The king settled onto a bench with a sigh. The evening was clear and bright, causing the polished stones in the garden to glimmer. Always, distantly, was the sound of the sea.
Phillip listened to it now, eyes closed, head tilted back. He smiled as a soft breeze came up, ruffling his hair. It was still thick, and somewhat long, but the previous decade had turned it a startling white.
His hand reached unconsciously for a small, white one. A hand that wore a large ruby ring. The king's fingers skimmed over the stone bench for several seconds before he realized that there was no one there. He drew his hand up to his heart instead, gripping his shirt.
His smile was somehow both peaceful and pained as he opened his eyes and regarded the sunset that could only just be seen over the wall. The sky was painted a brilliant mixture of coral and azure over the waters.
He released another sigh—this one weary, as he set his mind to what he had emerged from the castle to think on.
Peter, grieving and shut away. Stefan.
“What would you do, Ellen?” he asked the empty air with a tired smile.
Long ago, they had decided together to give the throne to Peter as soon as he came of age. They had not had their sons in their youth, and they wished to spend their final days peacefully reading, sailing, and hunting. Enjoying themselves as they had not been able to when they were younger. The kingdom was peaceful and prosperous, and Peter's cleverness and kindness could only increase that happy state. He received their intentions with his usual cheer and gratitude, excited and duly honored by their promise of his early rule.
Now, however...
“I wonder, my dear, if we weren't a bit hasty.” He watched as a pair of seagulls glided over the water towards the sun. “Perhaps we should not have placed so much responsibility on him so soon. Now, I fear, he resents what he once received with so much joy...”
And Stefan. Peter had admittedly been everyone's favorite, with his handsome dark eyes, humor and kindness. Stefan had always found himself in the background. He'd seemed happy enough to support his brother from the shadows before, but now... What had happened to that smiling boy who followed his elder brother everywhere and adored him without question?
Phillip frowned, remembering their conversation the night before with growing unease. He hadn't wanted to admit it at the time, but his youngest son's words rang with truth. Peter was exhibiting behavior that one simply could not exhibit as a king.
A king must stay stone-faced when all seems lost... He must not allow his emotions to betray him, or dissuade him from making the best choice for the kingdom.
His features sagged as he remembered the long months following Ellen's death. Numbly holding meetings with delegates from neighboring kingdoms about banal things: trade routes, currency exchange rates, settling minor border disputes. Speaking with his subjects, judging between peasants who had some squabble between them, organizing the farmlands, negotiating taxes with the merchants. He barely remembered a thing from those first few, heavy months.
But even in the face of losing his wife of thirty years, he had not grieved as Peter had: locking himself away, refusing all visitors, sending his betrothed away with curses. Peter, mild and gentle. Peter, so responsible and stable. The perfect heir, and his parents' pride and joy.
Phillip felt sickened as he wondered if he truly knew his son. What strange fever had Adva's death produced in Peter's mind?
For the thousandth time he berated himself for having allowed Peter and Stefan to house her in the castle.
They brought her to the kitchens where Alice was, reviving her with smelling salts, asking questions. When they found that she could not speak, and by all appearances was orphaned and alone in the world, they brought her directly to the king, seeking permission to give her a room in the castle, at least until her origins could be deduced.
Phillip still remembered the look in Peter's eyes as he held her arm to keep her steady before the king. She was clothed in an old dress of Alice's, the flowing material nearly falling from her shoulders because of her small size. The prince's gaze on her was tender and warm. There was something dangerously akin to affection in it. A quiet alarm had sounded in Phillip's mind as his mind flashed to Peter's betrothal, but he had chosen to ignore his instincts and grant his request.
Surely nothing would come of it.
He laughed quietly to himself.
Delegates were coming to the kingdom by droves now, some with sympathy, but most with shifting and suspicious eyes, armed with thinly veiled questions as to what was to be done now. The change of leadership had been well-advertised, and many rumors were now spinning throughout the continent the Pheia's royal house had grown weak. Trade was slowing as those who had been set to benefit from the alliance between Peter and Sophia began to carefully distance themselves from what some viewed as a dynasty beginning to crack. Peter's actions were the first shock of scandal to mar Pheia's throne in several generations.
Phillip combed his fingers absently through his hair.
“What is to be done, Ellen?” he repeated.
Although his still-fresh anger made him loathe to admit it, Stefan's grounded response to the scandal had been the only thing that managed to salvage some of the kingdom's reputation.
Hindsight gave the king a feeling of quiet pride as he remembered his youngest son jumping in to rescue Peter when he had jumped into the sea after Adva. When Peter had cursed Princess Sophia roundly to her face, severing their engagement, it was Stefan who saw the trembling girl to her chambers and spread salve on the break by sending her away with carefully chosen gifts and comforting words that softened the scandal.
He answered the questions of the guests and sent them away quietly. Since then he had been present in nearly every meeting with probing visitors to the king, doing his best to quash rumors, only revealing Peter's true state to Phillip himself.
The king felt his anger slowly slipping away, and being replaced with trepidation.
“Just a little more time,” he murmured to himself, and sat up suddenly, leaving the garden with his back to the setting sun.
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Adva ran her hands over her work, a determined smile growing on her face. The sun was beginning to grow low in the sky. She was seated on the bed, stripped of its sheets. They were tied together in a curling rope that spilled from her lap to her feet. She glanced up at the horizon. It would be time soon.
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Stefan tried to keep as close to the walls as possible as he clutched the bundle of bread and fruits to his chest. His heart pounded each time a servant passed him on his way to the foyer from the kitchens. He imagined they gave him questioning looks when his back was turned, though they walked by with faces respectfully turned down when he turned his head to watch them.
When he reached the corridor that branched off to lead to the queen's room he found several women carrying baskets of laundry, cheerfully chattering amongst themselves. He pressed against the wall to avoid being seen, teeth gritting as they walked past him without notice. As soon as their voices had faded, he slipped down the hallway.
The plan he had carefully rehearsed tumbled in his mind, making his steps faster.
The drawn curtains made the corridor almost as difficult to navigate in broad daylight as in night-time. He stumbled once, scattering apples and rolls, staining the carpet with a broken peach. He stayed on his hands and knees for several moments, ears straining for any sign that someone in the neighboring hallways had heard his fall. When he was satisfied that no one was coming, he felt about, salvaging as much as could and moving forward.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he found the door. Balancing the bundle on his hip, he unlocked the door with some difficulty.
Something crunched under his boot as he entered the room. He looked about to see everything in chaos: furniture overturned and kicked in, glass shattered and ground into the carpet, curtains in a pool on the ground at the window, tapestries ripped from the walls. Adva sat on the bed, which was bare, an embarrassed look mixed with intense loathing concentrated on his face.
He shut the door behind him, taking the bundle from his coat.
“I brought you something to eat,” he said, clearing his throat. He walked to the bedside, her eyes following him the whole way “I'm sorry it took so long.”
She took the offered bundle with two fingers, then hurled it against the wall.
Stefan took an involuntary step back. Her eyes were flashing with an otherworldly fire that caused something in him to tremble. He composed himself quickly.
“I'm sorry you don't like it,” he said, attempting a smile.
A brief look of guilt crossed her features, but then she twisted her expression to anger again, seeming to shake herself.
“I want to see Peter,” she said. “I want you to let me leave.”
Stefan ran his fingers through his hair. “He knows that you're alive, Adva. I told him myself this morning. I even told him that you're here.” He looked away from her. “Adva, I am sorry for the things I said last night. I was...not myself.”
Adva's eyes flew wide. She sprang to her feet, anger melting to anxious joy as she threw her arms around him. “Stefan!” she breathed. “Thank you!” She pushed past him, heading for the door with alarming speed.
Her quickness to believe him, to forgive him, weakened his resolve, and he nearly let her run through the door.
I can't, he remembered, sickened. Not until she releases whatever hold she has on Peter... He winced as Catherine's and Alice's insistent stories flashed through his mind. Whether mystical or material.
He grasped her arm just in time to keep her from the doorway. She looked down at his hand with alarm and anger, doubtless remembering the previous night. Stefan raised a placating hand.
“Please, wait. I won't stop you after this. Just hear what I have to say.”
Adva stilled, hearing the fervor in his tone. She watched his face warily.
“Adva, you love Peter, right?”
Her face softened. “Yes.”
“Well, have you ever considered whether he loves you the same way?”
She blinked. Her expression became troubled. “He does,” she said, voice quivering. “I feel he must.”
Stefan let silence hang between them for several moments before gesturing towards the door.
“Where is he, then?”
Adva looked at him with a frown. “I...” she began.
“If he loved you as you loved him, wouldn't he have run directly to you?”
She shook her little head. “Perhaps he does not believe you. I will make him believe!” she said, hope returning to her eyes.
But Stefan shook his head. “I reassure you. He believes. He has suspected that you were alive for weeks.”
Happiness and distress once again wrestled in her features.
“But he...has not come to see me for himself?”
“Nor did it seem when I spoke to him that he has any plans to,” said the prince, his voice quiet. His hand moved from her elbow to grasp her fingers. “Adva...” he began.
She looked away from him, frightened tears springing into her eyes.
“Perhaps...he is not pleased to hear that I have come here?”
Stefan was silent. He watched her, pain and guilt that she mistook for pity twisting behind his eyes.
Her free hand came tremblingly to her lips as hot tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt the prince squeeze her hand gently.
“Wait, Adva,” he said, voice pleading. “Don't be so quick to give up.”
She looked up at him, bleary and lost.
“My brother may only be in shock. When he thought that you had died, he took it...rather hard.” He gave her hand another squeeze, self-loathing rising like bile in his throat. “Perhaps he only needs some time.”
Doubt clouded Adva's face. “Perhaps...” she said.
“Listen,” he said, summoning up a comforting smile. “Give him a week. If he comes to you within the week, you will know that he returns your feelings. Wonderful. But if he does not...”
“I shall throw myself into the sea again,” she said quietly, looking away.
He looked stricken.
“No, no. I will find you a place to live here in one of the neighboring kingdoms, far away, so that you won't have to see him again. You may still find happiness elsewhere.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “I have to go for the moment. I will leave the door unlocked—”
“Please don't,” she said suddenly.
He looked at her with surprise.
“Only you and Peter have the keys to this door, you said?” she asked, touching it.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“I wish to see no one else... I will wait here until Peter comes. If it was unlocked, I would only be tempted to run to him,” she said, frowning. “And if he truly needs time, perhaps that would displease him...”
Stefan hesitated. But, gathering his crumbling resolve, he pressed her hand and left, turning the lock on the door with shaking hands.
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