She is not entirely convinced of Lord Fox's assessment of the situation. How could she be? Her feelings make her vulnerable, too vulnerable by far. But she cannot rule it out - and, it would be improper, impolite, and even unprofessional of her to handle this in any other way. Lys does not even stop to pull the twigs from her hair; she climbs the three flights of stairs that lead to the third floor of the visitors' wing. She walks along the marbled halls, so familiar to her from her childhood. And she flits, as she does, from shadow to shadow.
     She does not wish to be delayed or make explanations to anyone from her childhood right now.
     She has splashed water on her face to reduce the redness of her eyes; apart from that, she has made no changes. She does not send ahead word of her coming. If Lord Fox chooses to do so, that is his business, and she suspects, in any case, that he may now likely be doing other missives and paperwork and even meetings. Although - it occurs to her - he might be lying in wait in the field, or having someone else do so, to monitor the state of the King's windows, and the silhouettes there...
     Lys shakes her head a little. There is no point in speculation. She marches to your door, giving the guards a hooded (literally) nod. And she lifts her hand, and she knocks politely.
     Tok.
     Tok.
     Tok.

     Not even the shower was refreshing, Perhaps it was too hastily done, to wash away the scent of cotton candy and clover and apples and regret. It did little to replenish his soul. Or make him feel any less foolish.
     One would need a large Roman bath for that. And several hours.
     He was padding into the main room with a towel in his hand, rubbing his white-blonde hair, which when wet takes on a corn flax hue, somewhat more champagne than most other times, when the knock on the door sounded. And he is reminded in that moment that he sent Portnoy to bed.
     Bare feet whisper on the marble flagstones of his floor, approaching the door to his chamber. When the door opens, it reveals the King of Silverglen himself, in lounge pants, a pull-over and a bathrobe, with a towel on his head and a withdrawn -- and then quite shocked -- look on his face. He blinks and then regains his composure with that well-worn, kingly grace. Even though a towel is draped across his head. "Hello, Lys." There is already an apology brewing in his eyes, but he's not sure what to apologize for first: his manner of casual dress, his wet head, or his behavior.
     "No interruptions," he asks the guards. "Unless it's a missive from Lord Fox or ...the building's on fire or something."
     The guards remain at alert stance, nodding. They cast no glance or judgment for what may or may not be occurring. Their job is not to mind the king's business, only his life.
     The curtains have already been thickly drawn -- no one needs to see him parading around in his undies -- and the door is quietly closed. "Would you care for a cup of tea?" Eavan wonders, tying his robe fast. He looks a bit more presentable now, the west towel set within a reed-woven laundry basket and his champagne-colored hair, still damp of course, combed back by his fingers. It's not overly long; it will dry shortly.
     Eavan turns to pour himself a cup. It gives him something to look at, something less awkward than his feelings and failures. He take three lumps of sugar. It's been that kind of day.

     She bites at her lower lip at the sight of you, and she lowers her gaze. She follows you inside; she isn't going to get into the dirty details while the guards are in earshot. Once she is well and truly inside, she lowers the hood of her cloak again, still ignoring the tangled leaves and twigs in her dark hair, still worn down. It will take forever to get clean again.
     "Lord Fox sent me," Lys tells you finally, ignoring your question about tea. She unties her cloak. "It seems that I may have made a mistake. It is up to you to say if I have, though."
     She looks at you, and she looks away again, folding her cloak and smoothing it slowly over her arm. "...Should I continue, your majesty? I ... do not want to impose."

     He makes a cup for you, guessing at the sugar content (one lump of crystalized honey), and without looking at you fully, though certainly foolishly, he sets it down on the mid-rise table near the sofas and chairs.
     "You are not imposing," Eavan says quietly. Oh, he has definitely been kicking himself. It is tender to sit down after such kicking, certainly! That he is expecting bad news is clear. You are here to ask for another, a different appointment. Perhaps in the far north or far east or far west or far south -- just so long as it is far.
     "Please, be comfortable. Have a seat," he softly offers, his green eyes, soulful as ever, looking to you at last. "I do not know about mistake. Certainly, I made several tonight," he says with arched brows and a little chagrin. He waits for you to take a seat, gesturing you to take the very nicely appointed over-stuffed armchair. "You... can continue, yes of course." And he goes silent then, halting his half-apologetic interruptions.

     "That's one," Lys says aloud, and she gives you a very small smile. She takes a seat, and color moves into her face, and she looks down, considering her words. "And yes, a mistake. Only one, Eavan... if Lord Fox is correct, in any case."
     She laces her hands together and leans forward, looking up at you, still doing her best to ignore her own untidy appearance. "First of all, we have both been laboring under misconceptions, and I think we have been talking past one another, misunderstanding the other's viewpoint. This is something I would propose to change, if you are willing."

     Eavan looks to you, fair blond eyebrows lifting in curiosity. And as he hears you refer to him as Eavan rather than any version of King this or Majesty that, there is a return, albeit tentative, of lightness to his expression and the energy around him.
     He sips at his tea but certainly does not hide behind it. He sets it upon the table and looks to you. "Happily," Eavan exhales. "I can mess up quite well enough on my own without misconceptions getting in the way." And the congenial smile returns, having been absent since arriving at the tree to clothe himself. "So, I give the floor to you. What do you propose?" Odd choice of words given the night's events. You seem him realize that and he adds, instead: "Suggest..."

     "I propose that we dispense for the moment with titles and concerns about the future, and simply discuss our feelings. I know," there's a faint amused self-mockery, "that this is something which men shun and flee from while women wring their hands, but it does seem called for. I will go first, if you wish."
     Now she picks up her tea. Am I brave? I don't feel brave. I am going to tell him how I feel if he does not run from the very idea. And if he does not feel the same...

     The King chuckles a little, hands on his thighs as he sits back and there is a lift of color to his own face. But he nods his assent. "I think that will save a lot of hand-wringing and bad journal writing, yes."
     And so he steels himself with the intake of a breath, girding to hear, once more, the old familiar speech:
     It's not you, it's me. I treasure our friendship. I hope we can be friends and allies in the future. Oh yes, let's do have tea again. And soon.
     King Eavan is, in this very moment, simply Eavan: a young man, however one might thing of him -- handsome or otherwise -- who has a sweet shyness that masks itself in self-deprecating humor. A very dear man, who has become a king. It is a difficult job for The Good.

     She looks at you, and her heart melts. How is she to tell you the truth, sitting here so coolly, when you are looking like that? She sighs a little bit, and she smiles to herself, shaking her head.
     "You may wish to put your drink down. What I am going to say cannot be unsaid, and - well, it may slightly shock you. I would prefer not to scald you as well as shock you," Lys answers wryly. She lifts her hands to her hair, now, beginning to pluck leaves and twigs from it. "What I have to say is very simple, but it is difficult for me to say."
     She watches your face. She does not want to prolong it; but she knows that saying it will hurt, whether Lord Fox is correct or no, as to your response. Her tea is set out of harm's way, and she drops little bits of leaf litter to the floor.
     "I am in love with you," Lys tells you quietly, steadily. "I have been smitten with you since we first met as more than in passing at court, when Princess Tanira sent me to you. Nothing I have seen or heard you do or say has in the slightest reduced my feelings; far from it. The idea of you marrying someone else hurts me greatly; I have been trying very hard to be professional, though."
     Her eyes threaten to fill with tears again; she blinks them back, tightening her throat until she can continue, and she goes on plucking leaves and stems from her dark tresses. "I want whatever is best for you and your kingdom, and I have been putting you before myself in this. I would never want to do anything that you would come to have cause to regret. When you asked me if I would be open to such pursuit, I answered because of that; not because of my feelings, but because of my knowledge of my feelings. And because being pursued and then not chosen would destroy me."
     She presses her lips together, nostrils flaring; she nods once, lowering her chin. "I think that is detailed enough, and as professional and clear as I can be," she murmurs. "It is your majesty's turn." She slips, calling you by your kingly title; perhaps it shows, how she has tried at every turn to remember that you are a King, and not only a man.

     His reactions to your words are purely visual; he does not take the time, just now, since this is to be a confessional, to ask questions or make commentary. But his face shows it. Relief. Gratitude. Acceptance. Understanding. Relief again. And more understanding. You were not running for me, because of the offer, but because of what might happen if the hypothetical never became actual.
     "My turn,' he quietly confirms. "I'm going to be long-winded, I'm sure." He steels himself, this time for the giving of his own Truth. Those soulful, unicorn-honest green eyes lift to you, lowering to his hand as he turns his cup around and around in nervous energy. But he stops himself, hands lifting to his thighs again. "When I first met you, formally," he notes, "I had seen you before at court, during the course of the festivities, I wasn't sure what to really make of it. I had just been told of the failure of my suit and then you walked in, and I... felt a kind of instant kinship. I know I wasn't the best company, but you were immediately so kind, and... as you know... I know the truth behind such kindnesses. Yours was true. There was no artifice. I became aware of an attraction to you when you boarded the ship. I enjoyed, enjoy, your company immensely. And struggle though I do, at times, to get out of my own way, with you I felt welcomed, wanted, and hopeful."
     Eavan stops playing with his tea long enough to lift it for sip before it goes completely tepid. "The more time we spent together, on the ship, the more time I wanted to spend with you. Tonight... I walked naked out under the moon... and there you were." He exhales, sitting back, a hand going to rub his eyes. "I'm doing a poor job of explaining. I feel like I am rambling. Tonight," he starts again, looking to you, "... I saw you with your rucksack and your robe and your hair down. And I ... just wanted you. I want to keep you with me. I realized that...my feelings for you are not in the least bit professional, Lys. I think I'm falling in love with you. And not because you fulfill some ... whatever purpose to Silverglen, but because you are beautiful and intelligent and kind and truthful. And I'm attracted to truth most of all. It is a perfume I can't ignore. And I became so... intoxicated that ...I actually asked you to be my mistress. My companion." He chuckles at that. "You must have thought me completely mad..."
     Eavan falls quiet. "I feel it in my heart. I want you with me. I care for you. I can't imagine that I'm going to find anyone who's any better at being around me than you. And then I made you cry and run away and I'm just gutted."
     Slumping down, he rests his head on the sofa cushion, his eyes to the ceiling. "As deeply as truth and purity move me, guilt troubles me. I suppose I'll have to work on that, won't I..."

     She listens, gaze lowered, her cheeks flushing pink. There are still bits of leaf litter in her hair, but it's a bit better, at least, and she looks up slowly. "I didn't notice you ask me any such thing, no," Lys murmurs. "I thought - I suppose you will think me ridiculously naive - that you were just asking me to be your friend."
     Now she feels the fool; but in for a penny, in for a pound. "I won't be your mistress, Eavan. It would hurt too much to sit and watch you marry another woman, even if not for love. I .... went to Lord Fox, because I felt I'd failed you, and because he would need to know."
     She inhales, and she sighs, and she rises to her feet, going to where you sit, sinking to kneel next to your calves. She rests her cheek gently against your thigh, closing her eyes. "We will have to work on it, yes," Lys murmurs. "It does a kingdom no good if its King is paralyzed by guilt. The question is... since I will not be your mistress... what is it that you wish me to be to you?"

     If a unicorn can rest his head in the lap of a maiden, can not a maiden rest her head in the lap of a unicorn? A question for the ages...
     "It was ridiculous the moment I spoke it," he says softly, his hand landing at your hair as your head rests against your knee. He plucks out the leaves and twigs without thinking of it. "You deserve better than that. I apologize for that. I do want you to continue to be my friend, of course. I'm blessed to know you. I... meant to ask... clumsily though I do.... if ... I might have leave to love you."
     He exhales to speak it. His heart is just open and bleeding. "I've never been in love before. I'm sure to get better at it. I didn't realize or understand your own feelings. Asking you to marry me seemed a bit of a reach. Even for me," his mouth twitches in humor.
     "But my heart aches to know you better. I want to spend as many hours in the day in your company. And if you would be a queen, I know many would not wish such responsibilities, I would... like to ... have the chance to make my case: as a king and as a man."
     His fingers become familiar with your hair, sliding through the darkness there to lightly massage your scalp. He sighs. "I will be a better king, a happier man, if you were my queen. Orphan Queen or no. We'll write the story we want to tell."
     His thigh, while it is a good pillow, is strong. But perhaps the wind blew the leaves of that apple tree in the right direction before. "Forgive me for speaking so ...brazenly. Had I known your feelings, I would never have asked in that way. I was... speaking out of want, still confused in its newness. So...properly now, I ask you: will you grant me permission to court you? And if I prove to be the man you wish to marry, we will cross that honor when we come to it..."

     Lys smiles against your thigh, eyes closed. "Think over your thoughts and what you want, and lay my words against your own. My heart is already yours, Eavan. But if you wish to court me - for the benefit of your people, and to give them time to come to know me - then I will do as my King wishes." She looks up at you, the violet threads in her eyes not only visible, but luminescent.
     I love you...
     "You are my King," Lys murmurs, leaning her cheek against your thigh again. "And even if you had no throne at all, Eavan, you would still be my king. You do not know the secret pleasure I have taken, painful though it has been, in addressing you; knowing that my service to you has been borne out of love an not merely duty. My only refusal has been in that service. If it is truly what you wish, and you believe that I am worthy of you and of Silverglen, then I cannot, dare not refuse. My heart would break again..."

     "Then between you and I, we'll know the truth," he says quietly, finding and plucking the last apple twig from your hair. "And we will find out your past and the hearts and minds of Silverglen. Your training will continue, but I will not have you placed far from me. I want to see you every day. To hear reports on your training," he smiles, "...of course."
     Hand to your dark hair, King Eavan bends. He places a kiss upon the crown of your head. You know the unicorn's nuzzle by now.
     "All else will continue as it was to have been, yes? Research into your family history and studying with Lord Fox. That work takes on another aspect now." Yes, how to become a queen.
     You gave me hope once more. I was beginning to think tonight that it had fled me forever. But it is here yet, found in the giving of a pure heart.
     "I will promise with all I have not to break your heart again. In time, my people will be satisfied. For how could they do anything but love you? They will love you, as I have come to," Eavan softly says. "You but have to be yourself. The rest, is the story we decide to tell... we make our own narrative..."

Posted by rowan at June 13, 2010 07:01 PM