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Love is a strange thing. It can come from the smallest things.
You met him in the bookstore in the village. You’d saved up every coin from the past weeks of work to be able to afford the book of astronomy. You loved the stars, they’d always fascinated you. You’d fall asleep gazing up at them, whisper your secrets to the sky late at night out in the lavender field. But your father was a lowly peasant, a candlemaker. Your home always smelled of beeswax, tallow, other things used to make the candles. And because of this, you’d never be able to have enough coin to become an astronomer. Perhaps favor from a noble could gain you that, but they all lived in their luxurious manors. You doubted they ever set foot anywhere near Castle Town, especially not the poor parts.
When you finally had enough coin to buy the book, you made your way to the bookstore. You were so ready to buy it, to peruse the pages filled with the secrets of the stars carefully laid and bound by monks’ hands. You’d flipped through the pages of it before under the guise of looking to buy, but had never been allowed to for very long- books were worth their weight in gold, even in age of the printing press. And you were sure it would still be there, for nobody else dreamed of the stars like you did. Not in this place. Anytime you tried to speak of your love of the skies, you were scoffed at, told to quit dreaming and focus on getting married. Not even your father would listen, nor the girls who went to the pump daily for water, or the boys at the market.
When you finally got there, your heart sunk. The price had risen. Doubled in value. You no longer had the coin for it. You wanted to cry. It was foolish, crying was weak, you knew. But you’d gotten so excited for it. So happy to finally own the book you wanted most in the world. Still, you supposed after a moment of careful breathing as so not to cry, it wouldn’t hurt to look over the pages fondly once more.
Imagine your surprise when, as you reached for it, another hand did too. This hand, it was pretty. The color of caramel candies, smooth, uncracked from hard work and callouses. And warm when it brushed against yours. A scent enveloped you- cedar of trees and something cozy, like spices. Both of your hands gripped the book. You turned your head.
Standing there was probably the prettiest person you’d ever seen in your life. They were tall, a head taller kind of tall, with pretty brown hair in a neat braid down their back, and absolutely gorgeous blue eyes. They had smile lines, and were dressed in peasants clothes that seemed too small on their long frame.
“Apologies.” It was definitely a man’s voice when he spoke. You were a little taken aback. Because baths were rare, most men- other than rich and scholars- kept their hair cut short. Women usually kept their hair long or tied up, and this man had his hair tied up in a very neat plait. “It seems we show interest in the same book.”
You looked very reluctant to let it go, and you ended up letting go of the book at the same time. The man faced you properly and bowed. “My name is Je- ahem. Crowe. You may call me Crowe.”
You do an elegant little bow. “I’m (user). Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He smiled at you. “Likewise, (user). Did you intend on buying this book?”
You straighten up and nod. “I’ve been saving for quite awhile. But they upped the price, and I can only afford half of the cost now.”
His face brightened. “Really? What a coincidence, I only have the coin for half the price as well.” He ponders for a moment before nodding his head. You’re more than a little entranced by how shiny and smooth his hair looks. It’s very well taken care of. Much in contrast to his clothing. “I propose a deal. We each pay for half, and we meet up once per week to take custody of the book.”
You consider this. It is a good plan. “Okay. I know a good place to meet up.” You say.
He gives you his coin pouch to pay for his half, and you note the fabric is very good quality for somebody dressed the way he is. You doubt he’s actually a peasant- it’s not unheard of for nobles to dress in their servants’ clothing and sneak into villages to mingle among their people. He must be the son of one of the rich nobles who lives in the castle with the Queen Regent.
And so your arrangement starts. After seven sunsets pass, you meet up in the lavender field to exchange the book. There’d bookmarks in the pages from useful spots, and at first it was only that. A purely transactional thing. Then you two would sit in the field, for a bit, then longer- hours, sometimes the whole day. You two started leaving notes for each other, sometimes flowers pressed flat by the pages, carefully tucked in a piece of scrap so it wouldn’t stain the book.
One time the two of you laid side by side in the lavender field, and you ended up falling asleep with your head on his shoulder, his arm around you. He was reluctant to wake you up because you seemed so content, looked so utterly cute and cozy like that. You always did when you were with him. When you finally woke up, he smiled at you.
“Have a good nap? You were adorable.”
You groaned, rolling over to hide your face in his chest. He laughed, pressing a kiss to your sun-warmed hair, enjoying the smell of lavender that was everywhere now. He even found lavender buds falling out of his clothes sometimes.
He ended up going back to the castle late that night because of you sleeping on him. When he got there, his mother was waiting in his room. The unapproachable, disproving Queen Regent. Nothing her son could do would ever make her happy. She hadn’t always been this way. When the king had still been around, before he ran off with some servant girl far too young for him, she’d been happy, pleasant to be around. Now she was harsh, and cruel.
“You’re back.” She said. He stiffened.
“Mother. What are you doing in my room at this time of night?” He’d changed back to his royal attire by now, the clothes he’d bought from a servant hidden behind a bale, his clothes brushed free of straw and dirt.
“I know what you’ve been doing. Don’t try to lie.”
He let a soft exhale through his nose. Of course she knew. He should’ve been more careful. “They’re just a friend, mother. We bonded over astronomy, and there’s nothing more to it. Even if I did like them, wanted to court them, I am well aware the only marriage in line for me is a political one. You do not have to remind me of it once more.”
Even after saying that, his mother’s lecture lasted for well over an hour.
He fell for you. He realized it late one night, when he was walking back to the castle after a happy day with you. The way you laughed, the way your eyes shined, the way you hugged him before parting ways and when you met up. Everything about you made him so happy and in love. And he hated it. Hated it the same way he hated the stars. Unobtainable yet so gorgeous.
The two of you spent even more time together after that. He wrote letters to you, letters he would never give you, sometimes spending over an hour penning down his thoughts and love for you. He wanted to ask your father if he could court you. He confessed one day, when you had your head on his lap, laughing while telling him gossip.
“(User)?” He asked, looking down at you. His fingers were running through your hair, stroking your head like you might a small child. You had your head on his thighs, weaving lavender blooms into a flower crown. You were so pretty, so focused, tongue peeking from your mouth.
You glanced up at him, eyes meeting his. His eyes made you a little breathless every time you looked at them. They were so pretty for no reason, like fresh-picked blueberries or the blue the women dye the wool for weaving. “Mhm?”
He hesitates, hand still stroking your hair. His hair is loose today, pretty down around his shoulders. You much prefer his hair that way. “I, um. Have something important to tell you.”
You sat up, leaning into his side, fingers still absently weaving the flower crown. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, no, nothing’s wrong, my lavender.” He assured you, arm resting around you. He’d started calling you that because you were always in the lavender field together, anytime he looked at the flower he thought of you. “It’s just..” How does he even say it? The words are on the tip of his tongue- I’m in love with you - but how would he word it? He wants to just say it, out with it, let the words tumble out.
God, he’s never been tongue tied his whole life. Him, the Crown Prince, who’s been performing for the whole empire since he could speak- since he was born, honestly. Tongue-tied over a simple pretty villager who smells like lavender. Wordless because of a poor-born person who’s snuggled against him, looking all adorable and sweet and just..
“I’m in love with you.” But his words, soft and whispered, are stirred up and taken away by the wind before they reach your ears.
You glance up at him, eyebrow raised. He simply leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead. “I treasure you greatly.” He says instead. Not a love confession. It could be seen as purely platonic, in some cases.
You grin and plop the finished flower crown onto his hair, adjusting it so it was perfect. The sun peeked around the trees, shining on him. It illuminated him like a crown of sunlight, as gorgeous and perfect as the man it was beaming upon. It shone through his dark hair, turning it light, and for a minute you couldn’t speak, too mesmerized. But if any of the love stories your mother had read you before she passed held any truth, yearning never ended up good.
It was a few days after when Midsummer Festival was being held. You’d pleaded with him to accompany you and he finally, albeit reluctantly, agreed. The flower crown you’d made for him had wilted already. It sat on his nightstand. You made him another one while waiting for him to show up, standing up all pretty on tiptoes to put it on his head. You wobbled a little and he put his hands on your waist to steady you.
It was fun. You led him through the stalls, the crowds. You got free food from a vendor who was friends with your father and bought some small trinkets. There was free drinks at a tavern and you two snuck in to drink.
He had a high alcohol tolerance. But you didn’t have to know this. Especially not when he got ‘tipsy’ and let himself be loose for once, arms sliding around you, pressing carefully sleepy kisses to your cheek. “I love you.” He murmured, gazing lovingly up at you. His performance was perfect- the slight slur, the clinginess, the unbridled affection in his pretty eyes.
You were smitten, too. Of course you were. He was the first person who seemed to really care. Who shared your love of astrology, who didn't mock you for wanting to be something you could never be. And he was obviously gorgeous and sweet, but that wasn't quite as important.
The next day, out in the lavender field as usual, you told him what happened. He got drunk, the confession. You hoped it hadn't just been a drunken confession. In return he told you he hadn't been drunk. He'd been pretending.
And because he was a proper gentleman, he insisted you take him to meet your father before he courted you. So of course you did. Your father knew who he was immediately- he’d been here when the old king was around, when the queen and king and the young prince sometimes went around the villages and the castle city, speaking with their people. But for your sake he pretended not to know.
Your father gave his permission that same day, and Crowe promised to buy you a ring, a beautiful one. He wrote a whole poem for you- perhaps not a poem, not to be read as such, but a speech to read to you when he proposed. He knew he always fumbled his words around you and he didn’t want to mess up- he was going to propose at his coronation, when he wasn’t under his mother’s iron fist anymore, and he was going to propose to you not as Crowe, a simple peasant, but as Jericho Ichabod, the king.
He had it all planned out. It was going to be perfect.
The whole kingdom came to his coronation. It was a momentous occasion, obviously. They hadn’t had an actual king in over a decade, the Queen Consort ruled as Queen Regent ever since the king ran off. Now their son was a man, eighteen years of age, and it was time for him to assume the throne. Anybody who could come came, on foot, on horseback, on cart, crowding the streets to see the crowning going on at the balcony above the castle doors, where servants had brought the throne.
You wriggled and squirmed through the crowd to get the best view of the balcony possible. Nobody had seen the Crown Prince since he was a young child, as the Queen Consort had guarded him fiercely. The young man who stepped out wasn’t who you expected. You figured it would be some blonde, blue-eyed man with hair cropped close, nothing to fawn over.
Instead, from the doors leading to the balcony, stepped out a very gorgeous young man with dark brown hair that fell over his shoulders prettily, and caramel skin. You tried to get closer to see him, he looked familiar, but he couldn’t, you’d never seen the Crown Prince before. You heard some young ladies gossiping and giggling about how handsome he was.
And he was. Breathtakingly so.
His eyes searched the crowd, like he was scanning for somebody, and then they locked on you. And his were blue. Blue like fresh-picked blueberries or the blue the women dye the wool for weaving. Blue like eyes you’ve stared into for hours on end perhaps, blue like Crowe’s eyes. And now you know why the Crown Prince is so familiar to you.
Because he’s your lover.
You’re in a daze the whole ceremony. You miss how his eyes almost never leave you, all fresh and clean in your nice clothes. The Crown Prince, the same man you’ve shared a book with for months. The same man you nearly kissed under the stars one night, who you’ve thrown flowers at and chased barefoot in the lavender field and dream of marrying.
As the ceremony is ending, a pair of knights in shiny armor come out of the castle’s doors. Whispers rise up and the knights head directly for you. You about freak out when they each take one of your arms and drag you through the crowd, into the castle and up a pair of stairs you assume is to the balcony. You freeze when they pull you through the doors and you’re met with Crowe- no, King Jericho, now- wearing a purple velvet cloak and half armor, the crown atop his hair.
He’s so gorgeous. And god, you’re in love.
The guards release you and go back to guarding the inside of the door, and Jericho steps forward to gently take your hand. “My love. I’m sorry that I hid this from you.” He leads you nearer to the edge of the balcony, and a single glance down makes you dizzy. There’s so many people, and it’s so high up. “But I wanted to wait. Until now.”
Your attention gets immediately pulled back to him when he gets down on one knee. “I, ah, prepared a speech, because I always get tongue-tied around you, but I’m afraid this suit of armor has no pockets, so I’ll have to rely on my memory.”
Oh god. This is actually happening.
“I didn’t think that a book about astronomy could lead to me finding the love of my life. I didn’t think that the person who-“ He’s actually tearing up, and you try to wipe his tears away. He cups your hands in his as they hold his face. “I’m sorry, dearest-“
“No, don’t apologize, it’s alright, and please stand up, you’ll hurt your knee-“ You start, but he shakes his head.
“No, I’m alright. Ah, where was I? I didn’t think the person who I started a book trade with would end up the person I adore most in the world. Didn’t think they’d be here with me on the day I’m crowned king, before me in their finest, looking better than all the royals in their finery.” He sniffles, and holds a hand out, and a young servant boy scurries up with a small square box. He thanks the servant boy and takes the box. “I wanted to wait to do this until now. Even with your father’s permission.”
But just as he opens the box, the doors slam open. His mother is standing there, furious. Pure rage in her eyes. “Jericho Ichabod. I did not raise you to associate with somebody of lowly birth, and I certainly did not raise you to think it was alright to try to marry one! You’re clearly under some kind of enchantment! Guards! Drag this- this pest away.” The disgust in her voice is clear. Jericho rises to his feet instantly, his tall frame rising slightly above yours.
“This is exactly why I waited to ask for their hand in marriage until I was the king. You’re not the Queen Regent anymore, Mother. You’re just Queen Mother now, and the guards are under my control. I love them, and I’m not going to abandon the kingdom for them like the last king.” He said firmly, his hand sliding around your waist to rest on your hip gently. The fabric of his glove is nice, too nice, it feels like, to be touching you. Like it’ll get dirty just being near you.
She’s about to speak again, but the doors open and a pair of women burst through, you assume her ladies-in-waiting, and they usher her off. He turns back to you. “That was, ah, not.. quite ideal.”
You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. He gets back down on one knee. Raises the ring box. “(User), child of (father’s name). Will you join me, not only as my partner eternal, but as this kingdom’s ruling pair?”
You cry, then, like a baby, nodding. “I will. I will, of course I will.”
The ring is beautiful, and he slides it onto your finger it fits perfectly. He stands up and hugs you close, and the crowd below cheers, applauds. Nobody cares you’re just somebody of lowly birth- and if they do, well, they’re choosing not to voice it. And they never will.