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“I always thought...” she begins to say, and then stops. She tries to give a smile, something that’s practiced and perfected often by women of her station, regardless of their inner thoughts or emotions. But the action comes out hesitant and unsure.
“What is it, milady?” he asks, trying to reassure her with the softness of his tone. He goes to reach for her, but his fingers halt and hover just inches from the shawl covered expanse of her shoulder. “Please, continue.”
“...I always thought you would hate me, or dislike me a little,” she says. “I certainly wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
He doesn’t respond right away, mulling the idea over in his head for not the first time. She makes a good point, and is hardly the only one to question him on it: Arthur asked him something similar around the time of her arrival. And sometimes, he feels he should have disapproved of her presence, simply out of respect for his sister.
But he can’t. He’s torn between the loyalties of two people, unable to take a step in either direction. Unable to say what has been quietly building its shelter in his heart the first moment he saw her.
“I think,” he finally says, “it’s hardly fair to blame you for what happened before you even arrived in Camelot.”
She gives him another smile at that, this one less forced. “Merlin does,” she says, and then quickly adds, “He didn’t come out and say it, of course. But I can tell he doesn’t really approve of me being here. I don’t think I’ve met such an outspoken servant before.”
He covers his chuckle with a cough, lest she thinks he’s being rude. “Merlin is...unusual, to say the least. But there’s no one more loyal to the King.”
“And you’re not?” she asks, suddenly stepping forward until her shoulder bumps into his still outstretched hand. He should pull it back, out of propriety’s sake, but instead his fingers sink into the rich and decadent fabric of her outfit.The heady scent of jasmine oil that she wears slinks its way into his nostrils, and he leans in to breathe deeply before he realizes what he’s doing.
“You’re one of Arthur’s most loyal knights,” she whispers, “but your loyalty lies with the memory of your sister as well.”
His eyes widen almost comically at that, and she lets out a laugh in response, an airy, tinkling sound. “The people talk, Sir. Even if no one of Arthur’s council deems it fit to tell me the truth, the servants of the castle will.”
“Milady...”
“Is it not the truth?” she asks, a challenge hidden in her voice. “If you’re worried about honor, may I remind you that although I am a princess, I am a free woman now. No longer betrothed.” She looks down sadly. “There will be talk about my tarnished virtue, no matter what has actually occurred. So why hesitate now?”
He swallows deeply with an audible click in his throat before making his decision. Bringing her closer, he rests his lips against her temple, then her brow, and then finally her own lips. Her mouth is tinted with the taste of crushed berries and well-aged wine, and is as welcoming as a warm hearth on a cold, blustery day. The fine velvet of her dress is crushed under the harsh, unforgiving weight of his chainmail as their bodies instinctively press together, and he begins to run sword-callused fingers through the silky tresses of her hair before he returns to his senses.
Despite their differing social backgrounds, despite his steadfast loyalties to both crown and family, despite everything that has happened, he wants. He wants.
But he knows he can never have. No matter what she has just said, he intends for her to leave Camelot with the same amount of honor she had when she first arrived.
So he pulls away, averting his gaze so he doesn’t see the hurt and longing in her eyes. Not when he already has the same amount in his own.
“I am sorry, Milady,” he says, roughly and thick with emotion. “I can not--”
“Shh, it’s okay,” she says, grasping his forearm and squeezing gently. “I understand.”
He nods around the tightening in his chest. They walk together to the door, and before he goes to leave her chambers, he kneels down and kisses her hand. “...Good night then, Princess Mithian. I hope you have a safe and pleasant journey back to Nemeth.”
“Good night, Sir Elyan,” she says, giving him the first real smile she’s worn all night. “And thank you.”