LitW 2 - Maiden's Honor

9/16/1005:

Toastbot version 2.0 lives! He's even better than Toastbot 1.0. This time, he can walk upstairs to my room. A robot serving you breakfast in bed--how cool is that? True, it's one of the most mundane things I've ever invented (comparatively speaking!) but I'll still pretty pleased with it. And it hasn't blown up yet. Excuse me whilst I go knock on some wood.

This latest incarnation of Toastbot still ejects toast at too high a velocity, by the way, and is a little hair-triggered. Need to recalibrate the spring-hatch to make it less sensitive, or integrate a shock-absorber--unless I want to take Crono's suggestion from the first model and turn Toastbot into Toastgun...

Had the weirdest dream last night. It was about Queen Leene! Only she was a dog. A dog in a big poofy dress. Wacky, right? I know Frog's gi'ira form is a dog, but that's a pretty bizarre logical leap, even for a dream. Nice transposition, subconscious.

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The rug was the most fascinating thing in the world, at that moment. Little gold fleur de lune's were tightly stitched into plush royal blue, with the draconic insignia of the Guardia clan embroidered in the center. How long could it have taken the kingdom's best artisan to compose this masterpiece? Days? Weeks? That's how long he felt like he'd been kneeling on it, praying for a distraction from the pregnant silence that had blanketed the room.

At the rim of his vision was a ridge of white lace and purple velvet, at the skirt of a bed his eyes wouldn't dare trespass. There was a serpent constricted around his heart that wouldn't let him. His ears were drumming and his palms were sweating, and he had to focus not to wipe his nervousness off on the rug. He focused on the gold dragon at his feet, instead. That was a more reasonable adversary. At the slightest call he could take his sword and slay any beast, man or demon thrown at him, all out of pride for his country, yet here he was before the object of his undying fealty, unable to even look her in the eye. Quite a splendid doormat, him and the rug both.

He was playing the humble, subservient knight again--it was the most cowardly form of respect imaginable. Cyrus would've had a thing or two to say about him now, were it for anyone but Leene.

"Please, Glenn. Come sit." A silken glove patted the bedside. His gaze darted to catch it, and he regretted it instantly, swimming through a wave of dizziness.

Focus. He blinked and stood, feet dragging over the dragon like gravestones. Leene just asked him to sit with her. He couldn't help but comply, but at the same time he couldn't keep out of his mind that this was the second time he'd been invited to the queen's bedchamber. The first time didn't go too well. That last time, he was privy to his liege's darkest secret and hidden desire, and for all the objections in the world (the scandal, the dishonor, the legacy of his king and country) the kindest rejection his cursed gullet could produce was that he was not the right sort of man--or a man at all, really. Inhuman was the word he used, and it stung worse from his own lips than it had from any other's.

I would love to, more than you know, but... He didn't have that excuse anymore. When he walked out the door that night, he feared he'd never be invited back, but then again here he was. His queen, it seemed, was as merciful as she was beautiful.

The starchy mattress gave for him, and he fingered the edge of the bedcovers, seeking another diversion. The rug was out of reach. For all appearances, Leene was much more poised than he, at the moment. "I've so wanted to talk to you since you've returned, I almost could not bear it. You can only imagine..."

I fear I've imagined more than I should, was the response he tactfully didn't voice. He found his next distraction: a lock of dusty green hair had fallen in front of his eyes, and he pooled his willpower into not brushing it aside--or making any sudden movement, for that matter.

Emerald eyes leaned closer to catch his own, and she graced him with a gentle, probing smile. "I've been dying to know where you've been. Tell me all about your travels. At supper you said it was a shamaness who lifted your curse, yes? What was she like? What brought you back to the castle?"

He swallowed, breathed, and surprised himself when his voice didn't creak (or croak. He had grown so accustomed to the croaking that it felt strange to speak without it.) "Ah, I only, it was, she--" He got stuck on the last question, his suddenly loose tongue tripping over an odd fantasy. Something about being close to Leene always made him frightfully candid. "...I've been having a strange dream."

"Oh? Tell me about it."

"I've been seeing this lady--er!" Don't croak, for the love of God. "In the dream, I mean."

She forgave the slip with a giggle, a spark of alacrity that was too much like a far-gone descendant--from queen to princess in an instant. "Have you dreamed of her often?"

He hesitantly nodded. "For quite some time. It's strange... I've never spoken of her to anyone, not even my friends." So why tell Leene? If only it weren't too late to take it back... yet somehow, he trusted the queen as his confidant more than any other soul. It was only funny that Leene must have thought the same of him, right up until that last visit. Perhaps he was simply--belatedly, after a year of misbegotten wandering--returning her favor.

"Why not?"

Glenn wasn't sure whether he appreciated her friendly ear for making him less nervous or more open, but the damage was already done. "I never knew how to mention it. The way she appears is just so strange..."

Her grin was neither too prying nor cutting, but definitely interested beyond common courtesy. "How so? What does she look like?"

He felt like a lousy bard as he recited a description he had written to heart. "She's always in blue, and she appears to me in a cloud. She wears the moon for a crown, the stars as a veil and the heavens for a cloak. I've never seen her anywhere before, but when I'm dreaming, I'm overcome with this feeling of familiarity, like I've known her my whole life. It's difficult to describe."

Leene's diagnosis was so thoughtful and serious that it could have sounded ludicrous from any other source. "She sounds like an angel. Does she speak to you?"

"Only this one thing: 'Come home.'" He combed a hand through his hair with a shrug, not failing to notice the way Leene's eyes followed him. "I can't begin to fathom what it could mean."

"Come home..." she murmured to the ceiling, mulling over each note like a child's lullaby. At length she looked back at him and declared with unmistakable gratitude, "And so, you returned to us."

Anything to see you again, just to know I'm still welcome in your eyes. Again, he held his tongue. He couldn't encourage the anticipation in her voice that made his skin crawl with sticky-sweet heat, even when her hand fell over his like the drop of a rose petal.

"I hope you know that words can't express my relief and happiness for your return." She brushed a delicate strand of blonde behind her ear, a warm shade of guilt welling beneath her eyes--they glowed more keenly than the oil of the lamp on the table. "I had never meant to drive you away."

"No, my Liege, you... It was me, I..." He stumbled over a plausible lie, another feckless act of kindness.

"No, it is all right," she paused him. "Do not make an excuse for my selfishness. It was not my place to ask so much of you."

This time he said it before he could think, his heart leaping straight out his throat. "Dear Leene, you could ask the world of me and I would not falter."

His sincerity was rewarded with a penitent smile. "I know. You've been too kind." She shifted closer, her dress rustling against his leg, and before he could draw another breath he felt the ivory silk of her fingers cupping his chin. "Glenn..." she uttered, so near and earnest that her slight touch kindled shivers.

Then she whispered, simply and terribly, "Do you still feel the way you did a year ago?"

Yes. No. Never and always. He was terrified and enraptured at once, all his fears and insecurities clamoring for attention over the heady urge to capture the woman he adored, but it was different this time. A still noble piece of him was thrashing to get away, yet he had no more self-abasing excuses.

But she's the queen, another man's wife. He remembered what started this--a tired and desperate confession in this very room, to the very same tune. Leene's words rattled him all the way from yesteryear. 'It's no way to sire a child.'
At the time he was appalled, if sympathetic, and asked if there was any way he could help. Then she offered her proposal--her very self, and he... turned and ran. What else could he have done? Even now he wouldn't have to stretch his ear to hear the whispering of the maids in the halls, gossip fermenting on the tips of their ragged tongues. The spoken word can be devastating, he knew. He couldn't put the royal family--much less Leene--at risk that way, not ever.

He found the rug again. "...I couldn't chance besmirching your royal name, Your Majesty."

She forced his gaze again, tilting perilously close and breathing a plea that dissolved that last of his nerve. "Yet if you could forget I am your queen, for just this moment..."

Ensnared by her will and enthralled by her balmy scent, he could make out every facet of her beauty, from the dimples on her cheeks to the pearly gloss of her lips to the lily-blush of her bosom, framed squarely in lace and twine. He watched the lamplight draw deep, alluring shadows through the veil of her eyelashes, and the pounding in his head stopped with his heart. "I..." am lost with you.

He wasn't going to finish that sentence, not in a million years. As her lips pressed into his, her tender strength burning him into submission, his last absurd thought was, I'm only human. How beautifully ironic--he would've had the mind to laugh, if he already hadn't lost it.

Velvet gave way to silk, to cinder-glow skin, to flushed lips and the subtle crackle of a kiss. They met once, and again, and then another time, each more fervently pressing towards the answer to question that shouldn't be asked. It was strange and soft and bitterly electric, like licking salt out of a wound, and Glenn hardly had enough time to savor it, much less think.

Her hot sigh tickled his ear. "Oh, Glenn..." Hearing his name in her luscious, needy voice nearly drove him over the edge, right there. "Ever since Cyrus left, you..."

He froze. His hands turned cold and brittle on her shoulders, and Leene leaned back to blink at him, alarmed and disheveled. "What? What's the matter?"

He couldn't believe it--himself, her... anything. Mortification struck so hard and fast that he almost couldn't speak. Slowly--painfully, with a croak that made his gut flinch, he peeled himself off the bed and got to his feet. "...I must go."

What was he thinking? Here was a woman unobtainable in his richest fantasies fawning all over him, and he was pushing her away. Why? He followed the rug to the door, sick to his heart and more bereft of spirit than before. Just when he was almost gone, he made the mistake of looking back, and found Leene still sitting on the bed, perfect and shattered like a porcelain doll dropped on the floor.

She didn't say a thing, and--after a beat--Leene folded her hands in her lap and looked to the rug, as well. She must have known why. He wished he had the gall to ask, so he would know, himself.

Because no matter how great his achievements or how well he served his queen, he was the shadow of a greater man--no, worse. He didn't have to ask. He knew what Cyrus would say.

He was just a fool.

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edit 5-21-2010: Illustration updated--you can find the old one here.

A/N: Y'know, a while ago I asked myself whether I was a better writer or artist. The answer's starting to come to me, and it ain't pretty... *looks up, grimaces*

I'll get better at this. I hope.

Chapter 1
Chapter 3