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Summer, 37 BBY.
Breha couldn’t recall the last time she met Bail Prestor, though, she imagined it must have been in the same way she had met every other young son of Alderaan. In some cavernous ballroom or another. At the Aldera Theater Society, maybe. The usual charity events or banquets, speaking engagements, or the dreaded introductory line-up.
A humiliation, really, even by royal standards.
“The Honourable Bail of House Prestor, your Highness,” her private secretary might have whispered near her ear as Breha made her way down the line. Hand-shakes and smiles for all. “Son of the Honourable Lady Vella.”
And Breha surely must have given her hand and a smile to him, too.
“How do you do?” she must have asked.
“Well,” she imagined him saying. “Very well. Thank you, your Highness.” Or, you know. Something equally as boring and deferential.
It’s true, Bail Prestor did not solidify more clearly as a figure in her mind until the summer of Breha’s seventeenth year. She had been sent south to the River Countries of Alderaan as a representative of the Queen. Granny had always been old, but she never seemed older than she did that year. Never frailer. The Old Queen ate very little, smiled less and less, and her medical staff had advised against such a lengthy trip.
Breha, too, had been restricted from travel by her doctors until recently.
Very recently.
But, satisfied with the current state of her pulmonodes, they had agreed to send her on a pilgrimage down south. To see the lush grasses and roaring rivers of Alderaan’s equator.
“Welcome to Whiteforks, your Highness.”
“Thank you, Lady Vella,” Breha replied politely, offering the Lady her hand as she stepped down from the speeder.
An extensive crowd of southerners also awaited her, just beyond the barricade. If they were disappointed in the absence of their Queen it didn’t show in the way they waved and cheered and called-out to her. Breha gave a small smile, as well as a wave back.
“You remember my husband, Lord Bito?”
“How could I forget? My father still talks about that lovely southern vintage.”
The man must have had a whole foot on Breha, perhaps more. But his demeanor was unassuming, and his smile gentle. “There is no wine quite so sweet as Prestor wine, your Highness.”
“Allow me to introduce my children,” said Lady Vella, guiding Breha towards the rest of the Prestors. “My daughters, Lady Ola and Lady Perhla—”
“Good afternoon.”
Both women bowed their heads, and Breha offered her hand.
“My youngest, Lady Tisha—”
“A pleasure,” she said, repeating the action once more.
“And I believe you might know my son, Bail.”
He bowed at the neck so quickly, Breha barely got a decent look at his face. He had been clean shaven the last time she'd seen him, hadn't he? She liked the beard, she decided, in that split second that he finally looked up and she was able to see his face. All neat and trim, just like the rest of him. It was as if the sight of him knocked something loose in her chest.
"We've met before, haven't we?" she asked, holding her hand out for him to take.
"Here and there," he answered with an affable smile. "At the odd thing. Though, I think this is the first time our paths have crossed on southern soil."
"Yes, I don't usually find myself below the Qel-line," confessed Breha. "Much too… hot."
It was a ridiculous thing to say.
Utter stupid.
Though, Bail Prestor didn't seem to mind.
Instead, he only buried his grin beneath that sharp, sturdy jaw. He stepped closer, the both of them still hand-in-hand, and pressed the barest and most-respectable of kisses to her knuckles. He didn't linger. Not for a second, even if some strange part of Breha's deeply-buried desires wished that he had. No, he was barely a brush of air against her skin.
And—when he let her go—was it so bad that Breha wished she could take his hand again?
—
"Well?" asked Dalner, putting a drink in Bail's hand as he did. Colourful ribbons of Prestor green and gold draped the lanai. The wine was flowing, the tinny pattering of the southern drums filled the evening air, the warm twinkle of flicker-flies and Alderaan's constellations all seemed to blur together. "How is she?"
They were all clustered at the edge of the open-air dance floor. At a distance, they were watching while the Princess Royal smiled and shook hands and danced with the locals, a protocol droid whispering in her ear as she went.
Bail shrugged and did his very best to look indifferent. He was determined to feel indifferent, wasn't he? And the exterior ought to match the interior.
"She's fine."
"More than fine, I think," interjected his sister. Tisha had her vapour pen in hand and a terrible grin on her face. "Bail likes her."
"I do not, thank you," he insisted firmly. "Not in the way you're suggesting, anyway."
Princess Breha was dancing with Monti of House Fleg. Most of Bail's memories of Monti centered around schoolyard foolishness. He was pretty sure he'd watched Monti stuff a half-eaten bread roll straight from the classroom waste disposal in his face once. And now Princess Breha had the terrible misfortune of being forced to dance with him at a party that was technically being thrown in her honour. Forced to endure his greasy hands on her waist.
Bail took a drink.
"Is she snobbish?" asked Dalner curiously. He was also a school-fellow of Bail's, but much less objectionable than the likes of Monti Fleg.
"Not a bit," answered Tisha.
At the same moment, Bail said, "Not very."
His sister snorted around her vapour pen. Jogan-flavoured smoke wafted from her nose. "Oh, come off it. Princess Breha? Our lady of Alderaan, this paragon of virtue and bravery? She's perfectly lovely, it's her sister that's all the trouble."
"She's fine," Bail felt the need to reiterate. "For a princess."
"Forgive my brother, he's a democrat."
"Oh, don't I know it."
Bail elected to ignore either of them, instead letting her gaze wander back across the dance floor. She was beautiful, he thought. In the way that all young princesses were surely required to be beautiful. Her hair was braided and woven into symmetrical circlets about her ears, thick and dark against tawny brown skin. Her dress was long and slim at the waist, with a drapery of pin-tuck silk flowing over her shoulders and down her back. Bail found his attentions caught in the way that thin length of silver and diamonds was nestled between her collarbones, in the way she laughed at whatever Monti Fleg had whispered in her ear.
Princess Breha could be so stiff, sometimes. A little aloof. In public, anyway. Bail was glad to see her laugh.
Even if it was in the arms of Monti Fleg.
"Well, don't tell Mama that you've set against her," said Tisha, drawing his attention back to the outskirts of the lanai. She exhaled into the wind and tucked her vapour pen back into her clutch. "She's already picking drapes and center-pieces for the wedding."
"There isn't going to be a wedding," Bail grumbled, turning back to his drink.
Ridiculous notion.
One Bail refused to entertain. He had the upcoming semester to worry about, not to mention his prospects of interning at the Alderaanian Parliament, he was volunteering with the Malastare Relief Effort and he was still assisting his mother with her duties as Stewardess on the side. He didn't have time for distractions. Especially not a distraction as beautiful as Breha Organa.
"Mama was set on pushing the Princess and I together the minute she heard the palace was sending her instead of her, but I won't have it. I refuse to be told what to do. I mean, have you ever heard of a more ridiculous—"
Bail was cut off by his sister's suddenly wide eyes and bowed head.
"Your Highness."
Dalner bowed too, and Bail was quick to follow.
For one of the most famous women on Alderaan—and probably in the whole galaxy—she had managed to join them in a pretty inconspicuous manner. With a pleasant and regnal smile on her face, her hands folded neatly at her back.
Bail took that to mean that she had thankfully not heard a word he said.
Good, he thought.
Because while he had absolutely no intention of marrying Princess Breha, he certainly didn't want to offend her. She had never been anything but kind to him—here, and in the few times their paths had crossed up north in Aldera. Alongside being distractingly beautiful, she was also a perfectly unobjectionable woman, even if she did happen to represent the antithesis of his political beliefs. Yes, on a personal level, he liked her very much.
Maybe a little more than the word fine might have implied.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," she began, quickly vesturing for them all to raise their heads.
"Not at all," said Tisha.
"But I wanted to thank House Prestor once again for playing host this past week," she continued. "My visit to the river countries wouldn't have been the success that it was if not for your help."
"Well, we lives to serve House Organa," Tisha replied.
He wondered if Princess Breha could sense the mocking in his sister's overly gracious tone, or if she even cared.
"Isn't that right, Bail?"
His sister was a menace, and she knew it too.
"Indeed we do," he managed with what he hoped was a smile. Bail had never been very adept when it came to the art of pretense. He said what he meant, and he meant what he said. He wore his heart on his sleeve and he did not suffer fools.
But maybe he was better than he thought, but Princess Breha seemed none the wiser.
"Please," continued Tisha. "Would you like to join us? I believe the dancing is about to start up again, and I think my dear brother could use a partner. He does love to dance."
Oh, if looks could kill.
If that were the case, they all would have been standing amidst the grave-site of Tisha, the youngest daughter of House Prestor. But, before he could even say a word in protest, Princess Breha managed to beat him to it.
"Oh, there's no need. I was never one for dancing," she said, graciously turning down his sister's offer. "Besides…"
Her gaze flitted back to Bail.
Their eyes met, and that's when he saw it. That sharp little something. Clever something. A window, a peephole, and look behind the curtain of calm regality and gentile manners. There's a person in there. Bail was nearly struck dumb in his realization. How was it that he had never noticed before?
There was a person inside the princess, and somehow she was laughing, behind the eyes, without moving a single muscle in her face. She was laughing, Bail realized, at him.
"I was never one to push-in."
He blinked as he own words come back to hit him in the face.
Princess Breha only turned delicately on her heel and walked away, a train of white chiffon floating in her wake. A cloud of something sweet-smelling lingered. Tisha—distinctly unhelpful—couldn't seem to properly stifle her laughter into a convincing cough. Dalner was also laughing, as he gave Bail a clap on the shoulder and a sort of ya win some, ya lose some expression on his face.
You know, Bail could probably count the number of times he had been speechless on one hand. Like, truly and properly speechless. Fucking gobsmacked.
That moment was one of those times.
—
"Princess Breha!"
She was a little surprised to hear Bail Prestor calling after her, especially after she had already escaped the party. Breha had been walking down the stone path leading away from the lanai, towards the river, her royal guard not far behind. She waved the uniformed man off as Bail Prestor approached.
The lighting along the path was dim. It might have been romantic, if not for the irritatingly obstinate man standing in front of her. Handsome, and obstinate.
"I wanted to apologize, your Highness, I—"
"Oh, no need," she told him quickly, because it was true. Breha had no need for Bail Prestor's apologies.
Breha had been born the eldest daughter of a rich and ancient dynasty, but was accomplished and educated in her own right. She was a deft hand at the sword, a runner, a hiker, an athlete by all accounts. Fluent in two languages, and passable in several others. She was well-read. An orator. Able to engage in conversation about philosophy and politics and art with experts from the far reaches of the galaxy. She liked to garden. She liked sunsets and early-spring snows. She had fallen very far, once, and lived to tell the tale. Lived to be stronger than ever. The very last thing that Breha had any need for was the apologies of some opinionated want-to-be bureaucrat from the south.
But still, he insisted. "Really, I—"
"Mister Prestor," she cut him off, letting her hand fall briefly to his forearm. His suit for the evening was very fine. Soft. "I mean it. You are, of course, entitled to your opinions." Breha felt her smile widen, unable to stop her teasing as it fell from her lips. "Even if you are a democrat."
His entire posture relaxed immensely.
"Ha," he said, sounding a little breathless. Breha's hand fell away, and he folded his own behind his back.
A new silence filled the air.
Not an uncomfortable one, mind you. Rushing waters could be heard at a distance. The twitter of little songbirds, the hum of critters at dusk. It was different from the sounds of the north. Breha wondered if he ever missed it when he was away. She wondered if he found himself content in their shared silence just as much as she did.
"You're a student at Aldera University, aren't you?" she asked him.
"I—yes. Yes, I am," he replied, somehow looking equal-parts bashful and full of pride. "For two years now, and only two to go."
Breha smiled. "How nice."
And the silence came back all over again.
There it was again. That feeling. The knocked-loose thing in her chest that Breha hadn't yet named. Bail Prestor has a very serious look settled in his brow. Looking at her like she's an essay or a piece of political theory that he hasn't quite managed to puzzle out. It was sweet, maybe. Breha had yet to decide. Still some puzzling of her own to do.
"Will you be back in Aldera at the end of the summer? For the semester, I mean."
He nodded. "I will."
Silence, again. But, this time, she let Bail break it.
"I… don't suppose I should read much into the fact that you're asking," he said, doing a funny sort-of-thing with his shoulders. Ridiculous, really, for a man as tall as he was. "Should I?"
She laughed softly. "Oh, no. Not at all."
"Good, right." He took to her sarcasm like a Mon Cala to water. "I didn't think so."
"Your instincts are matchless, Mister Prestor."
"I always thought so."
She laughed again. A wave of tenderness washed over her. For this tall man, with his polished boots and his lofty politics and his not-quite-right words. But he was a worker, she could tell. He'd work at it all, he'd refine. He'd try and try and try. Maybe he'd even get it right, one day. And—with the way he looked at her then—Breha was pretty sure he'd work at hertoo. Given the chance.
He would try, and maybe he would even get it right. Maybe, maybe.
"We should see each other again," said Bail, breaking the silence once more. "When I'm back in Aldera, I mean."
"Oh?"
That same little tenderness took root somewhere in her chest.
In amongst the orange glow.
"Would you be able to stand it?" she asked, unable to resist teasing him further. She smiled, and he smiled too. "Being seen around the city with a royal princess? The horror. Your politics would be in tatters."
"Now, I… I never said that," he argued with a good-natured smile.
"You said something like it."
"I've been known to be wrong," he admitted easily. He may have been obstinate, but the list of Bail Prestor's attractive qualities was really starting to grow. "On rare occasions, of course."
"Oh, of course."
They had gotten steadily closer to one another. Breha felt like she never wanted to budge, like she wanted to be close to him forever. Just to look at him. It'd be worth it; the crick in her neck. He'd be worth it, wouldn't he?
"I hope I see you again, Mister Prestor," she said instead, offering her hand once more.
"Bail, please."
Breha smiled. "Bail," she conceded gladly.
"And, in terms of the… other thing," he continued. "I would like that very much."
And he kissed her knuckles, again.