Chapter Text
The heavy rain darkened the red of her cloak, turning it into a deep wine color. This was lucky, Manon thought. The cloak was the best way to hide her white braid and allow her the freedom to sneak in without being seen. A group of merchants sped by, heading for the castle entrance, and she jogged to catch up with them. The guard waved them in out of the weather, not looking twice as she pretended to be with them.
She’d never been in the castle. At least, not this part. She’d watched his balcony for hours that one night so long ago. Then she’d seen his bedroom. After it was destroyed by that Yellowlegs bitch. Manon grinned, remembering how Abraxos had disposed of the witch’s wyvern with one snap of his ironteeth. She’d never been able to feel remorse over that. Not when Dorian had been so close to his end.
They’d written, but this would be the first time seeing each other since the war. Manon had decided on a whim to come, and here she was. The sleepless nights had caught up so quickly. Meetings with her council passed without much input from their queen, and she’d begun to forget things. When Petrah offered to oversee the Wastes, to give Manon a break, she hadn’t argued. If nothing else, her kingdom deserved a queen who could remember the orders she’d given. A few days away might bring her back to herself.
Watching Rifthold’s people filter through the entrance hall into the throne room, she peered through her hood at the faces. The nobility and upper classes wore the usual pinched expressions of wealth and privilege, making her wonder how closely they’d allied themselves with Erawan to survive the war with their riches intact. The thought made her cheeks heat in rage.
The others, civilians wearing dingier clothing and awed looks at their surroundings, had suffered. These were the residents left homeless by the witches and valg king. Conscripted into Erawan’s monster army, set free by Southern Continent healers, and likely left with no memory of those months. If they were lucky.
As Manon skirted around the walls, she remembered Dorian’s most recent letter. He’d written about the nightmares he’d been having, images of pain and hell inflicted by his own hands. Images of those hands morphing into his father’s.
Perhaps that was why she hadn’t argued with Petrah. It made a good excuse to come here. To check on a friend.
A loud, vivacious laugh caught her ear and she saw Yrene across the crowd. Quickly, Manon pulled her hood a little tighter, hoping the material was still dark enough to blend in.
The line to speak to the King was long and enough people had come simply to watch that Manon was able to get into the throne room unseen. Taking a spot in the back corner, she resisted the urge to stand on something in order to actually see the throne.
She didn’t know why she was sneaking. It felt ridiculous. Childish.
But the thought of having planned a visit, or being received as the Witch Queen, with all the pomp and attention it required, made her skin itch. She’d considered waiting for him in his rooms and surprising him. But after sending Abraxos away to hunt at the city wall when they’d arrived, she’d heard about the Audience with the King happening that day. It would be boring, of course, watching Adarlanians petition Dorian for things or settle disputes. But her curiosity had been piqued. As a queen, she’d wondered how his court was run and thought this might be a good learning experience.
She hadn’t really thought it through though. It was impossible to hear and she could not get a clear view of him no matter how high she stood on her toes. There were simply too many people.
About to give up and go find a way into his rooms, Manon pushed through the people in front of her. Suddenly, and for just a moment, there was a break in the crowd.
Dorian was sitting at a table, Chaol next to him along with others. Advisors, she guessed. The throne sat empty behind him. A couple was speaking to him, gesturing wildly to a snarling merchant. Dorian wrote quickly while the others at the table listened.
When he finally looked up, she got her first sight of his face in months.
His black hair had grown, curling around his crown. But other than that, he looked the same - bronze skin, a quick smile, and sparkling blue eyes. Even from this distance, the sunlight caught his eyes.
But no, she realized, as something else sparkled too. He was different.
His crown.
She’d never seen him with it on.
It was a thick band of gold with three large stones, rubies, set along the front. Simple, but well crafted. There were designs incised along the band but she couldn’t make out the detail.
He looked like a king.
Her king.
The break filled in again and she was shuffled aside, back against the wall. Growling under her breath at the rudeness, she regretted being disguised and almost reached for a dagger.
As she turned to leave, that thought - her king - fluttered into her mind again. But she pushed it away and focused on the shove by the crowd, letting her annoyance take over as she left the castle.
…
Dorian closed his door and sagged against it, exhausted by the day and so many people. This was the fourth audience held in Rifthold since the war. After the first one, he’d called for a table and abandoned his throne, wanting to actually get something accomplished. He’d started the practice with the hopes of letting his people see him, speak to him. Trust him. And while that seemed to be happening, albeit very slowly, a part of him was regretting it.
It was the same part that longed for the adventures and romance that he read about in his novels. The part that wanted to be a normal man, anonymous and irresponsible.
But that part was small enough that he could tuck it away and forget about it.
Not the longing for romance though. Golden eyes, moon white hair, a fleeting smile given only to him. That was something Dorian refused to forget, even if it might not ever happen.
We’ll see .
Those two words spoken with that not-quite-there smile. Manon had looked at him, smiled at him , when she said them. The hope she’d sparked that day still filled him. Especially on nights like this when he was dead tired yet afraid to try and fall asleep.
Pulling himself away from the door, he strode through his outer rooms into the bedroom. Dorian glanced at his desk and thought about writing to her. But he’d just sent a letter last week. He should at least wait for a reply. With a laugh at himself, he thought he should try to maintain some semblance of control.
Grabbing a glass, he poured himself some wine and stared at the mess around his desk. Piles of books, papers, even some containers of soil that were given to him by a farmer at the last audience day. The man insisted his additions to the soil would improve crops across the kingdom. Dorian kicked at one, telling himself he needed to look into the claim.
After draining his wine, Dorian put the glass atop a stack of novels and reached for his crown.
“Leave it on.”
Dorian spun, his magic noticeably not flaring to defend him.
Manon sat on his bed, back against the headboard, her bare feet crossed, a book open in her lap.
As he stared at her, trying to decide if she was real or a figment of his imagination, she stood and walked toward him.
Her eyes, glowing in the light of the fire, caught on his crown. “It looks good on you,” she said.
Real. Her scent, her presence, her voice filled him.
“Hello witchling.”
Manon smiled then. A true smile. For him.
“Hello princeling.”
She reached for his jacket and pushed it off his shoulders. Dorian watched, using every bit of self control he had to let her undress him. It struck him that they’d never done this before. Every other time had been hurried, either to avoid the cold or to pretend there was nothing between them. Hell, they’d never even used a real bed.
So he let her slowly unbutton his shirt, let her remove her leathers, enjoying the show she made of it, his eyes drinking her in, her eyes never leaving his.
And when she led him to his bed, he kept his crown on.
…
The next morning, Dorian woke early to send two messages - one to Chaol canceling all his meetings that day, and one to the kitchens for enough food to last until tomorrow. Then he returned to bed, where Manon still slept.
Later, when they were enjoying a very late breakfast in in bed, he caught her smiling. “Is something funny?” he asked lightly.
Manon bit into a piece of bacon and looked around the room. He followed her gaze but saw nothing amusing.
“I’ve never spent a day lazing around in bed,” she finally replied. “Unless I was injured. I suppose with all your many lovers, this is nothing new for you.” She was teasing him, but he responded seriously.
“You’ve never done this? Never wanted to stay with someone after?” He saw the answer in her face, the way her smile faded. Pushing the tray of food away, he pulled her onto him, her legs straddling his waist. “Ask me who I will do this for now,” he demanded.
Manon said nothing, but the heavy rise and fall of her chest gave away her excitement.
Dorian kissed her, using his magic to pin her hands behind her back and yank her closer while his real hands tangled in her hair. Her teeth scraped over his lip and he moaned.
“Ask me.” His voice was rough and commanding as he freed her mouth to speak.
Barely a whisper, she said, “Who.”
He ran his thumb over her bottom lip, letting her squirm in his lap as his magic caressed other spots. When she groaned, a mix of pleasure and annoyance, he said, “Just you, witchling. No one else.”
…
Manon was so close to the edge, driven there by his lips and phantom touch and the sharp demand in his voice. But those words pulled her back. The promise, the declaration of … something … something they couldn’t say. Yet.
The thought of that yet made her soften in his arms. He felt it and dropped his forehead to rest on hers. “Just you, princeling.” She saw his smile, his relief.
That promise, that declaration in her words cracked a barrier inside her. Slowly, tentatively, she cupped his cheek and said, “Tell me about your nightmares.”
Dorian’s eyes flashed, either from her touch or the question. But instead of answering, he ran a knuckle under both of her eyes. “Will you tell me about yours?”
Manon nodded.
Then he kissed her, so softly and tenderly, it could have been her first kiss. It took her a moment to open her eyes and when she did, Dorian was smiling at her. She couldn’t help but return it, and soon they were laughing, at what, she didn’t know. But it felt good. Right.
They spent the rest of that day and night in and out of bed, never leaving his rooms.
Dorian taught her how to luxuriate in a hot bath, kept warm by his magic. Manon taught him how to properly sharpen the dagger Sorrel had given him a lifetime ago. He showed her the symbols on his crown, which was heavier than she’d expected.
They spoke of their nightmares, of how last night was the first time either had slept, truly slept, in forever. They shared their worries of ruling, each boosting the resolve of the other.
The next day, they had breakfast with Chaol and Yrene. Their baby stared at Manon, making her fidget in her chair despite Yrene’s reassurances that Josie was always like this with new people. Everyone watched, Chaol nervously and Dorian amused, as Yrene sat the babe in Manon’s lap.
Manon held her carefully, not wanting to drop her. Josie reached for Manon’s braid and tugged on it playfully. When she cooed, everyone laughed. That was when she realized she’d never held a baby before. She wondered how different her life, the world, everything, would be if Asterin’s witchling had lived.
Sensing the change in her mood, Dorian reached over and took Josie, distracting them all by bouncing her on his knee until she broke into a fit of giggles. Manon caught his eye and he winked at her.
A day later, Manon said goodbye to her new friends. And Dorian. It was harder to leave this time than it had been in Orynth. He walked with her to the city wall where she’d find Abraxos. They were both hooded and cloaked to avoid stares. And he held her hand - another first, and probably not the last - as he led her through streets and alleyways.
But she would return. And he would visit her. Soon. Because they’d both agreed, though not with words, that this time together had been important. They needed each other. And while she didn’t understand the full implications of that, yet, she knew it felt right. He felt right.
Her king, and his queen.