Chapter Text
“Your drink is empty.”
“Hm?” Philippe said, blinking as the party came back into focus around him.
“Your glass,” his friend said, taking the empty crystal goblet from his hands. Philippe wondered absently where the mead in it had gone and then realised he must have drank it.
“Oh. I hadn’t noticed,” he admitted.
“I know.”
The two men's attention moved to the lady of the house and the woman staying close to her side, discomfort flickering on her face.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s my fault,” Philippe said, gaze flicking to the marble floor. His words fell into the lively atmosphere of the jubilee that was being thrown in his honour. “It’s deserved.”
“Perhaps,” the Duke at his side conceded. “But you deserve to be happy too.”
“I don’t—"
“You both do,” Duke Aris, his friend, interrupted. There was a stretch of silence between them as they each considered their words, then he continued with,
“You were both happy when you were here. I saw it.” His gaze flicked to his sister, Lady Adira Amesbury. “We both did.”
“Well." Philippe followed his gaze to the woman at Adira's side. "She deservedly hates me, so that’s out of the question. Meanwhile, I still love her, so anything else is out of the question. It’s almost funny, in a way.”
“It’s not.”
It wasn’t. Philippe had been thinking a lot about it at this party in their honour. He wasn't good company for this.
“That kind of feeling doesn’t just disappear, no matter what happens. It might be buried for a bit, but…she’ll come around.”
“Only if she ends up coming with me,” Philippe said, finding that his now empty hands left him with nothing to nervously play with. “She might just stay here.”
The lord considered that and said,
“Don’t let her. Ask her to come with you. Beg her if you have to. You need her.”
He blinked in surprise at the unlikely suggestion.
“I don’t—"
“I haven’t seen you that comfortable with anyone outside of your family and the two of us until you showed up here with her. You love her. Even if she doesn’t remember that.”
Philippe sighed, looking away. He knew that. He'd told her as much, but that was Before.
“I can’t. I can’t ruin her more than I already have.”
“You might lose her.”
Philippe shut his brown eyes briefly, hand tugging nervously on the gold fur that lined his purple and black mantle draped over his shoulder.
“Just…talk to her," Aris urged.
“No.”
“Come on.” His friend grabbed his hand, pulling him across the floor. The other members of the ball cleared out of their path as they cut their way toward the ladies chatting near the edge of the ballroom, who fell silent as the pair approached.
The lady of the house nodded to her brother. Her companion eyed them both with heavy distrust that felt like it stabbed his heart.
This is your fault, Philippe reminded himself. He had done this to her because he had to, but she still deserved her anger and hate.
“How has your night been?” His companion asked. It could’ve been aimed at either woman, but it was his sister who responded. He had, after all, earned it.
“Quiet,” she said. “We’ve mostly been talking.”
“How are you feeling?” Philippe interjected anyway, posing the question directly to her. She narrowed her eyes back at him and said only,
“Fine.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Are you?”
He ignored the way those words stung and only said,
“Yes, I am.”
She brushed her white bangs back, a painfully familiar gesture. He remembered doing the same thing for her, an intimate gesture to reveal the sparkle of her eyes when they were a breath apart.
Now the only thing in her grey eyes when she looked at him was hard and angry, like a sharp scrap of flint.
“We’ve been talking it over,” she said. “And I’ve been thinking.”
His friend’s hand found his, giving him the support that he so desperately craved.
“I’d rather not be around somebody who doesn’t value my life. So I think this will be my last night enjoying the pleasure of your company.”
He managed a stiff, almost casual nod.
“If that’s what you wish.”
“It is.” There was disdain in her voice as she inclined her head, a jerky, dismissive gesture that conveyed the opposite of the respect it might ordinarily mean. “Your Majesty.”
Oh.
It had taken so long to convince her not to call him that, although he deserved it now. He’d put his crown over her.
He understood that this was her goodbye, this was her way of asking for his dismissal of her presence. His throat felt tight--almost choked. He felt as though he was in actual pain at the thought of this, the idea that he would never see her again. It was a struggle to not let it show on his face as he nodded in response.
“Milady,” he managed, a soft, nearly impersonal dismissal. His friend’s hand squeezed his tightly.
Even as he watched her curtsy and leave, he knew that title would always hold true. She would always be his lady--his in the way that he would always know her, miss her, and want her.
And yet.
Philippe watched Kierre walk away and he did not say anything. He didn’t beg or explain or cry. He only watched.