Page 42 of A Kingdom's Heart
She turned another page, her thumb tracing the edge as if she didn’t want to lose her place. “Then one morning, the queen came riding through the fields. She spoke to the farmer with kindness, asking about his crops, his home, his dreams. And without asking
he fell in love.”
Her tone softened. The wind caught a strand of her hair and lifted it across her face. She tucked it back absently, never breaking from the page. I watched the movement, the way her brow creased when she read something that struck her. She seemed lost in the story, caught between what was written and what she felt.
When she reached the part where the king discovered the farmer’s secret, she hesitated. “The king sent the farmer away,” she said quietly. “Far from the palace, far from the queen. He told him that love was not for men who worked the soil.”
Her words faded, and for a long moment, only the river
answered.
She closed the book halfway, her fingers still holding the page. “That part always hurts,” she said softly.
I nodded slowly. “It’s the kind of pain that stays, even when the story ends.”
Her eyes lifted to mine, hesitant, searching. “You think it was foolish?” she asked. “The farmer, I mean. To love someone he could never have.”
I hesitated. The truth came quietly. “No. I think he was brave. Maybe the bravest kind of man there is.”
She studied me, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she closed the book. The sound of the cover meeting the pages was
small, but it filled the space between us.
The breeze moved through the grass, brushing against her dress. Her hand rested near mine, close enough that I could feel the warmth of it. I didn’t move. Neither did she.
For a moment, everything around us stilled: the river, the air, even the light itself.
She spoke again, barely above a whisper. “Do you think the queen ever forgot him?”
I turned my head, meeting her eyes. “No,” I said. “You don’t forget people who change the way you see the world.”
Her breath caught. Just slightly, but I heard it. Her eyes flicked away, as if she couldn’t bear to hold my gaze too long. A faint color rose to her cheeks, and she looked down at the book in her lap, tracing her thumb along the worn edge.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was softer, almost thoughtful. “It’s strange,” she said. “A story can hurt, but you still want to read it again.”
Her smile was small, delicate, the kind that faded too quickly.
The quiet around us thickened. The river moved slow behind her, its sound a low hum beneath the trees. She sat close enough that I could feel the warmth of her through the space between us. The curve of her shoulder brushed the edge of my gauntlet, and something in my chest tightened.
I wanted to reach for her. To rest a hand on her arm. To pull her
closer and tell her that I understood what she meant, that some things were worth hurting for. My fingers twitched at my side, caught between restraint and want.
She turned slightly toward me, her hair brushing against my hand. The sunlight fell through the branches, scattering gold across her dress. For a moment, I almost gave in. I could already feel the shape of her against my chest, and the weight of her leaning into me.
Then the sound of hooves cut through the stillness.
It came faint at first, then closer. Heavy. Real. The world snapped back into motion. She turned her head toward it, her body tensing. I forced my hand to drop, my jaw tightening as the
rhythm grew louder through the trees.
Eric rode into view with his usual grin and reins in hand. “Sir William,” he called, his tone brisk. “All knights to the yard. The captain’s making an announcement and wants a check.”
The words sank into the still air, and for a second, I didn’t move. I could have stayed there forever. The river behind her, the book still in her hands, the sunlight turning her hair pale as glass. It was the kind of moment you didn’t want to end, the kind that made everything else feel small.
But duty didn’t wait for anyone.
“I should go,” I said quietly.
