Of Blades and Secrets

The Varying Presence

Prince Lionel Darehallow of Dorenne had no interest in being here, in the throne room of the King of Loré, but his father had asked him to come, so here he was.

The royal family of Loré sat on their beautifully carved thrones. There was no way those thrones could be particularly comfortable, but the royals showed no sign of discomfort. The portrait of regalia.

Lionel studied them, the prince and the princess, the king and the queen. Noting their similarity to all the other royalty he'd seen, but on their right- he sucked in a breath.

Hellaya Afaelen. The famed beauty of Loré.
He could see why they called her a goddess, why there were whole ballads written on her, why she was Loré's pride.

She was heavenly. Her face- the swoops, the planes, the depths of her fine bones, all molded into a face so beautiful, it was almost unreal.

Almost.

For that touch of humanity, the tinge of compassion in the arch of her brows, in the smooth curve of her lips, it made her exquisite. And her eyes, their deep blue almost glowing with depth and wisdom. The flaming crown of her red hair was so bright, so vivacious, its colour as if blood and honey were mixed together. She was beautiful, amazing.

Stop staring Lionel, he chided. You'll embarrass yourself.

So for the next thirty minutes, Lionel stood and watched as his father maintained polite conversation with the royals of Loré. And occasionally, he felt his gaze dart to the flaming woman at their side.

~

"Lady Afaelen, would you be so kind as to escort King Jovian and Prince Lionel to their chambers?"

Lionel stared as Hellaya nodded. A moment later they were following her into the hallways of the palace, her white silk dress flowing behind her. It was a very plain dress, he realised. Strapless, fitting snugly at her slim waist with a skirt that fell to the ground. Incredibly simple, compared to what the royal family had been wearing, but, he thought, you probably don't need finery when you're Hellaya Afaelen.

His father, as if sensing the direction of his thoughts, spoke up. "Lady Afaelen?"

Hellaya turned around to face them, tossing her hair as she did so. Lionel couldn't help staring. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"You have been living in the palace for quite a long time, haven't you?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. Since I was three."

"Hmm. And still people say that you would have been a great princess, even better than young Cyrene perhaps."

Hellaya stiffened. Lady Afaelen, Lionel thought to himself, Not Hellaya. Lady Afaelen."I am only the Lady of Loré," Hellaya said quietly. "Cyrene is the princess, and she is a great one herself."

"Indeed," was all his father said in reply.

The walked the rest of the way in silence.

~

Lionel watched as Hellaya sank into a graceful curtsy before his father. She then turned him before leading him to his own room, adjacent to his father's.

"There's a door inside," she told him, sounding somehow choked. "It connects His Majesty's room to yours.."

All Lionel could manage to do was nod in silent reply. She had just pulled open the door to his own room when Lionel spoke. "Lady Afaelen?"

She turned to him without uttering so much as a syllable, Lionel could have sworn he felt his nerves frazzle. "Thank you," was all he said.

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. There was so much hope in that smile, as if it were a fragment of pure joy.

"Of course, Your Highness."

His cheeks flamed as he took her hand. It was worn- in all the places where a sword or dagger might rest. And Lionel could have sworn her own cheeks were tinged a light pink as he lowered his mouth to the back of her hand.

"You can call me Lionel," he said softly.

A small smile was all she gave him before she turned on her heel and left.

~

Hours later, Lionel sat in his bed and went through the contents of his morning for the hundredth time. You can call me Lionel. He didn't know what mad impulse had taken hold of him, what had made him say it. But his encounter with Hellaya...

Hours later, and it was still fresh in his mind. Shaking his head at himself, Lionel flung himself onto a plush armchair.