Chapter Text
I always knew they’d fall in love …
Perhaps even before they knew it themselves …
Certainly years before dear Nanalie knew her own heart …
I have known this for a while now, for I have seen it all — felt it all — in silence.
It has been nearly a month since she fell into her deep slumber, after that terrible battle against the demons, and still she has not stirred. Each day since, I have remained by her side in this guest chamber of the Royal Palace of Shuzelk. To care for her, I requested a leave of absence from my duties as lady-in-waiting to Lady Leenah. My request was readily granted — though I suspect it was less for my sake, and more because Her Ladyship knows, or at the very least suspects, how dear Nanalie is to her second son, Sir Alois. She must have discerned it on that day, when he clung to Nanalie — refusing even his own mother — after he was turned into a child by his younger brother’s pestrokraive.
Dear Nanalie may never know it, but he cares for her far more than he cares to admit — far more than he would allow himself to confess. He always has …
I should know — I’ve been watching him closely for this past decade, if not longer. For you see…, I, Maris Hestia Lovegol Caromines, have been in love with him all this time. I love him … so very much … more than he could ever know … more than he could ever accept … truly, with a devotion far greater than he could ever return …
I long ago resolved to be honest with my feelings, to wear my heart openly. I asked him for dances; I smiled upon him without disguise. And though he never once scorned me — though he ever remained cordial and unfailingly kind — he would not look at me as he looks at her.
Sir Alois has a gentle gaze for all the ladies who vie for his attention: always kind, always the perfect gentleman. Yet it is distant — courteous, but never stirred by passion.
For Nanalie, his gaze is different. For her, it is all fire. She alone can draw from him a look unguarded, a response that rises from the depths of his very soul.
She may think it only an infuriating challenge, a provocation meant to vex her. But I know better. That fire is the spark of his true emotions — a flame no other woman has ever, or will ever, kindle in him.
It is plain enough, if one only has the eyes to see. At the grand balls, he may humor me with a single turn across the floor, as he does with many of his admirers. Yet when the final song begins — that sacred moment reserved only for the one with whom one wishes to spend the rest of one’s life — he has never once offered me his hand. Nor any other admirers, for that matter. He would only dance those last songs with his mother, Lady Leenah; or with his aunt, the Queen; or with no one at all. During those symbolically significant dances, he would not even dance with his cousin, Princess Mislina — Prince Zenon’s younger sister and youngest child of His Majesty the King — to avoid any rumors of attachment.
The only woman beyond his family to share such a dance with him… is Nanalie.
Not only was she his last dance at our school graduation ball, she was also his last dance at the masquerade ball, where it was rumored he would be engaged to Princess Carolla the Fourth of the Kingdom of Sheera. Yes, that is a secret I have kept — that I had realized who the woman beneath his cloak truly was. That night, as ever, the ladies were swarming about him — myself included. And when he chose Princess Carolla as the final song began, the whispers surged that the engagement was all but certain.
But when the magic dissolved all masks and disguises at the end of the dance, to the shock of the entire court, the man who had waltzed with the princess was revealed to be an imposter. The true Sir Alois was elsewhere — standing apart, having just finished dancing with a woman whose sky-blue hair gleamed as the spell unraveled.
It lasted only a moment: the two of them gazing at one another, speaking softly, before he pulled off his cloak, cast it over her head, and gathered her against his chest as though to shield her from the world itself.
But I saw. While others gawked at the false Alois, my eyes had tracked the real one. I saw him — and I saw her. Even though, afterwards, I joined the throng of ladies peppering him with suspicions and questions about the cloaked woman he had in his arms, I already knew.
And even if I hadn’t been sure, the way Sir Alois responded to why he had a mysteriously cloaked woman pressed against his chest would have given it away, anyway. He had said, “There’s simply no point in showing you a woman in such a hideous state, snot dripping from her nose, gripped in a cold sweat—not something you want to see at all.” Sir Alois Rockmann, of all people, calling a lady hideous — not to mention describing her in the most undignified picture of snot and sweat — in refined aristocratic company, no less?! That is as unlikely as the perfectly polished son of Duke Rockmann brawling with a commoner girl! Which is to say, he only ever does or says things like that where Nanalie is concerned, thereby confirming who she really is to those who aren’t complete fools.
So I have known all along: at a ball meant to bind him to a foreign princess, Sir Alois instead chose to give his last dance to Nanalie Hel.
And that, I think, says everything.
I once brought this up, ever so slyly, to dear Nanalie at the annual banquet and ball for the Festival of the Flower Goddess, to which I had invited her. With all the casualness I could muster, I remarked that Sir Alois never takes the final dance with anyone but his mother or his aunt, the Queen — or else chooses to remain by the wall.
Then, perhaps to test her, I added that he had once danced the last song with Princess Corolla when she visited. It was not, strictly speaking, a lie — for an imposter in his likeness had indeed done so. But the truth is, Sir Alois himself had not.
Dear Nanalie, however, was still blissfully oblivious at that time.
For how much longer, though, can she remain oblivious — to his heart — and, more importantly, to her own?
For, I saw.
I saw how she knelt beside him as he lay broken on the battlefield, the world around us shattered by demons and grief. I saw her shoulders tremble as she curled her hands into fists, pressed tight against her knees. Fists clenched not in anger alone, but in anguish — in the helpless despair of believing she had failed him, of knowing that he was dying because he had chosen, once again, to protect her.
I saw his body, encased little by little in translucent ice crystal, the frost creeping ever higher. I saw how one arm, already frozen, lay useless — yet with the other, trembling and faint, he reached across the space between them. He laid his hand gently upon her clenched fist, covering it, steadying it, as though to bear her sorrow with his own failing strength.
I saw her tears. Hot, bitter drops fell upon the back of his hand, soaking into skin that was already turning cold. And in that moment, he spoke.
Not to his mother, who wept beside him.
Not to his father, who was devastated beyond description.
Not to the King, grieved though His Majesty was.
Not to any of his comrades.
Not even to his dearest friend, Prince Zenon.
And… certainly… certainly not to me.
Surrounded by all of us — by all our grief and love …
He looked only at her.
And he gave his words to her …
And to her alone.
“Really, please… don’t cry.”
I saw her startle at his voice — soft, teasing, tender all at once. I saw the way her eyes widened, as though the world had shifted beneath her feet.
I heard him whisper, his voice weakening: “I’m sure… I’m sure you hate me.”
I saw her lips part, the shock and protest in her face as she breathed, “‘Hate’ you?”
And then I heard the truth he could not hide, even as he denied it. “People cry… for loved ones, over friends… not for people they hate.”
I saw his crimson eyes, dim yet unwavering, fixed only on her — not on his parents, not on the King, not even on Prince Zenon, and most definitely not on me. Just her. Always her.
And with the last of his strength, I saw him lift his hand — the hand still warm beneath her tears — and press his forefinger to her forehead. A single, fleeting touch. Not to caress, not only to comfort, but to urge her onward, to remind her she could not give in. Even as death claimed him, he gave her his strength, his command, his love — hidden in duty, disguised as teasing, yet undeniable to the heart.
“You’ve got a job to do, Crybaby Caretaker… Receptionist Lady.”
I saw her breath catch at the familiar words, at the banter that bound them from childhood until now. I saw the way his hand lingered, one last press of his finger, before his arm fell limp to the ground.
“Wait, Rockmann—”
I heard it then. Her cry was raw, torn from her chest, her voice breaking on his name as if she could hold him in place with that desperate plea. But it was too late.
And then I saw him fade. His body, once so strong, was slowly consumed by translucent crystal, until he was frozen entirely, a silent statue of devotion.
I saw it all. I saw every glance, every word, every trembling touch. And I knew — though he was surrounded by family, by comrades, by me — in those final moments, he belonged to Nanalie alone.
I remained by Sir Alois’s side — crying my heart out, praying with all I had — while Nanalie and the others pressed on to face the final battle. I was too distraught to be of any use to anyone.
When Nanalie triumphed, the splinters of crystal light fell from the sky, reviving him. I was so relieved when he stirred. Yet he said nothing — not a single word — even as I sobbed out how glad I was to see him alive.
His eyes were already searching, scanning the crowd, as though hunting desperately for something… someone. I reached out — as did his parents, and Prince Zenon — to steady him as he sat up. But he hardly seemed to notice us.
And when Benjamine, carried past to the first aid tent, wailed Nanalie’s name again and again, Sir Alois’s entire body shook. His already pale face blanched further, his chest heaving as though his very heart might break apart. Some realization struck him then, sharp as lightning.
Without a word, he rose, slipped through the throng, and slid down beside where dear Nanalie lay, unmoving, upon the ground.
I followed him, though he did not notice me. And I saw his beautiful crimson eyes fixed upon Nanalie, drinking her in as though he would press the vision into his memory forever. His gaze traced her features — her face, her lips, her hair, which had turned from sky-blue to dark brown — with a reverence he showed to no one else.
When they moved to carry her away to recuperate, he merely suggested — softly, yet with that unmistakable weight of his — that she recover here in the Palace instead of at her own lodgings. He cast a glance at His Highness Prince Zenon then — perhaps for permission, perhaps for silent support — and the prince agreed at once. Outwardly, the two of them — Sir Alois, backed up by Prince Zenon — may have offered a logical argument: that Nanalie deserved the care of the Royal Doctor, after what she had done for the Kingdom in that battle. But I knew better. Sir Alois would never say it aloud, yet his every action betrayed it. He wanted her close. He needed her near, where he could watch over her.
And now, here we are — nearly a month has passed, and still dear Nanalie shows no sign of waking.
I’m really worried. The Doctors say she was in critical condition. No one could feel any magic left within her, and so we all thought her life was in terrible danger! Having no magic is no better than death, as magic is as vital to us as our blood. And Nanalie had completely drained her magical powers in that battle.
The Royal Doctor herself had used her healing magic on her, but to no avail. We’d tried so many other ways to wake her up, but all our efforts had been for naught. Time passed on by while she just slept.
And then, at last, just the day before yesterday, dear Nanalie’s hair finally turned back from dark brown to her lovely sky blue, a good indicator she was regaining her magical powers. Others chalk it up to her body regenerating all that power by herself. But, I know better, because I saw …
Today, as has been their routine this past month, His Highness Prince Zenon comes to visit with Sir Alois in tow — though you couldn’t guess who was accompanying whom, if you didn’t know better. And as routine, Sir Alois is holding a single couplet flower, which he places in the vase on the small table next to where she lies, swapping out the one from yesterday. And every time I watch him do this, Sir Alois would simply shrug, feigning indifference, and say, almost defiantly, “By the grace of His Highness,”, to which Prince Zenon would raise an eyebrow.
The red couplet flower — the royal flower of Doran — a symbol of love …
He may put on an act, pretending he’s merely His Highness’s flower bearer, carrying it on the Prince’s behalf — but I am no fool. I saw the fine thread of raw magical power he weaves into each bloom; magic that he leaves to linger by her side, feeding her and restoring what she has lost, even when he isn’t here in this room.
If you needed further evidence to prove it beyond reasonable doubt, nothing is perhaps more damnifying than what I saw on that moonlit night, one week into dear Nanalie’s slumber …
The night was still and quiet. I had just finished brushing out dear Nanalie’s then still dark brown hair, which was fanned across her pillow. I was about to turn in for the night myself — I’ve been sleeping on the large, two-person sofa in this room, just so dear Nanalie wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night all alone in an unfamiliar environment. But as I placed the hairbrush on the dressing table embossed with gold, which has a mirror atop it, my eyes were drawn to the large window where the light of a full moon was spilling through. Feeling like I needed the view, I stepped onto the balcony adjoining this room, and looked up.
“The moon is beautiful tonight,” I whisper to myself, but there was no one to hear such heartfelt poetry.
But then something caught my attention: the moonlight glinting off something golden. I dragged my gaze downwards. Beyond the balcony lies a beautiful garden, wherein an even more beautiful man was crouched amongst the flower beds, honey golden hair shimmering in the moonlight and spilling down one shoulder. As I watched, he carefully selected the specific bloom he was after — though I have no idea what the criteria were for his selection. Then he reached out, and gently extricated a single couplet flower. He stood and held the red flower up to his face, perhaps to examine it more closely. I could only see his profile, so I wasn’t able to make out his expression clearly.
But I saw …
After he’d checked the flower to his satisfaction, Sir Alois blew gently on the petals of the red couplet flower cupped in his hands. Each breath he blew was gold, imbuing magical power into the bloom.
That done, he tucked the flower into his breast pocket and walked away. Not once did he look over at the balcony beyond which he well knows Nanalie yet sleeps.
Very well, then. Let him pretend all he wants that that was all a servant’s errand for the Prince. But with the moon as my witness, there can be no doubt he has been giving her far, far more than most could have imagined.
So, since that night, for every eyebrow Prince Zenon raised at every false proclamation of “By the grace of His Highness,” from Sir Alois’s lips, I have to fight the urge to join His Highness. Never mind raising an eyebrow or two, I am even tempted to throw in an additional eye roll, which would have been most improper.
And when he thinks no one is watching — or when His Highness distracts me in conversation — I have glimpsed it: Sir Alois leaning close, tapping her cheek, poking at her as though to tease. Yet with every touch, he pours healing magic into her, surreptitious and steady. Teasing on the surface, devotion underneath — the truest mark of his love.
Like his mother, Lady Leenah, he is extremely gifted in healing. Yet even she could not do what he does now. No one can. Not the Royal Doctor, not the kingdom’s finest healing mage. Only him. Only Sir Alois.
And I see it all. I see how, day by day, it is his devotion that sustains her.
After the usual idle chatter and a few words on the aftermath of the battle, the two gentlemen make to take their leave. I do not know why, but I am seized by the sudden urge to call out to him. Perhaps it is because, for an instant, I catch a flicker of something on his face — a quick, satisfied light in his eyes as he rises from the chair at her bedside, pulling his gaze away from dear Nanalie’s sleeping form.
“Sir Alois?” I say, just as he is about to step through the door after His Highness. “Will you be returning tomorrow?”
For a moment, he looks straight at me. It feels as though it is only the two of us — though I know Nanalie lies between us, and Prince Zenon waits just beyond the door. My chest swells painfully with something caught between grief and joy as our gazes meet.
He tilts his head.
“No,” he murmurs. “I believe this will be the last time.”
My heart sinks. I know well enough he comes only for her, yet these brief encounters are all I have — these fleeting moments in which I may simply rest my eyes upon him.
“If I am right,” he continues, his tone almost casual, “Hel should wake by tomorrow at the latest.”
Then his eyes drift to the bed, and his lips quirk into that familiar smirk — the one reserved only for her, the one she insists is smug and infuriating, yet which I know to be a mark of his tenderness.
“She would be beside herself if she learned I had been here while she lay asleep and vulnerable. She’ll very likely think I was taking the opportunity to get one up on her and defeat her at the gods only know what.” He rolls his eyes, but I see a kind of resigned affection in them. “Mm, Maris — perhaps it would be kinder of you not to mention these visits to her.”
And just like that, he sweeps from the room after His Highness, taking my heart with him.
I remain behind, struck by the heaviness of it. If Nanalie wakes tomorrow — as he says she will — then these quiet, secret moments will end. I will see less of him. And though he may never confess his heart, though he may never even admit it to himself, I cannot shake the sense that something between them will change. I saw how she wept for him on the battlefield. I saw how he reached for her, even as death crept close. That kind of truth cannot be held back forever.
Still… despite my feelings for Sir Alois, it is truly wonderful news to know that dear Nanalie should wake soon. My heart aches for him, yet at the same time, it swells with relief for her.
I decide I shall remain by her side until that moment comes. So I settle myself neatly upon the bed beside her, watching closely for any sign of stirring.
I wait, and I wait, all through the night. Dawn creeps ever closer, yet still she does not stir. No flutter of her lashes, no sign that her eyes will open.
Could he have been wrong? The thought pierces me, and I give a small, bitter shake of my head. No. Sir Alois would never be mistaken — not when it comes to Nanalie.
In the hush of the small hours, where darkness is laced with the faintest glimmer of dawn, the truth strikes me with unbearable clarity. To love someone so painfully, with every beat of my heart, and to know he is just as in love — only, with my dearest friend… In this moment, I think I understand heartbreak better than anyone alive.
“Nanalie, dear… hurry and wake,” I half-sob, half-whisper, lowering myself across her knees as though she might rise and comfort me, listening to my woes as she always has. Even if — even if waking means she will at last come to know her own heart…
Tears spill freely until exhaustion claims me, and I feel my lids grow heavy, drooping shut as I cry myself to sleep upon her lap.