"I wish I had no heart, it aches so."

--From Little Women

By Louisa May Alcott

ALASTAIR SAT IN HIS cell and waited. The dripping water noise had stopped, perhaps a leak having been fixed, and now he was half-given to pacing the small square footage. Except, George was watching him with an eagle's eye, and if Alastair appeared impatient for something, the other man would wonder what it was that he was anticipating. Then, he would have to concoct another lie, which he simply did not have the energy to do.

Court intrigue required far too much patience to be his specialty and he admired Jovana for her ability to endure it. Normally, his actions had direct consequences, ones that he was accustomed to seeing, hearing, or receiving immediately. As a child, he would step out of line and immediately be backhanded by his father. Or he would do the correct thing, that which Ilyas Durand approved of, and find himself in his father's good graces through the gift of a new book or a better training sword or even a trip to somewhere new. Then, after he had run away from Mordania Castle, away from Hartfall and all the painful memories that it held, Alastair had joined the military.

First, as a squire, he had conducted himself similarly to when he led his life with his father and sister. Utmost obedience, discipline, and cleanliness were the necessitie. Failure to accomplish or behave according to those principles would result in swift and immediate punishment. As he rose in the ranks, that sense only increased, aggrandizing until he found himself feeling suffocated by life. He felt exhausted by the weight of so many rules, by the burden of such a structured life. Alastair chafed against his bonds as a horse would against a too-heavy load and had been grateful when he had been accepted into the Royal Guard, which provided at least a larger modicum of privacy and flexibility. The men in the guard were encouraged to take initiative if they saw anyone or anything endangering the monarchy, after all.

Crossing his leg over the other and placing his chained ankle on his knee, Alastair gazed at the ceiling. There was some sort of design that formed from a fissure in the stone, that had gradually widened into a spiderweb of cracks, which bore a strange shape...

"Are you Alastair Carlyle Durand, son of Ilyas Durand, heir to Hartfall?" An unfamiliar voice caught his attention, causing him to turn his head. "The crown has requested your immediate presence."

He stared at the messenger: a hooded cloak covered their head, causing their features to be obscured, and their voice was deep enough that it was difficult to tell if they were male or female, the most basic of divisions. There was something ominous about their message, something highly ambiguous. The crown? Not the queen. Not the Lord Regent. But the crown.

"Well, you'll have to get a guard to unshackle me," he said, feeling some wry sense of irony, considering he had once been a guard himself. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. He really ought to have known better. "Not to mention unlock this cell."

"Do not question my competence, Durand," the voice said, a flickering candle burning in their gloved hand. It was only bright enough to illuminate the patch of floor around them in a wan circle, not to show their visage. "Or you shall regret it."

No common messenger would have spoken to him in such an insolent manner. He shrugged off the insult and half-veiled threat as a guard was summoned toward them. The man gave a grunt after he shared a few words with the messenger before unlocking the cell and unchaining Alastair from the wall. Alastair waved a solemn good-bye to George before he made his way back out, longing for liberty.

Alastair and the guard strode through the halls, boots stomping and scraping against the stone floors. The messenger moved along silently, his soft-soled shoes and quiet steps making Alastair wonder if they were an assassin in their spare time. "Where are you taking me?"

"That shall be clear soon enough, Durand," replied the silken voice. "Patience, I think you will find, is a valuable commodity."

"As is knowledge," he quipped as they trudged up the flight of stairs, the guard unlocking a gate of iron bars for them to pass through. "Will you not tell me your name?"

"That is one commodity far too precious to be given," came the cryptic answer. Alastair rolled his eyes, frustration seeping through his pores. 

The guard melted into the shadows, returning to his nightly watch with a scowl on his face and a torch in his hand, the ring of keys at his belt jangling. In the candelabras above them, the candles flickered, dripping wax onto the stone floor with a chill breeze that wafted in from somewhere. In a castle like this, there were always drafts. 

Alastair rubbed at his wrists, still feeling the cold kiss of the shackles. "Perhaps when one possesses little knowledge, it is difficult to part with." 

"Do you speak from experience?" the messenger replied as they ducked behind a tapestry into a hidden passageway. Alastair faintly recalled it from the days they had spent playing and exploring the castle as children. "Or is that a generally inaccurate maxim?"

"Your reticence and ambiguity are highly irritating, do you know that?" Alastair lowered his head to avoid being hit in the forehead by a particularly low section of the ceiling. They walked toward yet another flight of stairs. 

Just as the messenger was about to reply, they were interrupted.

"Although it seems annoying everyone around you is your main source of enjoyment, you shall have to do without it for now, messenger," Jovana said, appearing suddenly at the top of the stairs. "You may leave now."

Looking up at her, the light of the sconces suddenly seemed to dim in comparison. It was not only that he had spent a week in a rank, small cell that was poorly lit with only other men for company, but she looked so lovely, so radiant, that he knew for certain. He loved her. He truly did. It was not a beauty that lay in her skin, in the clothes she wore or even in the way she walked, but it was the kind that spoke of a resilient spirit and a pure soul. He loved Jovana for the very essence of her, not her appearance or her words or even her actions. 

"Alastair," she breathed, running down the stairs. He flung his arms around her, smoothing a hand over the soft waves of her hair, breathing in her scent that seemed all the sweeter to him for having smelt nothing but foul refuse for the past few days. They remained locked in that embrace for a few moments, unable to release one another for fear that they might vanish into thin air or be taken from them. "I need to tell you something of the utmost gravity."

She looked up at him with serious green eyes, a divot forming between her brows. "Come with me. Also, you need a bath. You smell of the dungeon."

The heaviness of her tone despite the levity of her words gave him pause. Alastair studied her: her cheeks were wan and pale against the red gown that wrapped around her body, fitting it like a glove and her dark hair was slowly unravelling. Something was wrong. He wrapped his hand around hers, twining their fingers together, and walked with her up the stairs. Each step seemed to lead closer to some ominous threat coming true, some curse coming to fruition. But what?

As he opened the door to a small passageway, the wooden door creaking when he held it ajar for Jovana to walk through, his mind tried to uncover her secrets. 

"I was speaking with a healer," Jovana said, placing her palms against his chest, her fingers curling in his tunic. "She told me that... that if two people still have the same betrothal symptoms, feeling one another's physical pain, even after the betrothal has expired..."  

Reddening, she swallowed and continued. His curiosity piqued, Alastair lowered his head to look at her. "They are mated."

"Do you... are you saying... we are mated?" His mind ran through every instance, every piece of evidence that would support such a circumstance. How his chest had ached after seeing her. If she had been wearing a corset, that would have explained it. How she had told him she felt as though she had been marching all night, when the guard had been doing just that the day before. "What does that even mean?"

Utter lack of clarity seemed to be the theme of the day. Jovana shrugged and he hated the sight, hated that she who typically prided herself on having every answer seemed so despondent now. "I wish I knew."

Reaching for her, she took a step back, crinkling her nose. "You need a bath." That statement was true, but it was also an avoidance of the sheer enormity of her previous one. 

A sigh loosed from his lips. If she wished to elude the matter at hand, he would do the same. What did it matter anyways, whether or not they were tied together permanently, by mating or by marriage? "If you insist, my queen."

"No..." she said when he turned to leave to go to the barracks and bathe. "I meant, with me."

"Did you now?" He raised an eyebrow, and resolved to enjoy the moment while he had it, before anything could come and disturb their peace. 

They made it to her private chambers and Alastair thought that, though much was still to be solved, for now, he had what he wanted most.