Orielle's smile grew, tentative but warm, her hand still lightly resting on the frame of her chamber door as she took a careful step forward. "Your Majesty, if I may—"
But the words faltered.
Her gaze slipped downward, taking in his blood-soaked clothes, and the stains on his hands. A tiny, startled hiccup punched out of her throat before she could swallow it. She stumbled back, clutching the doorframe to stop her fall.
Tirian's hand shot out on instinct, but he froze halfway, letting his arm drop.
There it is, he thought, the faintest curl of bitterness tightening the line of his mouth. The fear. How could I expect anything else? I must look like a demon pulled fresh from battle.
He ran a hand through his hair, annoyed mostly at himself. He had forgotten—forgotten that he had come straight from the dungeon, forgotten that she was now in his space, and how he must appear to eyes so unaccustomed to violence. When he glanced back at her, she was staring down, biting her lip, her fingers twined tightly together in a gesture of trembling composure.
He sighed, turning away. Better to leave before she brakes into tears.
He made for his own chambers, boots beating heavily against the stone, when a soft voice followed him like a tug on the back of his coat.
"Your Majesty…"
He paused, exhaling sharply. What was her name again? Olie? Ari… something.
"What's your name?" he asked turning carefully as to not frighten her further.
She lifted her chin, green eyes meeting his with shy resolve. "It's Orielle, Your Majesty."
His brows lowered. "Stop that. Don't call me that." A beat passed. "If you're to be my wife, you'd best grow comfortable using my name."
Orielle nodded, though her heartbeat thudded against her ribs. She stepped toward him, her courage small but persistent. "Lord Tirian… if I may, you asked what I wanted. And… well, I do have a request."
A request?Tirian thought, surprised. Already? Is she power hungry? She doesn't seem the type... How she asks something of me while I still look like a butcher? Bold—or foolish. Possibly both.
"A request," he echoed, voice dipped in amusement.
"Yes." She swallowed, then rushed on. "I was hoping… perhaps… I might be permitted to see my father again."
That stopped him.
Not a demand for riches, status, new chambers, a retinue, or comforts. Not entitlement. Just to see her father?
Her voice trembled but held firm as she continued, the words spilling out faster with each breath.
"I didn't get to say goodbye. He must be so worried. If he could be brought here—or if that's too risky, perhaps I could meet him near my village? Or even outside the walls, somewhere neutral. The river grove, perhaps? Under guard, of course—"
Tirian turned to her fully now, watching the way her emotions tugged her voice along like a current. Doesshe normally talk this much, is this her true self? A brook babbling downhill. Not at all like a court lady. Ugh... I don't like talkative people, too much work to listen to what mostly turns out to just be nonsense...
"And how," he cut in, one brow rising, "do you suppose that would work? What of your safety?"
But she hardly faltered. Her steps followed his as he entered his chambers, her voice continuing with earnest momentum.
"Oh, well, the groves are quite safe, I promise—unless it's early spring, when the ground gets slippery. And I could take guards! Sir Kahiel was kind during the journey, he could escort me? Or—if you worry I may run away—I won't. Truly. I just want him to know I'm safe. A letter could reach him first, if you prefer—"
The king strode into the bathing chamber, steam rising from the large tub, filling the air with a faint scent of cedar.
And still—she followed, without even batting an eye.
She followed him into a man's private chambers. Into his bathing chamber. Into a room where no unmarried maiden should ever step foot, even in innocence.
Is she clueless?Tirian wondered, bewildered. So determined for this meeting that she forgets her own vulnerability? Or is she simply… unafraid of me? Even like this? No, she seemed quite fearful when she first took in my attire just a moment ago.
He stood at the tub's edge, his fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with deliberate slowness.
"Look here, Lady Orielle," he said, tone dry as he tugged open another button. "I would gladly have this conversation over breakfast tomorrow. But right now—"
Another button. The blood-stained shirt parted already half way down, revealing skin marked by old battles and the sharpened lines of strength.
"—I am in desperate need of a bath."
Orielle's words died. Her lips parted, her eyes widened, and her entire face turned a vivid, rose-petal pink. "O–Oh," she squeaked, turning so sharply she nearly smacked into the wall. Her hands flew to her burning cheeks. "I—I beg your pardon!"
Tirian watched her, amused despite his exhaustion.
She followed me all the way in here without a thought…And only now realizes where she is?
He leaned against the tub's rim, shirt now hanging loose at his elbows. There was something undeniably endearing in the way she vibrated between courage and panic—like a small woodland creature that hadn't yet learned when to flee.
A lamb indeed.
He expected her to run, stammer something, and flee in a puff of embarrassment. But instead, she peeked back at him.
A single glance. A nervous, shy, unguarded glance.
And her eyes widened again—this time not with fear, but with something far more dangerous to his composure: startled admiration.
Tirian tilted his head, a slow, wicked smirk tugging at his mouth. He could not resist the jab.
"Do you like what you see?"
Orielle's head snapped up, horrified, then down again, her hands shielding her eyes like hiding from something she's not allowed to see. "No, my lord! I—I mean yes! Wait—no! I—" Her voice pitched into flustered squeaks. "Ah... Sleep well, my lord!"
And she bolted.
Truly bolted—skirts gathered, bare feet tapping frantically against the stone as she fled down the corridor, the door left ajar behind her.
Tirian let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest—a sound the palace had rarely heard from him. He stepped to the door, verifying she had vanished entirely from sight before closing it with a soft thud.
"Orielle," he murmured to himself, shaking his head as he unfastened the his belt. "Bold, foolish creature. Like a lamb wandering into a wolf's den."
And yet…She had not looked at him the way others did.
Not like a monster. Not like a tyrant. Not even like a king.
No, she looked at him like he were simply a man—one she didn't quite know what to do with, but a man all the same. And oddly, that eased something in his chest he had not realized was tense.
He sank into the steaming water with a long exhale, letting the heat pull the dungeon's cold from his bones. She's no noble, that's certain—but at least she doesn't fear me too much, I guess that would make this union easier to withstand.
*****
Orielle did not stop running until she reached the sanctuary of her chamber. She slipped inside and pressed her back against the closed door as though she were barricading it from her own embarrassment.
"What did I just do?" she whispered into her hands.
Then, louder, muffled by mortification, "What did I just do!?"
She slid down to the floor, burying her face in her arms, her voice rising in a pitiful groan. "Oh, gods what's wrong with me!? I followed him into his room. His room! And then—and then I stared at him like some hopeless village girl!"
She slapped her cheeks lightly with both hands. "Why did I do that? Why am I such an idiot?" Again—slap, slap—her voice growing more despairing by the second. "Why couldn't I just ask him normally? Why did I follow him right into the bath?... the bath..."
But then—traitorously, against her will—her mind replayed the moment.
The shirt falling open. The scars like stories carved into skin. The way his voice dipped when he teased her. The way his eyes had glinted with… mischief?
She curled forward, tugging at her hair. "Ahhhh!"
Heat flooded her face again. "I'm never going to recover from this. Never. I'm going to dream of it all night—me being an absolute fool, and him—standing there—and those arms—"
She promptly ran to her bed and flung her pillow over her face and let out a muffled shriek into the bedding.
After several moments of kicking her blankets in helpless despair, she rolled onto her back and stared at the canopy overhead, breath unsteady.
Eventually, the flustered storm softened. A quieter thought slipped through.
"…He didn't seem angry..."
But instead—he had only looked tired. Then amused? Just… human.
Orielle pulled the blankets close, her voice barely a whisper.
"I hope he lets me see Father," she murmured. "I'll ask again tomorrow. Properly this time."
She shut her eyes, though her cheeks remained warm as a hearth.
Somewhere between embarrassment and cautious hope, she drifted toward uneasy sleep.