash, vanilla, and the sunflower scent she'd gotten her knight for her birthday.
The messenger returns on the sixth day, carrying a box.
He breezes by Blake with this look that doesn't put her mind at ease whatsoever, but just shatters her heart into pieces – a letter, penned by the general, had been expected. Not a box.
Bringing a box back from a battle is never a good sign.
The king and queen are the first to be given the message, or rather the box, Blake being shut out of the room during.
Then the messenger leaves, no box in hand, and the moment his eyes catches the princess standing there, his shoulders slump.
They'd sent a young boy to retrieve news from a bloodied battlefield. No wonder.
He approaches the princess without so much as a bow, salute or curtsy, and digs into his pocket. When his hand comes back out, it's in a tight-balled fist, quivering as he holds it in the air in front of her.
She gets the memo, opening her hand from him to drop it into. She fears she already knows what it is.
His grip relaxes, and the ring tumbles into her hold. A shuddering gasp breaks loose from her lips as she takes it, holds it like it's priceless, and brings it to her chest right above her heart.
"She told me to bring it back to you." The boy tells her, "I'm sorry."
He nods to her and walks away down the hall, sullen and dejected. But Blake barely notices him leave. If she'd stayed any longer, she'd have found out that the box contained a part of Yang, more than just the ring. She'd have found out that the proof that the battle was lost was a part of the woman she swore she'd wed and spend her life with. She'd have found out that their wish, to return to one another, had been shattered.
But she'd kept her promise to get the ring back to her. Maybe that's what breaks Blake the most – seeing that a part of herself made it back to her loved one, a silent admission that every promise she'd made to her still holds, even in death.
So the princess recalls another promise she'd made and runs with it, her feet carrying her out the back gate of the castle.
The ground beneath her crumbles, but not alarmingly so. Crumbling dirt falls from the ledge to the roaring sea below, the weight of her body on the cliff edge clearly a strain.
"If we are unable to be happy in this lifetime, then I'll guarantee that we can be in the next, and every one after."
Blake chooses to believe.
For the last time in this life, she falls for Yang.
"Hellooooo!" A voice bellows, clearly strained to a higher pitch and playful beyond anything Blake could possibly compare it to. She'd never heard a voice, nor a demeanour, that would spark an introduction quite like this.
She chances a glance over the rim of her book's cover, peering at the two figures approaching. One blonde, one brunette, the eldest as bright and radiant as the sun itself, she astutes – the other is younger and far more reluctant and shy as she's dragged by the former over towards where she sits, slumped against the wall of the huge, shared dorm.
"I believe you two know each other." The girl beams, wafting a hand towards the younger girl, who, yes, Blake recognises immediately – the girl who blew up.
"That girl that exploded?" Blake smirks, tilting her head in amusement.
"Uh, yeah." The younger girl finally turns around, a sheepish smile upon her face as she fidgets with her hands. Blake could relate. "My name's Ruby!" She holds out a hand, and Blake recoils slightly, still holding her book in a firm grasp. Ruby relents.
Shivering, knowing this is an attempt at making friends, Blake feigns indifference. "Okay." She mutters, trying not to seem interested in these two boisterous personalities before her. Right now, letting anyone get close is… a terrifying prospect.
"What are you doing?"
"I don't know, help me!"
Each word is caught in the shielded ears atop her head, but she pretends not to have heard their joint flusteredness.
"So," The sunny blonde chimes back up, as enthusiastic as ever, it seems. Bright, cheerful, and without a single hindrance to her resolve despite how cold she'd been just now. "What's your name?"
"Blake." She answers, because clearly she can't just brood her way out of this one.
"Well, Blake, I'm Yang. Ruby's older sister." She, too, tilts her head curiously for a moment, a low hum sounding in the back of her throat. "Say, did you go to Signal?"
"Signal?" Blake parrots, an eyebrow sliding up in bemusement.
"Clearly not, then." Yang chuckles, itching the back of her head. "Just could've sworn we've met before."
Now that she mentions It–
"Yeah." Blake nods, "Maybe." She'd be lying if that feeling of familiarity, of nostalgia and a sense of ease, was lost on her.
Another hum, this time like a conclusion to that portion of their conversation. "Well, anyway, I like your bow!"
"Thanks." Cold and bland, again – because truthfully, she's still racking her brain for where she knows this random stranger from. Surely she'd remember someone so bright, so sunny so– so fucking persistent. Plus, that compliment is… much needed right now. She'd been so worried that the bow looked dumb, looked obvious, looked–
"It goes great with your… pyjamas!"
"Right." Moment ruined.
"Nice night, don't you think?" Yep, well and truly persistent.
"Yes, it's lovely." Blake finally looks up from her page, having read over the same paragraph five times in the two minutes. "Almost as lovely as this book." She hopes that gives the hint she needs. It doesn't. Evidently. "Which I am going to continue to read, as soon as you leave."
A huff of anxious laughter makes her ears flutter, pointedly honing in on Yang.
"Yeah, this girl's a lost cause." She says to Ruby, a teasing tone to her voice that tells Blake it isn't completely serious – she hangs onto that, because otherwise it overrules the previous sweetness of the bow compliment, of the familiarity, the nostalgia…
It's then that a rather icy woman comes by and begins to tell at them, so Blake blows out her candle and opts to call it a night; the issue, she finds, is that the glow of the blonde she'd found herself infatuated by doesn't relent, even in the dimmed darkness of the widely shared dorm.
And, as Blake lays on her side, positioning herself perfectly to gaze at the wild mane of blonde and home her hearing on her snoring at the other end of the room between the many sleeping bags set up, she decides that it may be a good idea to keep her eye on that one.
Something deep within her tells her to, something she's sure she'll figure out in time.