The Stone prince’s garden ~ U.W.
Pairing: Prince!Ushijima Wakatoshi x Herbalist!Reader
Summary: Known as the heartless “Stone Prince” Ushijima Wakatoshi hides his true self behind duty and silence, until a chance encounter with a gentle village herbalist changes everything.
CW (content warning): Medieval AU, mentions of blood an injury (nothing too descriptive), prince Ushijima, herbalist reader, it’s kind of suggestive at some point but it’s nothing descriptive.
AN: Hi guys! 🤍 I’m finally back after my summer break with the first instalment of the medieval/fantasy AU series I posted about ages ago (you can find it HERE). I’m still open to hearing more tropes/pairings for this series as I’m working on posting the rest of the works I put up on the poll. I also still have to go through my requests still hahahah. Anyways, hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! :)
Requests are open so feel free to send yours! (you can check the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)
Masterlist
The village of Shiratorizawa sat like a quiet breath in the lungs of the valley, ringed by whispering woods and rolling lavender hills. The days were gentle, filled with birdsong and the rustle of herbs drying in the rafters. And in the heart of this sleepy place stood a crooked little shop carved into the slope of the hillside, half-stone, half-wildflower, and full of warmth.
It smelled of crushed thyme and rosemary, of honey steeped in elderflower, of smoke and something softer, like the trace of healing in the air.
This was your home. You had no grand titles, no legacy but your mother’s garden and the quiet way she’d taught you to listen to plants like they spoke a language. You brewed teas for aching bones, poultices for burns, tinctures for coughs. You stitched wounds and whispered comfort. Your work was simple, and sometimes hard, but always full of care.
And from across the river, the castle loomed.
A silent watchtower. Cold and unreachable.
Even the children whispered stories about it, about the one who lived there. The “Stone Prince,” they called him. Ushijima Wakatoshi. The son of the aging king, soon to inherit the crown.
“They say he was born without a heart.” One boy murmured to another as you tucked chamomile into a paper pouch for their grandmother’s nerves.
“They say he doesn’t bleed.” Said the other.
You just smiled faintly.
“Everyone bleeds.” You said softly, handing them the packet. “Even princes.”
You didn’t know yet how right you were.
——————————————————————————
That summer morning began like any other. You were elbow-deep in calendula, gently separating the blossoms from their stems, when the sound of frantic hooves shattered the calm.
You looked up sharply, standing just in time to see a horse gallop past the shop. It was riderless, lathered with sweat. Behind it, distant shouts echoed up the path from the forest's edge.
You dropped your shears.
The woods beyond the village weren’t hostile. They were simply wild and dense with pine, root-woven paths, the shimmer of foxglove in shadow. But something had happened there.
You followed instinct more than thought, your apron still tied around your waist, a small satchel of bandages and salves thrown hastily over your shoulder.
You didn’t know you were walking toward him. He was half-hidden in the underbrush when you found him. Slumped against the base of a tree, cloak torn, blood trailing down one side of his face. One leg twisted awkwardly beneath him, his breathing shallow but even. A sword lay discarded nearby, its blade nicked.
You hesitated. Not out of fear, he was clearly wounded, but because something about him felt… enormous. Like a boulder in the path of a stream. Still. Steady. Unmoved.
He turned his head slowly as you stepped closer. Dark eyes met yours. Unreadable. Unshaken.
“Are you hurt?” You asked gently.
A pause. Then, quietly. “Not badly.”
You moved toward him regardless, kneeling to examine the gash above his brow. It had already clotted some, but the skin was split. The bruising at his temple worried you more.
He didn’t flinch as your fingers brushed his skin.
“I’m going to clean this. It might sting.”
He nodded once.
You soaked a linen square in a bitter-smelling tincture and pressed it to the wound. A quiet inhale from him, nothing more.
“How did this happen?” You asked, dabbing carefully.
“An ambush…” He said after a beat. “The carriage. Bandits, I think. We were separated.”
“We?”
“My guards.”
You blinked at the calm in his voice. It wasn’t arrogance. Just… detachment. Like he wasn’t surprised to be bleeding alone in a forest.
“Were you a merchant?” You asked, eyeing the fine weave of his ruined cloak. “You don’t look like one.”
He was quiet.
“Something like that…” He said finally.
——————————————————————————
You didn’t press him.
Not because you didn’t suspect the truth, there was something unmistakably noble in his posture, even injured. But because he didn’t seem ready to say it, and you weren’t the kind of woman who pulled secrets from people’s teeth.
You offered your hand instead. “Can you stand?”
He took your hand without hesitation. His palm was rougher than you expected, calloused. A soldier’s hand. You braced your legs and pulled as he rose, watching pain flicker briefly across his face. The injury to his leg made his stance unstable, so you slipped under one arm, steadying him as best you could.
He didn’t thank you, but he didn’t resist either.
——————————————————————————
It took time to get him back to the shop.
You led him by the less-traveled paths, away from curious eyes and open windows. You were used to helping injured men, you knew the rhythm of their breath when they pushed too hard, the way they leaned against pride until it faltered.
He was quiet. Always quiet, but he watched you.
You could feel it each time your hand found his wrist to check his pulse, or when you shifted under his weight, or when you murmured something low about the slope ahead. His gaze stayed with you.
——————————————————————————
Back at the shop, you guided him onto the low cot you used for patients. He didn’t complain. Just exhaled once and let you peel back the tattered fabric around his leg.
The wound was shallow but long. Clean, at least. No signs of rot or poison. You cleaned it in silence, working by habit.
“Your hands are steady.” He said suddenly.
You blinked. It was the first unsolicited thing he’d said.
“I’ve had practice.” You replied, not looking up.
He said nothing more, but the space between you had changed. Slightly. Like a breeze shifting direction.
——————————————————————————
You wrapped his thigh with care and offered him tea while the salve soaked in.
He took the cup but didn’t drink.
Instead, he looked around. Slowly. As if taking inventory of your little shop, every jar, every string of herbs drying on the wall, every bottle labeled in careful script.
“This is yours?” He asked.
You nodded.
“You live alone?”
“I do.”
He was quiet again. Then, “It’s peaceful here.”
You smiled faintly. “Most days.”
And then, for a fleeting moment, something passed over his face. Not a smile. But not nothing either.
Almost… wonder.
——————————————————————————
You didn’t ask his name that night. He slept on the cot, and you sat near the fire, grinding valerian root with the mortar and pestle. Outside, the wind shifted.
In the morning, he was gone. He left without a word. No note. No name. Just a single gold coin beside the teacup.
You turned it over in your fingers. Thinking about the stoic merchant and the lonely look in his eyes.
——————————————————————————
It was three days before you saw him again.
You were hanging bunches of feverfew in the back garden when the quiet crunch of boots on gravel drew your attention. You turned, expecting old man Hiro or perhaps a neighbor’s child but instead, there he stood.
The stranger. The not-quite-merchant with the sword-callused hands.
He looked… cleaner this time. Less torn. His wound had begun to heal, and though he still limped slightly, he moved with the same quiet, self-possessed strength.
You blinked at him. “You left without a word.”
He gave a short nod. “I didn’t want to trouble you.”
You tilted your head. “You were bleeding.”
He looked away, eyes following the curling vines of ivy across the shop’s stone walls.
“Still.” A pause as he looked at the ground, the broad man before you looking unsure. “I brought this.”
He held out a wrapped cloth bundle. Inside was a loaf of honey-oat bread, clearly from the castle’s bakery. You recognized the delicate scoring on top. No one in the village made bread like that.
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re not from around here.”
He didn’t deny it. “I was raised near the court.”
A partial truth. A carefully chosen one.
You smiled faintly and stepped aside. “Well, court or not, you’re welcome back, but only if you ever decide to leave your name this time.”
His gaze lingered on you. Then he murmured “Toshi.”
You didn’t know why the name felt important then. You only nodded.
“All right, Toshi. Nice to meet you.” You smiled warmly at him, making something inside his chest stir.
——————————————————————————
He came back again. And again.
Never on a pattern. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes at dusk. Never in the rain. Always walking alone.
You noticed he never brought anything to be healed after the first few times. Just small excuses. “I thought you might have a remedy for fatigue.” “Do you sell anything for dreamless sleep?” “My leg aches when it storms.”
He wasn’t good at lying.
But he was good at watching.
——————————————————————————
You would often find him outside the shop before you opened, silently helping carry bundles of fresh-cut herbs, or refilling the heavy water jugs from the well. He didn’t speak much, and when he did, it was always simply, directly.
You learned to speak around the quiet.
Sometimes he helped you sort dried roots into jars. Other times, you’d hand him a knife and a bowl of wild ginger to peel, and he’d sit at your small table, his large hands surprisingly precise in their work.
It became routine. Not daily. Not expected. But… welcome. And fragile. Like a bird who kept returning to your window, unsure if the glass would hold.
——————————————————————————
“I used to think people like you didn’t exist.” He said once.
It was evening. You were drying your hands on a towel, having finished tending to an old woman’s twisted ankle. He’d helped her into a chair and said almost nothing the whole time. Now, he sat with his hands folded in his lap, watching you move about the room.
“People like me?” You echoed.
He didn’t meet your gaze. “People who care. Quietly. All the time.”
You blinked. Then smiled faintly.
“Most people care.” You said gently. “They just forget how loud the world is.”
That night, when he left, he touched the doorframe as he passed through it.
A small thing. But something in you wondered if he needed the grounding.
——————————————————————————
He never told you much about himself. But you began to learn the shape of him in pieces.
He preferred bitter herbs. He slept little. He looked at storm clouds like they were old friends. He flinched but not outwardly, it was only in breath when he heard children cry. He always checked the edges of the room when he walked in.
He never relaxed. Not fully. But when he sat with you, sometimes peeling bark, sometimes watching the kettle steam his eyes softened just enough to change their color.
One afternoon, while you packed salves for a neighboring village, you asked without thinking. “Toshi, were you a soldier?”
He paused mid-reach. “I trained as one.”
You nodded. “That explains the sword.”
He tilted his head slightly. “And the silence?”
You glanced at him. Smiled. “That too.”
——————————————————————————
One morning, a child burst into your shop with a bloodied knee and a shaking chin. You crouched instantly, cooing softly, and began to clean it with lavender water.
Toshi was there, as he often was by then, sweeping fallen herbs into a pile. He knelt beside you without a word, holding the boy’s small hands gently between his own as you worked.
The boy sniffled. Toshi didn’t speak. He just held his hands firm, steady.
When you finished and wrapped the wound, the child glanced up.
“You’re strong.” He mumbled to Toshi, almost in awe. “Like a knight.”
Something flickered across Toshi’s face. A shadow of a frown. But he only nodded once.
After the boy left, you said quietly, “You don’t like being called that.”
“I’m not.” He said.
You studied him. “Not anymore?”
“Maybe not ever.”
But your heart tugged at that. Because you didn’t know what he meant, but the ache in his voice told you it had once mattered.
——————————————————————————
One evening, you were watering the potted sage near the shop window when he spoke again softly, almost like a confession.
“Do you believe people can change?”
You didn’t look up right away.
“I believe people can choose.” You said finally. “Change comes after that.”
He was quiet. Then he whispered, “I never had the chance to choose. Until I came here.”
You turned, then. Slowly. He was standing near the doorway, a shadow in the golden slant of dusk.
“Toshi…”
He shook his head once. “It’s nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. Not to you.
——————————————————————————
You didn’t know when it had started to feel like this, like something delicate was building between you, even if neither of you dared touch it.
It lived in small things.
How he held the basket when you gathered rosemary. How you set aside extra tea for him before you even knew he’d visit. How he said your name softly, always just once. Like it mattered.
You weren’t foolish. You knew he wasn’t a simple man. His bearing, his silences, his hands, all told you he came from a world you didn’t know.
But he looked at you like your world rested him. Like he came here to breathe.
——————————————————————————
One night, he stayed later than usual.
You had lit the lanterns early. A storm was approaching the clouds thick and low, thunder grumbling in the distance. Toshi lingered at the window, watching the rain begin to fall in curtains.
“You can stay here.” You said gently. “Until it passes.”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then he sat on the bench by the fire, his profile limned by firelight. You noticed then, his hands were trembling slightly.
“I haven’t felt safe in a storm since I was a child.” He said.
You paused. “Why not?”
He looked into the flames. The silence stretched. “Because everything I love disappears in them.”
Your heart cracked, just a little. You knelt beside him, reached for his hands.
“I’m not going anywhere.” You said softly.
And something in him unraveled.
He slept on the cot that night. You left tea by his bedside and shut the door gently. You didn’t sleep much.
The storm passed quietly, by dawn. And when you woke, he was still there. Not gone. Not hidden.
Still there.
——————————————————————————
The sickness arrived slowly. Like rot under a floorboard, hidden at first, but spreading.
You noticed it in small ways.
A child who hadn’t come for cough syrup in days. A man in the market who looked pale despite the heat. Your neighbor, who stopped tending her garden and stayed inside, the windows dark.
Then, one by one, they began to knock at your door.
——————————————————————————
“Toshi, I need more yarrow. Can you grind it?”
“Boil this bark until the water turns dark red. Stir slowly, don’t let it burn.”
“Help me carry her, she’s burning up.”
“Don’t let that one touch the others, it’s spreading.”
You worked until your fingers went numb. You couldn’t stop. Not when old Mrs. Ota couldn’t breathe through the fever. Not when the Kobayashi twins cried from their mother’s bedside. Not when you were the only one in the valley who knew what tincture even meant.
And Toshi, gods, Toshi was there for all of it. He didn’t leave your side for days. Not once.
He ground herbs until his hands blistered. Carried feverish villagers in his arms like they weighed nothing. Learned the names of every root you handed him. Fetched water and wood and wrapped bandages when your hands shook too hard to finish the knot.
But he also watched you.
Every moment. Eyes constantly on you, quiet, tracking the way your shoulders slumped, the way your breath caught, the way you sometimes stood still for just a second too long.
“You need to rest.” He said once, voice low.
You shook your head. “Later.”
“There might not be a later.” He said.
You smiled weak, but kind. “Then I’ll make sure there’s a now.”
He didn’t argue but he looked like he wanted to.
——————————————————————————
Three more days passed.
You stopped counting how many fevers you treated. How many cloths you changed. How many prayers you whispered between clenched teeth.
And then, on the fourth day, you made a mistake.
You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t slept.
You were leaning over a child’s bed, checking her breathing, when the room tilted. You blinked. Once. Twice. The air narrowed to a tunnel. Your knees went soft and the last thing you saw before your world tipped sideways was Toshi’s face turning toward you, eyes wide, hand reaching out…
Then everything went black.
——————————————————————————
You woke to cool linen against your forehead and a voice low, rough with panic.
“Don’t do that again.”
Your eyes fluttered open.
You were on your own cot. A faint breeze moved through the window. The smell of willow bark tea and rosewater floated in the air.
Toshi was sitting beside you. His eyes always so unreadable, were raw now. His hand was clenched tight around a cloth he was using to dab at your neck.
“You fainted.” He said quietly. “Your pulse was shallow. You weren’t responding.”
You tried to speak, but your throat was dry.
He handed you a cup before you could ask. Helped you sit up slowly. His arm around your back was steady. Solid.
“Did I…?” You whispered, voice hoarse. “Has anyone- ?”
“Everyone’s stable.” He said. “You did more than enough.”
You closed your eyes. Relief washed through you and shame.
“I’m sorry.” You murmured.
He stiffened beside you. “Don’t say that.”
“I was careless.”
“You were exhausted.”
Your eyes met his. “You were scared.” You whispered.
He didn’t answer. But the silence howled with truth.
“I’ve seen people die.” He said finally. His voice was quiet, but his jaw clenched. “I’ve held men as they bled out. I’ve stood in battlefields, I’ve seen sickness take entire villages. But I’ve never-”
He broke off. Looked away. Then whispered, barely audible. “I’ve never felt what I felt when I saw you fall.”
You blinked. Heat rose to your cheeks, but something inside you ached, because his voice didn’t tremble like love. It trembled like fear.
“Toshi…” You started.
“I thought I was too late.” He turned back to you, eyes dark and burning. “And I couldn’t- I couldn’t do anything.”
You reached out, slowly, and took his hand. He let you.
You felt the tension in his shoulders, the way his breath hitched once before leveling out. He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin.
“I don’t know what this is.” He said, “but I know it’s the first thing I’ve ever wanted that wasn’t given to me.”
You swallowed hard and, for a moment, you forgot to breathe.
——————————————————————————
That night, the two of you sat outside the shop under the stars. The village was quiet again. Tired, but healing.
He didn’t let go of your hand for hours.
And when you leaned your head against his shoulder, he exhaled slowly, like something in his chest had finally begun to loosen.
But he still didn’t tell you his full name. And you still didn’t ask. Because something told you, if he spoke it aloud, the magic between you might fracture.
So you said nothing. Not yet.
——————————————————————————
The days after your collapse blurred into warmth and quiet.
The village was recovering. Slowly. You still made house visits, still crushed herbs and folded bandages, but now Toshi watched you with a closer eye. Every time your hands trembled, his would steady them. Every time you swayed, he was already there.
But more than that, something had changed between you. He no longer looked away when you caught him staring. You no longer hid the way your breath caught when he reached for you.
It wasn’t spoken. It didn’t need to be.
——————————————————————————
One evening, the air smelled of chamomile and soft wind. The last of the sunset spilled golden across the hills. You and Toshi sat outside, side by side, hands brushing but not quite touching.
He turned to you his face shadowed, solemn, but open in a way you had never seen.
“I don’t know what kind of life you imagined for yourself.” He said. “But if there is space in it… I want to stand in that space.”
Your chest ached.
“I never imagined much of anything.” You said. “But somehow, you’re in all of it now.”
He reached for you then. Not with urgency, but reverence. And when his hand touched your face rough, warm, careful you leaned into it like you’d been waiting all your life.
——————————————————————————
You don’t remember how your feet carried you inside, only the hush between breaths and the trembling gentleness of his hands as he followed.
His touch was unhurried, unpracticed, almost shy. As though he feared he might shatter you if he moved too quickly. You guided him with soft touches, with murmured reassurances. With the truth your body had longed to speak.
When his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t a kiss, it was a vow.
That night, you shed years of loneliness together. You memorized each other in quiet gasps and lingering glances, in the slow brush of fingertips across bare skin, in the ache of holding and being held.
Toshi made love like a man discovering softness for the first time.
Like someone who had never been allowed to want, and now finally could.
After, he lay with you tucked against him, his breath steady against your hair, his arm around your waist like he’d never let go.
And he whispered so softly you almost missed it. “I’ve never been more myself than when I’m with you.”
You smiled against his chest. “Then stay.”
He kissed the top of your head. “I will.”
You believed him.
Until the knight came.
——————————————————————————
It was two days later. You were returning from the river path when you saw the royal crest on the stranger’s cloak, a deep green with silver embroidery. His stallion was war-trained, his armor too pristine for a simple guard.
He was speaking to the baker, brows furrowed. Toshi wasn’t anywhere in sight.
Your chest tightened. You slipped quietly behind the bakery wall and listened.
“…spotted near the border during the ambush. He’s not just missing, he’s avoiding the castle. There’s talk he’s hiding in the southern villages. Have you seen any unfamiliar men?”
The baker mumbled something. The knight frowned.
“He may be using a false name. He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Scar over his left brow.”
Your breath caught.
A scar.
You stepped back, before turning and running.
——————————————————————————
You found him by the river, just outside the village. He was crouched low, filling a basket with smooth stones, a habit he’d picked up from you. He looked peaceful.
You didn’t feel peaceful.
“Toshi.”
He looked up. Saw your face and stilled.
You dropped the basket in your hands.
“Who are you?”
He stood slowly. “I- ”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Silence.
“My name is Wakatoshi Ushijima.” He breathed out and your world blurred.
You shook your head. “That’s the prince’s name.”
He looked at you and said nothing. As if silence would soften the truth.
“You lied to me.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Everything you told me was a lie.”
“No.” He said, voice sharp. “Everything I felt was real.”
Your hands curled into fists. “You let me fall for someone who doesn’t exist.”
He stepped forward. You stepped back.
“You don’t understand.” He said, voice strained. “I came here wounded, hiding. But I stayed because of you. Not because of who I was, but because you saw who I could be.”
“I saw what you let me see.” You whispered. “And I trusted you.”
He said your name and you broke.
“You made love to me while lying to my face.”
That stopped him. Like a blow to the chest.
You turned before he could see the tears fall. “Don’t follow me.”
You left him standing in the riverlight, the wind pulling at his cloak, the prince who was never supposed to be yours.
——————————————————————————
The days after the truth fell apart were hollow.
You moved through them like a ghost, hands still grinding herbs, lips still forming words of comfort, but the warmth was gone. Where once your work had been lit by something bright, now it felt like tending wounds in the dark.
You didn’t speak his name. You couldn’t.
The villagers noticed your quietness, of course. Old Mrs. Ota reached for your hand once and said, “Even healers need healing.” You smiled, small and brittle, but you didn’t answer.
At night, when you lay in your cot, your body still remembered him. The shape of his hand at your waist, the way his breath had steadied when you leaned against his chest. You shut your eyes against the memory, but it pressed in anyway.
He had been yours. And yet, not.
——————————————————————————
Far away, in the castle that loomed over the hills, the prince walked its halls with steps that sounded too loud in the silence.
The palace was colder than he remembered. The walls were lined with tapestries, the air thick with incense, but to him, it felt like stone and emptiness. Every bow from a servant, every formal report from a knight, every polite nod from a courtier scraped against him.
He had spent his life being the “Stone Prince.” The man with no feelings. The one who could not be shaken. And yet, now when he stood in the great hall, when he trained in the yard, when he sat at the king’s table he felt only one thing.
Loss.
Your face lingered in every shadow. Your voice threaded through every silence. And for the first time in his life, he hated himself for not being brave enough to give you the truth sooner.
But duty held him. Or maybe it was cowardice. He truly didn’t even know anymore.
He returned to his role, the prince with iron eyes. But inside, his heart bled still.
——————————————————————————
It was nearly a month later when the news reached him.
A messenger arrived breathless at dawn, dust streaking his cloak. Rebels, he said. Armed men from the neighboring kingdom, slipping across the border to raid. The valley had been hit. Villages burned.
Wakatoshi didn’t wait for orders. He didn’t wait for a council meeting or his father’s decree.
The moment he heard your village’s name, something inside him snapped.
He left the castle that night with only his sword and his horse, his fury so sharp it silenced every knight who tried to stop him.
The “Stone Prince” was gone.
This was just a man wild with fear.
——————————————————————————
The village was smoke and ruin when he arrived. The air stank of fire and iron, of fear and broken things. He cut down two rebels on the path before he even dismounted, their blades still red.
“Where is she?” He demanded of every villager he found, grabbing shoulders, scanning faces. “Where is she?”
No one had seen you.
His chest tightened. His hands shook.
Until he heard your voice.
It was faint, strained, coming from behind the wreckage of the old blacksmith’s shop.
You were crouched there, clutching a wounded child to your chest, blood smeared across your face where a rebel had struck you. And even then, even shaking, exhausted, covered in ash you were still fighting to keep someone else alive.
“(Y/n)!”
You looked up. And the world seemed to stop.
He was there. Bloodied, furious, alive.
“Wakatoshi?” Your voice cracked.
You didn’t have time to say more. A rebel lunged from the shadows behind you.
Wakatoshi moved faster than thought. His sword cut clean through the man’s strike, steel clanging, sparks flying. The rebel fell at his feet, and Wakatoshi stood over you, chest heaving.
“I found you.” He whispered, almost desperate. “I found you.”
—
But it wasn’t over. The fighting surged around you both once again. Shouts, steel, fire. Wakatoshi fought like a storm, cutting down every enemy that drew near. He shielded you with his own body, his eyes burning.
But then, one blade slipped through. You saw it before he did.
“Wakatoshi!”
The rebel’s spear caught his side. The impact sent him staggering. He gritted his teeth, tore it free, and felled the man in one brutal strike, but when he turned, blood poured down his ribs.
You scrambled to him, hands catching his shoulders.
“No, no, no- stay with me.” You pleaded, forcing him down before he collapsed.
His eyes found yours. Steady, even now.
“If this is the price.” He murmured, voice rough. “I’ll pay it. To keep you safe.”
“Don’t you dare.” You snapped, tears blurring your sight. “Don’t you dare leave me now.”
You pressed your hands against the wound, herbs and bandages spilling from your satchel as you worked with frantic precision. Your mind spun with remedies, with every scrap of healing knowledge you had. But your heart, your heart screamed, because this was him.
The man who had lied. The prince who had broken you. The only person you still wanted to live.
——————————————————————————
The battle waned. The rebels fled. Villagers began to gather, but you saw none of it. All you saw was Wakatoshi’s pale face, his heavy breath, the weight of his blood on your hands.
“Stay awake.” You begged. “Please, Toshi, please.”
His eyes fluttered. His hand caught yours, holding it tight against his chest.
“You called me Toshi.” He whispered.
“I don’t care who you are.” You cried, pressing your forehead to his. “Prince, knight, liar whatever name you want- I don’t care. Just stay. Please stay. You promised you’d stay with me.”
And in that moment, he smiled. Small. Pained. But real.
“For you.” He said. “Always.”
——————————————————————————
You kept him alive. Through the night, through the fever, through the hours where every breath seemed like it might be his last, you kept him tethered to this world with your hands and your will.
And when dawn came, he opened his eyes again.
You wept into his shoulder. He held you weakly, but held you all the same.
——————————————————————————
The villagers believed the prince had fallen in the raid. Whispers spread that the Stone Prince had been slain defending innocents, that his body had been carried off by the enemy.
But the truth was quieter. Softer.
In the little shop by the hillside, you tended his wounds. You nursed him back to health. And for the first time, he was not a prince, nor a soldier, nor a stone figure for the world to look upon.
He was just a man.
Yours.
——————————————————————————
Weeks later, when he was strong enough to stand again, you walked together through the village fields, hand in hand. The lavender had begun to bloom, and the hills smelled of summer.
“You’ll be missed.” You said softly.
He nodded. “Perhaps. But they will move on.”
“And you?” You asked, glancing at him. “Do you regret it?”
His hand tightened around yours.
“Leaving the crown is not a loss.” He said. “Losing you would have been.”
Your chest ached with love so sharp it almost hurt.
“I thought you had no heart.” You teased gently.
He looked down at you, his expression quiet but certain.
“You are my heart.” He said simply.
And for once, you believed it.
The Stone Prince was gone. But the man he left behind was everything you had ever wanted.
And when the lavender bloomed that summer, he was there to see it with you.
Always.
Tags: @pizzitamia
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