A Quick Note On Chapter Numbering:
On 24 Sept 2022, I added the Foreword. This means that all the chapters were pushed up a number. So now Chapter 5 is labeled Chapter 6 in navigation. Please note that reviews made by that date refer to the actual chapter number. So reviews for this chapter made by 24 Sept would be labeled Chapter 5, but after 25 Sept they'll be Chapter 6. I'm sorry for the confusion.
A/N This is the longest chapter I've ever written. It's three times longer than my original Chapter 5. Buckle in, readers, because I'm putting Van through the wringer. Comment and let me know what you think.
xo- CE
This chapter has been revised (again haha) and I now consider it perfected. Enjoy.
Standard disclaimer: I don't own Escaflowne. This story was inspired by Suilsafir's Black and Gold one-shot, Home is Where the Heart Is.
The inspiration for this chapter is Beautiful Crime by Tamer. It's seriously one of the most beautiful songs ever. Also, I've been meaning to add for a while, Leave the War with Me by London Grammar. For obvious reasons.
I have a complete playlist on Spotify. Look up CovertEyes and/or One Night for the Heart if you're interested.
Chapter 5: Thunder and Dining
Van sat pondering on the bench in the washroom, listening with a little apprehension as the rain pattered against the frosted glass of the window. He was procrastinating returning to his wife. As aroused as he'd been by her barely hidden figure, he needed a rinse and more than a few minutes to cool down. He hoped that she cooled off in the meantime, too. She'd been visibly bothered by him, and that was the last thing he wanted.
Well, that, and a loud thunderstorm.
At least his stealthy entry into his room hadn't bothered her. It was past dark by the time he returned, and he had expected her to be dozing in bed. Rather than disturbing her by knocking, he opted to just step in.
Finding her laying in a bed on the floor stung him, though, he had to admit that. It's not that he had expected her to be lounging around naked, but he had hoped to at least edge closer to that line and share a bed with her tonight. Luckily, he had kept his frustration in check just long enough to be jolted out of his self-pity by her startled reaction to his voice. Her squeal and subsequent laughter had amused him more than he expected, and he tried not to think about how that was the first time he had made her laugh.
He liked having that effect on her, though.
Then she'd smiled up at him and teased him. It was encouraging. So by the time she'd stood and hastily admitted she was glad not to share a dinner with anyone else, he had forgiven the unintentional and innocent jab at his ego that had been her makeshift bed on the floor.
He had been caught off guard by how very different she looked all cleaned up. Accustomed to seeing people at their worst during war, she hadn't appeared or smelled all that bad earlier. Worn and dirty, sure, but not off-putting to him. Her altered appearance after a thorough bath had really caught him off guard.
It started when she stood up, and the rush of air carried her scent and alerted his own senses. Between that, her appealing nervousness, and the way her face and hair gleamed in the firelight, she already had his full attention. Her hasty jest about her clothes merely added fuel to the fire. He couldn't help that his attention went where she indicated.
Like the lightning outside now, the sight had electrified his whole body in a burst he felt from his core to his fingertips. Even now, he could recall the ache in his hands that he suspected could only be relieved by touching her.
There she was, glowing golden in those thin night clothes, and she'd been all he could see. As he had stood drinking her in for what was really the first time, her eyes had met his with the same determined poise he'd seen from her at other times. Almost, she seemed to challenge him.
But then her poise faded. Her eyebrows drew together, and her lips pressed tightly closed.
She'd turned away from him.
Van had sensed her defensiveness like a cool breeze, and awareness of his own slip of dignity left him unable to form a coherent sentence. Like a coward, he could only think to find refuge here in the washroom.
He rolled his eyes at himself and forced his mind back to the issue at hand, hoping that with a little forethought, he might be able to prevent something similar from happening again.
Didn't she want to be attractive to him? Or did she not want his attention in that way?
Van thought back to those first five months of their marriage. She'd always taken care of herself, dressing nicely, sometimes even wearing something that showed off her figure when the occasion called for it. Absolutely he'd taken notice those times, but because they hadn't crossed—or even approached— the line of demonstrating physical attraction, and because they were not alone, and because he was adept at disciplining his mind otherwise, he had been able to distract himself before his loins could carry away his brains.
Besides, he was a king, and he wasn't about to expose such emotions as desire in the presence of others. Had she come to him privately, dressed as she was tonight, things might have been different between them sooner. But that she hadn't wasn't her fault. He hadn't approached her privately in her chambers either, instead using a servant as a go-between. Van couldn't even remember knocking on her door.
No, this was his fault.
His original sin had been the deliberate message he sent on their wedding night. By dictating that his room was not to be tidied, he made it clear that he neither wanted her to get comfortable in it nor with him. It had been callous, calculated to keep her at a distance, and she'd taken it with that same grace he'd glimpsed tonight.
And apparently, she'd taken it to heart, too.
But he was fed up with it all. He was fed up with regretting what he'd done. He was fed up with this distance he'd created between them. This was a chance for a do-over, and he was determined to change how things were between them.
She was his wife, the Queen of Fanelia. After spending two months wondering if he'd lost everyone and everything closest to him, believing himself destined to be the lone King of Fanelia, he couldn't help but feel relief and even joy at the prospect of not being alone.
Tonight, she was here, with him, and he felt all the more poignantly how very isolated he'd made himself, and how very much he had to make up for with her. He had no idea what he was doing, but he instinctively knew it had been a good start to have this room cleaned.
Truly, it was a bitter thought that he hadn't treated her better when his home had been his own. Now—pathetically—his hospitality to her was only possible because of Millerna and Dryden's generosity. Without any real authority to command the household staff here, he'd had to summon all his humility to approach Millerna. She, of course, had been more than happy to put a maid and her resources at his disposal.
And of course, he had her to thank for that delicate nightgown his wife presently wore.
Van fisted his hands through his damp hair, conversely blessing and cursing Millerna. That woman had to have known what she was doing. Now he had to figure out how to eat dinner across from Hitomi when she was dressed like that, especially since she seemed to be bothered by his attraction to her.
Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if he left the lamp in the washroom. The less light he had, the less of her he could see. The table was already set away from the fire.
Blowing out a puff of air, he gripped his knees and pushed himself to stand. There really wasn't much use pining any longer. He'd already cleaned himself up and had nothing else to do but recycle his thoughts. Besides, dinner should have been delivered by now and would be getting cold.
He focused his breath, reminding himself he was a king who had faced more terrifying situations than this, and opened the door to step back into his shadowy bedroom.
Hitomi was on the floor again, this time facing the storm-beaten windows. He pressed his lips together, thinking that he'd move the couch closer for her when he got a chance. Aside from the fire, she was the brightest spot in the room, and her hair shone in a golden cascade down her back.
She turned to watch him approach.
His heart skipped.
With his robe billowing out behind him, Van stepped towards her. In a flash of lightning, he noticed that Hitomi's expression had returned to being calm and open, and he relaxed a smidgeon. His time cooling off had served her, too.
Then, as he stepped out of the darkness and into the firelight, Hitomi's lips parted and her eyes widened, freezing on his bare chest. Heat spread up his neck. At that moment, he was grateful both that he'd left off the top to his pajamas and that swordsmanship was good for something other than self-defense.
Being ogled was something he'd been victim to hundreds of times, and he knew it was not just for his rank of king. His skin usually crawled with the attention, and normally he would roll his eyes and deploy his practiced stoniness until whoever it was realized the futility of her flirtations.
But if anyone should stare at him with interest, it ought to be his queen. The reality of it now was gratifying. He stopped a few steps back from her, both to allow her to scan him and so he wouldn't have to look down on her so steeply.
Up and down, down and up her gaze traveled.
It had to be this newly awakened hypersensitivity to her. When she wet her lips and her hand lifted unthinkingly to the collar of her robe, he had a really, really hard time distracting his mind—he was King of the Land of Dragons, dammit—to keep the rush of excitement in check. Out of habit, and in spite of the fact that he didn't have boots to hide the action, he began wiggling his toes.
She noticed the movement. He knew because her eyes darted down to watch for a moment. But she didn't say anything. Instead, she slowly raised her chin to peer up at him.
"We have matching nightclothes," she said, but it sounded like more of a question.
Van had to clear his throat to gain control of his voice. "Yes," he said, tearing his eyes from her to finger the edge of his blue robe. "They were a gift from Millerna."
"Oh. How very thoughtful of her," she said, her voice tight.
Van couldn't look at her and pressed his lips together so as to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself.
Lightning lit up the black sky outside, followed by a roll of thunder that echoed off the stone walls of the palace and vibrated the windows. They turned in unison towards the display.
Something—other than the storm—didn't sit right. His eyes searched the room, and his stomach clenched when he spotted the table, which he'd been expecting to remain in darkness on the other side of the couch. It was now close to the fire.
Van rubbed his face in exasperation.
Hitomi had evidently followed his gaze. "Are you upset I had the table moved?" she asked.
He let out a long breath and looked down at her. Her eyebrows were pinched in concern, and the very idea that she cared relieved him of some of his distress. "No," he said, mostly to reassure her. There was nothing for it but to change tactics.
Maybe she just needed to get used to him.
He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck before holding his hand out for her. "Are you hungry?"
"Incredibly." Her eyes focused on his hand before returning to his face.
Swallowing, he said, "I apologize for the wait."
Her now neutral expression twitched, and he wondered if she guessed why he'd taken so long. "It's fine. My hair is dry now," she said, lifting to slide her hand into his. Her fingers were cool and smooth and feminine. Gripping them gently, he helped her up. He admitted a little disappointment when her robe stayed securely closed.
Now she stood before him, her hand in his, Van's mind raced. What next? She hadn't pulled her hand away immediately, so that was promising. Should he be the one to let go? He quickly settled on a rather formal habit and tucked her hand into his elbow. It was too much like he was escorting her to an official dinner, except this was only a handful of steps to the other side of the fireplace, but she went along with it graciously enough.
"Would you like to sit closest to the fire?" he asked her.
"Didn't you bathe?"
He blinked at her forthright question. "More or less," he said vaguely.
Her eyes bounced up to his damp hair and back before she smiled coyly at him. "Then it's your turn to dry your hair," she said, giving his arm a squeeze. Unconsciously, he reacted with a quick flex of muscle.
"I guess you're right," he said, returning her smile. Her face brightened and her smile grew wider, and maybe she'd increased the pressure of her hand on his arm, too. He found himself relieved that he would have the advantage of firelight on her for their dinner after all.
Van helped Hitomi to her seat. She sat tall and waited for him before she uncovered her plate. He followed her lead, revealing a relatively nice war-time meal of hen with garden vegetables. Due to the emotionally charged events at midday, he'd neglected to eat lunch, only just catching an afternoon tea in the library where he read over the papers Hitomi had brought him. He'd since napped and cleaned up, so he was starving and began to dig into his food.
He and Hitomi hadn't dined together often before the war—usually he ate alone in his room or his study—but they had appeared together at formal dinners once a week, and he had escorted her to a few festival dinners. So while this wasn't their first time sharing a meal together, it was the first time they shared a meal alone.
Still, he couldn't decide whether the lack of spectators and servants made this landmark dinner easier or more nerve-racking.
Hitomi stood, and he looked up as she uncovered the third platter. It held bread and butter, two small plates of cake, and a ramekin of after-dinner spices.
"Would you like some bread?" she asked softly.
"Yes, please." Van let his eyes skim down along her backside as she bent over the table.
"Water?"
"Hmm? Yes," he said, just catching her question. This time he made himself focus on her graceful hands as she poured their drinks. It was just water, but he could tell by the way she held the pitcher that she'd been educated on how to expertly serve a formal tea. Sometimes he forgot that she was the daughter of a count; undoubtedly, her upbringing had prepared her well to be his queen.
His Queen?
Van stared dumbly ahead, wondering when that phrasing had entered his vocabulary, and it wasn't until Hitomi placed his bread and water before him that he blinked and his vision came back into focus.
"Thank you," he managed to say by the time she sat again.
"You're welcome, Van," she said.
The sound of his name on her lips made the hairs on his neck stand pleasantly on end. His eyes travelled to her mouth as she began to eat.
She must have noticed. She put down her utensils and lifted her glass to her lips. "Your room here is very nice," she said after a sip.
Van's attention returned to his plate, and he disciplined himself to cut through the meat. "Yes, the Astons have been generous." He took a bite.
"Are you here often?" she asked.
"No. You caught us during a strategy meeting," he said after swallowing.
"Yes, I knew I would," she said without any inflection, as if she were commenting on how wet the rain was.
Van looked up quickly, his eyebrows arching high on his forehead. "How?" he asked. War time strategy meetings weren't public knowledge.
Before she answered, she locked eyes with him, and he sensed by their glint in the firelight that her answer was going to be meaningful. A blush colored her cheeks, but it was another beat before she spoke. "Intuition," she said simply. Then she dropped her gaze and speared a green vegetable off her plate.
As he watched the movement of her lips again, he flinched when lightning cracked behind her, turning her into a silhouette of darkness. Momentarily blinded, the king returned his attention to his dinner.
For some time they ate with ravenous restraint. The sound of the storm had one benefit of covering what might have been the awkward sounds of eating. Van could tell Hitomi had been hungrier than he had been, and it gave him satisfaction to watch her enjoy her food across from him.
Eventually, he recalled something from earlier in the day. "What route did you take here?"
"Over the Adom Pass," she answered, as if that weren't one of the more treacherous roads here.
Van pressed his lips together. "How long did it take?"
"The trip or the pass?"
"Either. Both."
"Four days over the pass. Eleven days total."
"On foot?" He wanted to ask how she managed it.
"Mostly. I had a horse in the beginning."
"Had?"
When she hesitated to answer, he knew what was coming. Her eyes flicked up to his, and she paused her eating as she answered cautiously, "A dragon got it three nights in."
In spite of the warm fire behind him, a chill crept across his neck. He did his best to swallow as his throat tightened and his stomach churned.
It was as he feared. She had cut through dragon country.
Putting down his fork, appetite gone, he asked, "You cut through the glades? Aren't you afraid of dragons?"
Her teasing reply was immediate. "No, I married you didn't I?"
He was aware of both her attempt at a joke as well as her meaning; his people called him Dragon, both for his temperament and because of the ritual he had to go through to become king. While the baser part of himself might have stirred at the idea of his wife calling him Dragon, more immediately, his mind was too wrapped up in the idea that Hitomi had encountered a real dragon alone.
Like he had lost others important to him, he could have lost his wife to a dragon.
A dragon that had been near enough that it had eaten her horse.
Remembering all too well what it was like to be hunted, and thinking of Hitomi in such a predicament, his body threatened to react accordingly. Even now, he felt the pulling sensation of blood draining from his hands and head.
Locked away in his mind was the vivid memory that was the visceral, all-consuming experience of killing a dragon alone. Every sense had engaged: the taste of its putrid breath in the air; the cracking of branches as it slithered and scratched along the floor; glimpses of its eyes glowing through the trees; his skin pricking with fear as the ground rumbled in a scant warning that preceded a blast of fire.
Sometimes, that dragon, green and twisted and rancid, liked to slither through the back of his mind. He sensed it now, licking his thoughts with its tongue, as if testing for weakness before attacking.
Sometimes, under just the right circumstances, the door would open and that dragon would slip out.
Darkness began to edge around his vision, his left shoulder ached, and his heart pounded in his ears. He sucked in a breath. "How many dragons did you encounter?"
"I didn't actually see any up close, Van," she said, her voice softer than before. "I learned in my youth how to avoid dragons. I promise I was okay."
His fisted hands began to shake, so he tucked them under the table. "You were stalked by a dragon," he said, his mind unable to focus on anything else. "How else would your horse get killed?"
He didn't hear her answer. A consecutive sequence of sounds filled his head. First, a low, shuddering breath vibrated the windows, growling in the darkness, followed by the sound of claws clicking on the rocky forest floor behind him.
Lungs seizing, Van twisted towards one sound, then the other.
"Van? Van I'm going to touch you," he heard, just before two cool hands covered his fists.
Reflexively, he jerked back, pulling his hands away.
"Van, it's just me," Hitomi said, swiftly moving to grip his raised forearms. Lightning illuminated his room, and he saw wife crouched before him, her hair spilling over her shoulders. The answering thunder rolled outside, still sounding all too much like a growl, but he saw her steady and caring eyes, her eyebrows knit in concern, and his ears caught her words.
"It's just the storm. You're here. With me. We're safe," she was saying, her voice calm and firm and level as she began rubbing up his arms. The clicking sound behind him became again the crackling of the logs in the fire.
He took a shaky breath.
Mortification began to heat his neck and face. Nausea twisted his belly. "Yeah, I know where I am," Van said defensively, but he surprised himself by not pulling completely away from her touch.
Her lips curved into an understanding smile, as if she'd expected his reaction. She straightened and moved behind him, trailing one hand up to his shoulder as she went. Chills ran across his skin as she began kneading his neck with firm, warm motions. At first, he stiffened, but the novelty of sensation quickly soothed the sting of embarrassment.
"Are you okay?" she asked as she worked his neck.
Van didn't answer. He wasn't sure.
Luckily, she went on. "After the Freidian-Basramian war, my father could no longer tolerate loud sounds. He lost a lot of troops after his levi-ship exploded with him in it. He was lucky to survive, but thunder was something that bothered him for a long time."
She began to play her fingers through his hair, rubbing his scalp. It tickled pleasantly and he closed his eyes to enjoy it. His breathing deepened and his heart slowed its tempo.
Gods of the four winds, her touch felt really, really good.
Van was accustomed to hiding any show of weakness. The vulnerability of having nearly slipped into a flashback made his muscles twitch with the desire to get away. But he'd never had anyone do this before. It had been years since he felt this relaxed in anyone's presence.
Her nails ran soothingly through his hair and over his skin. The muscles in his face and fists slackened as his desire for flight dissipated. As her words echoed in his head, an unfamiliar reassurance grew within him.
He wasn't alone. Someone else close to her experienced similar episodes.
Curiosity got the better of him. "Did you do this for your father?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
She lifted her hands away and stepped around the table. The cold vacancy left by her sudden absence hit him as acutely as the lack of shelter in a storm. Van jerked his head up, cursing himself for asking a question that made her withdraw. He wished to have her close again, touching him.
But she was merely fetching the pitcher. She was already returning with it to refill his glass.
"No," she finally answered. "But my mother did," she said, glancing up at him as she poured. "It happened quite often at first, but not so much these days. It's been eight years." Her movements were graceful, serene, as if she genuinely was not bothered by his uncharacteristic display. She handed him the glass. "I learned to spot the signs, though," she said, meeting his eyes with a small smile.
He looked away, uncertain how to respond, so he opted to simply raise the glass in a subtle toast of gratitude before lifting it to his lips.
Van thought about telling her the source of his panic. It wasn't the war so much as having been a young man forced to slay a dragon in order to take his place in life. The dragon he ultimately slayed had come upon his camp just as a loud storm set in. Years had passed and his anxiety lessened significantly, but sometimes circumstances combined in the worst ways. This evening had almost been one of them. Head down, he rubbed his forehead, but his chest filled with a peaceful gratitude that she'd stopped him before panic really set in.
His thoughts were interrupted by the clink of a little plate being set on the table. Hitomi had brought him cake and now stood before him. He looked up.
"You need to eat something sweet," she said lightly, though her smile faltered nervously. She paused a moment, then bent over to press a warm, lingering kiss onto his forehead.
Van was so surprised by her action that he froze, mouth agape. The clean scent of her hair was the first thing he noticed as it fell forward and tickled his face and neck. The sensation rushed over him, electrifying his skin, alerting all his senses that she was very close.
Then the sash around her waist, its knot having loosened with her movements, slipped silently to the floor. Her robe fell open, exposing her low-cut and gaping nightgown, and Van was presented with an unobstructed view of her bare breasts and all down her belly. An involuntary sound caught in his throat as his body shuddered.
Hitomi jerked back with a gasp and crouched to snatch her sash up off the ground. Her face glowed a brilliant red as she slowly looked up at him through her hair, her eyes large and lips parted, her hand clutching her robe closed.
A flood of aching, throbbing heat spread from his core to his hands and toes, replacing all his former thoughts and feelings with an exhilarating headiness. Van swallowed, his hands burned and trembled to reach out for her, but he held himself back.
She stood and strode away to her place at the other side of the table. Automatically, he turned in his seat to follow her movements.
He sat back in his chair, legs spread, toes and fingers fidgeting compulsively, completely attuned to every move Hitomi made. He watched her squirm as she attempted to eat her cake, glancing up at him nervously between skimpy bites. She hadn't tied her sash, but her robe was regrettably folded over her chest, so he memorized the curve of her neck and the slopes of her face. Her lips twitched when she looked up at him, and her empty hand fluttered up to her neck or hair.
A smirk threatened at her nervous antics, and he schooled himself to remain serious.
When she'd eaten half her serving, she began to fill the silence between them. "Aren't you going to eat your cake, Van?" she asked without any attempt to veil her agitation.
Van, meanwhile, had to try very hard to subdue what was almost a rapacious grin. "I'm not hungry," he said.
"Why not? It's delicious. You should try it," she said, her voice growing higher as she rambled on. "I think the cream is berry, and the frosting is so delicious. I wonder what it looked like uncut? I'm guessing it was beautiful. Just look at this," she said as her fork traced the path of the intricate design on what remained of her cake. "Honestly, this is the best and most beautiful thing I've eaten since our wedding…." Her words died away at the mention of what he often considered the most awkward day of his life. She flicked her eyes to his and back before she pushed on. "Do you want yours? If you don't eat it, I might. I haven't had cake since—don't you want yours?"
During her rather giddy soliloquy, the heat and tension within him simmered to a sufferable hum. He sat forward— chin propped on his fist, elbow on the table, knees bouncing—and watched her with growing enjoyment. Now, at her question, which was doubtless rhetorical and mostly a means of filling the space between them, he couldn't help prodding her agitation just a little further. He gestured to his cake with his free hand and asked with an unfettered, suggestive grin, "Would you like me to feed it to you?"
His uncharacteristic remark hit exactly as he expected. She dropped her fork, her eyes and mouth opened wide in surprise, and her face and neck bloomed with a brilliant blush. Van sat soaking it in with no small degree of satisfaction, especially as she pressed her hands to her cheeks in a likely attempt to cool them.
She spluttered, glanced away, played with her hair, squirmed, glanced back, and sat forward again before giving up all pretenses and standing to tie her sash. With jerky, nervous motions, she began cleaning up the table.
Now that she was up and moving and obviously flustered, fresh uncertainty edged into his mind and cooled his body. What would he even do if he acted on his lustful impulses? How would she react if he pulled her close? She looked agitated enough to slap him, and he did not want that. Feeling more secure where he was, he remained seated and busied his own hands tidying his platter himself.
"I'd like the bowl of spices," he said soberly just as she was cleaning up the center platter.
She peered uncertainly through her curtain of hair before holding out the little ramekin. "This?"
"Yes, they're after-dinner spices," he said, taking it from her with a brush of fingertips that sent a shiver all up his arm. "An Asterian specialty. Have you ever had any?"
"No, I haven't," she said quietly. He held the bowl towards her and she hesitated before taking a pinch. She nodded her approval of them as she chewed, and for just a blink, he hoped perhaps she would relax towards him. She had rested against the table as she tested the spices, but soon a restlessness overtook her again. Turning back to the business of cleaning up dinner, she let her hair fall to cover her face and asked, "Van, why did you ask me to stay?"
Her question washed over him as effectively as a cold rain. His face slackened as he gaped dumbly at her. She didn't give him time to form a response.
"I mean, for all I know, it was because you felt sorry for me, or responsible, or obligated. I don't know. Don't think I'm ungrateful," she glanced at him and tossed her hand to the window, where he turned to see the storm had abated. "If you hadn't asked me to stay, I would have been caught in the rain. So thank you. But really, for all I know, it could be because you haven't had a woman in a long time."
"What?" He jerked his attention back to her. For one brief glance, she met his eyes before turning with a platter in hand and striding to the hall door. Momentarily, when she flung it open, he feared she was leaving, but she merely set the domed platter on the floor in the hallway before returning for another.
She kept up her rambling. "I don't want to smell food anymore. It's already stuffy in here, right? I mean, I didn't dream it, did I? You did ask me to stay?" she questioned as she took his platter, her eyes bouncing everywhere except for him. He couldn't keep up with her questions. They seemed to be all over the place. "Can we open a window? Why are you treating me differently? You didn't care before. What's changed? Why have you asked me to stay? You just sit there and stare at me, and I have no idea what's going on in your head."
If he were honest, he also had no idea what was going on in his head.
A brief memory flitted to mind. In his early adolescence, he had one unhappy tutor who had a most terrible temper if Van didn't cooperate as he expected. That man had regularly blamed his poor disposition on his unfortunate marriage and nagging wife. Such influence during Van's formative years, especially coming not long after he lost his mother, had impressed upon his tender mind that women nag and make life harder. It had, for better or worse, been something that contributed to his own disposition towards women in general.
Now the king took a drink to wet his throat as he thought about how he should approach this woman, the wife he'd chosen. She had carried the last platter out and shut the door, returning—questions and agitation apparently exhausted—to collapse into her former seat at the table, where she drained her cup, refilled it, and then sat playing with her Fanelian signet ring—her wedding ring—as she waited for him to answer.
Luckily, that unfortunate tutor wasn't the only example of marriage he had. His first example had been his parents, before they died. They'd lived with so much passion that, after his father died in an accident, his mother's mysterious death a year later could only be explained as a consequence of heartbreak. The idea of such a deep-seated love had stuck with him, even as he compensated by pushing people away.
More recently, though, he had Dryden and Millerna. As king and queen, they were both a healthy example and a key factor in his recognizing what, exactly, he'd been missing out on by ignoring Hitomi as he had. In the time he'd spent with them immediately before the war and in the time since, he'd watched the monarchs look after each other with a tenderness that struck a chord in his heart. He'd found himself pining for the same thing and feeling that he'd lost his chance by losing his wife in the attack on Fanelia.
But he hadn't lost her.
She was here.
Van sighed and looked up at her as she fingered her hair, her glazed eyes staring behind him into the fire.
He knew Hitomi wasn't a nagging wife. She'd lived down the hall from him for five months with nary a complaint or an angry word. Naturally, his body coiled up in defensiveness at her barrage of questions, but he knew deep down they were justified. He'd admitted to himself that he wanted things to be different between them, and this was his chance. He just had to tell her that.
Van shifted to fidget with the spice bowl, spinning it with one finger as he took a pinch of the piquant spices. "Hitomi," he said after a minute.
She looked up with glazed eyes.
"I, uh…you asked me a lot of questions." He rubbed his neck and looked away, embarrassed by the stupidity of his statement.
"I did," he heard her say softly.
Sighing, he traced the wood grain along the tabletop. "I've—I've had time to think about things." He glanced up to see her keenly watching him. "I don't…I was…." He clenched his fist and tapped the table. Beneath his robe, his toes were flexing and relaxing in their jittery arrhythmia. Why was this so difficult? He took another breath. "Yes, I asked you to stay," he said.
"Why?" she asked.
Van pressed his lips together and sat forward again, running his hand through his almost-dry hair. This had been a very long day and he'd run the gamut of emotions. Perhaps, had he not, he would have more energy for defensiveness just now, but he was tired and couldn't remember all her questions and didn't know how to answer the one she clearly wanted most answered.
"Hitomi, perhaps I asked you to stay for the same reason you did a messenger's job and came all this way?"
She blinked, taken aback, but quickly her eyes, dark in the dim light, grew narrow as she aimed a penetrating look at him.
That look made him shiver.
"So, Van, enlighten me. Tell me why I came," she said softly, a challenge in her voice.
Van's mouth went dry. He squirmed in his seat, crossed a leg, then gave up and stood to pace for a moment before finally stopping to prop himself against the table, facing the window.
Now that he'd been asked to vocalize his assumption, he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud. How was he supposed to admit that he wanted another chance with her? How does one go about asking such a thing? And was he really so sure that's why she was here? For all he knew, she could have been wanting to get away from Fanelia. Perhaps she wanted to return to Freid? More than likely, her sole reason for coming was for the sake of their people, not to see him. He couldn't with any real degree of certainty say that she had come to see him.
With the biting chill of humiliation, Van admitted to himself that he had no basis for presuming her thoughts and motives. When he dared look up at her, her mouth and eyebrows were pinched, perhaps with annoyance, but she still waited. Letting out a breath, he conceded total defeat. Arms folded, he set his chin towards the window and the churning storm, and said, "I admit I'm not really sure why you came." He was unable to keep his exasperation out of his voice.
Of all the reactions he might have expected to this confession, laughing was not one of them. But she did. It was but a vesper of a laugh, almost a satisfied little chuckle, but his wife and queen laughed at him.
Perplexed, maybe wanting to shrink into the furniture, Van turned to her with raised eyebrows, hoping to understand what it was she found so funny.
She went quiet at his expression and smiled bashfully at him, her eyes sparking. Standing, she said, "Thank you, Van. For admitting that you don't know something."
He gaped. He'd said the right thing?
She took a tentative step. "I hear too many stories of men who presume to know what their wives think."
He swallowed stiffly, the hairs on his arms rising as she grew nearer. "I didn't—I wasn't—."
Another step. He watched her fingers drag along the table.
"That being said," she continued, "you're probably right."
"Huh?" he asked dumbly, his eyes darting up to her face.
A blush crept across her cheeks and chest. He kept himself from glancing down to that low part of her robe and looked up when she spoke. "So, Van, tell me…" she began as she lifted a refreshingly cool hand to his burning arm. Hairs on end, the skin on his neck prickled with nervous sweat.
When had he become so warm? He was too hot, he couldn't think.
She was leaning closer. "Why did you want me to stay?" she asked, her voice quiet, melodic.
Pulse drumming in his ears, he clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to cool his throbbing, aching hands.
"—I want?" He shook his head, his dry throat tightening so he couldn't get all the words out.
Maybe she sensed that her touch did this because she removed her hand and sat back upon the table, settling just a bit farther away from him than before. Finally he could let out the breath he'd been holding.
"Yes, Van, we all want something," she said, wetting her lips with her tongue. His eyes followed the movement and watched her mouth form the words, "When you asked me to stay, what did you want from that?"
Turning away from her dizzying lips, he swallowed convulsively and rubbed his forehead, hoping the action would soothe the wooziness left by her questions.
When had she turned the tables? He was unaccustomed to feeling this off-balance. All he had to do was say his thoughts aloud, he knew that. Why was it so difficult? He knew the words. He knew what he wanted to tell her. But she was so close, she had her hand on the table and was leaning towards him expectantly. He practically felt her hair brushing his arm even through the sleeve of his robe.
His mouth parched, he reached to his other side for his glass and drained it in one go.
Fingers tapping on the glass, toes wiggling, he nearly stood to walk off some of this jittery energy but stopped himself.
He couldn't stand this feeling anymore. He wanted to make progress with his wife. He couldn't just do what he'd always done around her and walk off when she made him nervous.
With a determined breath, he set the glass down, leaned back on his hands, and addressed her. "Hitomi," he began.
She turned to him. "Yes?" she asked softly when he didn't speak right away.
He took a steadying breath and determinedly met her eyes. "I want things to be different between us," he said.
The gentle sound of rain pattering against the windows filled the room as his words settled around them. Hitomi scanned his face. He was close enough to touch her—his fingers itched for it and twitched against the table—but he held back, waiting for her reply.
Her shoulders relaxed as her guarded expression slid away. She blinked, her eyes gleaming in the firelight as a warm smile lit her face. Van thought, distantly, that such a smile could get him to do many things he might not normally do. Under its influence, a smile crept onto his own lips as his lungs filled with a weightless, breezy relief.
She nodded. "Then yes, Van," she said, "you were right about why I came."
Van nodded, too. His eyes roved her face, took in every detail he could: the wisps of hair around her ears, a healing scratch on the right side of her face, a newer-looking scar on her temple he'd not yet noticed, how her golden lashes framed her pretty eyes.
The room flashed, blinding them both with bright, white light. In unison, they turned to watch the protracted lightning strike. Just before it finished, he felt her hand cover his and grip his fingers.
When he looked back at her, he didn't even hear the thunder that certainly pounded the windows.