“[i]I am afraid to stay[/i],” she whispers, leaning in close. “[i]I believe I’ve upset him, and I don’t know if I should stick around for his return.[/i]”

Two sprites dance in her voice—one a lie, the other, truth.

“[i]But I am very curious, Narcisse, why after so many nights of longing for my attention—tonight was the night you decided to heed your curiosity.[/i]”

Why, indeed? It would be easy, perhaps even lazy, to simply blame his sudden boldness on the ale. It is not of any particular renown or quality, as the owner has always been the sort to deal in quantity to line his pockets, but it is an easy, smooth drink, making the journey to the inebriated mind quicker. It certainly wouldn’t be a lie, but still quite far from the truth of the matter—that life as he knows it is slowly coming to an end, for by this time next year, he will be wed, made husband to some woman he does not know from a neighboring kingdom he has only visited in the library and the depth of history studies.

[i]I wanted to meet you, at least once, before I was never able to come here again, Narcisse confesses in the privacy of his own thoughts. I wanted to taste your name on my lips, and hear you taste mine.[/i]

Perhaps she sees the answer—desperation—in his pale eyes or, if not, perhaps she truly doesn’t care? For before he can speak, she’s already taken a handful of steps in retreat, the gesture as inviting as it is confusing. And then she proposes a walk.

The night is dark and full of terrors, but beauty, as well. The river she seeks is not far, less than a kilometer to the north, with a shore that gathers darkness like cloth and water that reflects the moonlight like glass. The Mercers would curse his foolishness, write lectures upon which future nobles would learn; sing cautionary tales about the Fool Prince, who walked into the dark with a beautiful maiden, never to be seen or heard from again. Something deep inside him recoils at the thought of being alone with her, away from prying eyes, shrouded in obscurity.

A primal, instinctive thing.

But the man in him, the heir apparent doomed to a future he did not ask for, ignores it. “A walk sounds lovely,” Narcisse says, rising from his stool. He offers her his arm, and then they faded into the song and dance of the crowd, disappearing as if they were never there.
---
“If you’ve a heart for sightseeing, you’ll meet no better,” Narcisse says, guiding her through the foliage and onto a beaten path. “I know these lands better than most.”

It was his father’s wish that he learn the ways of the ranger, for a man is not a man if he cannot hunt and trap and navigate for himself, and a man is not a king if he does not know the land he is to rule. And so for much of his youth, Narcisse spent his Spring and Summer out in the wilderness, learning to fend for himself and survive with the bare necessities. All for those grueling, excruciating moments to be used not for survival, but to escort this ethereal mystery to a river.

The soft, gentle swishing of the water fills the air long before the shore comes to view. The thicket falls away behind them, as if cut by a giant’s blade, leaving a grassy clearing that feeds itself into the waiting river. “And here we are,” he says, gesturing at the pastoral scene with a wave of the hand. “It is as you prophesized – a shoreline, a crescent of moon above us, all framed with dark, gorgeous woodlands. This is the river Ouras, the largest in the land and from which many of the smaller rivers in the kingdom form.”

Still, Narcisse remains at her side. “And to answer your question from earlier, I suppose it’s because the opportunity to introduce myself was rapidly dwindling away. At some point, there’s no more time to think or consider. You either act or you don’t.”

Glancing down at her, Narcisse smiles. “I’m glad I did.”