#Strategic deterrence | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

solifloris · 1 month ago

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≡;-꒰ 𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒋𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒆𝒏 - 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟏

╰┈➤ ❝ xavier x afab!reader | 18+ only

tags : long fic, porn with plot (but the smut only happens in part 2), prince!xavier x knight!reader, separate from the lightseeker era we know and more of a different royal au, slight angst, hurt/comfort, slowburn ish, mutual yearning, slight miscommunication (well it's xavier…), still has soft fluffy moments though, use of "my prince" "my liege" "your highness" from reader. smut tags to be identified for part 2!

IMPORTANT - this is part 1 because apparently tumblr has a 1000-block limit that won't let me post the entire fic in one whole post...... so please see this link for part 2, or the full fic on AO3 !!

wc : 19.8k total / part 1 - 12.3k / part 2 - 7.5k

an : something probably possessed me, and also this was written while the lovebrush chronicles theme was on repeat lmfao <3 somewhat late but! for @xavmc-week days 1 (knight x royalty), 2 (firsts), and 3 (moon/stars), another royalty fic from yours truly! now IF you're here for the smut... then that's in part 2, but it does work better with the context of part 1 <3

taglist to be reblogged : SIGN UP HERE ; but also special tags for @xaviersknight (WHO INSPIRED THIS ICB YOU IVY) + @star-in-deepspace + @ourlittleuluru for the moral support 💖

ko-fi jar / commissions

With a single word and a gentle touch, you turned a moment into forever.

"Again."

Xavier's tone was even. Even as he stepped back into position, there was nothing different in the way that he looked at you—head tilted slightly in a challenge, an air of anticipation of your next move.

Yet, behind those steely eyes showed a brief spark of amusement.

Xavier had always been the better one with the sword, but it was never a factor to prevent you from being coached by him. In your belief, part of a knight's duty was to learn—You could never be at your best possible ability if you refused to, and you could never be able to protect His Highness when it counted the most. No matter to you that the very subject of your guard was the very one you were trying to best—

It still counted.

And he had always been, thankfully, quite easy to learn from.

Now, in this moment, a gentle spring breeze brushed through your features, and you raised your practice blade with a steady grip.

Again.

Feet apart, shoulders squared.

Eyes focused.

"You're going to bruise," you mumbled. Not for haughtiness to break through in your tone, but enough to give yourself an adequate boost of confidence—you were, after all, his chosen attending knight.

"You say that like it's a deterrent."

Smooth words fell from his lips even at the moment of your advance. Wooden swords met in a sharp clash, a resounding clunk from the impact. Even in his response he acted swiftly—precise movements, not simply like a trained knight, but like someone who had studied and even mastered the art of war with diligence. You could mumble to yourself about how learning under the same master could yield vastly divergent results, and the proof of it would be manifested in the both of you. But at the same time, it was something you knew well. For Xavier, this had begun long before you had taken up your own armor.

Strategic, calculating, intentional. Not a single movement was wasted. Of it all, you thought, it was a quiet elegance well befitting of the crown prince.

However, you'd also like to think that he taught you well.

And there it was.

A sharp twist and a pull earned you your opening, easily allowing to you disarm. The wooden sword in his hold clattered thickly onto the ground, but before he could move to retrieve it, you quickly stepped on its hilt.

Xavier looked up from where he'd dropped to one knee.

His lips quirked; not a smile, nor a threat, but a rather amused notion of acknowledgment. "Is this how you treat your prince?"

Hands on your hips and an air of well-earned victory, you grinned. "Only when he insists on getting himself killed in the yard. May I remind you that this was your doing, Your Highness."

"Well, I could order you to be gentler."

"You wouldn't."

"I could."

"…Hm. And so we can say that I'd pretend to obey."

With a soft chuckle and a shake of his head he stood, the spring breeze ruffling through his hair. Your eyes caught in it—you could marvel at how soft he would always keep his hair no matter how grueling the training, and it seemed in that moment that the way the sun filtered through it made him glow even brighter today.

Even despite the defeat.

"Prince Xavier," you raised an eyebrow, "you wouldn't intend to tell me you'd orchestrated my win, did you?"

"I could never do that."

"But… you go easy on me far too much. You mustn't spoil a knight like this."

"And are there to be consequences?"

That same smile curved slightly at his lips again, and he dusted off his pants. You, in turn, stood still in your place. Even as he moved closer, took a step towards you in a manner completely unnecessary, you hadn't the heart to rebuke him for it.

He was teasing.

"…I wouldn't dream of it, my liege," you mumbled.

And he smiled.

"I'm not going easy on you. The reason for you to stand by my side so often that you do is your own abilities."

A strand of your hair had become loose from your ponytail, and he reached a gloved hand out to brush it behind your ear.

Your breath caught in your throat.

"But you're very loyal," he added softly. "You always have been."

The pause between you both indicated well how much you wished you could say otherwise—and you wished you could. Your loyalties had always been with him, and him alone. Your reasons for staying were him, and him alone.

But you couldn't say things like that, and it was expected anyway that you wouldn't.

Instead when you spoke, it was with the same reverence in your voice as all the other knights. You took a step back before you forgot all that was necessary in your stature, and played the role that laid your loyalties bare for the palace as a whole.

"I serve the crown."

Automatic, like protocol.

Your head bowed, immediately dropping to the knee before him. Moments ago this position had been reversed in lieu of your duel, and you could only seek to erase such a scandalous image from your head. It should only be this way—Right hand tucked behind, left in a fist, crossed steadily over your heart.

A sign of the oath.

For it were the knights who yielded to the royals, and never the other way around.

"Your Highness, you know very well that my life lives only for yours."

And you remembered the first time you had recited it.

Years ago still, on the day of the accolade. You had been officially dubbed a member of the Order—The Lightseekers, as they were so reverently called; an elite force trained to serve the royal household to the death. You remembered the rush of adrenaline as you raised your hand to give your life as an offering:

Here do I swear, by mouth and hand, fealty and service to the Crown and Kingdom of Philos.

Even now, despite your closer relationship to the prince himself, you could never bring yourself to abandon such an oath.

Yet, Xavier tapped you gently your shoulder.

Two simple words:

"At ease."

He bent once more to retrieve his blade as you rose, respectfully dusting it off despite it only being a simple practice weapon. Handing it to you, you realized as you looked at him that his eyes held a strange sort of softness to it—and it was this expression that you had never learned to read. Even after years spent together, it was still one that had never failed to elude you.

"How strange," Xavier mumbled. Quiet, exceedingly so—almost enough for his words to evade you completely. "So do I. But… I find that I care more about the knight holding the sword."

And you could call yourself an accomplished knight.

Despite everything, what he'd said about your abilities rang true—you hadn't been recommended this position, you'd climbed to it yourself. You were acknowledged in the Order as someone who had what it took to protect him; acknowledged in the palace, even, for your very skill with the blade you held.

But of all the shields and all the armor you'd bested in the past, there was one that you could never.

Because Xavier had been like this for as long as you'd remembered.

Quiet.

Dutiful.

How long had it been since he'd freely let himself feel, you wondered?

It had been far too long since then. The first time you saw him cry, he was eleven. A small figure cloaked in midnight velvet—

Standing far too still for a child at his mother's funeral.

You weren't a knight then, not yet. Just a simple commoner, too young and unimportant to be noticed. The entire Kingdom had been invited in service of the Queen, and you were lined up with many others; eyes front, knelt before her coffin.

The royal family had been in mourning.

Yet, Prince Xavier hadn't made a sound.

Quiet.

Dutiful.

Even then he'd carried himself with such an air of elegance; even then he'd resigned himself to display any more vulnerability than was necessary. People came and went, knelt before the Queen and left just as you did. And behind him, you knew—courtiers, maids, assistants—they would whisper; marvel, even.

Because Prince Xavier stood simply beside the coffin, chin lifted.

And he watched.

And he waited.

Perhaps, longer than the others.

Even the King had left, and the halls had closed.

You remembered that day clearly—because the moment he stepped outside of the chapel, his head was down. That crown of silvery hair, a striking feature of all members of the royal family of Philos, stuck wetly to the skin of his forehead. No longer neatly combed. No longer properly styled. And that perfectly-tailored suit had soaked through as he stood.

All preparation of his attendants could be viewed as all for naught, and the clouds surely showed no mercy.

Eleven-year-old Prince Xavier stood, limbs hanging limp at his sides, not even flinching at the slightest rumble of the thunder… His fingers curled slightly, but that was the only remaining hint of movement left, as if he'd long since stopped trying to be.

His gaze remained downcast.

For you, just a little girl in rags for robes, this was a moment unseeming of you to intrude on. You'd understood this to be a private moment for the prince, surely—and even thinking back, you were never quite sure what had compelled you to act. Only that a member of the royal family couldn't possibly be left out of the rain.

So thinking, perhaps, outside of your best interest, little feet padded the steps between you and the prince. You were far more used to the rain than he, you figured. You were far more accustomed to the soil beneath your feet. And with a little bit of a tiptoe, you raised your feebly constructed bamboo umbrella over his head.

"You'll get sick out in the rain, Sir Prince," you'd smiled. As if your umbrella could withstand the rain for long; as if it were truly enough to shield him like a better constructed one would.

But no matter, you'd thought, for the King would find him soon enough.

And blue eyes met yours, and then the rainfall was all you could hear. Words weren't exchanged any further. You only smiled brightly, offered a curtsy with as much elegance as you were able. With the umbrella transferred into his hand, you'd done what you had approached him to do.

Of all the shields and all the armor you'd bested since you'd decided to enlist… there was one that you could never.

You hadn't seen Xavier cry since that day.

That shield—it was standing right in front of you. And you knew that your vow had been made much sooner than the day of the accolade.

Long before he remembered you, you had already chosen him.

Instinctively your grip around the two practice swords in your hand tightened, and you lowered your head so as not to meet his gaze.

I care more about the knight holding the sword.

"My liege… You really mustn't say things like that."

&—

That night, you found him exactly where you thought he'd be.

On the floor of the upper library, ten paces to the right.

This was a location you had marked on your mental map with a star; one of Xavier's most frequently visited night spot.

They called it the high eastern balcony. During the day, it was often filled with various staff and members of the palace itself, yet it tended to be unattended in the evenings. The library you walked past had closed hours earlier in the night; there was little to no reason for anyone to remain here.

Xavier liked the quiet.

You knew him well enough by now to know that.

And so you rounded the corner, the stone ledge of the balcony curved like a crescent moon over the sleeping gardens below. In this blanket of stars and the hush of silver light, it was true that the hour was later than either of you would truly care to admit.

Xavier didn't turn.

He had a hand braced on the balustrade, head tilted towards the sky. His coat was folded beside him—neat, to be tucked away. His hair, on the other hand, was slightly tousled, as though he'd run a hand through it already one too many times. Yet the silence wasn't one to keep you away—it was only one you took as an invitation.

Your footsteps slowed.

"So you were here," you murmured softly.

Walking from the archway to stand beside him, you leaned against the balustrade. The breeze stirred; you gently nudged his coat towards him.

He glanced at you, but he didn't take it.

“I didn’t expect you to come."

15 centimeters apart.

You shifted, aware of how close you'd gotten, and he didn't stop you.

You shrugged; “You’re not hard for me to find. But you should be asleep, Your Highness."

"So should you.”

“I’m not the one with a council breathing down my neck by sunrise.”

“I'm not the one with training drills in the morning.”

Another pause.

This time, the both of you looked at each other, and a soft laugh spilled from your lips. Your shoulders relaxed, your eyes softened. You regarded his figure, then—properly. Took in his form, the outline of the moonlight bringing a different glow to his attire than you'd seen from the sun just this afternoon.

The only reason Xavier so often came to this balcony was to watch the stars…

Because the stars were there to offer him comfort.

"…You've been restless lately," you whispered. You let your words be carried through the wind.

"So you've noticed."

“I’m trained to notice.”

He smiled.

The first time that night, he turned to face you, and his head tilted down—something of another quiet challenge, like he often did with you. Cheeky, still. Boyish, a little. Your heart skipped whenever you thought that you could bring out this more easygoing nature, of the Crown Prince of Philos.

“And if I asked what you thought was keeping me up?” he raised an eyebrow.

"Then… I’d say you were thinking too much about what everyone else wants from you. Or, of you. Things like that."

Just like the little girl who'd run up to offer him her umbrella, you spoke with a conviction, now, that you didn't know you could still have.

A little pretentious for a mere knight to say, you thought grimly.

But instead of chastising you, Xavier only chuckled.

"…Sorry. I mean it's only that, far too often… I always wonder what you think about. If you tense at all the duties that you have, and all the expectations you've been trained to meet from the moment you were born…" Your expression turned feeble as you added, "Prince Xavier often looks like he feels a little trapped. Sometimes, that's what I think."

"Do you think everyone notices?"

"Only if they care enough to, I guess."

"So… you care enough to."

"I… suppose."

Again the breeze passed, ruffling through your clothing.

"Then. Do you also want something from me? Like the others?"

He met your gaze. Held it. It was a silent command for you not to dare turn away in this instant.

"…Of course not, my liege. If I were to wish for something, then it… would be only for more of your own freedom."

You received yet another smile, then.

Yet in that moment, you didn't know, yourself, how true your words were. Whether that was all that you wanted, or whether a part of you still yearned for that something more that you always insisted on keeping at bay. Could you had deluded yourself into thinking it was nothing? Could you had deluded yourself into believing you had no selfish desires of him?

It was an opening for you to speak of it, but you didn't.

You couldn't.

You couldn't, not even to bring yourself to confront them in your head.

Because that was unbecoming of a knight.

Xavier didn't press you on it. Whether he believed you or he didn't, you couldn't tell, but still this time it was his turn to look away. There was a hum as he leaned into his palm, and far below, a lone guard crossed the courtyard. His boots echoed—faint and distant.

"Do you ever think about leaving?" he murmured. “This.” He nodded out into the gardens. It was a subtle gesture to indicate what he'd recognized to be your own cage. “The castle. The role. The duty. I'm not the only one trapped here."

And you should have expected it.

Often, Xavier would say things like this. The burden of your duty this, the burden of your guard that.

You hesitated—

"No." You could never leave; you were here for him. You wouldn't unless he did. "It was my choice to come here. So then, it's my choice to stay."

With a small shake of his head, he looked away again. "Well, I wonder, sometimes, what I’d be without all this.”

“…Your own duties?"

"Mn."

"I think… then you’d still be you.”

“And, you? Who would you be?”

"…Someone less useful. Probably. Because to me, you're…"

You caught yourself.

Perhaps, if you knew Xavier a certain amount, then it was to be expected that he knew you equally as much. Because he knew exactly what to say to you. If you'd continued… then he'd understand exactly why it was that you'd refused to leave.

You absolutely couldn't be loose-lipped on such a selfish thing.

Your sentence sat unfinished.

But still he didn't push, and that little smile edging at his lips—still at your unwillingness to breach the subject—was his only acknowledgment.

Instead of responding directly, his gaze shifted from the gardens and back up to the sky; you watched as it did. Watched the way his gaze seemed to relax at such a simple motion, the way the galaxy seemed to reflect in the blue of his eyes that you'd come to adore so much. The wonder that filled his expression was always different when he watched the stars. You wondered if the same thing happened whenever you looked at him.

"Do you know their names?" he said quietly.

He didn't take his eyes off the sky, and you shook your head. "Not really. I… I know the Scales, I think, and the… Wolf, was it? The one they say guards kings?"

He scoffed lightly, "That sounds fitting for you."

"Yeah? I always liked that one, but I can never point it out."

Xavier glanced at you then, and then gently reached out to hold you at your wrist. The leather of his gloves was softer than you remembered—but you didn't remember the last time he'd touched you. Not like this.

Your eyes followed, tried not to focus on the warmth of him being so familiar with you—

"Lupus is very faint," he said quietly, "the wolf. It has many stars, so it gets difficult to point it out. But… it's a clear night tonight. So there it is. I think wolves are often associated with protection, and maybe that's why it has a reputation like that."

Slowly he drew your hand up with his, pointing out little stars that formed the vague outline of a wolf.

You could see it only if you squinted.

"…I wouldn't be able to see it unless you draw it out for me," you huffed, and in response to that, he only chuckled before he pulled away.

His touch lingered even then.

Your gaze drew down to his hands.

"Do you… have constellations that you like, Your Highness?"

For a moment he didn't speak.

From the stars and down to you, he too, lingered—you could feel it, the stare; the way he seemed to be searching for an answer that he could only possibly get through you.

"I… used to like the ones I couldn't name."

You blinked, looked up at him.

It wasn't the answer you were expecting, and he knew that.

There was that smile again.

"They didn't owe anyone anything," he said softly. "So I used to think it must be nice, to be nameless."

But I like your name.

You couldn't bring yourself to say it.

Instead you stepped a little closer.

15 centimeters became 5—

Your shoulders brushed. Then stayed.

"I like the ones I can name," you murmured. "Things feel a little more real when you name them. A little more within reach, and not so high up in the sky like that."

A smile peeked at your lips.

"…Right, Prince Xavier?"

This, here—this one was real, too.

&—

You hadn't seen it coming.

The patrol was supposed to be routine—a simple escort through the northern woods after a diplomatic visit, a simple ride past those trees that you had already been familiar with for long. Nighttime made it unnerving, but you'd done this job one too many times. You had never once come across any issues.

…Not until that moment.

The trees had been too still. The birds had been too quiet. And then came the arrows, the flash of blades from under cloaks, the glint of then moonlight on steel—real, real swords this time, no longer practice ones.

Your body moved before your thoughts could form.

A hiss of air; the sound of metal slicing wind… It was this moment you knew what it meant to be a serving knight, and perhaps it was the cold fear of your prince getting injured that had you moving then without hesitation.

You lunged; shoved him hard to the side.

A blade meant for him, fallen only instead to you—

Here do I swear, by mouth and hand, fealty and service to the Crown and Kingdom of Philos.

You hardly remembered what had happened afterwards. Only that you'd been met with darkness far too soon; much sooner than you'd liked to admit.

&—

When you came to, the room you were laying in was dim.

Your vision took a while to focus. This wasn't the silvery light of the moon; it was candles. Lanterns. Two of them, and then the fire in the hearth. Rain tapped softly against the windowpanes, echoing the hush that had fallen since the healers left… You felt faint traces of them, the healers—and undeniably, the pain in your shoulder had lessened.

You blinked and sat up from the bed.

Your bed.

This was your room.

You'd made it back safely.

Nevermind that you were bare from the waist up save for the cloth binding wrapped around you; you felt the way your hair clung damply to your face and neck. Sensation began to creep back into you, and you were very much awake.

Awake enough to notice the figure clad in white, not too far away from you, back still turned.

Awake enough to scowl at him.

"You’re supposed to be at council,” you frowned. A quick glance out the window told you that a day had passed. Several, perhaps. The sun was setting anew; you didn't know, anymore, how long you'd been out.

Xavier, on the other hand, stood by the fireplace, a brand new suit and cloak to sport—

He shouldn't be here.

Yet he turned, anyway, and gave you a cold look.

"They can wait."

You watched as he made his way towards you, sharp steps of his boots on the concrete.

The firelight caught in his hair.

"…You're being dramatic," you mumbled. "I've had the healers, right? And you're not even the one who got hurt..."

"That's not what it felt like."

You watched as he dropped down to a crouch beside the basin, jaw tight, hands red to the wrists.

The silence was sharp.

Uncomfortable.

Xavier was a man of few words, but this was something else. The way that he spoke to you now made you shiver—no longer that kind, gentler prince you knew him to be with you…

Now, he was upset.

You watched him draw in a breath, and then he glanced at you.

“You were reckless,” he muttered.

You didn't answer.

You probably were.

He looked up sharply then as if to emphasize his point, “You could've been killed.”

"No, you could've been killed."

"That’s not the point.”

“Yes, it is!”

You frowned deeper this time, sat up straighter. Dared to meet his gaze. Challenged him.

So unbecoming of a knight, yet you did it anyway.

“That’s exactly the point," you leveled; "I stepped in because that is my duty. Because that way you wouldn't get hurt. And you didn’t—thank God you didn't.”

The tension stayed.

Xavier turned away, rinsed the cloth again, wrung it out with more force than necessary. Water splashed on the stone.

"I had guards,” he huffed, "other guards. You didn’t have to—”

“I did, because you were in danger! I made a choice that I had to, Your Highness, and I'm still your attending knight for a reason."

Again for a moment of pause, he pressed the cloth to your arm. But the silence stung more than the pressure; more than the pain that shot up through your wound.

You didn't wince.

Your jaw tightened, but you didn't wince.

And when he spoke again, his voice was softer—cold, still; upset, still, but… softer.

He kept his focus on your arm.

“You can’t keep doing this,” he mumbled. “Throwing yourself in front of every blade meant for me.”

"You know that as long as they swing, then I'll have to."

"It's not right."

"It's my duty. It doesn't have to be right."

He gave a low sound, almost like a laugh, but bitter. “Then do you always have to be like this? Fearless? Foolish?”

"Faithful.”

That made him fall silent.

The both of you were close, now, just enough to feel his breath as he leaned in to inspect your injury. His hand, gloved still on one side, was warm against your skin. This was the second time you could recall that he'd touched you so tenderly.

It was enough, too, to make you pause. Normally you were so good at maintaining the distance, but this was difficult. His skin was searing to the touch; you felt almost guilty for it.

But you felt it, the tremor. Slight, but still there.

"…You were shaking," you said quietly. "I… I remember. Afterwards. For a moment, I thought I…"

"I didn't like it."

You looked at him, and he gave you one short glance before looking back away.

"I… didn't like seeing you bleed."

You bit your lip.

Again, you recalled what he'd said—I care more about the knight holding the sword. And then something raw opened in your chest, but you swallowed it down.

No.

Now wasn't the time.

And so you waited, in silence, as Xavier finished dressing the bandage with slow, careful precision. His fingers lingered—tender, still, but just shy of affectionate.

You really must be delusional.

The silence that stayed was heavier than any blade you'd taken.

&—

Days passed.

Now you walked through the halls, another morning to start anew. The sun broke clean, and golden... It streaked through the tall palace windows, bathed the stone floors with light. At the same time, there were voices that echoed distantly. Servants, guards… You heard someone in the courtyard call for a stable boy. All just normal occurrences in a day, and you flexed your shoulders as you walked.

You'd healed since then. The gash on your shoulder had long since gone from that evening.

Everything should be normal.

But… some things didn't quite go back to the way they used to.

Polite nods, a shared glance across a room.

You were still around Xavier—you should be; it was required of you. But you hadn't seen him much, not properly. You'd caught him watching you get back into your training, but he hadn't approached; always stayed in his place to look at you from afar.

Polite nods, a shared glance across a room.

Xavier had distanced himself.

You had to think back to your last encounter, those last words. He'd treated you once, that day, and hadn't returned— you knew that he was upset. He never quite told you why, other than clearly expressing displeasure for your impulsiveness that had gotten you injured, but you figured that you could guess. Xavier wasn't good with emotions. You could only surmise based on what you knew that he didn't want to risk seeing you bleed like that by getting closer to you.

And it was to be expected, wasn't it? It shouldn't have bothered you; every knight was the same. In service of the crown, only you had ever gotten so close to the Crown Prince himself.

You should have been just fine without it—

Like everyone else was.

Still his absence left a gaping hole, and though you willed yourself to get used to it, to go about your daily routine as you did without him, it was something else to get used to.

Your footsteps continued down the hall, and you missed him.

And it was such a pretentious thought for a knight.

Yet—

There he was.

You'd rounded the corner.

There walked Xavier, looking decidedly less princely in a simple linen shirt and a travel cloak less fitting of royalty. He hadn't noticed you yet; he had his gaze settled onto the gloves he was still tucking into his belt.

There he was.

It had been a while since you'd had time alone, and you— froze. Could only stand there, like an idiot, and then he was the one approaching.

"You look well," he stopped in front of you. A once-over, and he nodded, one simple regard of acknowledgment. Like he had been doing.

"…Better now, my liege. I've taken up training for the past week, and have since made a full recovery."

"That's nice to see. No more pains?"

"None, Your Highness." Your head lowered. Your throat felt dry when you continued, but you did, still, anyway. "I'm to be at your service once more, if you'll have me. You know… where to find me, if you have something to ask of."

And as if by instinct, as if expecting this to be yet another moment to simply pass you by, you stepped aside.

He didn't move, not this time.

Instead you stood like that, eyes locked onto the ground, noted the dust on his boots—and these ones you realized looked a lot more worn out than his usual.

Then, with something like hesitation,

“I was on my way down to the town.”

You looked up. "I… see."

“They’ve reopened the northern market street. I wanted to… walk it. It seems there's to be many new shops reopened.”

You nodded.

A longer silence.

Then he added, almost too casually, almost too obvious in his attempts at shoving the tension in the air right away— “You could come with me. If you like.”

It had been days since you'd heard him say something similar. Anything similar.

You couldn't help the smile tugging at your lips.

"Is… is that a command, Your Highness?”

“It’s an invitation,” he tilted his head slightly. “One you’re free to refuse. But… I'd rather you don't...”

So you did smile, this time. With enough time to look away to hide it, you did smile. Still you weren't sure just how willingly you could take his words, but—this might truly have been the first time he'd addressed you so directly since that night.

You were weak.

Pathetic, almost.

You'd grasp at straws of his affection like your life depended on it.

And when he spoke again, his voice was softer—a little less distant. "You… said that you liked it, when things were named. As for me, I… could use your judgment—" If his voice could nudge, this would be akin to it. "…And your company."

When you looked back at him, you noticed it.

There was a flicker of something boyish in him just then. Dare you say it—hopefully boyish. Not the crown prince, not the diplomatic heir, but a young man with the anticipation of spending a day out in town with…

You.

With you. You gave a quiet smile, “Then I’ll come.”

Fully, then, his expression softened into something warm, and you watched as his shoulders relaxed.

Was he nervous?

“Good," he nodded, "I’ll have horses prepared for us both.”

You realized, then, that the conviction of that little girl—the one who gave him the umbrella, the one so bold as to assume of his struggles… She still existed. She always had. And now, you grasped at the loose fabric of his cloak.

"Prince Xavier."

He looked over his shoulder.

"I… didn't say I'd come just because you asked.”

He held your gaze for a long second, and then with the barest tilt of his head, he said—

"I know."

You could have sworn you'd seen a smile on his face before he left.

&—

The town was alive with spring.

Bright pennants fluttered above cobbled streets, the scent of blooming flowers mingled with roasted chestnuts and freshly-baked bread. Market stalls stretched out in neat rows. Each one seemed to be bursting with color—baskets of fruit, rows of dyed fabrics, arrays of trinkets, and even displays of spice jars… It had been a while since you'd ventured out into town, and you couldn't recall it being quite so colorful. A lute played in the distance, a melody jovial enough for a town square dance. Just a little down the block you could see the townsfolk gathering over to dance, and even the mere sight of it made you smile.

It was so easy here, to forget about it. The duties, the formalities.

You even nudged the man beside you to point him in the direction of the ongoing dance, and you were pleased to see that the smile Xavier was wearing wasn't quite the forced, polite grin he often wore in front of the court.

And Xavier wore his most inconspicuous cloak.

He called it that, anyway.

It wasn't very inconspicuous.

Even browsing through the markets while many were occupied with the dance still drew glances here and there, and you shrank, a little, into your cloak.

"You’re drawing more attention than I am,” you said dryly.

"Oh. Is it the boots? They do shine a bit…”

Oblivious.

"No, you've even dusted them. I'd say it’s more the way you look like… uh, someone who’s never had to haggle in his life.”

Almost as if to prove your point, you watched with a sigh as he stopped at a stall. Honeyed pastries, you noted—not that you knew Xavier to have a particularly sweet tooth, but you let him be anyway.

He held up a coin. "How much for two?"

The vendor, a stout man with a crooked smile, squinted. “For you? Five copper.”

“That seems high…"

You crossed your arms, and at your lack of response, Xavier turned to you disapprovingly. "You’re supposed to back me up.”

Another grin made its way to your face, and an eyebrow raised. "Should I? But this is the real world, my liege.”

Xavier hadn't the heart to argue then.

He handed over the necessary coins, then gave one of the pastries to you with a little frown on his face.

The thought made its way to your head before you could stop it:

Cute.

"You're enjoying this," he mumbled.

“Immensely.”

And wandering through the square proved easy enough.

Every now and then the tune would change, a couple more musicians would join in the fun, and the music would become a little livelier. You and Xavier, on the other hand, took an easy pace—sampling food whenever you could, and pausing to admire the local handiwork on display. So many things were adorable. Though your own room was quite plain and you thought you had little need for trinkets and displays, a smile would show whenever you stopped by one that had caught your attention.

The next time it happened, you'd run your fingers over a bundle of blue-and-yellow blossoms, a striking difference out of the other ceramic paper weights. And Xavier caught your wrist.

"You want one?" he asked quietly.

"I… I don't need one—"

"I didn't ask if you needed them."

Xavier was a man of a few words, but oftentimes it was his actions that shone through the most.

You couldn't answer him.

He bought the paper weight and handed it to you with a little air of triumph—"They're forget-me-nots," he smiled. "If we can find the real flowers one day, then I'd like to give them to you."

You didn't think about how his voice was so gentle; you didn't think about the implications of receiving flowers from the Crown Prince.

Instead, ignoring the skip of your heartbeat, you stared forward.

At the end of the street, the corner rounded into a bookstore that you knew had already been marked on Xavier's itinerary.

You glanced up;

Noontime.

You'd spent the entire morning here, and likely would a couple more hours at this one final stop. Briefly in your head you wondered how Xavier had gotten out of his royal duties for the day, but you didn't question it aloud, you just followed him in.

With a soft jingle, the bell above the doorway signaled your entrance. Immediately the music from town square seemed to drown itself out.

It was quiet here. Serene, almost. And even if you hadn't yet been here before, the scent of ink and parchment washed over you, old and familiar. Naturally Xavier had been drawn towards the back shelves, but you stood a while by the entrance in awe at the vast collection—It was almost as big as the royal libraries.

Separated from Xavier, you were left to browse in silence. Your hand trailed over the spines of various travelogues and maps; various novels, encyclopedias, memoirs…

And then a few few minutes passed by like that before you heard it.

“You have good taste,” came a kind, gentle voice.

It was somewhere off to the distance—you weren't far behind from where Xavier had headed off to, and it seemed to be coming from there.

You heard the flip of a page, then, and a quiet laugh—

"I try," came Xavier's voice next. Cordial, polite, and just friendly enough to engage.

But this was not his princely voice. You knew it well, but perhaps you'd gotten too far in your head to believe he'd only use such a tone with you alone.

The girl laughed, and you quietly approached the section. “You picked one of my favorites! I always hoped someone would notice it. It's been a while since anyone had."

"Really? Then I'm honored."

You saw her, then. Peeked through the shelves to catch a glimpse. A young woman with neatly braided hair stood across from him, sorting a stack of volumes just nearby. She was charming, in a sense—you could see it, from where you were. A little soft-spoken, despite the excitement in her voice, and decidedly friendly. Looking at her like this reminded you of sunlit flower patches, even—of the spring breeze, just outside where you'd come from.

Perhaps, she's…

“I’d… offer you a list of recommendations?” she peeked at him, “but I imagine you already know what you like…"

Xavier shook his head. "Still, I’d be curious to hear.”

It was a scene you couldn't bring yourself to watch.

With a quiet exhale, you put down the book you'd been holding, approached them to give a bow in the woman's direction and a tap on Xavier's shoulder—

"I'll be outside if you need me."

You couldn't even bring yourself to look at her.

Already a knot had formed in your stomach, and you wondered just how selfish you were being.

Best to just remove myself from here.

You didn't listen for Xavier's response before you turned and left.

Outside, the late afternoon air was different; sweeter. You'd spend more time inside than you thought, as now the music had died down, and the stalls were picking up. The street was still warm from the day; children were scattered playing a ways off and kicking a ball through the patches of grass. Lively, in its own way, but a lot… different. As if whatever festival had taken place in the morning had since simmered down into a gentler sun-soaked gathering.

It was calming.

The fresh air was nice—if the bookshop felt like its own little world, then this felt more… grounding.

Off in the distance you could see the outline of the palace you'd come from, and again you would recall what you really were. What you were allowed. What you should.

How pretentious for a mere knight.

You'd gotten so caught up in the day's events that you were right back where you'd started. You were a knight; his knight, sure, but a knight nonetheless. Special treatment be damned.

You traced the paper weight you'd kept in your cloak, and thought—maybe it wasn't even special treatment; the Prince was free to be comfortable with whomever he chose. The Prince was free to speak with whomever he chose.

So, the Prince was free to be friendly with whomever he chose.

It shouldn't even matter to you.

Yet you smiled bitterly, kicked absentmindedly at the concrete. You had to remind yourself—you weren't special; you couldn't be. You were just a knight, after all.

That was all there was to it.

The door creaked open behind you a minute later.

“You vanished."

Xavier's voice.

Again came that tongue of yours without thinking, a sentence you'd dared to utter before recoiling with a wince—

“Didn’t want to interrupt your literary courtship.”

A breeze passed.

One glance at him showed he hadn't gotten a stack of books like you'd expected, but instead carried a single novel.

It wasn't the one they'd been talking about when you left.

"You… think that's what it was?"

He spoke slowly, as if unsure—

You, on the other hand, turned away and spoke too quickly.

“No,” you coughed, “of course not.”

“…Hm.”

He didn’t say anything else.

He just walked beside you again as you made your way toward the stables, steps aligned still, but—

Quieter, now.

And though nothing had changed between you outwardly, you couldn’t quite ignore that same pinch in your chest; so uncomfortable. The sharp awareness of how easily someone else might belong in that quiet, private moment with him—how simple it could be.

Too simple.

As you mounted your horses, you stayed a respectable pace behind him. By now, the sun was dipping low, and it was the close of the day. Neither of you spoke for several paces.

Instead you busied yourself with the streets that faded into fields, the lush green mixing with the tangerine reflections of the sunset. The horses were comfortable; trotting along at your leisurely pace and completely unaware of the awkwardness that had settled between you.

It was Xavier who broke the silence first.

"You know, she only spoke to me because I picked her favorite book.”

You let out a soft laugh. "I didn't say anything."

“You didn’t have to.”

There was no edge in his voice—just quiet observation, a statement offered like a coin left on the table. Dare you say that it was gentle, as if clearly offering to soothe.

How embarrassing.

You closed your eyes, allowed yourself to feel the wind through your hair as you rode past the fields. And then you let out a slow breath.

"It wasn't jealousy."

It was.

"Wasn't it?"

He turned back to face you ever so slightly, and you could have sworn you heard him scoff.

He didn't believe you.

You didn't believe yourself, either.

"Why… Why would I be jealous?" you muttered.

“I don’t know,” he hummed, as if that wasn’t the point, “but it lingered.”

It… lingered?

Something about it twisted in your head—and though you wished, so desperately wished you didn't think it, you wondered, just then, if that moment of jealousy had sparked in him a little.

Did it bother him?

Was this his way of apologizing for it?

You could have scoffed at yourself just for thinking it.

Selfish. Unbecoming. Absolutely out of the protocol.

The horses had trot a little while further, and the castle became clearer in your view.

Then he added, softly; "You don't have to explain it."

And leave it to Xavier to know what to say to you.

You couldn't explain it even if you were asked to, but somehow, that was soothing enough. That was reassuring enough. Such a simple sentence, just a few words—in a way, it placated the restlessness that had settled in your heart. You wondered if that was a good thing or not.

He's too kind, you thought. He's too…

You were grateful, in that moment, that he was still that few paces in front of you.

He couldn't see the small, giddy smile on your lips, the faint blush at the tips of your ears.

He's really, really, truly… the Prince of Philos.

The rest of the ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Perhaps… you'd become too used, to leaving things unsaid.

When your feet touched the cobble of the palace grounds, he spoke again. First, as always; as an invitation for you to follow. "Thank you for coming with me today.”

“…I didn’t mind.”

“I know. But I'm glad you came anyway."

He offered a gentle pat on the top of your head, a light, fleeting touch, before he left.

Your own words stayed on the tip of your tongue.

I was happy to be with you, too.

&—

It became frequent. Sort of a ritual, by now.

Escapes beyond the palace walls; little excursions, here and there. Whenever the both of you could get a moment, you'd simply take the chance. By now, it was a wonder to you that not a single soul had questioned it. The guards stationed at the gate would let you through without thinking; your fellow knights would wave you off when you'd excuse yourself on behalf of the Prince's orders.

Or, so he'd say—

Xavier would find reasons to ride out, and you would be summoned to accompany him, though it was never quite called an order.

Always an invitation.

One you were free to refuse, at any given moment, but you—

You never did.

You never could.

Still, selfishly, longingly, you would grasp at the straws of his affection. At another chance, another moment, to still be with him.

This time, now, it was a simple ride out into the forests.

Nobody questioned the prince's whims. Therefore, nobody questioned you, either.

And so you took the forest trail at an easy pace, your horses side by side beneath the arching trees. It was still spring—the breeze was cool. Flowers littered the path at given moments, and the rustling of the leaves overhead seemed to soothe.

You could recall when all things, had been like this.

And Xavier voiced your thoughts with a hum.

"I missed this,” he spoke, shifting in his saddle as he ducked a low branch. “When it was just sparring, riding, running drills without purpose...”

“No politics,” you laughed.

“No courtiers.”

“Just… bruises.”

He smiled, “Simpler times.”

The forest welcomed you as you rode in further, the canopy above thick with green and filtering sunlight into dapples across the path. As silence settled between you, the birds chirped softly overhead. The horses' hooves thudded rhythmically over soft earth. In this brief moment of respite, you noticed the way your leisurely pace blended seamlessly with the breeze, and Xavier's cloak fluttered lightly.

"You remember though, don't you?" he glanced to you before going on ahead as the path narrowed slightly. "How we used to train here before."

“Vividly. Because you kept distracting me.”

“Me?”

You could hardly believe that he was being incredulous.

"Yes, you! Every time I had a chance at winning, you’d charm a bird into landing on your shoulder!”

“That bird chose me,” he waved a hand dismissively, “I can't control the woodland creatures."

“But you also had a rabbit interrupt us. And once, a deer.”

“That was a noble stag. I remember… he had kind eyes. I thought he deserved a moment of my time.”

“You offered him your apple and called it a diplomatic exchange."

“He accepted, didn't he?"

“And I looked like I was going to win that round, until you called for a break!"

Xavier’s laugh echoed softly through the trees. “You were only grateful for the interruption. You could never beat me with a blade.”

Why, you—!

"Ugh, you just had longer arms!" you cried indignantly. "And better balance! And the annoying habit of being infuriatingly graceful!"

Yet even though you wished to throw a rock at him, the light bickering made you smile. Truly, simpler times. Back then, it was easier for both of you to be close—that even in all your loyalty, you'd felt the presence of a boy, and the friendship of one.

You wondered when exactly that had changed.

"Let's stop here and rest."

Your horses eased to a halt as the trail opened into a small clearing.

This was a clearing you knew well from the earlier days—our enlistment as a knight-in-training; your trainings with the others and especially even Xavier himself. It hadn't taken long for you to rise to a position that had his personal swordsmaster take you in as an additional apprentice, but those days still laid fondly in the forefront of your mind. Now, here, again after so, so long, you let your gaze sweep around. These things were still here. The underbrush was dotted with the same low shrubs that used to snag at your boots during drills, and the worn stumps still sat in a half-circle where your instructor had once set up little sparring exercises.

Just as you remembered.

Xavier dismounted and looked around with you while wearing a small, thoughtful smile, “I used to think this place was the whole world,” he said, running a hand over the mossy bark of a tree. “Before councils and court politics and formal wear.”

“Pff. You hated formal wear back then.”

“I still do.”

Following in his movements, you slipped off your horse and stretched.

Again the quiet, soothing sounds of the forest rang through the clearing.

“…Remember? You also used to say this place was better than any hall in the palace.” The way you said it carried a quiet laugh.

"But don't you?"

"No, no, I do! I mean, even… now, I think. It's just more peaceful here. Something about the quiet… geez, you must be rubbing off on me."

It was Xavier who liked the quiet, right?

With a playful roll of your eyes, you who chose a spot under a tree, leaning back against its trunk to stretch your legs. "Ugh, but I really did try to beat you, you know,” you huffed at him.

“I know.” He looked down, and his smile turned soft. He sat cross-legged across you, fished an apple from his satchel and tossed it over. “You always fought like you had something to prove, even when you didn’t need to. How old were we then?”

“Well it was because I used to get so frustrated when you beat me!" You shook your head, caught the apple and polished it with your sleeve. “I trained so hard, you know? And you made it look effortless!”

“Only because I started much earlier, and you were a new knight-in-training. But…"

Xavier stopped, then.

In the pause, he looked at you—really looked at you, this time, you felt. And when he smiled, you thought you'd never seen him look at you so fondly before. "You were formidable," he added, sincerely. "Even back then. And even now."

His words flowed so easy. Like sunlight, filtering through the leaves.

And the two of you leaned back in silence, staring up at the sky, enjoying the breeze and the quiet moment that you had for your own.

If only… things could always be like this.

Xavier made a thoughtful sound, then.

The both of you saw it—clouds began to gather, and though the droplets had yet to fall, you knew the blue of the sky would slowly drown out into gray.

"…Rain," he murmured.

You huffed in disappointment and moved to sit up.

Xavier was quick to mount his horse. "We’re not far from that old shed," he nodded ahead, "the one near the upper ridge. If it starts to pour, we’ll shelter there."

You could make it, you thought.

And when the rain came down—soft at first, then heavy, soaking them through in minutes—you'd kicked your horses into a light canter, water flicking off hooves and cloaks, until the familiar silhouette of the weathered wooden shed came into view.

Inside, you tied the horses to the sheltered posts and ducked in, breathless and dripping.

He shook the water from his hair. “I guess… we made it in time. Somewhat.”

You wrung out your cloak, glancing around the space.

Outside now the rain fell in a steady hush, cloaking the forest in silver dew. But here, it smelled of cedar and damp earth. The wooden beams creaked softly overhead. It hadn’t changed—rough beams, a dusty cot, and a cracked window that, thankfully despite the spring pour, seemed not to bother them.

A memory stirred.

Not too far from here, the chapel…

Wryly you took off your gloves and leaned them on the windowsill, watching droplets streak down the glass. “So this place is still standing, huh? That’s something.”

He gave a quiet laugh, stepping closer to peer outside.

You watched him, a moment. A memory stirred—if, for you it was something, then you could only imagine how it might be like for him.

"Are you… okay? Being here again?" you tested the waters with a gentle tone.

Reliving the worst moments of your life tends to be difficult. If he perhaps needed a distraction...

Yet contrary to your expectations, he didn't look back at you, only shrugged, slightly. His tone was even when he spoke. "It's not far from the training clearing, I don't mind. I guess it's only that it's been a while."

You weren't sure if you were thinking the same thing. So instead of trying to push it further, you moved to sit down on the edge of the cot.

The rain continued to patter rhythmically on the old roof of the shelter.

As usual, still, it was Xavier who spoke first to fill that silence.

"The chapel's nearby."

It was then that he turned towards you, and he leaned against the window with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. There was a faint smile on his face. One that didn't quite meet his eyes. "That day… My mother's funeral was held, and it was raining, too."

You looked at him, stayed silent.

"Your hometown. It's not too far in this direction either, isn't it? A small village over to the west."

"…Mn."

"And you joined the knights when you were fifteen." Xavier glanced out again. "When we met, you were already more loyal than the other knights-in-training."

You watched as a faint smile became visible on his lips.

He nodded his head in the direction of the corner behind you—

And when you turned, your breath caught in your throat.

"You'll get sick out in the rain, Sir Prince."

You could hear that tiny voice; the younger you.

Without waiting for him to speak, you stood up; walked towards the umbrella leaning by the wall, picked it up as if it were so fragile it could break at just a single touch.

"You… remember?" you whispered.

There was no way that he could. You continued to stare at it, eyes slightly wide, a frown of confusion on your face—disbelief, in its purest form. You couldn't recall exactly how many years it had been, but though it had meant something to you, you didn't know if could mean something to him.

Yet your back remained turned to him, but you could see him smiling.

"I've never forgotten."

Gently you ran your hand over the now-torn cloth binding the bamboo together. Such a flimsy umbrella. You'd given this to a prince.

"The first time we met," you mumbled, "it wasn't at the hall, when I'd applied, it was…"

"Out in the rain."

He finished for you.

"…Yeah."

This time, you turned. You raised the hand that held the umbrella. "Why did you keep this?"

Disbelief still continued to lace in your voice, but it was a fond one. One that almost made you laugh, one that almost made you utterly at a loss of what to say or really do.

The Crown Prince was full of surprises.

"I mean, you— didn't even know me. How could—?"

Xavier laughed, quietly, and shook his head.

"You took my hand, and you were kind. And then you were the only one who didn't approach me like I might shatter. I always hoped I'd see you again."

And when you looked at him then—truly looked, your eyes settling fondly onto his—you caught sight of it.

In his eyes laid something steady, warm, and unguarded.

"So a moment you think was small can be everything to someone else," you murmured.

Your gaze flitted momentarily to the umbrella as you set it back down, and then you took slow, tentative steps towards him.

“I think,” Xavier laughed softly, “you’ve been by my side longer than either of us realized.”

And my oath began long before I'd taken the blade.

Now, between the both of you, settled a silence.

It wasn't awkward.

It wasn't tension-filled.

It was full of unspoken things, of shared space, of a history now revealed in the low light and the scent of wet earth—

But it wasn't awkward.

Somehow, having the truth out in the open felt as if the two of you had taken a step closer.

Once again, 15 centimeters became 5.

In that moment, Xavier shifted first, stepping away from the window. He shrugged off his outer cloak and crossed the space toward you, holding it out—

“You're soaked."

You stared for a moment.

"You're also—?"

Yet your hands reached for the cloth as if you were physically unable to disobey, and you weighed it carefully. It was— warm. You'd forgotten his was more well-tailored, obviously better off than your own. Only its outer had been wet in the rain, and inside, the wool was still warm from his own heat.

You'd gotten the brunt of the rainfall, but he hadn't.

"I don't have a bamboo umbrella to give," he said lightly, "but this should be enough."

The tone to his voice told you that he was joking, and you couldn't help but scoff. "Won't you be cold?"

"You're the one who's wet. So I'd rather that you don't."

So you folded the cloak over your shoulders and sat back on the edge of the cot, the old wood creaking gently beneath.

You watched—Xavier moved and crouched near the fireplace, then. You couldn't quite tell why he was busying himself; the ash had long gone cold, but he still bothered to sort through what remained of the kindling pile.

When he stood again, he held something small and folded—an old piece of cloth, thin and soft with age.

He offered it to you wordlessly.

Something akin to a cat, when it had caught a prey it was proud of.

The imagery almost made you smirk.

"…Uh?"

"Your gloves," he smiled patiently. "I could at least dry them a little. It's better than nothing."

That smile really does look like a proud kitten's...

You coughed, looked away. Tried to compose yourself.

What were you doing?

"Your Highness, with all due respect, you shouldn't—"

"No, I'll do what I'm able."

Silence.

You looked back at him, both aghast and a little bit amused, and then you sighed.

An owner never refuses a cat's gifts if she wants to make it feel loved, anyway... Right?

Slowly you peeled the gloves off, one by one. Undeniably, your fingers were cold—again you were reminded that you'd gotten way too much of the rain soaked through your clothes, and you were suddenly grateful for Xavier's offered help. It was as if he knew that when he took them from you, carefully, like they were something delicate, and he knelt by the cot’s frame. Pressing the damp leather gently in the cloth, you watched his hands. Steady, careful, far more patient than you ever could be.

He looked up.

Your eyes met again.

And this time, he shifted beside you, enough at least for your shoulders to touch once more. As if that warmth, from just earlier, was one he would rather not be without.

You breathed in slowly. The moment felt… still. Peaceful, even.

You could, just…

You rest your shoulder right against his.

He'd subtly drawn you closer with an arm around your waist, half to shift you into something comfortable, half to just—

Press his lips into your hair.

It was so light, so subtle.

Barely there.

Yet your heart stopped, a moment.

When you looked up at him, there was one expression you had never quite seen before. One you didn't know how to react to, but one you knew felt more real, and more vulnerable, than all the others.

"May I?"

He didn't ask it out loud, but you could hear it.

And you didn't move—he did.

Leaned in.

Slow, steady movements—like he was still thinking about it, like he was still unsure, but like he still—wanted to.

Your breath caught again. He hadn't leaned in all the way, just enough that your heart stilled a second time, and your fingers curled slightly in the folds of the cloak.

It would be easy. So easy.

If he just moved, a little closer, a little more—

A pause.

He didn't.

Instead of kissing you, Xavier rested his forehead against yours, looked at you in that same gentle, quiet manner that he often did.

A pause in time.

You could feel how close he was; how just a little movement could brush your lips against his.

And then he pulled back with a quiet breath and spoke; “We should get back.”

…Ah.

You gulped down the bile that had formed in your throat, and out of the corner of your eyes you could see the rain beginning to still.

You looked away.

Nodded, once.

"…Yeah. We should."

And the thread had been pulled tighter.

&—

That evening, you weren't quite expecting to see him still awake.

The corridor was quiet, lined with golden light from the torches on the wall, and you'd just passed his door on your way to the stairwell when it opened with a soft creak.

Xavier noticed, called out to you gently. “Are you done for today?”

You stopped in your tracks.

Nightly patrols were so normal, you'd have forgotten that otherwise, you didn't really have the need to pass by here.

Yet when you turned to look back at him, he'd made his way to the doorway, opened it a little wider.

It was rare for you to see him like this. A shirt over trousers, already untucked, sleeves half-rolled, a slight tousle to his hair to give it a look quite unlike the neatly-combed style he wore in the mornings.

This was little less like the prince you knew—even less than the one you'd seen, that day you went out into town together, and even less than the one you do see on your excursions.

Now, that air of elegance about him gave way to a sort of boyish charm, one less looked after, one less coerced into the face that stood in the court.

So rare.

You felt your heart skip a beat the longer you looked at him, and you could have sworn your cheeks had heated up even a little bit.

Xavier had always been handsome, but this was quite something else.

A smile played at his lips as you shyly looked down, and answered, "Yes, my liege, everything's settled now for the evening.”

He didn’t move right away. Just leaned a little against the doorframe, gaze still thoughtfully resting upon you— Then he stepped back and opened the door even wider.

“Do you… want to come in?”

You stopped. Looked at him, blinked rapidly as if you believed you'd heard wrong—

Well, you did believe that, sort of. Xavier had never invited you inside before.

Little peeks here and there, of course, and conversations in the doorway, delivered letters and reports as necessary— but— only his maidservants were ever the ones allowed inside.

That was a privilege even he had never granted to you. Nor, you assumed, any other royal, to any other knight.

This was out of the protocol.

You wondered, then, if a panicked look had come across your face without your notice, because he let out a laugh next—

"Don't worry, you're not breaking any rules. I just think… maybe, we can have some tea together."

Your throat felt dry.

Not in a bad way, but rather, uncertain. And giddy, almost.

Yet when had you really refused him?

You wondered if you were only making excuses for yourself, but he had invited you. And he was right, of course, you weren't breaking any rules, so you could just—

You nodded.

Slowly you stepped in, took a look around a little more properly.

It was much bigger than yours, of course. Much neater, much more well-kept, despite all the fancy beddings and fancy furniture and fancy—well, everything, really. Off to the side, the hearth was low and steady, casting the walls in quiet amber. It all gave off a certain kind of warmth—a certain comfort—despite the way you noticed papers spread across his desk, an unrolled map on the edge of it with markings you weren't well-versed enough to understand.

Cozy.

The first thought in your head.

"I… didn't expect you to be up so late, Your Highness," you scratched your cheek sheepishly. "I hope I'm not interrupting…"

But he waved your concerns away quite casually. "No, I was only pretending to be productive. I've been more of… reading. But I told myself I’d stop after I finished this page, and that was… three pages ago.”

At the sound of his chuckle, you too laughed, and then you found the courage to approach a little deeper into the room. You moved towards a seat near the fireplace, took note of the little pot of tea he'd placed to the side.

You didn't pour yourself one just yet, but it made you smile.

There were two teacups there.

Maybe you were delusional enough to think he'd actually prepared it like this.

"That, uh, sounds familiar," you smiled a little. "I told myself I’d rest after the watch changed—final patrol of the evening and all, you know? But that was before I found the kitchen boy asleep in the armory. With a basket of warm bread.”

He glanced up again, eyebrows raised slightly in amusement. “Did you tell him off?”

"No, he… looked half-frozen. I gave him the cloak off the rack, and told him to disappear before someone less forgiving found him.”

"Kind, though the kitchen may be missing that bread.”

You quirked another smile; shrugged. “I’d be more concerned about the missing cloak, actually. It was even embroidered...”

“Then I suppose that’s a mystery for the morning.”

Another shared laugh.

Yet silence fell again as it was he who reached for the tea. Taking a seat next to you, he poured two—one for him, and one for you, and gently handed it over. The fire was warm enough, you'd thought, but the cup in your hands filled you with such homeliness that you couldn't say anything quite in protest.

Instead, you gave him a grateful smile.

"W- well, I… heard something strange earlier,” you started quietly, swirling the tea in the cup. “The steward was fretting about someone rearranging the seating plan for tomorrow's meeting, or something. Is it so much of an important one, I wonder?"

Xavier made a face. “It seems the case. I walked past the hall and heard someone debating the proximity of the soup course, to a single baron’s allergy. I decided to leave.”

Your smile turned to yet another grin; it was just like Xavier to want to avoid such things.

"Wise, though," you mused. A sip of your tea before you let it rest again. "I suppose they'd have dragged you in for a pointless conversation if you'd stayed."

He laughed, soft and muffled behind his own tea cup, and gave you a slight nudge.

"How are your patrols? I believe it's a new rotation starting tomorrow."

"Yeah, the new roster got posted just after supper earlier." You leaned back a little, let out something like a sigh. Just remembering the discussion it had sparked just earlier made you wrinkle your nose. “One of the guards thinks someone’s out to sabotage him. He’s on the northern courtyard again.”

"Is the northern courtyard so bad?"

"No, just… quite large, and further away. It does get a little boring…"

“Maybe he just draws the short straw.”

You couldn't help the grin that formed on your face. "You know, I did tell him that," you chuckled. “He didn’t like it.”

In that moment, your eyes met briefly across the firelight. It wasn’t a moment charged with anything obvious, but there was comfort in it.

Familiarity.

The quiet that settled was filling, but not deafening, and you both stared quietly into the room as you sipped your tea.

It was only after a moment that he looked down at his desk again, then closed the book with a quiet snap.

“It’s late,” he said. “You should rest.”

The inevitable.

You'd forgotten for a moment that you were in the prince's quarters, and the mere thought of it—the realization of it—caused you to rush up almost abruptly.

"Oh! O-of course, Your Highness, I should let you rest!" You sat down the teacup, brushed your hands on your tunic, "I— I'll get going, thank you. The tea was… lovely."

Yet even as you made brisk steps towards the door, he followed you still. You'd barely even made to push it open, when his fingers caught yours briefly—

“Wait.”

Your heart thrummed in your chest, almost terrified to turn around.

The way he'd said it was so… soft.

Pleading, almost.

Vulnerable.

It had been so long… since you'd ever heard him so vulnerable. You weren't sure if you were even allowed to see.

Yet—

"…Look at me?" he murmured.

And it wasn't an order, it never really was, with him, but… you could never refuse.

Your head turned, slightly, just enough to catch his gaze. Just enough to melt.

"Yes?" you whispered.

And he didn't answer with words.

Instead he leaned forward, slowly, carefully… and pressed a tiny kiss to your lips.

Soft, gentle.

Unspoken, as though it had always belonged there.

Your mind fogged.

You didn’t lean in, didn’t pull away—just stayed there, breathing in the stillness of it, allowing yourself to burn this sensation into your mind.

He's kissing me, you thought.

Prince Xavier is….

You were dizzy when he drew back, yet he didn’t look surprised by what he’d done. He only smiled.

That soft, adorable, gentle little smile.

He let go of your hand.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly.

You felt had barely the consciousness to reply.

"G- goodnight, my prince."

And you turned, left, and the door closed quietly behind you.

The corridor felt longer than usual when you walked away.

The warmth of the firelight still danced behind your eyelids; your fingers brushed absentmindedly over the walls, as though trying to hold on to the moment a little longer.

Your first kiss.

Your first kiss… with the Crown Prince of Philos.

You had to place a hand over your heart; it was racing much too quickly. You couldn’t even quite remember how your feet had carried you out of the hall, the only thing you could was the quiet hum of his voice. The way his lips had felt, how easily the kiss had unfolded—so natural, as if it were always meant to happen.

This was insane.

The candlelight flickered softly in the hallway, casting long, quiet shadows along the stone walls as you continued to walk. With how late it was, your footsteps echoed. Rhythm unsteady, slower than usual—as if your feet were floating above the ground. Given that your mind, too, was drifting somewhere far above the confines of the castle, it made complete sense—

You were in fact somewhere soft. Somewhere warm.

Somewhere with him.

You were still grinning to yourself, and it felt ridiculous by now. Your heart was still pounding, because you had always kept your composure around him, every step measured, every glance controlled, but—

Professionalism? Where would that fall?

Now everything felt lighter, like the rules you'd built around you were suddenly so... unnecessary.

And once you reached your room, you faltered. Shut the door behind you, leaned against it, buried your face in your hands with a barely-contained squeal.

Your fingers unconsciously reached up to touch your lips, and you knew.

Oh, you were so, so, fucked.

:: CONTINUED IN PART 2.

© solifloris. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

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mariacallous · 9 months ago

Text

The story is told of the U.S. Secretary of State, who on a diplomatic mission to London, Moscow, and Jerusalem, decided to take a break and look for some new clothes. In each city, the secretary went to the tailor to ask, “For $100, what can you make me?” The British tailor offered to make a sweater and a tie. The Russian tailor could make a vest and a pair of pants for that sum. But in Jerusalem, the answer came as a surprise. “For $100 I can make you several shirts, a sport coat, and I’ll throw in a few pairs of pants,” the Israeli tailor said. Stunned, the U.S. diplomat asked how the same money could buy so much more in Israel. “It’s really quite simple,” the tailor replied: “Out here, you’re not so big.”

As we mark the first year of the Israel-Hamas war and the escalating crisis on another front between Israel and Hezbollah, nowhere is the United States’ “out here, you’re not so big” problem more stunningly and tragically apparent. The administration of U.S. President Joe Biden has not been a potted plant. While the flow of assistance to the suffering population of Gaza has been galactically insufficient, not a scintilla of aid would have gotten through without U.S. pressure. Nor would negotiations to secure the release of 105 out of roughly 252 hostages during the temporary cease-fire in late 2023 have succeeded without a central U.S. role. The Biden administration has also been successful through deterrence, pressure, and diplomacy in preventing the escalation of the Israel-Hamas war into a broader regional war—until now, that is.

Nonetheless, it should be painfully obvious that, despite its tireless efforts, Washington has been unable to negotiate a cease-fire to de-escalate the Israel-Hamas war, let alone end it. Indeed, over the past year, Washington has failed to fundamentally alter the strategic calculations of the conflict’s two principal decision-makers, Hamas leader Yahya Sinwar and Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. While Washington and other allied stakeholders have attempted to pressure and persuade, they have yet to succeed in reshaping the two decision-makers’ convictions that continuing the conflict held greater benefits than de-escalating it. (Israel’s ground operation in Lebanon and Iran’s missile strikes on Israel this week also demonstrate the way the administration has been unable to control events in the region).

Some view the U.S. failure with moral outrage given the deaths of thousands of Palestinian civilians and the humanitarian catastrophe imposed upon the people of Gaza. Others just shake their heads, wondering why the world’s most powerful nation—with great leverage over Israel and allies who had significant sway with Hamas—couldn’t do much more to end the conflict. Why not, indeed.

That the United States could not have its way through force or diplomacy in response to perhaps the most complex Middle East crisis in decades should have surprised no one. CIA Director William Burns, one of the most astute analysts of Middle East politics, couldn’t have said it better. In his four decades of involvement in the Middle East, Burns said in January that he’d “rarely seen it more tangled or explosive.”

Indeed, the complexity of the conflict has only highlighted the limitations of outside powers. In a conflict where the stakes are perceived to be existential—involving the political or physical survival of key decision-makers and the traumas to their respective publics—the ability of outside powers to exert significant influence diminishes. At the same time, local resistance to external pressure grows.

The attack on Oct. 7, 2023, was a unique and unprecedented crisis that only magnified the “out here, you’re not so big” problem, leaving the United States in the role of a modern-day Gulliver, wandering around the region, tied up by the interests of smaller powers that were not its own and driven to try well-intentioned diplomacy that had little chance of succeeding.

The Oct. 7 Problem

Oct. 7 presented the Biden administration with a veritable mission impossible. Hamas’s indiscriminate killing, raping, torture of civilians, and hostage-taking was followed by Israel’s punishing airstrikes, which seemed to put a focus on damage rather than accuracy. The invasion that followed guaranteed thousands of civilian deaths, given Hamas’s decision to collocate its military assets in, around, and below civilian populations and structures, and virtually guaranteed that U.S. influence would be limited.

Indeed, through most of the last year, it was Netanyahu and Sinwar who controlled the trajectory of the conflict, leaving the United States to react to the table they set. Israel’s goals were maximalist: to destroy Hamas as a military organization and end its control of Gaza. And Netanyahu’s politics—his constant looking into the rearview mirror to ensure that his extremist ministers wouldn’t bolt from the governing coalition—hovered over his security decisions, making it impossible to do any postwar planning and facilitate a steady flow of badly needed assistance to Gaza.

Sinwar’s goals focused on restoring the centrality of Palestinian rights on the international and regional agenda; blocking normalization between Israel and Saudi Arabia; and demonstrating that it was Hamas, not Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas, that was to be the agent of Palestinian redemption. He also hoped to incite a broader war between Israel and regional countries. In any case, reconciling what Sinwar sought and what Netanyahu wanted was impossible. These were hardly the kind of positions that would lend themselves to a negotiation that the United States could broker.

The Biden administration’s influence was further constrained by the nature of a conflict between a close U.S. ally and a group that, by statute and force of law, the United States considers a foreign terror organization. Biden’s emotional statement in the wake of the Oct. 7 massacre and his early visit to Israel reflected his deep and abiding support for the country. These served to tether Washington to Israel’s war aims almost from the outset and left little incentive to pressure Israel, let alone break with the Netanyahu government over disagreements with Israeli tactics and how to achieve those aims. Toughness with Israel was invariably interpreted as being weak on Hamas—an unsustainable position in light of Hamas’s taking, abusing, and murdering hostages, including Americans.

Once the United States developed the idea of an Israel-Hamas cease-fire as a mechanism to de-escalate the war, Washington was forced to work within the parameters of the two leaders, neither of whom saw much value or utility in closing a deal. The United States was played by both sides. And neither Qatar nor Egypt, the primary go-betweens for Hamas, had the power, incentive, or inclination to appear to be pressing Hamas while Israelis were carrying on a war against the group—and in the process wreaking misery on the Palestinian population.

The Netanyahu Problem

Perhaps nowhere is the “out here, you’re not so big” challenge more acutely demonstrated than in the dynamic between the Biden administration and Netanyahu, the longest-governing prime minister in the history of Israel. Long mistrustful of the United States, Netanyahu has played the president and the administration, at times crudely, at times like a finely tuned violin.

Let’s be clear: Hamas leader Sinwar also played the Americans. But Sinwar heads a militant organization that executes Americans and is inimically opposed to U.S. interests. He’s not the leader of a country closely aligned with the United States and its president, whose support for Israel seemed to have no limit. No reciprocity or cooperation is to be expected from Hamas. In Netanyahu’s case, the image of a close ally seemingly exploiting the largess of another highlights the perennial problem of the small power taking advantage of the big. And when it becomes a pattern of behavior, it reflects the paradox of the small power demonstrating focus and strength and the dominant power exhibiting weakness and indecision.

U.S.-Israel relations have had their ups and downs in the past. And former U.S. presidents and Israeli prime ministers have argued over policy. But what made the current Biden-Netanyahu dynamic even worse and diminished U.S. credibility even further was the perception—grounded in reality—that the divide wasn’t so much driven by Israel’s national interests but by Netanyahu’s political interests.

What this meant in practice was that on many issues—facilitating international assistance into Gaza, prioritizing the return of hostages, planning for postwar Gaza, and avoiding an explosive situation on the West Bank—Netanyahu’s decision-making was shaped by the demands and requirements of his right-wing government, particularly his two extremist ministers, Bezalel Smotrich and Itamar Ben-Gvir.

This dynamic was most clearly on display when it came to negotiations over an Israel-Hamas cease-fire, highlighting the humiliation and embarrassment of the big power at the hands of the small. Time and again, the prime minister would say yes, then maybe, and then no. Netanyahu would send his negotiators but with limited mandates.

Sinwar was clearly as much responsible—perhaps even more, in the wake of Hamas’s execution of six hostages—for the impasse as Netanyahu. But Sinwar wasn’t conveying commitments directly to the president and senior administration officials. Indeed, just last week, Netanyahu committed himself to a U.S.-French proposal for a cease-fire between Israel and Lebanon only to walk that commitment back, temporarily seeming to endorse its aims while knowing full well that he had set into motion the assassination of Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah.

The Leverage Problem

So if the great power is being taken advantage of by smaller ones, then why doesn’t the Biden administration—or the vaunted international community, for that matter—impose a single cost or consequence on Israel or Hamas that would alter the trajectory of the conflict?

Let’s do the easy ones first. We have no answer to the question of how to alter the behavior of a Palestinian decision-maker safely ensconced in tunnels that have not been made accessible to the thousands of Palestinian civilians exposed and killed by Israeli bombs. Having spent two decades in Israeli prisons, Sinwar surely knew how Israel would respond to Oct. 7, how many Palestinians would die, and how he would at some point meet his end at the hands of Israel. Whether any single Arab state or collection of states could force Sinwar to end the conflict or agree to de-escalate it will have to remain a thought experiment. None was likely able or willing to try.

As for Israel, it should be quite clear by now that the Biden administration, like most of its predecessors, has been unwilling and unable to apply maximum pressure, let alone break with its Israeli ally over the conduct of Israel’s prosecution of its wars against Hamas or Hezbollah. Former presidents have been willing to use discrete pressure at times. The Nixon administration kept Israel from destroying Egypt’s third army to preserve prospects for a diplomatic breakthrough between Egypt and Israel. Former President Ronald Reagan suspended the delivery of advanced fighter aircraft over Israeli policies in Lebanon. The administration of GeorgeH.W. Bushdenied housing loan guarantees because of Israel’s settlement construction as it was trying to put together the Madrid peace conference.

In fact, when I first heard the anecdote about the Israeli tailor, it was attributed to Bush’s secretary of state, James Baker. I asked Baker whether it was his yarn—he laughed and said he wished it was.

But real pressure? You’d need to go back to the Eisenhower administration, when the president threatened to sanction Israel unless it withdrew its forces from Sinai during the failed British-French-Israeli campaign to seize the Suez Canal from President Gamal Abdel Nasser’s Egypt.

It’s not that the Biden administration lacks leverage on Israel. The president has many tools in his arsenal, such as conditioning or restricting U.S. military assistance to Israel; introducing or supporting a United Nations Security Council resolution that is critical of its policies in Gaza; demonstrating its displeasure by joining 140-plus countries—most recently Ireland, Spain, and Norway—in recognizing a Palestinian state, or joining near-international consensus in calling for an immediate cessation of hostilities, threatening consequences if neither side complied.

Biden chose none of these actions due to a confluence of factors: the president’s deep emotional commitment to the idea, security, and people of Israel honed over decades; the United States’ domestic political landscape, where the Republican Party has emerged as the “Israel-can-do-no-wrong” party, and a policy fixated on a cease-fire that required the agreement of both Israel and Hamas. Biden’s anger grew and slipped out from time to time. But with the exception of a delay in the shipment of some heavy bombs, that anger never translated into concrete or sustained changes in policy.

Would the application of pressure have worked? We’ll never know, though there’s reason to doubt it. Stephen M. Walt argued here in Foreign Policy that a patron’s leverage over a client diminishes when the matter at hand is of vital importance to the latter and when shared values as well as political and institutional constraints impose costs on the patron for exerting pressure. Add to that the often ignored but critically important reality that when it comes to its friends, partners, and allies, the United States rarely (if ever) uses sustained pressure or leverage on an issue that the latter considers vital to its own national or political interests. And if few U.S. presidents want to tangle with their friends that lack significant political resonance, why would a president want to break with an ally that has significant domestic support?

No U.S. administration has ever faced a situation with its Israeli ally quite like Oct. 7, where the unique nature of the conflicts with Hamas and Hezbollah were seen in near existential terms; an Israeli prime minister was determined to do most anything to remain in power; and the absence of a realistic diplomatic pathway combined with a preternaturally pro-Israeli president and domestic politics, especially in an election year, to limit the United States’ options and influence.

It’s Not Our Neighborhood

The story of the secretary and the tailor makes a powerful point that U.S. diplomats and negotiators often forget: For all their military and political muscle, great powers are not always so great when they get mixed up in the affairs of smaller ones in a neighborhood owned by the latter.

The U.S. experience in Afghanistan and Iraq, where the standard for victory was never “could we win” but rather “when can we leave and what will we leave behind,” is perhaps the most tragic cautionary tale. And the set of U.S. diplomatic successes in helping to resolve the long-term Arab-Israeli conflict is stunningly small. The United States has had great success against the Islamic State and al Qaeda and has kept the homeland secure from foreign terrorist attacks. But the Middle East is littered with the remains of great powers who wrongly believed that they could impose their will, schemes, ambitions, dreams, and peace plans on smaller ones.

Indeed, this region is more often than not a place where American ideas go to wither or die. This is particularly the case in conflicts that have long histories where identity, trauma, memory, and religion play dominant roles.

As we mark the first year after Oct. 7, we should remind ourselves that ignoring the region, let alone leaving it to its own devices, isn’t an option. But neither is transformation. The United States has allies, interests, adversaries, and vital interests there. The locals will always have a greater stake; be more invested; and be willing to run greater risks for good or ill than the United States ever will.

U.S. leadership is important, but it isn’t the key. What matters more is having Israeli and Palestinian leaders who are masters of their politics, not prisoners of their ideologies—leaders who are not extractive and who care about the future of their own people and are willing to reach out to one another with a vision of a shared future.

Without that, we have nothing; with it, we at least have a chance to create a better pathway forward for Israelis and Palestinians alike.

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