The library felt emptier without him.
Drizella sat at her usual table, quill tapping against a blank sheet of parchment. She had sworn she wouldn't write him—that she wasn't so pathetic as to pine after some prince who had lied about who he was. But her chest felt heavy in his absence, and her thoughts buzzed like bees without a hive.
"Ridiculous," she muttered. "Absolutely ridiculous."
And yet she dipped the quill into ink.
Somewhere, in another land across the sea, Henry was doing the same.
Letter One: From Henry
Dearest Drizella,
If you're holding this letter, it means you haven't decided to throw it into the fire immediately upon arrival. That gives me some hope.
You once told me you'd rather wrestle a boar than suffer another conversation with me. Yet, I confess, I would happily endure a herd of boars if it meant hearing your voice again.
The court calls me "Your Highness." Diplomats call me "Excellency." But you—you call me a buffoon. And somehow, it is your word I miss most of all.
Say something scathing. Tell me my handwriting looks like a chicken walked through ink. Insult my jawline if you must. I'll treasure every barb, so long as it comes from your quill.
Until then, I remain,
Your most loyal buffoon,
Henry
Drizella read it twice, lips pressed together, cheeks hot. "Idiot," she hissed, though her fingers lingered on the paper as though it were something precious.
She tried to crumple it. She failed. She reached for her quill instead.
Letter Two: From Drizella
Prince Buffoon,
You presume too much. I only read this because I was bored, and chickens are more entertaining than statecraft. Speaking of which, yes—your handwriting does look like poultry tracks.
You say you miss my voice? Good. I hope it haunts you while you sit in your pompous halls pretending to care about foreign grain tariffs. May every diplomat's droning voice remind you of me calling you insufferable.
I don't "treasure" you, Henry. But I suppose your letter was… tolerable. Barely.
Do not write back too quickly. I wouldn't want you to appear desperate.
With irritation,
Drizella
Henry received the letter three weeks later, in a foreign palace chamber lit by cold lanterns. He laughed aloud at her venom and startled the attending scribe. Then, with a smile tugging at his mouth, he began his reply.
Letter Three: From Henry
My Lady of Thorns,
Your words reached me on a night when I had nearly drowned in tedium. I was beginning to suspect diplomacy is a test of how long a man can stay awake while nobles repeat themselves. Then your letter arrived, sharp as a dagger, and I found myself laughing until the chamber echoed.
So yes, Drizella, I am desperate. Desperate for more of your venom. Desperate for your truth, when all around me is courtesy and lies.
You are not "barely tolerable." You are the only part of my day that feels real.
Say you will write again. Even if only to tell me what a fool I am.
Yours, with unshaken loyalty,
Henry
Drizella read that one late at night, candlelight flickering across her face. Her fingers traced the words, though she scowled at herself for the softness in her chest.
She dipped her quill and began again.