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Old
Anya slapped a pencil onto Damian’s desk. “Thank you, Sy-on boy!” she said.
He stared at his returned pencil, picking it up and inspecting it grimly.
“Did you… bite this?”
Anya had a natural affinity for Classical Language. It was easily her best subject. In fact, now that she’d overtaken Arnold Crowley and topped the subject ranking last term, she was the best.
But innate ability was useless if you’d stupidly forgotten to bring stationery to class on the day of your very important vocabulary test. Flunking it was not an option, especially if she wanted to maintain her position at the top.
Damian had been kind enough to lend her a pencil.
And… yes, she may have chewed it. A little. Absent-mindedly. Forgetting it wasn’t hers to chew… It just helped her think better. Not that he would see it that way.
“Um, not on purpose,” Anya admitted meekly.
Damian’s frown deepened, and he shoved the desecrated pencil back into his pencilcase. “You’re never borrowing my stuff again!”
He seemed super annoyed, so she was inclined to believe him. But by next period, Anya was using his markers on her science poster and getting an earful for forgetting to recap them properly.
New
Damian Desmond was the latest Imperial Scholar.
He’d earned his eighth Stella for getting the highest score on the History term final. Typical.
Everyone in their class wanted to congratulate him on being the first fourth-grader to reach imperial scholar status. But Anya wanted something else. Something new and shiny and in his possession.
She found him at recess, chatting with his friends. He was still wearing the Imperial Scholar cloak. Knowing him, he probably hadn’t taken it off since it was draped over his shoulders at the ceremony.
“It looks so cool. Can I try it on?” she asked, very nicely and completely reasonable.
What followed was hardly unusual:
- Boy overreacts.
- Boy makes girl cry.
- Boy apologises and comforts girl.
- Girl wins!
Damian did the clasp for her, briefly fumbling with it before stepping back.
Anya spun around. It was a little too big on her, but she liked the way the cloak billowed. It only made her want to get her last two Stellas as soon as possible so she could have her own cloak. One that fit.
“I feel like a king. You should all call me King Anya,” she declared to Damian and his two lackeys. “You’re all my subjects. Bow down before me.”
Ewen and Emile both declined, and Damian crossed his arms, unimpressed.
“You mean queen,” Damian corrected.
“No, king. They have more power.”
He looked at her like she’d grown a third eye. “That’s... not true.”
“Uh, yeah, it is.”
“There are different types of queens,” he said matter-of-factly. “You're thinking of a queen consort. A queen regnant rules in her own right. Same as a king."
Anya did not follow the nerdy know-it-all nonsense he was saying. "What are you even talking about?"
“Haven’t you ever played chess?”
“Duh. The game ends when the king dies because he's the most important.”
“Are you serious? The king’s a figurehead! He’s weak. The queen is the most powerful piece on the board.”
Anya paused. She’d never thought of it that way, but it was true. The queen was on the frontlines and could move everywhere: up, down, diagonally. Meanwhile, the king hid behind an army, and when forced, could only move one sad square at a time.
“Huh.”
“‘Huh’ what?” Damian asked, clearly exasperated.
“Okay, fine. I’ll be Queen Anya.” She turned her chin up and pointed at him with a regal finger. “Bow before me.”
His face turned an impressive shade of tomato red. “Take it off.”
“Whyyy?”
“Because you look ridiculous!”
Borrowed
Anya had fainted.
It happened sometimes when the crowd was too large, and the thoughts were too loud and intense. The overstimulation would send her telepathy on the fritz, give her a nosebleed and then she’d pass right out in a self-protective measure.
Her threshold had improved as she grew older, but it still happened. Not frequently, but often enough during her seven years at Eden that people stopped being surprised at her fainting spells. Everyone just assumed she was either undereating, attention-seeking, prone to heatstroke, or possibly anaemic.
Everyone except a certain scion. He knew the truth.
Damian’s face was the last thing Anya remembered seeing, running ragged across the soccer pitch below her, before the usual metallic taste overwhelmed her taste buds and she promptly fell unconscious.
It was also the first thing she saw as she came to.
She blinked at him, bleary-eyed, and mumbled something unintelligible even to herself.
“You’re awake!” said a voice that was high-pitched, feminine and clearly not his.
Anya turned her head to the other side of the bed, following the sound to find Becky, fussing over her.
Becky tried to help her sit up, but Anya was overcome with sharp dizziness. It was like someone had taken a sledgehammer to her head.
She winced. “What happened?”
“You fainted in the bleachers,” Damian explained.
Anya sluggishly turned her head back his way. “Bleachers?” she muttered back as if she’d never heard the word.
“Yes! Didn’t I tell you not to come?” he scolded, his already flushed face unlocking a new and brighter shade. “Why don’t you ever listen to me!?”
Anya groaned.
“You can’t handle a final,” he added. “There are too many people. Especially when half of those people are from a rival school. That’s a hostile environment!”
“He’s right, Anya,” Becky agreed. “You know how you get with big crowds.”
Anya hated it when the two of them were on the same page. Not that they were talking about the same thing, but their concern was clear.
Oh… that’s right. She remembered now.
There was a cup final today between Eden and Fontaine, and Damian was playing in it. Anya tagged along because she wanted to cheer him and the soccer team on. School spirit, perhaps. Or the other thing that lived deep in her heart, fluttered aggressively in her stomach and refused to remain nameless.
Her gaze drifted around the infirmary as he continued to lecture her, not once pausing for a breath. She found her hand hanging limply off the bed, fingers gently intertwined with his.
She liked holding his hand. When she was happy, when she was sad, when he let her. It always carried the same undercurrent—I’ve got you.
And as with all borrowed things, it had to return to its owner eventually. Much to her disappointment, Damian let go of her hand, as if he'd only just realised where it'd been.
“Listen, I have to get back before the team kills me,” he said, standing resolutely.
“Okay,” Anya uttered and watched him leave.
He paused at the door, looking over his shoulder. “Feel better soon.”
Blue
With their bellies full of hot chocolatey goodness, Anya and Damian headed—well, more like she dragged him—to the most quintessential date activity for teenagers on snowy evenings in Berlint.
Ice-skating!
Anya had long since been a fan of winter. The clothes, the food, the holidays, the weather-driven proximity. It all made her heart full in a way no other season came close to.
The two of them skated around aimlessly. Neither of them was an expert, but they also weren’t clinging to the railing in desperation like some people were. Although gliding around in polite circles got boring fast, and honestly? It was kind of pedestrian.
Anya had a trick or two up her sleeve.
“Hey, watch this,” she said to Damian, standing directly in front of him, then pushed off backwards.
His eyes tracked her as she began to move around him in a smooth circle.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” he said, genuinely impressed.
“It’s just a little something I picked up,” Anya said, mildly cocky as she found her groove. “I can teach you if you want.”
“Uhhh, be careful.”
“Don’t worry about me Sy-on boy, I know what I’m doing.”
“Okay, but watch out for—”
Anya shrieked as she collided with something as short and sturdy as a brick fence and landed flat on her back. She blinked up at the night sky, momentarily dazed, before her view was obstructed by two faces hovering over her.
One was the immovable object—a dead-eyed kid with one of those penguin skating aids. The other was her boyfriend.
“Hey, are you okay?” Damian asked, adorably and unnecessarily worried. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Only my pride,” Anya muttered pitifully, cold seeping through the back of her tights.
He huffed in relief, then pulled her up to her feet carefully, making sure to steady her. Immediately, Anya pressed her gloved hands to her neck, swallowing the shiver.
She’d misplaced her scarf earlier, and now it was alone, lost in the city and abandoned by the only person who’d ever loved it.
Her hair did a decent job of keeping her neck warm until now. But lying sprawled out on the ice, however briefly, meant her absent-mindedness finally caught up to her with a chilling vengeance.
“Are you cold?” Damian said, but it was clear he already knew the answer.
“Nope,” she said with chattering teeth.
He looked amused. “Sure you aren’t.”
Damian unwrapped the navy scarf from around his neck, looping it around hers like a lasso. The twinkling lights strung up around the rink faded to a blur. Snowflakes continued to fall softly from above. Anya watched as another one floated down, landing delicately on his hair.
Then, he tugged on both ends of the scarf, drawing her closer and closer, her skates wobbling awkwardly on the ice, until their lips met in a perfect, numb kiss.
When he pulled back, Damian gave her a warm, crooked smile, which Anya returned.
“Ew,” said the kid, making his presence known once again.
They exchanged a look and couldn’t help but laugh as they watched the child gracelessly ‘skate’ away.
Damian tossed one end of the scarf over Anya’s shoulder. “Don’t lose it,” he said. “It’s my favourite one.”
She nodded.
For keeps
Anya found herself in the bathroom, wide awake, suffering from a serious case of bedhead and brushing her teeth for no real reason. She looked down at the marble counter, at the many, many bobby pins that lay scattered there as if it were their final resting place.
“Anya Desmond,” she tested in the mirror, articulating every syllable despite the toothpaste foaming at the corners of her mouth.
She glanced back towards the bedroom of their penthouse suite—where her white dress remained discarded over an armchair. Where the rest of their formal attire tastefully decorated the floor, and Anya totally hadn’t just tripped over their shoes as she got out of bed. Where the glint of their rings on the bedside table sparkled in the soft, unlit space. Where her husband (still felt so weird to say) was sleeping soundly.
Stranger still was the fact that she was up at the crack of dawn, and he wasn’t. He must have been real tired after yesterday’s festivities—the wedding ceremony, the reception, the endless toasts, the slow dancing and well, christening this room once or twice.
Anya was tired too, but she was also wired, still full of restless energy, which meant that the three hours of sleep she’d managed would have to carry her through the rest of the day.
“Mrs Desmond,” she said to her reflection with an exaggerated haughtiness, then immediately cringed.
Mmm, nope. Bleh! That was his mother.
“Yoo-hoo, Anya Desmond. Is that you?” she said with a dainty wave, then giggled softly to herself.
Anya’s name had changed countless times over the years. Mostly against her wishes and always without her input. ‘Forger’ was the first one that felt like home, but there was something different about this new change, and the way it felt both familiar and surreal all at once.
Maybe because she liked the way it rolled off her tongue. Maybe because she’d manifested it via the occasional embarrassing doodle in the margins of her notebook back in school. Maybe because it made her feel steadier than anything in this life ever had.
Or maybe, because she’d chosen it.
And now, thanks to the magic of bureaucracy, it was hers.
Her name. Her love.
Anya quickly rinsed her mouth and padded back over to the bed, ducking under the covers once more to cuddle her husband and double-check that he was actually real.
That this was real, and hers to keep.