Court Painter

| 15

Arden feels as though, through the taste of his lips, she might never taste anything more satisfying. Gently at first, his lips find hers. Her mind has traveled to places she's never explored before, feelings and thoughts that scare her. She feels helpless and dizzy against his sturdy frame, holding her so close she feels as if nothing exists between them. Insistent and passionate against her lips, Mayven breaks away only to say, "If you want me to stop, tell me." And as he waits for her response, she rises to her tiptoes, pulling him back to her. Her world feels so strangely quiet, as if even nature has stopped to observe the giddiness swelling in her chest that forces her to kiss him back.

With ever passionate second passing as his arms completely envelop her, Arden feels as though he steals her breath, sucking it from her, forcing her to rely on him for air. Every part of her being melts into him and he responds according, melding them into a singular, entwined moment of indulgence. Mayven kisses her with parted lips, moving against her as though she were the first woman he has ever touched, as though she were a dangerous and impossible risk he wants to take. And just before he feels his hands begin to roam, he pulls away.

Their eyes struggle to find each other's in the darkness, but there is no need really to see the other. There is already a feeling swirling in the fading warmth between them that they have just started an unstoppable thing.

Night is nearly over and Mayven lays awake. Sleep had never come for him, instead, he spent the hours of the night replaying every detail of Arden in his mind. While her charm, her intelligence captivate his thoughts, he can't help but consider the consequences. The Queen's fondness for Arden contrasted by her distaste for him and his mother's place in the heart of the King. None of it blends well and none of it looks promising for him or Arden. 

His earliest memories are of living side by side with children of "more worth" than he, and yet tucked in the dearest parts of his mind are memories of his father, the King, sitting on the lawn next to his mother in the summer heat. Or late at night when everyone else was sleeping, the three of them reading or having midnight meals. As he grew older, his father would wake him early and they would hunt, returning home undetected before others arose.  Growing up the bastard son of a well-loved king has its pros and cons, cons mostly made up of palace and royal confined issues. His step-sisters doted on him when they were all children, the youngest still does. The Heir, however, was only fond of Mayven until they both came to realize the competition which flowed within their very bloodstream. Since then, it has been a riveting ensemble of acts meant to cast the other into shadow. Mayven participated only as a way to earn his place. Once he realized it wasn't going to work, he gave up, finding the acts exhausting. He has now settled himself to a life of fighting in his Father's armies, learning the techniques of hand-to-hand-combat, and likely watching his step-siblings go on to live entitled lives while he continues to fight for his own rights.

Mayven's thoughts are disrupted when a knock at his door sounds and his father enters, surprised to see his son awake.

"I thought I was going to have to wake you...have you been up long?"

Mayven turns away from his dad, concealing an incriminating look. "Not long. I just couldn't sleep. Why are you up?"

King Viscer sits on a plush cushion beside the hearth. "Have you noticed this place is overrun with women?" He sounds exacerbated."Elza won't stop filling every room in the palace with her projects."

Mayven forces a neutral look and turns to face his father. "The pleasantries of women will never come easy to me."

Viscer laughs and props his boots up on a low-lying chest. "I am certain that if only one woman remained on earth, she would not survive for a lack of other women to entertain her."

Instead of responding to his father's comment, Mayven changes subjects, careful to not reveal too much. "What do you think of Queen Elza's newest addition?"

Viscer eyes his son inquisitively, not wavering his gaze as he answeres with a rather unnatural tone. "I think she is charming. I also think she is going to regret painting for the Queen's pleasure." He hesitates before casually asking, "And yourself? What do you think?"

Mayven sits next to his father, reclining as a sudden sense of exhaustion hits him. "I think Queen Elza has met her match."

Viscer lets out a healthy laugh, patting his son's shoulder in moment of fatherly pride. "Ah, my son, you have learned to read women well. I think they will find they are not a good match."

"Nobody is a good match for the Queen." Mayven grumbles.

The air in the room grows hot with tension as an age old argument resurfaces. Viscer grimaces against his son's distain. "I know you aren't fond of her,"

"It isn't that," Mayve interrupts. "It's that she isn't fond of me. And I exsisted in your life before she did. Both Mother and I did."

Viscer nods slowly. "I will always love your mother, but-"

"I know. You've told me before. Kings can't marry for love."

"That's why you're fortunate." Viscer initiates a different perspective on the topic. "You will never be King. You will be free to leave and to love and to be who you want to be."

"I'm still your son," Mayven conflicts. "I am still in the eye of the public. They watch my every move. I just don't have the benefit of any sort of title. I am judged for my actions with no positive side to being the son of a King."

King Viscer once more pats his son, acknowledging the angst. "You will find your way. Of all my children, you are the one that worries me the least. I see you doing great things with your life, a sentiment I don't see reflected in the ambition of your half-siblings."