𝕭𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝕿𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊
𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: The fate of an entire kingdom rests upon the shoulders of a young woman, the love of her life, and their best friend. Will they be able to find the strength to beat the hardships that come with that responsibility...
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📍 Camelot
⏳November, 507 AD
"You should allow me to try a new hairstyle one day, Astra," Gwen commented as she gently ran a brush down my hair – despite my insistence that I could do that for myself 'cause I'm not a useless idiot, or a toddler; but, apparently, she's got nothing better to do now that she's been promoted out of serving duty and onto being my 'girl-in-the-chair'.
I made a 'tsk' sound, "That's not a good idea. I mean, what if I don't look good in it? You'd have wasted an hour on nothing."
"Do you doubt my abilities?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.
"No, but your fairy godmother magic can only do so much to conceal an ogre," I responded before laughing at my own half-joke.
Gwen's hands dropped from my hair and the brush clattered against the floor, her eyes widening in horror before she cleared her throat and straightened up – all while I grinned in amusement. "Your jokes will make me sick one day," she noted with narrowed eyes.
"Sorry. They're instinctual," I responded with a nonchalant shrug.
She snorted and shook her head before retrieving the brush and returning to her task.
Now, you might be wondering why Gwen was once more employing her fairy godmother gifts upon yours truly. Well, the 'Feast of Stolen Fire' would be taking place in about an hour – a festivity that celebrates Prometheus's defiance against the Olympian gods in favour of gifting mankind with fire. In other words: an excuse for the courtiers to get drunk and party; considering that no one in Camelot seriously believes in Greek mythology. And, as 'future queen', I'm forced to attend.
The things I do for Arthur.
"D'ya think I could get away with wearin' PJs if I give Art a good enough puppy look?" I asked.
"I believe you could get away with anything, but that does not mean you should try to," my friend responded oh-so-wisely.
I quirked an eyebrow, "You're supposed to help me with my shenanigans, not shoot 'em down."
"I am supposed to help you make diplomatic decisions."
"I'm sorry – are you my 'girl-in-the-chair', or Arthur's?"
Gwen chuckled, "I am a friend who wants to see you become the queen I know you can be."
I let out a puff and crossed my arms over my chest, "I hate that you're so mature."
My friend giggled and returned her attention fully to her task; and, after a minute or two, she finally finished a smooth-looking french braid and got to sticking small white flowers in it – something I protested at first but soon found to be a nice touch.
