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The castle is never silent, not really.
The aged mahogany doors groan and creak each time a soul passes through, the kerosene sconces mounted to the walls hiss with flickering life, illuminating desolate halls that have seen many, many generations live and die within the ivy-covered walls. The kitchens are always alive no matter the time— the small folk that pledge their duty here stay up drinking cheap spirits and telling ghost stories to scare the wee ones. Rat-catchers and their hounds come in under the guise of night, slinking around in the corners no one dares to look. Come dawn, the rodents are gone and the wild mutts have full bellies. So, the castle is never truly silent— but it does get close.
The hour grows late as you sit and watch the candle marks melt by. It’s been long since your ladies-in-waiting retired for the night, assuming that their work was done after bathing and dressing you for your slumber. But they know little of what goes on when the glimmering moon peaks in the navy sky, oblivious to how you come alive once you’re certain that the people who expect utter propriety from you are fast asleep. Your jailors, you so prudently call them. Locking away the woman you yearn to be— loud, wild, and free —in favor of the princess you ought to be. Such dreams of running barefoot through tall wheat and letting your hair grow long and tangled only exist within your mind, the safe haven you slip off to in your absolutely mundane lessons in politics and diplomacy. Such topics hardly concern you, for you will never sit upon father’s throne. No, not as a woman.
Once the wick begins to collapse in on itself, shriveled and brittle, you finally gather yourself to your feet and hurry towards your bedroom door. Tonight’s adventure, however small, has consumed your every thought all throughout the day’s events. Tonight is the first warm night after the harsh winter your people have endured. It feels as if spring’s wind has finally returned, bringing along opportunities and promise in its sweet humidity.
Carefully, you crack your door open, the iron hinges crying out with age. The sound alerts him, your ever vigilant kingsguard lying in wait at his duty post.
“Your Grace?” He speaks, a voice once soft as downy feathers, now distorted through a voice box beneath his mask of steel. He turns, surveying your presence for any ailment or harm. He is your sworn shield, the man dedicated to protect you with his entire life. He is also your closest friend, your secret confidant, your most loyal companion, even if he will not admit such affections.
“Oh, how fine the wind is tonight, my Herald,” you sigh dreamily, leaning up against the stone archway beside him.
He has long since grown tired of your devilish antics, immune to your flirts and sparkling eyes. Even before he was knighted, the Machine Herald was more than familiar with the troublemaker side of you, always trying to reel you back in and convince you to spare yourself a punishment. He was never successful, not as a child, and certainly not now.
“It is, my Lady,” he responds in his tinny, cold voice. He has no interest in entertaining whatever mischief that has possessed you so. “A perfect night to sleep with the window ajar, I suggest.”
Crossing your arms over your chest, you give Ser Herald your best pout, all but stomping your foot against the stone flooring beneath you. “You suggest, or you command?”
Ser Herald does not look at you when he says “Both, Your Grace.”
He’s rigid in stature, composed of nothing but steel and mechanical parts. You think back to the days of youth, when he was nothing but little Viktor, your dearest friend and feeble shadow. Back when his knees wobbled without a cane and his shoes would wear holes through the soles from dragging his limp foot against rough ground. Standing before you is a man-made machine, his experiments and augmentation built him into a fine knight capable of any strife.
Viktor did not come from a noble family. He was a commoner, a peasant boy only allowed inside the castle walls because of his mother’s position as the queen’s first maiden. You remember the woman with fond memories; she was warm and kind, and where your mother would turn away, a cold shoulder for the daughter she never wanted, Viktor’s mother would embrace the two of you in a strong hug after a day of running amok in the sword training yard. She loved you just as much as she loved her little Viktor, and for that, you will never forget her memory.
She died of the red cough when you were only ten-and-six, Viktor himself just shy of adulthood, a sudden and abrupt ending to a woman so pure that it made you question God’s will for weeks on end. When it was suggested that Viktor go looking for work in the village, you had thrown an absolute tantrum. Not one of your finest moments, you’re aware, but there was simply no possible realm where you would continue to live without Viktor by your side. Eventually, father gave in under one condition. Viktor was to make himself useful, to join your staff. At first, he studied medicine to become a maester amongst your trusted healers. His impairment did not offer him much room for labor, so he had little options to choose from.
Somewhere along the way, Viktor’s studies broadened beyond that of cures and remedies. He became fascinated with the mechanical, building simple toys to keep you entertained while you trudged along to the library with him each day. Soon, his inventions graduated from toys to practicality. From trinkets to necessities. He proved his worth to the King tenfold when he brought forth inventions that would change the course of history as we know it. Eventually, Viktor combined his two fields of interest, discovering new ways to replace human weakness with ticking gears and wires. His leg was the first to change; amputated and replaced with a prosthetic made from smelted swords and helmets. Then, his arm. Once bone-thin and freckled, now a heavy thing of metal and bolts. He is half machine, setting him apart from the other kingsmen by far. Your mother was the one to knight him, and Viktor swore his soul to uphold his sacred vows of duty. To stay by your side, to protect you from harm, to guard the royal princess with everything that he is. Somewhere along the way, your sweet Viktor became the Herald of Machinery, a title that struck fear into the hearts of many.
To you, he will always be that little boy with the crooked gait and the shy smile that was so difficult to get out of him.
“I wish to visit the lake,” you say, not as a request, but a declaration. Ser Herald remains fixed to his post, not entertaining your antics for even a moment. After a beat, you tilt your head towards him and repeat yourself, more direct this time. “I’m going to the lake.”
This gets a reaction, his polished mask turning to stare at you with those glowing orange eyes. Permanently affixed to his face, the details of his features simply a blur to you. He became the machine he is now just as he was growing into his face, the baby fat hollowing out to show carved cheekbones that were soon hidden. It’s hard to imagine what he may look like now as a fully grown man, but one thing is for certain: you shall never forget the beauty marks adoring his pure skin, the way they would distract you during schooling lessons and get you scolded for not paying attention. It’s been many, many moons since you last saw them, but if you reached up to his mask right now, you would still be able to place your finger upon the precise location of each one.
“Your Grace, I cannot allow you to roam about at this hour,” his voice, devoid of emotion, still manages to sound annoyed. This only causes your smile to grow.
“Then I shall climb from my window and risk falling to my death,” you sigh dramatically, pressing a hand to your forehead. You can hear the whirring of machinery sputter alive somewhere in his circuitry, a telltale sign that you are about to get your way.
When you crack one eye open to take a peek at him, the glow of Viktor’s arm is brighter than the flickering flames hanging above you two.
In a stone cold voice, the Machine Herald says “At the very least, I must insist upon you to dress in something more… modest, princess.”
——————
The lake of Holdrum is just beyond the kingdom’s walls. Viktor knows that should the King catch wind of the leniencies you are spoiled with, Viktor would surely be discharged from the knighthood and be branded as a treasonist. To take the princess, his only daughter, outside of city walls is a crime worthy of jail— maybe even exile, should Viktor be punished so severely.
However, the Herald thinks that if the King saw the way you pout, look up through your lashes, and clasp your hands behind your back, he would disgrace his sworn duty, too.
You walk several paces ahead of him, a familiar distance between the two of you. During the day, Viktor is merely your shadow. The Herald does not crowd you, nor breathe down your neck. He is your silent protector, allowing you to live freely and carelessly, knowing that should danger arise, it will be taken care of before it ever reaches you.
“Isn’t the moonlight so lovely?” You turn to ask him, walking backwards in your hand sewn slippers. The warm wind billows, blowing the layers of your coat and nightgown in ripples.
The Herald does not look at the moon, merely keeps his eyes straight ahead as he escorts you through the cobbled roads. The salty smell of the lake hints at the air, a natural scent that contrasts the strong perfumes and flora that decorate your bedchambers.
As it comes into view, you can’t help but break out into a sprint, prancing through the tall grass to the wide lake shimmering beneath the stars. Viktor’s irritation grows at your recklessness, picking up his pace to keep up with your child-like skipping. He wonders how it is that it has come to this, how he has failed to keep you out of trouble, how he is so easily swayed by a girl who has no sense of self preservation because of the sheltered life she’s been afforded.
But then, once you reach the rocky brim of the lake, you begin to shed your woven coat off of your shoulders, and Viktor remembers exactly how all of this could occur.
In the silver moonlight, the soft, delicate fabric of your chemise outlines the body of the woman you’ve become, your hair flowing down your back, free from its usual proper and pinned updos. You lift your nightgown as you wade into the water, showing off a glimpse of your thighs that makes Viktor wonder if an angel is capable of damnation.
Your giggle carries throughout the air, amplified by Viktor’s superior hearing— an in-ear device programmed to isolate your vocals from a crowd. Beneath his chest plate, something warms. A dreadful, unpleasant feeling that itches at his core.
You, however, remain clueless to the effect you hold over your sworn shield. Instead, you take the final plunge, flopping straight into the lake and becoming one with the body of water.
Viktor stands ever vigilant, watching from the shore as you swim around, letting your arms flow through the water like a pair of wings learning to take flight. The ripples of the water dance around you in ringlets, each shimmer of moonlight tracing along your skin in a hushed embrace.
For a brief moment, you feel free. Free of the duties and expectations of a princess, the pressures of being a perfect societal figure of elegance and poise, and you simply feel like a girl. It’s in these rare moments that you remember your childhood, easy and free, before the weight of your birthright came down upon you as heavy as a hammer. Right now, you aren’t the princess. No, you are simply a woman, diving beneath the surface to gather glimmering pebbles as a keepsake of such adventure.
“Oh Ser Herald, won’t you join me? The water is so delightfully warm, you are sure to enjoy yourself,” you swim back up to the shoreline, keeping yourself submerged enough to avoid the wind clinging to your wet skin.
Viktor pauses for a moment as if he is considering your offer, but your hopes are dashed in a moment when he says “I must remind you that I am more machine than man, Your Highness.”
This causes you pause, a brief moment of grief rippling through you at the boy he used to be. He is still Viktor, your Viktor, but he’s also someone entirely new. You recall the tale of the ship of Theseus, wondering just how much of Viktor can be augmented before he’s a stranger, no lasting remnants of your dearest childhood companion left for you to cling to.
With a sudden weight in your chest, you begin to rise from the water, your chemise completely soaked and clinging to your body like nothing more than a veil. Droplets of water drip from your hair, and as you return to shore, the bushy cattails growing along the rim of the lake tickle at your calves.
Now standing before him, Viktor’s eyes betray him entirely by glancing downwards. The sight is so ungodly that he would surely tremble if it weren’t for the solid metal infrastructure keeping him upright. Bathed in blues and silver, his eyes follow the sweet curvatures of a body you've well grown into, nothing like what he once recalls from all the times you would run around the castle in nothing but a shift and your bloomers, your fair maiden chasing after you with a dreaded corset. No longer was the girl who would share his clothes and tuck her hair beneath a cap to masquerade as a boy, venturing into the village to buy fresh fruits and visit sheep pens. The outline of your waist flows into such beautiful hips, soft and round, with little dips right where your legs begin. In the midst of the night, he can see the shadows of such plush, full thighs, wet and dripping with lake water. And though he wills himself not to, what little part of manhood remains in him demands just a glimpse of your bosom— beautiful and well shaped breasts, with just the faintest hint of nipples showing through the sheer fabric. The whirring from within grows louder, his own machinery betraying him and exposing his perversion.
You take no notice of your appearance, nor of Machine Herald’s stiff and rigid stature. Instead, you pass right by him, quietly returning to a small patch of grass surrounded in dandelions and tiny speedwells. Though he is not very keen on the emotional nuances of those around him, he is very in tune with your moods and how quickly they can sour.
As you lay your coat down to protect your rear from grass stains and mud, the Herald approaches and says “What troubles you?”
You glance up at him, bottom lip pushed out subconsciously. There’s a cold, tired look in your eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago, and the Machine Herald turns back to the lake as if the source of your mood will be floating up to shore.
“Can you just… sit?” Your voice is nothing but a faint whisper.
Viktor obliges, steam exhaling from some of his joints as he lowers himself to the ground beside you. The noisy clatter of armor and weaponry only upsets you further, so you draw your knees to your chest and rest your cheek upon the top of them with a sigh.
“Princess,” He asks once more, though his voice box hardly allows the inflections needed for a question to sound inquisitive.
“You’re more machine than man,” you repeat his words, trying to search his body for any sliver of tender flesh. “I am losing the dear friend I once knew. You are changing far too fast for me to keep up, and then what will I have left once I no longer recognize you?”
Viktor can’t deny his surprise. This is the first you’ve ever spoken of his ever-changing anatomy, and he certainly didn’t think you’d speak of it with such sorrow in your voice. He’s silent, unsure of what to say.
“You will still have everything, Your Grace,” he declares. “My state of being is of no consequence to your future, I assure you.”
Your reaction is instant, as if the words themselves have struck you across the face. “How could you possibly think such a thing? Don’t you understand?”
At your outburst, Viktor finds himself failing to say anything. He will need to recalibrate his automated response system once you return to the castle. The silence from him is abrasive, nothing but that steel mask staring back at you.
You tilt your face towards the stars, a wistful look in your longing eyes. In a hush as quiet as winter snow, you say “Why do I grieve someone who is still alive?”
The silence stretches some more, and then Viktor is tearing his eyes away from your heartbroken expression, unable to stomach the guilt taking over his emotional processors.
“I am more myself than I have ever been,” Viktor speaks in a steady tone. It does little in terms of comfort, but it’s still necessary for him to explain. “I would surely meet the grave at an early age if I hadn’t changed, princess. My lungs… my fragility, my leg. By your ten-and-eighth birthday it was spreading to my spine. I would be bedridden, an invalid, had I not undergone the procedure. I was no use to you like that. I have seized my human evolution and improved upon my weary genetics. I have secured a future where I am able to serve you, protect you. This was not a choice of ego, your Highness. This was a necessity born from my desire to stay beside you.”
The words settle around you two like their own lake; warm and weightless, letting you float upon their surface. Then, embarrassment begins to warm your cheeks, your face shying away in shame. He’s right, just as he always is. Even as a babe Viktor held a hatred for himself that no child should ever know, and you have watched as that feeble sense of self has grown strong with each mechanical augmentation. You have no right to take that from him.
“My entitlement has made a fool of me once more,” you sigh, distractedly picking at some of the flowers around you. When a gust of air billows through, the wet chemise clinging to your body does little to keep you warm. Wordlessly, Viktor unclasps the navy and red cape from around his shoulders and drapes it over your shivering frame. With nostalgia plucking each word off the tip of your tongue, you say “I just miss the days of our youth. If I had my way, we’d be sneaking cakes from the kitchens and hiding in the garden forever.”
He exhales something of an amused hum, the closest thing to a laugh Machine Herald is capable of. In his distorted voice, he responds “I am not sure your future suitors would take kindly to you spending all your days with another man.”
At the mention of your impending betrothment, you throw yourself back into the grass with a frustrated groan. He hardly reacts, already knowing the detestment that festers over this topic. “Oh, do not remind me! I heard father speaking with his advisors the other evening and they are considering an arrangement with that absolute lunatic from House Talis.”
“Lord Jayce?” Machine Herald tilts his head towards you, his interest piqued. “His ideas intrigue, you mustn’t deny.”
This gains your attention. You sit back up, trying to examine any bit of your knight that may give you insight to his thoughts. As always, he’s nothing but a steel trap.
“You believe there is truth to his claims? That he can invoke magic through a simple stone?” The words sound as incredulous as you feel. “You, the Machine Herald, who believes that human anatomy is inefficient and must be improved upon with your technological advancements, believes in magic?”
“If I may, I suggest that you do not let your mind grow narrow, princess,” the man of metal speaks. “I believe in discovery. If what Lord Jayce proposes is true, imagine the progress the realm would see— my machinery, powered through magic. Mortality would become a distant memory. Human error would become a sin of the past.”
This is the first time you’ve heard Viktor speak so fervently in a very long time. When you were but teenagers, he would call upon all the air in his lungs to support his long-winded rants. And though you never truly understood what he was speaking of, you were excited because he was excited. It’s been so long since you’ve seen that spark within him; one of passion instead of wire circuitry.
With a smile, you say “Then perhaps I shall accept his hand, should he offer it, if exploring his research is what you so desire.”
“Surely you would marry for love?” Viktor sounds confused by the proposal. “Or for societal gain?”
“What could marriage possibly offer me?” You laugh, sardonic and humorless. “I already have everything a woman may ever need. Silks, jewels, a castle, the entire kingdom. What could a man possibly provide for me that I don’t already have?”
“Affection,” Herald responds all too quickly. Not that he’s thinking of what a marriage with you would entail, no, of course not. It’s the automated responses on the fritz again. Stifling a cough behind his mask, he corrects himself. “Companionship.”
Words elude you as you turn to look at him. The rippling water creates beautiful wave reflections on his armor, the sounds of crickets chirping louder than his processors. After blinking a few times, you smile softly.
The most brilliant man across the seven seas, yet he can be nothing but a fool at times.
Instead of pointing out the obvious, you find yourself lifting your hand to the side of his face— his mask. The metal is cool beneath your touch, raised ridges and shapes outlining intimidating features. In every painting that’s been commissioned of you, this steely face is right there in the background, never-changing and always vigilant.
“…I can’t remember the color of your eyes,” your lips twitch with sadness. Despite the lump in your throat, you shake your head and force a dry laugh. “I suppose it matters not.”
Wrapping the cloak tighter, you fall to the side and lean against him. For a moment, you simply watch the moon crawl across the night sky, chasing a sun it will never reach. Beneath you, Viktor’s human arm tenses under the weight of you; somehow, the nerve endings in his flesh and blood arm malfunction more than his mechanical one whenever you come into contact with him.
“Amber,” his robotic voice drones out. Curiously, you tilt your head up, the tip of your nose brushing against the worn down edge of his mask. In his lap, his fist clenches and unclenches. He can feel your heartbeat on his bicep. “Eh, perhaps more of a gold hue, depending on the light.”
Gold. That’s right, his honeybee eyes were always so bright. Rich with curiosity and fond with admiration, his golden eyes would follow you everywhere you went. As your sworn shield, you suppose that hasn’t changed.
“And what, pray tell, might they look like beneath the light of a half moon?” The warmth of your breath brushes against the smallest sliver of skin on his neck, two moles hidden right beneath the collar of his armor.
“…I am not sure, Your Grace.” His hesitation sounds so unlike him— well, it sounds unlike the Herald. To you, it sounds entirely like Viktor.
You lift your head, seeking the glowing slits in his mask as if you’ll be able to see his eyes through them. A fruitless effort, you both know. Just as you begin to sag in defeat, Machine Herald’s hand lifts slowly, cautiously, to the back of his head. His wild mess of hair still sticks out, as untamed and defiant as it was when he was a kid. His mother would always try to slick it down with a bit of spit whenever the two of you ran by, and the ends of his hair would always turn right back up.
Click.
The fastener at the back comes undone beneath his deft fingers, the straps adhering to his skull the way they were designed to do. He doesn’t remove it, he finds himself unable to. He has built himself into the man he is now, but his face… one of the last few human parts of him. Viktor assumes that you will be disappointed with what’s beneath the surface, as he so often is.
You wait patiently, hands clasped in your lap and cloak beginning to slip off your shoulders. He doesn't speak, as if waiting for his princess to make her command. The sounds of night fill the silence, owls and crickets communicating with the stars when you two cannot.
Eventually, Ser Herald tilts his head towards you just the slightest amount, barely a fraction, but it’s enough of a request as it is permission. Cautiously, you lift yourself up to your knees, shuffling closer with hovering hands. Then, when you go to reach for his mask, you stall.
It comes with great sorrow to realize that if you take his mask off, eventually it will need to be put back on. Would it be easier to spare yourself the grievances if you never glimpse his true face? Would your heart rest easier knowing what he looks like, or would it only cause your yearning to grow?
Sensing your hesitation, Viktor leans forward, his movements steady and slow as he rests his chin in your hands. The touch startles you from your thoughts, your hands clasping the sides of his face, and consequently, his mask. It feels loose against him now, the straps above his ears beginning to fall limp without the tension in the back. Slowly, you reveal your doting knight…
Oh, you would call for war across the realm for this face.
The mask falls away with a soft weight in the grass, leaving you with the fairest looking man you’ve ever seen. He’s the exact same as you remember, yet entirely different as well. He is, at his root, your most cherished childhood friend. But what’s bloomed and flourished from those stems is something else entirely— a man so dashing that it steals the air from your lungs. As a kid, you did not look at Viktor as anything other than a playmate, but now you look upon him as a man, you a woman.
“Gods above,” you breathe out, your hand coming to the side of his sharpened face. Gone are the soft baby cheeks, round and flushed with boyish youth. In the silence that follows, you simply admire this treasured jewel in your hand, brushing your thumb over the beauty mark you remember so fondly.
Viktor’s face twitches, his eyebrows knit with insecurity. As if you’re holding the rope to the guillotine, he holds his breath and waits for a swift execution in the form of your disappointment. He can’t hide behind his mask now, his emotions blatant and swimming in his eyes.
Oh, his eyes.
Like flickering lamps, fluttering moth wings, and honeypots tilted over, Viktor stares at you with a myriad of golds and yellows, the warmth of a sunrise gazing upon you. Your lips curl at the edges, crooked with admiration. Your hand strokes down his cheek, then comes back up to thread through his hairline, a soft giggle promised to only him.
“How am I meant to marry off to another man now?” You breathe into the air between you, your thumb brushing down the sharp edges of his cupids bow. “Why hide this from me?”
Confusion claims his features, his head tilted with curiosity. “My face?” When you nod, he looks away and says “My appearance is of no use to you, princess.”
A chuckle escapes you, shaking your head in disbelief. While Viktor is unguarded like this, you seize upon the thoughts that often cluster in your mind and bring yourself up to his lap, straddling his thighs and clasping your hands over his shoulders.
“Y-Your Grace??” He raises his brows in surprise, leaning away from you with hovering hands. He starts glancing around, worried that some country folk will stumble upon the two of you and see the absolute display of impropriety.
With a hand cupping his jaw, you bring his attention back to you, soft and waiting. For what, he isn’t sure. But he stills instantly, captivated by the ardency in your gaze. Unconsciously, his honey colored eyes drop down to your lips, a brief indulgence that he automatically corrects when he remembers where his mask lies.
But when you tilt your head forward, his gaze yields once more, falling victim to the sight of your smirk and leaning forward towards your waiting face. Eagerly, you lean in to meet him halfway, thrilled with years of unspoken longing finally answering for its crimes of passion.
Just as your breath hits his lips, Viktor turns his head to the side to avoid temptation, a pained expression gracing his fair face.
“We mustn’t,” he exhales reluctantly, his voice sick with regret.
“Why ever not?” You ask, your entitlement rearing its head once more. Shifting your face just the slightest, your soft lips now coax his mole, so close to his mouth yet seas apart at the same time.
“It goes against my vows. I would not dishonor you with my indulgences, princess,” Machine Herald settles his grip around your waist, holding you back while keeping himself grounded. Even in the moonlight you can see the color in his cheeks growing damp with embarrassment.
“Who says it is your indulgence alone?” You sing with a choir of temptation. The space between your lips and his skin narrows down to nothing more than a hairline fracture, the smell of motor oil and burnt wiring filling your senses. It’s getting harder to keep your eyes open, half lids clouding your vision.
Kingdoms have collapsed under white flags, their surrender bringing nothing but devastation. Viktor has the look of a doomed man, one who knows he is about to lose. His eyes flutter, long, heavy eyelashes curling against his cheek when he whispers in a painfully raw voice, “Please have mercy, my Lady.”
You pull away to put some agonizing space between you two, taking in the expression on this new face of his. He looks pained, truly, just as he did when his ankle would twist and he’d scrape his knees in the courtyard during childish games of chase.
Gently stroking some of his hair back, you give him the best reassurances that you can think of. “If you truly wish to honor your knighthood, tell me to stop and we shall never breathe a word of it again,” you tell him, thumb stroking down his hairline to feel the sharp curve of his cheekbone, warm with both humiliation and endearment. “But if you say nothing, I must prevail upon you to allow me the last freedom of my girlhood before I am sworn off to become someone’s broodmare.”
This phrase almost gets a chuckle out of Viktor, a noise that sounds foreign to the both of you without his voice modifier. The hand on your waist slides up to your ribcage, feeling along the ladder of bones encasing your heart.
“Birthing an heir to the throne hardly counts as being a broodmare,” he chastises you for the blunt and vulgar language.
When you roll your eyes, his grip on your tiny frame tightens, a warning. He is often correcting your manners in front of others, something he took upon himself even before he bent a knee to the crown. With a bit of defiance, you say, absolute: “I do not wish to share my first kiss with a man I do not know nor love.”
Somewhere, a surge of power courses through the electrical framework of Viktor’s body, a pulse of something he doesn’t have a scientific name for. Within your words lies an implication, one that whispers I wish to give you my first, because I know you. Because I love you.
He does not dare to hope, instead asking in the flattest voice he can manage without his mask “Oh, you are not eager to kiss Lord Salo? He’s amongst your suitors, is he not?”
“Lord Salo?” Your eyes widen in disbelief, a scoff clipping the edges of your words. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous! He’s the same age as father!”
Then, before you can even scold Viktor for teasing you, a cold, metal hand is grasping at the back of your neck and pulling you in until lips meet lips.
It catches you off guard, a gasp pinned between two mouths in a frozen hourglass. The air stills, the crickets fall silent, the stars hold their breath. Oh, the moon begs.
You pull away first, looking at him with an expression you can’t even begin to school if you were to try. He looks equal parts mortified and sated, a conflicting contrast fighting in his eyes.
Then, wordlessly, without anything else exchanged, you’re both coming back together once more, lips sealing over his, birthmark pressing into your skin as you lean into his face harder. It’s a strange feeling; to be reminded so cruelly of your childhood while being thrust into womanhood. Only he is capable of understanding the whirlwind inside you, only he has the capability to calm it. When your lips begin to move, unsure, clumsy, searching— Viktor is quick to take advantage of it, parting his lips further to fit yours between his.
A miniscule sound hits the back of your teeth, one high pitched and girlish. Shy and involuntary. As if speech recognition has picked up on that one little whimper, Viktor’s body exhales a bolt of steam as he holds you close by the small of your back, rolling the two of you over in the dewy grass. With a yelp, your legs fall open, the Machine Herald pressing his cool armor into the heat of your soft thighs. His knee hooks beneath yours, lifting it high over his hip. With a quiet strain, you do your best to stay attached to him, your lips trembling against his.
Words are meaningless in the breath you two share. A silent confession, years of unbridled longing bubbling to the surface, scalding the tips of your fingertips when you brush a hand over the outline of him. Unspeaking communication in the form of kisses and sighs, a conversation held between hearts rather than voices.
All this time? Your mouth urges against his, the front of your chemise clinging to his steaming body.
Yes, of course, always, his teeth carve into your bottom lip, frantic and composed all at once. It could never be another. Only you.
Viktor’s gloved grip rests at the base of your neck, grasping you with earnest desperation. What’s left of your innocence dies in his mouth, swallowed and consumed by the culprit of all your yearning. Somewhere inside, your lungs ache of starvation, Machine Herald denying you a moment to even breathe. You suppose he doesn’t need to— not with the circulatory filtration system built in place of his lungs.
You have to force yourself away with a deep gasp. Above you, the blanket of stars swirls into a dizzying sea. Memories flicker to the forefront of your mind; the Herald, kneeling before the Queen herself, vowing upon his soul to service you until he meets the sword of battle. Suddenly little Viktor, sitting against the roots of the Ioanian tree and reading aloud fables to you in that Eastern accent of his. Then, the moment you first laid eyes upon one another. He stood half-hidden behind the bustle of his mother’s skirt, too shy to bow before the princess as his dear mother had stressed all the way there. He was nine, you were six. And from that first introduction, when you had shown Viktor a kindness that none of the other kids in the village had afforded him, part of him knew he would be loyal to the crown just as his mother was, and he’d spend his days pledging devotion before your throne.
Now, you lie beneath him, breathless and vulnerable. Soiled, some might say. But you, no, you feel blessed that your very first affection shared with a man is with one who loves you so.
Machine Herald has tirelessly chipped away at the humanity of his emotions, deeming them a risk to his logic and ability to think when it comes to his duties as a kingsman. All efforts are fruitless in the face of your tender gaze, for Viktor knows he will never be able to quell the scorching fire that blazes within when it comes to you, his sworn duty, his regal princess, his everything and more.
Though the two of you will never marry, the rest of your lives will still be spent at each other’s side. And if your firstborn son is a mousy little boy with a collection of moles decorating his skin like porcelain china, well, who is to doubt the legitimacy of his birthright when no other soul has seen the Herald of Machinery’s true face?