Harry carefully took aim, his lip caught between his teeth as his eyes focused, the rest of the world fading away. Before he lost his nerve, he released his fingers, feeling the
snap
of the bowstring against his arm and-
“
NYAEREAAAARGH
!”
Gemma let out a strangled cry as the cream pastry splattered across the front of her dress.
Harry crowed victoriously, leaping to his feet and dodging the apple Gemma hurled with deadly force at his head.
“You toad!” Gemma roared, emptying the picnic basket in search of appropriate weapons, “I have to meet Gaston in this dress, for fuck’s sake!”
“Language, your Majesty,” Harry drawled, taking shelter behind a tree. He was one of Cheshires finest warriors, but Gemma was his sister and therefore infinitely more dangerous than your average mercenary. She was also about to formally accept the hand of Duke Gaston D’Gaston, a man whose army was the key to finally winning the war against Doncaster.
“I hope you’re not going to swear at Gaston Gaston like that. Might scare him off. Jesus!”
“Gaston
D’Gaston
,” Gemma hissed, appearing right beside him and smashing an apple pie into his curls, “has faced the Beast, Pain, Malice and the Whore in battle. There’s not a whole lot that scares him.”
“He hasn’t seen you mad,” Harry said, mock cowering against the tree and giggling helplessly, “you’re terrifying.”
“Because you ruined my
engagement dress
!”
“So what? He knows what you look like, he’s agreed to marry you. It’s not like a dress can magically fix your face- ow!”
“What’s wrong with my face?” Gemma demanded, smacking him with a banana. Where had that even come from?
“Nothing!” Harry cried, raising his hands in surrender, “Nothing! Ed’s written enough songs about it, Jesus, apparently some people even find you beautiful.”
Gemma’s arm dropped to her side, but more disturbingly, the colour dropped from her face and the smile fell from her eyes.
“You can’t say things like that anymore,” Gemma said, “I’m getting married. Ed… Ed doesn’t sing about me anyway. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
Harry felt his face collapse, along under the weight of his frown. He knew his expression now matched Gemma’s, drawn and miserable. Only his sister had a steely resolve beneath her unhappiness.
“You shouldn’t have to get married,” Harry said quietly. He’d wanted to say it for months, ever since negotiations started to arrange the union.
“I was wondering when you were going to say that,” she sighed, “you’ve been thinking it from the start. Don’t deny it, Harry, you’re a terrible actor.”
“Good thing I’m not the politician then,” Harry offered a small smile, wrapping his arm around his sister and leading her back towards the picnic rug.
They were in their favourite part of the royal woods, the little grove they had found and made their own as children. Before Gemma had inherited the throne and the wars that came with it. Before Harry had been given a sword and taught to use it to protect his sister and Kingdom of Cheshire till his last breath.
