/14/
She isn't very pretty and when she was sixteen the boy who used to tug on her braid until she ran away was finally impatient enough to yell that she never would be. She isn't bothered with this because there are harsh and scary things in the world that kill beauty, that go inside ears and travel up to the mind so they steal laughter and happiness and even those bubbles left in your chest after you've been chased by fading, sunlit memories.
So she contents herself with being around beautiful people, giggling ladies of the court with their fluttering fans, soldiers upright and strong-jawed, princes and princesses streaming past like a glittering, golden parade.
But she's always with him, and he isn't beautiful. And those women with big eyes and bigger hopes, with hands that offer themselves up for kisses but draw back the moment another sturdier pair of boots come marching past know that too. He's not much older than she and they've known each other for only a few months, but she knows he'll never give up trying to find some semblance of beauty to entertain and enchant with floating words and tender promises.
So she waits and watches with him, not knowing why the tightness in her chest finally eases with his eager smiles, his confident gaze, his clumsy way of trying and trying again.
"Go," she pushes him forwards.
But she's starting to hope that, maybe, he might think she is.