He couldn't help it, the wide grin fanning out across his face at her indignant cry. "Of course not," he replied, attempting -- somewhat ineffectually -- to suppress the expression. "That would be absurd." Despite himself, Arthur couldn't help but chuckle as she hid her face. "So," he tilted his head. "Is this your way of saying you'd miss me if I left? Lady Aria, I confess, I'm touched."
Yet, the smile did wilt, then, eyes widening as she confessed. While he was a touch disappointed she hadn't leaned slightly more into any feelings for him, he couldn't help the strange mixture of bemusement and shock he felt at her words. "Aria!" he cried, a hint of the big brother in him creeping into his tone. Tilting his head back, he roared a laugh. He shook his head. "I would never have believed it before this moment but -- you really were holding back with me, weren't you?"
"Have I shocked you with my confession, Your Highness?”
"You have, at that!" laughed Arthur, reaching up to wipe tears at the corner of his eyes, shoulders shaking with amusement. "God, what I wouldn't give to have seen Sebastian's face at that moment! He must have been rattled to his core! Sebastian, of all people!"
Arthur's reaction would have turned to blustering at such an accusation; Edmund's to sly witticism; but Sebastian? Sebastian, he had no doubt, had been entirely sincere -- and entirely (if privately) horrified -- in his reaction. And Arthur, now better acquainted with Aria's own brand of humor, could only imagine how the entire thing had unfolded. Sebastian, Arthur thought, was also all the more amusing a choice because -- though none of them much like to -- he was perhaps the least likely of them all to take advantage of such an offering.
"You shall have to think of another prize…" Her eyes turned up to his own laurels, and madly, he thought of claiming a kiss for a prize, but no, that would never do. Even were nothing else against them, she, herself, would never consent to such a thing. Instead, he smiled, and reached out to clasp her hand. "Admission of so rare and precious a victory is prize enough to me." His smile turned soft. Her dark eyes burned bright as stars. "I could hardly wish for more."
He knew that stance and, despite himself, he chuckled. She was instantly stewing for a fight, and he couldn't help but enjoy the irritation on her face -- she struck him as somehow even more beautiful when in a passion.
"Trivial!" he cried. He covered his bemusement, biting his lip as she declared her preferred title. He'd had every intention of teasing her mercilessly, and he still meant to, but something in what she said struck him and he arched his brows, still playful, yet genuinely curious about her perspective.
"I see, so...you believe that enjoying yourself is no worthy goal in itself. The only way in which you might honorably undertake something which you might happen to enjoy is...if in the course of aiding those less fortunate than yourself, you might inadvertently experience some joy?" He tilted his head, brows slightly challenging in their expression. "Who's unfortunate in that little puzzle, Lady Aria?"
He shook his head. "Maybe its why you think me arrogant, but I find...We never know when we might die, my lady. There are opportunities of sorrow and misfortune around every corner. Everyday that we wake and are well is a gift, don't you think? Don't we owe it to ourselves, then, to take advantage of opportunities to enjoy our lives? I don't thinking shopping is trivial if you relish it: therein lies its meaning. Laudable as patronizing artisans certainly is. Even as someone who has spent their whole life so far in service of this very goal: not every moment must be consumed in a dire crusade against the darkness, to be of significance. Sometimes a little fun is all the light you need for that, don't you think?"
Smiling knowingly as she admitted her pleasure in books, he laughed. "Well, you'd hardly be a worthy patroness if you didn't give some coin to those who promote learning, I'd wager," he teased, gently. His brows arched as she hailed herself an excellent gift-giver. "I have no doubt you are the equal of any task you set yourself. I should hate to be the fool who doubts in any skill of yours, Lady Aria." It sounded almost of teasing, perhaps, but he meant every word.
Smiling softly, he shook his head, abandoning any pretense of japing. "I wish I were a better gift giver. I have...all the money and resources in the world, it would seem, and I do try. I rack my brain," he chuckled, shrugged. His were hardly famed brains, everyone knew, and he flushed slightly thinking she must know, too. "But I cannot ever seem to get it just right. Oh, Cassandra loves her gowns, and my mother her roses, but...They know to expect them as well. Just once, it would be pleasing to really...astonish someone." He laughed. "Giving is a better feeling than receiving, in truth, if you can give someone, even for a moment, a bit of wonder -- a bit of joy."
“I know the Emperor would not approve of such things," Aria began.
"No," acknowledged Arthur, tone softly regretful. "He would not but..." he shrugged. "I suppose I wish it, too. It sounds marvelous." He glanced down. Away. Cleared his throat and returned his attention to her. "But...perhaps there is a way he might not disapprove..." His eyes narrowed in thought, and then he smiled, tucking away the thought for later exploration.
His brows arched in surprise as she said she needed to tutor him in the Astairan tongue. "I knew it. I mispronounced it, didn't I?" As she continued his face fell and, putting his hands on his hips, he sighed, shifted, and ran a hand through his golden hair. "Well. That certainly explains a few things." Despite himself, he laughed, a touched embarrassed. "There was certainly some confusion in attempting to source the rose -- the right varietal. I suppose...that would be the reason--" Putting a hand to his face, he chuckled, flushing slightly as he did. He did not particularly enjoy playing the fool, and generally realizing when he had drove him to frustration and anger, but somehow, with her smiling up at him like that, it didn't matter to him so much as it usually did.
Her voice breezed over the words, a lilting that tinkled softly as water from a fountain, and he couldn't help the way his lips turned up. "A bhean is cliste, indeed," he repeated, not nearly so gracefully -- the Varmont accent was a harder thing, it seemed, to wrap around so delicate a turn of phrase. But a cleverer lady he knew not, and he felt strangely...proud. Proud of her. Proud of all that she was. It was strange and it was foolish. She would not want his goodwill. But she had it, notwithstanding.
"I’ve never been anywhere else," she simply replied. There was a strange kind of vulnerability in the way she said it, as if regret tinged the edges of her voice. Perhaps she thought, now, that she never would.
Arthur's brows turned upward in surprise. It was difficult for him to imagine what it might be like to have stayed only in one place one's whole life and, before he thought, he blurted out: "But you're so cultured--" he stopped, shook his head. A beat. "But of course you've been places," he said, by way of apology. "You're a reader, aren't you?"
Shaking his head, he breathed in deeply. "Well, seeing as you are so fond of markets, I can think of no better place to begin our whirlwind tour than Malakarta and its famed bazaar where, it is said, anything at all can be had -- for a price." He paused, he was very practiced in describing places to people who had never been there, and thought he had made something of an art of it, and he smiled at the opportunity to share a journey with Aria. It had been long enough since she had permitted, even, to leave the palace walls. "Inhale. The very air is rich with spices -- cumin and pepper and cloves -- making the heat of the sun seem all the brighter, yet somehow exotic, as if you've never felt it, never really felt it, before in your life. Yet, there's perfume here, too, shimmering through the thyme-and-saffron haze: roses and coriander and lilies mingling amongst the others till you feel overpowered with it, half as if you've strayed into enchantment.
"The entire place is crowded with people. Some, like ourselves, are curious gawkers from far away, but for others this is their every day. You spot them immediately," his voice grew warm with a chuckle. "Pushing past with a certainty that tells you they do it a hundred times a day, eyes downcast to shoulder past, they're dressed in long orange and yellow robes, adorned in gold and silver embellishments which you're beginning to gather are a custom of their people. The whole place is a hubbub of artisans and grocers and sellers of every variety calling their wares in a dozen different languages, some your've heard before, but many of which are strange at your ear. Cattle low and sheep bleat, each as ready for sale as the next. The orderly stalls, lining the high brick walls of the city, stretch as far as the eye can see, each covered in tenting of some fabulous color, keeping off the over-exuberance of the sun in the too-clear sky. You assume each bright color alerts those in the know to the manner of wares one might find there: crimsons and olives and ochras made all the more brilliant in the heat's shimmering glare.
"Anything you can imagine lies at your fingertips, barrels of exotic fruits you could not begin to name, in strange pinks-and-greens, some sporting wild horns, others smooth and warm, are heaped in piles alongside more familiar offerings like pomegranates and figs. The air is heavy with their ripeness. Pistachios and almonds and field peas and radishes and chickpeas rise in heaps so vast that you realize any given tent must represent dozens of farmers.
"As you move away from the foods, suddenly very hungry," he laughed in recollection. "You're presented with piles of rugs near as high as you are, each picked out in a riot of color, each soft beneath your fingers as you walk by. They smell warm, somehow, faint with the musk of their natural fibers. Softer, still, are the silks. They feel like petals against your skin, and the sellers call out how beautiful your pretty wife should look clothed in them, and even though you have no wife, you cannot help but admit to yourself they must be right -- no fabric could be more alluring, in and of itself.
"But the pirate's hoard is only begun. Here at the end, the market shifts. Here, there are guards, piled not in the orange and yellow fabrics of their fellows, but wearing black and gold and holding cruel-looking poleaxes which are, themselves, beautiful, showing intricate metalwork scrolls that run across their shining blades. Beyond this point the tents expand from mere stalls into large pavilions, not decked out with tables at the front but, rather, appointed with colorful, velvet cushions for seats, where one may sit and be presented with whatever it is that particular vendor may sell. You're presented wtih gifts to entice further purchase, rings of silver and of gold, an ivory drinking horn incricately carved with figures of ancient myth, a cedar chest filled to the brim with endless bolts of fabrics in a wild array of color...Though--" he paused. "That may have been simply a result of being the Emperor's son...
"In any case, only the most wealthy and prestigious members of the crowd may pass beyond this point, thinning the masses to infrequency. No longer are you bumped and jarred, but now the air passes along and around you, manufactured breezes from men holding tall feathered fans cooling you in the sweltering heat. No longer do the sellers hawk and shout, now coming individually to the edge of their much larger tents, taking you by the arm to guide you within and present their wares as one might invite a friend. Here you are treated to rich and bitter coffee which jolts your senses to wakefulness. Here, the sounds are of gentle singing and exotic string instruments meant to soothe and attract.
"In this section, the air hums, honey-heavy with francinsense and myrrh. For a prince's ransom, you can have near anything cast in gold, or walk away with furnishings made of sweet-smelling woods fetched all the way from Aarnu and inlaid with precious ivory. I am not unaccomstomed to plunder, my lady, but the selection of pearls and of diamonds and of emeralds, and -- I swear it -- one ruby near twice the size of a child's fist, astonished even me."
He laughed. "Oh! But here I have gone and forgotten to mention the bit that is best calculated to entice you. Their books for sale are not presented quite like ours, carried instead in scrolls so that they can heap dozens and dozens into vast bookcases whose shelves are inverted to form x's for easier rest. The tent is lined with such cases, and a single wide table set at the center upon a priceless rug depicting two tigers embattled upon it. The pavilion is hushed as any library, and the scent is all of wood and parchment and faint incense burning in a nearby tent. Here they open each scroll for your inspection, that you may choose first the subject, then the style in which it will appear, both cover and artworks all got up in a wide variety of styles to sample. They promise that they can copy any book under the sun to your precise particulars, all with the requisite original artwork you might request, faster than anyone else, for the right price." He arched his brows. "Does that not excite you?"
"Fine…I'm fine," murmured Aria, bringing a hand to her cheek. She was overheated. Wordlessly taking her hand in his own, Arthur guided her towards one of the open windows, pressing past others who were loitering thereabouts, to claim a spot where there was some breeze. Her skin was warm, clasped in his. Her fingers were soft as rose petals. He tried not to think about it. He did not wish to let her go and, too quickly, he did.
Laughing as she painted a picture of herself marching about with soldiers, he opened his hands in a gesture of acceptance. "I may have exaggerated...slightly," he admitted. "But you must accept that fear is a natural response to the unknown -- and a courtly dance is something which is unfamiliar to most soldiers."
He laughed aloud. "Princely, is it? Do I now cut a dashing figure? And here I was to believe that my claims to such a station were till now repugnant to you, hm?" He chuckled. He did not take the idea of humility seriously at all. He did not credit that she could ever think him capable of that, so he chose to make a joke of it, as well. "But, aye, let us call it humility and not an ill-conceived effort to amuse."
As she offered to teach him Astairan dance, the breath went out of him, thinking of her in his arms, and there willingly, of sharing the strange, sweet, joyful vulnerability of Astairan movement with her, her deep eyes turned up to his...But just as quickly, she changed her mind, and he managed a bland smile. He could not pretend to be surprised she did not like the idea on second thought. "Yes," he agreed. "He would. Best not to try."
She closed the distance between them. Her eyes were midnight-dark, glimmering with green like the evening star, dying in its transition to morning: brilliant, burning with their own light. Unconsciously, he bent towards her. She bent her face towards his. Her lips looked soft, soft as the caressing silks beneath the hot Malakartan sun. Her skin glowed pale as moonlight. Unconsiously, too, he nodded at her words. Her hair was sleek, gleaming in the torchlight. He swallowed hard, thought how it might feel to run his hands through those satin strands, to run his fingers along her jaw, to lean close, to feel her breath on his face--
She spoke of the Orangery, and, laughingly, he stepped back, cleared his throat. "Yes," he said, half-distractedly, trying to reacquaint himself with what she'd just said to him. "Yes," he added, with slightly too much emphasis as he at last comprehended her. And, realizing, he laughed. "It--I daresay the gardeners even used to flee before the sight of us, in those days, didn't they? Here, the press is nearly crushing," he added, glaring over her shoulder at someone threatening to bump into her. He swallowed, glanced down. "Perhaps...Perhaps His Imperial Majesty can be persuaded, if tonight goes well, that perhaps...perhaps such things might be made comfortable again."
"I do think I know just the thing that might satisfy both her penchant for extravagant gifts and the Astairan sensibilities."
Arthur shook his head in wonder. "Astonish me," he said, watching her hands as they rippled and flaired to a rhythm he thought perhaps he might have recognized were he Astairan. Yet, as she spoke, he smiled. There was something terribly sweet in that tradition-- and it was certain to appeal to to his sister. "I believe you are right, that is precisely the kind of thing she would relish -- not to mention a way to engage with the culture in a harmless way," he added, sighing a moment later as he comprehended that that had not been the most sensitive way to phrase that. "I--That is...I do not think His Majesty my father could possibly object."
He laughed when she mentioned twine, shaking his head in silent agreement. "That is incredibly thoughtful, Lady Aria--" his breath caught, as her kindness struck him -- kindness to a conqueror.
He knew well and good how she regarded the Varmonts, how she hated them. How much reason she had to do so. He, himself, had wreaked firsthand upon her people his father's violence. What kind of radical compassion must it take, he wondered, to put aside so much that came between them, and stop and think of Cassandra as a whole and innocent person, and accordingly, to try to imagine -- and so correctly guess -- what might bring her joy? Arthur did not think himself capabel of such a thing. Cassandra, herself, he wasn't sure could put so much aside, if their places were reversed. All at once his throat felt tight. Aria saw the good in his little sister, despite it all. And she chose to greet it with her own. His chest ached, and he pressed his hand there. She had vanquished so much to do this. This, this was a conquest, Arthur realized, of which Roderick Varmont was totally incapable, and which Aria had taken wordlessly, and without thought of glory. Only of justice. Something warm burned in his chest.
Glancing down, he forced a smile, trying to revive his joking manner. He could say none of this. Only speak in asides. Only act.
"--I must admit defeat, then," he teased, though entirely sincere. "You are the superior gift-giver," he smiled, remembering what she had said of bestowing him with something earlier. "It is my turn to give you a prize, I think, as champion in these games."
He thought for a moment. Impulsively, Arthur reached up to the laurels in his hair and, lifting them from his own head, he crowned her, slowly, the silk of her hair caressing his hands as he moved, curls falling against his skin as the perfume of her hair washed over him, sweetest jasmine mingling with earthy violet. His breath caught. Heat rose to his cheek. Her eyes had a weight all their own and for a moment he caught her eye. His breath seemed to still, and it seemed that, so did all the world. For a moment, only a moment, they stood quite alone in the star-spangled hall. But he caught himself. Deftly, tenderly (with a knowing hand that showed he had rendered this service to his sister before now), he quickly arranged her hair so that it was not crushed beneath the laurel crown, but rather adorned by it.
"There," he said, coloring slightly beneath her gaze, as he took in his handiwork. He could still feel the cool caress of her hair against his fingertips. "It suits you, my lady."
He shook his head, and looking down, he shrugged. He returned to the subject at hand, clearing his throat, and forcing himself to some degree of focus. "She would adore that. Are...I don't suppose designs or colors are possible? The rose-in-splendour is our mother's imperial badge, so a nod to that might...personalize it." He shrugged. "It's why I chose red, myself, when I changed my own colors."
He smirked. "Just as long as we can ensure it will only grow tighter in the hands of this mysterious Lord Ormond," laughed Arthur. "I am content."
His eyes widened in sudden revelation. "Your're Astairan!" he cried, as if this information might surprise either one of them. "You were a princess! You must know him! Tell me, what are your thoughts?" But people were encroaching and, with a sigh, he added. "You must remind me to ask you of him, if you cannot readily answer now."
Arthur's throat felt dry. His face showed his astonishment for a moment, but he quickly washed it down, claiming a chalice from a passing servant with a tray.
"I--I have noticed them..." He passed through them each and every day to his own chambers...
He wasn't altogether certain whether he should admit to it now being his own quarters. He thought she might feel strange, in a way she would not like, knowing that. His gut twisted. He felt uneasy, guilty, almost, as if he himself had ripped her from her own chambers to install himself there, which was not so, but...the feeling remained. He thought of the changes he had made to the room, and felt heavier, still, as if he ought to have retroactively left it a shrine to her memory. He made a mental note to use the things he'd removed in fitting up her tower accommodations. That, he resolved, should at least make her feel more at home there.
Still, something else coccurred to him. "The heir's rooms..." and he couldn't help but smile a twinge at that thought, at least.
"Wait, did you say that the Evenstar title means Lord Stafford? I thought it was another term for, you know...King. But I suppose that's neither here nor there -- it did mean that for all intents and purposes, after all, I suppose..."
Clearing his throat as Arthur looked down into his goblet, he shook his head. "No...He wanted it, to be sure, wanted it very badly, but...He was not able to lay claim." He arched his brows. "My father, you see, took it for his own..."
Arthur's look was long. "Put out by the arrival of the sun..." he mumbled, and took another swig. The wine ran red as blood. Aine had been looking at him when they tied the execution bandage around her eyes...
Arthur cleared his throat, holding Aria's gaze for a long moment. He was glad, somehow, that he had spoken of his mother's badge as the rose-in-splendour, now, and not of her familial crest -- the eve-burning sun. He couldn't have said why, but it felt a betrayal, somehow, the way she said it, as if he'd scoured the world of her: burned away the very image of her as did the sun to stars of night. And he was strangely sorry for it.
Arthur opened his mouth to clarify. He shut it again. He didn't know how to salvage that excuse. "One can never have too many," he declared, though patently false, with the solidity of all his feigned confidence, something he'd long ago learned to sell for the benefit of those around him. His radiant beam sealed the deal.
He was saved -- whether by his own dazzling confidence or by the emperor's call for music and dancing -- almost at once. Extending his hand, he turned to Aria, but she was staring at the crowd, a shadow came over the beam of her face, dinting her light. Arthur frowned, turned his own gaze to them, and back again.
"Is something wrong, my lady?"
Hearing her, he felt concern gnawing at him, and nodded quickly. "Of course." He took her hand again, squeezed it softly. "Don't be nonsensical," he said, without thinking. "I don't want anyone else. Come, let's away. We must be quick and quiet about it, lest the guards try to stop us. Are you ready?"
The free night air was cool as soon as they emerged into the liquid-dark evening with its star-strewn heavens. The silhouette of two people, hands clasped like lovers, stole from the palace towards the glass gardens they knew so well. They left the doors open behind them, to let the air in, as they ducked inside. Faintly, the music flowed to them, the breeze stirring amidst the leaves of the orange trees. Golden light fell from the palace windows, cast by the torches within; pale light falling from the stars and moon above, pooling in strange intermingling upon the floor at their feet.
She was palid, still, but her skin seemed to drink the silver light till she shone like alabaster, her eyes dark as pools of night upon her face, her breath coming in quick gasps from their hurried pace -- not wishing to be stopped by the guards -- and he thought perhaps a smile played at the edges of her lips. He stood, transfixed, his own breath in hurried gasps, his own smile warm and bright, yet wondering, as he gazed at her, gazed at her as if she were a statue that might not catch him staring. Part of him did not care if she did.
He shook himself, self-directed anger following surprise. How could he be so inattentive? Anxiety for her constricted in his chest and, unthinking, he reached out to touch her cheek. He caught himself, swallowed hard, let his hand fall back to his side without having touched her. "How do you feel, Lady Aria? Is this better?"
Something occurred to him. "You said you've never been anywhere else, Lady Aria. Were you ever to Kil-kennar? If not, I can show you a piece of it: something that, till now, grew only there. I...I suppose you may consider it desecration, perhaps, to have ripped a piece of it from the walls, but I did not harm the plant, and I intended no offense. I thought...I thought she might even like for it to live in other places, so it couldn't...it couldn't be stamped out, should something happen...I don't know what calamity I feared but she loved it so..." he looked away. She was, of course, Aine of Kil-kennar, but he did not say it. "Perhaps it was ill judged, I don't know. But I took a piece of it away with me." He paused, rasied his glance to hers. "I hope it does not pain you, but...It being here, should you like to see it?"
He had not yet relinquished her hand. He did not, now, not when there was the excuse, still, of leading her across the glass gardens to a particular spot. Surely, there was no other way to do that than to keep her hand securely caught in his own, her fingers wrapped gently about his hand, her palm warm against his.
"Aine the Wi--the Seeress told me that the rose had grown there for a thousand years. It was thick and hardy as any shrub, dominating the ancient walls. I had one of the gardeners take a cutting of it when I left, for my mother. She has it growing here, now, quite on its own."
Like you, he thought, his gaze flashing to hers. Tethered to this place yet sundered irreparably from all that once was yours. His heart ached. Tenderly, he squeezed her hand.
