by K. M. Shea
As she gaped at him, Benjimir opened both eyes and said in a rough, deep voice. “Ready to talk?”
“Benjimir!” She hovered over him as he slowly pushed himself up on his elbows. “What possessed you to do such a silly thing?”
“I figured you would try and leave early, and I was serious about wanting to talk.” The Calnor prince grimaced as he stood up and rubbed his stiff neck.
“Benjimir,” Gwendafyn sighed.
“We know each other well,” Benjimir continued. “There’s no reason to hide. A frontal attack is best for us since we’re both cunning anyway.”
Where is this going? Gwendafyn frowned as she leaned against the doorway and motioned for Benjimir to step into the sitting room. “Then let’s talk—at least while sitting.”
Benjimir stepped into the sitting room, but that was as far as he got. “I love you, Fyn,” Benjimir said, his eyes slightly narrowed.
Gwendafyn had started to follow him into the sitting room, but at his declaration she panicked. She swung her bedroom door shut with a slam, locked it, and leaned against it, her heart racing.
What?
“This must be a misunderstanding,” she murmured.
“It’s not.” Benjimir’s voice was muffled by the door. “Would you be so kind as to join me? I’d rather not do this through a closed door.”
She ignored him and paced back and forth in her room for a few moments, trying to slow her pounding heart and the rush of her thoughts.
Eventually, she gave one decisive shake of her head. No. I have my pride. I may love him, but I am not going to be his stand-in for Yvrea.
She decisively crossed her room, going to the hallway entrance her handmaidens used. She swung it open and yelped when she found Benjimir standing outside.
He stared at her, looking decidedly unimpressed. “You can face a hoard of bandits with a pet mage in their pocket, but when I say I love you, you run? Bad form, Fyn.”
Gwendafyn grabbed Benjimir by his white linen shirt—apparently, he hadn’t even gone to his room to change after she kicked him out—and yanked him into her bedroom to avoid a scene.
“What has gotten into you?” she demanded. “Why are you so…?” She waved her arms around, unable to find the right word in Calnoric or Elvish.
“I told you I decided there was no need for me to play coy,” Benjimir said as he sat down on her bed. “If I suddenly turned nice and pleasant, you would have thought I was out to kill someone. As I’m not interested in loving you silently, the only option was to tell you.”
Gwendafyn wanted to tear her hair out. “Pining is all you’ve done when it comes to your romantic entanglements!” she snapped.
“You’re right: pining is a good word for what I felt for Yvrea,” Benjimir said, making Gwendafyn go still. “I’m fairly certain it’s the only word for what I felt. But I never said anything about pining over you. I said I wasn’t interested in loving you silently.”
“Benjimir,” Gwendafyn groaned, closer to tears than she cared to admit.
“You’re the only one, Fyn.” There was a magnetic quality about his expression. He stared at her with some kind of expectation, a light bright in his green eyes.
Gwendafyn briefly shut her eyes, but gave in. “The only what?”
“You’re the only one I’ve ever loved. The only one I’ve let inside,” he said simply. “Father and Arvel know I can be conniving, but you’re the only one I’ve poured out my thoughts to. I knew you would accept me and not call me cunning.”
“But you are cunning,” Gwendafyn said.
“I am,” he agreed. “But haven’t you realized only you view that as a good thing?”
Gwendafyn paused.
“But I don’t love you just because you accept me,” he continued. “You’re valiant and grounded. Watching you fight the bandits was one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen. And though you have the mark of a warrior, you’re thoughtful.”
Benjimir stood and took a few nonchalant steps closer to her—which Gwendafyn was certain were far more deliberate than he made it appear. “You are changing Calnor,” he said, “from the Honor Guard to the courts.”
Gwendafyn—not willing to give a full retreat but unwilling to let him get too close—strolled towards the sitting room door and made a show of unlocking it and opening it. “I thank you for your compliments.”
“They aren’t compliments, Fyn; they’re truths.” His steps still slow, Benjimir prowled after her. “I hadn’t realized how lucky I was when you proposed to me. I thought we were simply using each other to achieve a desirable end. I didn’t realize the most beautifully wild and valiant elf of all of Lessa was tying herself to me.”
Gwendafyn braced against the doorframe but refused to budge any farther as Benjimir leaned so close his breath stirred her hair. I’m not going to let him intimidate me with mere words!
“But you have married me. Which gives me the rest of our lives to launch a frontal attack on your heart. And Fyn, I’m never going to give up. So I hope you look forward to the next few years.”
RETREAT! Gwendafyn’s mind screamed as Benjimir kissed one of her tapered ears. In a mixture of embarrassment and adrenaline, Gwendafyn backed through the open doorway and pulled the door securely shut after her.
This is…what is happening? Is he trying to use my feelings for him to his advantage? But there’s no way he can know, and he cares enough for me that he would not do something cruel for no apparent reason. Then…is he telling the truth?
She had just enough time to flee behind the settee and take a few deep breaths—hopefully getting rid of the idiotic blush that burned her cheeks—when Benjimir flung the door open with a raised eyebrow.
“Are you going to slam the door to my own bedroom in my face as well?” he asked.
Gwendafyn—her spirit renewed—lifted her chin. “What about Yvrea?” She mentally congratulated herself. Good. That should clear the air of any schemes he is trying to pull.
“A fair question.” Benjimir stepped into the room just far enough to lean against an armchair. “I wanted Yvrea like a childhood dream.”
Puzzled, Gwendafyn tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“When I was a child, I wanted many things that weren’t possible,” Benjimir explained. “I wanted to own forty horses, and I dreamed of being a knight errant—”
“You,” Gwendafyn gaped, “wanted to be a knight?”
“As I said, a childhood dream. My longing for Yvrea was much the same; I simply didn’t let it go out of sheer stubbornness.” He hesitated. “I didn’t think anyone would really know me, Fyn—let alone love me for it.”
Gwendafyn stilled, and her heart throbbed in sympathy.
How many times have I despaired that I am unlovable and too wild?
“If you want proof that it’s you I really love, I will offer it every day of our lives, beginning now,” Benjimir declared with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
Suspicious, Gwendafyn narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh?”
“The post of Commanding General of the Calnor Army was the second position my father offered me,” Benjimir said. “The first was the title of Crown Prince.”
Gwendafyn’s heart stopped in her chest. “King Petyrr offered you the position of heir?”
“Yes.”
“And you refused it?”
If Benjimir had returned to his title, it would return all his previous power to him, and make it far more likely that Yvrea—as his bond partner and fellow future monarch—would visit Haven more often, if not cancel her exit and stay after all.
“I did,” Benjimir said.
Gwendafyn slowly shook her head. “But why?”
“Because I knew being queen would make you miserable.” Benjimir slowly stepped out from behind his armchair and approached her the way one approaches a frightened horse. “You married me to flee the life of regent. And while I’m certain being Queen of Calnor would be a vastly different experience from serving as regent,
I’m equally as certain the loss of freedom and adventure would cause you pain.”
A part of Gwendafyn wanted to run, and another part wanted to slug Benjimir as he drew closer. It seemed nothing was as she thought it had been, and though she loved Benjimir, she had severely underestimated him. “You refused…for me?”
“Of course.” Benjimir stopped just short of her and took her hands in his. “I said it earlier, but it seems you need a reminder. I love you, Fyn.”
Gwendafyn stared wide-eyed at him. What do I say? I can’t really keep silent—not after he’s declared himself so fearlessly…
She swallowed, and a muscle in her cheek twitched. Enough! I am not some swooning maiden! I beat bandits—I can surely utter a few little words. She shut her eyes and internally fought off the part of her that was still scared, the part of her that remembered the vile words Lorius had flung at her.
I am not a monster. And Benjimir loves me.
She took a deep breath. “And I love you, Benjimir.” She raised her eyes to meet his gaze and was reminded of a wolf due to the intensity of his gaze.
“You love me,” he repeated slowly.
Gwendafyn mutely nodded. “You’ve saved me—in a dozen different ways. And I have loved you for it. I think it might have even started the day of our wedding, when you first told Aunt Lorius off.”
Benjimir’s brows formed a displeased “v.” “If I had known then how much pain she caused you, I would have done more than tell her off.”
Gwendafyn laughed. “Thank you—for your belief in me, though I break tradition and raise all sorts of trouble.”
“Of course,” Benjimir said, his voice barely above a murmur as he leaned closer to her until their foreheads touched. “I love you because you are ‘more,’ Fyn. Not despite it.”
Then, he kissed her.
It wasn’t their first kiss—they had done that plenty for the sake of the public—but it was very different from all the others.
Previously, their public embraces were all very proper and very short.
Now, Gwendafyn clung to Benjimir as though afraid he might be ripped from her, which was unlikely given that Benjimir nearly crushed her against his chest.
There was a new heat and a new depth to the kiss—instead of a forced sign of affection, it was deep and from their hearts. Almost precious.
The kiss was fire and snow, laughter and tears—overwhelming in a thousand different ways and yet grounding her to the spot.
Gwendafyn wasn’t sure how long it went on. But when it was over, she and Benjimir lingered together, ridiculous smiles budding on their faces.
Finally, Gwendafyn marveled as she leaned her head against Benjimir’s. Finally, I think I might understand all those love ballads I rolled my eyes over as a child.
“This does mean that I no longer will get a door slammed in my face whenever I say I love you, correct?” Benjimir asked.
Gwendafyn laughed. “Yes. For certain,” she managed to say before Benjimir tugged her into another kiss that was just as satisfying and passionate as the previous one.
“It worked,” King Petyrr announced in nearly understandable Elvish.
Since Gwendafyn had joined his family, he had redoubled his efforts on learning the language, though his accent was still terrible.
“It did,” King Celrin agreed in Elvish. Using a mixture of Elvish, Calnoric, and hand gestures, he said, “It was a gamble, but our children have truly fallen in love, and our countries are better for it.”
“Indeed!” King Petyrr raised a goblet, sloshing mead with the gesture. “To your wisdom at insisting we bless our children’s marriage when they clearly didn’t care one jot for each other.”
King Celrin smiled. “The real praise likely goes to you, for believing Benjimir would come to love Gwendafyn.” He picked up his goblet so he could clink it against his old friend’s. “I knew Fyn would love him eventually—she is too loyal and caring not to. But I thought it might take years.”
“Benjimir can be charming—though he rarely chooses to do so,” King Petyrr grumbled something more in Calnoric that Celrin did not understand. “But I knew he’d be a goner for Gwendafyn.”
“How?” Celrin asked.
King Petyrr rattled off a few indecipherable sentences again before he responded, using a mixture of hand gestures and Calnoric. “He pretends he is black-hearted, but out of all my sons, he most wants companionship. Once Gwendafyn decided to walk with him, he never stood a chance.”
“And through their love—born out of a mutual bid for freedom—they have launched a thousand changes,” King Celrin marveled. Already he had seen it in the palace—elves and humans interacting more easily.
A few short years ago, it had been considered impossible for one who was not of the Translator’s Circle to speak both languages. These days, most servants from Calnor could speak a few snatches of Elvish, and even the Elven guards could now salute King Petyrr in his language.
No one had achieved Lady Tarinthali’s fluency, of course—in spoken or written word. (Not even Gwendafyn had reached that level.) But the difference was clear.
King Petyrr contemplated his goblet before announcing, “May there be blessings upon Lady Tari and Sir Arion. May our children be happy. And may they change the future for us all.”
“Indeed,” King Celrin echoed.
The game was set.
Tari and Arion had changed Calnor and Lessa. Benjimir and Gwendafyn had shaped its people.
And now…when the High Elves do return…we stand more than a chance of forcing them to change. We will demand it.
Epilogue
“Farewell, My Princess!”
“Lovely match to watch, Your Highness!”
Gwendafyn grinned and waved to the Honor Guards as she walked backwards. “Thank you. Next time I want that demonstration on throwing axes—I mean it!” She winked, turned back around, and made for the palace, leaving the Honor Guard grounds behind.
Her sword—a High Elf-forged blade Yvrea had sent her as a birthday gift—was a pleasant weight at her hip as she trotted through the gardens.
I need to clean up and change—I’m due to welcome the newest batch of visiting elven nobility in an hour, and I still want to drag Arvel from his study. Gwendafyn nodded in satisfaction at the idea and chose a trail that split through the center of Rosewood Park. Ben will be there—of course. As the only member of the Calnor Royal family fluent in Elvish, he’s the perfect greeter, but Arvel needs to get used to this as well.
When she reached the palace entrance that led to the royal wing, Gwendafyn paused to admire lily pads floating in a little pond and a turtle that poked its head out of the water.
“Fyn,” Benjimir called.
Gwendafyn could hear the smile in his voice even before she turned around and saw him lightly descending the palace stairs with a pleased smirk.
“Finished with your daily beat-up-the-Honor-Guards session?” Benjimir asked.
“It’s not so nearly one-sided as that,” Gwendafyn said. “Today Tari was present—she beat the stuffing out of me in hand-to-hand combat. I’m not sure my reputation will survive,” she joked.
“Likely story,” Benjimir kissed the side of her head and drew his arms around her despite the dust on her clothes.
Gwendafyn shifted slightly so she could kiss him on the lips. Resting her hand on his chest, she swore she could feel him purr. “You seem to be in a good mood,” she said.
“It’s nearly our one-year anniversary,” Benjimir said.
“Yes,” Gwendafyn agreed. “It is but a week off.”
“I got you a very special present,” Benjimir said.
Gwendafyn patted his chest. “And you don’t feel like waiting until the actual date?”
“Precisely,” Benjimir said.
Gwendafyn rolled her eyes but broke into laughter when Benjimir picked her up and kissed her neck. “All right—fine. I would love to receive your gift early.”
“Excellent,” Benjimi
r said—sounding even more pleased. “Wulf—come!”
I should have known. Laughingly, Gwendafyn asked, “So you did decide to borrow Arion’s idea of an animal bodyguard after all—”
She cut herself off when a tall, somewhat scary-looking, broad-shouldered man wearing battle leathers and a big red bow tied around his neck exited the palace.
“…Benjimir.”
“Hmm?”
“What is that?”
“How hurtful of you,” Benjimir said in a neutral tone. “Wulf is not a what, but a who.”
“Obviously.” Gwendafyn stepped out of his embrace. “But what is he doing here?”
“He is your new pet,” Benjimir said with no emotion. “Wulf, greet your master.”
“Wulf” stopped short of them and bowed lowly. “It is an honor, Your Highness.”
“Benjimir,” Gwendafyn hissed. “You cannot give me a person as a pet!”
“You are correct,” Benjimir said. “Which is why he’s not really a pet. I’m giving him a monthly wage, and he does have his own home. But Arvel calculated that you are thirty percent more likely to let him accompany you if we call him a pet and not what he really is.”
“And what is he really?” Gwendafyn asked.
“Wulf, please explain your role to the princess,” Benjimir cued.
“I am to be a messenger, footman, bodyguard, healer, groom, scribe, and more for you, Princess Gwendafyn,” Wulf said. “I have a basic understanding of Elvish—though I cannot speak it—and I am fluent in the shared hand gestures.”
Despite herself, Gwendafyn was interested. “You can really do all of that?”
Wulf nodded. “It will be my honor to accompany you both on the battlefield and in the palace.”
“And you’re not doing this against your will?” Gwendafyn asked.
“It is a very nice wage,” Wulf said.
She pressed her lips together as she studied the guard.
“You don’t like your gift?” Benjimir asked.
“Quite contrary: I do. And that is what bothers me,” she groaned.