Elowen
The first rays of dawn filtered softly through the tall windows of the palace, casting the breakfast hall in a gentle glow. I stirred beneath the crisp linens of my bed, letting the warmth linger just a moment longer before I rose. My muscles still remembered the long hours at the clinic, the delicate work of bringing life into the world and tending the sick, yet my spirit felt lighter than it had in weeks. Today promised a quiet comfort, a day that felt more mine than any before.
By the time I made my way to the breakfast table, the hall was already alive with the soft murmur of servants and the gentle clatter of china. Darian was seated at the head, his posture regal, yet relaxed in the calm of the morning. He looked up as I approached, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. The intensity I had felt in the library, in the candlelit quiet of the past days, softened under the morning light.
"Good morning," I murmured, sliding into the seat beside him. The warmth of his presence was steadying, reassuring. It was a different kind of intimacy, subtle but profound—one forged in quiet observation, shared respect, and the deep undercurrent of admiration we could no longer deny.
"Good morning," he replied, his voice smooth, composed, but carrying that unmistakable warmth meant only for me. I could feel the faint brush of his hand against mine as I settled, and it made me smile, just slightly, just enough.
Fiona bustled in behind us, energy bright as sunlight spilling into the room. "Good morning, everyone!" she chirped. Her presence was always a lively counterpoint to Darian's quiet gravity. "I have news!"
The table went still, all eyes turning toward her. Even Darian lifted a brow, intrigued despite himself. "News?" he asked, the corner of his lips curving just slightly.
"Yes!" Fiona said, clapping her hands lightly. "I just found out—I'm with child!"
The announcement rippled through the breakfast hall, laughter, cheers, and genuine delight filling the air. I could see the radiance in her eyes, the same light I had seen in my own reflection after delivering a child just days ago.
"Congratulations," I said, warmth in my voice, reaching for her hand across the table. "That is wonderful news."
Darian's expression softened as well. I could see the subtle tension in his jaw ease, a rare display of unguarded happiness. And yet… there was something else there, a faint shadow behind the pride. A longing, unspoken, but unmistakable. He, too, wanted this, a child of our own, yet he would wait. I could see it in his gaze, restrained, patient, the kind of control he wielded so effortlessly in all other matters of state and life.
The rest of the breakfast passed in a pleasant rhythm. We spoke of simple things—the spring dinner planned for the palace later, the state of the gardens, the latest reports from the clinic. Every so often, Darian's gaze would drift to me, and a faint smile would curl at the edge of his lips, acknowledgment of the bond forming between us. It was comforting, grounding, and it made my heart lift even amidst the domestic chatter of morning.
Soon, Fiona and her husband rose, preparations already calling them to another kingdom for a ball. They left with hugs, handshakes, and wishes of luck, the excitement still lingering in the air. As the hall quieted, I realized how much I had come to value these small, shared moments with Darian—moments that didn't carry the weight of crowns, alliances, or expectations.
I turned to him as the last echoes of laughter faded. "Your Majesty," I began, a little hesitantly, "I was thinking… the nurses in the clinic could benefit from some lessons. From what I've seen, they do not always know as much as they should when it comes to childbirth, tending mothers, or caring for infants. I could… teach them, share what I know."
Darian considered me quietly, his gaze steady and unwavering. The weight of decision and command never faltered in him, yet there was no resistance in his eyes, only that faint curve of approval reserved for the rare moments when he was genuinely pleased.
"You may," he said simply. His tone carried authority, yes, but also a hint of pride. "You have the skill, the knowledge, and the dedication. They will learn from you, and the clinic will be stronger for it. Do as you wish."
Relief and happiness surged through me, warm and steady. "Thank you," I said softly. "I… I think it will make a difference."
He inclined his head slightly, the faintest of smiles still lingering. "It will," he said. "Just as you do."
For a long moment, we sat in quiet companionship, the morning stretching before us with gentle promise. I could feel the weight of the crown and the kingdom settle comfortably into our shared space, not as an obligation but as a rhythm we were beginning to navigate together.
And as the servants moved about, arranging the remnants of breakfast, I allowed myself a deep, steady breath. The day was bright, filled with purpose, and yet, under it all, a warmth lingered—a quiet, profound happiness born of respect, shared duty, and the growing affection between the queen and her king.
The morning passed slowly after that. I found myself moving through the palace with light steps, checking on the nurses, offering guidance, sharing tips, and encouraging small improvements in their work. Every life touched, every careful correction, every smile of understanding I received in return was a quiet triumph, a confirmation that this role, this life, was exactly where I belonged.
By the time the afternoon sun rose high in the sky, Darian and I found ourselves together again in the quiet of the palace garden. He walked beside me, hands behind his back, eyes scanning the herbs and plants that I had been tending since his return. He paused occasionally to comment, to offer insight, or simply to watch, and I could feel the subtle strengthening of a bond forged not in duty, but in admiration, trust, and mutual respect.
Even in silence, there was conversation. In the curve of his lips, the tilt of his head, and the calm steadiness of his presence, I could hear words unspoken, promises made without utterance. We were still learning, still adjusting to each other, yet the rhythm of our connection was unmistakable.
By the time the evening descended, I felt both exhausted and fulfilled, the quiet ache of satisfaction spreading through me. Darian remained close, a steady presence, watching as I prepared for the next day in the clinic, offering advice, small encouragements, and the occasional teasing remark that drew laughter.
The day had been ordinary in some ways—filled with routine, responsibility, and the quiet rhythm of palace life—but extraordinary in others. Because I had shared it with him. And in those shared moments, we had begun to build something far stronger than titles, crowns, or kingdoms.
Something lasting. Something real.