The glittering moon had a strong presence on this night. His chest still sat with that terribly soft and soothing warmth which emanated from the peppermint tea that he had finally decided to pour for himself. Despite the calm which held his frame and the fatigue which wore down his eyelids he could not find it in him to fall into slumber.

Instead, and as usual, he found himself wandering among the whistling garden which currently rested in night-bloom. His fingers twisted at the stems of leaves as he passed by, trying to perfect each piece of his botanical puzzle.

A looming figure sat with their back to him, body facing towards the everlasting sea which reflected the moonstruck appearance of the night.

It was Celine of Dumar. She wore her mask even under the dark night sky. Her features hidden even from mother-moon. Her black dress flicked with the soft wind, the black embroidery being caught under the moon's glow, it was so faint however, that Ymos could barely make sense of the patterning. His feet crunched under the dirt and gravel path of the garden.

“May I join you?” He gently questioned so as not to startle her. She nodded despite not tearing her gaze to look at him.

Sitting, Ymos suddenly felt self-conscious in the warm air which had until moments ago soothed him. “Do you enjoy blackberries, or blueberries?” He spoken into the sea, unfurling his palm. His delicate fingers untwisting the knot sitting atop the white cloth, which was now dyed blue at its crinkled edges.

He placed the cloth between them, more like a communal platter than offering. Slowly, she pulled her gaze from the night sky. Looking down, she almost studied the small blue bulbous fruits. Finally, and without hesitation she sharply plucked up only one, blue beginning to stain her brown skin.

“Thank you.”

“They are my favourite, grown right here.” He pointed to the other edge of the garden where the bushels of fruit sat basking in onyx shadows. “Such intricate products of the earth they are.”

“You have grown many then, the harsh salt of the sea does not affect their growth?”

“I place them in the back, so the orange, apple and lemon trees slightly block the salination of the bushes.” He smiled like it was a devious act.

A silence momentarily fell over the two, bringing them back down to the thorny stems

“Tomorrow we must go out to another village, just beyond the ridges. We will only be gone for the day to collect information and other botanical samples of the area for medicinal study, would you like to accompany us?”

The silver moonlight lifted the details of her mask, the miniscule ridges of paint from the brush. Such a strangely purposeful creation. Like looking at the face of death and seeing the sun in it. Celine of Dumar answered only with a nod. A type of nod which allowed Ymos to conclude that she was, in fact, quiet. And if he could have predicted that earlier, based solely on the rumours and myths and stories which surrounded the Heir, he would have truly never entertained the idea.

“Very well.” He nodded back.

Celine of Dumar reached for a blackberry, she turned her head as she bit into it, lifting the edge of her mask away. Ymos too, turned away from her for the moment. Suddenly, he quite enjoyed the quiet of the brush shifting under the sea-breeze and the hum of those steely stars above.

“I enjoy the tranquility of the night. The silence.” Celine of Dumar spoke, echoing his own internal thoughts.

“The quiet is a heavenly thing. Is there much quiet at the palace?” Ymos imagined the palace of Dumar as a bustling thing, filled with soldiers and governors and servants sidestepping and slipping by each other. There must be moments of gargantuous cacophony, at the festivals or their affluent parties and weddings.

“It is not like this.”

And so they sat in the breeze. Feeling it relax their heavy muscles and warm their pitted ribs. Fingers reaching every so often for the fresh fruit sitting between their waists.

Soon he rose, exhaustion and the fresh night air bringing him to the steps of slumber. He rose and nodded curtly, wholly unsure what to do with his frame despite how his eyelids were beginning to curl over themselves, “Sleep well, Celine of Dumar.”

Her shoulders set back in half-surprise, quiet for a few moments as she gazed upwards at him, she dutifully responded, “You as well, Ymos of Tyria.”

That simple exhaustion, which faintly reminded him of childhood, began to overtake him. His body crawling with a calm slumber as he followed the stone steps up to his chambers. The sweet smell of the salty waters and fresh fruit lingering on his lips.