Gold Rush

over the hedge...

When Eren was young, he and his father were everything to each other.
His older brother, Zeke, came to hate the stoic man very early in his life. At only 14 years old, he was gone. The runaway prince. His father always claimed he couldn't handle the pressure of the throne; Eren didn't quite believe that, but he knew better than to argue with the stone-faced King. Not that he wanted to — not when he was young, at least. King Grisha hand-painted the sky until halfway through Eren's sixteenth year. After the death of the queen, he was never the same again. He turned into something spiteful — something vicious. He never mourned her, or his older son.
And maybe that's why the prince is the way he is. But you try not to think about it too much. Your eyes loop along the gold accents that drape like vines across the sleek, marble wall as you prepare lunch for the king-to-be. It's nothing too ostentatious — a chicken salad — but you're still precise with each cut as you slice through the strawberries and sprinkle them on top. You figure it looks well enough as you drizzle the vinaigrette along the diameter of the fancy china plate, reaching up to nab Eren's current favorite bottle of white wine from the cupboard.
You feel the air shift as the wine splashes into the crystal clear glass. There are eyes on your back.
"I could have done this myself," a familiar voice speaks out from behind you. You feel the tinge of a smile. Taking the plate and the glass by the stem, you turn on your heel and flounce to the counter island, sights positioned at the cream-colored place setting at the center. You see Prince Eren in your peripheral: tall, handsome, intimidating — dressed in a white silk shirt tucked into black trousers. His shiny black leather shoes tap gently against the stone floor as he comes to sit in front of you. He unwraps his fork from the cloth napkin at his side.
"You could have," you say, reaching back to untie the white linen apron around your waist. You go back to the mixing bowl near the sink and spoon your own portion onto a plate, pouring yourself a glass of water before settling into a stool across from the grumpy prince. The scent of fresh raspberry tarts floats through the air, a bit distracting from the lunch you've just prepared; you inhale it deeply.
"Any news on when your f— when His Majesty will return?" The correction hangs in the air like an icicle from your tongue, but he graces you by ignoring the implication. Your smile is tight and pressed thin.
Eren taps the cloth napkin against his lips and clears his throat, shaking all discomfort from the atmosphere in one blow. He must not feel particularly up to brooding on such a fine, sunny afternoon. "He'll be back in about three days' time. I'm not exactly counting down the hours. Will you be busy for the afternoon?" His green eyes meet yours as he drinks from the glass of Riesling, and you feel a familiar heat rise to your cheeks.
"No, not as far as I have been told," you reply, sorting through any incomplete tasks in your mind. After a moment, you remember something; you twist your lips in disappointment. "Lady Historia is expecting you at 5 o'clock." Watching a look of disgust fall over the prince's face gives you a smidgeon of peace. You are not much informed on the details of their betrothal, but you have heard rumors from your peers. Maids are the most trustworthy gossip. After Prince Zeke disappeared, everyone panicked. Eren, of course, is not descended from the royal bloodline — but as far as anyone knew at the time, neither was another soul in the world. Supposedly, the newly endowed Lady Historia is the illegitimate child of Viscount Reiss, who is apparently also of royal descent. As far as you can see, it just seems like a lot of confusion over the most menial thing you can imagine. Part of you jokingly thinks that they just want to keep the ruling class blond.
He blows out a sigh and stirs around his salad with his fork. "I wish that idiot would just drop that idea." He's referring to the king, of course. The room falls silent for a moment — you want to agree with him, but it isn't your place. He finishes his lunch and crosses his silverware on top of his plate before wiping his mouth with the napkin. "But that's an issue for 5 o'clock, I suppose. Would you like to go for a walk?"
A half hour later, you wait in the garden, perched on a wrought iron bench. You straighten your dress over your knees as you cross them one way and then the other, and then the first way again, eyes roaming the walkway for the sight of shiny black leather shoes. You're suddenly very concerned with your hair, although you can't see it. As you pull little tendrils from the bun atop your head, you see something move behind the great rose bushes that line the cobblestone path.
Eren emerges, a grin clear across his face. It's far too contagious not to return. You don't often see him happy.
He settles just in front of you, bowing his head for an ironic greeting. Before you can say hello, he sweeps up your hand and presses your knuckles to his lips. You feel a rush of static underneath your skin, sending the rosy tell-all to the apples of your cheeks and ice through your veins. Pulling your hand swiftly from his grasp, you look rapidly around as he laughs. "He's not here," Eren reassures you, although he knows you're well aware.
You stand and shake your head, a little closer to him now. Fear of being seen still pulses through you, but you've long grown accustomed to it over the years. The two of you walk side by side, heading for your typical route. One without prying eyes. Eren looks you up and down as you turn the blessed corner, offering you his arm. You loop your wrist through the crook of his elbow and lay your head gently against his shoulder, a breath of relief flooding out of you.
"Let me have a new dress made for you," Eren says suddenly, and you feel your brow furrowing before you can process the words entirely. What a stupid idea. "I can tell the seamstress it's for Historia, or Mikasa," he defends preemptively. He's growing used to your arguments.
You look down at your off-white dress, and you can see where he's coming from. Still, you aren't very keen on risk taking. You can't afford to be — especially in your situation. "You know you can't do things like that for me," you assert, albeit wistfully. Eren only lets the disappointment show on his face for a moment before perking up again.
"Three days is plenty of time to make a dress," he says.
"The king is not the only person I worry about." Your grip on his forearm tightens as you let out a huff. He's too confident for his own good.
A silence falls over the two of you for a long while — long enough for tensions to fade and your cheek to nuzzle itself back into his shoulder. He begins to slow after a minute, and you match his pace. You follow his face with watchful eyes as the two of you come to a stop along the tall, dense hedges that surround the garden. Your arms come loose from each other, but he takes your hand in his, swinging it back and forth lazily between you.
"We've been friends a long time." Eren's face is suddenly very solemn, casting a chill over you. You study his eyes — always driven, always passionate, always angry — and they look sad, and anxious. "I want to leave here. Before I'm stuck forever, just for a little while," he says, shooting your heart into your throat. He can't be serious. You feel him take both of your hands in his, compelling you to listen just a second longer. "My father is away. It's the perfect time. I want to be free, just for a bit."
You sigh, unsure of what to say. His eyes flick back and forth from one side of your face to the other. He looks desperate. Like it's a dying wish. Still, you can't bring yourself to actually make it into one. "Eren, I —"
"You deserve to be free, too. We can go anywhere. No one will ever know it happened. I promise, love, if you'll come with me. We can go now. We'll be back before dark."
Love. Though not on this particular topic, you feel as if you've had this conversation with him a million times. The boy who longs to be free versus the girl who wants to shrink into the wall to never be seen again. It hurts to say what's queued on your tongue, but it's all you can think of. "You have to see Lady Historia at 5 o'clock," you say, plain and peaceful as day.
Eren knits his eyebrows together and drops your hands, letting out a little scoff. He opens his mouth once and shuts it, then repeats the sequence once again, before finally settling on what he'll say next. "I'll have to marry Historia. I can't do anything to put a stop to that," he rubs his head in frustration, eyes darting over the bushes to the dense forest just past them. "But they can't make me court her. They can't make me love her." He's wrong, of course. Hell would freeze the day Eren looked in his father's eyes and told him no, but all you can hear in your head is the word love.
You're paralyzed everywhere but your eyes. They search his face for something to go off of — anything — but he's just as stuck as you are. His dark eyebrows are drawn down, frozen, framing his sad green eyes. The typical sharpness of his jaw is accentuated by the intense set of it; if he grits them any harder, you're afraid his teeth will break. You suck in a shallow breath, finally able to move again. "Eren," you begin again, the crisp summer air catching in your dry throat.
He's speaking again — relentless. "I wouldn't put you in danger." He reaches out to you once more, laying one hand on your shoulder and pleading with you through his eyes. It's difficult to look away, although you know it would make denying him a bit easier. Venturing out would be very refreshing, after all. You miss the feeling of existing within a bustling community, no gates to keep you in or out of anything at all. You and Eren could have dinner and speak freely, go dancing, or see a play. You might visit your home, or he would buy you some keepsake to remember the night all your life.
You try to push those thoughts away, but they persist. You chew on your tongue nervously before gathering yourself again. "And we'll return before dark?" you question, a suspicious glint in your eye. Eren nods, bringing his hand to your face and running his thumb back and forth on your cheek; the pleading look hasn't dissipated. You lean into his hand and sigh. "Nothing will happen?"
He tuts sarcastically, as if the idea is inconceivable. "Go with me," he implores you. He starts to walk backwards, taking small, slow steps and grasping your hands once again. You come along with him, reluctantly at first, matching his pace as you both speed to a brisk walk. He drops one of your hands and turns to face forward, leashing you along behind him as you advance to the tall hedges that line the garden. After a moment, you're jogging, letting loose your grip on him to gather your skirts in order to keep up with Eren's eager strides.
The wind whips on your face, stray leaves caught in the breeze catching your cheeks once in a while. You smell trimmed grass and pine needles and roses. Wispy strands of hair tickle your face as your bun begins to come loose — you ignore it, much like you ignore the pounding in your chest. You're both running now — sprinting, really, and the hedges are growing closer. Eren's hair has begun to fall down, too; his brown, shoulder-length locks have started to slip out of the neat topknot, blowing back behind him with his overcoat. His black leather shoes are no longer shiny, but instead dusted over with dirt.
You both skid to a stop as you reach the hedgeline, the top of them standing a foot over Eren's head. Your labored breaths make your chest swell, but he doesn't seem fazed — only determined. He looks back and forth between the bushes and your dangerously apprehensive expression before extending one arm out to you. "Come on, then," he tosses his head toward the daunting barrier, "I'll boost you up. I can make it on my own." As you start towards him, he peels off his coat and holds it open, facing you. "Hold onto this for me?"
You turn and put out your arms, allowing Eren to slide his coat over your shoulders and pulling it snug. When you turn around again, he's taking a knee, hands poised like a basket waiting for the sole of your shoe. Despite every little hair on the back of your neck pulling you back to your quaint room just outside the palace, you oblige him. Your steps stutter, but still, they take you forward. You can't deny him this one night of freedom. He's far too good, and far too alive.
You swallow your fears as Eren boosts you up, hands flailing out to catch the top of the hedge. It isn't very sturdy, you discover as your fingers dig past the green leaves into the sharp hidden branches. It won't hold you long. You suck in a quick, deep breath and use his hands to aid your jump. You nearly clear the wall with his assistance, but you fall just short. To your dismay, you roll over the top of the hedge, tumbling for only a fleeting second before you're free falling and landing flat on your back on the hard dirt path.
All the air vacuums out of your lungs, making you gasp for oxygen you can't reach. Even in your panic, your brain can assess the damages to your body: sore, bruised, and the wind momentarily knocked out of you — but nothing worth turning around over. The fall was only six or seven feet, after all. You hear Eren's feet hit the ground next to you, and he's crouching at your side as you gain back your breath.
You sit up, gasping, and he wraps a concerned hand around your upper arm. You look at him, and his brow is drawn in. "Are you okay?" he questions, combing back runaway tufts of your hair with his fingertips. You can only nod up at him, a little giggle bubbling behind your lips. In the spirit of your great and secret endeavor, you decide to let it free. You're really laughing now, totally unreserved, and the prince just smiles down at you.
You quiet your outburst after a moment, pulling your mouth shut and gazing back up at your dear friend. Things will change, you know. Lady Historia's father would never allow her to stay unmarried much longer, with the girl approaching twenty years old — you can hardly imagine a father who would. The sun would set on the king one day, regardless of how near or far, and newly crowned King Eren would need to give you up, if he hadn't already by then. He'd likely just send you out with enough money to live on, and you might see him make a speech once or twice a year for the rest of your life.
But now, at this moment, you're just gazing up at him. And he's just gazing down at you. And you've made it over the tall hedgeline, the only thing besides the forest separating you from a multitude of bustling towns that surround the towering palace. In an hour's walk, you could visit a produce market or a candy shop. You make a mental note that your first objective should be to buy Eren a cloak. He's been fairly reclusive since his mother's death, but it's a risk you shouldn't ignore.
You're brought back from your thought as Eren lets loose of your arm, laying his forearm flat on the ground beside you, instead. His face is only a few inches from yours now, every marble-sculpted dip in his skin clearly visible as you breathe in the scent of Riesling and vanilla. You can feel it against your cheeks when he blows out a breath, inching his head a little closer. Too swift to predict, he presses his forehead against yours and lets his eyes fall shut, drawing in deep breath.
"Let me kiss you," Eren murmurs, shifting so that the tip of his nose brushes lightly over the tip of your own. "Just once." All of your muscles feel tightened and relaxed all at once, and your breathing hitches. Every part of you reaches out for him, pushing at your chin to lift and press your lips against his; you fight back against the instinct, but it's painful.
You shut your eyes, too, a bit afraid to look at him. Heat is radiating off of his towering frame, spreading from your forehead and your nose down to your shoulders. Although you're wracking your brain for something to say, you're coming up completely blank; he's never had you so cornered, and the two of you have never been so alone. You feel him shift over you, and your eyes snap open — he's leaning further in, and your heart is swelling so full you think it could explode if he comes even a millimeter closer.
Your hands fly up to his chest, halting him before your lips can touch. His eyes snap open, and you give him your most apologetic expression. Eren sighs before pushing off of you, standing and dusting himself off. You lean your head back and close your eyes, blowing a frustrated gust of air out of your nose before looking up at the prince again. He's offering you his hand.
You sit up, propping yourself on your hands and eyeing the forest behind him. When you look back at him, he's smiling again. "Let's go, love," he says peacefully, waving for you to join him.
You reach up and set your hand inside Eren's, letting him lift you to your feet. He crouches down, brushing leaves and tiny branches off of your dress before straightening the skirt for you. Before he stands, he glances up at you for just a second, eyes full of forever-secret thoughts.
The two of you stroll toward the tree line, faster and faster until you're racing yet again. It's better this time — the air is clearer, and bigger, and Eren's overcoat flows behind you like a knight's cape. The two of you trample over the wildflowers, and hop the tall, grassy weeds, lilting voices unable to carry over the loudly blowing wind.
You aren't behind the prince this time — you're right at his side, matching his pace and his wide, genuine smile. You don't say anything to Eren as he flies, but you think he looks golden — like light reflecting on great lakes, elaborate floral detailing on palace walls, polished royal tiaras, and serene autumn sunsets. When you look down at your fingertips, they glitter just a bit.