Chapter Text
It’s been a week.
Venti’s back in the castle. After a year and a half of searching, of fighting, of a thousand near-deaths—she has Venti back. It still seems a little strange, to go through the door connecting her rooms to the main hall and see Venti sitting there as she always did, overseeing the matters of a divine dragon. Frey looks at her sometimes and just stares, waiting for her to fade again.
She doesn’t, of course. But Frey’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
-
Frey has a routine.
She gets up—on her own, most days, having long dismissed both Vishnal and Clorica from their wake-up call duties. (Frey doesn’t have trouble waking up—it’s the falling asleep part that she can’t quite get the hang of, anymore.)
She pulls on her work clothes and eats breakfast.
She goes to her animals first: feeds them, brushes them, gathers their fur and honey and milk.
She takes care of her crops next, harvesting and watering and planting.
After setting aside whatever items she needs for herself, she ships the rest.
Then she would set out for the rest of the day to Rune Prana, donned in armor and weaponry, with a pack of food, medicine, and other essentials on her back.
Now, though—Frey pauses in the process of slinging her shield on her back. Her boots are laced, her back is packed, and she’s wearing all her combat gear, but—
Venti is back.
Frey closes her eyes and sheaths her sword.
-
Venti gives Frey a curious look when she walks out into the main hall, still dressed for battle. Her head tilts to the side, and if Venti were human, Frey thinks her eyebrows would be raised.
Venti does not say anything at first. She just looks at Frey with those sharp eyes of hers, honed through centuries of knowledge and experience. Then she turns to the other people in the room—just a few travelers and merchants—and orders them to leave, her voice set in that low, intimidating rumble. Once the room is clear, the dragon settles into a more relaxed position, limbs stretching leisurely before her. Frey has known this version of her from the beginning—not as the regal, imposing Ventuswill, but as Venti, warm and lighthearted, shorn of all pretenses.
“Frey?”
Just one word, said in that light, familiar tone, and it tears her apart.
“I’ve missed you so much,” Frey says. Her voice trembles. A shadow comes over her; Venti curls her wing, very gently, around Frey. Venti stretches her neck and leans her head down to nudge at Frey’s side.
“I missed you, too,” Venti says, soft and quiet. “Thank you for bringing me home.”
-
“Sometimes I forget you came from the sky,” Venti says to her later, and Frey thinks, Sometimes I forget, too.
She remembers very few things about her life before all of this. Some of her memories have come back, snatches of images and sounds and smells: a farmhouse, a man saying her name, the rich scent of the earth. Beyond that, the only clear memory she has is riding an airship, carrying the rune sphere for a mission, and falling endlessly through the sky.
It is tempting, to think of the castle as home. She knows the number of steps it takes to reach the butlers’ quarters, knows the sound of rain against the slanting rooftop above her room, knows the texture of the stones that make up the walls. It is tempting, too, to think that she is a princess, that she truly belongs here.
“Selphia doesn’t need a protector anymore, now that you’re here,” Frey says casually, glancing up at Venti.
“Maybe not,” Venti acknowledges, “but it will always welcome you.”
It’s hard to read Venti sometimes, with her being a dragon and all, so Frey just nods and looks away. But she still hears what Venti is telling her, and it is this: no matter what Frey chooses, no matter where she goes, they will always be there for her with open arms.
-
Frey goes to meet Arthur for lunch. It is a quiet affair, as it is still a little early for the lunch rush at Porcoline’s Kitchen. He asks about her day; she asks about his. It’s all so very ordinary and mundane and calm and it grates at every single inch of her, the normalcy of it, to be sitting at a table at Porcoline’s and eating his lunch and discussing crop values as if they had not just been at the brink of war mere seasons ago, as if Venti had not ever been gone, as if—
Arthur stops in the middle of discussing something related to his trade. Frey suddenly realizes that she’s breathing a little too hard, that her fingers are wrapped too tightly around her fork.
“Frey? Is everything alright?” He reaches out to her, covers her hand with his. Gently, he smooths out each of her fingers until the fork loosens from her grip, then runs his thumb across her knuckles. Slowly, she feels the rest of her begin to relax, and she manages a reassuring smile.
“I’m sorry. I guess I’m still adjusting to everything that’s happened.” It’s not everything, but it’s a truth nonetheless. She says nothing of the emptiness in her mind where her memories once were, of the endless curiosity burning inside her.
It’s not that she doesn’t trust him. There are few constants in her life, and he has become one of them. But there is so much to say, and she’s never had good timing.
“No need to apologize,” Arthur says. “You’ve been through a lot.” A shadow passes through his eyes when he says that, and there’s a strange look on his face, like he wants to say something but can’t bring himself to do it.
The door opens and the lunch rush spills into the room.
The moment is gone. Arthur lets go of her hand.
-
She remembers that first moment between them—that first hint of interest that sparked and led them to where they are today. It had been after she’d found Amber and things were still relatively calm. Frey and Arthur had spent a lot of time together with him guiding and helping her with the duties as the stand-in princess, and it’d happened during one of those afternoons.
Their conversation had somehow shifted away from the value of strawberries to Arthur’s fondness for spectacles, and he said, his voice low, “I’d bet you would look lovely with glasses on.”
Her breath caught with the way he was looking at her, and with a burst of courage she leaned closer to him and replied, “Well, let’s give it a try then.”
He’d been caught off-guard at her sudden proximity, and she took that opportunity to slide his glasses off and put them on herself. His breath stuttered, and she remembers wishing that she could have seen his expression, but Arthur’s eyesight was truly terrible and everything was a complete blur through his lenses. She lasted for a few more seconds before finally squinting and pulling them off.
“So?”
There was a curve to his mouth when he slid his glasses back on, as if suppressing laughter—most likely at the expression she made, her face scrunched up as she tried to see through them. But that look on his eyes had never left, and he was still focused intently on her as he said, “I was wrong.”
Frey was taken aback, unsure of how to respond.
Then he smiled. “You are lovelier than I could have ever imagined.”
Even now, it never ceases to amaze her, how he can just say things like that without turning the slightest shade of pink.
She thinks she started falling for him then.
-
It is only later that Frey gathers the courage to speak. She’s curled up on one of the sofas in his office, a book in her hands while he pores over his paperwork. It has been a lazy afternoon, though Arthur is working as usual.
Frey says, her heart in her throat, “Do you ever want to switch back?”
It takes a moment for him to react, but she can see the moment her words register in his mind by the way his hand pauses in the middle of writing. Slowly, he puts the papers down and lifts his head to look at her.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—being in the castle, instead of here. As a prince.”
“Not really. I’ve never really felt like a prince, as you know.” He looks at her for a long moment. Whatever he sees there makes him stand and walk toward her, then sit next to her, his knees touching hers.
He takes her hand and asks, “Do you? Want to switch back, I mean.”
She does not respond at first, and she can feel his fingers tighten around hers, the tension vibrating from his body. The answer isn’t as simple as yes or no, for her. It is about the idea of letting go of who she has become, of everything that has defined her since the beginning of her memory, of embracing the unknown.
But it isn’t about what she wants.
“We can’t keep playing pretend forever, Arthur,” she finally says.
“I know.”
“It’s a miracle the rest of the town hasn’t found out yet. And then there’s your father—someone from the palace will eventually find out, too.”
“I know.”
Frey pulls her hand away. “Stop saying that. I know that you know.” It comes out harsher than she had intended, and his mouth stretches into a thin line. She closes her eyes. “I’m sorry. I just—I’m sorry.”
Arthur hesitates, then puts his arm around her in lieu of a response. She leans her forehead on his shoulder. He’s stroking her side with his thumb, and his touch is a comfort, his way of letting her know that things are okay. “Tell me.”
“No, I’m sorry. You have work. We can talk about it tomorrow.”
Arthur tips her head up so that their eyes meet. He says he does not feel like a prince, but at times like this, with the full weight on his gaze on her, she can imagine him at the palace so clearly.
“Tell me,” he says again.
The words spill out of her. “I’m starting to think that all of this is real. That me, being a princess, belonging here, is real. But my life didn’t start here. Sometimes I wonder—did I have a family? Are they looking for me? Do they miss me? I don’t have a real home, or parents, or—”
She takes a shuddering breath and looks away. In the corner of her eye, she can see his mouth open, then close, and she wonders what words he held back.
Then he takes her face into his hands so they are looking at each other again, and she has never seen him so solemn. He says, “Your princess status may not be real, but never doubt that you belong here.”
It isn’t until he begins wiping her cheek that she realizes she’s crying. There are other things he wants to say, she knows, but he remains quiet and holds her until the tears stop falling at last.
-
The next few days pass by.
Arthur had promised to revisit their discussion at a later date, but he has suddenly become more involved with his work, and she has only seen him during meals at Porcoline’s Kitchen.
It’s a little lonely, she admits. But even though she is the acting princess here in Selphia, she knows that he still manages international trade on behalf of the kingdom on top of the work he does locally.
Frey leaves a note at his desk. It says, Remember to take a break every now and then! Come by for dinner sometime. She signs it with her love.
-
Frey sees Arthur walking out of Jones and Nancy’s house one day and thinks nothing of it.
But when she catches him going in or out of the clinic a few more times during her daily rounds through the town, her mind goes into overdrive.
The most logical conclusion to draw is that he’s discussing merchandise with them. Frey has often bought medicinal ingredients from Nancy; it would not be unusual for Arthur to discuss work-related matters with them.
But a small part of her wonders if there is something wrong. He does not look ill, and he has not mentioned anything to her, but then again, she’s seen him so rarely over the past week, so would she even know?
Ridiculous, she tells herself. You’re being ridiculous. There are other reasons to visit them, after all, as it is their home as well.
Frey shakes off her suspicions and walks away.
-
The last time Frey had been to the clinic, she had just come back from Rune Prana with Venti. She had done most of the healing herself, but the others had forced her to go for her own sake.
She has often wound up lying in one of the beds in their clinic more times than she would like to admit, scraped and bruised and battered. Frey takes better care of herself now, though. She still remembers the third time she’d collapsed and woken up there, the way Nancy’s face had crumpled in relief when Frey opened her eyes, and how Nancy had hugged her and scolded her at the same time.
Jones had spoken to her in private, later. We weren’t sure if you were going to wake up, he’d said gravely. I’m not a miracle worker, and there’s only so much a body can take.
She had been tempted to lighten the mood by joking around, but she saw the look on his face, that deep concern, and understood what he said to be both a warning and a plea. Frey has not worked herself to exhaustion since, and she has learned when to fight and when to run away.
So when she walks into the clinic and sees Nancy’s face immediately transform into alarm, Frey is quick to assure her, “I’m fine, Nancy, don’t worry.”
Still, Nancy scans her from head to toe, pursing her lips as she replies, “How can I not worry when every time I see you, you’re all scraped up?”
Smiling, Frey lifts her arms and spins to show Nancy that she’s uninjured.
Apparently satisfied, Nancy smiles back. “Is there something you need?”
“I was just passing by and thought I’d say hello,” Frey says casually, inwardly wincing as the words come out.
Nancy hears the partial truth for what it is and raises her eyebrows. Frey did want to see her in a non-medical situation for once, yes, but the full truth is that she’s worried about Arthur, and says this to Nancy.
What Frey expects is for Nancy to scold her, to tell her that it is not her place to be asking about a potential patient, but Nancy goes all soft and sad instead. “Arthur is fine,” is all she says.
Frey does not think Nancy is lying to her. But there’s something off about it, the way she says it, the way Nancy’s looking at her, that robs her of her relief and makes her stomach twist anxiously instead.
When Nancy sees the expression on Frey’s face, she says, very gently, “Maybe you should speak with Arthur directly.”
Frey nods and looks away.
-
She isn’t sure what to do anymore or what to believe.
Frey fixates on that look on Nancy’s face, that intuitive feeling there is something she is missing here, something she does not know, something Nancy will not tell her. Mostly, she is worried about Arthur, though she can’t find it in herself to bring it up to him.
How would she even say it? Hey, Arthur. I swear I’m not stalking you, but I kind of saw you hanging out at the clinic a lot more than you usually do. And I know it’s none of my business, but are you okay? Like, physically. Health-wise.
She cringes and shuts her eyes.
A moment later, someone comes barreling into her. Her breath rushes out of her lungs as small arms wrap around her waist, and Frey feels a flutter of wings when she instinctively returns the hug.
Frey opens her eyes, knowing already who she’ll find. Amber looks directly at her with that wide-eyed gaze of hers, her mouth curved into a tiny frown.
“Amber. What are you doing?” Frey smiles, brushing Amber’s hair behind her ear.
Amber says, “I’m hugging the sadness out of you.”
Frey feels her throat go suddenly tight.
“Don’t be sad,” Amber whispers, and Frey strokes her hair, presses her close.
In the end, it is Amber who convinces her. Amber, who is somehow naive and perceptive all at once, with her preserved innocence, and with her loving arms, hugs Frey’s sadness away.
And Frey makes a decision.
-
Her decision is this: to talk to Arthur.
This is more than just her own loneliness—Arthur has often overworked himself to the point of collapsing, and she is not the only one who has noticed. Frey has spoken with Margaret and Dylas, listened their mirroring concerns. Margaret has offered to help stage an intervention of sorts, but Frey does not think that would go over all too well with him.
But when Frey finally goes to speak with him, he isn’t there.
“He’s gone?”
Frey gives Volkanon a blank stare. Arthur’s desk is clear of its usual clutter, and even his room is tidier than usual. She had noticed the airship was gone earlier but hadn’t made the connection.
The older man gives her an odd look. “Yes, His Highness said he was needed at the capital for a while. He didn’t tell you?”
With her silence and the look on her face, it is clear that he did not. Volkanon looks at her with something close to pity. She almost expects him to go into his usual outbursts on her behalf, but he doesn’t, and somehow this—his silence—is worse.
“Did Arthur say when he’d be back?”
“No,” Volkanon says, but is quick to add, “He will return soon, princess, I am sure of it.”
She manages a smile. “I hope so.”
-
Arthur is gone for a week.
When he does come back, it is only for a short time, and then he leaves again.
She begins to wonder if he plans on returning to the palace. He was never meant to stay in Selphia on a permanent basis, after all.
Frey misses him more than she thought she would. Her life does not revolve of him, is not only him, but he has always been there since the beginning. He gave her his crown and gave her a home and made her into who she is today.
He sends her a few letters. They contain apologies for leaving, details about his travels, questions on her well-being.
He does not say when he is coming back.
-
After Frey’s morning chores are done, crops watered and animals taken care of, she finds herself in Arthur’s office again. It’s become part of her routine to drop by after her work is finished, just to say hello. She can picture him so easily: Arthur sitting at his desk, writing or reading through harvest reports, or him standing by the shelves, running his fingers along the books.
But he isn’t there, and it’s just her, staring pathetically at his chair.
She takes a sheet of paper from his desk and writes him another note for when he returns. When she’s done, she places it face-down, then turns to leave.
Margaret is standing by the door, looking at her. “I miss him, too,” she says quietly.
It isn’t like he’s leaving forever, Frey wants to say. But for all she knows, he is.
Margaret takes Frey’s hand in hers. “I know you usually come by to see Arthur. But don’t hesitate to drop by anytime,” she says, her voice achingly gentle. “You are family, too.”
It is a touching statement. Frey squeezes Margaret’s hand back and smiles. Family, she thinks, and something blooms in her chest, bright and genuine and hopeful.
-
When Frey enters Arthur’s office the next day, the first thing she hears is his voice, and all she can think is, he’s back, he’s finally back, and nothing else.
The other details filter in slowly. His customary cloak and dress have been abandoned in favour of a lighter outfit, tunic and trousers. His hair, which he has not cut since they first met, is tied into a low ponytail. Even his voice sounds different—normally soft and quiet, it is now raised with an agitated edge—and it is directed right at Forte.
“—don’t need a bodyguard, I’ll be fine—”
“With all due respect, Your Highness, I think you do—”
The sight of Arthur and Frey arguing with each other is so odd that Frey is momentarily taken aback. The door shuts quietly behind her, but neither have noticed her yet, absorbed as they are in their debate.
“I understand your concern, Forte, but—”
“You can’t journey out into the middle of nowhere alone, without protection. Even if you weren’t a prince, it would still be a terrible idea.”
Frey can’t keep silent anymore. “You’re going somewhere?”
Arthur has his back to her, but she can still see his shoulders tense when he hears her voice. He turns slowly, and though he smiles at her, it’s guarded and strained. His reaction to seeing her is so opposite from her elated relief, and it stings. She thinks it must show because his face immediately softens, and he takes a step toward her.
“He is,” Forte says, drawing Frey’s attention to her. Arthur gives Forte a hard look that she cannot understand.
“Forte,” he says, a sharp warning.
“Where?”
When it becomes clear that Forte is not going to keep quiet, Arthur gives a heavy sigh, and all of his resistance seems to drain out of him. “There’s something I need to find.”
“And it’s in the middle of nowhere?” Frey asks, repeating Forte’s earlier words.
Forte turns toward a map spread out on the desk, and Frey walks toward it. She points to a red circle marking an area southeast of Selphia, much farther than Frey’s ever had to go, where there is nothing but untouched nature for miles.
Frey suddenly understands Forte’s frustration. “You can’t go out there alone. It’s too dangerous.”
Arthur stares at both of them, two people in unmoving solidarity for someone they care about. “You’re a Dragon Knight,” Arthur finally says to Forte. “Your role is to protect Ventuswill and Selphia.”
Forte has a conflicted look on her face, torn between her duty to the Divine Dragon and to her prince. She looks as if she wants to protest, but Frey saves her from making the choice.
“I’ll go with you.”
Surprise flickers in Arthur’s eyes. In the few seconds he stares at her, off-guard, she sees that this is not the answer he wants or expects. Whatever it is he’s looking for, he does not want her to know about it.
“Selphia has survived without royalty to guide it,” Frey says evenly, anticipating Arthur’s counterargument.
He sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he does not look at her. “Fine,” is all he says, then goes to study the map.
Forte flashes a relieved look at Frey. “I will keep the town safe,” she vows.
“I know you will,” Frey says, and the knight gives her that rare smile before she leaves.
Frey waits until the door closes before turning to Arthur again. He is sitting by his desk now, his temple resting against his fingers. There are so many questions bouncing around in her head, why did you leave and why are you leaving and are you sick and you know you can tell me anything, right?
In the end, she says, “Is it because of what I said, the other day? About the switch?”
His head snaps up and he looks startled, confused. “What?”
“After we had that conversation, I don’t know, things changed. I’ve barely seen you, the past few weeks. And you’re—different. Far away.”
“I’m right here.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He has that look on his face again, the one she can’t read, and he suddenly seems so tired.
Arthur reaches out a hand, palm up. She takes it, and he draws her to him until she is standing between his legs.
“I’m sorry,” he says, the words heavy and quiet. He is apologising, and for what?
Frey slides her hands from where they rest on his shoulder to the sides of his face, gently lifting his head up. Beyond him, in the corner of her eye, the bright red circle calls to her.
“What are you looking for?”
There is a knowing in the back of her mind. It is a prickling sensation formed by the emptiness of his words in his letters, the rigid line of his shoulders, that guarded smile.
She thinks back to that cave, the glasses, the story of his mother. How he had opened himself to her.
“You don’t have to tell me. But please don’t shut me out.”
The silence stretches unbearably. Her hands drop away, though his remain at her waist, holding her there.
“A plant,” he says at last.
“What?”
“A sun crystal. It’s a rare, used as an ingredient. And it is only found there.” He tilts his head in the direction of the map.
“An ingredient,” she says slowly, and she knows from the look on his face that she will have to ask. “For what?”
He presses his mouth together, and for a moment, she thinks that he won’t respond.
Then he says, “A cure.”