Be Good To Me - Jaskier x Reader OS

Be Good To Me

You were ten years old when your family moved from Ebbing to Toussaint, eager to claim a more neutral plot of land in Nilfgaardian territory. You were of ranking birth, the daughter of a Viceroy, and you were just about old enough to understand their concerns for moving - the politics involved - as well as their anxiety about moving. Toussaint was a place of wealth and abundance, and you were essentially relocating to the bottom of the social ladder. Your mother lectured you again and again on the long journey that you were to uphold your family's good name, to be a lady (this she said with great emphasis), to abandon your bug-collecting and rough-housing in favour of needlework or singing or painting. As a daughter, your duty was to become a product to be sold when you came of age. Nobody wanted a girl with no accomplishments, a dirtied hemline, and scuffed knees. You'd promised your mother you'd try your best, bowed under the weight of parental expectation.

Unfortunately, you were only to keep that promise intact for approximately four hours upon arriving in Toussaint.
Servants busied themselves with unpacking your furniture hauled in on carts as your mother and father fussed over fine details and the care required with moving antiquities; you'd explored your new manor, discovered the best places to spy upon others or make yourself unseen when hiding, and had summarily grown tired of nesting rather rapidly. You were under your mother's skirts, and she turned you outside to play - nicely, she reminded you - and she went back to frowning at a painting she was hanging, trying to get it perfectly level.

The first time you'd met Julian, you'd wandered down to the river to watch frogs - you weren't going to catch any, because you'd promised - but you saw little harm in looking. The sound of a scuffle caught your attention as you knelt by the cool water, poised to poke a salamander with a curious index finger. Like a wraith, you'd slunk closer to the commotion to peek, safely hidden in the shadow of a fir tree's trunk.

"Give us your flute, rat-boy!" A plump pre-teen was taunting a chestnut-haired boy, who was clutching the instrument, red-faced. You could see his lip was split and bloody.

"Yeah!" A second kid jeered, bolstered by the first - who you presumed to be the local bully, or at least one of them. His accomplice was slight, short, and already blessed with blotchy spots on his chin. You wrinkled your nose, both at the unfairness of the fight, and the tangle of testosterone that was so wildly unnecessary.

"My name is Pankratz!" Their target raged, and held the fife closer to his chest. "It's not my fault your father spends his money on wine and women, and not on you!" You winced, wondering if he knew that he was adding firewood to flame. As you predicted, the baited bully rose.

"Take that back, you shit!" The rotund rebel insisted, curling his hand into a fist, lining up for another punch. You realised the flute-hoarding boy wasn't going to defend himself properly when he screwed his eyes shut, anticipating the blow. Enough was enough.

"Let him go and be on your way." You announced yourself, stepping out of the shadow with hands on your hips. At your short height, in your periwinkle blue dress with red flower silk embellishments, you looked about as threatening as a newborn foal finding its footing. The three stared at you; the two brutes openly laughed.

"And if we don't?" The skinny kid sneered, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, are you gonna tell on us? Throw flowers? What're you gonna do, little girl?" The largest boy mocked. Your reply was a saccharine smile; on that day, the two would learn the importance of observing aposematism in animals; the brightest specimens were often the most venomous.

Stepping forward, you simply pushed the large boy away from the one clutching his flute, sending him stumbling slightly backward. You counted on his temper and his awkward momentum to propel him forward again; anticipating the movement, it was easy for you to lunge out of the way, and kick the back of his knees as he overbalanced, falling face-first into the dirt. To avenge his friend, the slight kid took a wide swing at you, hitting air as you ducked. Using the strength of your legs, you employed the heel of you hand in a swift upward jab, connecting with his jaw hard enough that you heard the sound of his teeth clacking together.

As his cohort yelped in pain, the larger boy shoved himself up from the ground - and directly into the cap of your knee as you busted his nose, blood spattering your dress. He made a sound like a dying cow, the sobs beginning immediately, and you squared your feet in a fighter's stance, daring them to come at you again.

"You little bitch!" The bully sobbed, as the other began to scramble away, "You broke my nose!"

"I told you to walk away." You retorted, calmly; there was a fierceness in your eyes that even an oaf like him knew better than to stoke. With another whimper, he followed his friend's retreat, and the two of them ran back to town. Sighing, you looked down at your dress, and winced.

"Wow." Came the sound from the tormented boy, and you glanced at him, half-smirking. "How did... you learn that stuff?"

"I have four brothers." You shrugged, "They don't like bullies, and neither do I." Sticking out your hand, you hesitated, recalling your mother's words; be a lady. Damn it; you'd already fucked that up. Still, you withdrew, and bobbed in a polite curtsy instead. "My name is Y/N. I just moved here."

The boy laughed, wincing as his lip dripped a fresh droplet of blood. "After that show, you dip into a neat curtsy? I've never met a girl like you." He flustered, and recalled his own manners. "My name is Julian Pankratz. That was Todd and Earl. I'd tell you to stay away from them but..." He chuckled again. "Gods, I've never seen Todd cry, y'know? I'm never going to forget his face."

You grinned, and then bit your own lip. "I'm s'posed to be acting lady-like. My mother said I should be an example." Glancing down at your skirts, you heaved a sigh. "River water might get some of this out. Maybe I can beg a berry stain..."

"C'mon," Julian held out his hand. Slowly, you took it. "I'll help you scrub it. It's the least I can do."

You beamed at him. "Thanks. Do you play the flute? I've never learned an instrument."

He puffed up his chest proudly. "Music is the food of the soul. Or so my Mama says. Maybe... I could teach you a bit? And you could teach me that thing you did with... well, you could teach me how to, like... fight?"

"Deal." You'd assured him, as the two of you wandered to the river.

------

From that day on, you were Julian's shadow, or he was yours. Your names became intertwined; if one of you turned up somewhere, it was expected the other would follow sooner or later. You learned that he was two years older than you, the son of a Lord and a Lady - although he never impressed his higher rank upon you. Once he'd mastered the basic techniques of boxing, you were a dynamic duo. He had been mercilessly teased for being sensitive and prone to day-dreaming, but with you by his side, you rapidly became the rulers of the schoolyard. He found a handful of like-minded friends, and you a trickle of tolerable companions, but when it was up to the two of you, you found company in one another.

The formative years of your youth were spent hiking, climbing trees, horse-back riding with bows and arrows like you were Witchers hunting dangerous prey; you slept rough under the stars, lay together in flower-dotted spring meadows and pointed cloud-shapes out to one another, and invented a secret handshake that grew ever-more complex with the passage of time. Your mother and father saw how thrilled you were to have him as a friend, and although it didn't score you any points in the 'lady of fine breeding' category, you suspected that your mother was pleased that you were so close to a family of more noble birth. Julian's parents, however, had a way of making you feel uncomfortable.

It was never anything direct, quite the opposite; Julian's mother was a master of passive aggression. You hated it when she ran her gaze down Julian's clothing choice for the day and quirked a brow, making a remark along the lines of, "Unusual choice of shoes, darling", or "That hat? Well, fashion is always evolving, I suppose". You knew it bothered him, although he never mentioned it. As the years went past, he became much more interested in his presentation and dress.

She often laid a critical eye upon you, too. Your father had begun to sink into the grips of a gambling addiction, spending too much coin and time playing Gwent in the taverns. This was local gossip, the kind that suggested your family's money - and thus your dowry - was draining away into the pockets of book-keepers and card-sharks. As far as she was concerned, you were Julian's pet project - some kind of urchin that he took pity on, trying to polish you into a woman by teaching you music, or how to dance. You hated visiting for dinners, hated that your best dresses and carefully pinned hair were never quite enough for her, and it was the first time in your life that it was impressed upon you that Julian was out of your league.

Still, he was your best friend, and nothing more. Wasn't he?

As your playful childish antics grew into the heated philosophical debates of teenagers - the kind that could only be made in the confident clutches of a youth entirely unexposed to the world - you spent less time sitting up trees, and more time wandering the town late at night past your curfews, stealing glasses of mead from tavern tables and getting tipsy and giggly in your private havens; the riverbed, the forest, a little cave tucked in a foothill. You, entering your sixteenth year, began to notice things about Julian that you'd never seen before.

The way his aquamarine eyes would sparkle just before he was about to deliver a truly awful pun. The way his nose wrinkled ever-so slightly at the bridge when he was in the midst of a fit of laughter. The diligence of his fingers on the strings of a harp or a lute when he played for you. You saw the broadening of his shoulders as he claimed masculinity, the lithe definition of his muscle when he rolled up his sleeves. The warmth of his hand when he took your own - he was always warm. Julian, your sun, your joy, the boy - no, the man - that knew your deepest fears, secrets, desires.

Except for one: the fact that you'd fallen in love with him.

Truly you didn't realise it yourself until the week leading up to the summer solstice festival. It was always a grand occasion with feasting and a dance and music, and every year the two of you made a ridiculous show of asking one another to the fête. Once, Julian had baked a pie that said 'be my date?' on the crust - except he had burnt it, and one of your brothers had stolen a chunk of it, leaving it to read 'be my da?'. Another year, you'd dressed as a grave-hag, rags and grease-paint on your face, and had hidden beneath his bed for a full three hours. When he'd settled atop it, you'd skittered out from beneath the mattress and shrieked, "I'll die if you don't accompany me to the dance!". He screamed much louder than you, and you'd laughed until you cried; he'd thrown you over his shoulder in revenge, heading for the horse-trough in his family's stables.

You and Julian wrestling in the street, you clad in a ragged costume, he in night-clothes? That was just part of life in Toussaint. Nobody batted an eyelid.

That year, you were thinking of some way to top that stunt, when he hit you with something completely out of the blue. The two of you were settled outside in the sunshine, him reading a book of poetry, you trying your best to embroider a flower onto a kerchief.

"I was wondering," He'd broken the silence, "This year, with the dance."

"Mmm?" You replied, poking yourself with the needle and cursing softly, sticking the wounded flesh into your mouth to suckle.

"I was thinking... do you mind if I ask Paige?" His sky-struck eyes had a dreamy gloss about them, the way they always did when he had a crush. This time, it hit you differently. You felt the strange iron grip of jealousy around your stomach, clenching, and had no idea why. Was it because it was your tradition? You had so manytraditions, though; surely granting him leave of this one wasn't a big deal. And yet you felt an ache in your chest.

"'Course not!" You'd assured him, the falsetto of your voice a bit too eager for either of you to buy; he frowned a little at you as you resumed your needlework, suddenly fascinated by it. "I uh, I was thinking of asking someone myself."

"Oh?" He queried, now interested enough to close his book. Julian was a flirt, and he had been for a couple of years now; you, on the other hand, rebuffed any man that so much as dared to present you with a flower or a snippet of a sonnet. Why would you need a boy complicating your life when you had Julian to confide in? You had brothers; you knew how boorish they could be. "Who are you asking? Who has finally caught your gorgeous gaze? Would I approve?"

Frantically, you wracked your mind, trying to think of someone you might be able to suffer for an evening. "Kyen." You blurted, the shy stable-boy's face springing to your mind. He was a year older than you, and had always been sweet. Dull, but sweet.

"Kyen?" Julian parroted, disbelieving. "I thought you said he would lose a personality contest with a turnip."

You shrugged, hoping your nonchalance was a buyable act. "He's cute."

"I suppose." Julian hummed, opening the book again. "Least I won't have to beat him up later for sullying your virtue. He's too chicken."

That had you bristling, and you turned to glare at him. "What if I want him to?" You snapped.

Julian shut his tome with a loud thud, returning your glare, heat-for-heat. The two of you never did anything by halves, and that included quarrelling. "Y/N, don't even joke. Someday you'll want to wed, and-"

"And what?" You rose, the embroidery tumbling to the dirt, neglected, "My family's poor fortune won't find me a decent match anymore? I'll need to rely on my looks and my lessons and hope someone takes pity upon me?" The scoff that burst from your lips was bitter.

"I didn't say that!" Julian defended, standing too; he was a full head taller than you, but you were never intimidated by his height and strength. Instead, you glowered up at him. "I'd never say that of you. Any man would be a fool to pass up your hand."

"So long as it's clean and virtuous." You snarled, "You sound just like my mother. And tell me - why is it that you're able to roll around in hay-barns with ladies, or sneak behind the inn, and I am not?" One finger jabbed at his chest, pressing into the velvet of his doublet. "You're a hypocrite."

"It's different for me!" He burst, ignited by your flames, "I have a title, and maybe I'm not deserving of it, but I have my parent's money. I'm just trying to think of what is best for you."

"I never asked you to." You could feel the prick of angry tears in your eyes, and you gathered your skirts, leaving the rubbish needlework in the dirt. "Go see what Paige is doing. My virtue and I will see you at the stupid dance."

He'd called your name, but you'd run from him, hurt for so many reasons you didn't understand. He'd never brought up his title before - why now? That day, you'd felt the shadow of his mother in your presence, dividing you.

------

You refused to see him the rest of the week, and he got the hint quickly and avoided you. You'd fought before, but at most you'd been apart from one another for a day. This felt different, and you were miserable.

Your mother was delighted that you were spending time indoors - even if you were brooding and draping yourself across chaise lounges dramatically. She was able to truly fit you for a dress for the dance, gleefully pouring herself into the fine detail of it. Most years you just wore what was cleanest, and only sat still enough for her to make last-minute alterations.

You found Kyen at the inn's stables, and had marched up to him with folded arms. "Hey." You'd greeted, and he'd spilt some of the water he was carrying.

"Oh, Y/N!" He turned a fun shade of pink, and you smirked. "Well met. Is your horse...?"

"He's well, thank you for asking." You breezed, leaning against one of the wooden beams in the stable. "The summer solstice dance. Have you a partner?"

He looked as though you'd asked him to father your child, all wide of eye and suddenly anxiously sweaty. "Well, no, but... I usually go alone."

"Well," You confidently informed him, "Now you're going with me. Pick me up at sunset. Probably best if you wear a shade of blue in your outfit, or my mother will force something of my father's upon you."

"I-uh. Blue. Sunset." As he stammered, you examined him; coal-black hair, a few inches taller than you, sharp almond eyes that were his most handsome feature. Honestly, he was adorable - so why didn't you feel anything at all? Perhaps love came with time.

"Can't wait." You chirped, leaned over to kiss his cheek, and felt the burn of his blood on his skin. Swanning back to the house, you tried to decipher the swirl of emotion in the pit of your stomach; the strange satisfaction you felt, the dread of attending the dance, and that dark streak of envy that you simply could not shake. Paige - the daughter of a merchant - was purposefully staying out of your path, you knew that, and you couldn't blame her. If you bumped into her, you felt like she might have an 'accident' and end up with a dislocated shoulder or a sprained ankle.

------

"Mother," You plucked up the courage to ask as she fussed over your dress, cinching the waist of your corset ever-tighter; you braced yourself against the wall and endured, "When your match was made with father. Did you love him?"

Your mother paused, sighing. One of your maids was stooped at your hemline, adding a few last tiny sparkling jewels with dexterity. "Leave us, would you?" She addressed the help, who ducked her head in a nod, and slipped from the room. You frowned, not recognising the gravity of the topic you'd wandered into. She sat you down at the dresser, and began the process of pinning your hair.

"When I was your age," She began, and you tried not to slouch; no good story began with those words, "I had your wildness, too." That caught your attention; you stared at her in the mirror, trying to picture your mother with wildberry-stained fingers, or a hemline wet from wading in a pond. She was so proper, so elegant. You couldn't connect the two worlds. "My mother, rest her soul, was not strict with me. My father, however..." She trailed off, lost in memory and the tangle of your hair; frowning, she picked out a piece of hay. "Your grandfather was a proud man. I was their only child, and he wanted the world for me. I, however, wanted a servant boy named Iyan."

"A servant?" You repeated, scandalised and yet thoroughly thrilled, "You loved him?"

"I did." Your mother sighed, and you saw memory dance in the eye of her mind, distant. "At least, what I knew of love. We planned to elope. It was such a romantic idea; I was fifteen, and he sixteen." She laughed. "I saved up a handful of coin and we made plans to steal a horse, to ride through the mountain pass. We thought ourselves very clever." You were silent as she spoke, wincing only slightly when she jabbed your scalp with the pins. "Before we carried out our plan, however, your father came to town."

"And you fell in love with him instead?" You asked, naïve, handing her tools to deal with your mane as she worked.

"No, sweetheart. He fell for me. He spoke to my father, and a match was made. He's a viceroy, after all; I was merely the daughter of a spice trader. It was an advantageous match."

"That's what you said to Iyan? That you found a better match?" You were incredulous, trying to understand.

"I never saw Iyan again." Your mother's voice lowered, "My father was smart. Smarter than I. He knew of our plan. Iyan's employment was terminated, and I wed your father."

It was as if a new world was opening to you; you knew you were of marrying age, sixteen, but the illusion of love had always gone hand-in-hand with the idea of gold rings and church bells. Even if your match was arranged, you figured your parents would make sure you liked one another before consenting. "Weren't you... sad?" Your voice was soft.

"I cried for days, my darling." She began to dot your up-do with shimmering crystals, securing them. "But then I spent time with your father, chaperoned. I found him to be a decent man. He was smart, and witty, and he cared for me. I did fall in love with him - it just took a little time." She squeezed your shoulders.

"So love does come with time, then." You puzzled, toying with the pot of lipstick on the vanity.

"Yes, sweetheart. It often does. I bore him four sons and one precious daughter, did I not? There is no greater love than carrying a child for your husband." Delicately, she began to sweep your cheekbones with a touch of rouge.

You pondered that. Julian's books spoke of love as bigger than family; the poems said it was bigger than a person, all-encompassing, something to drown happily in and relinquish all the breath from your lungs to. Your mother made it sound far more practical. "Have you and father plans for my match?" You wondered, catching her eye in the mirror.

Your mother paused, clearly wondering if this was a good topic to discuss with you on the evening of a large fête. She sighed. "We do. But we don't plan for you to meet for a year or two yet, and nothing is set in stone."

Wide-eyed, you whirled in your chair to face her. "You do?!" You squeaked, excitement and panic beating at your breast. "Who, mother? Do I know him? Is he from Toussaint? Is it-"

Your mother laughed, and firmly moved your face back towards the mirror. "Hush, now. No, he's not of this town. He hails from Ebbing, where you were born. Salm, actually."

"When am I to meet him?" You were fidgeting in your chair, now. "Is he kind? Does he like music?"

"That is enough from you tonight, young lady." The sternness of your mother's voice returned, and you knew the conversation was exhausted, no matter how much you begged. Your bottom lip stuck out in a pout so severe that she tutted at you, and simply went back to the door, calling for the maid again. As the two women fussed with your clothing and face and hair, you let your mind roll over the future, and wondered why Julian's face kept cropping up in your thoughts.

------

Kyen was early, which was a poor move on his part. He was treated to a tense half-an-hour with your father, holed up in the parlour, trying to pretend he wasn't too anxious to swallow the petit fours served by the kitchen-hand. Your father said nothing, simply glared the boy down; Kyen might have been shy, but he wasn't an idiot. The stare clearly read, if you so much as look at my daughter below her face, I'll have you skinned. He withered under the weight of the patriarchal protection, and glanced often at the stairs, begging for you to make an entrance.

And make one you did.

Your gown was of baby-blue silk, overlaid with a pearl gossamer that shimmered like the first dew on spring grass. The cinch of your waist and the press of your breasts advertised your body that you often hid under ill-fitting clothes that you found practical. The fabric was dotted with prismatic beads that caught the firelight and made you into an ethereal rainbow, a mirage spotted on heavy lake-mist. Your cap-sleeves were short and your gloves frilled at the wrist, allowing you comfort in the heady summer air. The subtle make-up that you never wore accentuated your features and made you look older than your sixteen years. Both your father and Kyen stood, speechless.

The heat of your blush pricked your face and you felt shy for once in your life, tucking one leg behind you in a tiny curtsy. "Father, Kyen. Good evening."

"Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?" Your father joked, but you heard the tightness in his throat. Nervously, you smiled, and he strode over to hug you. "To think I had such a flower blooming in my house. Your brothers shadow you with their noise and nonsense."

"They are already at the fête, yes?" You queried, glad that you didn't have to suffer many quips on your dress, and thankful that Kyen wasn't thrown to the wolves in a 'protective brother' act. Your father nodded.

"They are - I'm sure they will have an eye out for you." He half-glanced at Kyen, who fidgeted even more nervously. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

"They'll have an eye out for the feast and for any un-escorted maidens." You rescued your date, walking to his side, "Thankfully, I am in good hands, father."

He grunted, and finally relented, sitting back down on the chaise. Kyen gave you a wobbly smile of thanks, and produced a small posy; it was a lavender foxglove nestled in a pair of daisies, designed to be pinned to your bodice. It was a cheap arrangement, you knew, but you also knew he didn't have coin to spare on it; it touched you, and you nodded your consent for him to pin it at your breast. His fingers fumbled a little, and you ended up assisting him so your father wouldn't begin a new round of glaring.

"Don't wait up for us!" You called, taking Kyen's hand, pausing to kiss your mother's cheek.

"Be safe! And don't stay out too late. Oh and make sure-" Your parent's voices trailed off as you jogged out the door with Kyen in tow, your new silk slippers soundless on the floorboards. The front door shut behind you, and your mother sighed, sinking onto the lounge, too.

"I wouldn't part with her this young for anyone less than a Count, you know." She mused, sniffling.

"It's an excellent match. She'll be happy. Countess de Salm - she'll do better than her brothers, even." Your father assured, looking smug.

"I hope the good Count likes being kept on his toes." She quipped, and the two of them shared a small smile.

------

The light of the bonfire caught the threads of your dress in a spectacular sparkle before you were even in the town's square, making you appear fae-like and mysterious. Several townsfolk did a double-take, unused to seeing you looking so traditionally feminine, and you answered your name with a sweet smile, working through the crowd. You didn't much care to stop and gossip; you wanted to locate your brothers so you could avoid them, and find Julian so you could pretend to avoid him.

It didn't take too long to find your friend; he was clasping a cup of wine and laughing with a trio of his friends, Paige idling at his side, looking bored. She was dressed nicely in a shade of lilac, and you hated to admit that the braids of her auburn hair were a fitting crown for a festival. You hoped Julian would spill his drink down the front of her gown.

"Why do you look so angered, Y/N?" Kyen's voice filtered into your thoughts, and you turned to face him, shaking off the image in front of you.

"Just-it's nothing, don't worry." You flashed your best winning smile, and it worked effortlessly on the boy who didn't know the written words on your soul. No, that boy was occupied. "Would you mind fetching us some wine? I fancy a drink."

He nodded, squeezed your hand, and made his way over to the banquet table, leaving you alone. As you suspected, that was also where your four brothers were; the youngest waved at you, and you saluted in return. Thankfully, none of them seemed inclined to come over and pester you. You had a chance to breathe, to take in the decorations and the firelight and the clear night sky above as you lingered at the outskirts, finding a seat on a bench. You breathed deeply of the summer air, and tried not to think of how Julian would be mocking the strange fascinator perched atop the seamstress' head, or inventing a song about someone's skirts catching fire. Closing your eyes, you let the summer humidity wash over you, the chirp of crickets almost audible over the blathering of the crowd.

"Y/N?" The sound of your name brought you back to where you were, and more importantly, to who had spoken. You'd know Julian's voice anywhere. He was alone, but he was regarding you with such a peculiar expression that you suddenly felt exposed.

"Hello Julian." You replied frostily, resisting the urge to fold your arms like a petulant child.

He ignored your obvious disdain. "You look... wow. I mean, you always... I mean, I've just never seen you-" It was rare he was lost for words, and you raised your eyebrows at him, disbelieving.

"You've seen me in a dress before." You quipped, "This is just a nice dress. Same thing."

"Very different thing." He corrected, and you swore there was something dark in his tone; the way the bonfire lit up his pale eyes made him appear otherworldly, like a sprite sent from the fens, intent on mischief. For the first time, you let your gaze sweep him, too.

He was dressed in black velvet, the cuffs of his doublet embroidered with gold. His sleeves featured the subtle peek of red silk in-between carefully placed rouching, and you saw the colour in a sash tied smartly around his waist. He looked devilish, and you holy; you were night and day, the chase of two different states in an ouroboros. You felt your throat dry up, and when you caught his gaze again, you could have sworn you saw something more than a feeling of friendship lingering there.

"Julian!" His name, called by his date, made you want to take off one of your slippers and hurl it at the blasted woman. You made do with glaring at her instead as she approached; she was clearly intimidated, but Julian took her hands, oblivious. "I was looking for you..." She explained, and he smiled.

"And here I am!" He announced grandly, as though she'd won a prize; she giggled, and you soothed yourself with the idea that she sounded moronic. Julian hated fake women; he always told you he sought depth and complexity over swooning and tittering. Which was why it was such a surprise when she kissed him, and he let her. No, he didn't let her - he kissed her back.

You tore your eyes from the two of them, not wanting to see, hating the fact that you couldn't stand up and leave now without drawing direct attention to yourself. Where the fuck was Kyen? You found yourself angry at the boy for not being at your side - although you'd sent him away - and you scanned the crowd for any sign of his inky hair. Perhaps the Gods did favour you, because you saw him trotting faithfully towards you, and you relaxed, now having an excuse to stand.

"Kyen!" You trilled, a little too eager; you took the wine he offered, and downed it in a few quick gulps. "Mmm, thirsty. Sorry." Hooking your arm with his, you made to slip away, before glancing back at Julian beneath your lowered lashes. "Oh, forgive me - Julian, you know Kyen, yes?"

"Well met." Your date extended a hand, and Julian took it as though it was somehow offensive, shaking weakly. He made a noise.

"Yes, the stable boy, right? I think you saw to my mare, once. Threw a shoe the next day." He looked positively snobby, and you couldn't believe him.

"Julian!" You hissed, gripping Kyen's arm tighter. "Forgive him, he must have dropped his manners in the bottom of a wine barrel."

"Must have!" Julian agreed, before he put his arm around Paige. "This is-"

"We're acquainted." You cut him off, your tone sharp. You bowed your head, just slightly. "Paige, summer's blessings upon you."

"And to you." She tried to smile, but the tension between you and Julian was so thick that it made the cloying evening air soupy. You glared at Julian; Julian glared at Kyen; Kyen tried very hard to look interested in his wine.

"I believe we've yet to see the offerings, Kyen." You delivered him, "Shall we go look?"

"On the outskirts of the forest?" Julian objected, "That's too far from the fête."

"Don't worry," You smirked, "If you go to pay your respects, I am sure Paige will protect you."

Leaving him with that, you lead Kyen away, ignoring the lilt of Paige's voice as she tried to soothe Julian. What was his problem, anyway? Even your brothers didn't object to your activity. Glowering, you paused at a table, and lifted a jug of wine, before continuing on the path to the forest.

------

Tiny lanterns dotted the path to the clearing where offerings were made, lights for late-night revellers to follow. Sensible folk had paid their respects earlier, which left the trail deserted. It was a perfect reason to get away, and a perfect place to pour wine down your throat.

"Are you not going to offer something?" Kyen asked, after awhile. You'd been sitting in the clearing, drinking in silence, the pair of you awkward. You knew he wanted to take your hand, but you kept it in your lap.

"I didn't bring anything." You realised; he'd been smart enough to take an apple, whilst you only had the dregs of wine remaining. "Eh. Perhaps the Gods won't mind this." Leaning over into the arrangement of candles and woven straw and ribbons, you poured some of the blackcurrant liquid into the earth, watching the dark puddle form for a moment before the greedy soil sucked it down.

"You should pay more heed to the fates." Kyen said seriously, as you lolled your head drunkenly in his direction. "They don't share your sense of humour."

"Oh?" You challenged, "And why wouldn't they? I think they're hilarious."

Kyen's disapproval was vivid in his sharp eyes. You almost felt humbled by it - if it wasn't for the liquor warming your blood. "I know why you asked me here tonight." He mumbled, and you felt your pulse quicken.

"Yeah, 'cause you're nice, and I like you." You asserted, believing that if you said the words enough, they'd come true.

"You like Julian." He firmly corrected you, and you wished he'd just slapped you instead. The exposure of it felt too raw, too gritty for you to handle without cutting yourself on the truth.

"He's my best friend." You agreed, feigning nonchalance, "What of it?"

"But you wish he was more." Kyen prompted, softly, "You wish you stood where Paige did."

"What, so I could be thrown away tomorrow morning like yesterday's bread?" You scoffed. "Julian doesn't like his romances long. That's why it's better that he's my friend."

The quiet extended between you for a moment, and you realised you'd admitted something there; you were terrified of your feelings, because becoming more than Julian's best friend would ultimately mean losing him. It was better to deny your heart. It was better to remain platonic. Besides, the little voice in your head reminded you, you weren't his equal. Julian would always deserve more than you could offer him.

"I do like you, you know." Softened, you glanced at Kyen. In the moonlight, he was dashing and young and his features were kind. "You've been good to me. I am sorry you were caught in our quarrel." Looking down at your hands, you fussed with your gloves, removing them, placing them in your pocket.

"I like you, too." Kyen murmured, and you managed something of a smile. "I've never been to a solstice with a date before. And whilst it wasn't exactly... ideal, at least it made a change from other years."

You laughed at that. "A change, yeah." Glancing at him again, you fidgeted. Was your mother right? Did love come with time? "Kyen, I... I want..."

"More wine?" He wondered, looking at your empty jug.

"Well, yeah. But before that." You took a deep breath, and blurted the words. "Kiss me."

He looked startled, torn by your request for a moment, but then he was leaning in. Slowly, so slowly, he pressed his lips to yours, darkened by the wine; it was chaste, and dispassionate, and he didn't dare deepen it. You waited to feel tingly or giddy with the experience of your first kiss, but the rush never came. You felt nothing. When he pulled away, he stared into your hazy, confused eyes, and sighed.

"Let's go back to the fête. C'mon, I'll walk you there."

"No, I..." Your voice was small, "I'd like to stay here for awhile longer, actually. You go on back." He hesitated, apparently worried about leaving you in the woods. You gave him a pointed look. "I can see the bonfires from here, and the path is lit. I shan't be long. Go, have a dance, eat some food. Enjoy it."

He nodded, understanding your request for solitude, and you heard his footsteps against the dry bracken as he made his way out of the woods and back to the merriment. You swished the very last of the wine in the jug, and poured it into your mouth, wincing at the sharpness of the settled sediment.

Now that you were alone - unless you counted the Gods - the world seemed much larger, and your mapped-out destiny much more daunting. Kyen couldn't be right, you thought. Julian had been there for almost seven years now; his nineteenth birthday was coming up, your seventeenth only a month behind it. You'd known him for more than a third of your life. You'd seen him take girlfriends and leave them broken-hearted, only to flit to another in the space of a few weeks. Nobody seemed to satisfy him - or nobody was good enough. Gods, you'd sat with him as he wailed broken-hearted over the baker's daughter - who had had the sense to dump him first - and watched him bounce back from his apparent agony the next day. Julian had an untameable heart.

And all that aside, you had a match, too. Maybe that'd quash the feelings you were having. All you knew for sure was you couldn't lose him over a childish crush. And he certainly did not return your affections.

"Y/N?" It was as though he could be summoned by thought - particularly when you didn't want to see him - and you grit your teeth together. If he'd brought that giggly bitch with him, you grumped, you weren't going to take responsibility for your actions.

"Over here." You called, although you didn't raise your voice much. You saw his silhouette cut out from the midnight forest - alone, thankfully - and he trotted over to your reclining form.

"Gods, I saw Kyen return alone, and I... had to make sure you..." He squeezed a fist. "He didn't do anything, did he?"

"Fuck's sake, Julian!" You hissed, "No, nothing I didn't want."

"What do you mean by that?" There was a strange quality to his voice, as he crouched; in the lilac lowlight you could see the concern creasing his sweet features.

"I mean I kissed him, that's all." You blurted out, unsure as to why you were sharing. Haughtily, you crossed your arms. "I wanted to know what it felt like, so I asked him to."

Julian was silent for a moment, as he settled into the leaf-litter beside you. "What did it feel like?" He finally asked.

You shrugged, nonchalant. "I don't know. Kind of dry? I thought first kisses were meant to be... like storms, or something. Like that nonsense poetry you read me. But I think my mother was right. Love isn't something that happens. It grows."

"That's not true!" Julian exploded, passionately, "Love is a rush, a force that sweeps you away; it's like falling, but fearlessly, knowing that if you do land it'll be in safety and warmth. It's not a skill like sewing or horse riding. Love just happens."

"Oh, like you'd know." You raised an eyebrow at him, "You go through women like my mother goes through poppy-milk."

"I didn't say lust, Y/N. That's different. The girls I've been with... I care for all of them, when we're together. But it burns out so fast, and I-I don't know why. I don't wish to hurt them. I feel... I feel something, at the start, and I chase it with hope. But I can never catch it, whatever it is."

You lapsed into silence. Picking at a leaf, you wished he'd brought more wine with him; your buzz was starting to fade, and you didn't want to consider reality. "What did your first kiss feel like?" You asked, trying to keep your tone neutral.

"Felt like..." He frowned and turned to you; you were caught in his gaze, helpless as a fly in resin. He breathed out. "It was like..."

Gently, he curled a finger beneath your chin, and leaned down. The moment his warm, plush lips met yours, you felt something fizzing and bubbly on your skin, the effervescent popping of joy; he kissed you softly, slowly, and you responded as best you knew how, the smallest whimper trickling up your throat. It spurred him, and he sucked your bottom lip, let his tongue meet your own, stroked the line of your jaw with his thumb. He tasted of summer wine and sweet fruit, of wholesome bread and the brush of chewed mint-leaf, as well as something distinctly Julian. This is how it should feel, you realised. As that thought filtered into your mind, he pulled away; you saw the darkness in his gaze, the quickening of his breath.

"Like that." He whispered, and you couldn't help but regard him with absolute adoration, your pulse beating against the cage of your ribs. The smallest wince crossed his face. "No. Don't... look at me like that."

"Like what?" You whispered, surprised at the low register of your voice. You thought you saw him shudder.

"Like I can give you what you want. I-I'm not..." He tore his gaze from your desperate eyes, and stared at his breeches. "Not the right man for you."

Had he not felt it? The magic you'd just created? How could he invite you into the realm of romance like that, with such ease, only to slam the door in your face as you approached? You felt sick, and it wasn't because of the wine sitting on your empty stomach. "How do you know that?" You asked, hating that your voice wavered.

"You're my best friend." You felt the fracture of heartache begin to crack deep within your chest. "I can't lose that."

"I could be... more." You tried, for the last time, "Surely. Surely I-"

"I've been accepted to study at Oxenfurt next year." He cut you off, and you blanched. "I'll be away for four years. Even if we were... right for each other, I couldn't ask you to wait."

Had he not dismissed you so readily, you'd have told him you'd wait for a hundred years. But he was so clear; you blinked hard, trying to force the tears from your vision. "I didn't even know you'd applied." The tightness of your voice betrayed your distress.

"My father applied on my behalf." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Gods be damned what I want, I suppose."

You laughed, humourlessly. "It's all well enough. You're right. My mother told me they've made a match for me."

He stiffened beside you, and you had no idea why. He'd just rejected you; why could he not drop this protective act? Your mouth tasted bitter. "Oh? With whom?"

"I've never met him." You confessed, "He's from my birthplace. I imagine he'll travel to make his inspection of me - or I to him - in time."

"Ebbing?" His voice was tight. "That's so far..."

"Almost as far as Oxenfurt." You agreed, sarcastically. Suddenly exhausted from the weight of it all, you stood, shaking the leaves from your dress. "When we came to this clearing, Kyen said the fates don't have a sense of humour. I disagreed, but y'know what? None of this is making me laugh."

Julian stood, too, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. "Me neither."

You shook your head, and began to walk from the woods. In silence, he followed. You diverted from the path, headed back to your house. You heard his boots scuff as he came to a stop behind you.

"Are you not returning to the party?" He asked, and you heard something pleading in his tone, something you couldn't decipher.

"Party's over, Julian" You told him, and both of you knew what you meant. Standing on that lantern-lit path, he watched you in your fae-spun gown as you walked further and further away, a ghost of a girl destined to become a memory tucked at the back of his mind.

------

Of course it wasn't the same after that.

You still saw Julian when you could, but the stilted, strange nature of your encounters made both of you feel alienated and insecure. When you might have bumped him with your hip into the river water, you strolled in silence on the bank instead. When you would have stolen the best parts of his lunch - and he, pretending to be furious, would pelt you with grapes - you ate like posture-perfect royalty, remarking politely on the quality of food. When he would have read you poetry with passion and a penchant for theatrics, you listened to him recite woodenly from texts he was required to read before departing for Oxenfurt.

Both of you were steeped in the future now, in the heat of preparing for lives that had been planned out for you. You saw him less and less as your mother insisted on more 'accomplishments'; you perfected the art of side-saddle horseback riding, began to wear heeled shoes, and learned more about wardrobe and hosting etiquette. You'd be managing a household, your mother reminded you; such a task required a grace you wish you possessed, as she did, but seemed to slip further through your fingers the tighter you tried to grasp it.

In secret you sought your two elder brother's council, and ultimately decided that you'd escalate your finesse with fisticuffs, picking up a blade for the first time in your life. You were slow to learn - and suffered the occasional scratch that you had to patch up privately - but when you caught the flow of it, you felt the weapon as an extension of your arm, parrying and thrusting and finding adrenaline and a kind of release in play-fighting. On the day you disarmed them both, looking like a viper with your kohl-rimmed eyes and immovable boxer's stance, they'd conceded that they had little else to teach you.

You were thankful for their company; your other two siblings had left Toussaint, one to seek his fortune as a merchant closer to the ocean, and another besotted with a charming girl from Cidaris. Your two eldest brothers remained at home, wishing to be closer to your father, to oversee his affairs; the gambling was getting worse, and it was of great import that the scandal be as hushed up as possible. You had no idea why.

Julian's mother took a strange and sudden interest in you, much to your dismay. You supposed it was because she was due to lose her only son in mere months, and perhaps she saw you as a kind of surrogate. She spent hours with you teaching you the finer details of dull things like hosting events, or which fork to use with which dish, or even how to sit with your feet neatly tucked together and your legs at a precise angle so as to not appear, as she put it, 'untoward'. You spent two entire hours learning how to sit. During this process, Julian appeared on the landing; you saw the amusement in his baby-blue gaze, and poked your tongue out at him. His mother chased him off with more vigour than you thought strictly necessary.

It felt like an age, and no time at all between when you had parted so poorly with Julian, and when his goodbye party was thrown. You had to attend - you'd hate yourself if you didn't - but the ache of it was nearly unbearable. When you'd chosen a dress for the event, you'd had him in mind; he liked to see you in dark crimson, and you fondly hung up the garment with reverence, seeking your mother to ask to borrow her garnet necklace.

"No," She'd overruled you, "This is... it's a colour for harlots. It won't do." Wide-eyed, you'd tried to protest as the maid took the dress away, presumably to dispose of it.

"Julian loves that dress!" You stuttered, and she clicked her tongue.

"Julian is leaving. And you are to think of larger matters now, darling." She selected a navy blue frock from your selection, and you glowered. "I know he is your friend, but you will write to one another. Perhaps after you are wed, you'll see him again."

The conversation about your intended was always danced around, hinted at, but never fully divulged. You hated it. You hated that everyone in your damn household knew more about your future than you; they treated you childishly, assuring you that he was a 'good man' and a 'fine choice', but never more than that. You didn't even know his name.

Now that you were armed with the ability to pretty yourself up to a standard that your mother - and Julian's mother - saw acceptable, you were allowed to dress for events with only the assistance of a maid to cinch your corsets and do up buttons. As your hair was pinned back into a simple, elegant sweep, you blotted crushed rose-petals to lightly stain the centre of your lips (only a hint, dear; bright lips are for working girls, you heard Julian's mother's boring voice in the back of your head), and stared at the girl in the mirror.

She was changing, you realised. Perhaps you bloomed late, or perhaps the stupid lessons were actually rubbing off on you, but you sat and moved with a poise and elegance you'd never possessed before. If you squinted, you swore your cheekbones were higher, your hips wider, your mouth fuller. Or maybe it was just the rose-tint. Not used to vanity and not wishing to become a woman obsessed with her own reflection, you turned away from the midnight-blue figure and made your way downstairs, leaving for the inn. Goodbyes; the steps towards the party felt more final than you liked.

The place was absolutely bursting at the seams with people to the point that the soiree spilled out onto the street. You weren't surprised; Julian was well-liked, and many were saddened that he was leaving. As you weaved through the crowd, you saw a slew of his past lovers, moon-eyed, exchanging tales; you saw friends that enjoyed his philosophical ramblings engaged in games of dice at a table, discussing something about fate; you smirked at the elderly folk who were either too stuffy to delve into the celebrations, or already absolutely tanked.

Damn it, you intended to join the latter half in their merriment. How else were you to survive this?

You found the first free jug of wine you could get your hands upon, downing a few glasses in secret behind the crush of velvet curtains - because it was unbecoming to chug liquor in public, you guessed - and only when you felt warm and loose did you actually seek Julian, not really sure what you'd say, or if you'd even get a chance alone with him.

Oddly, he was difficult to locate. It was his party, and he was being celebrated fondly, but he wasn't in the midst of it all with some instrument and a tall tale like you expected him to be. Four glasses of wine later, you left the inn, wondering if he was amongst the crowd in the front.

You couldn't see him, and so you stumbled into the dark alley beside the place, squinting into the blackness; you passed a couple embracing in a drunken passion, far too absorbed to even notice you, and rounded the corner to the back of the establishment where they kept kegs of ale and barrels of flour and other kitchen supplies. And there sat Julian, alone, atop a stack of wooden pallets.

"Julian?" You called up to him, curious. He peered down at you from his perch, frowning.

"Shhhh. I've paid off the kitchen-staff. For all anyone knows, I'm inside or outside or otherwise engaged." You heard the slur of his voice, and watched as he tipped the rest of a glass of wine down his throat.

"Why?" You wondered, not hesitating to climb up the pallets so you could sit by him, never-mind the fact that you were in a silk dress and a pair of ornate heels. Maybe they could train you to act a lady, but your wildness was instinctive.

"Because I didn't ask for this." He complained, gesturing at the inn, the sounds of music and riotous laughter filtering through the kitchen. "I've nothing to celebrate."

You lifted the jug of wine he had, and poured more into your glass. "Thought you were looking forward to getting away from here." You observed, casually, "You always wanted to see more of the world."

"I did. I mean, I do. It's just..." He pinched his teeth together, and took the liquor from you, pouring more.

"Nothing to keep you in Toussaint." You reminded him, sipping the liquid. He laughed darkly.

"Gods, you still don't have any idea, do you?" He slurred, shaking his head. As ever, when baited by him, you puffed your chest out and rose to it.

"Why does everyone treat me as a child, and yet impress some mystery marriage upon me? Why does your mother suddenly give a fuck about what shoes are on my feet, or how well I can embroider a rose onto a damnable napkin? Why am I not allowed to wear your dress to your party?" You fumed, frustrated.

"The crimson one?" He softened, and you felt the weight of his stare upon you. You couldn't meet it; there was something there that you wanted to see, but knew wasn't real. He'd told you - you weren't right for him. If there was lust in his eyes, it was drawn out by the drink.

"Mother had it taken apart, to be remade into cushions." You scowled, picking at the beaded bodice of your navy gown. "I had to wear this... monstrosity, instead. The lace itches."

"You're beautiful." He told you, with such sincerity and gravity that you had to turn and look at him.

"You're a liar." You whispered in reply, but it was too late; you were captured by the spectre of his eyes, gladly haunted.

You both reached for each other this time. The kiss was not like that in the clearing at the summer solstice; there was need and heat and desire, the meeting of two aching souls, the battling dominion of wine-stained lips and ivory teeth clumsily clashing and hands in hair and the moan, oh the moan he coaxed from the well of your chest. He gasped for breath when you parted, and you, greedy, licked the line of his jaw. You felt him shudder, and boldly, you grazed his neck with a bite, leaving a reddened mark. "I want you." You confessed into the shell of his ear, the deepest sin that your body knew, and the truth; he groaned this time, and buried his face into the sweep of your collar.

He planted hot kisses there, across the swell of your breast that felt aflame, the burst of your breath quick as you encouraged him with your fingers in his hair. "Fuck." He cursed, and the word sent a silky thrill down your spine, the press of your legs tight together to relieve a foreign ache that you knew he had the power to sate. His lips found yours again, his mouth sucking the rose from your skin, your body falling into his, your hands wandering the rough rasp of hair that peeked from his casually undone doublet.

The kitchen door banged as a staff member hobbled out, hefting up a sack of wheat-flour and trudging back inside, unaware of your presence. But the sound was enough to break the spell, fracture the moment; you felt Julian's hands tense up, felt the divide between you begin.

"No," You begged, "Stay with me. Please."

"I-I'm sorry." He looked tortured, and his grip slackened on your body, before he released you. You felt the bitter boil of anger in the pit of your stomach, the flush of embarrassment and rejection; again you'd thrown yourself at him, and again he did not catch you.

"Do you not feel it, too?" You asked, letting the tears sneak down your cheeks. "Is it just me? What is so... wrong with me that you find me so utterly repulsive?"

He blanched as though you had struck him. Self-pityingly, you wiped the tears away with the back of your hand, noting the smear of kohl; wonderful. Not only did you feel like a disaster, now you looked the part.

"They haven't told you anything, have they?" He asked, carefully, and you shot him a glare.

"Told me what?" You wished you'd stop crying, wished you could be more than the pitiful doe-eyed fool before him.

"Your match." He frowned, and looked at his hands. "Artham de Salm. You are to be a Countess, Y/N."

You stared at him stupidly, let the silence lapse between you, unable to stop your mouth from hanging open in shock. "Wh...what?" Was all you could manage, utterly stunned.

"Your father made the match years ago. It was kept secret, in light of... social problems." You knew he meant your father's debts, and you swallowed thickly. "And because the Count himself suffered an illness that they were unsure he'd recover from." Julian made a vague gesture, and barked out a small laugh. "But, fates be good, he pulled through."

"How do you... know this, and I do not?" You gasped, feeling dizzy. You clutched your stomach and hoped you would not be sick.

"The shark-like nature of my social circle." He sneered into his wine, disdainful of his birth. "When my mother learned of the match, she..." Shaking his head, he looked away. "Doesn't matter. What does matter is that this is your future - the one you deserve. Wealth and security for your family and a chance to make a difference in the lives of people that will be under your charge."

You'd be lying if you'd said you didn't want the latter two benefits, but you were still reeling with the thought of it all. "I think... I should go." You whispered, and began to clumsily climb down the pallets, almost losing your footing.

"Y/N, it's not that-" Julian began, and you heard a desperation in his voice. You cut him off with a sharp gesture of your hand.

"No. Whatever it is we might have had - and Gods, I know you feel it, too - you're too scared to pursue it. I cannot, for the weight of my father's word, but you..." Backing up, you bit your lip, watching his form shift and blur with your unshed tears. "You could have changed this for me. For us."

"Please don't go like this." He begged, "I do not know when we'll meet again."

You threw up your arms in a shrug. "Do you hear that laughter? The fates? ...No? Neither do I."

When you fled from behind that inn, leaving pieces of your bleeding heart in his charge, you couldn't hear him call your name over the pounding of blood in your ears and the wretched sobs that wracked your chest.

------

The next day, you awoke with the sun and the fuzzy feeling of a nagging hangover. Beside you there was a glass filled with fresh water, and you silently thanked your darling maid, drinking deeply of the fresh liquid. You were still in your underclothes from the night before, the inky dress a puddle on the floorboards by your bed. After you'd slaked your thirst, you'd considered rising, and had ultimately wondered what the point of doing so would be. Numb, you rolled over and closed your eyes again.

When you hadn't risen by midday, your mother came to your rooms, presumably to rouse you. You weren't sure if you'd been sleeping or not, lost in some twilight state of thought in the realm between reality and dream, although you heard the door open.

"Darling?" She asked, frowning at your discarded dress, "Are you well? Don't tell me you followed Julian's example with drink last night."

"Artham de Salm." You spoke, your voice like road-gravel; you heard her intake of breath, followed by her resigned sigh. "Why did you not tell me sooner?"

Your only answer was the sound of footsteps retreating, and you thought she was going to punish you for the knowledge by leaving you afloat in the misery of more mystery. Angrily, you tucked into a tighter ball, staring heatedly at the wall. After a few minutes, the sound of her heeled shoes returned, and you felt the mattress sag under her weight as she sat at the foot of your bed.

"Many reasons." She began, and you heard the hint of an apology in her voice. Picking at the bedspread, you kept your silence. "I think at the top of it all, I did not want to face the fact that I am to lose my only daughter a year from now." That earned her a bleary-eyed glance, but you soon sank back into the pillows.

"How am I to be a Countess, mother?" You despaired, "I've no idea how to rule over a parcel of land. I'm not elegant and fine like you and Lady Pankratz - no matter how long she spends teaching me how to pick up a teacup." In a rush, you realised the true reason Julian's mother had taken an interest in you. Shark-like, indeed; she knew you were to rank above her. She knew to get into your good graces now. The back-handed sneakiness of it all made you feel sicker.

"You are kind, and strong, and brave." Your mother soothed, "That is how you will tend to your people. And the Count will not leave you wanting for instruction, darling." You felt her hand on your thigh. "Believe me - if I thought him to be a cruel man, or a fool, I'd not consent to this match. Even if your father gambled this household down to the last candlestick. You are my daughter, and I want for your happiness."

"But you told Lady Pankratz. You knew she'd tell Julian. You knew, as your father did with Iyan," You felt her flinch - good - "How I felt. How I feel."

"And as my father did for me, I am doing what is best for you." Her sotto voce voice did little to comfort you. "I know it's hard for you to understand now. But someday, you will. I'll bear your scorn until that day, if I must."

You swallowed thickly, and squeezed your eyes shut. "How is it that a Count would even know of me, or want anything to do with me?"

"Your father made the arrangement before we left Ebbing. It was not iron-clad, but he had friends of great prestige there. When I bore a daughter, and Artham de Salm's father - rest his soul - sought an audience with us, we agreed to the match. He is six years your senior, darling; he's in his prime."

Your mother was a great beauty, and that is why you supposed the late Count had readily proposed the terms. It was expected that you'd follow her footsteps, and you bitterly wondered if Artham would be disappointed. You heard your mother shuffling some papers, before she stood, strolling to your bedside.

"Here. These are his latest letters, and the most recent portrait he had made in his likeness." You heard her setting the sheaf down, and did not turn. She sighed. "Julian is leaving this afternoon, sweetheart. Do you not wish to get up and bid him a safe journey?"

"I don't feel well." You replied obstinately, and heard her low hum of disapproval. She knew there was no winning a fight when you were in this state, and so with a sweep of her skirts, she left you to wallow, closing the door behind her with a gentle click.

For a time you refused to roll over and examine the documents, although your curiosity was tugging at the edges of your mind with insistence. You finally relented with a groan, feeling stiff from laying coiled in the same position for hours and hours. With a lightly trembling hand, you picked up the papers.

Atop the stack was a finely painted oil portrait of a handsome man. He had dark skin, unmarred by a life of nobility, the shadow of a closely-clipped beard sweeping across his jawline. His curly hair tread a line between windswept and well-kept, and although you knew he'd been making a stern expression when the sketch had been made, there was something round and kind about his mouth. His eyes were hazel, a chestnut brown ringed with a splash of evergreen, and you were surprised by how agreeable you found him. Certainly there was no pang of desire or the dry parch of lust in your throat, but you stared at your intended fiancé for a long time.

After that, you lit the lantern at your bedside, and read through his communique. His handwriting was loopy and careless, but his grammar was fine and advertised a thorough education. He spoke of the vibrant city under his charge, of the imports and exports; you skimmed through the figures, bored, and lingered on the descriptions of the buildings, the forests, the mountains that bordered one side of the settlement. It was not a massive city, but it was far larger than Toussaint, and you couldn't even fathom having power over the town you'd spent almost seven years in. You shuffled the last of his letters to the top of the pile.

He was writing in response to a letter sent by a father, you realised. A month before your eighteenth birthday, you were to travel to Salm to meet. If all parties found the match agreeable, arrangements would be made for your wedding. Thirteen months away. It felt like a lifetime, and that comforted you; at least there would be time for you to truly prepare. But it would be time without your... was he even your best friend? How did you think of Julian, now?

Dizzily, you sat up, feeling crusty and aching from a day spent huddled in bed. You felt an indescribable emptiness gnawing at you, felt the horizon of the future open up before you, vast and deeply uncertain. And what choice did you have in any of it?

Rising, you padded to the door, and opened it a few inches. "Hilna?" You called for your maid. She appeared quickly, and you stepped aside to let her in. She regarded you with sympathy, and you wanted to scoff. Even the servants knew of your plight. How had you been so sheltered from it? "Would you mind drawing me a bath and fetching me a cold lunch?"

"Yes, my lady." She bobbed her head, and paused, lingering in the doorway. You frowned at her.

"What is it?"

"I..." She sighed. "I should be throwing this on the flames in the kitchen, but Master Julian was so desperate. Please, do not tell your mother." She handed you a letter, sealed without a stamp in red wax. You took it silently, and nodded.

"I won't tell, Hil'. Thank you." Again she curtseyed, and this time, you stopped her. "When... when I go to Salm. Will you come with me? I know Countesses are allowed ladies, and I... I need a friendly face."

She stroked your cheek as she used to do when you were a child, sick with a fever. "Of course I will, my lady." Your smile was wobbly, and she exited your room to heat the water for your bath.

You stared at the letter in your hand, at the careful script in Julian's handwriting, and thought about tearing it into tiny pieces and throwing it in the air like snow. Instead, you slipped it under your pillow, still sealed.

------

The shield of a year that you'd hoped to hide behind did not last nearly as long as you thought it might. Now that you wanted time, it seemed as though there was none of it to be had. Your days were packed with lessons, your evenings spent sparring or honing your archery or falconry skills, and every night you tumbled into your bed, exhausted.

You read voraciously, devouring any book that had the subject of Salm in it, or a mention of a Countess - be it a fictional tale or not - as you tried to catch up with the secret that had been kept from you. Your lessons with Lady Pankratz continued, and you took them far more seriously, although you began to insist you conduct them in your own home. You couldn't bear the ache of Julian's absence. You were rather stunned when his mother bowed to your wishes, and that was when you began to realise that Julian had been right; you did wield power, now, even unwed.

He wrote every other month, rigid tales about classes and the city's sea-side views and his occasional travels. These letters went through your mother, and were given to you after she'd read through them. Every now and then you suspected a page had gone missing, because his thoughts didn't seem to scan, but you paid it little heed. You wrote to him, too; long tales of nothing, of who was to wed in your childhood town, or of the crops, or how mild the winter was. Sometimes you wanted to enthuse about a passage in a book you'd read about Salm, desiring his opinion, but you quashed the urge. He was a scholar now - he knew far more about the world than you, and you didn't want to add to his workload with your questions. And so you kept much of yourself from him, the impersonal communication making his absence all the more painful.

The woman you'd glimpsed in the mirror at the day of his farewell celebrations began to emerge, day by day; the grace of your limbs and the strength of your posture and the fine features of your face took up prominence as you owned your body. In the flush of your seventeenth year, you finally bloomed like a late wild violet, petulant against the winter frost, determined to persevere. Men who'd never noticed you before held doors open for you, or brought you hopeless posies and poems that you tried not to compare with Julian's. With temperance you thanked them for their efforts, but never gifted them your time. A lady of status was gracious, Julian's mother had told you, but she never suffered fools.

The nerves only really began to bite in the week leading to your departure to Salm. Servants packed your things, including gifts from wealthier families - no doubt one day hoping to seek your favour - and you fretted over what to wear on the day you'd enter the city, or what to say, or how deeply to curtsy. "Well met, my lord." You practised in the mirror, "Well met, my lord." It didn't matter where you put the emphasis; you still felt coltish and awkward, like a child performing at a pantomime for the first time.

On the day you left, you wrote to Julian. It was a long tangle of a ramble, your anxieties and fears; you scratched down things you would only tell him in secret, in the days when things were easier between the two of you, cuddled together by the river in the spring sunshine. When you read over your words, you balled up the parchment and set it to flame in your fireplace, reducing your sentiments to ashes. You began again; formally, you told him you were leaving to Salm. You hoped his studies were keeping him occupied. You wished him good health.

Your mother openly wept, unable to escort you on this journey; you were to take Hilna as your handmaiden, and your father to speak for you on the matter of negotiation. If the Count found you suitable, your family would travel to Salm for the wedding. You clutched at your mother's dress and trembled, tearful as well, letting bravery ebb for the moment in favour of the truly unknown destiny that awaited you on the other end of a long journey. Your brothers hugged you; the eldest whispered that he'd snuck your favourite dagger into one of your cases, and told you that he'd not think ill of you for using it, if you had to. Before a fresh wash of tears swept you away, you clasped his hands, and left the house you'd spent almost half your life in.

The ride to Salm was long, though you were captivated by scenery that you'd never witnessed before. Surging white-rapid rivers, endless forests of pine, distant snow-sprinkled mountains; you journeyed through desert, through a murky fen, and after weeks of time in a coach - broken only by your rest in towns or villages overnight - you finally heard the rap atop the roof of your vehicle, and one of the footmen announcing the walls of Salm coming into view. At this point, your behind was sore from sitting for so long, and you were utterly bored of your father's speeches, and so you eagerly opened the shutter windows to look.

The outskirts were ringed with lush forest, as the Count had promised, and your wide eyes took in the edges of the town as your party entered the gates. The architecture was different to that of Toussaint, but you vaguely remembered the style from your early years in Ebbing. They favoured darker wood here, and ornately carved pillars of stone, and verdant greenery in gardens and the city's streets, well-kept in narrow boxes. The town square was beautiful, paved in pale stone, featuring an enormous sun-dial and a flowerbed in bloom that ringed the centrepiece. Children shouted at the sides of your carriage, excited by the foreign vehicle, and you giggled, fishing coin from your pocket and letting it trickle from the open slats for them to collect. It was a city of wealth and prosperity, and that warmed you.

You felt the carriage stop, and again you peeked out the window, gazing upon a manor more grand than you'd ever seen in your life. "Is this the Count's estate?" You wondered out loud, and your father laughed.

"No, darling. This is a guest house; his home is atop the hill. We are to rest and refresh before meeting the good Count tomorrow." Your father informed you, the first out of the carriage as the doors opened.

Guest house? You marvelled, as you took the footman's offered hand, unsteady on your feet after such a long time sitting. You stretched, took in the neatly trimmed shrubbery that bordered the place in geometric patterns, blinked at a bubbling fountain carved from marble, and allowed your father to take your arm and escort you inside.

There were servants already fetching your belongings, and there was a butler to greet you; you almost curtsyed in greeting, before remembering that for now, there were few that you were supposed to submit to. Instead you smiled politely, took the tea he offered in refreshment, and followed a maid that insisted you should be getting some rest after your hard journey. You squeezed Hilna's hand as you took it to try and stop the shake of your limbs, desiring her close company.

A pair of white doors inlaid with gold leaf were opened to you, revealing your suite, and you took in a sharp breath. If you fainted, you supposed, it would be rather lady-like; didn't ladies always faint in books? You'd defy anyone to stand and stare without emotion at the sight of the enormous poster bed, carved elaborately from mahogany and made up with sheets so crisp you were genuinely scared to touch them; the marble fireplace that boasted hints of gold running through the veins of the stone; the enormous window that washed the suite in sunlight. A tub was being prepared for you, and you smelled the rose and lemongrass that the maid was steeping in the steamy water.

"Is it to your liking, my lady?" The maid escorting you asked, and you heard the nerves in her voice. You realised your approval was paramount, and you flashed a grin at her, seeing the relief dance in her eyes.

"Very much so, thank you." You went to put the teacup you were holding down, but the clever maid took it from you before you had a chance to do so, curtsying neatly before leaving the room. The second servant, now done with the tub, dried her hands on a towel and copied the gesture.

"My lord bids you welcome, and expresses his desire to meet with you when you are rested." She told you, sweetly, and you nodded.

"I-uh. Please tell the Count that I am most grateful for his lavish hospitality, and that I share his desires." Did that sound too forward? You weren't sure, but she nodded without a word, and left you and Hilna to your privacy. You suspected your father was being settled in his own quarters.

"Wow." You finally hissed, turning to your handmaid. Her expression mirrored your own, stupefied, possibly frightened that if this was the guest house, then what awaited you in the main house? Was all the furniture there made of diamond and gold? "Hilna, I feel... like a stain of dirt on a starched shirt."

She chuckled at that. "My lady, I suspect it is quite normal to feel overwhelmed in a situation like this. Truth be told, I've never been in a situation like this, and I feel faint."

"I'm so pleased it isn't just me, then." You sighed, undoing the ribbon of your cloak, setting it down. The bath looked inviting. Suddenly the ache of travel made itself known in your very bones, demanding to be pandered to. "Would you mind loosening my corset-strings? Then perhaps you can get settled in your room, too." There was a wooden door on the far end of your quarters, and you suspected it lead to a smaller bedroom.

"Of course, my lady." Hilna worked at the strings, and you clutched your dress to your chest, smiling at her as she took her leave. You liked to bathe alone, and she knew this; she probably thought it was for modesty, or due to shyness. In reality, it gave you leave to withdraw a sealed letter from the breast of your corset, worn from days against your skin. You slipped it beneath your pillow, peeled your clothing off, and sunk into the soothing grasp of the scented water, letting your whirling mind wander.

------

'Nervous' didn't even begin to describe your feelings the next day. Despite the bed being the most comfortable surface you'd ever rested upon, sleep came in rare snatches. Dressing in the morning, you rejected all of Hilna's suggestions as you paced before your gown selection, fretting over what would be too immodest, too modest, too flashy. You still hadn't chosen when your breakfast was delivered - Gods knew you weren't going to be eating much of it - but it came with a small wooden box and a letter.

Curiously, you lifted the stamped wax-seal and read the elegant script; A small gift of welcome for my honoured guest. You recognised the Count's handwriting, and were touched that he'd penned the note himself. With gentle fingers, you opened the box, and made a noise halfway between laughter and delight, an unladylike snort. Hilna craned her head.

"What has he sent, my lady?" She asked.

You withdrew the beautiful garnet earrings from the box; the large, deep red gems dangled from golden hoops, and were accentuated with tiny diamonds. "These." Your voice was self-amused, as you recalled your mother's words: a harlot's colour. Perhaps the Count didn't agree.

"They are quite lovely." Hilna cooed, and you nodded.

"They are. And my emerald gown will compliment them rather well, I think."

Relieved, your handmaiden rose to prepare the dress, as you examined the jewels, watching the light reflect across the highly polished surface. Absently, you touched your lips as you remembered a stolen kiss behind an inn, and you closed your eyes. Would things have been different if you'd worn that dress? It was a foolish thought, and not one you allowed yourself to entertain for long. After picking at a sweet pastry, you abandoned the breakfast tray, and began to dress.

------

Hilna left you for a moment's contemplation as you regarded the woman in the mirror. She was a beauty, shaped by her experiences, pushed forward by her determination, eager to stake her claim in the wild word and shake the thunder from the clouds with her own cries. As you tucked Julian's letter into your corset - your daily ritual - you smiled. It didn't matter if the Count approved of you, or not. Finally, you approved. And oh, what a precious gift to give yourself.

------

Your father tried not to tear up as you swept from your quarters with a regal posture, dipping your head in a nod as you bid him good morning. He wondered where the skittish girl from the night before had gone, but he was glad for your composure. You entered the waiting carriage, and then your father, and then Hilna. The doors were shut, and the footmen set the horses into a trot.

As you crested the hill, you peeked out the shutters, anxious for a first glimpse at the estate. The roof of the manor came into view, and then the vast gardens, and again you were robbed of your breath. There were mazes of hedges, dotted with white roses. Sculptures of obsidian stone were placed at even intervals surrounding the property. The enormous main building was washed with bright, white plaster, and decorated with dark wooden accents; the pillars that supported the roof, the shutters of the massive windows, the awnings. A row of servants stood in wait, ready to open the doors of your carriage and escort you inside. You saw exotic birds strolling the grounds, people in uniform tending to the gardens, a path that lead down to a building that you suspected stabled the horses. And you were potentially to be mistress of all of this, as well as the city that lay at the foot of the hill.

You reminded yourself to breathe as your vehicle came to a stop, and the doors opened.

Allowing the footman to help you down the step, you turned briefly to Helna, begging a last inspection of your dress and hair with your gaze; she understood, fussing briefly over laces and the fall of your skirts, before she nodded. You smiled, took your father's elbow, and walked with confidence through the huge doors, into a foyer so grand that you didn't even let your gaze wander, lest you become overwhelmed again.

All that truly mattered was the man waiting in the centre of the room, standing tall, his hands held in a clasp behind his back.

The closer you got, the more thankful you were for the artist's care; he had done the Count justice. He was at least five inches taller than you, even in your court heels, and he had a commanding posture and presence. And yet you saw the kindness you'd deciphered from his portrait vivid in his hazel eyes, sneaking at the corners of his mouth. Once you were an appropriate distance from him, you dipped elegantly into a curtsy, and waited for him to speak.

"You liked the earrings." He noticed, with a boyish grin. You returned the smile, reaching up to touch one of the dangling jewels.

"They are beautiful, my lord." You told him, honestly, "You are most generous."

"Forgive me, but - you are the beauty, my lady. Who is your portrait artist, my good man?" He extended his hand to your father, who grasped it firmly; when he laughed, the sound was rich and warm. "You should have him reconsider his profession. Truly, he did not do your daughter justice."

You missed whatever answer your father gave because you were too busy lowering your gaze modestly, your skin washed with heat. Such direct praise always made you uncomfortable, and the Count was not exempt from this rule, apparently. You tuned back in when you heard the regal man speak again.

"Would you permit me to take a turn with your daughter around the gardens?" He asked of your father, who glanced once at you, before nodding his consent.

"Of course, my lord. Shall we await your return here?"

"Yes, please do. My people will see to anything that you need." He was no longer looking at your father, but at you; he offered his arm, and feeling like a youth at a first dance, you accepted it.

He waited until you had cleared the room before he spoke, apparently keen on a private audience. You found yourself grateful; there was something far more civilised about the opportunity to converse with him one-on-one. "Forgive me for my improper introduction, my lady. My name is Artham. Thank you for making the long journey here to meet with me."

"There is nothing to forgive, my lord." You assured him, "If you are at all like me, you've been worrying over the proper thing to say upon meeting me, too." Biting your lip, you hoped your admission was not unbecoming, but he was smiling. "I am Y/N. Thank you for receiving us in such comfort."

He paused, and took your hands. "Please, do call me Artham. I've enough staff and council to address me by my title. I give you leave to abandon whatever propriety has been hammered into you - if you'll grant me the same courtesy."

You laughed, and covered your mouth with your gloved hand. "Of course. Artham. I confess, you have the most beautiful grounds I've ever seen in my life. And the city is so clean and orderly."

"I have my great, great-grandfather to thank for that." He chuckled, "He invested coin in the people, in our crops and our infrastructure before he spent it on extravagance. He believed in a quality of life for all the people in his care in Salm. And our great city was blessed by his wisdom, and by the Gods; my grandfather made most of the lavish alterations to our houses." His large shoulders raised in a shrug. "By then, we had coin to afford the luxury. I aim to walk in their footsteps." Pausing in your wander, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Forgive me - I believe I am supposed to be endearing, and I am speaking of export and crops."

"Actually," You ventured, "I find the idea of caring for your citizens a very endearing one, indeed." He turned, then, and met your gaze. "My mother always called me wild. She wanted a lady of accomplishment. I worked to meet those standards as best I could, but I confess... my heart has always yearned for bigger things than sewing and dinner parties." Thickly, you swallowed, unable to decipher his expression. "I-I only say this in honesty. Truly, I do not know how to be a Countess. But I do know the value of kindness and fairness and the feeling of sweat upon my brow."

He was silent for a moment, and you wondered if you'd overstepped. Just as you were about to apologise, he squeezed your hands again. "I know how to read people, Y/N. It's a skill you must acquire, as a leader." There was a bench nearby, and he guided you to it, sitting with you. "If your heart is too wild for the tangle of bureaucracy - if it is taken by something else - I beg of you to confess it now."

You felt the letter at your breast, the parchment shifting against your skin. Julian, your mind whispered, but you stamped the voice down with defiance.

"My heart is taken by the desire to make a difference." You answered, honestly. His smile was as the breach of sun through winter's cloud cover, bright and hopeful.

"Then there is nothing left," He slipped from the bench, and knelt before you, "But to ask most humbly for the privilege of your hand. Be my wife, safeguard my lands, stand by my side through this life."

You thought you'd tear up, or feel giddy, or something; instead you felt calm, resolute. It felt like making a pact with a friend. It felt right. "Artham, I'd be honoured to marry you."

------

Months later, settled in the main house, you read over the extensive guest-list for your wedding. On your left hand, a ring of promise sparkled; Artham had insisted upon garnet as the stone, and you'd readily agreed, thrilled at the private irony. You made a few corrections, and returned it to the scribe who had delivered it, smiling.

You sat at your desk with a handful of invitations that you were allowed to address yourself; to close family members, or friends. Your mother and brothers were already at the estate, and you wrote out the names of a few people from Toussaint that you'd enjoy the pleasure of seeing again. With your quill, you absently penned a name, and had to blink back a rush of tears when you realised when you'd written. Julian. Your hand shook hard enough to force a fat droplet of ink from the nib, and it bled into the parchment. You took up the paper and tossed it into the crackling fireplace, where the flames consumed your desire.

------

Once again, the fates robbed you of joy. Once again, the absence of laughter darkened the halls of your estate.

Your estate, now. Countess de Salm, widowed just over eighteen months after her elaborately planned wedding, filled with joy and laughter and vows of promise before an adoring crowd of hundreds.

Artham had been more than your husband; he'd been your mentor, your guide, your friend. He'd helped you navigate the complexities of court life and of decision-making for the city in your charge with vigour, meeting your passion with his own, and the two of you poured your hearts into overseeing growth and addressing potential issues. Just after your first wedding anniversary, he'd relapsed with the illness that had plagued him in childhood. You'd spent months searching for a cure, sending for healers and mages and promising untold wealth to anyone who could see him healthy again. But there was nothing to be done.

In the months before his death, he entrusted his beloved city to your care. He left you with his plans for the coming years, and assured you that you'd make a benevolent and just Countess for the people to follow. You'd spent hours at his bedside, trading stories of youth, or tales of fae and monsters, or simply enjoying the company of one another whilst there was time. You realised that your mother had been right; some kinds of love grew when nourished. And you had loved Artham. It was the kind of love born from respect, from ideals shared, from a mutual trust. You were passionate about the people, and you cared deeply for one another. He would have made you happy. You knew that.

You prepared for his funeral with great care. The entire city was in mourning, and you gave the workers leave to take days for grief and prayer. When the time came to lay him in the tomb with his ancestors, the streets were thronged with citizens that wished blessings upon you, laid flowers for the procession to tread upon, shared the sorrow that echoed in the empty vessel of your body. Veiled, dressed in black, you hadn't cried until everything was over. When there was nothing left to do, the grotesque monster of depression ensnared you in its jaws and dragged you into darkness.

For a week you laid in bed, barely eating, drinking only water. For another week, you slept amongst his clothes, breathing in the steady, comforting scent of him; leather and vanilla. You hated the blood that bloomed in your underwear that month, hated the fact that you'd not had the chance to bear a child for him, and in the frenzy of all of that, you'd torn your bedroom to shreds and howled like an injured warg, inconsolable.

On the fifteenth day, you met with tailors, puffy-eyed and ragged, and had gone through your ideas for new clothing, both for yourself and for your servants and guard. Gone was the girl who had once caught frogs and giggled at lewd limericks and chased tail-ends of rainbows in fog-mist. You emerged from the tragedy, reborn in black leather licked with a shimmer of emerald, a garnet stone embedded at the breast.

Behind your back, other cities called you the Serpent of Salm. And you liked it.

------

Salm prospered under your studious hand. In the ashes of your heartbreak, you gave yourself over to the citizens, managing the city's affairs with the same passion that your husband had once demonstrated. There were those on your council that wished to see you wed again, to secure an heir for the future of Salm, but those that brought the subject up often found themselves in another job. In time, your male council members dwindled in population until you were surrounded by generous and strong women who shared your ideals. The gossip from other cities and towns reached your ears - the Serpent and her peculiar gaggle of snakes - but you cared not, for their spiteful words were birthed from jealous mouths.

Under your dominion, Salm flourished, grew, and began to attract elite thinkers, and rich spenders, and the brightest inventors. It became a hub of newness, where great things began, and your legend strengthened. Untameable, they called you. Consumer of men. Destroyer of the old, sacred ways.

As you neared your thirtieth year, the suitors came in droves. Nearby barons, or counts, and even dukes came with gifts and speeches and boring proposals about how your cities were better united. In every man, you saw the greed, the game of it; you were rare prey to be hunted, and they all longed for the hollow honour of claiming you. You were unsure why they bothered; the tales of your rejections began to spread, because you were merciless in dressing these men down, and the darkness that surrounded your person only grew with every story told and every rich trinket sent back.

Naturally, this occasionally caused friction between your city and those that you slighted. If you had to go to battle, you rode front-line with your soldiers - long ago had you thrown away the blasted side-saddle - and joined them in any fray. Salm boasted a throng of powerful mages, and in that decade you only needed to go to war three times; after that, the message was clear. Salm was not to be trifled with. The Serpent was not to be taken lightly.

Unfortunately, there were some fights that went beyond your expertise, or that of your faithful mages. One year, a particularly nasty brood of harpies settled in the mountains, terrorising your farmers there. You enlisted the help of a Witcher - Geralt of Rivia - finding the stoic man reliable, albeit peculiar. You'd told him he was always welcome in Salm. He'd said he'd return if you had work for him. There was something deeply attractive about his gruff, bestial nature, and perhaps he recognised it in you, too, because before he left Salm, you engaged in a raunchy tryst with him in one of the side-rooms of your private chapel. He fucked as he fought, sating the savageness within you temporarily, but it was nothing more than flesh and lust. Such a man could not be caged - such a man should not be caged. When he left, you traded a knowing smirk, and you watched him exit the city atop his chestnut mare.

The week before your thirtieth birthday, you had cause to call for him again. A pair of enormous wyverns - mated, you presumed - had taken up residence in the forest outside your city walls. You knew better than to risk your soldiers against the monsters, and so you sent for Geralt specifically, offering a bounty that you suspected he would not refuse. And days later, your suspicions were confirmed when he rode into town.

What you had not expected to see was another man with him. A very familiar man. A man that carried a lute strapped to his back, and still dressed impeccably, even for a life of travel. A man that you'd once known the very soul of, the reasons for his heartbeat, the passions you'd both shared.

Julian.

It was impossible to hide the shock on your face when they presented in your parlour. In honesty, you'd been awaiting another tangle with Geralt, dressed in your signature black-and-emerald, the dress boasting the deliciously feminine curves of your body. Julian's expression mirrored your own, although he had to have known - he knew before you did that you were to wed Artham.

"Geralt of Rivia," Your voice was steady and authoritative, as you swallowed your surprise. "Julian. Well met. Welcome to Salm."

The Witcher grunted, and cast Julian a sideways glance. Gods, but he'd barely aged; there was a strength to him that wasn't there before, but his eyes were the same, and his hair - although artfully arranged - still flicked about his brow without permission. An ancient ache made itself known deep in your breast, a fissure unrepaired; you reminded yourself who you were, and stood aloof.

"Actually, it's Jaskier now, Y/N." He ventured, and your guard shot him a glare.

"You will address the Countess by her title, sir." She growled, and you held up a hand.

"It's quite alright, Aldaera. Julian - pardon, Jaskier and I are old... friends." The word was like a bitter herb on your tongue, but you sealed your sentiment with a benign smile. Your guard relaxed her position.

"You are the Serpent of Salm?" Julian sounded incredulous. "I-I thought... Gods, it couldn't be."

"And yet here I stand." You made a lazy gesture. "Did you expect me to have a forked tongue?"

"Where are the wyverns nesting, my lady?" Geralt interrupted; you liked the no-nonsense approach of the man, keen to get his work done.

"My commander will give you their location." You nodded at the woman beside you. "Is there anything that Salm can provide you with, to aid your quest?"

"No." He replied bluntly, before following your guard as she brought him over to a nearby map. You wanted to laugh, or scream, or collapse in a puddle on the floor, but instead you simply returned the heat of your stare to Julian.

"And what is it that Salm can do for you, Jaskier?" You asked. He was still staring at you like a goddess, like he might sink to his knees at any moment and offer up his heart. Again, you felt something tug within you, and again you ignored it.

"An... an audience." He requested, "With an old friend."

You smirked, considered the proposal, and relented. "I suppose eleven years is enough time for ample conversational topics." You turned, beckoned him, and walked to your chambers.

------

"Leave us, please." You requested of your servants and guard, who filed out to do your bidding; there was no fear in their movement, only respect. Perhaps Julian had heard the tales and believed them, because he stared awkwardly at their retreat, and lingered at your desk as you sat. You gestured at a chair in offer, and he sank into it, too. "Jaskier now, is it? Dandelion. Not a name that strikes much fear."

"Not like The Serpent, no." He agreed, and you scoffed.

"I didn't name myself that." You toyed with the tip of your quill, "Other people outside the walls of Salm did."

"Why?" He asked, simply.

"Oh, come now. You've heard the tales - what is it, consumer of men? Devourer of men, yes. Destroyer of-"

"No," He pressed, "Why do you let them?"

You blinked. "Because I do not care what they have to say, Julian. I love my people and my city. If they must make me into a monster to justify their poor understanding of my rule, so be it."

"Have you heard any of my songs?" He asked, and you realised that you had. Jaskier, the bard. How were you to know it was your longest-standing love behind the verses?

"Here and there. Sometimes other bards sing them at gatherings." You nodded, flicking your gaze up to meet his. That was a mistake; you'd forgotten how easily those blue pools could drown you, as if each iris held a siren that sung specifically for you. You tore your stare away. "You have a wonderful way with words. But I believe I've told you that in your lifetime."

"I believe you have, too."

An awkward silence lapsed between you. It had been years since you'd felt girlish, and all it took was Julian's presence to completely disarm you. Some part of you hated him for it. Another part of you wanted to hug him, wanted to see if the feel of his warmth against your breast still made your flesh prick in goosebumps.

"I am sorry you lost your husband so early." He ventured, solemnly. You nodded; his absence still hurt, but time had soothed the raw edges of that wound. Now you carried his memory in your duties.

"He was a good man, Julian." You murmured, "You would have liked him."

"I wish I'd had the chance to meet him." His voice was smooth, still so delicious; you felt like you could taste the fresh water of the river, feel the rough tree-bark scrape your skin as you dared each other to climb ever-higher in the forests of your youth. "My invitation for your wedding must have gotten lost."

"I never sent one." You blurted, and, wide-eyed in that confession, you rose from your chair, turning your back on him. Your pulse was a winged shiver against the garnet on your chest.

"Why not?" He sounded hurt. Squeezing your eyes shut, you took a deep breath.

"Because my vows would have been lies, Julian." You growled, "I could not stand before the Gods and swear to put Artham before any others, forsake anyone else for him, because..." Angrily, you whirled. "Because of you. Because in my heart, it's you. No matter what I fucking do, no matter how hard I try, that's the name it calls. That's my torment. Sometimes I wonder if I was cursed in those fucking woods for pouring wine-"

"Hilna did not give you my letter, then." There was a soft sadness to his tone that was so poignant that you knew you had to tell the truth. Silently, you sat, unlocked the top drawer of your desk, removed a false cover, and withdrew the time-weathered parchment, yellowed by your own sweat, made fragile by the years. You'd given up wearing it beneath your clothes when you'd realised that it'd someday flake apart, so you stored it close-by instead. He stared at the intact seal as you placed it on the surface between you.

"I couldn't read your goodbye." You admitted, "I still can't."

"Open it."

"Julian, what good would-"

"Open it, Y/N."

You gazed at him for a time, before shifting your eyes to the parchment that sat waiting like a bear-trap with steel-teeth. The tremble was obvious in your fingers, but you didn't try to still it. Gently, you lifted the paper, and peeled the seal. Carefully, so as not to tear the old parchment, you opened it to read.

My dearest love,

I cannot do this. You are right, I do have a choice. I can change this.

Forgive me my selfishness, but I cannot lose you. I cannot lose you to Salm.

I have nothing to offer but my heart, wholly yours. You are what I chase with every fibre of my being, what I seek in other people and can never find. It's you. From that first day that you saved me, you've saved me every day since. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Please. If it is not too late, if I have not lost you - meet me behind the inn at midday. We will take my horse and ride. We'll carve our own destiny. I don't need Oxenfurt, or the world, or the mysteries of the unknown. I need you.

I will wait until my carriage must leave at dusk. I will wait and hope.

Yours, eternally

Julian

You had to read the letter three times before the words truly registered, and the crushing weight of what could have been hit you; weakly, you slumped back into your chair, the swim of tears bright in your eyes. You didn't fight them. All the years you'd carried his confession, terrified - all the years he'd harboured your rejection, heartbroken.

Finally, you wept. And he reached out to hold you.

Your sorrow bled into his doublet like a blade-wound, great sobs of agony that shook your entire body. You felt the wet splash of his own tears on your skin, and dug your fingers into his clothes like a drowning victim, desperate for safety. He sat there with you and rocked you, let you shake apart completely, until there was nothing left of your grief. You were hollow, robbed, a victim of your own stubborn schemes.

Finally, you parted from him, just enough to see his face. His eyes were as red as your own, and you smoothed the tear-tracks away from his cheeks, sniffling. "Are we-am I too late, Julian?" You rasped.

"For the inn? Yes." His smile was wobbly, and you had to choke on the gallows humour of it. "For me, dear love? No. Never. I've wandered this world for years, now. I've learned and I've taught and I've seen. I perform for others, for a chance to drink of their happiness, because I can never find my own." He twined his fingers with yours. "That is, until today."

You sniffled. "Do... do you still like the water, Julian?"

He nodded. "I do."

"Will you walk with me by the river?"

"Always."