Once the renovations had been completed, Cressia and Alvin continued with their training in the old Dominion Churchyard for the next several weeks, now revamped into a strange fencing school from which only the two of them were allowed to enter. Long days were spent moving from one type of weapon to another - foil, sabre, epée - all of which Alvin had rapidly grown to be proficient with under Cressia’s watchful eye.

The awkward stumbles and steps which had so characterised his earliest forays into sword fighting had gradually disappeared once he spent more time with Cressia. His form had been fixed, his speed and accuracy had increased, and soon enough he was able to land a middling point on her from time to time once her energy had been spent after a tiring afternoon spent training with him.

Scurrying away like this together, in a revamped small church no less, had done little to settle the gossip that was rising within the royal palace. Instead of placing bets on King Theodore’s eventual demise, their attention had now turned to when, not if, Alvin would propose to Cressia for her hand in marriage. The spinsters who’d lived and shrivelled up in the royal laundry room had estimated it would take only 3 months, for they’d known how quickly the King had taken to the queen once up a time.

Neither Cressia or Alvin had paid much attention to the rumours that were spreading like a Zantzar wildfire around them, nor did they want to hear about them, as they settling much closer into the other’s company. They were becoming something like friends, and soon Cressia’s teaching methods had become more lenient around him as she found herself spending more time with him outside of the sport that had brought them together.

He was more soft and sensitive than any man she’d ever known, almost to a gratifying level that would normally leave Cressia off put, but she found herself slowly coming around to his unusual interests in this or that and whatever else he spoke about.

There was also the unspoken truth, that, even if there was a romantic inclination between them (there wasn’t), it would not survive the scrutiny that a royal wedding would bring.

Weddings between Human and Elves were still largely taboo in Mylea, even after the Conclave had reestablished diplomatic relations with the rest of the Human Kingdoms, but a wedding between a Noble Prince and a common elf woman?

That would be downright scandalous! The other kingdoms would have a field day if they learned the Zantzar Prince had falling head over heels for an Elven fencer he’d asked to train him! Perhaps she might bring about the end of the Zantzar bloodline when she murdered Alvin in sleep, which would be keeping in character for the citizen of a nation who purged all their royalty only a few decades ago.

Some servants had even floated up the idea that perhaps Cressia, for all her admirable traits, was secretly a Conclave agent, and this was all simply a Conclave ploy to turn Zantzar into a satellite state after Cressia threw the crowns into the dustbin.

It hadn’t helped her case either when Cressia corralled the Prince into giving the children of the boroughs a tour of the royal palace, along with hanging the paintings they’d made in her Painting in the Fine Arts Class in the palace artisan gallery.

“See?” Amelia exclaimed as her, Lydia and Eliza ran through the halls, “I told you Ms Cressia was going to marry him!”

Cressia wrote about all of this when she began composing her first letter towards her Elven mother in quite some time. She was writing at a jewel encrusted desk, her blonde hair having coiled around her neck like a fully grown mamba, the strands of split ends reaching all the way across to the other side of the room. She hadn’t cut it that morning, nor had she strayed any further outside the confines of her lavish bedroom for the rest of the day.

This was odd, even brazenly bizarre for Cressia, who considered herself something akin a soft extrovert - without a constant stream of people coming in and out of her life, she began to suffer from a strange malady that most normal people could brush off for a few days with a simple shrug of the hands.

But she’d grown frustrated with Alvin’s progress in these past few days, and his inability to grasp the more complex techniques when it came to fencing. She had decided to take the day off from mentoring him and hibernate, reflecting on what had happened that had led her up to this point in her life, as well as reflecting on the dim relations between parents and child.

She wrote about Alvin’s strange proposal at the beginning of the summer, of the simmering tensions between Zantzar, The Orcs and the Spirits, and of her working relationship with prince Alvin himself. Through out, she found that she was writing a great deal about Alvin, and how living and tutoring him was within the royal court.

She smiled at the thought of her parents doubling over in shock and indignation, before asking for forgiveness from the Old Elven Gods whose absence had normally never gone amiss for her pantheistic parents. In truth though, it was likely they’d already known all about their daughters strange and wonderful adventures through the Zantzar kingdom.

Gwen, Cressia’s mother, was a former spymaster who'd been in charge of the long established spy ring in Pendaline. She was made of strong and sturdy stuff, with nerves of steel as she masterminded one scheme or another from their mud hut in the Caravania tribe.

Cressia couldn’t recall an afternoon when her mother wasn’t in the process of tearing through letters or deciphering coded messages brought back from all manner of winged creatures. As she worked alone in the office, Cressia had made use of whatever scraps of paper were lying around on the floor, self teaching herself a smattering of the world languages and cultures from the other kingdoms, all things which were to keep her in good stead once she moved through the rest of the Mylean continent.

Her father, Vaeldor, had once been a Conclave party treasurer in another life, and was not made from stuff that was either strong or sturdy., something Gwen came to realise when he came to her office screaming for help.

He’d been targeted for assassination by the last few Pro-Monarchists that still lived within the Elven land. She felt pity, and soon found herself spending a great deal of time comforting him once he’d come under her direct care. Once her agents had dealt with the would be assassins and the dark cloud had passed over Vaeldor, she soon found herself proposing to him, and they were married under the great Oak tree in the centre.

Vaeldor gave up his political ambitions after his brush with death, and soon settled into a new life as a would be writer, coming up with silly stories to amuse his future daughter. Cressia was then raised on long novellas of sorcerers and swashbucklers and all sorts otherworldly creatures her father had met when he worked outside of the Conclave.

Her mind swelled with fascination at this outside world, which were filled with so many more stories than the feuding tales of Elven Gods she’d heard a few billion times already around the Caravania campfire.

They felt like her stories and her world, and soon she wanted to get as far away as possible from the never ending cycle Conclave life brought.

As she dabbed her slender pen in ink, she took much care when it came to the calligraphy that were addressed to her parents, for her letters had become more infrequent and she knew her parents wanted to savour whatever she had written.

“Prince Alvin is nice and considerate of me, and incredibly skilled with a bow,” She wrote, “Father would like him very much mother, I have never met someone imbued with such natural skills in archery as he, for he often leaves the bullseye riddled in a barrage of arrowheads.”

She felt silly reverting back to an old fashion way of speaking like this. Yes, this was how elves talked, but she knew such a formal language had largely been based off the earliest Elven interpretations of archaic human speech patterns! She had a harsh awakening when she first came to Zantzar, finding herself insulated from the common tongue and mannerisms of human peasants by her Conclave education.

She had hoped, at first, she would come to find more educated people to talk to, but no one, not even Alvin, spoke like that. They even shared the same ill-mannerisms as the people of the boroughs too: Cressia had been flustered to overhear a few maids talking about the size of a royal guard’s rear end earlier in the week.

Her naïve view of humans hadn’t been helped from the pulp novellas of princesses and knights she’d been raised on, which were filled with the flowery, prudish language Elves, by nature were more comfortable in.

Such stories had largely been banned by the Elven Conclave, by the mud hut Cressia lived in was always filled with them, largely because they were gifts from agents who came to meet with her mother once they’d returned from Pendaline. Her first encounters with fencing had come that way too - A romantic book cover featured a redheaded princess dressed up in typical fencing gear, and Cressia discovered she had a new fixation which would follow her for the rest of her life.

Now hobnobbing with a Prince, Cressia wondered if they felt proud of her once they put their Conclave commitments aside. They’d pulled deeply away from her as she slid further into her service for the Zantzar crown, but there had been an inkling in their past letters that they’d come around to their daughter as a children’s fencing teacher instead.

When neighbours had asked what had become of Cressia, her parents frowned and said she had moved to Pendaline as part of a Conclave-Pendaline agreement that allowed artists to work freely in both nations. They might not have liked the path she’d chosen, but they would still not allow their daughter to develop the dreaded reputation of a turncoat if they could help it.

She dabbed her pen again, but felt the ink in the well had dried all up. She could’ve easily gone straight to a servant and ask for some runny old ink, but she wanted to go and see Alvin instead. After his afternoon training of 10KM runs and log squats, he was probably holed up in his room recuperating. Someone who had such a visceral passions for the arts would no doubt have several spare ink bottles lying around somewhere.

She was going to go as she was dressed too - in a sleeveless white bedroom gown and pink slippers which revealed a softer, more playful side to herself. She would usually dress more modestly around men, but around Alvin she felt so comfortable that she moved down through the foyers without a hint of embarrassment.

----------------------------------------

Another edit, freed from all those words in the pages.

Alvin was alone, keeping his mind preoccupied with crafting jewellery after the near death experiences he’d had while fencing with Cressia yesterday. On his desk were several pieces of jewellery, each part a puzzle as he tried to combine them altogether.

It was something he had trained himself to do even when he was exhausted. Once upon a time, when he went through the rigorous ostrich training expected of him as a noble, he’d crawl back into bed and the spend the rest of the afternoon lying there in comfort.

But growing older time begun to seem more fleeting, and he realised he should do more with it instead of wasting the day covered behind sheets and blankets.

At first he’d tried reading languages and then playing the lyre, but nothing had quite captivated him as learning how to put pieces of jewellery together. In fact the interest had always been there, but Aeryn always seemed unwilling to help him with it, feeling that Alvin, as a man, was better suited for headlocks rather than playing with jewellery.

When Aeryn had disappeared, and the trail had gone cold for several months, Alvin decided only then that it did not feel like trespassing to move through her room and take the jewellery box she had for himself. He would not ask for another if there was one on hand that he could use himself.

Cressia from the hallway, watched him work for a time, and felt perhaps he wouldn't be out of place as a seamstress or watchmaker. There was care in whatever it was that he was crafting, and he gently tugged on the cord as he pulled it through the medallion to add it the centre. She liked seeing him lost in this little world of his, even if it was for an enthusiasm she did not completely share.

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“Hiding something?”

“Cressia!” Alvin exclaimed, as he nearly leapt of his seat, “What the hell happened to you?”

“I’ve grown,” She answered matter-of-factly, “Soooooo, whatcha doing?”

“Nothing.” He stammered, pushing his work project into the desk’s drawer, “I’ve uh, just been practising my Elvish tomes.”

Cressia looked up and saw several Elvish tomes, of which not a single one had ever been opened.

“Sure, sure,” Cressia smiled, “Have any spare Ink bottles I can borrow?”

She came in, dragging her long python hair along with her. Alvin did have a spare ink bottle, he always did, and it was on top of his desk. Aeryn did not write much letters either, so he’d always taken her bottle once it came time for a refill.

“Here you go.” He said bewildered. He’d never such a sudden explosion of hair growth in his whole life. Not even the trolls he’d encountered under bridges had such wild long hair, and they spent their whole lives growing it out.

Cressia went to take it, but decided she was going to explore the Prince’s room first.

She’d expected it to be much bigger, even her guestroom was at least half a size large than this pea sized box for a room. The one thing in it’s favour, however, was the large closet which seemed to contain just about every royal outfit Alvin had ever worn. She wondered if she fell into it would she find herself getting lost into another world, perhaps one inhabited by a tigress and a wizard.

“May I?” She asked.

Alvin shrugged with pretend disdain. “If you must.”

She reached, and felt warm, furry sleeves from inside. It was neither a tigress of a hairy wizard, but something big and brown and that wouldn’t hesitate to gobble her up if they met in the wild.

She dragged it out, and suddenly felt she was being wrapped in the warm hug of Witherdom bear - In fact, it was a coat that had been skinned from. It’s usual dour expression had been smudged away when it’s hands wrapped a form fitting athletic body like Cressia had.

“Woof!” She exclaimed as she furrowed deep into the coat, “That’s warm!” Very warm in fact, but a pleasant kind warm. Not unlike the supposed warmth she felt back in the boroughs, where she slept in hard bed with razor thin linen and cobwebbed blanket cases.

She was going to demand for one of these one she had finished scolding him and his shoddy jewellery attempts. And also one for each of the children of the boroughs - they would need it in the coming Winter Months.

“Fashionista, huh?” Cressia smiled. She did not like to tease, but she wanted to see how round his eyes would get.

“In another life,” Alvin began, “Though at times it feels like

“This is your mothers?”

He nodded.

“Yes, I decided to keep in once she passed away,” Alvin said, “I couldn’t part with it, it was her favourite.”

That was another human thing which Cressia could not quite understand - the obsession with keeping mementos of the departed. Elves, even Cressia, felt such tepid thoughts kept them chained to the past, when they should live for the future. Upon a loved one’s death, anything that called back to their relationship was burnt along the deceased’s body. It was a metaphorical way of releasing them from their bond to another.

With that said, maybe these odd human practices weren’t so bad all things considered. During her early life, The Conclave had spoke a great deal about the bonds and roots that were the lifeblood of the Elven People: yet when she compared it to the warmth she felt among the Zantzar peasants, it was anything but that.

Much like the Elven Myths it was an artificial creation, corralled and caressed by the faceless leaders of the Elven Council. Her elven friends had begun to dissipate as the years went by in Zantzar, and the relationship she had with both parents was not as always affectionate or riddled with love, as she’d shared with the borough children.

She wasn’t even sure if she wanted to go back to the Elven Conclave - in fact she wanted to stay permanently within the Zantzar council. Maybe she should convince her parents to come along, and maybe, just maybe, a lifetime of brainwashing might soon be unravelled out of them when they were dressed up in slick Zantzar furs.

She began to giggle, and decided she would move to the windowsill and see what view a Prince was given from this corner of the castle.

“I can finally do this now.”

“Do what?”

Cressia pushed the bundle of hair outside the cobbled windowsill, watching it

“Climb, climb up my love, and climb fast!”

“Pretending to be Lady Llywelyn?” Alvin asked, “Children hear that story around her too.”

She began hoisting the hair back up again, like an elderly woman raising water from a damp well.

“She was not a lady, as you know, but a man.”

“Well of course I knew that, I had to take so many folklore electives under my tutors growing up.”

Cressia devoured myths, and in another lifetime she might’ve been content to be a myth maker at the table of the Conclave. She wanted to put his knowledge of fables and legends to the test.

“Lady Llywelyn was born Terence of the Llywelyn Clan, the feminine son of a King who ruled over Northern Pendaline in the archaic times.”

“He was vain and abrasive and spent far too much time in front of his sister’s mirror,” Alvin continued, “But he was compassionate, witty and well liked by his subjects.”

“….He was also incredibly gay,” Cressia hastily added, “And his long hair was used to drag up any royal guard whom he wanted to spend the night with.”

“….And the King felt compelled to throw him out because of it, towing to the tiresome line of toxic masculinity that was omnipresent in those dark days.”

“Then lived the rest of his life in squalor, before being killed in a dark alley after his attempts to sell his body had gone wrong.”

“Turned into a woman by the pages of history afterwards - a cautionary tale for young girls about the dangers of deflowering yourself for just about everyone.” Alvin concluded.

Cressia always felt saddened when she heard the end of the tale, in fact she could barely bring herself to listen to it after she’d come to discover the truth. Nor did she recount the tale to the borough children who had asked it of her when she wanted to keep them entertained as they waited on their parents to pick them up.

She felt she was degrading Terence’s memory by recounting it, and if she couldn’t tell the children the of the taboo subject, the best move was not to speak about it at all.

She did not want to ponder, she decided she would sit alongside him. Like her own desk chair, it was broad enough to fit a third wheel between them.

“Show me what you’re working on,” She said, “I’m not a fool, I know you’re hiding something.”

He opened the drawer, and pulled out something which she knew wasn’t what he was working on originally.

“Well, what is it?”

“What does it look like?”`

“Making jewellery?”

“Yes Cressia, well done.”

“Oh, I see, not wanting the word to get out, do you?”

“Oh, of course, you know the future king of Zantzar can’t be seen as a sissy.”

She peered down, and saw a stretch of dark cord stringed around a medallion of an ostrich, both the national bird and symbol of Zantzar.

“It’s a choker.”

“Yes, it’s a choker,” Alvin repeated deflated, “I like making them, but rarely do I get the chance to wear them.”

“Well, now’s your chance,” Cressia whispered, “Put it on for me.”

He let her command linger in the air, and then he reached for the braided cord. It had beads attached to prevent any unwanted tangles, but Alvin began to fidget with it in such a way that it irritated her.

“Turn around, you’re doing it wrong.” She had now morphed into a socially concerned mother who didn’t want her child to make a fool of himself in front of others.

There was no objection, in fact he let her sharp nails walk all over him as her slender fingertips dug deep into the sides of his neck.

“I hope I’m not prickling you.”

“Nope, it’s just ticklish.”

“I pricked my ear this morning when I took off my ear rings,” She sighed, “So I know how it feels.”

“Maybe elves are just thin skinned compared to humans.”

“Maybe,” She mused, “Is that alright?”

His hands reached around the sides, and felt a loose string that was dwindle all the way. It was still not a choker, but rather only a necklace.

“It could be tighter.”

She pulled on the cord like a garrote, not content to let go until she saw the curvature of his neck turn red.

“Much better.” He wheezed out through gritted teeth.

“It looks good on you actually.” Cressia didn’t really like it when men wore jewellery, but the sapphire Ostrich in the middle really did bring out the best in Alvin’s blue eyes. For a moment, she found herself getting lost in them, and hid behind his slender frame in embarrassment. Her fingertips started to trail elsewhere, moving up and down the back of neck and through the tangled strands of his dishevelled hair.

“You need to get a haircut, there’s just so much wrong here on your part.”

So many noughts and splits ends, she thought, tsk tsk tsk.

“Are you going to be my lady in waiting now,” Alvin said, “Giving me all sorts of fashion tips, even when it’s not wanted?”

You need to be fastened to a tip, Cressia thought, ideally a spear headed one.

When they had first met, it was an untrimmed but still serviceable mullet - now it had morphed into a light Afro which wasn’t worn by anyone aside from Pendaline streetwalkers who’d tried to lurch themselves on Cressia when she’d gone there on holiday. Maybe Alvin and “Lady Llywelyn” had fallen from the same tree after all.

“I’m serious, you need to sort this mess out,” Cressia replied, trying to get the image out of her head, “I’m not scolding, but get a trim at least.”

“I’m growing it long.”

“You can get it trimmed and still grow it long.” She began to play with it, letting herself twirl a contour with her little finger. “You don’t need to be inducted into the brotherhood of buzz cuts.”

“Do you wish you had long hair, Cressia?”

“I do have long hair,” she began, “I have to cut it off with my rapier every morning.”

“That’s a funny image, you wake up and see a large ponytail lying besides you every morning?”

“Yes, it’s that bad.”

“Bizarre.”

“I know, so bizarre.”

He was beginning to smile again, and so was she. Smiles were always her weak spot, infectious, something she didn’t allow others to see within her.

“Show me what you’re really working on.” She softly spoke, once he’d begun to calm down with the giggles.

Alvin reached into the drawer again, and brought out the piece he would’ve completed in record time had it not been for Cressia.

“Is that Elvish?” she asked, “It looks Elvish.”

He nodded. “Yes, it’s a necklace with the seal of the Caravania tribe etched into it.”

Cressia could make out the faint outline of a dove carved into the cobalt medallion. She had never seen a dove in her life, nor would she like them if she did, but it still beat having an ostrich as your national emblem.

“It’s for you actually,” He slyly spoke, “I was thinking of giving it you, but….”

“But?”

“I want to see you in your Zantzar uniform first.”

“What?”

“I want to see you in your old soldier uniform.” He repeated, with much clarity.

She was grossed out, almost like he’d asked her to dress up in old Conclave school uniform. She been solicited with offers like that in her armed forces days, men who gazed hungrily at her body, and spoke of promises of getting her a few rungs up the ladder without having to dirty her nails as much. It was when she joined the Zantzar Blades and enshrouded behind it’s veil of protection did the offers stop. Batting off attention like that made Cressia feel like she was the only elf within Zantzar in those dark days.

She turned to leave and ran, long before Alvin's eyes could even wince in pain. It was not until she reached her room did she realise she’d actually brought it along with her anyway, feeling Alvin would ask her to wear it as part of their fencing arrangement .

It was one of the few pieces of clothing she had that wasn’t apart of her more earthy palette that made up her other outfits - oak brown, evergreen emerald, soft sapphire blue. The colours, though slightly faded, were still there for anyone to make out the black slacks, red petticoat and crimson beret that made up of the Zantzar uniform.

She decided she would bring it to him, at least. His head still cowered over the trinket by the time she’d returned, distraught that perhaps he made a social faux pas and terribly shattered their working relationship.

"I'm back." She said, as she pressed into the room again.

"You're back." Alvin repeated. He was smiling again. The social faux pas he made wasn’t weighing over his head any longer.

"And I've brought my uniform." She smiled, and held out the woven bag for him.

“May I ask again that you put it on?”

“I’m not a mannequin, you know.”

“Pretty please?” He whispered, “It’s all that I ask of you.”

She bit her lip. In truth, the necklace he made didn’t seem so bad, and she wanted to see if her old uniform still fitted her anyway.

"Don't look, alright?" She said in a low voice, “I just really want that necklace.”

He nodded, and turned back to place his head on the desk. His eyes were clenched for the sake of her modesty, but Cressia eyes never left him. She put on and taken off her uniform so many times that she didn’t even need to look as she did. She had undressed before in front of men, but never with their backs turned away from her, and never with royalty.

For a moment, as she slid off her pink slippers and undid her white dress, she was covered only by a soft bra and dark panties. She wondered if Alvin had even seen a woman naked beforehand, or if he had even laid with a woman in his lifetime. She did not want to feel judgemental, but a man in his late twenties without a significant other posed some serious questions about his personal life, but even more so when one was a prince.

The black slacks themselves were tight, form fitting and perhaps placed a little too much emphasis on her sharply shaped rear end for someone who was supposed to be going to war. The petticoat was a size too large, the beret was a size too small, only barely able to be placed on the crown of her head.

She left the pink slippers until last, breaking military conduct here, but she could not let her feet grow cold now that she lacked the warmth of the Witherdom bear coat.

“How do I look?”

“Amazing,” Alvin cooed, “And as promised.” He held out the necklace, with it's amateur scribble for a dive.

She took it, and let it linger around her soft neck. She fell in love with it instantly. The string was much softer than the cord he’d used. If so, she did not mind. She did not want her best feature to be scarred with rope marks.

“Thank you Alvin.”

Now he was getting lost in her soft sapphire eyes, something which

“We’re going to be having a ball in a few weeks time…” He began.

“A Ball?”

“Yes, a ball,” Alvin continued, “For the war effort, and I was wondering if you could let me have the day off for it.”

“Well of course I will silly,” Cressia answered, wrapping him in her arms, “But only if you let me come, of course.” Cressia had always been deeply enamoured with the idea of going to a ball, even as a child when the Conclave

Alvin began to furrow deep within his blushes. Perhaps there was nothing left for him to hide at all. He began to unfasten the drawer

“I’ve been working on a few other things here and there, would you like me t-“

“Show me!”

She sat down alongside him once again, and Alvin felt the two of them were in for a long night debating the intricacies and habits of making jewellery together