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[Cezanne Abella]

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What have I to offer a king? Cezanne sat across the table watching his features, awash in the golden halo of candlelight, as he spoke in refined and hushed tones with one of his brothers in arms for Stonegate. Mutual respect filled the gap between the two, and Cezanne looked between them in admiration. It was something she had never witnessed between two such warriors, and she found herself thrilled and enthralled just to watch them. The way their auras intermingled, touching, never crossing over into one another.

And then, the warrior was gone. Kaylor turned back to Cezanne, smiling warmly and wrapping an arm around her waist. His gaze was warm tonight, his blue eyes sparkling brightly. It had been a long time since he looked at her this way. His eyes bereft of dark shadows, he was free to be Kaylor. Free to live, to laugh, to love, as only he could.

Cezanne turned a coin over and over in her hand as she leaned her cheek against his shoulder. It was a silver crown, the first she’d ever been given. At sixteen, she had been a troubadour, dressed in faded and tattered clothes. She hailed men’s souls from their bodies on street corners with the ethereal strains of her violin, and they, grateful to be transported beyond their filthy and mundane realm, tossed pennies in her cup.

Then one day a man had paused, seemingly despite his station in life, enraptured by her music. Through six movements he stood, alternately watching her and closing his eyes. His clothes finely tailored silks and satins in black and white. He could have been a king or crown prince. His mahogany locks spilled over his shoulders gently as he swayed to the songs of her own creation.

“Come with me,” he’d said. “Come with me, and I’ll give you everything your heart could ever desire.”

Cezanne’s young gaze cast downward, as she dared not look him in the eye, she had spoken softly. “What have I to offer a man of your station, Sire?”

“Your song, your smile, your beauty. An hour, a day, a lifetime.” He smiled easily and held out his hand.

“Nay Sir,” she spoke in a hushed tone. “Such opulence would surely be wasted on the likes of me. Yer Grace is too fancy to be used for everyday life.”

He laughed jovially and reached into his pocket. “Ah, sweet child, you’re probably right. But it’s a nice dream isn’t it? Here, for your troubles.” He flipped a silver crown her direction, and she scrambled to catch it. “Spend it someday on something worthwhile. Something that will make you smile.” Then he winked and strode off into the bustling streets of Britain whistling a tune that she had written.

[Cezanne Abella]

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“What are you thinking about, Cezanne?” Kaylor’s intent gaze missed nothing as her own waned into memory.

“Nothing, Kay. Truly. I have something for you…was waiting for the right moment to give it to you.” Cezanne smiled as she pressed the silver crown into his palm and closed his fingers around it tightly.

“A crown for my king.”

Kaylor looked down at the silver coin in his hand and back to her, his brow somewhat furrowed. “This is not Faerwhynne, Sweet Lady. I am no king here. Here I’m just another peasant.”

Cezanne smiled. “Ah but you are a king, here…” She touched his chest over his heart lightly with one fingertip. “And that’s all that matters.”