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The light in the audience chamber was so bright that the Sovereign thought for certain that they would lose their mind. Where the light hit the bright stone, or a noble’s jewellery, it haloed out and seemed to sink daggers into their eyes. The morning birdsong and general chatter of discontent boomed, rather than rippled, and the stone of their throne dug ceaselessly into their hipbones. Each thing ignorable on any day but this one, where their dreams had been so consumed with smoke and fire they woke choking on their own blood. Arlin, in unspoken code, looked to his Sovereign as the last petitioner backed away with a low bow. He awaited a nod that meant they could keep going, the door always open for a quiet exit. Ursula stood at their side, holding their walking stick, eyes skimming disinterestedly over the crowd. She didn’t usually take guard duty, but Ari had gracefully stepped down seeing the Sovereign barely contain a flinch when they began rambling at breakfast.
The idea of hearing even one more tale of woe made every fibre of their body scream. For weeks now, the scale of petitions had increased exponentially, each with more and more urgency. People came from miles and miles away, begging the Sovereigns aid, which was… fine. Deep down they had always believed the Tower had opened for them knowing they would help if they only could. Even ravaged by leprosy, they had whittled dolls for the local children even when their fingers bled and stained the birch wood. When you have nothing, you are left with only rage and kindness. They had kept the first between their ribs, and the latter in their hands. Good is a thing you do, or so they say.
They had also said it would cure them. What a comforting lie to the ailing.
With a shaky breath that pulled through each rib like blades of grass through a scythe, the Sovereign nodded to Arlin. His brow furrowed like only a father’s could, but he would never disobey,
“Next petitioner step forward!”
The Sovereign slumped slightly and tried to keep their eyes open under their mask. It was hard enough squinting their eyes to see through the slits, but this headache had made it almost impossible. The crowd was a kaleidoscope. Glinting metals from stationed guards blurred together with sumptuous purple silk gowns. Sometimes, with perfect clarity, they could see the glinting teeth of a false smile. A tremor started in their left wrist and they tried not to pay attention to how their hand shook as they folded it under their robe. Their downturned eyes caused them to miss the moment that Gwendan emerged from the crowd, his own hands trembling in perfect mirror. What they heard instead was Ursula’s sharp inhale, Arlin tripping over his words, and the all-too familiar clank of a man in heavy armour falling to his knees in supplication.
“It is a pleasure,” Gwendan said, his voice gravely with disuse, “to see you again, your Grace.”
The first distinct thought that the Sovereign thought was simply that they had missed how the morning light loved Gwendan so gently. Some of that shine had faded, they noted, but it was still all there. His hair was choppier, less styled. A scar across his nose had healed unkindly. He had covered – covered! – most of that gleaming plate. Yet, that gorgeous light still sat upon his cheekbones, the proud arch of his nose, the wry turn of his top lip, as though it loved him most. They focused as hard as they could on breathing and on looking as hard as they could. Gwendan’s eyes – yes, those were those rosy eyes – looked revelatory, as if they had given them a gift by just looking upon him.
Arlin was speaking, they realised. Maybe Gwendan responded, his jaw and brow furrowed with a seriousness they had never seen. They watched the months settle on his face as if they belonged there. It had only been months, hadn’t it? It had felt like years. All at once, the Sovereign felt an absence they hadn’t even known to feel. Something deep in their chest, a void that refilled until it was overflowing. A heartbreak that had healed all wrong. They could still see him kneeling in the darkness, weeping at being sent away. They could still feel the warm pressure of his hand in theirs.
For all the whisperings of their omniscience, the Sovereign had never once seen an event before it happened. It always arrived in the moment, unannounced, as something alike to deja vu. The words that were required appeared on their tongue the instant they were needed, and at that point they were already spoken. They appeared as certainties, in a sea of blind guesses and attempts at compassion. They had felt it that day that Gwendan’s debt was revealed, a moment wherein a curtain was dramatically pulled back to reveal something they had known was there all along. They had known they were going to send him away. They always had. They always would. What were they, if not a puppet in their own life?
Though, Gwendan had never cried before. In every cycle, unceasing backwards and forward in all of time, he had never wept like that.
After they left the audience chamber in the dead of that loathsome summer night, the proud Sovereign had retreated to their chambers and swaddled themselves in bedsheets until the temperature became unbearable. They raked their brittle nails over their scarred and mottled skin and felt and felt. It had never, never hurt like this. All that knowledge, and all that power, and they still sent Gwendan away every single time, even broken and hurt as he was. Who were they, to make such a judgement? Who were they to break a man’s heart with such regularity it could be tracked with the tides? Now, meeting Gwendan’s eyes as he knelt at their feet, that certainty returned.
They had always sent Gwendan away, and he would always, always come back.
“Today, I hope to redeem the image I left behind within these walls,” Gwendan said, with the same determination that he had taken the Sovereign’s hand just to know how holding it would feel, “That is, if you might grant me the honour of a second chance, Your Grace?”
A second chance. He was a foolish man. They had given him a thousand chances. They would give him a thousand more.
“Welcome home, Sir Gwendan,” they said, voice slightly choked with echoes.
The look on his face was rapturous. He bloomed like the sunrise, standing with so much eagerness he almost fumbled. They had seen the same look on victims of disaster, finding safe harbour. Gwendan had looked down on them, at the time. Threatened to leave. The poetry wrote itself.
“You will not regret this,” he said, a smile dawning across his handsome face. Despite themselves, the Sovereign felt themselves smiling too. How could they not? Their knight was home. They turned to Arlin and gave one, solid shake of their head.
“That ends petitions for today! Return on the morrow.”
Gwendan looked lost for a moment, afraid to cross the boundary between civilian and knight of the round. The Sovereign raised their hand and touched Ursula’s elbow, who seemed to remember why she was there. A walking stick was pressed into their hand, but they still used Ursula to help them stand out of sheer habit. The doors to the chamber opened and a wave of cool morning air blanketed the chamber. A lark sang with its whole chest.
“Sir Gwendan,” they said, “Come, walk with me a while. We have much to discuss.”