There were times I thought my Sword's fever would break, long before the weekend. Times I feared it would never leave us. Come Saturday, I had only myself to blame.

Lurking in Cyrus' room at odd hours had its benefits. The obvious; time honing my skill of over-analyzing every moment of my life while still maintaining an act of soundness for the staff.

But moments they were, one after the other. Ones I was not proud of; that had slipped between the cracks of divine punishment. Moments that were likely responsible for this, that had fueled this curse I had infected him with.

They were all considered quite thoroughly.

I wanted, more than anything, to release Cyrus from the spell. For him to wake up. To wake up and escape the daze he muttered in. For every croak and moan to transition into an actual word or sentence I could understand. But when that desire manifested, I cried. I'd tried to stop it. I tried to shield my face with my hands, but even the chamber maid was concerned at best. She left in a hurry to grant me privacy so that I could slip into my sobbing madness alone.

When my Sword became vaguely coherent, he spoke only of the War. Apologized to men I didn't know and he fell asleep when I brushed back his hair.

But I felt his agony; an experience I was ashamed to be granted without his permission. There I sat, harboring my own secrets in the dark, craned, watching over his.

Of course, he knew the worst of them. I had killed a woman. Which, remarkably, didn't phase him like I thought it would. When I babbled it off to him, he was more concerned with comforting me. He didn't comment on Hellveig. He just rushed to me, gathered me into his arms and told me I was safe three or four times within a minute.

But if what he felt over the War was half of this weight... I.

I scolded myself.

I knew better. I knew this would happen. I was right to be afraid. It may not have been Miss Hellveig's hand this time, but it may as well have been mine. The Lord did not appreciate adulterers, and he had reaped his vengeance over me, and worse; I knew it was well deserved.

I did this.

I poisoned him with my attention. I'd allowed myself to... to entertain the idea that I could have a real connection. Allowed myself to desecrate the altar I would be married at, and now the man I used to fill the void that had always been Willem, was scarred for life. Just like him.

If he lives, I promised God, I will do anything. Anything. Just, God, please. Let him live. He doesn't deserve this. This is my fault. This should be me. Tell me how to-!

"Princess?"

I jumped out of prayer to find Ser Willoughby standing at the door.

"It's the middle of the night," he said. "I thought it was Josie's shift."

"I sent her to bed," I declared.

He paused, resting a hand.

"Why? Did you come in here to misbehave?" I teased.

"No, I-"

"Relax. I'm jesting. I wouldn't blame you if you did anyway. It's not like he's awake. And if he was, he'd likely egg you on. ...How's your bruise?" I asked.

"It was a little more than a bruise, Your Highness. But basically gone."

"Are we back to titles?"

He sighed, "Ser Elías was unhappy I was so late to arrive to your side. We had a discussion. I was formally reprimanded."

"Ser Elías is fielding his own frustrations of not being there himself. Don't read into it. It's no one's fault but my own and I will have that stricken from your record."

"It's not your fault." He scoffed. "You're not burning and robbing homes!"

"They burn and rob for me. It is my fault; for existing," I sang. "...You don't have to stand in the hall, you know?"

Willoughby stepped closer, choosing to sit beside me and rest his hands in his lap. 

"Well," I motioned to the bed. "I'm afraid this is it. Riveting. You don't have to stay either. I wasn't ordering you or anything. I'm perfectly fine brooding on my own."

"What are we brooding over specifically?" He leaned in. "The eerie silence of you two not bickering?"

"Oh, just the usual. Existence. Curses. Eternal damnation. Choose which fancies you," I advised.

To my surprise he laughed. "Eternal damnation."

"Probably the worst of those you could have laughed at," I scowled.

"My apologies, perhaps if you explained yourself on each of them I might-" he stopped. "I'm sorry I cannot keep a straight face."

"Good God, Daniel. Did you come in here to bully me?"

He straightened, shaking his head but was still well-amused. "You blame yourself more than any Lord or Lady I've known."

"Are you dumb?" I hissed. "These bandits are burning horses. I'm an Eisson. I'm a horse. My Cyrus is a horse handler; the metaphor is not lost upon me."

"Oh he's your Cyrus, is he?" He nudged me with his knee.

"I-" I panicked.

"Relax," he smiled softly. "It's not as though I don't know what you get up to. Neither of you are very contained with that gleam in your eyes."

"I'd thank you for your discretion but you're already too proud of yourself."

He hummed. "He loves you," he said.

I felt my face blanken. "I know. Poor Bastard."

"You don't return the sentiment?" His brow raised.

"No, I... It's not that. It's... Do you believe in soulmates?" I asked. Before he could answer, I added, "Because I do. And I've already found mine."

"There's another man?" He sat up.

"Not exactly," I shrugged. I twiddled my fingers nervously. "What I'm about to tell you, you can never utter again, so help me-"

"Svana," he said. "On with it."

"There was a boy. When I was a child. The ostler's boy. And I..." my face came back to life. "I loved him. Every second of every day, since I can remember. Since the first morning I stumbled upon him. He was, playing with this stick, jabbing at things, and imagining they were dragons, and soldiers, and. I don't know what happened, I'd never seen someone so beautiful."

Cyrus made a noise and I whispered an apology to him, but Willoughby shook his head.

"Go on," he said. "He doesn't mind. That's just the fever."

"...Well he," I stuttered. "He got hurt. Because of me. Because I'm haunted by this crown. I'm not allowed to love anyone; I knew that. I know it now, and I'm petrified that I'll-"

"Swan," Cyrus moaned.

I stopped myself, flocking to his side.

"I'm sorry," I told him. "Sorry."

Willoughby stood behind me, resting a hand on my shoulder. "Let me take over."

"It's fine." I wiped the tears that'd snuck out under each eye. "The rest of the story is, I kissed him, and we were caught. They branded him. And I never saw the boy again."

"They branded him?"

"My father is not a warm man," I said.

Cyrus stirred."Swan, my Swan." 

"What did he say?" Willoughby tilted his head.

"It's nonsense. He just rambles," I said.

"No, he said 'Swan.' Is he dreaming about birds?"

"Stop, Daniel."

But; "Svana," Cyrus said.

We both looked down; wider eyes.

"That was clearly your name," he insisted.

"Was it?" I groaned. "It sounded more like-"

"Come to think of it, Svana is pretty close to swan-"

"Where am I?" Cyrus asked.

My hands wavered over Cyrus' body as I couldn't decide if I should touch him, try to rouse him or just absolutely panic. "Dan?!"

"Cyrus?" He sang down to him. "Can you hear me? You're in the castle."

"Where's Sah," he faltered. "Vanah."

I gasped."Did he just?"

"Yes," Willoughby shoved me closer to the swordsman. "Talk to him!"

"Uh...? Hello?" I had to slap away Willoughby's judgey hand. 

"Svana;" my Sword said, clear.

"Cyrus." What a time to discover an inability to speak!

"I," he started. There were several seconds between that and; "I will be your brave... bravest knight."

"Damn," Willoughby cursed. "I'm sorry. I thought that would be more profound."

But my heart had stopped. I couldn't breathe. "What did you say?" I choked.

"He said he'd be a knight," Willoughby explained. "Probably got confused with me here. I'm sorry."

I'd forgotten he was behind me, madly tearing between looking back at him and then to Cyrus- or- to...!

"Brave," Cyrus exhaled, "Bravest knight," then left me for some other dream. Deep in sleep.

"I think that's enough of that. Why don't you-?"

"Daniel," I said. "I... I  need you to do something for me without asking why."

"I... do not like the sound of that," he decided.

"Lift Mr. Evergreen up."

"What?"

"Come, it's nearly morning. Do it and do it now. Before the staff arrive."

His expression changed. "Why?"

"Willoughby!" I yelled at him, snapping my fingers. "Just lift him forward; I need to see his back."

"His back?" he exclaimed. "You want me to undress him now?"

"I want you to bring him forward," I made the motion with my hands. "So that I can pull up his shirt long enough to see if there's a BRAND on it!" By the end of my sentence, I was seething.

Willoughby gathered my implication, but I could tell he was just as confused and hesitant as I was, if not more.

"Now!" I ordered him. "Please."

He did as I asked, maneuvering the swordsman forward, and together, we watched each other's faces as we peeled back the shirt.

And there it was.

Charcoal and raised; a perfect replica, even after all these years; The Eisson Crest.

I shrieked so loudly, damning my hands to my face, that Willoughby lost hold of Mr. Evergreen! His head struck the banister on the way back down.

"Oh!" Willoughby cried. "Sorry, mate!"

"Daniel!" I wheezed, half-screaming, half-whispering. "Daniel!"

"What! What is it?" his face was hopeful. "Does this-? But I don't understand!"

My feet carried me, pacing us around the room, and my hands snaked into my braid. "I think," I waited a few seconds to justify the thought. But I didn't want to say it. "I need to see it again," I said.

"Princess, I saw it." Willoughby said. He watched my face shift. "I saw the crest."

"What if we were wrong and it is some other-?"

"Some other what? BRAND? I wear it on my armor! It's all over the castle! I think I would recognize it. You truly didn't know he bore this? That he-? When he told you his name was Cyrus, did you not put the two together?"

"When he- Oh you think I'm the idiot here?!" I barked. "The ostler's son was Willem!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" I was wild in an array of gestures, as I raced to piece together every fact. "He never said- he-! The feather." My lip quivered. "The feather, Willoughby!"

"I don't know if we're sad or happy about the feather!" he confessed.

"We're haaaaappppy!" I wailed, melting into a sob.

"Ah!" His hands went up. "Svana crying? I don't know what to do with this?"

"Comfort me you monster!"

"Uh," he tentatively patted my back as I crouched by the foot of the bed. "This doesn't feel right. Maybe if I-?"

"Why wouldn't he tell me?" I poured. "What kind of sick, cruel joke is this?"

"I'm not entirely sure what's happening," Willoughby said. "But Cyrus-"

"Willem!"

"Uhh!" His head danced around. "Our friend isn't a particularly mean fellow; maybe he-?"

"Maybe he, what?!" I spat. "Forgot he was a different person? Willoughby I've been talking nonstop about the ostler's boy! I'm humiliated! Devastated!"

"You told Cyrus?" he whined. "I thought it was our secret. You were so protective of it!"

"He doesn't know about the branding! Well he-! You're not comforting me!"

"Right!" Willoughby became stern. "Right. Apologies. So... What does this mean? What are you thinking? If Cyrus is Willem, and Willem is Cyrus- does that mean?"

"Is everything alright?" Sam asked.

"Ahh!" I yelped, shooting off the floor and beaming profusely. "We were playing a game!"

"A game...? At this hour?" He yawned.

Willoughby nodded, pursing his lips. "Yup, a game. Where we uh. Invent characters. Svana is a blind lady who's lost her dog."

I scowled at him.

"I see," the Prince said. He smiled as he passed me to sit next to Cyrus. "How is he?"

I couldn't speak, so Willoughby took the chance. "Fine," he said. "Never better. Well. He could be better. Is what I meant. Is it late? Is anyone else tired?" He faked a stretch and bolted for the door. "Alright then. Farewell. Good night, good morning. Whatever it is, Your Highnesses."

"Daniel!" I hissed, but he promptly vanished into the hall.

Sam made some sort of noise before he stood up again. "I want to-"

"-I should- Oh. Your pardon, what?"

His face relaxed. "I wanted to thank you," he said.

"Thank me?" I frowned. "Why?"

"For not abandoning me in my hour of need." He chuckled. "For so valiantly stepping up when I could not. To both my father and now, with my dearest companion. For letting me sleep."

I bobbed my head. "It's nothing to-"

And then he silenced me, in probably the worst way possible— a kiss! I reeled back, almost snapping at the spine but the way he held me insisted on a deeply romantic sort of kiss. An effort to escape, I was not in control of my body; my hand rose and smacked the Prince square across the face.

He let go of me to tend to it, and apologized. "I'm sorry," he sputtered more than once.

I didn't, couldn't say anything.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "Are you?" He paused, then glanced down at his friend, quieter. "Are you and Ser Elías an item?" he asked.

"What?!" I gagged.

"The reason you won't kiss me?"

"And Elías is your guess? Not the affair! Not the fact that we don't get along. Elías! He's old enough to be my father!" I spat.

Sam looked past me into the hall. "He looked twenty?"

"Willough-??! You think I'm involved with Willoughby?"

"Ah! That's his name! Sorry, it's difficult to keep so many names straight."

"Two? There's two of them!"

"So you deny it?"

"Yes!"

Sam was surprised by my response, leaning back a little. "Come, he's always on your rides. Now it's the middle of the night and you're 'playing make believe' with him?"

"Ser Willoughby is like a brother to me." I caught myself at that thought. "Ew! How dare you make me confess that!"

"Oh." But that pleased Sam, and he passively touched his cheek. "Then you slap me not because of an affair but... my own?"

I had to force myself to close my gaped mouth.

"I should not have kissed you so abruptly... I'm sure you're very confused."

"Unbelievably."

"Then I will do my best to rectify the injury I've caused you," he said. "I want us to be close. I want to..."

"To what?" I cried.

"To be happy."

"In what regard?"

"I know I've made mistakes but I am very willing to-"

"Please stop," I whimpered.

"You're scared. Of course you are. I've wounded you."

"I need to lie down," I tried.

"Yes," he nodded. "Go. Sleep. I'll remain here." He happily spun around, assessing the scene. "What do I do? Do I just...?" As he discovered that he could, in fact, dip and dab the washing cloth comfortably, he became far too excited. "Look at that!"

"Grand..." I stared longingly at my Sword, but the desire to get away from Sam was overpowering, and I feared what sort of scene Cyrus had soaked into his unconsciousness.

Maybe in whatever dream he waded in, he hadn't seen the Prince kiss me? Maybe he was resting peacefully, and maybe my sleep might digest of what was left to feel.

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