Chapter Text
Warm golden sunlight trickled into the stone room.
A clang echoed off the walls, while the twins treaded in near silence; there was no quiet way to fill and bring an iron cauldron to boil.
Elain’s eyes stayed shut, just delaying. The moment they opened them she’d start moving, not being able to rest while the house came to life. The twins never held her to morning chores knowing she stayed up reading and as they hadn’t learned, despite Elain offering, they were encouraging.
Rolling over her book fell into the hearth, its tan stones dusted in ash speckled with cinders. An ache in her back was a reminder that the spring nights were cool and spent curled into the fire's faded warmth. Rising up she was conscious there was just enough room for her between the wall and the hearth flanked by two iron owls. She brushed the cinder from the worn saffron pages of her book, pressed out the wrinkles of her linen dress and tried to thread the stray hairs back into their plaits, unknowingly spreading the hearth’s ash.
Moving to the kitchen threshold, Cerri pressed a steaming cup into her hands in greeting, “It’s a quiet day so there’s no need to rise early. As the rightful mistress of this house you should rest.” Nodding in silent agreement, Nuala fished eggs out of a boiling pot, her fingers rolling them in staccato beats around the countertop, hastening their cooling. Elain plunked down on a stool between the fire and window and eased her back against the rough stones. The twins' confidence and support in her never wavered, their morning smiles warmed her more than anything in the kitchen ever could.
Nuala was stern but caring and Cerridwen, the younger, was warm and fierce. They cared for her when Papa was away and raised her after he was gone. Elain loved them. The years had etched into their brows and drawn color from their dark hair. At least they were healthy but their sight wasn’t what it used to be, their physical strength beginning to fade.
While what Cerri said was probably true, this was how things had been for nearly 9 years. When Elain’s father passed it was so unexpected that she was still his sole heir despite him remarrying earlier that same year. It had been the point of contention with her stepmother, Lady Merrill, who presided over the manor and textile shop in Elain’s name; she called herself a regent, like she was royalty. Yet she made poor decisions out of self-inflicted ignorance, the notion of trade or work was inappropriate for the gentry. Merrill mismanaged things so thoroughly she had to sell most of the assets of Elain’s late father’s business, Métiers à tisser, or ‘The Looms’, to pay the manor’s taxes. Rather than learn how the manor or shop operated, Merrill ignored them and was surprised when things did not go well. Now, they survived on what they grew and what little income came from the remnants of the shop.
Many years ago a trade embargo cut off the supply of raw materials for linen so out of necessity he adapted rather than face ruin. So he developed specialized looms to make fabric out of any material linen, wool or silk. “You always need to think ahead Elain,” one of his many lectures, not chiding but preparing her for the world. His looms were still weaving in the garment district of Velaris today, a testament to his ingenuity. What would he think if he knew the state of things now though?
Yet Elain would come of age soon, 25, and she would be mistress of de Barbarac, the once thriving stone manor surrounded by an orchard, farm and ancient forest, and Le Meti. Until then she, and the twins, were subject to her stepmother's decisions, whims, and snide comments; all of which Elain was very tired of. But she would reach her majority soon.
And that potential, the promise of a future was a seed sown deep within her being, had been growing for years and slowly unfurling like layered delicate petals, into hope. With spring upon them it was hard to not feel a fundamental joy and let those feelings of promise carry her forward. She could withstand a few more months.
The rising whistle of water brought her back to Cerri’s low pitched voice.
‘What did you read last night?’
‘Utopia’
‘Not a romance? What is it about, I forget?’
‘A different way of thinking.’ It’s no wonder it had been all but banned-
Chirping bells cut through the kitchen dragging up three pairs of eyes.
‘Always first to rise and first to ring.’ Ianthe, her stepsister, equally petty and beautiful. As children they were raised at the same table but as Elain grew older and her father’s fortune ran out she was slowly kept from lessons and acquiring the requisite accomplishments they’d once learned together to do chores instead. The rest of the household had never forgotten the slight against Elain.
‘Go,’ Cerri glanced at Elain's hair; the ash must have been bad enough to be remarked upon upstairs. To bathe she would have to go to the river; there wasn’t enough wood for her stepmother, stepsister, and Elain to bathe. At least the spring air was warm but she shivered at the jolt of what the river's frigid waters would be.
‘Go bathe, we’ll manage.’
‘I’ll bring apples back from the orchard.’. It was midweek, the busiest at the market so apples would fetch the highest price and every copper had use, ‘and load them onto the cart.’ A look crossed Nuala’s eyes that Elain recognized but couldn’t place, sorrow or old memories, maybe both. Her own heart clenched at the thoughts drug up by the unspoken reference of what Merrill had done and pushed them down to keep her expression even.
A second set of bells clanged.
The twins hefted trays of hot tea and flew out of the kitchen leaving Elain to herself. The warm mug prevented her from rubbing her hands together so instead she pursed her lips and scattered the steamy tendrils.
—
The morning air was brisk; the damp grass and brush clung to her skirts. Mist hung like smoke over the animal pens and distant orchard. The river was eastward, nearly half an hour walk, if she moved quickly, which she would having forgotten a cloak. As she passed the hives, their steady humming and buzzing a signal that the bees were ready for the longer days of spring. Stepping into the woods, Elain scanned the staggered trees that gave the verdant forest depth; the pastel blooms of spring contrasting against the high slate grey sky.
Passing through the dim forest and emerging at the river's edge the light scattered into a pink hazy mist dampening Elain's senses. The faint silver moon hovered at the distant tree line gracefully retreating into soft peach hues. Only the river burbled as Elain loosened her hair gently unthreading Nualas precise work from the day before. Tearing out of her simple bodice and skirt, she didn’t bother to look over her shoulder, no one lived in the woods and the western road lay abandoned. Stripped bare, her feet slipped over the rocks as she swallowed a steadying breath for the icy plunge.
__
Azriel woke with a start, ensconced in satin pillows, smothered in comfort, the heated room was nearly stifling. Sets of heavy drapes rebuffed any light from disturbing their royal charge.
Rubbing his face, stubble scratched his palms, and he willed his muscles to relax. The room's darkness greeted him. In moments the servants would descend, the clicking at the door signaling the imminent onslaught. If he’d woken earlier he could have escaped but – the doors flew open and the day began for him.
The Jacquard drapes were wrenched back by a nameless servant and sunlight flooded the room illuminating the rich jewel toned furnishings and gleaming wood, assuring the occupant nothing short of a luxurious stay. A pile of richly foiled and bound books sat at his bedside. He read. About adventures in far off lands, menacing darkness, heroes, ethereal beings with no name, and of far-far away places. Reading had become the fashion and he understood why, the inspiration and joy it brought was nearly unparalleled.
He was dressed and groomed efficiently, the silent procession of attendants smoothly working around one another. Trays of lush fruits were placed within easy reach. His mirror reflected a tall form clothed in a rich blue velvet trimmed with sable, the family crest stitched in gold across his heart. Chestnut boots gleamed up to his knees. His dark hair, soft and thick, hung loose and he lightly flipped it back. A velvet cape, more elegant adornment than functional, was intentionality draped over one muscled shoulder. He tugged it off.
Azriel was restless, felt without purpose. While he mastered what was expected of him, studies, combat, intrigue, but his future was in the hands of others, discussions were held without him, decisions were made for him. He was not privy to his life’s course.
‘His majesty has summoned you for half past the hour,’ a faceless attendant announced.
Then I have a quarter of an hour.
‘Leave me, then.’ Lately that cool, detached tone started to come out a little too easily.
The King likely wanted to inform him of progress with the Vallahan alliance, code for Azriel’s betrothal. The topic had been pressed for months, truly neither the King, Council, or Azriel himself were particularly thrilled with the arrangement of their closest rival. Yet, the new trade agreement under negotiation would have lucrative benefits for both sides. And a prince had specific obligations; he’d anticipated a political marriage but an economic one wasn't much different. At least he did have an ally in the Queen who was sympathetic in not wanting him to marry a stranger. ‘This negotiation with Vallahan will fall apart, they feign interest and always back out in the end,’ she would say, swishing her golden bangles in dismissal. She spoke with such certainty. He hoped she was correct; she often was.
Sheathing an obsidian dagger he pulled a pouch of coins from a desk, glancing along his belt not sure where it should be tied, and passed by the untouched fruit. Striding down the castle's ivory halls he ignored the gilded carving of masks and crowns, and the palace Guards.
Entering the great hall tittering courtiers hushed and he ignored the waves of silence that ebbed and flowed with scattered murmurings.
Bastard.
His eyes ricocheted across the room searching but no, no questions of lineage whispered or otherwise had been voiced. The truth was only a few souls knew and they did not gossip.
___
‘The envoy from Rask asks too many questions.’
‘They are just trying to find common ground.’
‘It’s suspicious, them asking about Azriel’s appearance.’
‘He’s the prince, of course they are interested in him, they seek to flatter us, vye for our favor by complimenting him.’
‘Then why do they keep mentioning your sister?’
‘You know why, Marrin was from-’
‘They cannot know! He- no one can question the bloodline.’
‘Francis, you are being paranoid. He does not know and Elis-’
‘Shss! What was that?’
___
Many years had since passed and Rask was still not favored with trade deals.
But his aunt Lady Elise? It hit him the next morning, as his father lectured with renewed vigor on lineage: Azriel resembled his mother more than his father or uncles. The King knew he was not Azriel’s father. And his mother knew too. She’d been his guiding star yet since overhearing that conversation he felt a split from her; like a wound of doubt that had grown, festered and consumed his conscience. Who was he?
This doubt was the root of his unworthiness. Since he was not the King’s son he was an imposter, a bastard. So, he had to be cautious. The observers and spies at court were resourceful; Azriel had received congratulations for his own anticipated betrothal despite it not being finalized or publicly announced.
He learned that any phrase or gesture would be scrutinized and agonized over then twisted into something else completely so he decided to shield himself from his shrewd observers. He would go with the complete opposite of what he thought and felt, the facade of a cool arrogant prince gave him the most latitude; it was what everyone expected from him and when expectations were matched - people did the talking, so he spoke little, and they filled in the silence with their own assumptions.
So his neutral face shifted and he loosed a charming smile, the sighs of ladies’ and a few gentlemen in his wake were near comical.
Across the great hall, amusing two skeptical looking ladies and nearly identical in appearance, his cousins on his mother’s side dipped their heads. As he grew older he was more grateful for them; sparring with him in the way he needed, strategizing through political maneuverings, or grounding him with humor. They had grown to be his foundations in the highly competitive court which he rose to the constant challenge and demands of but with them he could breathe. Not question himself. If he did not have that outlet, he didn’t want to think of how he would spiral, how he would turn inward. The younger, Rhys, gave him an all-knowing look and returned to his conversation.
Turning a corner, an empty hallway stretched ahead and behind. He paused at an unremarkable section of trim and pressed, triggering a hidden door to swing outwards. Not bothering to glance over his shoulder he disappeared into the darkness.
—
The forest's canopy glowed and the patterned dappled golden light hid the ruts and grooves of the western road.
Azriel slowed his roan mount to a trot, turning down a narrow deer path. The Sidra wound through the forest so he could water his horse and the morning mist would give them cover from the Guard; with the blood rushing through his ears he wasn’t sure if he’d hear them approach. Better to let them pass and then cut northwards through the forest.
The uneven forest floor forced them to a walk and the many low gnarled branches had him ducking until he dismounted and led the horse.
Nearing the river the sage, olive, and chartreuse leaves melted together under the thickening mist. The evening rains had saturated the forest floor and the warm earth pushed up tendrils of water. He brushed off the sweat from the exertion and the humidity nearly disoriented.
A distant voice drifted from the river alternating with the squelching of musty leaves. A feminine voice rose and fell like the gentle chimes of the eventide. When the day ended and the light and the air soothed and softened into the quiet dark.
Focusing on that calming thought, he tugged his horse faster and as if she could sense him, her voice rose and the melody was bright, the song becoming clearer, inviting him. The tan livery cape he took from the stables caught on thorny brambles but he tugged forward, tearing the fabric.
As her song crested and he dropped the reins not wanting to miss a moment more, he climbed the river bank, feet sinking into the sand, tan cape fluttering into place. The morning sun seared the mist burning off the remnants scattering into a soft pink haze.
But there was nothing.
He followed the gently arcing river. Nothing. No one. Did he imagine an ethereal beauty stepping into the river for a bath?
The roan horse stepped next to him huffing, echoing Azriel’s own disappointment.
__
Elain bounded up the riverbank following through the forest back to the manor. As the canopy began to glow with the high sun's light, birds tittering rose and echoed through the woods. The season had been mild so the birds sang and she shared their relief. The calls a carillon of spring, of renewal, and her own spirits lifted and she began to hum again.
Approaching a spring she cupped the sweet water to her mouth and plucked a few cream flowers from the snarled vines, nestling them into her bodice. She’d return with a basket, the jasmine blooms could be pressed into wax transferring the sweet, heady scent to create fragrant candles.
Threading fingers through her hair she tried to quell the wet waves into straight strands. If not, they were another thing to be commented on. Half of her hair was dry when the rumble of hooves swept through the forest, the wave of sound made her turn back towards the river. It came from the western road. Were they marauders? Something worse? She’d heard rumors of grumbling in the south, something about the Velarisian prince being traded away Ianthe bemoaned. The forest seemed to hold its breath along with Elain, the stillness nearly eerie as the hooves faded. She turned and did not stop until the orchard came into view.
The apple trees planted by her grandfather were overgrown but there weren’t enough hands to maintain them, much less the resources to pay those hands. So, she gathered her long skirts and began plucking the fallen fruit. Having filled two baskets, she hefted them into her hips angling for the stables where the market cart waited.
At the sound of a whinny her eyes shot up.
Artemis, her father’s ebony charger bound towards the hedges separating the stables and orchard. A hooded figure urged the animal on, ‘Move you blasted beast.’
The baskets fell in quick succession, apples tumbling away. Artemis was nearly 20 years old but they needed him to pull the cart to market. What they sold there was critical and kept her and the twins from ruin.
So little was left of her father; the aging manor, a few books, and her memories which she would not have spoiled by some petty thief. She could not lose Artemis. Elain’s fist floated up to her heart, the heat in her chest rose and reaching its zenith - centered her, focusing on the rider and she moved.
Pressing an apple between her teeth, the flesh pushed at her gums, she gripped two more and ran to the edge of the orchid.
‘Thief!’
Thud. Chest.
‘Ahhh’
Thud. Back.
‘Thief!!’
The rider dove off Artemis 15 hands to the ground seeking a reprieve she would not allow. Tearing the last apple from her mouth she spat the flesh and landed the final blow squarely on his head.
‘Ow- I am no thief!’ he cried incredulously.
‘That. is. not. your. horse’
‘But I am in great need of one’
‘And I am in need of a great many things, yet manage not to take what isn’t mine.’
Still on the ground he ran a gloved palm across his aching head, ‘You have exceptional aim, madam’
‘You were difficult to miss, sir’
‘I’m perfectly average as any man’
‘As you say’
‘Do you find something in my proportions lacking?’, he queried, rising to his feet.
Oh, no, she would not be cowed, not by this thief. Her eyes darted over him, an imposing sight with a raised hood, clenched jaw, and very polished boots. A rather large coin purse hung from his belt, odd- they should be tucked inside that fine doublet to avoid theft. He stood with squared feet and if anything the worn linen cloak, poorly hiding his broad shoulders was the most out of place. He looked like a clean shaven gentleman but his actions were not of one. An impression of a hilt and pommel pressed out from the cloak and since he hadn’t reached for it already, Elain decided he likely wouldn’t.
‘I can hardly take your full measure so obscured, though considering,’ gesturing towards Aretmis who took the invitation to greet her and she grabbed his reins, ‘clearly there are serious deficiencies in character’.
‘I assure you my character is not lacking.’
‘Forgive me if I do not believe you,’ Her tone wholly unmoved.
He took a step forward. Did he look like a common thief? Well she called him such, which explained why she spoke so forcefully. The reality was that the royal household could commandeer anything with compensation, including this old horse. He realized she hadn’t addressed him properly using his title- his hood was still up obscuring his face, how could she know who he was? He had hoped to go unseen but he did not escape her notice so commandeering it was.
He cast off the obscuring garment and Artemis jerked at the sudden movement.
The satisfaction of waylaying the thief and her victory completely dissolved as Elain took in the cobalt and sable doublet, eyes landing on the golden sigil of a mountain and three stars.
The Crown Prince. Shit.
Crashing to her knees and taking the reins with her, she ducked and breathed out, ‘Forgive me your highness, I did not recognize you-‘
‘‘Would that have diverted your aim?’
In the silence, the sun broke through the scattering clouds and she peaked up. He was handsome, even the sun reveled in his presence, highlighting the almost too perfect planes of his face. She’d heard he was popular at court, making the news of his recent betrothal all the more lamentable, apparently.
She then realized it hadn’t occurred to him that someone would object to him taking Artemis. He hadn’t tried to apologize or acknowledge that he was in the wrong. To live like that, operate unquestioned? In truth, no one would check him. In fact, if her stepmother were here, she’d thank him for the honor of lending out the horse.
But it still meant he wanted Artemis.
The irritation in his eyes settled into mild bemusement in the dragging silence. Who was she? He’d barely seen her face but they seemed close in age. Her hair spilled over one shoulder like a thick sheet of glistening honey revealing the curve that led his eyes to her soft nape. A bit of raised flesh peaked out from the long sleeves of her simple garments, she appeared as a commoner but her speech was constructed like the gentry. A contradiction.
Again, who was she? Why did she defend this place?
He did not have time though to find out. The Guard would likely circle back, realizing his tracks vanished.
He reached for the rains in her hands but she tucked them closer,
‘We have a carriage your majesty, something more comfortable for your journey.’ A falsity. The carriage was actually broken. Royals loved grand gestures though, they preened with self-satisfaction, offering it would make him feel more gallant when - if - he forgave her.
At the offer his face shifted to a frown and tugged the reins again, this time she released them.
Easily mounting he drew Artemis in a circle and emptied the coin purse in front of her,
‘For your silence,’ coins fell, one, two, three...clink, clink… too many to count.
Then he was gone.
Elain stared at the coins glittering with promise in the sunlight, hope.
———
Bursting through the kitchen door nearly knocking it off the rusted iron hinges Elain called out, ‘Nuala! Cerri!’
The former puffed in with a basket and Cerri crouching next to the hearth, rose.
The coins clattered onto the kitchen table.
‘Where did these come from??’
‘A merciful prince. And I know exactly what I'll do with them’