When The Heart Falls

Love In War

In times like this, Agatha wished she was a reader again, tucked away in a world where fairytales were only words. But as she watched her prince toss his food around his plate, the glow on his face smothered by the shadow of his hood, the vision had become exceptionally clear: this would never be just a few words in a book, that no matter how much she'd wished it or wanted it, she could never flip the pages to their happy ending. That there could never be any peace for them. Only the deepest misery, or the greatest happiness.

And as she watched Tedros sink deeper into silence, no doubt reliving the last moments of Lancelot's life, Agatha knew they were heavy into this misery. In that moment Agatha wanted nothing more than to hold her prince, to tell him how much she loved him, to comfort him. But all this sat cold in her throat, as if she didn't have the strength to foist them.

Agatha touched her hand to his.
Tedros' slate-blue eyes met her own.

"Feels like our first date," she managed a shy smile.

Tedros beamed sadly, a small warmth finding its way in his heart. "It's not much," he said, glimpsing the leaking rooftop, and broken lecterns. Indeed, Marian's Arrow seemed less of a man's den and more of an abandoned bistro, reeking of mottled beer and rancid cider.

Around the only glowing lectern two moths fluttered. The wooden floorboards were hardly visible, scattered with broken bottles, posters and newspapers. There was a soft patter nearby; the bucket beneath the roof gradually collecting the seeping downpour–

Tedros felt a soft pat on his foot.

He looked down and saw an open cider bottle had rolled to his feet. In its glassy sheen, Tedros saw a pair of blue eyes looking back at him. Scrutinizing him as though they weren't his, as if the reflection in it wasn't him.

As if it was–

Father.

Whatever remained of his smile vanished.

"We've never really had dinner like this, I mean." Agatha said, trying to avoid another awkward bout of silence. His eyes flicked back to his love.

Tedros took one last glance at the bottle before kicking it away. "Most of our relationship has taken place in times of war," he said, hearing the sound of the bottle rolling away, receding. He reclined further into his seat. "We're still figuring out how to do peace,"

A beat.

Agatha swallowed, as if finally mustering the strength and will to send forth what had been previously impossible to say. "You've been through a lot today. More than any of us," she said, her thumb brushing his knuckles. "Do you want to talk about it?" Tedros took his hand from beneath hers and ran it through his wet hair.

His jaw was clenched, and his gaze was somewhere far from Agatha, as if her question had pulled the wrong string. "I'd rather talk about other things," he started, still not looking at her. "Like why you didn't write to me when you promised you would." His eyes flicked back at her, cold. Within them stirred the currents of hurt and love all the same. A whirlpool of confusion seemed to rise over him.

Agatha saw this and sighed.
"I didn't want you to worry about me," she put her hand to her forehead, frustrated. "If you knew what we were dealing with on our quest you'd have panicked."

"I see," Tedros bit his lip and as they settled into a longer silence he began chewing at the insides of cheeks, as if trying to swallow what he'd actually wanted to say. "But my point is you can confide in me, Tedros." Agatha's voice was quiet and soft, but even then Tedros could hear its quiver.