Chapter Text
“Good morning Princess.” Vishnal smiles gently at the Princess, his heart fluttering at her small stretch and yawn. “I’ve brought some tea.”
He sets the tray down, gently lifting the pot and pouring some tea into the cup. By now, the Princess (stunning, so stunning) watches his ever familiar motions (routine, even down to the accidental brush of his fingers against hers as he hands her the cup and saucer) and grants him that small smile (he likes to imagine that smile is reserved only for him, as ridiculous as that sounds), a gesture so intimate it makes his teeth hurt.
“Vishnal.”
“Yes?” He smiles pleasantly at her. Inwardly though, his mind races because this is not part of the routine. Yes, once he pours her tea, he steps out as she becomes decent, as she brushes her hair and huffs at the tangles in her silky hair. He will then carefully wash and dry the teaset, paying careful attention to the rim of her cup (he swears the warmth is from her lips, not from the tea). Then, she will rush outside to tend to the crops as he tries to finish his chores and eventually become distracted by her form outside the window.
Shameless! Shameless!
He scolds himself mentally, because really, no butler could even dare to think of their master in such a shameful way. In any other place, he would have been stripped of his duties, dismissed, and left to find another career. He could only thank the heavens that in Selphia, it was much different.
“Is there a reason that you use this tea set? You’ve been using this one much more recently.” Her fingers delicately trace the blushing peonies encircling the saucer. Vishnal’s eyes follow her nails (rounded, smooth and pink like a seashell) closely, the movement entrancing.
He only realizes that he has forgotten to answer her question when she calls his name again, this time a little amused.
“My apologies Princess! There is no particular reason why I’ve been using this set.” He stammers out his reply, embarrassed at his unprofessional attitude.
Lies.
Frey’s fingers continue tracing around the cup as he contemplates. There is a reason that he used that set. It isn't because of its fine smooth surface, or its pleasing fluted edges. Although finely sculpted, its curves and silhouette aren't the reason either.
No, it is because of its pattern.
Pink peonies. Romance and love.
It is shameful, it is forbidden. Vishnal is aware- a servant and their master can never be in a relationship, it is improper. And yet, he cannot imagine not loving her. For as long as she deigns to have him, Vishnal is allowed to be by the Princess’s side. He can wake her, prepare her tea, allow her to relax. Although never as equals, never in the way that he wanted, he could- and he would- be hers.
He loved her. He loved her. It was such a simple sentence- three words, and that was it. She had fallen from the sky like an angel (she may have been a princess in name, but Vishnal was convinced she was heaven-sent at the least), and that was all it took. She is so kind, so diligent. She loves with passion and fervor, and she grieved in equal measures. Despite her busy day, she would still take time to talk with everyone, to give gifts simply because I thought of you.
At first, he had thought it was simply admiration. It had tucked itself into the corner of his heart, so quietly, so sweetly that Vishnal didn’t recognize it. The feeling had lovingly wrapped his entire being, and by the time he realized it, it had wrapped itself around his heart and would squeeze just to whisper you love me, you love me, you love me. It had felt natural, and it was. How could he not love her? It was second nature to love her, and love her he did.
He could not court (he blushed, to court the Princess) her as he wished he could. Yes, if he were a different man, he could bring her flowers, gifts and trinkets, ask her to walk together hand in hand. He could take the end of her hair in his hand (and if he was even bolder, he would take her delicate hand in his), and gently lay a kiss there. But he could not. Instead he, as any butler should, kept his fluttering heart under lock and key. He would not make his Princess (no one would have to know that he referred to her as his Princess) uncomfortable. Instead, these small gestures would be the only sign.
Understated. Elegant. Barely noticeable. Easily waved off with a gesture and a smile. Vaguely between devotion and love (really, not that there was much of a difference).
She smiles at him, her eyes crinkling with some pleased emotion. His breath slightly hitches at the sight, but- is there something he missed? Her smile is that of a satisfied cat, as if if she had picked up on something unknown, some factor that he did not see.
“Very well then, Vishnal.”
And with that, he bows to her and leaves, tea tray in hand.
Her eyes follow his retreating figure, all the way to the door.