"Oh, Your Majesty," Elenor exclaimed, her words tumbling out in a rush of excitement and honor. "Greetings to you both, Your Majesty and My Lord. It is an immense privilege and honor to have the opportunity to meet and make the acquaintance of the esteemed Young Lord of Valentines. I am humbled and filled with gratitude for the gracious chance to meet and converse with such distinguished individuals."
Cillian thought,
Bruh what? That was probably the kindest thing anyone's ever said to me aside from what Luxana said about me being a friend to her. Holy hell, is this what being respected feels like? It's so foreign I might need a translator. "Esteemed Young Lord of Valentines"? Me? The same guy who accidentally set his own pants on fire during sword practice last month? The dude who still sleeps with a stuffed dragon named Sir Scalesalot?
If only she knew I spent twenty minutes this morning trying to get jam out of my hair because I fell asleep eating toast. Very lordly behavior, truly befitting of my "esteemed" status. And "immense privilege" to meet ME? Lady, I burp the alphabet when I'm bored. I once got stuck in a tree for three hours because I was trying to rescue a cat that didn't even need rescuing—it jumped down on its own and looked at me like I was the biggest idiot in the kingdom.
Gods, how am I supposed to respond to this? "Why yes, I am quite distinguished, please ignore the breakfast stain on my collar." Should I bow? Nod solemnly? Quote some ancient proverb I definitely don't know? Whatever majestic response she's expecting, she's about to be severely disappointed when I inevitably say something stupid like "you too" or "thanks, I grew it myself." Nobility is EXHAUSTING.
Luxana thought,
Huh? What's up with her? And why are the others smiling like that? Is getting married to a man everyone thought you liked that huge of a deal? I swear, sometimes I don't understand people at all. She's acting like Cillian hung the moon and stars in the sky personally. I mean, yes, he's nice when he's not being an absolute disaster of a human being, but this level of fawning is just excessive.
Look at him standing there, probably thinking something ridiculous. I can practically see his brain short-circuiting from all the praise. Ten gold coins says he's mentally reliving some embarrassing moment right now instead of acting like the noble he's supposed to be. The poor fool probably has no idea how to handle actual respect. It's almost endearing... in a pathetic sort of way.
And the look on Cillian's face right now! Priceless. Poor boy looks like someone just told him he's been elected Grand Emperor of the Moon. He's probably having a complete mental breakdown behind that frozen half-smile. Ten gold pieces says he's currently cataloguing every embarrassing thing he's done in the last week and wondering if she somehow knows about ALL of them.
"Esteemed Young Lord of Valentines"...the same Cillian who I caught last week trying to teach palace mice to dance by bribing them with cheese crumbs? The same noble lord who insisted on having a "sword fight" with a loaf of bread at breakfast and somehow LOST? To BREAD? The bread that then fell butter-side down on his favorite boots?
I swear, if she bows any lower she's going to inspect the floor tiles with her forehead. Nobility protocol is such a farce. Last month I had to sit through a four-hour dinner where some diplomat's wife addressed me exclusively as "Your Most Radiant and Benevolent Excellence of the Golden Dawn" every single time she spoke to me. I nearly stabbed myself with a dessert fork just to escape.
Oh gods, Cillian is panicking. I can practically see the gears in his head grinding to a halt. He's going to say something catastrophically awkward, I just know it. Last time someone was this formal with him, he responded with "Happy birthday to you too" and it wasn't ANYONE'S BIRTHDAY.
Should I save him? Or should I let him flounder for my own entertainment? Decisions, decisions... The proper queenly thing would be to graciously intervene. But then again, the Cillian thing to do would be to create a spectacular disaster, and who am I to deprive him of staying true to his nature?
Maybe I should rescue him before he spontaneously combusts from the attention. Or perhaps I'll just watch this train wreck unfold. It might be the most entertainment I've had all week. Mother would be telling me to stand straighter right now, but honestly, I'm too busy wondering how long it'll take before Cillian trips over his own tongue trying to respond. Three...two...one...
And catastrophe it was. With all the grace of a drunken elephant, Cillian blurted out, "Yeah. Happy Birthday to You." The words hung in the air like a deflating balloon, leaving everyone in the room momentarily stunned, his face turning a shade of red I didn't even know existed.
*PFFFFFT*
I nearly lost it right then and there.
Sweet merciful heavens, he just "happy birthday"-ed her AGAIN! The same verbal disaster TWICE! It's like watching someone step on the same rake twice and being surprised by the handle to the face both times!
I'm going to rupture something royal trying not to laugh. My queenly composure is hanging by a THREAD. Look at him! He's the exact shade of a tomato someone left in the sun for three weeks! I could warm the entire castle through winter with the heat radiating from his face right now!
If Mother saw me fighting this laugh she'd disown me faster than Cillian can say inappropriate birthday wishes. But COME ON! The woman is now mentally checking a calendar! "Is it my birthday? Did the Queen declare a national Eleanor Day and forget to tell me?"
I'm adding this to my "Reasons Cillian Valentine Should Never Be Allowed To Speak In Public Without A Script" list. It's now officially longer than our kingdom's tax code.
Taking pity on everyone involved (and desperately needing to end this before I lost all semblance of royal dignity), I stepped in. "Hehe, My dear Elenor, please do not fret. The words expressed were merely an eloquent form of gratitude, intended to convey appreciation for your kind and thoughtful sentiments." I hoped my voice didn't betray just how close I was to bursting into laughter.
Elenor's face was a study in confusion, clearly wondering if she'd missed some royal decree about her birthday. The other staff members stood frozen, awkward smiles plastered on their faces as they tried to make sense of the situation.
Seizing the opportunity to move past this social catastrophe, I turned to Elenor. "Elenor, please escort our guests to their chambers and provide them with suitable attire." She looked relieved to have a task to focus on, quickly ushering Myla, Mylo, and Veles out of the room.
No sooner had they left than Haeyln's voice rang out, "Your Majesty! You have blood on your dress! You must change at once." I glanced down, suddenly remembering the state of my dress.
Charlotte, ever-prepared, added, "Indeed, Your Majesty. We have also prepared clothes for My Lord, if he wishes to change."
I looked at Cillian, who seemed to have regained some of his color, though he still looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. "Well then, let's go," I said, tugging his sleeve once more as I turned to leave the study.
As we walked, I couldn't help but feel a strange mix of emotions. On one hand, I was still fighting back laughter at the absurdity of the situation.
I snuck another glance at him, noting the embarrassed set of his shoulders.
Perhaps having him around wouldn't be so bad after all. At the very least, life was certainly going to be more interesting.-Helia Palace; Luxana's Room-
In the opulent chambers of Helia Palace, a scene of regal preparation unfolded. Luxana, secluded in the bathroom, was attended by her maids, while Cillian stood in the main room, surrounded by a flurry of male servants.
Cillian's attire was a masterpiece of modern ducal elegance. His jacket, a pristine white, was adorned with intricate gold embroidery along the lapels and cuffs, depicting delicate vines and leaves. The shoulders bore epaulettes of shimmering gold thread, each ending in a small sapphire. The jacket's high collar was lined with midnight blue silk, providing a striking contrast against the white.
His trousers were tailored to perfection, a deep navy blue that seemed to shimmer with hidden constellations when he moved. A gold stripe ran down the outer seam of each leg, ending in a subtle flare at the ankles. His polished black boots gleamed in the soft light of the room.
A sash of royal blue silk crossed his chest diagonally, secured at the hip by a golden brooch bearing the royal crest. At his waist, a belt of black leather was fastened with a gold buckle inlaid with tiny diamonds.
The ensemble was completed by a cape of the deepest black, lined with blue silk that matched the sash. It was fastened at the shoulder with a golden chain, the links intricately worked to resemble leaves.
Cillian stood before the mirror, his face a carefully constructed mask of aristocratic indifference that barely contained the bewildered internal screaming happening behind his eyes.
What the FUCK is this shit? he thought, gawking at his reflection with pure disgust. Did a royal peacock explode all over me? I look like some royal asshole's fever dream after a night of heavy drinking and bad decisions.
He yanked at the stupid white jacket with its pretentious gold embroidery, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.
Vines and goddamn leaves? VINES AND LEAVES? Are you shitting me? I look like a formal garden threw up on me. And these fucking SAPPHIRES on my shoulders? ACTUAL GEMSTONES? Who the hell wears ROCKS on their clothes? What's the protocol when one gets mugged for their shoulder jewelry? I'm one sneeze away from funding someone's retirement if these things fall off.
Cillian twisted uncomfortably, watching the trousers shimmer with the movement.
Oh FANTASTIC, my pants TWINKLE. These aren't even real clothes. They're a costume. Nothing says "take me seriously" like wearing the bloody cosmos on my legs. What am I, a walking disco ball? A human fucking glitter bomb? "Oh look, here comes Duke Twinkle-Ass with his magical constellation trousers!" And this gold racing stripe? What am I, the world's fanciest racing car? Should I make vroom-vroom noises when I walk down the corridor?
He grabbed the blue sash and nearly ripped it off, flicking it with undisguised contempt.
A SASH? A LITERAL SASH? This absolutely useless piece of silk draped across me like I won some pathetic pageant. "Miss Most Ridiculous Outfit 1862." "Congratulations, Duke Cillian, you've won the privilege of wearing this completely useless strip of silk diagonally across your body! Don't forget your sparkly tiara!" And secured with a brooch of the royal crest? Christ, might as well tattoo "PROPERTY OF THE CROWN" on my forehead and be done with it.
His fingers clutched the diamond-studded belt buckle, his expression souring further with undisguised loathing.
Oh, and diamonds on my BELT BUCKLE. Diamonds on my CROTCH. Fantastic. Nothing draws attention away from your dick quite like surrounding it with precious stones. "Don't look at my genitals, look at my WEALTH!" Who designed this, a horny royal treasurer? Should I wear a sign that says "ROB ME" or is that just implied? Perhaps we could add some rubies to my underwear, just to complete the ensemble?
With exaggerated drama, Cillian whipped the cape around, knocking over a vase that shattered on the floor.
And THE CAPE. THE BLOODY CAPE. This absolute black hole of practical fucking thought. Because I needed something to dramatically trip over or get caught in carriage doors! Nothing says "I make practical life choices" like wearing a portable curtain attached to your body. Sure, let's attach a giant tablecloth to my back! What could possibly go wrong? I'll just drag this around behind me, collecting dirt, tripping servants, and getting stuck in every damn door I walk through. With a golden chain of LEAVES, no less. Did they run out of regular chains? "We need something that screams 'I've lost touch with reality' but in a regal way."
He ran his hands through his hair, messing up whatever style had been carefully arranged.
I look like I mugged the treasury and decided to wear the evidence. If I fall into a river and drown because of all this gold weighing me down, I want my tombstone to read "KILLED BY FASHION CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY." I bet the servants drew straws to see who'd have to keep a straight face while helping me into this monstrosity.
Cillian took a deep, bitter breath, tasting resentment as he straightened the ridiculous jacket with its absurdly high collar.
I'm not a person to them. I'm a display. Something to dress up and parade around. And the worst part? I'm going to walk out there and play my part like the good little duke they want me to be. Just another day as a walking national treasure. At least no one can accuse the duchy of understating its wealth. It's literally sewn onto my body."All done, My Lord," one of the servants announced with a bow. "If there's anything at all My Lord wishes for, please-"
"Accredited. Flit," Cillian commanded, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. The servants bowed once more and silently filed out of the room, the door closing behind them with a soft click.
Left alone, Cillian's eyes darted to the bathroom door. In a heartbeat, his demeanor changed. The regal poise vanished, replaced by an intensity that crackled in the air. With a black lightening, Cillian disappeared from the room, leaving behind only a whisper of movement and the lingering scent of his cologne.
To be Continued...