Being brought up alongside Ren, Fisher and Everlayne as child of a successful and loyal general, was like growing up surrounded by luxuries, riches, like you, yourself were growing to be royalty. The best tutors were in charge of your education teaching you and Layne etiquette, history, literature and a little maths. The males, however were taught, more physical and practical skills; weaponry, leadership, general training, Fates and Martyrs, even a war camp for three years.

You had always been a four. Two girls, two boys. You and Layne took turns favouring Ren, but eventually Fisher won your heart for good. Sure, Ren was a sweetheart, but the heart wants what the heart wants. When you were only young Fae, he had started sneaking you out at night, to teach you self defence, on the meek excuse of, ‘There’s war always. It can’t hurt.’

Submissively, you always wordlessly agreed. Fisher was a few years older. He knew better. He had experienced more. He wasn’t a castle isolated, naive young female who was still developing her powers of healing.

But tragedy struck one day. When he disappeared. Quicksilver had appeared to you then. In his room, part of his pen was engraved with it. The chain he last gifted you for your birthday. The ring that was his mother’s, he gave to you last summer solstice. And the biggest sign of all, in plain sight. The large silver mirror inside his room, frame shaded the colour of glittering metal coins, and among the normal grey colour, are drops. They look a little like wax. But no. They’re quicksilver.

You were hopeless. Wishing every night for him to come home. And Gods, did time take its sweet time erasing him. You missed him. His long hugs, he extended for you. His soft forehead or hair kisses. That soft stroke on your shoulder when he knew you were disappointed or upset. That small, knowing smirk before he’d tug you into him and dance with you to cheer you up.

So when he returns, you rush down to the throne room, elated to see him, when you’re grabbed roughly by someone. Your father. “Stay back. He’s not himself.” He growls. You argue, but remain. Tears full your eyes the moment you spot him restrained by guards and-

His eyes meet yours, and they soften. Wait. That’s not right. Why on earth are they partly silver?

Weeks later, you’re more on edge than ever. And as you sit in the too big armchair, he used to occupy before his disappearance, there was a gentle knock. “Ren, I already told you.” You huff putting your embroidery down. “I am not in the mood for-“

He steps in. Never had you called Kingfisher shy. Never had you needed to. Now you did.

“I’m sorry. I just.. I wanted to see you. It’s been years-“

“110. Precisely.” You say, your voice weakening.

“Yeah. 110. I missed a lot of birthdays, huh?” He says, trying to make you show that beautiful smile that made everything better for him. He acted like his imprisonment was his fault.