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With a deep inhale, Mythlan breathed in the unique air—the inimitable atmosphere—of a big day, of a fresh start.
Today was the grand reopening of the Library of Haven. It had been operational for months now, of course, but in a few minutes, Lessa and Calnor would officially instate the regulation changes and welcome everyone back through the doors with a ceremony led by the Calnorian crown prince and princess—the latter of whom currently stood on the second floor of the library, looking over the main area and envisioning the crowd that would soon occupy it. Unknown commoners would mingle with important figures from both countries: tradesmen with nobles, servants with dignitaries…mere translators with mighty enchanters…
“You know, the bannister actually made it out of the fire rather unscathed,” came a gentle, teasing voice. “We might have to replace it anyway if you grip it like that any longer.”
Myth glanced down and, with a self-conscious cringe, forced herself to loosen the white-knuckled hold she had on the balcony railing. “I apologise, Arvel…”
Her husband tutted as he slotted himself against her, facing the other way so that he could lean against the bannister but cosied up all the same. “There is no need, my sweet,” he said, still gentle, still teasing—especially with that little endearment, Myth thought with an eye roll—but much more earnest and watchful. “If you insist on making it up to me somehow, I would only ask that you tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s not…”
Arvel raised his brow.
Warmth flushed her cheeks; okay then, no point in arguing that nothing was bothering her. “That is, I’m…not…certain, that we…”
He frowned as she gnawed her lip. “That we…what?” he prodded, tilting his head at her in such a way that her breath caught at how boyish he looked. Stars, he was perfect…
She shook her head. No. This was not a we issue: it was entirely her. “That I should be a part of the ceremony.”
His eyebrows really shot up then. “What?”
“It’s… It’s just— I don’t feel particularly ready for this, my first appearance in an official capacity as the crown princess—”
“You mean, other than our wedding, when you became crown princess?”
“Yes, well,” she huffed, “I was so nervous then about interacting with everyone that I could hardly focus on—”
Her mouth snapped shut, and her gaze dropped to the floor. On a single person I might disappoint in particular. Dear stars, she’d almost revealed what she’d successfully kept from Arvel—everyone she cared about now, really, from the royal Calnorian family as a whole to Blaise and her circle of wizard acquaintances—for months. Guilt simmered in her chest as her husband’s hands, still in view of her downcast eyes, fiddled together the way they always did when he was pensive or uncertain. Myth hadn’t set out to keep secrets about her parents, had never actively lied about her past; she hadn’t even noticed she didn’t make small talk about her childhood or her family like other people naturally did until about the time King Petyrr started making spiels about her being part of this family. But once she did notice, she couldn’t help but perpetuate the evasion, some years-old shame that she just couldn’t let go of propelling her to keep it—this rejection, this clear inadequacy of hers—hidden.
She was a fool for thinking Arvel would never notice. And a coward for hoping it.
Mustering her courage, she whispered, “When did you start to love me?”
His every muscle went rigid beside her before he slowly, actively, let out the sudden tension. Calmly—with great effort, she could tell—he said, “Why do you ask?”
Why, indeed? Because she could not ask her father when he stopped loving her?
Myth knew her being royalty in and of itself wouldn’t interest him much—after all, he hadn’t even paused when he’d seen her with Arvel and Benjimir at the garden party all those months ago, and he had barely afforded her a nod when their gazes met during her wedding reception—but maybe there was something she could do as a royal, such as at this ceremony or some similar princessly appearance, that would…
Brushing aside the gossamer threads of that thought’s conclusion, she lifted her eyes to Arvel’s face. She didn’t know what he could see in them, but in his, she saw worry, unease—and consideration. “I want to know how I…” She bit her lip again, then exhaled forcibly. “What I did, I suppose, to make you love me.”
He shifted to the side, resting one elbow on the railing and lifting his other arm to cup her head with an ever-caring hand and turn it to face him directly. “Nobody can make anyone love somebody,” he said.
“That was a lot of indefinite pronouns,” she muttered.
Arvel’s smirk was fleeting as he pecked her on the nose, as was his wont when she—his words—“was too adorable to resist”. (How she was supposed to get any interpreting done during social events when the slightest display of her linguistic aptitude made her husband lose all concentration was an…ongoing issue.) Even once his expression sobered, however, he didn’t lean back: he pressed his forehead against hers and spoke softly, just to her, as though guards weren’t surely at the foot of the stairs or citizens weren’t gathering outside the library by now.
“If you could make someone fall in love,” he said, “unrequited feelings wouldn’t be tragic, and a statement of disinterest wouldn’t be a valid rejection. Somebody chasing after a person who’s already told them they didn’t love them back would be reasonable, wouldn’t it? And so would somebody telling their lover they had to change if they weren’t feeling any reciprocation.”
Myth nodded slowly. None of those scenarios sounded healthy or just, that was true.
The pad of Arvel’s thumb brushed against her cheekbone in a single soft yet certain stroke. “I think…feelings of love come from a mixture of chance and of the people involved, their characters.”
She nodded again, this time more comprehending. “Of course,” she agreed. “Whether that person is worthy of being loved.”
A crease formed between his eyebrows; she felt it against her own forehead. After some hesitation, he said, “No…more like, whether the other person is capable of loving.”
“But…” She blinked a few times, and that crease deepened.
“Some people do not have the heart to make the attachments and sacrifices necessary for real, abiding love,” he said. “Or just not at the time when the other person needs it, although I guess that’s more the circumstances aspect.”
“Yes…I see what you mean.” She believed that every human and elf was capable of love, but she could also certainly believe some were too self-centred or too afraid to do much with it. Such as the Fultons. Such as Wylorym the enchanter, once grief dug its painful claws into him. Such as herself, if she didn’t take care. “You have given me much to think about, my love. Thank you.”
“And to talk about, I hope?” he ventured, his other hand coming up to cradle her face. “Comforting you gives me comfort that our love goes strong. Reassuring you reassures me that the person I care about the most is well. Please, dearest, do not deny me such relief.”
Around the lump in her throat, Myth promised, “Tonight, Arvel. Or tomorrow morning, first thing before we face the day, if the celebration proves long. I will… I will try to tell you everything.”
“Nothing you say will ever make me regret you, or make my devotion lessen. Just as nothing you did made me love you,” he said, guiding her face upwards as he bent his head towards her. “It was neither an active choice nor a natural consequence, for my part. No, I am simply very lucky, and eternally grateful.”
His breath ghosted across her lips with every word, ratcheting her heart rate higher and higher until at last she surged up to seal his torturously talkative mouth with her own.
Her hands gripped his waist now, likely bunching up his courtly attire, but he let her. Stars, he let her.
And it was freeing to let go of that shame, that fear. Or at least to loosen her hold on it, trusting—if not yet knowing—that there was nothing she could have done to win her father’s affection, and nothing she could have been. No, she was what she always would be. She was adequate. She was loved.