Work Text:
Princess Shiori Novella had read enough stories to know how this was supposed to go.
A knight came to the tower at dusk.
He wore polished armor, carried a sword bright as dawn, and spoke in solemn oaths about rescue and duty. He knelt before the princess, asked for her hand, then carried her away from the wicked curse, the cruel court, the lonely room at the top of the castle.
Shiori had always hated that part.
No one ever asked whether the princess wanted to leave.
So when the knight appeared at her window, clinging awkwardly to the ivy with one gauntleted hand and a badly wrapped bundle of pastries tucked beneath their arm, Shiori only blinked.
The knight blinked back.
“...Good evening, Your Highness.”
Shiori closed her book around one finger. “You’re late.”
Elizabeth, sworn sword of the realm, champion of three tournaments, and the only person in the kingdom foolish enough to climb six stories in full armor, flushed all the way to the tips of her ears.
“I apologize. The trellis was less sturdy than I expected.”
“It has been dead for four years.”
“That would explain a great deal.”
Shiori looked at the trembling ivy. Then at Elizabeth’s very serious face. Then at the parcel under her arm.
“Are those cherry tarts?”
Elizabeth brightened, as if facing a dragon would have been easier than facing Shiori’s disappointment. “From the kitchens. I remembered you liked them.”
Shiori’s heart did something deeply inconvenient.
She turned away before Elizabeth could see it.
“You risked treason for pastries?”
“I risk treason every Thursday.”
“Do you?”
Elizabeth hauled herself up onto the windowsill with a small grunt, armor scraping against stone. Her red hair had come loose from its tie. Moonlight caught on the red of her eyes, making her look less like a knight from a storybook and more like a fire that had learned how not to burn.
“I visit you every Thursday,” Elizabeth said simply. “The treason is implied.”
Shiori stared at her for one second too long.
Then she said, “You’re getting mud on my carpet.”
Elizabeth immediately looked down in horror.
Shiori laughed.
It slipped out before she could stop it – soft and startled and embarrassingly fond. Elizabeth froze at the sound, one hand still braced against the window frame, as if the whole tower had shifted beneath her.
Shiori wished she had not noticed.
Elizabeth always looked at her like that. Like Shiori was not a princess in a tower, not a political pawn, not a girl kept behind silk curtains and locked doors for her own protection.
Like she was a person.
Worse.
Like she was loved.
“Come in before you start rusting,” Shiori said.
Elizabeth obeyed. Of course she did.
The knight stepped into the room, removed her helmet, and bowed with a sincerity that made Shiori want to throw a pillow at her.
“My lady.”
“Don’t start this again.”
“My princess?”
“Worse.”
“Shiori, then.”
The name was quiet.
It settled between them with the weight of all the things they were never supposed to say.
Shiori took the bundle of tarts from Elizabeth’s hands to give herself something to do. The paper was warm. So were Elizabeth’s fingers when they brushed hers.
Neither of them moved away quickly enough.
Outside, the kingdom slept. The court whispered. Somewhere below, guards patrolled halls they believed were secure. Somewhere beyond the walls, a hundred nobles plotted who Princess Shiori would marry, where she would be sent, what alliance her hand would seal.
Inside the tower, Elizabeth stood in muddy boots and dented armor, looking like she would fight all of them if Shiori asked.
That was the problem.
Shiori did not want Elizabeth to fight for her.
She wanted Elizabeth to stay.
“You know,” Shiori said, sitting on the edge of her bed, “in most stories, this is where you ask if I wish to be rescued.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened.
“I don’t think so.”
Shiori glanced up.
“No?”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “I know better than to assume you need rescuing.”
Shiori’s throat tightened.
How unfair. How completely, catastrophically unfair.
Elizabeth crossed the room slowly, stopping a careful distance away. Close enough that Shiori could see the scratches on her armor. Far enough that the choice remained Shiori’s.
“If you wished to leave,” Elizabeth said, “I would take you anywhere. If you wished to stay, I would guard the door. If you wished to burn the whole castle down, I would find you a torch.”
Shiori looked at her.
Elizabeth swallowed.
“Metaphorically.”
A smile tugged at Shiori’s mouth. “Coward.”
“Well,” Elizabeth said, too softly. “Sometimes.”
The humor faded.
Shiori looked down at the cherry tart in her hand, untouched. Her fingers were trembling.
She hated stories where princesses waited. She hated stories where knights mistook love for conquest. She hated stories where freedom came only after someone else broke the lock.
But Elizabeth had never once reached for the door.
She had only come to the window, week after week, bringing stolen pastries and terrible jokes and news from the world Shiori was not allowed to see.
She had only offered.
Always offered.
Never taken.
Shiori set the tart aside.
“Elizabeth.”
The knight straightened at once. “Yes?”
“If I asked you to kiss me,” Shiori said, voice steady only because she had practiced being unreadable her entire life, “would that violate some oath of yours?”
Elizabeth stared.
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
Shiori arched one brow. “Use your words, Ser Bloodflame.”
“I,” Elizabeth said, with the raw courage of a woman facing execution, “would have to consider the exact wording of the oath.”
“Mm.”
“It says I must protect the royal family from harm.”
“How inconvenient.”
“Very.”
“And would kissing me harm me?”
Elizabeth’s gaze flickered to her mouth.
Shiori’s pulse jumped.
“I suppose not,” Elizabeth said, barely audible.
“Then?”
Elizabeth knelt.
She knelt because Shiori was shorter, and Elizabeth had always been careful never to loom over her.
The tenderness of it nearly ruined Shiori completely.
“May I?” Elizabeth asked.
Shiori reached out, touching the side of her face. Elizabeth’s skin was warm from the climb, her cheek faintly smudged with dirt.
“Finally,” Shiori whispered, leaning down.
Their first kiss tasted like iron and moonlight.
It was gentle, because Elizabeth was pliant. It was hesitant, because Shiori was trembling. And it was much too brief, because somewhere below, a guard’s footsteps passed beneath the window and both of them froze like guilty children.
Then Shiori laughed against Elizabeth’s mouth.
Elizabeth smiled, helpless and bright.
And Princess Shiori, who had read enough stories to know what was supposed to happen next, decided she preferred this version better.
No rescue.
No tower shattered.
No knight carrying her away.
Only Elizabeth at her feet, looking up at her like a vow.