As the weeks passed, something within Elias shifted. He wasn't the awkward, introverted boy who once hovered in the background, nervously drawing my tales. No, now he was someone I went out of my way to find. He was no longer just an artist; he was my accomplice, my collaborator. The bond between us strengthened with each tale, each hushed conversation, each stolen moment in the library or garden.
I started to see little things about him—how his eyes would light up when he was working, how his hand would linger over a sketch, as if he could see the story coming to life before him. His sketches, always so bright and detailed, now seemed to be capturing something more—something that even I hadn't quite understood until I saw it in his work.
One night, as we were sitting in the library, Elias had only just completed a very complicated scene: a princess and her friends imprisoned in a tall tower, with a dark storm outside. It was lovely—dreadful, even.
"You've done it again," I said, leaning forward to admire his work.
Elias glanced up from his sketch and caught my eye. For an instant, I glimpsed something else in his eyes—something that wasn't mere appreciation for my tales, but something that flashed between us.
I remained silent at first, not knowing how to react to the change in atmosphere. He hastily looked away, his cheeks flushing. "It's your story. I just… bring it to life."
I settled back, crossing my arms with a grin. "Maybe. But I don't think you ever just 'bring it to life,' Elias. I think you mold it. Don't you see that?"
Elias blinked at me, taken aback by such a blunt observation. He shifted in his chair. "I. I mean, maybe so. But I'm just doing what you're doing, Princess."
I arched an eyebrow, bending in closer. "Is that how it seems to you? Just taking cues from me? You don't give yourself enough credit. You dictate the way the stories go—your photographs… they have a weight that words can't."
He gazed down at the paper, his fingers following the lines of the drawing as if attempting to anchor himself. "I never intended to make it… special," he whispered. "I just wanted to demonstrate to you what your stories mean to me."
I looked at him for a very long time, taken aback by his candor. But there was something else there as well—something that made my heart beat just a little bit harder. He was interested in my stories. In me.
But I didn't know how to react. My life had always been one of control, of power, of getting things done my own way. Could I open up? To someone who was not held by royal obligation, someone whose only hold on me was through legend?
"Well," I told him after a moment, standing up straight, "we can't have you running around being humble. The world needs to hear how good you are, Elias."
A smile played on his lips. "I'm just happy you enjoy the drawings. That's all I need."
It was sufficient for me as well. But with each passing day, I started understanding that maybe Elias wasn't only the boy who illustrated my tales. He had turned into a person I actually cared for.
I would find myself searching for him in the garden, where he would sit and draw in the shade of a tree, or in the library, making gentle additions to the illustrations that I had written into being.
One afternoon, as we sat together in the shade of an ivy canopy, I found myself asking him more intimate questions than I had ever meant to. "Do you have any other stories, Elias?" I asked, the words tumbling out before I could catch them.
He gazed up at me, taken aback by the question. "Stories of my own?"
I nodded. "Everybody has a tale. You don't just draw other folks' stories. Certainly, you have one of your own."
Elias looked down, chewing his lower lip. "I suppose I do. But it's not exciting. Just. stories of life in the gardens, in the fields. Everyday things. Nothing like your great adventures.
"I believe your stories are just great," I told him hastily, before I had time to doubt myself. "You just need someone to listen to them."
He grinned hesitantly, but there was something else in that smile—a flicker of something between us. "Perhaps. But I shall require some assistance. To make it more… great, that is."
I leaned my head to one side, curious. "I think I can handle that."
And gradually, over time, we grew closer. Elias started to confide in me little things about his own life—about his family, about his work in maintaining the royal gardens, and about his unassuming love of nature. Each tale was uncomplicated but rich with emotion, and I found myself developing feelings for him that I could not quite explain.
We weren't just creator and artist anymore. We were collaborators. Partners. And I couldn't shake the increasing sense that there was something between us—something more than words and pictures.
I had never considered allowing anyone to get this close. But Elias wasn't just a boy from the gardens. He was someone who understood me in a way no one else did. In his own quiet, unassuming way, he made me feel seen.
And perhaps, just perhaps, that was the greatest story of all.