Chapter Text
The dreams never linger. Not in memory. Not in the sunlight. They’ve withered under a cerulean gaze for so many years now. Instead they’ve always evaded her the moment she opened her eyes and she’s forced to battle the heavy feeling that she’s lost something she can’t even name.
It’s sporadic when it happens. When it becomes so vivid she isn’t sure where she starts and the dream ends. But she knows before the dream can even begin. She always does.
The river bends for the earth. It trickles and flows quiet enough to soothe and lull her, making her already closed lids heavier. And that’s sign enough for Vi to know. So she sinks into the body that doesn’t quite belong to her in the waking sun. Not when she’ll forget this ever existed the moment she opens her eyes. But here, in the soft light of morning and green hues reflected from the leaves weaving through the open arches, she’s where she’s supposed to be. So she becomes the woman who has haunted her since she picked up the blade of legend.
“Ninya Helinillë,” dances across her skin, whispered like a prayer to a goddess her lover has long stopped praying to. It’s not her name and yet Vi reacts to it. Translates it. Leans in until their breaths are intermingling.
My Violet.
Hers indeed.
Their souls sealed in fire and blood, evident in the rune she’ll carry to her grave.
The veranda is something they claimed long ago. It sits nestled against the river and the wood, white marble and cerulean cushions face the water’s edge. Vi lies there now, content in the sinking sun. Although… there’s something heavier here. It sits in her chest. A dread that threatens to shatter the oasis.
“We could run, you know,” her voice is close. Lips brushing her hairline, trailing down to the bridge of her nose. She hums, her nose twitching, reveling in the attention. But her lover’s words sink in, the dread growing in her stomach. She dares to open an eye, her heart fluttering like the very first time at the sight of her. Midnight hair and fair skin draped in fine silk. Moonstone eyes that pin her down and lift her up all at once. She sits on the edge of the cushions, draped over where Violet lay. The rune etched on her chest throbs, reminding her of its freshness.
“And where would we go?” she teases. It’s the only thing she can do for now. Before raging flames of war swallows them whole. Every second the sun sinks brings her closer to this fate. The one she’s willing agreed to shoulder, if only for the chance to live her life as she wants.
Her lover kisses her jaw. Her neck. Taking her lobe gently between her teeth. Fingers card through wild hair, warming her insides with ghosting touches. A promise for what’s to come. “We could cross the Ionian sea. Live in the free cities or build a house in the woodlands–” she cuts herself off, her face morphing and twisting. It creases her brow and her lips turn downward. “I’m going to come with you.”
Violet opens her eyes then, the very image of her lover slain on the ground, blood pooling around her is too clear in her mind’s eye. The possibility too great with the enemy that awaits them come the moon’s rise. It must show on her face because her lover scowls down at her.
“Morendë,” Violet pleads, her fingers clutching the silk at her hip, when she turns away from her, exposing her to the chill that is still novel to this land.
“It isn’t fair,” she states, her tone terse, but Violet knows she isn’t truly cross with her. She stands anyway, her gown dragging across the floor, fallen leaves trapped in the powder blue train. Spring has met its end as a curse settles over the land. The reason they’re even here to begin with. Violet watches her lover lean against the railing circling the veranda, crossing her arms over her chest with tense shoulders.
Violet follows then, closing the distance in two long strides, cloaking her from behind. She tilts her lover’s chin to face her, meeting the celestial gaze framed by dark lashes. She shivers, pressing her forehead to–
Caitlyn, or… Whoever this is, gazes upon her with such tenderness, Vi feels herself crumble. She leans into her touch, eyes fluttering closed, and as if unbidden, an alien yet familiar name passes her lips again. “Morendë…”
It’s a reverent whisper of her own, buried in the weight of the world around them. Foreign on Vi’s tongue and a cosmic binding she feels in her bones.
“I am a warrior just as much as you. I cannot just… hide,” she pleads, leaning further into Violet’s body, their foreheads pressed together.
“I never wish to cage you. But I can’t–”
“I know.”
It’s a fight they don’t need to have. Not now. Not again. Not when daylight is trying to evade them.
“Do you have such little faith in me, Ninya Elentári?” Violet tries to tease, brushing her nose against Cai–
The woman in her arms finally chuckles and the sound goes straight through her. “You’re trying to soften me up.”
Violet grins, tilting her chin up until their lips brush. “Is it working?”
Her answer is in a bruising kiss and Violet can’t resist fisting her lover’s hair, grabbing her jaw so her tongue can lick into her mouth, cradling her entire skull in her large hands. The shift is sudden. It consumes them both in an inferno as their lips move. Tongues dance and teeth nip soft, supple skin.
Moans and gasps can barely escape between kisses, and Violet only pulls away when she tastes salt on her tongue. And even then, they’re still connected, salvia linked on both of their lips. A trail of heat that tastes like desperation on her tongue when she licks her lips.
“Love me like the first time,” she whimpers, her breath ragged. And how can she deny her this?
The gown slips from her lover’s body like trickling water, brushing past hard nipples and down her toned stomach until it pools at her feet. Violet’s lips and tongue follow, teeth nipping. Claiming. Marking. Eliciting gasps and glistening wetness between her lover’s legs.
She soothes every bite with her tongue, peppering kisses around the matching rune over her lover’s breastbone. “Ninya,” Violet breathes, laving the puckered skin with her tongue before meeting the cerulean gaze above. Her lover shudders, finger gripping her hair, tugging at the scalp. She’s slaved to learn this language, her tongue aches to use it now.
“Sina ná ninya,” she all but growls over where her heart beats, looking up through thick lashes. And when the woman nods, her body quivering in Vi’s hands, she begins.
She prays and she worships; every mole and scar and ounce of skin her lips can reach is subject to her devotion.
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
“Tyenya— ahh —!”
And Vi finds herself a trembling passenger, slipping between the realms of her own selfish desires and the lived reality of where she kneels now.
Because this woman, this ‘Morendë’, wears her face. Moans with her voice. Exudes her scent. So when her lips wrap around the swollen bundle of nerves at Caitlyn’s center, when her hands are are full with the supple flesh of her breasts, she fucking revels in it. Every lap of her tongue and every flavor, the way brown nipples feel between her fingers, the limestone beneath her knees, the leg draped over her broad shoulder, she commits it all to memory. Because soon, she’ll wake up—
The almost lingers on her skin the way smoke clings to clothes, staining and permanent. Chills and a flush alike paint her body while her heart riots against her ribs. Air is an evasive thing, a tease to her lungs with every distant footstep the princess takes away from her.
Her smell still fills the air and settles in Vi’s bones, unearthing an ache she’s long tried to bury. But it’s been ripped out of her, torn from her very flesh for all to see. It throbs at her center now, heat crawling under her skin that she knows has nothing to do with the sun shining through the panes above.
She looks up again, the colors on the tapestry taunting her. Warning her even of what could befall them if she were to slip again.
“A nightmare. A memory. I don’t know.”
Vi stands quickly, shaking her head and strapping Atlas to her back, casting one last look at the two lovers intertwined together at Janna’s feet before leaving her home’s temple.
And with every step, she swallows her heart down, the sword at her back humming as it reminds her of the duty she’s sworn to.See AlsoHibernal Den Gifting Thread | Raffles & Giveaways | Flight Rising
“What do you mean you can’t find her?”
They stand close, shrouded in one of the many corridors, first and sweat sticking to her like a second skin. But her brother remains calm where Vi’s fingers twitch with unease at his words. Her sister wasn’t found at her house yesterday morn.
Vi had been wandering around her brother’s hall – Harrenhal , she tried to remember, the titles and castles all blur together– for the better part of the morning, her mind in a daze, clouded by a certain indigo-haired princess. It was easy to get lost when she’s distracted.
But eventually, she found herself in the small training yard when her wandering kept seeing her in front of the princess’s temporary chambers, the intricate wooden doors nothing more than a mocking jest she didn’t have the stomach for.
So she took up a blunted sword and sparred until sweat licked her brow under the sun’s scrutiny. Claggor’s men had been hunched over, strewn across the yard, their armor lazily strapped to their bodies when Vi marched onto the grounds, her muscles hungry for movement. She hasn’t trained in ages. Sevika would surely see her lying in the dirt when they returned.
“Captain,” one said, standing to attention when they noticed her surveying the arena. But Vi didn’t pay him mind, just picking up a sword and thrusting it into his unassuming hands. He raised his thick eyebrows in surprise, his hands clumsily gripping the hilt. “Lord Hudson says we ‘ave today off–”
“When was the last time any of you trained?” Vi cut him off, her patience thin and exhaustion crept up her spine. The guard stuttered and Vi had to refrain from rolling her eyes. The other guards watched them warily. So Vi tried a new tactic. “C’mon I come home for the first time in ages and none of you are willing to spar with me?”
It was enough to ease them, their hearty chuckles and slow standing legs evident of their lifestyle. Easy and unburdened. But they were warriors yet, their bodies still tanned and lean and agile as they sparred against her.
The exercise was vigorous and needed. Her strikes were harder than they needed to be, her feet quick and her nerves humming as she settled into every stance.
“ Ninya Helinillë”
Swords clashed loudly, their blunted edges and thick hilts heavier than they should be. The air was harsh in her lungs, thick and dust filled.
Caitlyn’s lips on her hand, eyelashes fluttering under the history of her people–
Vi could feel eyes on her as she spun and swung the blade from where she stands in the middle of the group of men. Four on one wasn’t her worst odds, especially not this lot. But the heated glances from maids and other guards alike were hard to ignore albeit nothing new. The Gold Keep had made her accustomed to it, even if only one hard stare truly got her attention. It still never failed to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
Vi paused, her breathing heavy and her sleep shirt sticking to her skin, daring a glance at the small audience gathered in the hall’s windows or from the stables. But then none of the unassuming eyes belonged to the princess, so she kept fighting.
Lord Hudson’s own blade and wary eyes is what finally bid her to stop, breaking the spar circle with his mere presence.
“Ser Vi, I need to speak with you in private,” he said quietly after acknowledging his men.
Vi, still breathing hard from the workout, merely nodded, handing her blade training blade back to the smith, his apron dirty and blackened as he handed her a sheathed Atlas.
They walked in brief silence until they entered the hall, her sweat drying on her skin to bring a slight chill. There’s an uneasiness settling between them, and Vi can’t take the hesitant look in her brother’s eye.
“What is it, brother? Have you lost your bride already? Need me to teach you where to stick it?” She teased, falling back into their old raunchy banter, a humor she shares with Orianna and Sevika as well. Claggor huffs at her, scratching his bearded chin, reminding Vi he’s no longer the boy in the training yard longing to express himself through confectionaries.
“Lady Rowan is being readied and I believe she wants to meet you– stop distracting me,” he grunted. Vi only smirked. He took a deep breath before he spoke again, leaving her here now in the wake of dread that threatens to crawl out of her throat. “Jinx’s husband reported her missing when my men went to retrieve her but–”
“So why aren’t we looking for her?” Vi snaps, her body alighting with so much tension she feels it’s inevitable splintering. Claggor releases a long sigh, not speaking again as he waits for more staff to pass, their arms full of preparations for the day’s events. The ceremony and lively feast to come.
“She does this sometimes. I doubt it’s anything to worry about,” he assures her gently but Vi still holds her breath. “You’re free to search the village and beyond yourself before the ceremony but I know your duty keeps you bound.”
Vi almost starts at that, the internal battle between her own will and the vow she feels deeper than the mere words sworn. She shakes her head with frustrated huff.
“And does Ekko normally report when she… does this?”
Claggor clenches his jaw, shrinking just a little. Enough for Vi to ease her own stance. It is his wedding day after all, even if she wasn’t formally invited and knows nothing of his bride other than her name.
“It's hard to know now that they’ve–”
“Lord Hudson,” someone calls, the chains around his neck clanging with every step. Claggor turns with a sigh and a pitying look before greeting him.
“Yes, Maester Rhodes?”
“Lady Cece needs you. Something about your final fitting I believe.”
“Ah, yes. Of course,” he replies, his cheeks turning a dark shade and his shoulders hunch up with nerves. If Vi weren’t so on edge, she’d laugh. Before he goes, her brother turns to her before clapping her on the shoulder. “We had something put together for you now that you’re a member of the Queensguard,” he says fondly. His questions from the night before still go unsaid. Questions she reluctantly couldn’t answer fully, even after Caitlyn retired for the evening. Why they’re here and why did they look as though they were on the run. “Go get cleaned up. You look like you’ve seen a ghost all morning. And I’m sure Jinx’ll turn up. She wouldn’t miss tonight.”
He’s gone before Vi can utter another word.
Caitlyn tugs at the collar of her gown, the fabric soft against her neck. Prima and Lila finished helping her dress, their idle chatter had been nothing more than a buzzing sound to Caitlyn’s distracted ears. That is until the seamstress in charge of making the entire ensemble made herself known, her boisterous voice not meant to be contained in such a humble setting.
But the seamstress, Madam Cece Bolton, had tutted and fussed as if Caitlyn were the one being wed in three bells. She tries to say as much, but is quickly shot down, utterances of her status and the seamstress’s excitement combined with her own distractedness keeps her voice in her throat. And when they’re finished, the long, three door mirror reflects a version of herself she’s familiar with but there’s something more… foreign and powerful.
Her eyes catch on the gold-leafed shroud threads through her navy hair, fine silk and velvet sporting the Kiramman emerald, gold embroidered along the length of the sleeves and the train. Her house’s sigil is bold on the brass belt around her waist, and Caitlyn releases a breath.
It’s the most royal she’s allowed herself to appear aside from her own coronation some five years ago. And then the style is still so Zaun .
“Do you like it, Princess?”
Caitlyn nods, delighted her lungs could fill with air without struggle.
“Do you not think the palace could benefit from my services?”
The hopeful wistfulness in her voice is enough to make the princess cave, already content with whatever ire she’ll face from the queen upon her return on the morrow. What’s a new seamstress from Zaun truly going to harm?
But when she’s left alone again, she doesn’t go far, her tired mind running wild as the sun peaks in the sky, her lips tingling with what she isn’t sure had even happened anymore. The way the knight’s warmth radiated from her body, cloaking and enveloping her while her voice transported her to a world and time long forgotten. Her own name, her actual name, still rings in the knight’s voice.
The knock on her door is quiet. Unassuming. And one of many today. Each one sees Caitlyn’s heart threatening to break her ribs, only for her lungs to deflate when her red-haired knight isn’t on the other side.
“Lady Rowan Rivers of Runestone, Your Highness,” Prima announces, one of the maids Caitlyn has finally learnt the name of in her short stay here.
The woman enters Caitlyn’s chambers, her presence unexpected and sudden. Or perhaps it shouldn’t be. Time has bled together and she realizes it’s been many hours since she left the temple. The sun sits on the other side of her window, casting the village and the mountain in its deep orange light. It’s almost time.
The woman is not what Caitlyn expects of the heir to Runestone. The castle sits in the northwest of Piltover, long protected on the peninsula of the Vale. It’s a newer territory to be added to the Queendom, a negotiation settled by her great grandmother after the battle of Crabfoot Bay. The residents there have been long described as hardened sea warriors, broad shouldered and rugged edges.
But this woman radiates softness. Her blond hair immediately reminds her of dear Luxanna. But the similarities stop there. This woman’s cheeks are rounded and soft, her eyes almond shaped to frame light brown eyes. Lady Rowan bows, and it’s only then that Caitlyn realizes she adorns her wedding clothes. The layers of thick cream lace and satin drag across the floor as the woman bows sheepishly. Caitlyn stands firm in her own stance, thankful for Zaun’s proclivity against corsets.
“Your Highness, I had to see you before I’m wed, to thank you for being here before the feast. We had no idea you would be attending and it’s such an honor to host both you and your chosen knight,” she says toward the ground, her voice soft and fluid like honey. It’s no wonder Lord Hudson seems so smitten with her.
“The honor is mine, My Lady,” Caitlyn says, gesturing for the bride to rise, resenting the unnecessary formalities.
“I know my house is of no great value but to have the eyes of the heir upon us means a great deal to my house,” Lady Rowan explains further. “I meant to come earlier but I got distracted speaking with your sworn protector just outside. She’s just as handsome as the rumors,” Lady Rowan giggles and Caitlyn has to fight to keep the edge out of her tone.
“Ser Vi is outside my door? This whole time?”
“Oh yes. Much better dressed than she was when I saw her train this morning. But I had to meet the sister of my betrothed,” she says innocently, and all jealous anger soothes out of the princess when she sees her face at the mention of Lord Hudson. The young woman is clearly just as infatuated. But knowing Vi is standing– has been standing– outside her door heats her blood all over again.
“I better be off now, Your Highness. Thank you for the audience and I look forward to seeing you at the feast,” she says when Caitlyn doesn’t stop glaring at her door.
“Of course, Lady Rowan. May the goddesses bless you and your marriage,” Caitlyn says distractedly, the sentiment rehearsed her entire life. And when the bride leaves her chambers, Caitlyn waits only another moment before storming out into the wide hall.
Silver eyes and emerald green fill her vision behind the red of her rage. She watches the knight– her knight– adorn scarlet cheeks, her eyes unabashedly taking the princess in. Every inch of her skin is covered save for her face and yet Caitlyn has never felt more exposed. Vi’s mouth opens to speak,
“Princess, you look–”
“How long have you been here?” Caitlyn hisses, closing the distance so others may not hear. Vi’s brow raises and her darkened eyes widen slightly, confusion etched onto her mouth.
“You’re angry with me.”
It isn’t a question. And the knight’s surprise Only further boils the flesh under her skin.
“I’m not angry. I just— I thought—were you not going to kiss me?”
Her rambling is unbecoming and she clicks her mouth shut in frustration and embarrassment. Perhaps it had all been in her head after all. But then why—
Vi’s eyes widen again and her breath stutters as though the realization has finally dawned on her.
“Y-you’re right. I’m your sworn protector and it was imprudent of me to– I didn’t think you’d want to see me after–” she lets out a harsh exhale, a huff through her nose as her eyes won't meet Caitlyn’s. It’s the most horrified she’s ever heard the knight sound. “It was a mistake and I’m sorry, Princess. It won’t happen again.”
The silence between them is thick and unforgiving. Caitlyn feels her heartbeat against every rib, her stomach bottoming out.
A mistake .
Of course. How could she have been so foolish to think–
The princess blinks a few times, her eyes focusing on the knight’s attire, her chest tightening as heat washes over her face. The doublet is a deep seafoam, as though the forest had made love with the ocean to produce the color. It makes her eyes the color of the moon and red shaggy bangs are brushed back out of her face. And of course, her crest is stitched in the exact gold that lines the edges of her gown.
All of her matches with Caitlyn and her heart riots. Because Ser Violet Lanes does not look like a knight. No. She wears the face of a Prince of Old. Lost in time and yet ageless. The sharp scar under eye and the ink that crawls out from her collar are the only features that tell a different story. That, and the ever present blade of legend. But she doesn’t look unnatural. She’s handsome and radiant and—
She’s absolutely breathtaking.
And feels nothing of what aches in Caitlyn’s entire body, it seems. Just as she hasn’t felt her their entire lives.
With a dry tongue and a heart demanding release from where it’s lodged in her throat, Caitlyn nods, and turns on her heel without another word.
“Under the eyes of Janna, I hereby see you these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.
Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am his, and she is mine, from this day, till the end of my days.”
The ceremony is one of bright fires lit outside of the village, the bond sealed between the Lord of Hateno and his lady bride for the eyes of the mountain to see amongst the wide plains of Zaun. As is tradition of Hateno, the ceremony is held just outside of the village’s gates, a heart bonfire is lit and the vows are of Zaun’s oldest religion.
And the feast to follow fills the banquet hall with warmth and more importantly, good drink.
“Princess Caitlyn of House Kiramman. Heir to the throne of Piltover,” is announced over the already full banquet hall. The princess stands with a rigid spine in front of Vi before the ceiling-tall double doors, dress fanned behind her on the stone floor.
Vi’s made a lot of mistakes in her life. She’s seen men fall on their swords because of calls she’s made in battle, saw her sister ripped from the capitol for Vi’s foolish actions. Countless errs that stain her hands. But whatever has transpired between herself and the Princess in front of her chambers feels the heaviest on her heart.
The look of ire on Caitlyn’s face has been enough to distract her from the growing dread in her belly from her sister’s whereabouts. Her absence had been felt by both Vi and Claggor before the ceremony, albeit the latter far more distracted with a pretty woman being sworn to him for life. And Vi could not– would not– leave her post next to the crowned Princess. Not when they’re so exposed.
Amongst the crowded field, Vi couldn’t help but notice Ekko Hills was not in sight. She tried to listen then, tried to tune into the ancient relic that stays strapped to her back like a second skin. But there was no thrum or heat. Only a stale cold that shot through her spine any moment her eyes met Caitlyn’s.
Caitlyn descends the small set of stairs to walk through the now parted crowd, music lilting through every crevice around them until they reach the long table. Vi follows close behind, the smell of wine and ale and roast duck thick and swirling around the hall. Yet she has no appetite for it.
Hungry eyes and whispered murmurs cloak them as they walk together, blushing faces of men and women alike gawking at the woman– their princess– before them. And how can Vi blame them when she too can’t take her eyes off her?
Candle-lit chandeliers dangle from the ceiling and tables line the once empty hall, food already plentiful and the Bride and Lord sit at their elevated table, their esteemed guests from Lady Rowan’s house filling almost every seat.
Vi doesn’t hear the pleasantries spoken before Caitlyn takes her seat at the table, not with the way her heart beats in her ears. But the room is soon full of dancing bodies, Claggor and his bride among them, their food left abandoned on their plates. Vi has the wherewithal to be grateful her home village has such a bounty. Her brother deserves this.
So Vi swallows whatever is stirring in her chest and watches as Harrenhal is brought to life for the first time in thirty years.
Wine stains her lips before anything else. The rich flavor is earthy and thick, something she hasn’t been acquainted with much. But the grapes in this part of the Queendom have to fight for survival in such harsh earth, making the flavor something richer and hard-earned.
It goes straight to Caitlyn’s head.
She’s downed three goblets before a bite of the plump roast duck reaches her lips. But she doesn’t hide the moan when the flavor explodes on her tongue. She hears Vi snort behind her, can see her mouth opening to speak before it clacks shut again, to Caitlyn’s disappointment.
She hasn’t spoken to her knight since their conversation in the hallway. And Vi has not spoken to her. The single word mistake haunting her like a plague. She takes another gulp of wine at the now empty table. She can feel her knight’s presence in every sense. Her smell lingers even over the food and sweat-addled bodies. She can see bright red and her dashing doublet out of her periphery.
She pushes her plate back, keeping her goblet close to her chest and watches the dancing that seems to involve so many steps. It’s fast paced and hard to keep track of, but she finds herself swaying to the upbeat music, chuckling at the way Claggor and his fellow countrymen sing and dance on the tables, a blushing Lady Rowan dragged up with him.
But of course, she’s brought back to herself. Her body seems to alight from the inside out when she hears it. Vi hums the tune behind her and Caitlyn finally looks at her knight fully then.
“I always love it when you sing,” she hears herself say, the wine clearly behind the words.
Vi startles, her eyes soft and dark in the low light of the hall. But the blush on her cheeks spreads down her neck, hiding under her own collar. Caitlyn’s fingers itch to undo it.
“Do you, now?” Vi husks, stepping closer to Caitlyn’s chair.
“Are you not going to eat, Ser Violet?” Caitlyn asks quickly, her words catching up to her and she pulls out the chair next to her, the decorative metal cool to the touch. Vi stares at it and the food on the table for a moment, hesitance etched on every feature before meeting Caitlyn’s gaze. The moon asking the sun for her place in the sky and who is Caitlyn to refuse? “Please. I know you haven’t eaten.”
Vi huffs a small laugh and gingerly sits in the chair, her legs pressing against Caitlyn’s and warmth blooms even under the thick layers separating them. They eat in silence while the crowd grows blurry and rambunctious.
“Vi! Vi come dance! You love this one!” Claggor shouts over the music. The guests separate into two sides of the room, the group dance something Caitlyn has never seen before. Vi chuckles and shakes her head, silver eyes darting to Caitlyn and back to her brother. Oh.
“Go. I’ll be fine,” Caitlyn says, placing her hand atop Vi’s on the table. Vi looks up, brows raised and lips parted, whether from the contact or her words, Caitlyn can’t tell.
Claggor shouts again, waving his arm as the music swells and thickens, laughter echoing against every banner-laden wall.
“Would you join me, Princess?”
Caitlyn sucks in a breath, the idea of fumbling amongst those she doesn’t know, dancing steps she’s never rehearsed, in front of–
“No. I’m not much of a dancer.”
Vi hums as she stands, her hands still on the table.
She expects her knight to leave her then, to slip into the crowd as they join each other in the middle of the aisle, hands meeting as their bodies turn. But Vi lifts the hand still on top of her own and ghosts her lips over Caitlyn’s knuckles as she bows.
“I’ll be back,” she whispers against her skin.
Caitlyn’s hand stays suspended even after Vi has left, her face shades darker and her skin flamed. She stays in her seat as the dance continues, and her eyes find wild red hair immediately.
And the woman on her arm.
She watches her movements like a hawk watches prey. Her eyes are narrowed and the wine has lost its appeal the longer she watches a smile split Vi’s face, her brother and his bride red faced from their laughter. The couples all turn around each other, their feet light and the music quick. And Caitlyn doesn’t move.
Had it truly been a mistake? The way Vi’s eyes had fluttered, her hand a phantom along her jaw. The dream that still haunts her steps. Tears prick her eyes suddenly as she watches the way Vi moves to the music, a woman gripping her elbow. What was she even doing here?
But the song ends and each side bows to the other and any sense of drunkenness she felt before, seeps out of her body. As she stands to leave, Vi catches her eye, her breathing ragged from the dance. From here she can see the way her throat moves when she swallows, her head ducking as she holds out her hand.
Caitlyn doesn’t know what possesses her to move to the floor, the stone dirtied and stained from the feast, wine painting it a deep crimson, footsteps imprinting. The crowd separates as Caitlyn’s gown drags behind her and yet Vi doesn’t move, her hand still outstretched and her eyes equal parts open and shy all at once.
“I don’t– I don’t know this dance,” Caitlyn murmurs as she slides her hand into Vi’s larger one. That tugging feeling in her chest stirs again, blooming like vines down to her toes and her dress feels so heavy now.
“Just follow me.”
“Is that you ordering the princess what to do?” she teases, earning her the briefest look of surprise before a wolfish grin stretches the knight’s mouth.
The music flows from the instruments in something far gentler than the previous dances. The tune is something that comes from the belly of the viola, deep and oceanic.
They stand on opposite sides of the aisle, and Caitlyn ignores the whispers and stares from the villagers that will dance next to her. The hurt from the hallway still lingers between them, the story whispered in Vi’s voice has not been forgotten. As though it were made for her.
Caitlyn does as she’s told and follows her knight’s lead, stepping in the middle of the aisle when Vi does, their hands joining as they walk in a circle, their eyes never leaving the other.
It’s a mountain dance. One that involves careful steps, slow enough for her to follow as she steps behind and around other dancers. But eventually, as the strings of music grow louder and louder, everyone else seems to disappear around them.
With every breath they share, each step that becomes more sure, Caitlyn realizes– no, she remembers – just how blind she’d been to Vi. To their positions. To the mistake she’s alluded to. So when they meet again, their chests brushing and their scents combining into one of heated jasmine, she speaks.
“It wouldn’t have been one, you know.”
They’re moving again, circling and flowing in the dance.
“What, Princess?” Vi asks when they meet again. She doesn’t miss the stuttered breath, eyes searching as though she’s misheard.
“A mistake,” she answers quickly, needing the words out of her throat before the wine has truly left her system.
When it’s time to move back to their sides of the aisle, the dance coming to a close as the music sharpens, Vi doesn’t move. Caitlyn dares to step closer, the other dancers, the guests of the wedding she has no place at, still have yet to come back into view. And when Vi’s eyes flicker down, landingo her lips, there’s no one left but them.
A revered sigh leaves her lips when she feels Vi’s hand on her waist, and her chest heaves against Caitlyn’s, quick breaths mingling. Caitlyn’s eyes struggle to stay open, but like the tide is drawn to the moon, she keeps them on the knight, her head forced up suddenly when a rough, warm hand cups her neck and jaw, thumb pressing into her blushed cheek. Gripping and possessive.
Finally.
Caitlyn’s breath catches in her throat, her own gaze a willing traitor as they land on Vi’s mouth. She grips her knight's forearms, clutching the soft velvety leather of her armor. She wants to taste the scar that divots along the skin. To trace it along the vines and leaves inked along her neck. She just fucking wants . Her heart is a thunderous thing, drowning out the music, the distant chatter and anything else that isn’t the sound of Vi’s own nervous breath against her skin. Eyes flicker and lashes flutter as their noses brush, the glint of the jewel embedded into the knight's skin eliciting another sigh from Caitlyn's lips while the hand around her neck squeezes ever so slightly.
Their lips are so close she can taste the ale she must’ve drank down here, the skin warm and soft and–
Shrill screams fill the air as the doors of the banquet hall are thrust open, revealing a beast that has only ever been a nightmarish legend. But there’s no mistaking it for anything else. The body of a striped centaur, its head thick with a ruffled mane, the beast roars so thunderously and bellowing as it brings death to their doorstep.