
Collab between
@The Muse and
@c3p-0hPrevious Day
Sometime around 1am | Location: The Royal HomePart V
Flynn opened his eyes, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head, allowing his lips to linger there, inhaling the newly familiar scent of her hair. For a long while, he simply held her, his gaze fixed on the fire crackling across them.
His mind wandered—wondering just what, exactly, he’d gotten himself into. She had consumed him, completely, in a way no one ever had before. All the fleeting flings of his past, the many faces and bodies he’d caressed, kissed and left behind—none of them had felt like this. In every cell of his body, he knew this was different, and it terrified him. Yet, he ached to indulge further, to lose himself in her. She’d marked him without even trying, left him aching and hopelessly bound, and he knew with a bone-deep certainty that he’d never be free of her—nor did he want to be.
A desperate hope stirred in him. He wanted her to feel it too, this pull between them. A small, bitter part of him warned that it was impossible—that she would always resent him for removing her from everything she’d ever known. She was here out of duty, fulfilling her nation’s expectations. And yet, his heart couldn’t forget the eager way she’d moved into his arms of her own accord. He hadn’t pulled her closer; she had come willingly. She had kissed him first.
His gaze drifted down to her face, resting softly against his chest, her eyes closed in peaceful surrender.
Ruined. That's what he was.
Ruined for anything but her—soul tangled up in the way her breathing changed when he kissed her, the breathless way her voice sounded against his touch, even as she tried to resist it.
And yet, it occurred to him how little he knew of her life beyond the speculation of his mother’s spies—beyond what his mother saw fit to tell him. His thoughts drifted to the way Amaya had so easily refrained from interfering with his past relationship. He couldn’t help but wonder if she, too, had someone waiting for her—if that was the reason she hadn’t given any pushback. An unfamiliar pain struck through his heart, the mere thought burning like an open wound.
He wouldn’t have been so gracious, wouldn’t have stepped aside and let her go without a fight—the way she had been so willing to do.
The idea stung, but it didn’t diminish his desire to know her more—everything she was, not just the surface. So, with a soft exhale, he broke the silence, his voice quiet.
“Did you also… have someone? Before?”Nearly asleep, Amaya was coaxed back to the surface. She let the question sit in the air. In her mind, she saw skin so pale it was like milk against her own. Dark hair. A cunning smile. A faded, foolish memory she’d nearly buried until her attacker’s magic had pulled it to the surface this morning. It made her want to hide herself.
But Flynn had asked her to stay.
“Not in any way that mattered,” she murmured. She kept her eyes closed, her words careful and measured. Amaya wanted to leave it there – it was honest enough. But Flynn’s breath feathered against her hair. His heart set a steady rhythm against her ear. ‘Honest enough’ was less than he deserved. She forced herself to continue.
“My world was small.” Certainly smaller than his had ever been. Self-consciousness shot through her as she thought of her own inexperience. He was barely older than her – but how much more
life had he lived? What had he thought when he’d realized she was more doll than person? She –
Amaya curled into him, trying to ground herself in his warmth. She let out a slow breath.
“Few had access to me. Fewer still wanted to risk antagonizing the King.” How he felt was no secret. Amaya could hear her own voice growing distant. She fought to keep herself above the familiar pain of her father and his treatment — how he’d made her untouchable to everyone around her. She tried to swallow around the lump in her throat.
“There was one.” Amaya’s words were more breath than voice. But she supposed she was just thankful that they were steady. She saw the glint in his eyes as he tugged at her hand, pulling her behind a corner.
“Once. Barely a month. He spent most of that time chasing me.” There was almost fondness in Amaya’s voice, but it slipped away like smoke.
“Then he was gone.”Flynn made a soft, thoughtful sound, almost as if he understood the truths that might’ve been hidden between her words. Her answer settled into him like a weight—just a month. Then gone. He couldn’t help but think of the way both his parents and the church had pulled strings, maneuvering people in and out of his life with strategic precision. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine a boy brave enough to chase the Princess, and win over her affection, would have just vanished by his own accord.
Bitterly, he was relieved to hear that she wasn’t waiting to run into someone else's arms. But his mind wandered, unbidden, to what she might have been like in the throes of a passion-filled fling. How she might have laughed and let herself smile without restraint. He’d seen so little of that side of her—bright and unguarded, like the rare, quiet laughs she’d shared with Elara. Or, briefly, when he had lifted her into his lap. The memory struck him warm and sharp, and he forced himself to blink it away.
“Did your parents present suitors to choose from?” he asked curiously, wondering if Amaya had endured the kind of treatment he had—choices laid out like pawns on a board. His own mother had meticulously selected those she deemed worthy of growing into a Queen and laid them all out on a silver platter. Each one more disappointing than the last.
But there’d never been any suitors for Amaya — at least none that she’d known about. And if there had been, she doubted she would’ve been given a choice.
Of course… she supposed that was
exactly what’d happened.
“I already married you Flynn, you don’t have to duel anyone for it.” Perhaps he’d allow a deflection if it played to his ego. Beneath her dry words, there was that shadow again.
Flynn’s lips quirked upward, barely, the tightness of his smile betraying his weariness. A soft, humorless sound escaped him—half amusement, half something heavier.
“I know,” he murmured, his fingers absently playing with one of the loose curls of her dark hair, sleep tugging heavily at his eyelids.
No, he wouldn’t have to duel anyone. Her father had been more than willing to accept Flynn’s offer. Eager, even, to let him whisk her away.
Clearly, he'd hit another one of her roadblocks. But his thoughts continued to wander, searching for other ways to prod her for information while he still had the chance—anything to keep her talking, to peel back just one more layer.
Despite the fog of exhaustion wrapping around him, his mind found Elara—the only real piece of Amaya’s past that he vaguely knew. Their interactions had been few, but all of them had been pleasant enough. Dutiful, professional—she floated around the house with the same quiet grace as Amaya, unassuming and composed.
Yet he remembered stepping into Amaya’s frigid room, finding it colder and emptier than the way he’d left it. Elara had abandoned Amaya’s side during the turmoil, and she hadn’t returned.
“You and Elara…” his voice trailed off as he studied her face. The question lingered unspoken between them.
Amaya’s eyes drifted open.
She wasn’t surprised that he’d brought up Elara. Still, the name sat heavy in her chest, leaching pain and guilt into her body. It was a vivid wound that almost made her gasp when she pressed on it.
I’ll stay. As I always have.The memory of Elara’s words fractured something in Amaya — the words she’d been so desperate to hear, made distant and cold in a way that broke her heart. And then Amaya had sent her away.
Words and memories and
hurt clamored in her mind. The frantic search for when and how she’d failed her only friend. The bitter pain of knowing that it was simply her nature of holding too tightly and…
And convincing herself that happiness and duty were the same thing.
That familiar fear awoke — the inevitability of loss. The dread that she would repeat her mistakes with Flynn. The guilty way she kept her head resting against his heart, trying to steady herself with its tempo. Amaya measured the space between each beat and wondered what he held there.
Emotions flickered across her face as too many painful thoughts grabbed hold of her.
Elara had been…
everything. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? She’d been forced to take up too much space in Amaya’s small world, and now there was an aching, empty void. She saw countless shared moments of warmth and worry. They choked her, each struggling to escape her in a voice she couldn’t find.
Amaya remembered seeing Elara for the first time — the cold wave of terror that had threatened to drown her. The sensation of a large hand on her neck. Crimson against white.
“I don’t know where to begin.” It wasn’t an evasion or a closed door — just a soft, vulnerable confession as Amaya studied the texture of his shirt.
Flynn hesitated, not sure how far he could reach into the hurt without making it worse. Part of him wanted to tell her that it was alright—that she didn’t have to explain anything to him. That whatever pain she held, he wouldn’t force her to lay it bare.
But another part of him couldn’t let it go. How could he hope to mend her if he couldn’t trace the map of all her scars?
“You two must’ve known each other a long time…” he speculated, remembering the way Elara’s voice had shifted when she spoke to Amaya—how it held a conviction and familiarity that no servant back in Aurelia would have dared to use with him. Something flashed in Amaya’s eyes, too quick to grasp.
“She spoke to you like my sisters do to each other.” he added, his lips curving faintly as memories of his own bickering siblings came to mind. The way they’d snap at one another, quick-tongued, stubborn and hot-headed. But their arguments had always ended in reluctant apologies, a playful shove, or a silent peace offering. Nothing had ever ended as coldly as the state Elara had left Amaya in.
His eyes softened, tracing her features as he searched for some hint of what had gone wrong.
“Did she… say something to upset you after I’d left?” he asked, his voice hesitant and careful as he tested the waters to see how far she’d let him pry.
Amaya’s expression was distant. Elara’s words sat sharp and vicious in her mind – but motionless. They’d been spoken so calmly. Gently. They’d only cut her so because of how she’d wrapped herself around them, tight and desperate as Elara pulled away. Now there were fine, bloody tracks in the space she used to fill, the words still embedded deep in the wounds they’d carved. Amaya could feel those razor edges again as she grasped at the memory. They drew fresh blood as she forced them up, out of her throat.
“She said…” Amaya could taste them, bitter and metallic on her tongue. She tried to swallow and thought she might choke.
“She said she couldn’t be what I wanted her to be anymore.” She enunciated each word carefully, like that would keep them from cutting her. But her voice shook. It was too weak and frail. Her eyes unfocused as she tried to pull inward, to wipe the stain of her own hurt and shame away from Elara’s damning statements. Amaya took a breath and even that was shredded.
“That I was just afraid to lose her because she was all I’d ever known.”Flynn’s arms tightened around her, his brows pulling together as her voice trembled. He couldn’t help but wonder what had driven Elara to speak so harshly. Why, after barely escaping death, would she choose that moment to wound Amaya more deeply.
Perhaps the near death experience, coupled with Amaya’s refusal to be helped, had pushed her over the edge—forcing her to say things she didn’t mean. Or perhaps it was something deeper. Something that had built up year after year, caught up in her duty to the crown, until it had no choice but to break free.
He felt the shape of Amaya’s world settling into place in his mind—a small, sheltered world, walled in by the expectations of a father who ruled with an iron fist. It was so unlike his own—a world that had stretched vast and open before him, where his parents had let it. And when they didn’t, he’d bent it to his will, slipping past palace walls in search of something more. How greedy and selfish he’d been—wielding freewill like a weapon, as if happiness were his birthright, something owed to him just for daring to want it.
He rested his cheek atop Amaya’s head, looking off into the shadows of the room.
“Is it true?” he asked softly, risking an approach to the fragile edge where she might pull away or cut him down again.
“She’s all you’ve known?”His questions stung. The day was filled with gentle words that left Amaya raw – but she was the one being held, this time. She kept herself still as Flynn pressed on burning, bleeding wounds.
She nodded and another tear fell. Shame, grief, anger… they were a heavy mix that stuck in her veins. When she found her voice again, it was a whisper.
“It wasn’t fair to her. To be made into so much for so long.” Handmaiden. Sister. Servant. Friend. Subject. Healer. Anchor. And Amaya had gladly accepted it all, not thinking to ask what it would cost. In her arrogance, she’d even felt
responsible for Elara – she’d thought herself the protector of her sweet, generous friend, when all along she’d been the blade digging into her, inch by inch.
“I didn’t see it.”Flynn’s gaze softened as her words lingered in the air, the quiet sorrow in her voice echoing in his chest. He could feel the weight of her self-blame, how easily she accepted herself as the sole cause of the pain around her. It was as if, in the midst of others' pain, she had forgotten her own. She apologized so easily, so quickly—like she had long been taught that she was the root of all problems.
He shifted to see her face more clearly, his hand gently tilting her chin up to meet his gaze.
"Nothing has been fair to you, either," he murmured a quiet reminder, lost in the glacial blue of her eyes.
"It sounds like you’ve never had an easy life, Amaya." A wave of guilt washed over him then—guilt for the ease he had known, for the comfort he had taken for granted while she had carried heavy burdens, hidden behind frozen palace walls.
"She must know that. Give her time.”Flynn anchored her in place, even as his words broke in her like a storm. His eyes were too soft. His voice too gentle. The simple acknowledgements were a series of lightning flashes, sudden and blinding. For a few scattered moments, every pain she’d ever felt, every fear and resentment, all that she’d tried to bury under numbness and shadow, was in stark relief.
The flood grew slowly until it didn’t. Then suddenly there was no more air in Amaya’s lungs – she was drowning in herself. She let out a sharp, shaking gasp as a fresh tear drew its track down her face. Her hand snapped up to cover her mouth as she tried to turn away and squeezed her eyes shut. More burning trails lined her face. She was trembling, she realized. Muscles tensing, curling in on herself, composure in tatters – and Flynn, always
Flynn, to witness it. Another high breath fought to escape her as she struggled against the force of her own emotions.
Flynn didn’t think—he just moved, wrapping her more securely in his arms, pulling her closer and tucking her head against his chest, as if he could absorb all the pain that reverberated through her.
He didn’t tell her to stop. Didn’t tell her to breathe. He just stayed—holding her as she sobbed, letting her unravel in his embrace. Because sometimes, he knew, there were no words to mend what had been broken for so long. All he could give her was the quiet assurance that she didn’t have to carry the shattered pieces alone.
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the side of her head, his heart lanced with pain as he listened to the raw, shaking breaths escaping her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her—sorry for everything she’d endured, for the pain that had chased her all her life, for the wounds she carried that never seemed to heal. Sorry for what had happened today, and for questioning so much that it had brought her to tears. He hadn’t meant for this. He was just... sorry. Sorry for it all.
Regardless of his guilt, he could still be here. He'd hold her as long as she needed him to. For as long as she allowed him to.
Amaya poured herself out until she was empty. It seemed never-ending. Nameless wounds and unspoken fears, fresh and faded, sorrow and wrath and an aching, hollow loneliness — Amaya couldn’t keep them from spilling out of her once they’d found the path to escape. The force of them shook her body as she wept.
She didn’t know how long she spent pulled by the current of her own emotions. But eventually, the storm cleared. The flood receded. Amaya found herself in the scattered, hollow wreckage of herself — held by, and holding onto Flynn. Her hands were curled in the fabric of his shirt. His were firm and warm against her back, cradling her head, drawing gentle patterns. Her face was buried in the dark shadow of his chest — his was pressed into her hair, his soft breath the push and pull of the shoreline in her ear. Amaya kept her eyes closed and let the rhythm of it coax her back to stillness. Her sniffles and stray hiccups grew further apart, her breath slowly evening out.
There, in his arms, Amaya could’ve gone to sleep. It shouldn’t have been surprising. Exhaustion hung heavy on her mind and body, and already she could feel herself slipping away. It wouldn’t have even been the first time she slept in his arms — she’d done it once already, just that afternoon. But it felt… different now. Heavier. There was more between them now than the brief terror of loss and the bright spontaneity of connection.
Amaya didn’t try to examine it. She didn’t have the energy. Instead, she let her breathing slow to match his, something warm and tender glowing between the shards of her broken pieces. It reached towards him. She didn’t try to hold it back. Amaya’s voice was thick with dried tears, soft and muffled where she hid in his chest.
“You shouldn’t have to carry this, Flynn. Any of it.” Not just the weight of her trauma — but
Dawnhaven. The cure. The sun. The prophecy they shared. Every burden and responsibility he could find. Amaya hesitated for a heartbeat.
“But I’m grateful it’s you,” she whispered into him. She was grateful, even if she knew what losing him would mean now.
Flynn slowly opened his eyes, a pang threading through his heart and sinking into his bones. Her words struck something deep within him, painful and healing at once. The weight of what he was doing—trying to change their fate, standing defiantly in the face of Goddesses—seemed to lift from his tired shoulders, acknowledged at last. If only for a breath, he let himself feel that fleeting relief—how it eased an ache he had thought he'd grown numb to.
It wouldn’t last; he knew that. The burdens would find him again, pressing down when reality clawed its way back to the surface. But, for now, he let himself savor the gentleness of her words.
He drew in a deep breath, steadying himself against the storm of emotions roiling within. Pity and sorrow, anger and indignation, defiance and duty, betrayal and loyalty—all tangled together, complicated and sharp against his lungs.
He shouldn’t have had to carry it. Neither should she. But he would—until his dying breath, he would shoulder whatever he needed to. They wouldn’t bow to fate or fold to death. Not him, not her. If he had to go down, he wouldn't meet death on his knees. He’d fight for them, for a future that didn’t end in ruin. A future where she was safe and smiling, light on her feet—dancing with him, unburdened by shadows and kissed by sunlight.
With careful, deliberate movement, Flynn shifted, his arms keeping her held securely as he turned her inward, pressing her back against the cushions and guiding her to lie down. He settled on his side, face-to-face with her, their bodies separated by mere inches.
He looked at her for a long, quiet moment, drinking in every detail—the weary shimmer in her eyes, the slight flush that warmed the deep tone of her cheeks and nose, the tear stains drying on her skin. His gaze dropped to her lips, and a warm spark spread through him, like fire caught in his veins, starting in his chest and tingling down to his fingertips. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of the hand he rested along the soft curve of her waist.
When his eyes finally returned to hers, his voice was quiet, low and certain.
“I'm grateful it's you, too.”It settled deep in Amaya, painful in the way it washed over old, familiar wounds. She couldn’t look away from him. As exhausted as she was, stunning clarity returned — his breath on her skin, her tear stains on his shirt, all the ways they were tangled together.
Wanted. Amaya was wanted.
She held her breath as another swell of emotion rose — but it didn’t drown her. It rocked through her gently, soothing and calm. She was unbalanced, but Flynn held her. She held him closer in turn.
Amaya could feel something building. It was quiet as it filled the air like ozone, waiting to spark. The space between her heartbeats seemed to lengthen, and there was that quiet fear, the anticipation of waiting to see if her heart stopped entirely. It…
Her hand drifted to his cheek, like she was afraid to move too quickly. He leaned into her touch, lips brushing against her palm. She catalogued the warmth, the way he sent little sensations across her skin. There was that heat again, in his eyes. In his hands. It was a wonder when Amaya realized she wasn’t cold.
She pulled her hand back. The air didn’t ignite. Amaya tucked herself in closer to him and closed her eyes. When she took in a breath, she felt the soft expansion of her body, after a lifetime of stillness. Flynn shifted in space around her, always close but never stifling. Amaya slipped away to the gentle push and pull of their breath, warm and held and wanted.
Flynn's body relaxed around her, tension unwinding from his shoulders and sinking into the cushion beneath them. His eyes grew heavier as he listened to her breathing, letting it lull him into sleep.
For once, he didn’t worry about the past or the future—didn’t let his mind wander beyond this moment. Where he belonged.