Work Text:
There is a ring.
Deep blue, set with a delicate aquamarine stone.
Nothing else in this study, cluttered with scrolls and maps of the realm, catches the Sovereign’s eye quite like this elegant piece of jewellery. Not because of the gem’s value, or the craftsman’s exquisite workmanship, but because of the digit on which it rests. Since the very first day they met, it has been on the ring finger of his dear adviser, depriving the monarch of their peace of mind.
The whole time Sir Arlin is double-checking old decrees, the Sovereign devotes themselves to silent contemplation of this seemingly inconspicuous detail. It would be strange to see a man of his age and standing unbound by the ties of marriage, but this is precisely what makes Arlin so striking. Fortunately, the cold marble of the mask reliably conceals any display of the monarch’s emotions from those around them. But deep within the empty eye sockets lurks a gaze full of keen curiosity. The sovereign cannot even begin to imagine what blessing or a mischievous joke of fate the Gods have in store for them. The matter is not simply one of curiosity or a desire to get to know their subordinate better, but rather of the trepidation they feel whilst in this room with the maps. Beside Sir Arlin.
Since meeting him, throughout the months they have spent together, the adviser has never once shown the slightest amount of fear regarding their affliction. Never did he shy away from touch, nor did he look away to hide his terror or revulsion. Arlin always offered the ruler a friendly, gentle smile, and the Sovereign knows: this warmth is not merely a tribute to their duty as a monarch.
Whilst Arlin is oblivious to this, the ruler observes his every movement; particularly at those moments when the adviser stands pensively by the window, absent-mindedly running his fingers over the exquisite metal. The man’s gaze is lost in the distant horizon, yet his expression remains downcast. A man with nothing to mourn would not twirl with such sorrow the very thing that is meant to remind him of marital bliss in moments of both joy and sorrow. The Sovereign has many questions. About the warmth of a body once beloved, about the loss of something human, yet so vital. About visits to the Tower by people Arlin knows personally. But the monarch is in no hurry.
Their hands, concealed by gloves, slowly close the census register of the county of Brizh.
✧✧✧
Time marches on relentlessly.
Every morning brings new visitors, and by evening the knights set off on assignments, receiving fresh orders. Their company pleases the Sovereign, yet they truly yearn only for those hours they are destined to spend with the adviser. When they are at work in the throne room, discussing matters of state, their voices frequently drop to a whisper. In these rare moments, a slight, barely perceptible nervousness slips between them.
On one such day, having just concluded the morning audience and accepted an invitation to a friendly hunt from the county of Groveshire, the ruler announces the end of the audiences, and the hall empties once more. Sir Arlin gathers his belongings from the lectern without undue haste. The Sovereign watches him for a good while from their throne before descending the steps silently and approaching him. Their face remains concealed behind the unchanging marble mask of serenity. Everyone who looks upon these sculpted, perfect features always sees something of their own in them: kindness, audacity, wisdom or tyranny.
“Arlin?” The Sovereign stops beside the man; their voice is soft, with a familiar, friendly tone. The ruler calmly folds their hands across their chest.
The adviser immediately turns his gaze to his interlocutor:
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“I’ve observed the presence of your niece and your son at my court. But in all the time since their arrival, I haven’t once seen… your significant other.”
The man freezes for a moment, speechless and bewildered, his mouth slightly agape. Trying to defuse the awkwardness, the Sovereign clears their throat, nervously interlocks their fingers and hastily adds:
“I… presume she is not of noble birth? You need not be ashamed. One’s origins do not…”
Sir Arlin pulls himself together and, shaking his head slightly, interrupts the monarch. A smile reappears on his face: it seems slightly awkward, as if he is trying to brush off such a personal question. After a brief pause, he sighs heavily. Out of habit, his fingers reach for the ring and begin to fiddle with the exquisite metal, but the adviser immediately pulls his hand away and looks at the Sovereign once more.
“No, sire, I… am a widower.”
The Sovereign, tilting their head slightly to one side, nods sympathetically:
“I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been very difficult for you.”
Something in the monarch’s chest tightens painfully, ready to retreat into the very depths — just to avoid this sudden embarrassment. It was a mistake to ask about it, and now there’s nothing to be done. All they can do is turn back time and-
However.
“You are right, Your Grace. There was a time when I felt utterly lost. But… many years have passed since then. And I have not been left without a purpose in life. I have a son, a family, my niece. The Tower, to which I am devoted.”
Sir Arlin smiles encouragingly at the ruler:
“And now there is You, too.”
The anxiety that had just been fluttering desperately against the ribs of the Sovereign’s leprous heart, like a dove in a cage, finally subsides. Peace reigns within once more.
“I’m glad to hear that, Arlin.”
The adviser nods warmly in reply. The pair quietly leave the throne room in a spirit of trust. Yet one thing doesn't escape the Sovereign’s notice — the deep, hidden sorrow in the adviser’s grey eyes.
✧✧✧
One evening, they once again find themselves in the map room.
The Sovereign, in neat handwriting, writes out invitations to the specialists and knights whom they had previously politely declined. Meanwhile, Sir Arlin carefully traces the new borders of their sphere of influence, taking into account the lands of the recently merged county. They speak rarely and tersely, exchanging only snippets of practical information, facts and quiet sighs born of hard labour.
It is the Sovereign who is the first to break this measured rhythm.
“I now have so much land under my rule,” they say quietly. “But I still know far too little about it. About what life is really like there. The superficial knowledge I gain from reports is not enough for me.”
“I understand, Your Grace,” replies the adviser. “I could enlighten you. Which place would you like to know more about?”
Arlin briefly sets down his instruments and walks over to the enormous map hanging on the wall, covered in notes and pins. The sovereign leaves their desk and joins the adviser. Both stand still, gazing at the bluish outline of Rozenn.
“Your hometown,” the monarch says slowly. “Rozenn. Tell me about it.”.
“The former capital, the second-largest city today... It remains a popular destination for merchants and travellers...” Noticing his listener tilt their head slightly, Sir Arlin clears his throat awkwardly, cutting himself off. The Sovereign is already familiar with this rehearsed, formal speech. Nevertheless, the man continues, in a softer tone. “Of course, you are already aware of all this.”
The adviser hesitates slightly, but, gathering his thoughts, shifts his gaze to the bluish silhouette of the city on the map. The drawing is so simplified for the sake of clarity; yet within that simplicity, one cannot discern its soul.
“Of course, you can’t see any of this on the map, but Rozenn is strikingly beautiful,” Arlin says quietly, a deep, muted nostalgia creeping into his voice. “It harbours architectural wonders dating back centuries. And the stained-glass windows of our cathedrals and churches… they have always been a real source of envy for other counties. I remember how, even as a young man, I loved to walk across the bridges over the rivers that divide the city into districts. To listen to the water rushing and murmuring below. To admire the sunsets from the very highest watchtowers…”
The adviser's voice wavers for a moment, then fades, becoming a barely audible whisper. His gaze grows distant, piercing through the parchment and the walls, somewhere far into the past. He is still looking at Rozenn's grey silhouette on the map, but it is clear to the Sovereign that what the man sees before him is neither stone bridges nor church stained-glass windows. Rather, it is someone’s gaze, a warm smile, and a hand that once tightly clasped his own on those very bridges. The one with whom these sunsets had found their meaning.
Arlin sighs heavily, in short, ragged gasps. His hands, which had been locked together in front of him, drop limply. In this close proximity, standing right up against the wall, his fingers inadvertently brush against the Sovereign’s hand. A deafening silence hangs in the air.
The adviser shudders, as if waking from a dream, and timidly withdraws his hand, but the monarch remains motionless. They have no intention of pulling away. In their unwavering silence, they allow Arlin to lean on their silent presence.
“It’s sounds like a beautiful place,” the Sovereign says quietly, breaking the silence. “I imagine you have many happy memories associated with it, Arlin?”
The adviser slowly turns his grey, sadness-veiled eyes towards the ruler and offers a faint, grateful smile.
“The very best of my life, Your Grace. The very best.”
✧✧✧
The Sovereign cannot leave the Tower. Theoretically, it is possible, but is the renewed agony of leprosy worth it just to experience a moment’s freedom outside? Of course not. The Tower saved them. It gave them a new life. A calling. Their hands have long since lost the sense of touch, and their lungs are weighed down by weakness the moment they take a step beyond the threshold. But here, inside, the deterioration of their health has ceased. It is as though they have been frozen in time, protected by the age-old stone.
The only opportunity they have to be in the open air is the tower’s cloister. Once overgrown, covered in wild vines and moss, it has now been transformed into a well-tended garden, worthy of the gaze of their loyal knights and the Sovereign themselves. Usually, the ruler spends long, solitary hours in this secluded spot. However, on this occasion, they are not alone here.
Sir Arlin is resting during lunchtime under one of the stone arches, sheltered from prying eyes by a particularly lush growth of ivy. The sovereign approaches silently, taking care not to disturb the man’s privacy, but the rustle of their heavy robes inevitably betrays the monarch’s presence. Arlin startles, clearly not expecting to see the ruler at such an hour. He hastily straightens up, and a faint blush creeps onto his cheeks — the adviser is clearly embarrassed at having been caught lazing about.
“Your Grace,” Arlin says, bowing his head timidly as he prepares to rise, but the Sovereign stops him with a gentle, almost imperceptible gesture of their hand and sits down beside him. At this distance, sheltered by the thick vine, their shoulders are almost touching.
Both remain silent for a while. The silence between them does not feel forced — it breathes with a gentle warmth.
“Tell me, Arlin,” the Sovereign finally breaks the silence, fixing their empty eye sockets on the blossoming courtyard. “How did you imagine this Tower… when you were first prophesied to become Sovereign? When you became my adviser? Have your expectations been fulfilled?”
Arlin does not reply straight away. He looks down at his hands, absent-mindedly tracing the ring with his fingers, then raises his eyes to the ancient stone vaults. His smile is gentle, slightly timid:
“To be honest, Your Grace… …I expected to see centuries-old ruins, of which little remained,” he admits in a near-whisper, as if confiding some deep secret to the monarch. The man pauses briefly, listening to the birdsong, before continuing:
“But instead, I have found home.”
Silence falls once more. Arlin timidly glances at the Sovereign’s snow-white mask, trying to guess their thoughts, and asks quietly:
“And you…? What does the Tower mean to you?”
The monarch remains silent for several long moments, listening to the rustling of the leaves and the steady, calm breathing of their adviser beside them.
“I can almost hear these walls breathing,” they admit, their voice tinged with serene sincerity. “It’s as if I myself were merely an extension of this Tower. As if we were both made for one another. Before leprosy afflicted my body, my life was hardly a happy one… But here I have found peace. Beyond these walls, only suffocation, pain and infirmity await me. I am afraid to leave this place.”
The Sovereign falls silent, looking away. Sir Arlin gazes intently at the ruler’s impassive mask, his eyes a mixture of deep empathy and tenderness. He timidly moves a little closer, erasing the last barrier between them.
“Have you ever regretted staying here?” the adviser asks quietly, almost in a whisper, without taking his eyes off the empty eye sockets. “The whole world lies beyond these walls. Thousands of people listen to you… But did anyone truly love you? Before all this happened?”
The question hits them right in the heart, causing the Sovereign to shudder inwardly. They slowly turn their head back towards the man. It is easy to hide one’s feelings and intentions behind a mask, but now the monarch feels as though their bare, disease-ravaged soul is laid bare before Arlin.
“No,” They admit, and their voice sounds unusually quiet, stripped of all regality. “No one is waiting for me out there. No one ever did. Many serve me now — out of fear of their predestined fate, out of reverence for past grandeur, or out of a sense of duty, for without the Tower and its sovereign, everything will revert to utter chaos. But loyalty… true, blind loyalty — that is a rare gift I long ago ceased to believe in. I have always longed to know what it feels like. To be important to someone, not because of a title or the authority given…”
Arlin looks at them, and there is no longer any timid shyness in his grey eyes — only a burning determination. He sits right up close, so close that the warmth of his body penetrates even through the Sovereign’s thick clothing.
“You are mistaken, Your Grace,” whispers Arlin. His voice trembles with overwhelming emotion, but his words ring out with the certainty of an unbreakable oath. “If tomorrow all your knights lay down their swords and leave the Tower, if this reign falls and turns to ashes — I shall remain. Even if the whole world turns its back on you, I will still be with you. I swear eternal loyalty to you. Not to Your power. To You.”
The Sovereign freezes, unable to breathe under the weight of these words. Leprosy has robbed them of the ability to feel touch, yet now they sense another’s devotion with every fibre of their being.
“Arlin…” they breathe through the slits in their mask.
“Let me prove it to you,” the adviser begs softly.
He knows he is merely touching cold, lifeless marble. But it is desperately important to Arlin that his ruler must know and feel in their heart: in this eternal isolation, they are no longer alone. Here is someone who sincerely loves them, cherishes them, and belongs to them alone for all eternity.
Arlin carefully cradles the Sovereign’s white, flawless mask in his palms, draws it closer, and gently, reverently presses his lips against its cool contours in an infinitely tender kiss.
The adviser slowly lowers his hands, but does not step back, remaining at an improper distance. There is no more left unsaid, no more unspoken questions between them. Time in the shadowy cloister seems to slow its course, giving way to a blessed tranquillity. The touch of another’s lips leaves an invisible mark upon the pale marble, which the Sovereign mentally etches into their memory.
Neither the weakness in their chest nor the suffocating agony frighten them any longer.
✧✧✧
Leprosy still binds the Sovereign’s body, but now, for the first time in many years, their tormented heart beats steadily and passionately. The loneliness that had become their eternal shadow finally recedes. The monarch looks at the adviser through the slits in the mask, and there is no longer any fear of the future in their gaze. The Gods may have locked them in a stone cage — but now, under the gentle gaze of those grey eyes, this prison feels like a true refuge.
Many days lie ahead, filled with hard work, long conversations and tentative touches around the maps, but from now on the Sovereign knows for certain: they are safe. In the shadow of the ancient castle, sheltered by green vines, they finally have what they’ve both been searching for — hope and a home. And as long as Sir Arlin remains by their side, the Sovereign is ready to bear their burden unwaveringly until the very end.
