Chapter Text
"It's a big event, Mavey. Something to be excited about."
Maven couldn't count on both hands how many times he's heard those words. Something to be excited about. He couldn't really remember the last time he was excited about anything, past the one time that his favourite actor played a part in a nice little opera in Hexaprin Theater.
And that was several years ago.
"You act as though you're any more excited than I am, Cal."
He pulls a face at Maven's words, a flash of irritation passing through his face. But it was gone as fast as it had come, replaced instead by a tight smile and a roll of his eyes as he threw another punch at the dummy before him. The thing splintered at it's base before falling to the floor with a dull thud - the scene almost dramatic in the silent morning light filtering through the large windows.
Cal steps away from the collapsed dummy, stretching his shoulders and cracking his neck. Maven simply watched on in silence. He's never particularly enjoyed these private training sessions that Cal always insists they have. It usually only consists in tense conversations, Cal beating something - or beating him in particular in a spar. A sting that never subsides.
It was nothing to Maven but a reminder that he'd never be Cal. That he'd never be able to equate to his strength.
"Doesn't matter what we feel," Cal finally responds, his voice clipped. "It's our duty. At least you get to pick."
At least he gets to pick.
At least I get to pick, he says. As if it's any easier. As if it's any less arranged than his is.
"Suppose."
Cal glances back at Maven, studying his face closely. Trying to gauge what he might be thinking - what he might be feeling in this moment. But he's as clean as a blank slate. Wearing that usual poker face of his that makes it impossible for anybody to see what he could be thinking. Cal's face softens considerably, and Maven hates the way his heart softens a little bit too.
Cal steps forward, planting a firm hand on Maven's shoulder, giving it a nice, firm squeeze.
"Whatever happens," he murmurs. "It'll be alright. There's plenty girls coming for Queenstrial. I'm sure one of them will catch your eye."
As Cal nodded and stepped back, turning and leaving Maven alone in the training room, Maven knew that it wouldn't really be alright. He knew that Cal was really just saying all that to calm his nerves. At least, the nerves that Cal thought he was feeling. Because nerves weren't what was causing Maven's silence and constant cold-shoulder. But rather it was the knowledge that none of the girl's he was going to see parade around like vicious animals were going to catch his eye.
Because somebody already had.
Servants ran up and down the halls like frantic insects - worker ants of an elite colony ensuring that everything was ready. Queenstrial was only a week away, and with the different Houses all arriving earlier rather than later, things were.. chaotic. But it was helpful in it's own special way. With all the chaos of halls nobody seemed to notice him sneaking away into the gardens.
Moments like these were fleeting as they came and god forbid he waste a single chance. A single moment.
The Greenwardens had clearly outdone themselves this year - the garden was flourishing with all sorts of different greenery. The place was blooming in many different colours: reds, whites, pinks and blues, some vibrant and some dull. Organised in different artistic colours that probably made a whole picture when viewed from the sky.
But he wasn't in the sky.
He felt her presence before he heard or saw her. It was usually like that, of course: Haven's were difficult to spot. And she always liked to play games with him at what felt like the worst times.
"I know you're there."
For a moment, there's no response to his words. Just the familiar silence and the distant rustling of plants as the Greenwardens continued to prepare the area. Perhaps he was wrong. Maybe she didn't show up like he thought she would. He wouldn't be surprised - he'd certainly expected nothing less. She was busy. He knew that.
Of course he knew that.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he looks down at the ground for a brief moment, readying himself to leave when a hand grabs his arm. He tenses, but the moment the sound of her giggles reaches his ears, he calms, allowing himself a smile.
She makes herself visible in the light again, and he takes in her appearance. Usually, whenever they meet, she is simply dressed: a plain white tunic, leather pants and boots are enough to keep her comfortable. But today, she wore something a little different. A dress. For once.
"How'd you know I was here?"
He shrugs, looking her over for a moment before giving an answer.
"You have an... atmosphere to you."
"An atmosphere? Really? That's all you have to say?"
He shrugs, looking her over for a long moment. He's not used to seeing her in this type of attire. It's new - but not entirely unwelcome. It was a soft silk, something high quality, he could tell that much. Probably worth a few hundred crowns. It's colour was deep. Complemented her eyes. And her skin. And her hair.
It complemented everything, honestly.
But he's never been a Romeo.
"You look a little different today." he comments idly. Managing to make himself seem uninterested.
"Do I?" she murmurs, looking down at herself. Giving him a little twirl to properly see the material wrapped around her tight.
"I fear I look ridiculous." she admits quietly.
"You don't look ridiculous." he huffs, shutting down that idea as soon as it left her lips. "You never look ridiculous. You could run around on all fours in nothing but a Red workers rags and you'd still manage to make it look enticing."
She looks up at him, a smirk slowly growing on her painted lips. His words sound an awful lot like flattery. And she let him know of that. But he merely scoffs in reply, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away.
"God forbid a man compliment a woman." he sighs. "You and your smirks make me want to push you into the dirt and ruin that silk of yours."
"Then you'd have to pay for it." she smirks. "And I don't think your pockets are deep enough."
He purses his lips. That's not the worry he has, no. His pockets are more than deep enough to pay for the silly thing. It's just a matter of how his mother would react to the fact that he's been fraternizing with someone while he was actually supposed to be doing something better than this... banter.
"No matter. Walk with me."
They walk down the garden passages. Time flies by, and with each conversation, the sun moves further towards it's perch on the horizon.
"Have you thought about anybody for Queenstrial?" [name] asks him quietly.
An innocent question. But a question he was hoping she wouldn't ask.
A question he was hoping he wouldn't have to answer.
He hums, his voice a low rumble in his chest as he considered what to say. He could lie, tell her about all the girls that have caught his eye, who are falling over each other to be his wife. She wouldn't know he was lying. She's too busy to know about such things.
Or he could tell the truth.
Nobody would be as good of a wife as you would be. How could I possibly consider someone else, when you're here? When you're perfect?
"No, I haven't," he hums. "Though I doubt that'll stay that way very soon. Mother has been pushing me to make a decision. I reckon she'll want a choice by the end of the week."
Five days. Five days to pick a woman he'll have to be wed to. To pick a woman he'll have to make heirs with.
He cringes at the idea internally.
"Seriously?" she huffs in disbelief. "Surely someone's grabbed your interest."
He shrugs.
"They're all pretty much the same girl, copy and pasted over into new bodies." he murmurs. "All of them want a crown, and all of them will do whatever they want to get it."
There's a long silence that settles over the pair as they continue walking down the paths. It's not awkward or uncomfortable - nothing is when she's there. She tends to work as a type of... balm. A balm to his nerves. Paranoia. Sometimes even his anger.
"... I thought that you were going to attend." he admits.
The words are a quiet implication. He thought she was going to attend. Thought that she would be an option. That he could choose her.
She glances back at him for a moment, before shaking her head, smiling slightly. But it's not a happy smile. It holds no joy - no mirth. Nothing. Just this bitter resignation.
"I wanted to," she murmurs. "But you know, I've got my work to do. My mother and father say that I wouldn't have time to do both. And I enjoy my work. It's important to me."
He understands that in some degree. She's always been a very diligent person, someone who takes her work as something more important than herself sometimes. But even so, a part of him - a selfish part of him - wishes she'd decided to set it aside and participate. Set it aside to become his.
Would've made it all a little more bearable.
They round a corner, stepping into a pathway leading deeper into the gardens. But before they can make it very far, they come face to face with someone.
Samson Merandus.
Of all people they had to run into, it just had to be him.
He doesn't even look at [name] - ignoring her entirely as he lays his eyes on Maven. He's only two years older than him, but he feels like he's at least ten.
"Your mother has been looking for you all over." he mentions idly, sounding almost bored. "I think it'd be best for you to go to her before you put her in another one of her moods."
Maven stiffens, but simply nods, glancing sidelong at [name] - only to realise the empty space behind him. He huffs, frowning slightly. Of course she fled. She's always had a thing against Whispers. God forbid he knows why, he's never had the courage to ask.
"Fine." he mutters. "Tell her I'll be there later."
"Now."
"Fine." he sighs. "Now."
"Off running around in the gardens when you're supposed to be revising your schoolwork, and practicing for your classes. You're a prince, Maven. A prince. Not a common noble who can afford to slack off of their schoolwork and see nothing but generational money for the rest of their days."
Maven doesn't bother defending himself. Standing in the doorway of Elara's elaborate chambers as she sits at the vanity, curling her hair - barely really listening while she goes on and on about what he's supposed to be doing.
Half of her concerns come from things that she does to herself. I'm top of my class in academics, I don't need to care to the same point that others do. But in her mind, I'm struggling. I'm always struggling.
"And with a girl too." she mutters under her breath, her movements harsh as she ties her hair up against her scalp. Tight. Sharp. "Such a scandal that'd be if it got out."
She stands up, approaching him. Her hands on her hips - one of the things she does when she tries to make it obvious that she's angry with him. As if the tone in her voice and the migraine crawling up the back of his skull isn't tell-tale enough.
"I won't do it again." he lies quietly.
Her head tilts as she studies him closely, her gaze piercing into his. He tilts his too, meeting her gaze head on. He can feel her dig around in his brain. Trying to figure out what his intentions were with [name] when he walked so deep into the gardens alone with her.
Does she really think I am so unbecoming to have sex with a woman in a garden?
She hears his thought, immediately retreating from her interrogation and pulling a face.
"Disgusting." she mutters, turning her back to him. She raises her hand in a dismissive gesture, chasing him away.
"You can leave." she announces stiffly. "And the next time I see you, I want to see Nortan history leaking from every hole in your face."
"Yes mother."