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ikeromantic · 9 months

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Competition Starts with C

Clavis and Cyran compete for the Belle's attention, but she's a trickier bunny to catch than she seems. Approx. 3000 words of silliness and fluff.

Previous: Trouble with a Capital C and Seduction Starts with C

Clavis eased his mount to a stop as he approached the palace stables. He felt hot and sweaty and hungry, though none of that showed on his face. Only the ever-present smile was allowed there as he greeted the stableboy and swung down from his horse. Presentation was always important, even when there was no one really watching.

He allowed himself a small stretch and then headed back through the grounds toward the palace. This time of day, there were mostly just soldiers near the barn and riding arena, guards and servants and messengers. But as he passed the riding arena, he heard a familiar laugh. High and sweet and full of genuine joy.

His exhaustion evaporated at the thought of seeing the Belle. He turned toward the arena and pushed the door open. Inside, the floor was soft sand lit by skylights set into the high ceiling. A variety of training props lay against the far wall. A knot of soldiers stood at the far end, looking over a new set of jumping posts, but the prince barely noticed them.

The Belle rode in the center of the arena, sitting atop a dapple mare. She wore tight riding trousers and a thin, linen shirt with a vest that sat snug across her top. Her hair was pulled up in a bun, revealing the delicate curve of her neck. She was smiling, her gaze bright and clear.

Cyran walked beside her, reins held in one hand, his other hand resting on Emma’s leg. His face was turned up to hers, and from here, Clavis could not see his expression. But he could well imagine it.

“You’re doing great!” Cyran told her confidently, his fingers squeezed her leg gently as if in emphasis.

Emma laughed again. “I feel like you’re just saying that. Honestly, I am just holding on. Are you sure you don’t have a smaller horse I could ride?”

“You mean . . . like a pony?” The soldier chuckled.

“No! Just a - a smaller horse! This one is so tall!”

Their banter and smiles sent a sharp pain through Clavis’ chest. Emma was his - his plaything. His toy. His alone. He swallowed the sudden jealousy, forced it back behind his mocking grin. Of course the Belle was his. He’d given Cyran all but permission to pursue her, but she would never choose the lowly soldier over a handsome prince. The most handsome prince there was, even.

Clearly, she was only having fun with Cyran because Clavis himself had been out, busy. He needed to set that to rights. “Emma! My beautiful lover girl! Have you missed your handsome prince?”

Both heads turned to look at him. The Belle waved. “Prince Clavis! Welcome back! I hope your business went well?”

Cyran gave his lord a knowing grin. “Yes, welcome back.” He looked over to Emma. “Shall I help you down?”

“Please.” She reached for him and let the soldier catch her about the waist. Her arms rested atop his shoulders as Cyran swung her gently to the ground.

Clavis felt his jaw pop as his teeth clenched. He should have offered. Perhaps Cyran was more competition than he gave him credit for. Likely, the soldier learned some of his own smooth moves. But the pupil would never surpass the master.

Emma looked up at Cyran with a sweet smile, but Clavis didn’t let them have their moment. He took the Belle’s hand and tugged her against him. She put her free hand against his chest, forcing a little space between them, but he didn’t mind. Her hand was warm and soft where it sat, and he’d expected it anyhow.

“My business went very well. But I found myself missing your company! Imagine! I’m sure it wasn’t as much as you missed me though.”

She grinned up at him. “Maybe. I might have missed you a little.”

He nearly missed a beat at the admission. She was supposed to deny, deny, deny. And the expression on her face was delectably kissable. Clavis swallowed back a sudden desire to take a taste - it hadn’t been offered and he was a gentleman. “Then I have the best news for us both! Consider yourself formally invited to a picnic with the most handsome prince in Rhodolite.”

“Oh? Am I having lunch with Gilbert? I didn’t know you were making arrangements for him.”

Clavis blinked. “Gilbert?”

Cyran chuckled behind him.

“Oho! Do you think it’s safe to tease a prince? That was a cruel blow to my delicate heart!” Clavis put a hand to his chest. “I won’t let that go, you know?”

Emma giggled. Her laugh made his heart lurch. “Awww, I’m sorry Prince Clavis. It was just a joke. Honestly, Gilbert terrifies me.”

Clavis fluttered his eyelashes. “It will take more than that to reassure me.”

She tilted her head, regarding him with those wide, kind eyes. Then she leaned forward and before he realized what she intended, she placed a kiss on his cheek. “There. All better.”

“All . . .” Clavis felt his chest tighten with a sudden swell of emotion. This was not how today was meant to play out. He was not some sighing virgin that fell apart at the slightest affection. He managed to keep his smile on, though he couldn’t stop the heat from rising into his face. “How about one on the lips? For good measure. I’m not reassured yet.”

“Don’t push your luck, Prince Clavis.”

He let go of her with a sigh. “Such cruelty. And after I’ve done so much for you!”

She laughed again. “Mhmm. So very much. Anyway, when and where are we having this picnic?” The Belle paused, lips flattening to a line. “No one is going to get stabbed or poisoned or anything today, right?”

“I hadn’t planned on any entertainment, no.” Clavis shrugged. “One can never predict assassination attempts though.”

“Which is why I will be right by your side the whole time. Protecting you.” Cyran set a hand on the prince’s shoulder.

“Yes . . .” Clavis gave the soldier a look but Cyran was immune to his boss’ displeasure. “Meet me in the rose garden just before noon.”

Emma nodded. “Alright.” She visibly steeled herself before asking, “Are you cooking our meal yourself or . . .”

Clavis grinned. “I wouldn’t want to feed you boring food. I have some truly delightful ideas for our meal. You will have the honor of being the first to taste them.”

“Wonderful.” She looked as if she might faint.

“I’ll see if the kitchen can send some sandwiches. Perfectly boring sandwiches,” Cyran told her.

Clavis pretended not to hear. “We’ll have the best picnic, everyone will want to join us. But don’t worry. I won’t make you share me or any of the dishes I make just for you.”

“Oh. That’s - that’s great. You know you don’t have to do that, right? You’re a prince. You can just have the kitchen staff prepare a lunch. There is literally no reason for you to cook anything.” Emma had a desperate look in her eye.

“Are you saying you don’t enjoy my cooking?” Clavis leaned closer, watching her intently. She squirmed under his gaze, clearly unable to tell him directly that she didn’t like his food. The prince preferred to think it was because part of her liked the adventure of it, just as he did. And maybe she also saw it as a gesture of affection, which it was. Clavis didn’t waste so much effort on people he didn’t like!

Cyran sighed. “No one likes your cooking. No one.”

Clavis ignored him, still waiting on the Belle.

“I . . . it’s . . . it’s fine,” she said finally, courtesy winning over preference.

Clavis set his hand on her shoulder. “I knew it! You love it when I cook for you. Say no more! I’ll make it a meal to remember.” He squeezed her gently.

She brushed his hand away. “Then I had better go get cleaned up and properly dressed. I’ll see you both at lunch!”

The prince watched her saunter off in those tight riding breeches. “You know, she could dress like that every day and I wouldn’t mind.”

“Not a bit,” Cyran agreed.

Clavis elbowed him. “Don’t leer. It’s rude.”

“I wasn’t leering! You were! I think you’ve got some drool on your chin.”

“I absolutely was not. I’m a gentleman.” Clavis wiped his chin with his sleeve, just in case. He narrowed his eyes, regarding the soldier. “So. Riding lessons?”

Cyran grinned. “She asked. How could I say no?”

“The letters N and O come to mind.”

“Huh. Funny, they didn’t come to my mind.” The soldier raised an eyebrow. “Would you say no had she asked?”

Clavis smirked. “Of course not.”

Cyran’s expression said it all. They were both smitten. But Clavis was not going to concede ground to his soldier. There was no way Emma would choose anyone over the most handsome prince in Rhodolite.

He turned to leave, but Cyran gave him pause. “You know, sir, it would only take a word from you.”

The prince knew, and part of him wanted to give it. Order his soldier to step away. But that was the same as failing. “The only words I have for you are ‘may the best man win.’”

Cyran laughed and Clavis found himself laughing too. It was a competition he did not plan to lose, but he could still laugh at himself. How funny to have fallen for a common girl. Yet how uncommon she was. The two parted ways with identical smirks on their faces.

The next few hours were pure chaos as Clavis kicked the staff out of the kitchen to do all the cooking himself. He had a new fruit to try out, which went into a salad of sorts along with a spicy pepper he’d found at a mountain market and some strangely shaped nuts, imported of course.

Then the lettuce and other ingredients were tossed with a pink glaze of vinegar and sugar. He’d read that it was important to have contrasting flavors and textures. This salad was nothing if not a study in contrasts.

The sandwiches were stuffed with an egg puree and some sauce that smelled like cloves. He even cut the crust off of the bread to make it fancy. Then there was pan toasted algae, all shriveled and brown and smelling like the ocean. A sea-side adventure for your mouth.

But the dish he was most proud of was the dessert. A custard dish from an ancient recipe book he’d found in the library. Dyfhes Fyt for a Kyng. So Emma would definitely enjoy it. Though after much stirring and mixing and a few ingredient substitutions, it looked lumpy and grey. Like a dusty porridge. But of course it did because it was ancient! It would definitely be a novel experience.

Everything was packed into baskets and then Clavis allowed the servants to carefully carry them out to the garden and set up his picnic. He’d only just gotten all the dishes arranged when Cyran arrived, carrying his own little basket. Probably those boring normal sandwiches. Sometimes he thought his soldier truly had no sense of adventure or taste.

Clavis ignored the basket in a gentlemanly way. It wasn’t difficult as a moment later the Belle arrived. She’d changed from the tight riding pants and loose, thin linen shirt to a fashionable dress. The top clung to her chest in ways that made Clavis think a number of inappropriate things, but the best part was the skirt. While it had the typical billowing layers popular in Rhodolite’s noble social circles, it was pinned up on one side for ease of movement. The layers ruffled in lacy profusion around a thigh-high gap.

When the Belle stood still, it was quite modest, with the lace and silk meeting on each side to cover her legs, but when she walked . . . Clavis swallowed. He could trace the line of her calf all the way up, almost to the top of her stockings. His mouth was dry and his heart was hammering and his thoughts overflowed with lovely ideas that went beyond inappropriate.

“Emma,” Cyran spoke first, greeting her. Clavis followed a beat later, annoyed with himself for his reaction.

“Good to see you both again.” She smiled with genuine pleasure and allowed the prince to take her hand and press a kiss to her knuckles.

Cyran gave her a little bow. “You look beautiful. Is that a new dress?”

Emma nodded. “Sariel gave Rio a budget for my palace clothes. I feel like I get a new dress almost every day! It’s really wild.”

“Palace life is pretty different from living as a commoner,” the soldier agreed.

Clavis interrupted before the two of them could bond over some shared peasant experience. “If you enjoy new clothes so much, I will have to come up with a design of my own, just for you. Won’t that be amazing?”

“You don’t need to do that.” Emma patted his arm. “I’m sure you have more important work than worrying about what I wear.”

“Ah, but if I bring you the best dress, I know you’ll fall in love with me immediately.” Clavis beamed. He was only half teasing, though he didn’t let on that it was only half.

Cyran nudged him. “I’m sure the Belle doesn’t need whatever you’d come up with. Knowing you, it would probably turn colors when it got wet or burst into flames or something.”

“That’s not actually a bad idea.” Clavis stuck that in the back of his mind to revisit later. Not for Emma, precisely but imagining Chevalier in clothes that burst into flame . . .

“Your smile is kind of terrifying sometimes.” The Belle tilted her head, curious. “What were you thinking about just now?”

Clavis laughed. “Wicked deeds! If I told you, I might have to kill you.” She laughed along with him, but the worried glint in her eye didn’t fade. The prince decided it was time to wow her with his amazing culinary skill. “Let’s have lunch. I want to see how much you love my cooking.”

“No one loves your cooking,” Cyran sighed.

The prince chose to ignore the rude comment. Afterall, that was hardly true. Clavis loved the adventure of finding new recipes and ingredients so at least one person loved his cooking. And it was entertaining to see others try to navigate the dishes, especially Emma. Usually though, his victims - er, guests - left without eating much. But the Belle would determinedly try to enjoy the food.

Her eyes widened as she looked over the lunch dishes. “W-what is the pink dish? Is that . . . lettuce and . . . are those . . . bugs?”

Clavis giggled. “No, no. Though that’s an excellent idea. Maybe next time.” He scooped some of the salad onto her plate as Cyran pulled a chair out for her. He hadn’t realized the glazed nut pieces would look like little beetles, but they did. How wonderful!

Emma smiled, looking a bit queasy. “So, you didn’t say what they actually are?”

“Try them and find out.” He put some on a plate for himself and sat back.

“I’ll taste it first.” Cyran served himself a spoonful, barely more than a bite. He cautiously lifted it to his lips, his expression somewhere between resigned and worried.

The Belle watched him chew, studying his facial expressions as the odd mix of flavors hit.

The soldier’s cheeks turned red and his eyes widened as he swallowed. He grabbed the water and took several long swallows. “It’s sweet at first,” he told her, once he could talk again. “The beetle things are nutty. But then it gets sour and turns really hot.” He squinted at Clavis. “Did you put those goat-killer peppers in here?”

Clavis shrugged.

“I - I guess I’ll taste it then. It sounds very - very interesting.” Emma reached for her fork.

“You don’t have to.” Cyran put his hand over hers. “You can just eat the sandwiches I brought. Here -” He started to open the little basket.

“No, it’s ok. Really. Prince Clavis went to a lot of trouble for us. So the least I can do is try the food.” The Belle shooed Cyran’s hand away and took a bite.

Clavis watched her face contort as she did her best to hold onto a pleasant expression while the strong flavors assaulted her tongue. It was absolutely adorable. She looked like she wanted to spit it out, but she wouldn’t do it. Too many etiquette lessons and too much kindness. By the time she swallowed, her face was pale but for two small red circles, one on each cheek. She tried to sip water delicately, but ended up draining her glass before she set it down. The prince grinned. “So. Did you enjoy my fruit salad?”

“Fruit? Oh . . . that was what the slimy bit was? I didn’t realize.” She cleared her throat. “It was. It was an experience. I never had a, uhm. A goat-killer pepper?”

The prince was about to reply when she lifted another forkful to her mouth. Was she actually . . . taking another bite?

Cyran’s brows lifted almost to his hairline. Both men watched her as she ate a second bite of the trial-by-lettuce.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something on my chin?” She wiped at her face with her napkin.

“You ate more of it.” Cyran sounded almost accusing.

Emma nodded. “Well, yes. I mean. It’s not to my usual taste but I like spicy things. And it’s . . . it’s not so bad. Surprising, I think? That’s a better word for it.”

Clavis was fairly sure he was in love, just now. If she hadn’t been in the middle of her third bite, he might have reached across the table to pull her close and kiss her. Perhaps Cyran had a point. This woman might not be simply a toy to play with until it broke. Or perhaps, it was just that breaking her would be a more satisfying challenge than the usual noblewoman had been.

Yes, that must be it. The odd lurch of his heart, the heat in his low belly. Just signs of his excitement. This was going to be so much fun! Not only did he need to defeat Cyran and win her heart, but he also needed to discover just where her limit was and then push it until she fled him in tears. Clavis ignored the little stab of pain in his chest at that thought. Such an end was inevitable, and there was no benefit to lying to himself about it.

He was so lost in thought that he missed her reaction to the sandwiches and fried algae, but her gasp at the sight of his pièce de résistance brought him back to the moment.

“What. Is. That?” The custard was still steaming a bit, and bubbling. The surface was pock-marked and uneven, and looked even more lumpy than it had going into the dish. Emma looked properly horrified.

“A custard.” Clavis grinned at her.

“That isn’t a custard, it’s a crime,” Cyran massaged his temples. “You aren’t actually going to put that in your mouth, are you?”

The Belle visibly steeled herself, squared her shoulders and firmed her jaw. “I will at least taste it. Because Clavis made it for us and it would be rude not to.”

“That’s right! It would hurt my feelings. I might cry myself to sleep, knowing my heartfelt love was rejected by my mistress.”

“Clavis. I am not your mistress. And this is a luncheon, not your love.” She shook her head. “You are honestly so ridiculous sometimes.”

“Are you not my lover? Haven’t you fallen for me yet?” Clavis put a hand to his chest. “After everything I’ve done to show you my affection?”

Cyran chuckled.

Emma ignored him. “We never even held hands or kissed or - or anything. You are definitely not my lover. Besides, it’s against the rules for me to fall in love with any of the princes.”

“But my beloved is a rebel.” Clavis grinned at her. “What’s wrong with breaking a few rules?”

“Can you just give me a spoon for this custard and stop asking me impossible questions?” Emma frowned at him.

Clavis laughed. “I’ll give you a spoon, but first you have to tell me honestly. Don’t you love me, even just a little bit?” He watched her jaw clench, and a slight heat creep up onto her cheeks. She looked away as she shook her head.

“You do,” he crowed, feeling a surge of genuine joy.

“Please. We’re just friends. Same as Cyran and I.” She still wouldn’t look at either of them.

“Ouch. Friend-zoned.” Cyran let out a sigh. “But hey! Falling for me isn’t against any rules.”

This got a little laugh out of Emma as she finally looked over at them. “True.” Her brows arched playfully. “You’ll have to come up with a better reason to fall for you than just that it’s allowed.”

“I’ll work on that,” he smiled back at her.

Clavis interrupted by plopping down two dessert bowls heaped high with the grey custard. “Here you go. Eat up!”

The Belle took a breath. “Alright. Ok. I can do this. It - it probably tastes better than it looks, right?”

“I doubt it,” the soldier sighed mournfully.

The two of them took a bite at the same time, giving Clavis a two-for-one reaction. It was amazing. Cyran’s throat bobbed as his throat refused to swallow. Emma’s smile twisted into a sickly frown and her eyes watered. She managed to get down the spoonful, but Cyran couldn’t. He had to make a run for the rosebushes where he spat out the thick, lumpy custard and then washed his mouth with whiskey from his flask.

Clavis laughed so hard that little tears came to his eyes too.

“Hey,” Emma rasped, her throat a little sore from forcing down that last bite. “You have to try it as well. We can’t enjoy it alone.”

“Oh. Well. Alright.” The prince eyed the custard. He hadn’t planned on eating any himself but why not? He’d probably never tasted anything like it. After a short moment of introspection, he got a big spoonful and stuck it in his mouth. The cloying sweetness was the first thing he noticed. Probably because he’d more than doubled the sugar in the recipe. Then the sharp taste of prunes and bitter lemon. Then the texture hit and he understood suddenly why Cyran spit it out. The texture was revolting. It felt the way sewage smelt. Slick and oily and chunky and . . .

Clavis fought with himself for a what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a few seconds. He was not going to be defeated by his own cooking. He was not going to do less than the Belle. No. He would swallow it. All the way. His throat fought him, his tongue revolted. His body almost shook with the effort, but he managed.

“Delicious.” The prince grinned, covering the heavy lump of queasiness that now sat solidly in his gut.

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Take a second bite?”

“Ladies first?” Clavis shot back.

“Or how about we end the suicide pact and go do something fun.” Cyran put an arm around the Belle’s shoulders. “Has anyone showed you the duck pond?”

“There’s a duck pond?”

“Ah! I am failing in my princely responsibilities! I didn’t even think about how romantic it would be to walk my lover around the pond. Let’s go!” Clavis stood.

“I’m not your lover,” Emma sighed, and stood up as well, shrugging Cyran’s arm off. “Come on then. I want to see the cute ducks. Are there babies?”

“By the armload,” Cyran laughed.

The three of them left the garden, Emma between her prince and her soldier, walking hip to hip, fingertips brushing.

#ikemen prince #ikepri clavis #ikepri cyran #clavis lelouch #cyran #fanfiction #fanfic #otome #otome guys #fluff

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violettduchess · 2 months

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A/N: This is my gift for @readerinsertfanfiction 💜 The moment I saw Cyran on your list, I was thrilled. I hope you enjoy!

A huge thank you to @ikemenlibrary for her support and friendship and for being a generous, caring host 💜

Prompt: A servant, someone who knew Cyran from before his time in Rhodolite

Cyran x AU Emma

WC: ~4k

Obsidian: the Past

She runs across the cracked, sunbaked cobblestone streets, her treasure wrapped in a cream-colored tea towel and held protectively against her chest. Her worn leather shoes make a pleasing thunking sound against the stones as she hurries past dusty shop windows and faded porches, carefully dodging people on the street.

“Langsam, Emma!” someone yells as she flies past but she doesn’t listen to their warning. She can’t slow down. She has somewhere to be.

Finally she reaches the edge of town and takes a sharp left, leaving the cobblestones behind for a ribbon of dirt road that winds its way along tired hills covered with sparse sage-green grass and dotted with scraggly yellow dandelions. Another turn onto an even smaller path, a faint thing that meanders through the knee-high growth and then, finally, the faded barn comes into view.

She smiles, pumping her young legs harder, willing them to swallow the distance faster and faster until she reaches the peeling, splintered wooden doors and haphazardly flings one open.

“Cyran? I’m here!!”

The boy, just shy of fourteen, turns away from the wooden beam he has been faux-sparring with, lowering the dull, well-worn practice sword he is so proud of. His hair gleams like fire in the hazy sunlight that shines through the pocked roof.

Emma hurries over, gulping down huge breaths of musty air as she grabs his thin forearm.

“C’mon. I’m dying to see how they taste.”

Cyran laughs, struggling to sheath his sword as she drags him over to the blanket thrown over the hay in a cozy corner of the barn. This is their favorite place to meet, an escape from the outside world they discovered several years ago while exploring. It is here that Emma sometimes reads to him from one of her treasured books. She’s even shared stories she’s written, romantic tales of princesses and dragons, knights and monsters. Cyran is always the hero, the knight who slays the monsters and rescues the damsel in distress. Emma will change her roles in the stories.

Sometimes she needs rescuing.

But sometimes, she is the dragon.

Often they sneak treats to each other, hard biscuits or smoked meat or, if they are really lucky, sweet berries brought across the border from the lush neighboring country of Rhodolite. Cyran’s neighbor is a servant for some of the merchants that make the risky trips over and when he’s lucky, she manages to tuck away a few treasures just for him.

He settles himself down on the frayed checkered blanket and pushes his bright hair away from his forehead, eagerly watching as Emma drops down next to him, laying the tea towel down. Her face is flushed from her run and from the thrill of what she’s managed to bring him.

“Ready?”

He nods, enthusiastically motioning for her to unwrap it already. He has hands that are too big for his young body, growing the way many boys do at this age, in odd fits and spurts.

Emma leans forward, pushing up the sleeve of her too-big dress and carefully pulls back the edges of the tea towel.

The smell hits them first, the warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of the cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger. It wafts up towards them, exotic and tempting. Cyran breathes in deeply and then sighs happily as he looks at her, eyes bright and admiring.

“It smells so good.”

Cyran had carefully been saving up the exotic store of spices, some of them gifts from his neighbors, others decadent purchases made at the market from his meager earnings made mucking stalls and chopping wood. He knew that Emma would be the one who would create something special with them. Young as she was, she was a talented cook and baker, able to make the most fantastic treats out of the simplest ingredients. And now that she had been given such a treasure trove to work with, she had spun pure magic.

The spiced biscuits are dappled dark brown and gold. When she hands him one, it is with a reverence that echos a priest giving communion or a child receiving a shiny new toy at Christmas.

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Together.”

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes.

“Together.”

They bite into the cookies at the same time. Emma breaks into a proud smile as Cyran closes his eyes, savoring the medley of flavor and even better, the knowledge that she made them just for him.

“It’s good, isn’t it?" she asks, grinning. She sees the look on his face, the way he is practically melting with enjoyment.

He lifts his shoulder in a casual shrug, feigning indifference.

“I guess……”

“What?!”

He takes another bite, leaning back on one hand. “I mean, they’re ok. But you know, Hilde’s biscuits are also really good–OOF.”

She’s tackled him, throwing herself at him with all the force of a frenzied feline, her nimble fingers scratching at his sides. Cyran breaks into laughter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and tries to squirm away from her.

“Ok ok Brown Eyes, enough!”

Emma lets him go, sitting back on her heels with a glowing, triumphant smile.

“Never say that about Hilde’s cookies again.”

He pushes himself up, heart pounding furiously in his chest. Only some of it is from laughing. He tears his gaze away from the unsettling beauty of her eyes, traveling up to her hair.

“You’re a mess. You got straw in your hair and your braid is a disaster.”

Emma turns and scoots until she is sitting in front of him. “Since it’s your fault….you fix it.”

Cyran heaves a sigh he doesn’t mean and then settles himself into a comfortable position, reaching forward and with a tenderness and care far beyond most boys his age, begins slowly picking the straw from her messy plait.

Emma’s eyes drift closed as she revels in the attention he’s giving her, the gentle way he untangles her braid and then very slowly begins brushing his fingers through her soft, chestnut-colored hair.

It feels comforting and safe.

It feels thrilling.

It feels like the early evening has come to a standstill and they have all the time in the world.

But their time together is like a rose slowly losing its petals.

A petal falls as he tells her, wide-eyed and shaken, that his neighbor has been killed in her own home, throat opened in the dead of night and left smiling its ghastly red smile until she was discovered hours later. Emma rubs his back, not knowing what else to do. This is not the first death in their village as of late. And it will not be the last.

A petal falls as they lay, side by side, on the blanket in the hay, staring up at the patches of starry sky visible through the holes in the roof. “My parents are scared,” she whispers. He turns his head to stare at her profile and knows it isn’t just her parents who are frightened. “I’ll protect you,” he whispers, voice fierce with youth’s naïve promise. Her gaze remains on the silver stars but she reaches out, taking his hand and squeezes it.

A petal falls as she comes to their favorite spot, face pale as bone, to tell him that her family is leaving. Her father has contacted distant relatives that live far to the north, as far from Rhodolite and the dangers it poses as one can get. Cyran feels like his young heart may break right there in his chest and he will be forced to live the rest of his life with its pieces rattling around inside of him. Though filled with dismay, Emma’s eyes are as beautiful as ever. They shine with tears, rivaling any star they have ever spent time gazing at.

A petal falls as she rushes through the dark, on the night before her family is to leave, her throat burning with feelings she can’t quite name, waves too strong to try and understand for fear they will sweep her away. She bursts through the barn doors and finds him already there, his hair dark as garnet, damp with sweat. He has spent the entire day doing heavy labor, removing heavy wooden beams, hauling ancient and broken equipment, sweeping the dusty, straw-strewn floor. Several lanterns placed around the interior bathe the space in warm, yellow light. The barn is as clean and inviting as he can make it. He wanted to give her one more memory, something beautiful, that she can take with her on her journey away from here. Away from him.

Emma is frozen in place, soaking in all he has done, before finally stopping on the young man at the center of it. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Already his shoulders carry the hint of what manhood will bring him: strength and breadth. Arms that with training will turn hard and sculpted, legs that will lengthen until he is taller than most. He is the faint beginning of what he will become. Emma wonders wildly if she will ever get the chance to see the finished masterpiece.

“Emma,” he says, his voice raw and rough, deeper than she has ever heard it.

She sets down the bundle she is holding, the one she carried so close on the way here, leaving it on top of a weathered wooden barrel.

“Cyran,” she answers, her muscles tense, like a fawn when it hears a crunching in the underbrush.

He starts forward, one hesitant step and that is enough. She flies towards him, throwing her thin arms around his neck and buries her face in his worn linen shirt, clutching him to her. There is power in her small frame, something fierce and bright, a hurricane in crystal. Cyran holds her close, his eyes closing as he breathes in her familiar scent. He’s been teased his whole life because of his last name, but she is the one who reminds him of a rose, who always smells so sweet.

The anticipation of loss that has them clinging to each other slowly ebbs and something else, something that has been burning low and quiet in every laugh, every touch, every glance begins to emerge. She is suddenly aware of the press of her chest against his, of how much taller he is, the earthy smell of his skin. She leans back to look at him and sees the same awareness mirrored in his dark eyes.

Outside a rooster crows, loud and discordant.

Cyran turns his head toward the sound and Emma, sparked by the frantic knowledge that she must leave, grabs his chin, pulling him back to her and rises onto her toes, pressing her lips to his.

It is a sunbeam bursting through gray clouds. A spark breathing life into a pile of dried leaves. It is hope and promise and wonder.

And heartbreak.

With a stifled cry, she steps away, turns and flees the barn, not wanting to see the look on his face as she leaves, not wanting that to be her last memory of him.

Cyran watches with a thundering heart as the door swings shut. Flooded with helplessness and misery, he notices the bundle she left behind. Tenderly he lifts it, undoing the sky-colored ribbon. It’s her favorite handkerchief, white with pale blue forget-me-nots painstakingly embroidered along the edges, and nestled inside are several of her spiced biscuits. His favorites.

Rhodolite: The Present

Rhodolite is so much MORE than she expected. The streets are wider and cleaner and lined with greenery, more trees and flowering bushes and grass than in the entire garden of the palace in Obsidian. There are more people than she expected too, many standing under awnings and lampposts, peeking through windows and around doorways, watchful eyes in beautiful faces following the royal procession as it makes its way towards the palace.

When she had been told by the Head Chef that they would be accompanying Prince Gilbert and his entourage to Rhodolite, Emma had felt a familiar ringing through the cockles of her heart. Rhodolite is where Cyran was rumored to have ended up. Whispers from the south had traveled her way, over the many years since they parted. He had joined the army when he was of age. He had left Obsidian for the verdure of Rhodolite. He was employed by one of the Princes there. Crumbs of information she had managed to gather, hoarding them tightly like precious drops of mana.

He may not even be here, she reminds herself as her tired gray mare plods along down the street. She and the other servants are at the end of the procession and most of the people have turned away, not interested in anything but the dangerous Prince Gilbert with his sharp smile and blood-red gaze.

Still, Emma finds herself scanning the crowds as they pass, looking for any head of red hair. She spots a few but they are never him.

As the overwhelming elegant palace suddenly rises towards the heavens before her, she draws in a sharp breath.

We’re here…….

…….Is he?

The palace looms closer, a breathtaking monument of pale beauty.

And if so….how in the wide world will she ever find him?

Cyran runs a hand through his thick mass of russet hair as his long strides make quick work of the pathway towards the training hall. It’s late evening and the young, freshly-minted knights are at the end of their training and he needs to make sure everything went well without him there. He knows Lucian is more than capable of leading them through their drills but Cyran has a responsibility to make sure. They are all under his charge.

Entering the hall, he sees several of the knights laughing in a corner. Some are sitting and catching their breath, others are pushing the heavy sandbags they sometimes train with back into their storage room. What he sees reassures him. They look tired and sore, yet satisfied, faces bright with the feeling of accomplishment a tough training session will leave behind.

He’s about to go look for Lucian, expecting a full report when he notices several of the knights standing by the wooden table at the far end of the training circle, the one usually covered with straps for shields and rope and other odds and ends. They’re smiling, far too widely to be discussing anything so mundane as weaponry. Several are chewing. He approaches the table, greeted by his men with smiles and respectful nods. Immediately he notices the tin: it’s round and black, covered with decorative golden swirls.

“What’s this?” He glances towards the first knight at his left, a tall lad with sandy blond hair.

“They were brought here by an Obsidian servant. She said they were a present for us.”

Cyran frowns, a skeptical look on his face as he reaches inside the tin for one of the golden brown cookies.

“And you didn’t think to–” He was going to ask if they thought accepting gifts from strangers was a good idea when the scent hits him, cutting through the sweat and musk of tired men.

The warm spice of cinnamon, the tang of nutmeg, the slight bitterness of cloves, the unmistakable scent of ginger.

He goes still, the breath knocked from his lungs.

Could it be…..

Something in his face hushes the men around him. They watch, curious as Cyran lifts the cookie and takes a bite.

The man who sees everything, ever watchful, closes his eyes as he chews and the knights are transfixed by the absolute stillness that has overtaken their leader.

And then those eyes open and something in them has begun to burn, bright and alive.

The other half of the cookie falls to the dusty ground as he turns on his heel and, practically jogging, exits the training area, leaving behind the half-eaten biscuit and a slew of surprised faces.

The rose gardens are somehow even more beautiful in the twilight of evening. The red petals seem to have darkened, shedding their bright rose-red for a sultry scarlet. Shadows emerge from the trimmed hedges, stretching across the winding stone pathways, giving a visitor like Emma glimpses of hidden benches and secret dirt paths leading into clandestine corners of the gardens.

She has taken several of these more narrow, less-trodden paths, not at all afraid of getting lost. Her heart is a bird, flitting between dark branches, full of a nervous, tightly-wound energy she can’t quite explain.

As the sky darkens to a deep navy blue and the first stars open their eyes, Emma pauses in front of a gray stone fountain. Two swans, nuzzling their beaks together, bodies curved towards one another as a blossoming flower rises above them, water spraying outward in celebration. She tilts her head, the romantic in her sighing at the way the two swans perfectly mirror one another, two halves of a whole, two souls in perfect harmony. So enchanted is she by the fountain that she doesn’t hear the footfall on the path, doesn’t notice the man who has stopped several meters away from where she is standing, the sight of her freezing him in his tracks.

“Emma.”

She jumps at the deep voice, her eyes wide and dark as she turns towards the sound. The owner of said voice is standing, half in shadow, at the place where the small path to the fountain begins, beneath a shadowy arch of crimson roses. She is so startled, she doesn’t even register that he has said her name.

“Oh….s'il te plaît, excuse-moi,” she says quickly, doing her best to remember the phrases of the common language spoken in Rhodolite. “J'espère que ça va…” She trails off, trying to remember how to say she hopes she is allowed to be here but the man takes another step closer, leaving the blanket of shadows and stepping into the fading light.

Even the dusky hue of evening cannot hide the red of his hair.

A gasp as soft as the flutter of a bird’s wing escapes her. The young boy she knew juxtaposed against this tall, broad man before her sends her heart into a tailspin. Her hand flies to her mouth as she takes him in. She sees the same bright light of recognition and admiration and overwhelming emotion plain as day on his beautiful face.

“Cyran?” The word is a whisper, a breathless repetition of the name she has kept in her prayers for decades.

His eyes never leave her, almost as if he has the power to hold her there with his gaze, to keep her from vanishing into the realm of his dreams where she has lived for so long. Slowly, he reaches up and loosens the laces at the top of his tunic. His hand slides inside and when it emerges, he is holding a small square of cloth. As he slowly opens it, her heart falters.

It’s white, with pale blue forget-me-nots embroidered around the edges.

He holds it out to her, his chest rising and falling with every deep breath he takes. That handkerchief has lived next to his heart, in an inner pocket, one he has sewn into every shirt he has ever owned since the day he watched her leave.

“I think…..this belongs to you, Brown Eyes.”

She chokes back a sob, unable to contain the thunderstorm of emotion coursing through her and runs to him, falling into his arms as naturally as a willow bends to the wind, tears falling freely down her cheeks. Cyran wraps his arms around her, sheltering her, holding her the way he has imagined a thousand times. His throat burns with all the words he has ached to say, all those sleepless nights spent remembering the lilt of her smile, the music of her laughter, the bittersweet taste of her kiss.

Emma squeezes her eyes closed, breathing in the scent of him, at once so familiar and yet so strange. Her arms wind around his waist as she presses herself against him, drinking in the sensation of his body on hers.

This is Cyran….her Cyran…..her….

A thought pierces her heart as she suddenly steps away from him, eyes wide, still so beautiful as they glimmer with the remnants of her tears.

“Oh…I…I didn’t mean…..you could be married. I shouldn’t have-”

His laughter is coarse, rough with emotion, a roll of rushing water as it careens over the lip of a cliff.

“As if I could ever love anyone else.”

Love…..

As if summoned by the very word, the moon itself parts the soft gray clouds, flooding the small section of the garden with silvery light. The tinkling of the fountain fills the momentary silence.

Cyran’s cheeks suddenly flush, a hot mixture of embarrassment and panic overriding the elation of the previous moment.

“I…..I don’t mean to presume of course that you feel the same. It has been a long time and…..” He trails off, wincing. Fluster is such an uncharacteristic state of being for Cyran. “Ah, shit. I’m sorry. I–”

His words are cut off as Emma launches herself back into his arms, hugging him fiercely.

“Please, don’t apologize.” She tilts her head up to look at him, still in awe of how she sees the young man he was and the handsome man he has become in his beautiful eyes, in his exquisite face. “It has always been you.”

Cyran drags air into his lungs, hardly able to believe he isn’t dreaming. His rough fingers capture her chin, his thumb running over the sensitive skin just under her lower lip.

Slowly, he leans down as she stretches upwards, eager and nearly trembling with emotion.

He kisses her, his hand still cupping her face. Gently his mouth moves over hers as he tells her a wordless story of longing, of a bruised heart that learned to somehow keep beating.

He kisses her, a strong arm pulling her closer, his lips and tongue weaving the tale of a young soldier who never forgot the girl with the tender heart and radiant spirit. The soldier who dreamed of her face during his darkest nights and longed for her laughter on days of sunshine.

She meets him, kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke, sliding her palms along his broad shoulders, clutching him as she answers his tale, confessing without words how he has never left her heart. How his smile was her light in times of worry and despair. How seeing him again has been her northern star from the moment of parting.

Only the moon knows how long they stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in each other’s yearning.

When they finally part, Cyran rests his forehead against hers, still keeping her tightly in his embrace. He may never let go again.

“You’re….in the employ of Prince Gilbert. I am here.” He frowns ever so slightly as he brushes several loose strands of hair away from Emma’s charmingly flushed cheek. “This could get complicated.”

Their gazes meet and she nods.

“Yes…..but we’ll figure it out.”

And suddenly he is carried back in time to an evening when her eyes shone just as brightly, just as excitedly, a young girl with something to give a young boy, a homemade cookie, an offering of love.

“Together.”

Her voice echoes across the years, that word wrapping itself around his battered heart, a balm, a blessing.

He returns the nod, staring into the warm depths of her soft brown eyes, tenderly stroking the silk of her hair, and answers her now as he did back then.

“Together.”

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