The Witch's Cursed Daughter

89. Reunion

"Long time," the Mage said, dropping her hood. In the dark cloud-light, Davore's feminine features seemed aged; her drawn expression was almost unreadable, yet her voice revealed her distaste as she addressed Romile.

Swallowing a sneer as her words reached his ears, Romile replied, "So it is."

"How was the war?" Davore asked, this time looking away and contemplating the sky.

"Arduous."

"Is there going to be a problem?" Wen interjected before further words could be thrown between the two.

Sending his brown eyes up and down Davore's silhouette, Romile flippantly responded, "Of course not."

"Your Imperial Highness, as long as he has overcome his jealousy...."

"Jealousy!?" Romile cut Davore off as if his words were weapons, "Jealousy. No matter what happened in the past, it was never jealousy that I felt."

Shrugging and rolling the hem of her cloak, Davore placed her tongue visibly between her teeth to refrain from snickering, "Oh? Then I apologise; I must have been mistaken."

Thunder seemed to chuckle, causing the group to fall silent as a peal of ill-timed laughter worked its way recklessly into their throats, not daring to sound. Aware that their attention had turned elsewhere, Wen sighed impatiently, "This is not the time for a childish reunion. Davore, lead the way."

"Yes, Your Imperial Highness," the Mage nodded. Spinning to return in the direction she had appeared from, Davore held the door open before striding into the labyrinth of greenery.

As the three moved through the vegetation, Romile couldn't help but admire the potent perfumes provided by the cocktail of flowers and the tremulous grasses that bent under the weight of droplets descending from the tree bows above them. As they passed by a picturesque table amid the splendorous flora, Romile had an image of Illea flash through his mind. The notion of a union with her returned him to his foul mood. The crunch of the increasing twisting vines crawling across the pathway raised the already high tension.

Sensing a dark atmosphere trailing behind him, Wen slowed his pace slightly, closing the gap between him and Romile. As they started to step in rhythm, the prince began, "Sir Fassie, I would appreciate it if you did not allow past grievances between us to sour the mood of this rescue. I understand that Davore's countenance is rather hostile, however now that I have reminded her of our goal, it will not happen again."

"You wish to spare her feelings?" Romile asked, almost humoured by Wen's explanation.

Wen pressed against the dark bags under his left eye; his face remained unreadable. A misplaced curl pulling on the corner of his lips made his words sound lonely as he spoke, "If I were that sort of person, would I not have chosen your company over hers all those years ago."

"It sounds as if you did not take me into the palace to protect me."

As the words left Romile's lips, a realisation started to take shape in his mind. With the gentle sounds of their clothes brushing against leaves along with the consistent flow of their breath, Romile allowed his attention to settle on them rather than the notion he refused to entertain.

"You're right. I would never possess such a human-like quality. Perhaps if I had, you would have remained by my side and perished at war when you were twelve," Wen's voice seemed distant, reminiscent as he grumbled to himself.

Romile's body became rigid; sinking his heels into the dirt, he watched as Wen's pace declined once he noticed that Romile had stopped.

"Yet, Davore was perfectly capable?" Romile asked. His original intention was to spit the words like venom from a snake, yet they did not quite have that effect. "Together, we rescued her from the streets, ignited her belief in magic, taught her control, and gave her a family. Whether you meant to or not, your decision deprived me of being a part of that family. Even when I entered the palace as a Guard, I had hoped to return to finally your side." Romile watched Wen's back expectantly, yet the prince did not turn around or reply. A rapid frustration ripped through Romile's chest, and a burst of raw laughter found its way into his speech, "I can only say, Your Imperial Highness, I believe that finding myself beside Julian has been the greatest honour, so thank you."

Allowing his feet to carry him forward at speed, Romile barged past Wen, who trailed behind without another word. The two moved in silence, passing by scenery that seemed to repeat verbatim the previously seen long-stemmed flowers, curling branches, and pockets of vibrant colours. Finally catching sight of an irascible Davore, the boys rushed into the clearing where she waited. Parting his lips to apologise for their lagging, Romile's eye landed on a large bed in the middle of the space, surrounded by vine-like curtains amidst twisting roots. A delicate frame lay above the covers; covers dyed a crusty brown, not suitable against the pale skin and off-white hair.