Private Is Still a Rose

[Lancel Atria]

Despite the abundance of fragrant distractions on offer within the Lumina-Flora Atrium, Lancel still battled the lingering aroma of the talum blossom. None grew here. No, it was carefully kept out.

The Chamberlain, a fastidious, aged man, had insisted that the botanical environ of the atrium would make a romantic locale for the first meeting with Lancel's fiancé. Fiancé. The very word made him wretch. It was one thing for a woman to have that decision made for them, but him? Second to the Lord, at the time of betrothal, this was not something done. Lancel Atria was not given away. Even if she was a Princess.

His hand cupped a newly unfolded rose. It was white, pure. Without blemish. Lancel studied it as he would fox in his crosshair.

"My Lord. The Princess of Avalon, Guinevere Cavello ," said the Chamberlain.

The unexpected return of the chief servant of the house startled Lancel, and he closed his fist round the flower, plucking it from its stem. He turned, flower hidden from view in a fist clenched behind his back. The Chamberlain bowed, gave Lancel a look that said, "Behave." And then bowed to the Princess before retiring from the atrium.

And they were alone.

He tried not to look her over, his eyes staring past her to prevent the awkward moment of appraising her appearance before all else. His eyes eventually focused on her face. So young. Horridly so. Even with only being a few years her senior, she had the face of one still maturing into her body. His eyes dipped down, quickly, hopefully unnoticed. He was pleased to note that she had not this issue elsewhere.

He felt his stomach flip.

"Princess Cavello. I am pleased to make your acquaintance," he stepped forward, bridging the two-meter wide chasm between them, and stooped to gather her fair-skinned hand into his free hand and lift it to his lips for a kiss of greeting. He averted his eyes as he stood, not making eye contact, but instead seeking out a lilac nearby.

"Fascinating flower. Is it not?" He cringed. And then forced his shoulders to relax, despite the torrent of grief, frustration, anger and else-placed yearning.

"I am...sorry," he said, looking at the young Princess, "that we must meet..." At all, he wanted to say. "...at a funeral of all places. I am not my normal winsome self, I am afraid. I will make a very poor impression, no doubt."

​

 

[Guinevere Cavello]

​

After a final, hushed reprimand from her mother about how a proper lady ought to conduct herself, the princess was ushered into the atrim by the chamberlain. Guinevere moved slowly, willing each step forward despite the surge of nerves racing through her body. The long black dress she wore was not the one she would have chosen for such a meeting, but the funeral demanded it, and duty had never asked her opinion.

As she entered fully, she realized he would not look at her.

A sharp spike of worry tightened in her chest. Why wouldn't he meet her eyes? Did he already disapprove of her appearance? Her entire youth had been polished and perfected for this exact moment, every calorie measured, every strand of hair meticulously washed, every agonizing exercise regimen endured without complaint. Had it all been for nothing if the man she was meant to marry couldn't even bear to look at her?

Now that they stood so close, she couldn't help but study him. He was handsomer up close, and tall, nearly as tall as her brother. Yet his continued avoidance of her gaze unsettled her so deeply that she lowered her own eyes to the floor, afraid that when he finally did look at her, she would see disappointment staring back.

"Princess Cavello. I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure is mine, Lord Atria."

His lips brushed her hand. She braced herself for the familiar hiss of disapproval from her chaperone, Taza, but it never came. Of course, there were cultures where such a greeting was customary, but Taza usually bristled whenever a man touched Gwen in any way. He placed a flower in her hand, still without meeting her eyes. The gesture felt hurried, almost as if he wished to be rid of the thing rather than believed she would enjoy it.

She glanced over her shoulder, intending to show Taza the flower, more from nerves than any real desire to share it, but the sight stopped her short. Taza was gone. So was her brother.

Guinevere stood utterly alone.

For the first time in her life, she was alone in a room with a man.

Her hands began to tremble. She tightened her grip around the rose, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"I am… sorry."

She looked up, her bright green eyes lifting just as his finally met hers. Her stomach flipped.

"that we must meet at a funeral of all places. I am not my usual winsome self, I fear. I will make a very poor impression, no doubt."

She managed a small smile, though her body still hummed with nervous energy. "Do not apologize, Lord Atria. You have lost a beloved brother. Anyone would be shaken by such a loss." Her voice softened. "I am truly sorry for it."



Lancel Atria

 

[Lancel Atria]

Lancel remained momentarily suspended in a cold, analytical silence. Faustus had exerted considerable effort to shackle him to a Princess of unknown quantities, and while a man of lesser extraction might have found himself overwhelmed by gratitude, Lancel felt only the weight of the yoke. She was pleasant enough — soft-edged and, more importantly, low risk. She was a manicured lawn of a person, curated and predictable. He found the lack of friction offensive.

A subtle, involuntary twitch of his nose betrayed his distaste before he smoothed his expression into a mask of obligatory courtesy. He offered his arm — not out of affection, but because he was no barbarian, and the choreography of their station demanded it.

"Your condolences are noted, Princess. An unfortunate business, truly," he replied, his tone clipped, as he used the hand still clutching the mangled rose to idly brush a stray lock of hair from his brow. The gesture was dismissive, treating the tragedy of his brother as a social inconvenience.

He began to lead her toward a curated grove of azaleas, his stride measured and imperious. "Pray, enlighten me, Lady Guinevere," he said, his gaze fixed on the horizon of the atrium rather than her face. "Since the Fates — and our families — have seen fit to entwine our legacies, I should like to know what lies beneath the polish. What occupies the mind of a Princess of Avalon when she is not being perfectly presented?"

He felt a flicker of internal cynicism. If her answer proved as pedestrian as her introduction, he would have to find his entertainment elsewhere, regardless of the scandal it might invite.

Guinevere Cavello
​

 

[Guinevere Cavello]

​

The casual way he spoke of his brother's death unsettled her. There was no hesitation in it, no fracture in his voice, nothing she could recognize as grief. Still, Guinevere told herself he must be wearing a brave face for her sake. At least, she hoped that was all it was.

If her own brother had perished, she would have been inconsolable. But Gwen had seen enough of the galaxy to understand that every family mourned differently, and she knew enough of courtly politics to recognize that appearances were often carefully constructed illusions. What seemed cold might simply be contained. What felt wrong might be deliberate.

He offered her his arm.

The gesture should have been reassuring, proper, even romantic, but there was no warmth in it. No invitation. It felt instead like an obligation performed against his will, the bare minimum of courtesy demanded by rank and circumstance. She hesitated before accepting, confusion and unease twisting together in her chest.

They began to walk through the atrium. The air was rich with flowering scents, birdsong drifting from hidden gardens, sunlight catching in pale marble and glass. Yet Gwen saw none of it. Her attention was fixed entirely on him.

She noticed the strong line of his jaw, the quiet strength beneath the fabric of his shirt when her fingers brushed his arm. A faint, dusty rose bloomed across her porcelain cheeks despite herself. He was undeniably handsome, every bit the noble lord her parents had promised.

And yet… he was nothing like the heroes in her stories.

"Since the Fates—and our families—have seen fit to entwine our legacies," he said, his voice smooth but distant, "I should like to know what lies beneath the polish. What occupies the mind of a Princess of Avalon when she is not being perfectly presented?"

The words were right. The tone was not.

To her own ears, his question carried no real curiosity. It sounded rehearsed, as though he were asking only because it was expected of him, because some internal obligation demanded it, not because he truly cared for the answer. Something about it rang hollow, and the unease in her chest deepened.

None of this felt right.

In her novels, a man would climb towers and slay dragons for the faint hope of a kiss. He would look at her as though she were something precious, something worth risking everything for. Lord Atria barely seemed inclined to look at her at all.

She knew reality rarely mirrored romance. She had been raised to understand that. Still… surely he must feel something. Why else would he agree to marry her?

Then his words echoed back to her. Our families.

The thought struck her so suddenly she nearly faltered. Was he trapped, too? Bound by duty in the same way she was? She had never heard of a man being bartered so easily, but she also knew that Epica prized balance and equity far more than Avalon did. If anything, men here were not afforded more freedom.

The realization tightened her chest.

"You don't want this."

She stopped abruptly, her hand slipping from his arm as he took one more step forward before realizing she had stopped. The words left her mouth before fear could stop them. It wasn't a question. The truth was written plainly in the way he refused to meet her gaze, in the aloof chill he wrapped around himself like armor.

"You didn't choose to marry me, did you?"

Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and she was startled by her own boldness. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar privacy of this moment, alone, unguarded. Or perhaps it was the quiet disdain she felt radiating from him. Either way, she could feel her fairy-tale ending splintering, the last fragile hope she'd carried finally giving way.

Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to look down.

She held her head high and met him fully, needing to see his face, to understand who he truly was, now that the illusion she'd clung to was beginning to fall apart.


Lancel Atria

 

[Lancel Atria]

She spoke. She released his arm. But Lancel walked a few steps further forward. Then his shoulders slumped, and head dipped. He paused like that for some time. Not wanting to turn around and see this young woman, barely more than a child, in any for of distress on his account. He did not hate her. He simply did not want her. But the truth was probably more painful than whatever horrid fiction she was creating in her over active imagination.

His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, and he turned. Gone was the facade of propriety. Lancel's expression had given over to the aristocratic frustration he felt.

"I am sure you are a lovely, personable...kind-hearted...soul," Lancel said slowly, "you are very beautiful."

There was no end of beautiful women in his orbit. Many had known the pleasure of companioning with him for the night. She was certainly of a higher echelon than most, save for the immaturity of her face, but Lancel knew that a well kept body was not enough to hold his attention.

"My brother arranged this pairing. Without my knowledge," he said, calmly, trying to be nice in the most unpleasant of situations.

He looked up, avoiding eye-contact. She looked like a deer in the sights that knew their life was over. Her eyes so big, innocent, and deeply wounded.

"But with his death, I cannot go back on his final wish. It would undermine both our families and see untold damage done to both our worlds."

He tried again to look at her, instead settling for looking through her.

"I do not wish to marry you. But we will marry nonetheless. And in time. Find a way to make something pleasant of this arrangement."

Guinevere Cavello
​

 

[Guinevere Cavello]

​

Guinevere wanted to be angry with him. How she longed for the fire of it, for something sharp and righteous she could cling to. She wished she could summon that anger toward the aloof figure before her, the man who would not even grant her the courtesy of meeting her eyes or offering an apology for his naked disinterest. They had only just met, and yet already she felt she was seeing past the polished veneer of politics and courtesy, past the handsome mask he wore so easily. The man beneath it was far less appealing.

And still, she could not quite hate him. Not yet.

He was, after all, as much a prisoner of circumstance as she was. Whatever his failings in manners or empathy, she knew herself to be a compassionate soul, and compassion had a way of dulling even well-earned resentment.

"I do not wish to disrespect your brother or his wishes," she said at last, her voice carefully measured, "but I would hope the two of us are clever enough to find a way out of this. If we cannot… then I suppose we will both do the duty expected of us."

She intended her tone to be gentle and reasonable, but a faint edge of irritation slipped through despite her efforts. It was difficult to remain gracious when he spoke so candidly without ever looking at her, as though she were an inconvenience rather than a woman whose future hung in the balance.

"Until one of those resolutions is reached," she continued, lifting her chin, "there is no reason to force each other's companionship. I appreciate your honesty. I will leave you to your day, Lord Atria."

She inclined her head in a respectful bow and turned on her heel, walking back toward the atrium entrance. Her steps were quicker than propriety demanded, too quick for a lady raised on grace and restraint, but she needed distance. She needed to be gone before the fragile composure she wore shattered entirely.

The emotions came rushing in all at once.

The wound he had dealt her was deep, not because he did not want her, but because the future stretching before her now looked bleak beyond imagining. She would either break the engagement and drag shame and ruin down upon her family's name, or she would bind herself to a man who could not even bear to look her in the eye, who saw no worth in her beyond obligation. Her parents would never forgive such disgrace. They might cast her aside entirely, perhaps consign her to some quiet institution where inconvenient daughters were hidden away. And Lord Atria, she had no illusions there, would likely take his pleasures elsewhere, openly and often, while she learned to smile and pretend not to see.

Her vision blurred. She blinked hard, but the tears came anyway, hot and traitorous.

She would almost have preferred cruelty. A blow. A shove. Even a brutal claiming of her body would have been easier to endure than this calm, indifferent surrender, this complete lack of curiosity about who she was, what she might have been to him. Anything would have been better than being dismissed without a fight.

Her fairytale was collapsing in on itself. There would be no prince scaling the tower, no miraculous rescue. The stories of her girlhood were finished now, crumbling under the weight of duty and reality.

Perhaps this was what it meant to grow up.

Lancel Atria​

 

[Lancel Atria]

Lancel’s eyebrows lifted at her forthrightness. She did have some fire after all. Pleasing, and disheartening. Given different circumstances, she might have more to offer than he first expected. The thought was fleeting.

She cried.

His head tipped back. He sighed. Loudly.

"By Ashla. Cursed with uncreative souls as my companions," he muttered, likely loud enough for her to hear. She could see the problem, but not the advantage of minds aligned.

He moved quickly and caught the back of her arm before she could leave. "Princess Cavello. One moment more, if you would grant it."

Perhaps she was unaccustomed to such handling. He released her and stepped back, hands raised.

"Your tears are warranted. I do not blame them. But listen — just a moment longer."

Running his hands through his hair, he paced, then spun back. "I propose an alliance. We do not receive what we want in this arrangement, Princess…but together, we can safely untangle ourselves from it."

For the first time, his eyes softened, showing a rarer ease. "Subtlety will be key. Storming out in tears will not give us time alone to plan. Our families would simply react by adding chaperones until assured I am not acting the brute toward you."

He stepped forward, hand outstretched — not to comfort, but to seal the agreement.

"Stay until your tears dry, your cheeks regain their natural lustre, and your eyes clear," he said, gesturing gently, "and work alongside me. So you may marry someone you may choose…rather than someone unknown."

Guinevere Cavello
​

 

[Guinevere Cavello]

​

He caught her by the arm, and the suddenness of it startled her. For a heartbeat her stomach flipped, she couldn't tell whether it was the thrill of his roughness or the sharp urge to strike him for it. Just as quickly, he released her and began to speak. For the first time since they'd met, he seemed genuine: pacing, raking his hands through his hair, as though he'd finally decided to stop performing and let her see the man beneath the mask. If she hadn't been seething, she might have found the habit almost endearing.

Her pale pink lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval, though everything he said made an infuriating amount of sense. She sighed and brushed the tears from her porcelain skin. Long ago, she had learned how to swallow pain, hide heartache, and hold her head high when all she wanted was to disappear into the dirt. She drew in a steadying breath, and a hint of warmth returned to her cheeks.

"I apologize for acting so…" She trailed off, unable to find a word sharp enough, or kind enough, to describe the small scene she'd made. It had been unladylike, certainly, but the situation itself was maddening.

"Why don't we finish our walk?" she continued. "Now that everything is out in the open, I assume we can be genuine with one another? No ceremony. No posturing. No need to impress. An alliance serves us both."

She accepted his hand, her grip gentle but resolute, and nodded. He was right, annoyingly so. Together, they might just find a way out of this.

Lancel Atria​