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“Sorry, Celica,” Alm says, as he steps on her toes for the second time. “I guess a year of being king hasn’t helped me learn how to dance.”
Celica only laughs and smiles. “It’s okay. It’s not as if I’m doing any better.”
It’s a wonder that the two of them are managing to put on a decent enough show for the first dance of the ball. This one-year-old kingdom of theirs isn’t the sort to dethrone them simply for being poor dancers, but Alm hates the idea of embarrassing Celica in front of the others. He knows embarrassing himself is a lost cause. Gray is likely watching every step for something to tease about.
“Maybe if we talk more, we’ll have an excuse,” he jokes. “I was trying to stay quiet to focus, but that’s not working.”
“There’s never a shortage of things to talk about,” Celica says. “Should we talk about the cats we keep adopting? Or should we talk about the past instead?”
This celebration is about the past. The very recent past, at any rate. One year to the day since Alm took the throne that had been his birthright—and only discovered to be so not long before. The strangeness of that moment had threatened to overwhelm him. Stepping up to lead the Deliverance had been strange enough. To lead an entire country?
But Celica had been right there with him, taking his hand. Here they are now, still together, her hand in his once again. After seeing her go twice, once as children with Mycen and then when they took their separate ways to end Valentia’s problems, he has no intention of being apart again.
“I love you,” Alm says, instead of picking a topic.
She stumbles before managing to recover without fully missing a step. “I love you too, but this conversation may be too difficult to have while dancing. Even if you want to use it as an excuse for why we’re having trouble.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Alm would’ve rubbed the back of his head, but his hands were occupied. “And we’d never hear the end of it if we told anyone that’s what we were talking about. Never mind that some of them are just as bad.”
Unfortunately, with the two of them sharing a symbolic first dance, the other couples among their friends and companions are not currently distracted.
“We’re almost to the end of the dance. I think we can manage to close it out on a good note, don’t you?”
“This is how it’s done,” he says, as if he’s striking down an enemy. In a quieter voice, of course. It wouldn’t do for the people to see their king suddenly shouting what could be construed as a threat.
“I’m not about to stop here,” she says, playing along. “Or at least, not at this very moment.”
For all their joking of wanting the dance’s conclusion—and Alm’s admitted relief at knowing he’ll be able to gather his bearings again soon—there’s a part of him that wishes they had more time. The two never need an excuse to stand close to each other or hold hands, but it’s nice to have an official reason for it.
The musicians draw out the last few notes of the song, giving Alm an extra moment to keep Celica in his arms. He wishes he can extend the moment to last forever, but alas. The dance is over, and until they start up a new one, they’re fair game for conversation. He doesn’t mind talking with his friends or all the others who’d fought the gods with them, but they’re far from the only ones attending the event.
This is where Celica truly shines thanks to her years in the priory teaching her patience and grace. Just as how Alm hasn’t perfected the dances of a noble in his year of being king, he’s still learning about courtly life. The speeches he’d made as the leader of the Deliverance can’t help him much here.
Alm listens to every conversation all the same. He intends to be a good king, and a good king listens to his people. And if said good king gets the added bonus of listening to the voice of his love during those same conversations? He won’t argue with a little reward.
The topics are wide-ranging. The recovery of the former Zofian lands from the old drought, bandits off the former Rigelian coast, reminiscing about the final battle…as much of a struggle as the dancing is, Alm is starting to seriously consider using it as an escape. Much of this can be addressed in a formal discussion setting and not at what’s meant to be a celebration.
“I’m in need of a refreshment,” Celica says, after one particularly long-winded guest finishes his questioning about building more bridges across rivers. “Alm, would you like to come with me?”
“I could go for something,” he says, by way of agreeing.
They make their way around the outskirts of the ballroom floor to where bowls of punch and other treats are set up. Whenever someone tries to catch their attention, they gesture where they’re headed, and the would-be interruption backs off. Once they’re at the punch, neither sees any reason to not pour themselves a drink. But instead of enjoying it at the table or returning to the heart of the celebration, they slip out into a hall.
There’s still the music in the distance. Otherwise, quiet. Finally it’s just the two of them—until someone comes and hunts them down, anyways. Alm lets out a sigh. Boy, that felt good. He takes a long sip of the punch to further relax. His thoughts break from his relief at their escape when Celica gives a light laugh.
“Defeating a god is easier than this, isn’t it?” she asks.
“It really is,” Alm says. “Falchion can’t help me with this.”
“Yes, I think attacking our people would not be a good look for a still-new reign.” Celica takes his free hand in hers. “We still have each other, though, and that’s all I need to know that we can do this.”
“I don’t think I’m as much help with this sort of thing as you are, Celica.”
“Don’t say that. It’s much easier for me to talk to everyone knowing you’re with me.”
Alm has never known her to lie, but the earnestness with which she speaks is still difficult for him to handle. He suspects no matter how long his reign lasts, he’ll still think of himself first as a villager. Hearing that he’s as much a boon to her as she is to him…
“I’m glad we took a break,” he says, with a laugh of his own. “Now it’s safe to say whatever we want to each other without worrying about people talking about our reactions for the rest of the night.”
“That didn’t stop you from saying you loved me earlier,” Celica points out, smiling over her punch.
“Well, I...” Alm searches for an excuse and finds none. “It’s true.”
“And so was my reply.”
Celica kisses him gently. It lasts only a moment, but enough for both to get another taste of the sweetness of the punch. Cliché as it is, Alm thinks, simply being with her is even sweeter.
“Do you want to see if any of our cats are out exploring before someone tells us to return to the ball?” she asks, stepping back.
“Who can give the king and queen orders?” Alm jokes.
“Oh, I’m sure some of our friends believe they can.”
And she’s right. Not that he’s ever going to tell them that. “But that sounds like a great idea. There’s no way they’re all just staying in our room…”
Even if they are, any reason to spend more time together outside the confines of their lofty positions is one to not be argued with. Still holding hands, the two walk the halls. They listen for soft meows during the brief pauses in their teasing, look for familiar fluff against the stone floor and walls. Their punch glasses go empty before long, but neither is in any rush to return for more.
If anyone grows worried about how long their king and queen are gone, they’ll simply have to remember that the two know how to take care of themselves. (Though perhaps nothing is quite as dangerous as the pleasant flutters of joy they feel when reflecting on their feelings about the other.)