#hi i'm feral over the fact that the moral of ayn's route in regards to you seems to be “don't repeat your predecessor's mistakes.”

[romance-rambles]

godheim ayn | the queenly tradition of killing bears and saving princes

In the very same forest where his parents met, Ayn reminisces about them with you. The conversation gets derailed long before you decide to tease him about the Sword of Transcendence—only to get teased in turn.

1.3k, post-courtyard reunion, reader is mc, series: none

"THIS—" AYN SAYS AS THE sound of the careful footsteps and rustling grass draw closer to his location, underneath the very same tree that witnessed his parents' first meeting. "—is where my parents met. It took a while for me to find it, but I can finally show it to you."

In lieu of a greeting, his queen gazes upon him with a displeased expression. "I could've been an assassin."

Rather poetically, your long, messy hair has been tamed into a well-behaved plait. But you are not his mother, and he is not his father. There should be no tragedies in your future, and Lars will once more sit on the throne only if Ayn's own child refuses it.

"I knew it was you." He watches the ends of your red bow—the same shade as your dress—peak out shyly from behind your head. "Do you not trust my instincts?"

You don't respond. Instead, your gaze travels to the initials carved onto the tree trunk, where the E of his mother's maiden name has been overwritten by the A of his father's, and his own, surname. Crossing the remaining distance, you neatly sidestep his hand and places yours over the crude outline of the heart surrounding them.

"She saved him from an assassin," you murmur, voice distant and guilty.

At once, he knows where it is your thoughts have wandered to. Ayn shifts, reaching out his gloved hand to you—an offer, to do as you please, whether it's to pull yourself down, or pull him up, or to simply hold on.

"This is where Father meant to give her the Sword of Transcendence," he explains, once you take his hand and sit down. His voice has grown softer, and you take it as your cue to rest your head on his shoulder. "But he changed his mind after one of his knights stopped him and made a ceremony of it."

Even though you've heard this story before, you seem as enchanted by it as you did the last time—and all the times before that. You adjust your hand, intertwining your fingers with his, and when he looks over at you, he sees nothing but pure affection in your gaze.

Birdsong accompanies his story, as does the gentle rustling of the leaves. Closing his eyes, he remembers the days where his parents would narrate it for him. As a child, before he began to properly notice Father's treatment of Mother, he found it to be nothing less than a perfect fairytale.

Now though, most of the magic has been scrubbed off, leaving behind only a bitter taste on his tongue he associates with the life Mother could've had without him and his father. Ayn only hopes his own child won't feel the same way about him.

"And that was when he asked her to be his bodyguard," he finishes, repeating exactly what his father would say at the end.

"We met in a ballroom," you lament, after your obligatory cooing. The longing in your usual comments that you don't is especially pronounced today. "No carving hearts into meaningful trees for us."

He smiles faintly, angling his head towards you. "The ballroom is much closer to the palace than this tree."

"It doesn't have to be a tree," you murmur. Before he can comfort you, though, you spring back to life, lifting your head off his shoulder with a faux thoughtful look on your face—and he pays the price for it, your shoulder bumping against his, with a fond sigh. "But, you know, I've saved your life before. I've even killed a bear before. Even if we don't have a tree or a flower field—"

Lips stained red, slanted into a mischievous smirk. A slight tilt of your head. Gloved fingers tucking the longer strands of your bangs back behind your ear. You lean in close, until all that's left in his vision from the scenery around them is the golden hue your hair takes under the gleaming sun.

"How come I don't have a fancy heirloom sword to pass down?" you ask, clearly anticipating your turn at teasing him.

"You're right," he acknowledges easily, a bit unwilling to play along. Ayn cups his chin in such a manner that it covers up the small smile playing on his lips, and commits himself to the act. "I should've prepared some sort of gift."

The smirk on your face drops as he taps the handle of the Sword of Transcendence. A panicked gaze lingers on him, on his hand, and it isn't long before your emotions manifest in a more...physical manner.

"Wait, no—" You straighten up, hurriedly putting some distance between them, and perhaps Ayn is a terrible person for it, but he can't help but silently guffaw. "That was a joke. That's your mother's sword! You can't—you can't give that to me."

When it becomes clear that your ramblings have no end, he reaches out and curls his fingers around your wrist. The act silences you immediately, even before his patented snarky comment. You wrap your own hand around his, and your fingers slot into place in the spaces left between.

"Why not? I thought you wanted a 'fancy heirloom sword'." he quotes.

Though you hardly look threatening with the rosy hue of your cheeks clashing against your scowl, he can admire your commitment to the role. "I'll take another one."

"I don't have another one," Ayn responds innocently, taking delight in the way your glare intensifies.

"Make another one then," you fire back immediately, crossing your arms. A pout forms on your lips, before your hand slips out and cradle your still flat belly. "Your father is such a bully. Don't let him fool you, okay?"

He bites back a smile and leans closer, closing the gap between you and him. "I should be saying that about you."

You seem to understand what he's after. With a snort, you make the first move, pressing your lips to his for a quick kiss. But despite that, when you pull back, you're still holding onto your grudge.

You even go so far as to throw his own words back at him.

At that moment, he has a sudden, vivid vision of his own child—your child, separated by gender only through the length of their ambiguously-colored hair and nothing else—stirring up trouble. Usually, in idle moments, when his thoughts wander to the future, Ayn sometimes frets about what they'll take from who. From whether red eyes and deep purple hair is a better combination than the opposite, to whether they'll favor a paintbrush or an instrument, and anything in between.

But their affinity for trouble-making is something he's never budged, and right now, Ayn is certain your features lend themselves best to trouble-making.

Narrowing his eyes fondly at his wife, he says, "We can let the little one decide then."

The expression on your face as you think over his offer would fool anyone into thinking you were deliberating over something serious. You purse your lips, taking the time to exaggerate your exasperation, and declare:

"That would take years. So, I'll let you off, just this once."

"Oh, how can I ever repay you?" His voice is dripping with amusement. Ayn has the smile to match, which only widens as he pretends to have found the answer. "I know—"

"Not a sword."

Ayn bursts into laughter—the kind that leaves him breathless, with an aching stomach and a curse that only prolongs his condition. Soon, you join in as well, and then both of them are stuck in a loop, able to afford only a slight lull of peace before something or the other sets them off.

"A kiss?" he wheezes, once his laughter begins to die down. For real, this time.

"That—"

You don't hesitate to take him up on his offer. But this one is not a merely peck. He has enough time to pull you into his arms and onto his lap. Enough time to think about what it is that you taste like. Fruit, mostly.

When you pull back, both hands still cupping his cheeks, your eyes are glimmering with delight.

"—I'd say, is acceptable."