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ireniclacuna · 2 years

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mercy, oh, mercy!

mercy, mercy! - yandere! dark cacao/affogato/caramel arrow cookie x reader

tags/CW’s/TW’S: yandere, subtle manipulation, paranoia (on reader’s part), drugging, solving cases ft.reader, PROBABALY OOC like. this is probabaly the most OOC thing honestly, feeling anxious and scared???? this like,, leads into the paranoia thing, reader uses they/them pronouns

please tell me if i left out any CW’S/TW’S!!!

A/N: hi i went perhaps. a bit Ludricous on this. a bit of shaky shaky. i have no idea what im saying either anyways HI this is incredibly self-indulgent concept. also writin this in hopes that dark cacao (that damned cookie.....) refuses to even show up. i just want the trio,,, pleas ur majesty,,,, (UPDATE I DID GET HIM)

anyways i hope u all will like this. caramel and affogato are like,,, more minor in this? theyre Absolutely There but orginally when i was writing it was just yandere dark cacao x reader but then i thought: add those other mfs in and so i did

word count: 5.3k ish! i think this may be one of my longest pieces as of now..

---

Perhaps the weirdest part of your life now is the various tea parties that you host. They're enjoyable, you suppose- always a fun time around, whether it's not even a tea party at some points and had turned into a romp out in the forest. Which is also fun, and Caramel Arrow Cookie is very lovely to talk to about the various fauna and animals that seem to lurk in the snowing forest. It's almost always that, now- an sharp eyed look at you, stupidly determined to get you out of the castle you live in, hand stretched towards you.

And it's nice- it's sweet. It's lovely, because of the way she likes to spin you around, having confidence that she'll always be able to protect you which makes you laugh- "Am I the royal now? Do I need to be saved?" And she'll laugh, soft blush on her cheeks, and simply respond back that perhaps you are. "I'll always watch over you," is what the conversation had finished off on. You had disregarded the way your guts twisted at how darkly the sentence was said, the far-off look in her eyes, and simply shrugged to cover up the shiver that came over you.

"My protector, huh?"

And then she nodded, head bobbing up and down at an insane rate, and you laughed. (Your voice shook while you laughed- why are you so worked up over that, it was just a sentence-) She smiled, and then there was no far-off look in her eyes, no underlying intentions beneath her earnest behavior, her care, and everything was pushed back into place, into a forest that counts as one of your regular tea parties.

---

There's never quite such a dull moment in your line of work- well, you think, lips thinning out as you thought about it more, perhaps there has. Particularly about now, would be a very dull moment. You stare at the very imposing figure that the certain cookie makes, as he sips his own tea carefully, not even chancing a glance at you. His raven colored locks are drifting in the light breeze that crams its way inside of your hosting room, eyes closed as he sips at the tea with a gusto that he'll (probably) have more interest in than you. Which is normal. Fine, really. The only thing that would be better would be that you even weren't here at all, and in your room. Not here, hosting a tea party with the Great King Of the Cacao Kingdom, Dark Cacao. You purse your lips, as you reach over for the teapot. It's still warm- the perfectly brewed Iron Goddess tea simpering in its resting place. You pour it in your teacup, the once cold cup regaining warmth. You let out a soft sigh, eyes narrowing at the cup of tea that warmed your hands. It swished around in the cup, the dark green swirling around in circles. You take another peek at his Majesty- he looks calm. Which is nice. Lovely. Which is also strange, because anyone who's lived in the Kingdom long enough knows that the King is always worried over something, with his eyebrows furrowed and mouth always in a straight line, eyes narrowed.

You take a deep breath in- and out it goes.

"Your Majesty," you say, leg bouncing on the carpet, "if I may be enlightened, why did you request a tea party with this Host?"

The King puts his own tea cup down on the saucer on the table, staying silent for a few moments.

He responds in a curt sentence- "My advisor and the First Watcher had recommended me to have a tea party with you. They say that you're quite.. Enjoyable, to be around. I decided to take them up on their recommendation."

You curse Affogato and Caramel Arrow Cookie in your head- oh, you'll absolutely have their heads after this, for making you suffer through this- and try for a reassuring smile.

"Well," you start off, "they are rather incorrect. They are very biased sorts of cookies- perhaps your Majesty knows of what I speak of."

You grit your teeth- they will not be having any sort of body when you see them again, that is for sure, how dare they betray you like this, your two most trusted friends- and reclined back in your Grand Throne. (Given the nickname from Caramel Arrow Cookie affectionately, and used by Affogato Cookie to poke fun at you. It's a regular chair- which is very comfy to fall asleep in and pass out for a few hours in.)

"Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, you needn't put up with this because Caramel Arrow and Affogato recommended me." The King raises a single eyebrow, mouth set back into the straight line that's famous all over the taverns and rowdy restaurants. He also, for some reason, relaxed into his own chair, leg crossed over the other. A very regal looking King if there ever was one. (And good-looking, you think, hiding a very quiet giggle behind a cleverly placed hand. The songs aren't wrong about the King's rugged handsomeness.)

He's quiet for some more moments, before plucking his tea cup up from his saucer. ".. You're not quite so bad company, Entertainer. They have reason to recommend you."

You're pretty sure you could try and argue whether you're a good host or not, but you're pretty sure from how the rumors go (and gossip heard from all your guests at your tea parties) that the Great King Of the Dark Cacao Kingdom isn't exactly good at conversation. So you drop the subject, and simply sip at your tea.

"Perhaps your Majesty would allow me to know what sorts of things he enjoys so that I may prepare better."

You absolutely could have done better with a warning advance, than the sudden way you saw him already in the room, sitting there and looking at the floor like it's committed a major slight to him. (And also to avoid the way how your body officially stopped for a few seconds, in pure shock.) And the King himself lets out a sigh- although it's not out of annoyance. (You hope that it's not out of annoyance.)

"..I enjoy hunting. I train diligently."

Is it. Is it acceptable to poke fun at the King? You mull over the question furiously, and swallow down your worrying thoughts. Because, in a way, that isn't supposed to be funny and was just accurate and provides a view into what the King enjoys, but in another way, it's kinda funny. Kinda. Perhaps, because it makes you chuckle at how the King of the Great Dark Cacao Kingdom only has two hobbies. You decided to forge on and continue onwards- and you let out a soft laugh.

"Your Majesty," you say, trying to contain the giggles that escape you, "that's very much only two hobbies. Do you not have anything else that interests you?"

The King looks off put at your laughter, eyebrows furrowing.

"I don't see why you laugh so, Entertainer." Ah. You say goodbye to your job.

You still laugh despite it, eyes crinkling. "Your Majesty, if I may act so crude and suggest something, perhaps we should get you some more hobbies."

At this, he looks even more confused. "..Like what?"

You slink back even further in your chair, deciding to go even more improper, propriety be damned. You cross your own legs, shoulders slack. "Chess would be a start. Any sort of board games- have you any interest in literature? Perhaps drawing would work."

The King stares at you for a few good seconds, before rolling his eyes. (You're absolutely sure that he didn't roll his eyes, but there's a thought in your head that says yes, he did.)

"...I do have an interest in literature, yes."

You clap your hands together- that's one way to start off, you suppose. "Wonderful!"

You launch off into a tirade, saying very many things about books with plots he might find interesting, about a warrior and his journey, mythology, and the King himself stays quiet. He adds a few of his opinions in there- not booming nor loud, just so clear and straight, despite the quietness of his voice- "That book wasn't a quite good read, or however way you speak of it, like it deserves every praise."

You stop yourself, eyebrow raising. "Oh? And why is that, your Majesty?"

The King finally looks at peace- or something that isn't anger or tiredness- as he responds.

"The way in which the main protagonist swung his swords were all wrong- if you were to try that, you'd find yourself covered in your own jam." You hum- "Perhaps so, but most people read stories for plot."

He rolled his eyes again (AGAIN, you're sure that that was a fluke and absolutely not real in any way possible, despite the feeling that paws at you saying, "yes, it's real!") and responded.

"The plot itself was nonsensical. The journey was simply an excuse for the main protagonist to end up with any cookie that would have him."

You were getting somewhere, you suppose. Perhaps Caramel Arrow and Affogato Cookie get to keep their lives for another day.

---

It becomes a very strange occurrence, for hosting tea parties with the King himself. (Not to mention the First Watcher and the King's advisor.) See, another strange thing you've realized about the King is that he's... Extremely awkward. His entire aura always gives off the vibe of 'do not interact with me or you'll cry' except it's really more so that the King doesn't quite know how to respond to social cues. Years of focusing on training and how to fight does that to you, you think. But it's not hard, in another sort of way, to get him to talk more easily. It's either A. you make an absolutely heinous mistake about some form of fighting that he somehow knows how to fight in despite it being a lost to time and no longer practiced to the point that you're doubting him, and no, this absolutely is not a personal experience, of course not. Or B. he doesn't talk at all, and leaves you to just rant about all of the cookies you have to host. You remembered Affogato getting upset at the fact that the King of the Dark Cacao Kingdom is a better friend to gossip with about various sorts of cookies.

You had initially expected him to not be interested in that sort of stuff, but every King needs their own share of gossip and rumors every now and then, you muse. It's not like he talks or makes any sorts of opinions on it- he just leaves you to rant about what a certain cookie had done during one of your hosting parties.

"And then," you had recalled yourself saying, talking like a shark out for jam, "that weasel had the audacity to insult my tea-making skills! I'm the one who hosted the entire thing- at least be respectful! Utterly incorrigible, that cookie is."

The King himself nodded. Honestly, you have no idea how everyone in the palace is so scared of him. He quite literally said the other day that he has no idea how to laugh and apologized for it. He simply responded in a rather ominous manner- "I'll see to it that something will be done about it."

You remembered shrugging- "It's fine, your Majesty, however much of a rat that cookie is, I can handle. The weasel just won't be getting invited into any illustrious events held by the one-and-only Host!"

The King had narrowed his eyes. "..Refer to me using my name, instead of a title." You widen your eyes at that and let out a hm.

"If that's what your- I mean, what you wish for, Dark Cacao." You say it easily, like you've said it for your entire life. It rolls off your tongue easily, not being stuck or trapped there. You disregard that realization, and simply sip at your tea.

He nods accordingly, eyes softening. "..What was that one story of yours? About that cookie who ran out of your event?"

You had brightened up- "I swear to you I have the entirety of the divorce papers, Dark Cacao. I am not lying when I say that this ends in somecookie getting- well, perhaps acting in a very dishonourable way. It's sad, too, because I knew his wife personally and the poor cookie was all crying-"

----

Sometimes, you realize that more people have distanced themselves from you. It's not your closest friends- Affogato and Caramel Arrow Cookie don't even notice when they come by, the former smiles snidely at that, says something that they finally have recognized that they don't deserve to be around with you, while Caramel had shrugged, uncaring. They never distance themselves from you- if anything, they seem to grow more clingier now that you don't have as much hosting duties. Affogato walks around an empty palace with you, goading you into letting you spill the latest rumors. Caramel Arrow Cookie simply tugs you around like always, carrying you like one would a bride around, jumping from wall to wall, grinning at you as you laughed and giggled.

And it's still strange, even if you push the realization out of the way. Affogato always has more and more comments, now, about the few that still do hang out with you- "Are you positively sure that they're good? If you were to ask me, darling, they seem absolutely unfit to be a friend of yours." Caramel Arrow Cookie simply gives a glare and her best bow to anyone that tries starting a conversation- "My apologies, my fellow cookie, but they have matters I need them to attend to rather urgently."

And you ignore that because, well, maybe they aren't that good for you like Affogato had pointed out, snidely whispering in your ear, and you did have stuff to do with Caramel at the moment. It's weird, and you know that it is, because you can take care of yourself, and you know that you're not some royal in need of saving like those fairy tales- But you sigh, and you ignore it.

It's alright, you think, as you sip at your tea.

Dark Cacao is still nice to hang out with, even if he is the literal King. He looks more comfortable with you, at the very least. You ignore the gazes that seem to follow the both of you everywhere, whenever he tries to take you out in the forest for a hunt, or even for a simple picnic. (You ignore the glares from him too, directed right back at them, his steps becoming more sure of themselves, banging throughout the castle.)

And maybe, you think, you shouldn't have ignored that feeling when it bubbled to the surface first, when you heard that one sentence by Caramel the first time. Or perhaps it was more than the first time- perhaps it was the third. The fourth, the sixth. Perhaps it was even more than that, and you ignored it like it was the only thing you could do.

Perhaps, you think, you shouldn't think of it anymore.

---

If you were to describe the feeling of a hazy dream gone sick, fraught with agony and torture, you would have said that you're unsure. That you don't know. But you do. You know it like the feeling of doubt, guilt, know it like the feeling of being all alone and drowning- the feeling of something suffocating you. You think that it would have been more apt to call such a dream a nightmare- because is it no? Aren't nightmares just dreams that have gone sick, you wonder.

Perhaps not- because this is real. Real like the sinking feeling that churns inside of your dough body, real like the feeling of helplessness that hangs in the air. Dark Cacao sits in his throne, the court around him whispering loudly- he looks like the King, he looks regal and important and everything that is expected of him, and he does not look like the friend you've come to know. He does not look like he knows how to smile, he does not look like the cookie who you had gossiped with over tea, he does not look like someone you'd ever talk with so casually. Affogato Cookie is at the forefront- a sugary-sweet voice on the advisor, lips moving fast. Caramel is at Dark Cacao's side, the First Watcher ever so watching over everyone with narrowed eyes. The court does not assemble for small matters- the court of the Great Kingdom of Dark Cacao assembles for larger things. Larger than your job occupation, anyways.

So you stare, tucked in your little corner of the vast courtroom, hands clenched tight together.

It's the same cookie that you remember ragging on you for your tea. It's the same cookie that stands in front of a courtroom, whispers and glares and snickering abound. It's the same cookie who you didn't think about seriously other than some petty rage. It's the same cookie who looks like they'll lose everything.

Affogato continues on with his little speech, making little hand gestures. He fishes out a series of documents out of clothes- the fine black print on it makes you wince at it, trying to look closer. He points at the cookie, and smiles (and it is a smile full of bitterness, full of the concealed feeling that is anger), and he strains out each word, announcing his sentence to the court.

Caramel Arrow Cookie does not step in- she simply watches. Her hands on her horned bows, back and posture straight to the point that she looks more akin to a statue.

"You have been revealed to have been stealing from the Royal Coppers themselves- have you anything to say about that, hm? And it's been going on since the first party the Entertainer had held? How horrible."

He says it sweetly. Says it like that it was the greatest crime that anyone in the Kingdom has ever done. Says it like ice cream itself drips from each word, voice sonorous.

Dark Cacao looks on with a steel eye, mouth set in a straight line as he waits for Affogato to finish.

Affogato simply stares at the grovelling cookie, who sobs and sobs, crying, "I didn't do anything of the sort! Never, never would I do that to the great Kingdom of Dark Cacao-"

And Affogato simply huffs. "Still on about that? There's almost a strong mountain of evidence already mounted against you- your pitiful attempts to fool the court will do no good, you know."

He turns to Dark Cacao for his judgement- and Dark Cacao stares at the entire court, silencing it with all of its gossip and rumors with a single raised hand. He holds it for only a moment, as he tilts his head higher, hair swishing to the side.

"Take them to the Dungeon, First Watcher."

Caramel Arrow Cookie nods- and you swear that there's a hint of happiness in her eyes, you swear- and replies with an almost frighteningly calm tone of: "Yes, your Majesty." She walks over to the cookie, ponytail bouncing up and down, and it's only a simple matter of dragging the cookie out. They struggle- they plead out with cries of mercy, mercy, and for a swift moment, they lock eyes with you. Something churns and churns and screeches inside of you- it yells and it bangs on your chest like a live cakehound, it growls and hisses and begs for freedom and you ignore it like a lifeline. You swallow down your guilt and turn away- and something in their gaze goes fierce, because they thrash even harder in Caramel's grip, screeching. Caramel almost shoves the cookie to the ground, eyes glaring.

She whispers something, something so quiet that you don't hear, and the cookie stops. They go slack- they go dead, like a fish that has been set in land. Caramel continues her journey of dragging someone to the Dungeon, leaving the courtroom without much fuss. Each member of the court soon filed out- each whispering and gossiping like it'd be the star of each week after. Affogato simply walks out of another door, joined by Dark Cacao. You stare at them pass, before placing a leg out on the empty courtroom.

You peek out from your corner, dusting off your robe. You stare at the ground- no, what you stare at is the specific trail Caramel had dragged the cookie out. Something gleams in the middle of the floor, shining horribly bright in this freezing Kingdom. You walk closer to it, eyes widening in surprise- a fallen off topping. It's cheap looking, if said in the most basic way. It doesn't look like somecookie would have bought it if they had stolen money for as long as they had from the Royal Coppers. You glance around, before plucking it from the ground.

It's normal. It's not eye-catching. It does not suit the cookie, doesn't suit the image you've made up in your mind about them.

—

You bite at your lips, hands trembling. They reach out for documents- reach out for a scroll clearly inked lately, letting out a stuttery sigh. You raise your head up- there's no one here, no one in the study. You steady yourself.

Affogato Cookie won't be back in a few hours. Caramel Arrow Cookie is busy at the border, searching for a snow lion that was recently spotted. Or so the tip had gone, when you had written the note and dropped it off at the Watcher's Quarters. All the maids and servants aren't here, won't be here for any time- Affogato doesn't enjoy them cleaning his room, even if he says that he has nothing to hide- and there's no guards. There's only you, a trusted cookie in the castle, hanging around in a politician's room. You grit your teeth- and finally grab the scroll. You look around, like a mouse, eyes narrowing. You leave the room quietly, shuffling about as you click the door closed, sighing softly.

You step back out in the hallway, wanting to run. You don't. You trace your hand along the wall, looking at the paintings that decorated almost each turn you made. You never noticed before- well. You did. You just never thought of how absolutely intimidating they are, never thought that they were for anything that wasn't used for decoration. There are paintings of landscapes, each splash of paint on the canvas like it was being ridiculed, as snow falls on a painted version of the Dark Cacao Kingdom. You stare at it for a few moments, and feel your hands tighten around the scroll.

The walk there is long. Long, back to your room. You'd usually be talking with Caramel or Affogato on the way back- ignoring their remarks about the other if together, enjoying their company if it was only one of them. Except there's no critiques or veiled insults or enjoyable stories and gossip. There's only you, a scroll in hand, walking down a long hallway.

—

Perhaps the mystery of all cookie life is that it's best to ignore it. Easy. Nobody ever really thinks more about the Witches- the godly creators and whatnot, and worship them devoutly- because who wants to? Who wants to know so much about a subject so holy intimately? To know the secret of being made- well, you supposed, it'd be a one way ticket to blowing your mind. You've never entertained the question yourself- merely ever nodding thoughtfully when Affogato himself, eyes glazed over and staring at the mirror, asked you very softly. Didn't ask you in his usual tone, didn't say anything about a missing scroll. He'd said softly, "what do you think about the Witches?"

And you had hummed, nodding- "They exist."

And Affogato Cookie had simply stared at you, before his lips curved up into a smile. There was a familiar glint of teasing, of satisfaction, in it.

Perhaps the same way could be applied in what you think now. Fumbling with a topping in your hand, eyes scanning over each word colored in a chocolate brown. It makes sense. It doesn't. It's strange, you think, as you gulp down every beat of anxiety that pours into you. The candle by your bed flickers a flame akin to a volcano's- red, fiery, and burning hot. It should make sense. It does. There are several people reporting about this cookie lying on the papers- a chest suddenly full of gold coins coinciding with the date that the coppers were suddenly being stolen from. All kept under wraps, tightened with a little bow. Except it doesn't.

Perhaps you're assuming- a grand assumption on your part, thinking that surely, someone, would have gotten better toppings than this if they had stolen this much coins. But it doesn't look right. They were lower ranked. Extremely so, to the point that they'd have probably never gotten to see the coppers in their entire lifetime. They were only ever invited because they were new. They could have made connections there. That was the only reason you ever invite new people- per your own job to build connections on behalf of the Kingdom, and let cookies gather to drink tea and berry juice to discuss rumors, business, gossip about the King and the ever charming Prince.

There's a splattering of details- mostly small. Insignificant. Indicates what time they had started stealing. Except. Except, it's strange, you think, because if it was from earlier back, back to your very first party thrown, there would have been dates. The investigators aren't stupid- they know how to do their job. It can't disappear like that- sudden papers from before are no longer found.

Perhaps it was a mistake. (But you know that it's not.)

It feels weird. It's only a tiny bit of false evidence to go off- assuming first that it is indeed false, and not real- and there's nothing bigger. They would still have reason to throw the cookie in the dungeon if they had stolen coins.

It doesn't add up. You remember the way Affogato had sneered at the cookie, eyes in disgust as he dug at them. You remember it clearly, remember it like the feeling of something striking at your chest, felling you in one blow. There would be more instances. More papers. More time. More witnesses, more sightings if the cookie was truly as careless as the scroll had said.

But there is not. There is only a date that begins on your 12th- or perhaps it was more- tea party with the King. You notice it- notice it because it was when Dark Cacao had asked you to refer to him by name. But there's no other instance before- no dates, no time. And then a memory flashes behind your eyes- and it makes you tremble, because, wouldn't someone have dealt with it by now?

"I'll see to it that something will be done about it."

It rings in your head. It does not add up. It doesn't- you shouldn't assume anymore, should have kept that memory buried deep in your conscience. It burns alive once more like a fury from an oven, burning bright in your mind. Imprinted. Burned into it like all the other times that same sort of time was used on you- scarily ominous. It was a terrifying sort of tone, one that anyone would have thought better to ignore. There's another traitorous voice in the back of your head- The King isn't one to say such things foolishly, he surely would have done something, right?

You stomp it down. Stomp it down with a boot that is particularly intent on crushing bugs.

—

You handle a scroll that is either the truth or full of lies carelessly. You trace a finger across it, eyes narrowing in on the official seal of it. You place it down, slip it inside your robe, and stare at the tea brewed so recently. It's still warm.

You pick it up, and sip at the tea. It's warm. It tastes like nothing, because your own chest is full of feelings that churn like spoiled milk inside. You stare at the door that creaks open, stares at the King in his more comfortable attire, cape still trailing behind him. You smile weakly at him, wanting to duck in your chair. The fireplace burns bright still- it warms the room. Bubbling flour bumps up from your body, feeling the feeling of anxiety pour all over you. Dark Cacao nods at you- and he settles down into the seat in front of yours, as he picks up a tea cup and simply drinks it.

There's not really any sort of conversation. It reminds you of your first tea party with him, all quiet before erupting into a topic finally. Although the one you're intent on bringing up is sour. Bitter. Full of everything gone bad.

You take a breath in.

"Dark Cacao," you start off, voice full of barely concealed stutters, "I got a scroll, recently, from Affogato Cookie. It was, erm, about the recent court decision. If you would-"

You finish yourself off, before even finishing your sentence, hands trembling.

You peek at the King in front of you. His eyebrows are furrowed. Mouth clenched. You take in a breath.

"If your Majesty could, may he explain why there are no dates earlier? Affogato himself had said it was farther back when the entire thing had started, my first ever party thrown, but there was no evidence or times indicating when."

Dark Cacao narrowed his eyes. He placed his own teacup down, locks of hair brushing in front of his face. He removes it mindlessly, like it was an action that he did the entirety of his life. It probably was.

Please say that the investigators were incompetent. Please say that the scroll was a fake. Please say that I have nothing to worry about. Say that I don't need to-

"Entertainer." His voice is sharp, like a dagger. He doesn't use your actual name, like he had done before. He uses your title.

"You have no need to be searching for answers such as these. As your King, I order you to stop." His voice is regal. Full of fierceness, full of words used to command soldiers to battle.

You grip your robe, and absentmindedly brush past the scroll in it. Something inside of you screeches- mindless movement, being dragged away, being grabbed and suffocated- and you open your mouth again. Something reminds you of Caramel, for a strange reason.

Reminds you of the way she has said so seriously, full of no hesitation, full of something underneath the sentence that she'd always watch over you. Reminds you of the way Affogato had sneered at the way the maids and servants had brushed past you, the way he had said it like it was a truth: you don't need them. And then it reminds you of the way Dark Cacao had said the very sentence that makes you want to scream.

I'll see to it that something will be done about it.

"What did you do to the cookie, your Majesty? For slighting me."

And then Dark Cacao stares at you, eyes colored a deep shade of purple, and you stare back.

And then there is a hazy figure of someone right near you- using Affogato's voice, humming something sweet.

"Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, perhaps you ought to have cancelled this party when I told you myself that the scroll had gone missing."

You make a soft 'oh' sound in your throat, slumping back against the chair. There's only a soft shade of browns and purples and black clashing together, making your eyes haze over.

Someone- someone who has a long ponytail like Caramel's- says something.

"Y/N! Why didn't you do something else that didn't-"

And then everything just stops in that single moment, and you close your eyes.

You should have just left it alone.

if you were wondering if caramel and affogato got into a fist fight while cacao watched over after the ending the answer is yeah probably. maybe he joined in or smth

#cookie run kingdom #cookie run kingdom writing #lacuna✧writes #crk #affogato cookie #caramel arrow cookie #dark cacao cookie #affogato cookie x reader #dark cacao x reader #caramel arrow cookie x reader #yandere #ooc again probably

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reneesbooks · 1 year

Text

The Knight of Lacuna Lake - Part 3

this one's a long one so buckle up bitches bc it's all downhill from here

summary: Keelan attends Maura's birthday celebration (5.7k words)

intro post, part one, part two

taglist (ask to be added! <3): @serenanymph @lyssa-ink @oh-no-another-idea @lena-rambles @ashen-crest

There are 32 different places in the throne room where the royal seal has been worked into the stone. Keelan is convinced there is a 33rd, but he can't figure out where it is.

“Your Majesties, I beg for your assistance,” a reedy voice says. Keelan pulls his gaze away from the stonework and shifts it to Maura. She is perfectly upright in the simple wooden chair next to her mother's throne, listening attentively as the woman, a cobbler, spells out the economical impacts of the latest trading regulations on imports from Guildi on her small shop outside of the port city of Wareshead, and did Your Majesties know that Wareshead is the biggest importer—

“I believe I might have a solution,” Maura says, cutting the woman's ramble off. “If ports offer bulk pricing to smaller shops, like yours, who only serve smaller areas, would that improve your ability to turn a profit?”

“A wise idea, my princess,” the woman says, bowing.

“How would the ports make up their lost profits?” King Proteus asks, leaning forward in his throne.

Maura's eyes wander around the throne room. Keelan can see the wheels turning in her head, is familiar enough with the way her nose crinkles when she's thinking from three months of spending nearly every morning in the library with her. Her eyes light up as she lands on a solution. “Our Fierodian trading agreement includes incentives for ports who send regular shipments. If they offer bulk pricing domestically and begin building a larger market abroad, those incentives combined with new markets at which to sell should balance out any negative impact.”

“Well decided, Princess Maura,” Queen Rosaleen says, beaming proudly. “The royal scribes will have everything ready by tomorrow.”

The members of the court clap politely as the cobbler is escorted away by the guard. Maura bites her lip, stifling a yawn. Keelan checks the position of the sun through the window. It's nearing dinnertime. He shifts a little where he's standing, flexing his toes. He's been standing behind Maura's chair for hours now, but he's had plenty of practice with that. What's making his limbs tingle with anticipation is the fact that it's Maura's birthday. After the court is dismissed, there will be a grand feast and then a ball. Keelan has never been to a royal ball before. He's heard that they serve chocolate.

Plus, there is the chance that Maura will ask him to dance with her. Not that he's thought much about that.

“I think that is where we shall finish today,” the queen says. Keelan nearly bites his own tongue with excitement. “The court is dismissed.”

Maura turns to Keelan and makes a relieved face. He smiles and bows when she stands. “Would you like to go directly to dinner, princess?”

“I think so,” she says. He follows her towards the great hall. Once they are out of earshot of anyone, she moves closer to him. “I command you to sit at the great table with me.”

They pass by the steps to the library before can make his mouth work. “Maura, I don't know if that's a good idea. I am still only your shield.”

“Come on, Keelan.” She grabs his arm and gives him a pleading look. “It's my birthday. Why wouldn't you sit with me?”

He sighs. “Your father might not approve.”

In the months that Keelan has been Maura's guard, he has been completely unable to discern the king's opinion of him. King Proteus is a stern, generally unsmiling man. He only softens around his wife and daughters, but even then, he has a general presence of intimidation that makes the hairs on the back of Keelan's neck stand up.

“It's not his birthday.” He looks away and she darts in front of him, forcing him to meet her eyes. He inhales sharply, raising his gaze to the heavens. She is still holding his arm. “Please?”

“You're going to be the death of me.”

“Hopefully not.” She releases his arm and continues down the corridor. “I asked the cooks to brew some grapevine tea for tonight. Is there anything else they should add?”

Keelan has been getting better at hiding his feelings, but the blush still creeps up his neck. “That is more than enough.”

When they reach the great hall, Maura makes a beeline for the great table. The lesser nobles and aristocrats are trickling in, mingling with the foreign guests, finding seats and filling the cavernous hall with the sound of conversation and laughter. Maura skips up the steps to the great table, gesturing for Keelan to follow. She walks up to the closest guard. “Sir Keelan will be a guest of the royal family tonight,” she says authoritatively. “I will not need another knight to serve in his place.”

“Yes, princess,” the guard says, bowing deeply. “I'll fetch another chair.”

Before he knows it, Keelan is seated between Maura and Birdie at the great table, a steaming mug of grapevine tea sitting before him. He's on Maura's right while the queen sits to her left. Birdie is telling him about the last ball that they threw for Maura's birthday and how this will be her second ball, but all he can think about is how some of the lesser nobles are staring at him, whispering behind their hands. He's a nobody from a town that doesn't exist and he's sitting between the princesses of the kingdom, two seats away from the queen and three away from the king.

He's not freaking out about it.

Levi is on Birdie's other side, making sure that she eats the vegetables that pass by on platters and in soups as well as the little cakes that she keeps summoning. At one point, the pastry chef appears, red-faced and panting, and pulls Levi aside. Keelan can't hear all of what the pastry chef says, but when Levi returns to the table, he lectures Birdie sternly about how summoning pastries requires taking them from somewhere else. Birdie doesn't seem to be paying attention, but she stops summoning the cakes.

The food is much better than what Keelan normally eats in the barracks with the other guards—strawberries, sugared figs, hearty stews, and fatty meats. The grapevine tea is a little sweeter than how his mother used to make it, but the taste reminds him enough of home that he doesn't mind. Maura pulls him into conversations every few minutes, the topics ranging between the day's work, the court jester's jokes, and Birdie's antics. Keelan has to half-shout in order for her to hear him, but her smile is worth it.

A bard is brought in sometime around the fourth course (another stew) and the hall quiets so that her songs can be heard.

“My princess,” she says, bowing and adjusting herself on her stool. “I am honored by the opportunity to perform for you at your birthday feast. Do you have any requests?”

Maura glances at Keelan, then smiles at the bard. “What is your most requested song?”

The bard's eyes also dart to Keelan. “The Ballad of Keelan O'Leyne, princess. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes!” Maura claps her hands. “Please, play it for me.”

The bard clears her throat and plucks a few notes on her lute. “The story of Keelan O'Leyne is a tragedy, one that shows us the bravery of a lone soul and the devotion of a grieving son.” Keelan's throat is tight but he does his best not to show it. “All who hear of his deeds will pray to the moons that they never cross him, for he is a knight blessed with the strength of twelve men.”

The bard begins a tune that is slow and sweet.

“Gather round and hear the song

of boys who become men—

though the night is cold and long,

the spring will come again.

Even though you are afraid

there's nothing left to fear

for the brave Keelan O'Leyne

protects us while we're near.

Come rescue me, Keelan O'Leyne!

Come rescue me, take all the pain.

Come rescue me, Keelan O'Leyne!

Come rescue me and bring the sun again.”

Keelan can feel the blush rising up his neck, but doesn't dare look at Maura to see her reaction to the song. Birdie is already humming along, splashing in her stew in time to the tune. He can see Levi start to sing along and wonders how many of them have already heard it.

“Long ago in verdant Leyne,

the flames were hot and high.

Everywhere laid people slain

by men who would not die.

All that had been left behind

was one boy and his sword

left with nowhere else to hide

and no one he adored.

Come rescue me, Keelan O'Leyne!

Come rescue me, put out the flames.

Come rescue me, Keelan O'Leyne!

Come rescue me and bring the sun again.

While the boy was creeping towards

the house the raiders stole

there he saw the evil horde

had took his mother's soul.

And he filled with angry grief

and burst into the room

slaughtered all the murd'rous thieves

became their final doom.

Come rescue me, Keelan O'Leyne!

Come rescue me, erase the stain.

Come rescue me, Keelan O'Leyne!

Come rescue me and bring the sun again.”

The majority of the guests are singing along at this point, enough that Keelan wonders how he hasn't heard this song before. Maybe because he rarely leaves the castle. Either way, he's still studiously avoiding looking at Maura.

“When the moons looked down and saw

the hero who had slain

the twelve immortal thieves of Cág

they gave Keelan O'Leyne

The power of a dozen men,

and bravery ceaseless

three months he walked, was knighted then

the shield of the princess.

Come rescue me, Keelan O'Leyne!

Come rescue me, you're evil's bane.

Come rescue me, Keelan O'Leyne!

Come rescue me and bring the sun again.”

The guests burst into applause the bard bows again, catching the coins thrown at her in her hat. People are shouting requests and Keelan can see Maura clapping out of the corner of his eye. He lowers his gaze to his stew and eats, hoping that nobody is looking at him.

The bard stays through the sixth course (tender beef and hearty stewed cabbage), playing a variety of songs, some of which Keelan recognizes. As the meal progresses and some guests start to get intoxicated, drinking songs are requested more and more. This is when Keelan is treated to a second song about himself—this one a rowdy, unfortunately descriptive number about how exactly he went about killing the Immortal Thieves of Cág, who were legendary outlaws that had been terrorizing the west. Keelan has no idea what they're talking about, but it has a nice rhythm.

Levi has to use magic to keep Birdie away from the cakes when they come out with the rest of the desserts and she pouts until Keelan offers her half of his slice of pie. Maura's favorite cook, the one who fed them sandwiches on Keelan's first day, brings out a small sculpture made of sugared buns. It's been shaped into a galloping mare—the mane and tail are dusted with extra powdered sugar to make them look white. Maura laughs with delight, jumping down from the high table to inspect it up close.

“You've outdone yourself, Stiofán,” she says. “It's beautiful.”

Stiofán puffs his chest out. “They're all filled with jelly or custard. Each part of the horse is a different flavor, princess. The heart is peach.” He smiles. “Your favorite.”

Maura hugs him tightly before excitedly pulling off one of the buns on the horse's chest. She bites in and the room holds its breath.

Maura throws her head back, making a sound of delight before shoving the rest of the bun in her mouth. “Delicious!” she says around a mouthful of bun. The court laughs and the servants begin to divvy up the sculpture among the guests. They come by the grand table first and Keelan is treated to the enormous selection of options: blackberry, currant, chocolate, apple, fig, peach, blueberry, and a few flavors he's never heard of. He decides to play it safe and get two chocolate and two blueberry ones.

They are indeed delicious and he has to keep a close eye on his extras so that Birdie doesn't sneak them off his plate while he's not looking. At some point, she stole more of the little cakes from the other guests and Levi is busy using magic to put them back on the correct plates. This leaves Keelan in charge of keeping her out of mischief, so he has been trying to convince her that by only eating her own desserts, she will tempt a good faerie to come to her window and give her a blessing.

“But what kind of blessing?” Birdie asks, crossing her arms over her chest. “Levi says there's different kinds based on the magic that you're using.”

Keelan coughs into his fist, seeing Maura's smirk out of the corner of his eye. “I'm not an expert, princess, so I'm not sure what kind of blessing the faeries would bring to a girl who doesn't steal other people's desserts. Maybe extra cake, maybe good fortune, maybe your hair will grow twice as long overnight.”

Birdie giggles. “I don't think it will be that.”

“Who's to say?” Keelan turns back to his plate to find it empty. “Birdie, what did we just tell you about stealing other people's desserts?”

“It wasn't me!” she protests, her eyes wide and innocent.

Keelan looks to his left to see Maura licking powdered sugar off her fingers, grinning smugly. “You should have kept a better eye on them,” she says. He laughs, unable to be upset when she looks so happy.

After the desserts are cleared away, the guests begin leave to get ready for the ball. Nobody at the great table looks in a hurry to leave, so Keelan nibbles on his last sugared bun and listens while Maura explains the finer points of ball etiquette. He isn't sure he's going to remember a single thing, but he's had enough practice being around royalty and other nobility. He's probably going to be fine. Probably.

When the great hall has emptied, the queen stands. “Well, my beautiful daughter,” she says, reaching down to touch Maura's face, “do you want to entertain any suitors tonight?”

Maura's ears go pink. “Momma, you said I was too young for that.”

Queen Rosaleen laughs, patting Maura's cheek. “You're absolutely right, sweet pea. Just teasing you as mothers are supposed to. Birdie, duckling, come along. It's time to get ready for the ball.”

“Are we going to dance?” Birdie asks, jumping down from her chair. “Sissy asked me to dance last year.”

“You can dance all you like,” the queen says with a soft laugh, “but Maura may ask somebody else this year.” Her eyes land on Keelan and crinkle at the corners. “Only Maura knows, I suppose. Let's go, girls.”

“Wait!” Maura jumps up from her chair and runs to one of the servants nearby. They whisper back and forth for a second before the girl brings out a large wooden box. “Keelan, since this is your first royal ball as my sworn shield, I made sure that you would have this.”

She opens the wooden box and lifts out a deep purple cloak, the color of the water-violets that bloom along the docks. Keelan's eyes widen and he reaches out to touch the fabric, awed. “Princess, I can't accept this.”

“You have to,” Maura says smugly. “It's your official dress uniform as my sworn shield.”

“The other guards don't wear purple cloaks,” Keelan says. “It's not a color to blend in.”

“You're not meant to blend in.” Maura unfolds the cloak all the way and holds it out to him. It feels soft as silk and has a surprising heft to it. Keelan swings it around his shoulders, fastening the silver clasp. Maura presses her hands together excitedly. “You look wonderful.”

Keelan's face heats up and he looks down, fiddling with the clasp. “Thank you, princess. I will see you at the ball.”

“Yes, Sir Keelan.” She curtsies to him and follows the queen out of the great hall. Keelan wanders slowly back to the guards' barracks, feeling his new cloak swing against his legs. Its weight is strange, pulling his shoulders down. He wonders what it's made of—it feels like silk, but he's only seen silk used for light dresses or shirts. His cloak is far too heavy for that.

The captain of the guard whistles when he walks into the barracks. “It's official, then?”

Keelan stares at him. “What's official?”

The captain gestures at his cloak. “The Queen's Knight. The one who wears the cloak made from water-violets. Haven't you heard the stories?” Keelan shakes his head and the captain sighs. “Are you going to the ball tonight, son?”

Keelan swallows the lump in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“None of that,” the captain says, herding him towards the washroom. “You outrank me now.”

Keelan's head feels light as he's sat down in front of the polished bronze mirror and the captain starts smearing shaving cream on his face. “I'm not the Queen's Knight. Princess Maura—”

“Is the crown princess and will be queen someday.” The captain's hands are quick and sure as he shaves the barely-visible stubble off Keelan's face. “Since Queen Rosaleen never named one, the princess has the right to choose her Queen's Knight before she ascends to the throne. Making you her sworn shield was the first step to officially naming you her Knight.”

“I still don't understand.” The captain wipes off the shaving cream and pats something sweet-smelling into Keelan's jaw. “I've never heard of the Queen's Knight.”

“Likely because the last one murdered the queen he was sworn to protect,” the captain says, a bit sadly. Keelan's whole body goes cold. He heard the story when he was a child, but nobody liked to speak about it. Queen Rosaleen was young, even for a Raedoran queen, because her parents had been murdered in their sleep by their most trusted advisor. Nobody knew why—the man had been found dead at the foot of the king and queen's bed, his own sword through his stomach. Rosaleen ascended to the throne two weeks later. Keelan had never known that the advisor had been the Queen's Knight.

“I would never hurt her,” Keelan says.

“I know that, son,” the captain says, a little soothingly. “But some say the position is cursed. The first Queen's Knight was said to have drowned in the lake after jumping from the top of the mast of the queen's boat.”

Keelan shivers. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because she is putting a spotlight on you tonight,” the captain says, pulling him out of his chair. Keelan is shuffled back into the barracks, where the other guards surround him, helping him into a deep blue tunic with silver buttons. “You need to be ready for what that means—what the court will say about you. What the kingdom will say about you.”

“They're already saying a lot.” Keelan thinks of the two songs about him. “Who are the Immortal Thieves of Cág?”

One of the other guards snorts. “An old folktale. Likely an invention of the bards that you killed them.”

Keelan nods. The raiders had certainly died like men. They'd bled and choked and soiled themselves. The smell had been horrible.

One of the other guards fastens Keelan's cloak around his shoulders. The captain crosses his arms over his chest. “Alright, boy, listen up.”

Keelan's whole face goes red. “Yes, sir.”

“The Queen's Knight is the sworn shield of the ruling queen of Raedora. It is the most important positions a knight can hold. Do you have a title yet?”

Keelan shifts from one foot to the other. “Does Sir Keelan count?”

The captain sighs. “You'll get one when the princess announces you formally. She'll likely do it tonight, since she had the cloak made.”

Keelan curls his fingers into the soft purple fabric. “Is it really made from water-violets?”

“No,” the captain says, laughing. “That's from the old story about the origin of the Queen's Knight. They say he rose from the lake wearing a cloak of water-violets and knelt before the first queen of Raedora to offer his loyalty. The cloak itself is silk, nice and strong and thick, but it's dyed with water-violets.”

Keelan nods and walks towards the washroom again, examining himself in the mirror. In the tunic and the cloak, even with the mud still crusting the bottom of his boots, he looks like a real knight from one of the songs. He reaches up to pat his hair down. “I've never been to a royal ball before.”

“Of course you haven't, son,” the captain says. “Neither have any of us except to guard the doors. Good luck.”

With that, he's shoved out of the barracks and into the hallway. He takes a moment to adjust his tunic before starting towards the ballroom. He rubs his jaw, feeling the softness of his skin. Royal guards are required to keep a clean face, so he's never grown anything past tiny stubble, but the captain shaved him closer than he's ever shaved before. Keelan wonders if his razor is enchanted.

He is one of the first into the ballroom and ends up hovering awkwardly by the table covered in little snacks. He feels ridiculous and out of place, checking over his shoulder every few seconds to see if Maura has arrived yet. It's not necessary to look—they'll announce her and the rest of the royal family—but there is still that nagging feeling to look for her, to try to catch her eye before anybody else does, to make sure that the first face she sees when she enters the ballroom is one of a friend.

He has been standing there for nearly half an hour and is nibbling on one of the figs from the snack table when two young women approach him. One is giggling, shoving her friend forward, while the other puts up a whispered protest. The giggling one pulls the whispering one to a stop in front of Keelan and he bows politely. “Good evening.”

“Sir Keelan O'Leyne,” the giggling one says. Her voice has gone sultry and she bats her eyelashes at him. “My friend here was wondering if you would do her the honor of allowing her your first dance tonight?”

The whispering one turns bright red and dips into a low curtsy, avoiding eye contact. “Sir Keelan O'Leyne. It's an honor to meet you.”

Keelan blinks. “Um, the honor is mine, Miss...?”

The blush begins to fade from the young woman's cheeks and her eyes dart up to meet his. They're a pretty shade of blue. “Aoife, Sir Keelan.”

“Aoife.” He is spared of thinking of something satisfactory to say by the loud ringing of a bell. Everyone turns to face the raised dais for the royal family.

“Announcing Their Majesties Queen Rosaleen and King Proteus of Raedora, and their daughters, Crown Princess Maura and Princess Brigit!”

Keelan turns to the young women. “Excuse me.” He slips through the crowd as they applaud, trying to get closer to the dais. He can see the queen and the king coming out but not Maura and Birdie—

Maura steps out onto the dais and the breath leaves Keelan's lungs. He's frozen in place, near the front but not quite there, and yet there is nobody between them. Her hair is a golden braided halo and the graceful curve of her exposed neck disappears into a gown of embroidered blue silk that flows like water as she moves. She is the spirit of Lacuna Lake and Keelan is drowning in her depths.

Her eyes meet his and her smile pulls him out of the water. He can breathe and the queen is speaking now, thanking the guests for celebrating Maura's sixteenth year and wishing for many more to come. She says something that breaks through the rush in his ears—

“The princess will choose her partner for the first dance.”

Keelan inhales sharply. Maura's eyes have never left his. She is still smiling widely, smiles as she calls out, voice ringing like a bell— “Sir Keelan of Leyne.”

The ballroom is silent. His feet move, propelling him forward even as his brain is scrambling to piece together the eyes on him and the girl that had wanted to dance and the captain's warnings and the way Maura's skirt hangs from her hips. He bows and she curtsies with the grace of the fae, her dress pooling around her.

“Sir Keelan,” Maura says, and he raises from his bow, meeting her gaze again. “Would you do me the honor?”

He wonders if drowning men fall in love with the water as it fills their lungs. “The honor would be mine, my princess.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “But I'm not a great dancer.”

Her smile sharpens. “Just follow my lead.”

She must have spoken with the band beforehand, because they play a song that Keelan actually knows. Leyne didn't have a lot of parties, but he'd been to enough to know a few of the more popular dances. Maura grabs his hand and he rests his other on her waist, his gloves unbearably thick. Her bare wrists are sinful and he has never needed religion less.

The crowd shifts a bit, murmuring at the rowdy tune, but Maura starts dancing before Keelan can start to get paranoid. They spin around a few times before breaking apart, coming back together, skipping around the dance floor together, and starting again in a new direction. It's upbeat, it's bouncy, it's nothing like what Keelan was prepared for, and it's perfect. He is a winemaker's son at the village festival, dancing with a pretty girl. She's smiling the whole time, her eyes on him even when she spins away. He doesn't know the smell of blood and the grey-eyed girl in his arms is free to come home with him and meet his parents and nobody would find that strange. He is seventeen and he is in love and there is nothing else.

The music ends and Maura steps away from him, catching her breath with a laugh. Keelan's cheeks hurt from smiling and he bows, feeling his cloak brush against the floor. “You honor me, Princess Maura.”

“Sir Keelan,” she says, lifting out of her flawless curtsy, “the honor was all mine.” She turns to the crowd. “Please, enjoy the ball!”

The band starts another tune and Maura takes Keelan's arm, leading him up to the dais. He's sweating and can feel the king's eyes on him. He feels more and less like the nobody's son that he is but Maura's bare fingers are resting on his elbow where only his thin linen shirt divides them and that makes him burn.

“Keys, Keys!” Birdie jumps up to grab Keelan's arm. Her hair is in two braids and she's wearing a pink dress that she's already smudged powdered sugar on. “I wanna dance, too!”

“Of course, princess,” Keelan says, unable to resist her. Maura doesn't release his arm.

“Mother, I wanted—”

“Sissy!” Birdie is pulling Keelan towards the dance floor. “It's my turn with Keys!”

“Your Majesty,” an important-looking man says. “I beg an audience.”

“One moment, sweet pea,” the queen says. “Birdie, don't take up Keelan's whole night.”

Maura's fingers leave Keelan's arm and he is dragged into a dance of Birdie's own creation. It involves a lot of spinning and makes him vaguely nauseous, but she's laughing, so he doesn't mind. When the music ends this time, Birdie is whisked away by Levi and Keelan is quickly surrounded by young women requesting a dance. The two from earlier elbow their way to the front and Aoife's friend shoves her forward again. She's blushing less than before and curtsies neatly. “Sir Keelan. I was sorry to have missed the opportunity earlier. I hope you are still available to dance now?”

Keelan can feel the eyes on him and thinks of what the captain told him. She's putting a spotlight on you tonight. You need to be ready for what that means. He puts on a polite smile and bows. “It would be my honor, Miss Aoife.”

It's still early in the ball, so the music remains upbeat and bouncy, assuaging any fears Keelan may or may not have had about random girls trying to get cozy with him. Aoife tries to make conversation with him, batting her eyelashes and laughing at nearly everything he says, but he politely thanks her for the dance and excuses himself when it's over. He wants to find Maura again, to see what it was she wanted earlier, but he keeps getting stopped every two feet by either another blushing young woman requesting a dance (he's too polite to say no) or some lord or another that wants to hear the story of the night Leyne burned (he's too polite to say what he really wants to).

The moons are high in the sky and Birdie has already been whisked away to bed by the queen by the time Keelan finds Maura again. She is standing at the same table he waited by earlier, munching thoughtfully on an apple tart. He feels his shoulders relax at the sight of her and makes his way through the crowd.

Her eyes light up when she sees him and she quickly wipes the crumbs from her fingers. “Sir Keelan. How have you been enjoying the ball?”

He shrugs, leaning against the table next to her. “It's not too unlike the parties in Leyne. The people are more important, but they still get drunk and dance the same.”

She laughs. “You were a popular dancer. I think I've seen you with seven different young ladies tonight.”

Keelan's cheeks flush and he reaches up to rub his eyes with one hand. “I felt bad saying no. I didn't realize they were all so...fascinated with me.”

“The tale of Keelan O'Leyne fascinates people,” Maura says. “A lone survivor of a massacre who single-handedly killed an entire band of raiders in one night? You must admit, it has a folktale feel to it.”

He tips his head to the side, ceding the point. “Still. It's strange to be the center of any kind of attention.”

“You get used to it.” Maura's voice betrays the slightest hint of sadness and when he looks over at her, he can see the tightness in her jaw.

“I'll have to,” he says, looking away and pretending he didn't notice. “I'm going to be your sworn shield for the rest of my life.”

He can feel the warmth of her smile even though he's not looking at her. “And my friend, I hope.”

“Yes, Maura,” he says quietly, so that nobody else can hear. “And your friend.”

She asks him to dance again at the end of the night, this time a waltz. His hands are sweating so much he thinks she must be able to feel it through his gloves, but her smile never wavers. He's not great at waltzing, so she takes the lead and he manages to not step on her toes. This time, there is no fantasy of a village festival in Leyne. She is the crown princess and she chose him, asked him to dance with her on her birthday in front of the entire court and her parents and everyone else, and she hasn't stopped looking at him since the music started. He is a knight in a cloak of water-violets and he would die to see her smile again.

As he bows at the end of the dance, Maura announces that the ball is ending and wishes all the guests a good night. As the guards begin to herd everyone out, she turns back to Keelan. “Would you walk me to my room, Sir Keelan?”

He swallows, suddenly painfully aware of her parents standing mere yards away. “Of course, princess,” he says, bowing his head. He follows her out of the ballroom. Once they are far enough away, she moves closer to him and he feels her hand brush against his.

“Thank you,” she says. “That was perfect.”

“Good,” Keelan says. “It's your birthday. It's meant to be perfect.”

“You didn't get me a gift,” she says, a little teasingly. “Did you forget?”

He adjusts his cloak when it catches on a potted plant that they pass by. “I don't know what I could possibly offer you that you don't already have.”

They make it all the way to her door before she speaks again. “That is a dilemma, is it not?” Her back is pressed against her bedroom door and she smiles up at him. “However, you did leave me alone for most of the night. I must ask for something to make up for it.”

“Anything,” Keelan says. Her smile widens and she taps her cheek with the tip of her finger.

“A kiss.”

He is drowning again even as fire burns under his skin. “Maura.”

“Just one kiss.” The tightness in her jaw is returning, sadness creeping in. “Just this once.”

He steps closer, feeling her breath against his collarbone. “Of course, princess.”

He leans down to brush his lips across her cheek. At the last moment, she turns her head, catching his mouth in a soft kiss that would bring him to his knees if he wasn't frozen in place. She pulls back after a moment, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “Until the morning, Sir Keelan.” He just stands there, dumbstruck, staring down at her. She bites her lip, smiling again, and stands on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I will see you tomorrow,” she says, a deadly promise.

He stands out there for over an hour after she goes inside before he can make his body work again. The walk back to the barracks is freezing cold.

#yes i wrote an entire ballad abt keelan my whole-ass degree in creative writing gotta be used at some point #this is technically the end of chapter 1 just as an fyi #so the next part is when the plot finally arrives to the party fifteen minutes late w starbucks #lacuna #rb original #writeblr #original fiction #fantasy novel #indie author

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