of a princess and pauper
note: i wrote this originally on my livejournal, pomegranatedeux, so if you've seen it there or on any of my communities, that explains why.
She is a princess, and he knows that. She spends her days patiently enduring the swelling of her tired feet, tiny white soles turned tanned and callused; what used to be baby-bird delicate calves have muscled and grown into limbs crafted for battle. She sacrifices her need to keep her waist tiny and small (a record seventeen inches) for practicality, forsaking it to gain the strength and vigor required to beat a monster in a pulp. And even though her skin is no longer porcelain or lead-white, he watches her as if she were the Goddess of Light herself, just as majestic and benevolent as she.
He is a lackluster hero, and she knows that. He guards her with the protectiveness of a friend, willingly giving in to the wishes of his friends whenever required (or asked). He is patient, if spontaneous, and his understanding touches her heart like the wind's caress. He is strong in the way that no physical harm can destroy him; he always prevails because he is good and what he thinks is good. And yet, despite the social classes that separate them, she imagines him to be the knight-in-shining-armour she's been waiting for all her lonely life.
Both know their love, if it were ever to exist (and it does, though they don't know it), is not a fairy tale but a tapestry woven of all the adventures they've experienced; or an ever-changing ballad that is never consistent in words. They are both young and both eternally changing, yet their solidity in their friendship with the others... and their affection for each other, that itself never changes.
And everyone knows about it but them; they are nothing but swooning fans in each other's presence, silent contenders in a battle caught between propriety and wanting. But no one says anything, realizing this is something they themselves must realize and accept. He does not speak, for fear he is not good enough for her; she says nothing, because she has been brought up to do so. And so they wait, wait, wait for the other to make the first move, for some hidden sign to give the okay before they are thoroughly driven mad by their desires.
The day it finally happens is shortly after they save the word; a few sparse months that are left empty and eventless compared to the action-filled journey they had just completed. She spends her days poring over unnecessary political problems, trying to search for answers to others' problems but not her own. He is merely a wanderer, but he finds the return to his former life, though it had seemed so satisfying before, is oddly empty. He finds himself in front of the immense castle, wondering, and enters with the determination of a young man willing to profess his love.
And there she is, sitting in her jewel-encrusted throne with all the regality of the Queen she is. Her skin, though having not returned to the original pale pallor, is significantly lightened, and he has not seen her look so deadly delicate before, as if behind all her fading muscles was the lethality of an assassin. He bows low to her, and as if seeking forgiveness, raises his eyes only to meet her warm emerald irises and to feel as if a warm wave has crashed in over his head. He does not know that the gaze of his cerulean eyes has had a similar effect on her, though she compares it to the warmth of a fire burning through her veins.
"Bartz," she says, and her voice is as musical as a harp. "How good it is to see you." Her formality aches him to the bone.
"Princess Reina," he says breathlessly, and her heart rockets up to her throat. "Or Reina, rather," he says, and she smiles at him with the coquettishness of a young girl. "You look well for a person locked up in a dreary castle."
The familiar humor in his voice alights her eyes with a warmth formerly missing. "And you look well for a man having traveled in the monster-infested hillsides."
"I am," he says, and then a silence falls between them. As if sensing something, Reina motions for her Chancellor to leave, and he does, though unwillingly. The moment the heavy door slams shut behind him, she rushed towards Bartz, dragging the heavy train of silk behind her and feeling her crown slip over her eyes. He catches her in his strong arms, and though it is very typical, she wishes she could stay there forever. He does too, but he lets her go after a slow hug, as if the slightest hint of his feelings might ruin everything.
"Bartz," she says, and she begins to ramble about how she's been so busy, how she meant to keep in touch but his location has always been changing, how Faris and Krile had only stopped by a few days ago, and...
"Reina," he says, and her voice feels like a prayer on the tip of his tongue. "Stop talking for a minute."
Her lips droop in a failed reply, gazing him questioningly, and before she can say anything of substance, her mouth is obstructed by something soft and something remarkably lip-like, and she can only open her eyes to see the fanbrush of Bartz's lashes on her cheek. And she realizes he is kissing her, so she closes her eyes again and feels euphoria flooding her brain the only way a kiss can.
It only lasts for a few seconds, but it feels like an eon has passed when Bartz pulls away, his breath caught in his throat. Unfortunately, there is always that awkward moment of silence characteristic of two people in love who are constantly denying it and only now accept it. The minutes pass three, four, five, and still neither have made a motion to continue interaction with the other... but yet, neither has left as well.
She finally exhales, "Oh Bartz," and pulls him down by his collar before pressing her soft petal-pink lips against his, and he presses his hand against the cusp of her neck.
And all he thinks is that even if he doesn't think he's good enough for royalty, she thinks he is, and that to him is more than enough.