"luna, luna, don't let em fool ya.
you're right on par with the stars."
or
peter falls for a girl who has lived in her sister's shadow her entire life.
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Cold shame fills Luna's heart more nights than most. Though she has never been her mother's favorite, it drives a wooden stake in her chest to bare her chiding alone. When her father was alive, he would come to her defense, and Luna felt more unbreakable around him.
Now however, she only feels emptiness. She wishes her father were here.
Of course, her mother only brings her on these trips to make it seem like they are a happy family. And any suspicious noble would be smart enough to know not to stick their nose where it doesn't belong. Still, Luna wonders what the high king thinks.
She huffs. It shouldn't matter what he thinks. She shouldn't be thinking about him at all.
Luna sits at her writing desk and opens her stationary box. She extracts a jar of ink and a quill, deciding that perhaps a small entry in her diary will calm her mind.
Yet as soon as her quill hits the parchment, it takes a mind of its own, and Luna begins to draw the picture of a lion, large and grand. It's stands firm in front of a little girl. She's crying. Her tears grow larger as they reach the grass, and Luna watches her own tears fall onto the page. They blur the lines of the Lion's back paws, until there's nothing but gray smudges.
Frustration hits Luna's chest. Like an ugly little creature crawling it's way up her esophagus; getting stuck. She chokes back a sob — reminds herself to get a hold of herself.
A lady doesn't lose control. A lady doesn't show her negative emotions. A lady doesn't draw escapism art and then ruin it with tears. A lady doesn't ruin her sisters chances of getting married, and she certainly doesn't dance with the king in secret.
Someone knocks on the door.
Luna scrambles to hide the drawings and wipe her tears. She stands up and rubs at her wet cheeks. She clears her throat. "Come in."
It's the one person that Luna is afraid to be seen with. King Peter peeks his head into the room. "Forgive me," he says, voice softer than the wind. His eyes dart around the room, tenderly, as if he wants to memorize every out of place object.
Luna bows her head. "It's fine— Your Majesty. I, uh, I'm sorry about the mess."
Peter quirks a quick smile. His eyes form into gentle crescents, like he's about to approach a tender subject. "No mess," he says, eyes clearly searching her window seat, where her father's coat is still there, half-hidden behind an embroidered pillow. His brows furrow, and he snaps his gaze back towards Luna. "I wanted to ask if you felt ill. Since you missed breakfast and lunch with us."
