Elian

Salt Truce

Sixteen-year-old Prince Elian of Nordheim dropped an entire salt shaker into the goblet of fourteen-year-old Princess Emelli of Islandria just before a toast. The salt crystals settled at the bottom of the sweet wine like a microscopic iceberg.

"To the union of our families," the king proclaimed, and Emelli, catching the movement of her neighbor's hand, raised her goblet with an icy smile. She took a sip, her eyes narrowing in disgust. The salt burned her tongue, mingling with the cloying sweetness.

“Delicious?” Elian whispered to the general applause, his voice thick as molasses.

"Like your jokes," she hissed back, setting down the cup. "Primitive and predictable."

That evening, in the garden, she took her revenge. Bribing a page, she soaked his expensive hunting boots with a mixture of fish oil and honey. In the morning, Elian slipped his foot into them and made a sound halfway between a growl and a groan. He saw her behind a column, hiding her laughter in her hands, her eyes shining like wet garnets.

Their hatred was a ritual, the only sincerity in this gilded captivity. He left dried beetles with diamond-like elytra in her books. She replaced his geometric drawings with obscene caricatures. Every dirty trick was a message written in the language of mutual contempt.

But one night, as Elyan was sneaking into her chambers to hang the sack of feathers over her bed, he found her at the open window. Emelli, clad only in her nightgown, was gazing at the distant lights of her kingdom, a single tear, illuminated by the moon, rolling down her cheek. He froze, clutching the silly sack, and suddenly realized that her quiet vulnerability hurt him more than any of her taunts. She turned around, unsurprised by his presence.

"Have you come to finish what you started?" Her voice was a silent whisper.

Instead of answering, he threw the bag into the corner.

He doesn't love her. He hates her.