Qazaethel picked out the beautiful daffodils and went back to Eiravelle’s palace. The garden had been quiet when she arrived, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the flowerbeds, and she had spent longer than she intended searching for the perfect blooms.
She had wanted them to be flawless—bright and golden, their petals were unblemished, their stems straight and strong. She had knelt in the dirt, her fine robes were gathering dust, and had examined each flower with the same intensity she usually reserved for battle plans and political treaties.
The gardeners had watched her with wide eyes, too afraid to offer help, too confused to understand why the sovereign of Solkanaia was on her knees in the mud picking flowers like a lovesick fool.
She had chosen twelve blooms in the end, a number that felt significant in a way she could not explain. Twelve daffodils, their golden petals catching the light, their sweet scent filling the air around her. She had wrapped them carefully in cloth, had held them close to her chest as she walked back through the gardens and into the corridors of the Eastern wing palace.
She had rehearsed what she would say a hundred times during the walk—apologies and reassurances and promises that she hoped would sound sincere rather than desperate. She had imagined Eiravelle’s face when she saw the flowers, had pictured the way her eyes would light up, had convinced herself that everything would be alright.
But when she arrived at the palace, she was not prepared for what greeted her.
Saye immediately greet her, "Where is—" Qazaethel was cut off when Saye pulled her. The servant’s hand closed around Qazaethel’s wrist with surprising strength, and before the sovereign could react, she was being dragged through the entrance hall and toward the stairs. The daffodils were clutched against her chest, protected instinctively even as she stumbled forward, and her mind raced to catch up with what was happening.
"Your majesty, the lady needs you!" Saye’s voice was urgent, breathless, stripped of the calm deference that usually marked her interactions with the sovereign. She was in a hurry, her eyes were wide with worry, and they ascended upstairs in a hurry.
The stairs seemed to stretch on forever, each step taking them closer to Eiravelle’s chambers, and Qazaethel’s heart hammered against her ribs with a fear that had nothing to do with the physical exertion.
Qazaethel’s eyes widened in shock but she didn’t stopped Saye and rushed upstairs with her. She had never seen Saye like this—had never seen the servant so panicked, so desperate. Saye was always composed, always in control, always the steady presence that kept Eiravelle’s household running smoothly. To see her like this, to hear the tremor in her voice, sent a cold spike of fear through Qazaethel’s chest. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
When they got upstairs and got outside Eiravelle’s bedroom, Saye stood worried outside the door. The servant’s hands were clasped in front of her, her fingers twisting together, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. She looked at Qazaethel with a desperation that made the sovereign’s heart clench.
"Can you please enter? She’s been crying since the time you left, all I can think about calming her was you." Saye said, and Qazaethel immediately went inside and saw Eiravelle shaking violently with every sob. The sight stopped her cold. Eiravelle was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands were pressed to her face and her entire body was trembling with the force of her crying.
Her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, and her shoulders shook with a violence that seemed to wrack her entire frame. The room was dim, the curtains drawn, and the only light came from a single lamp on the bedside table. It cast a soft golden glow over the scene, illuminating Eiravelle’s tear-streaked cheeks and the tangled mess of her hair.
She press the handkerchief to her face, trying to be strong. But she was failing. The tears would not stop, the sobs would not quiet, and she was drowning in a sea of emotions that she could not name or control.
"Eivy." The word landed soft and Qazaethel immediately close the door behind her and rush to Eiravelle who’s sitting on the edge of the bed. The nickname slipped out before she could stop it, a term of endearment that she had never used before, and it hung in the air between them like a prayer.
Qazaethel knelt in front of her and held her hands, the daffodils forgotten on the floor beside her, and she looked up at Eiravelle with eyes full of worry and love.
"My dear, tell me what’s really going on, please?" Qazaethel asked, her voice was filled with worrying. She had been so confused, so hurt by Eiravelle’s coldness, but seeing her like this—seeing her broken and sobbing and utterly destroyed—made all of that fade away. All that mattered was Eiravelle. All that mattered was making her feel better.
Eiravelle looked at Qazaethel and more tears fell from her eyes, "I’m sorry~ I’m so sorry~" She kept apologizing, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush, and Qazaethel shook her head. She did not want apologies. She did not want Eiravelle to feel guilty for something she could not control. She wanted to understand. She wanted to help.
"No, Love. Please do not apologize, tell me what’s bothering you." Qazaethel kept her voice soft, and Eiravelle looked at her directly in the eye even though her eyes were red and puffy.
The omega’s gaze was raw, vulnerable, stripped of all pretense, and Qazaethel felt as though she was seeing Eiravelle for the first time all over again. This was not the composed, gentle omega who had captured her heart. This was a woman on the edge, a woman who was struggling, a woman who needed help.
"I... I-I... I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Qazaethel." Eiravelle said, and Qazaethel sat beside her on the edge of the bed and pull her in a hug. The omega’s body was rigid at first, tense with the force of her crying, but then she melted into Qazaethel’s arms as though she had been waiting for this moment all along.
Qazaethel could feel the wetness of her tears against her neck, could feel the way her body shook with each sob, could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat against her own chest.
"Shhh~ I’m here now, it’s okay." Qazaethel whispered gently. She held Eiravelle close, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing soothing circles on her back. The motion was rhythmic, calming, and she could feel the tension slowly beginning to drain from Eiravelle’s body.
"I felt so ugly, and I’m scared you won’t love me anymore." Eiravelle admitted, and Qazaethel didn’t show any shock or expressions that would make her think it was true. The words hit Qazaethel like a physical blow, but she did not flinch. She did not pull away. She simply held Eiravelle tighter, her heart aching for the pain that the omega was feeling.
"Love, you do believe it’s not true, right?" Qazaethel asked gently, and Eiravelle shook her head. The movement was small, almost imperceptible, but it spoke volumes.
"I don’t know anymore." Eiravelle whispered, her voice was cracking. "Because whenever I look at myself in the mirror, all I see was fat and ugly self. I can’t help but feel insecure." The confession was raw, honest, and it made something twist painfully in Qazaethel’s chest.
She thought of Eiravelle standing before a mirror, staring at her reflection with critical eyes, finding fault in every curve and line of her body. She thought of the omega’s fear, the doubt, the insecurity that had been building for weeks, perhaps months, and she felt a surge of anger—not at Eiravelle, but at the world that had made her feel this way.
She said, and Qazaethel softened more and kiss Eiravelle’s forehead. The kiss was gentle, lingering, a silent promise of love and devotion. "You’re not ugly, you’re carrying our child. You look even more beautiful to me." Qazaethel said, she’s not trying to exaggerate it because Eiravelle’s feelings are sensitive.
So she’s making her voice soothing enough to reach the omega. She meant every word. Eiravelle was the most beautiful person Qazaethel had ever seen—not in spite of her pregnancy, but because of it. Because her body was nurturing their child, was growing and changing to accommodate the life they had created together, and there was nothing more beautiful or more sacred than that.
"Really? You think so?" Eiravelle asked, still wanting more words to prove Qazaethel is not lying. Her voice was small, tentative, and she looked at Qazaethel with eyes that begged for reassurance. She wanted to believe. She wanted to trust. But the doubts were loud, and they would not be silenced easily.
"The most beautiful part of you is being strong and brave for carrying our baby." Qazaethel said and held Eiravelle’s hand. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of truth. Eiravelle had been through so much—had endured cruelty and isolation and fear—and yet she had continued to carry their child, had continued to protect and nurture the life growing inside her. That was strength. That was bravery. That was beauty.
Then with a smile, Qazaethel took the daffodils and show it to Eiravelle. "Your sister told me you love daffodils so I brought this bouquet." Qazaethel said, and when Eiravelle saw the daffodils, she sob loudly and hugged Qazaethel. The flowers were bright and golden, their petals catching the lamplight, and they were beautiful—but not as beautiful as the look on Eiravelle’s face when she saw them.
"Thank you! Thank you so much! Yo-you... You don’t know... Ngh~ How much this makes me feel~" Eiravelle said, and Qazaethel gently cradle her head and apply soothing circles on Eiravelle’s back.
The omega’s words were broken, interrupted by sobs and hiccups, but Qazaethel understood. She understood that this was not just about flowers. It was about being seen. About being remembered. About being loved enough for someone to notice the small things, the details, the preferences that made her who she was.
"Shhh~ I’m always here, don’t be scared. Even if you push me away, I will always be here." Qazaethel said, and kiss her tears away. She kissed the tears from Eiravelle’s cheeks, one by one, her lips soft against the omega’s warm skin. Each kiss was a promise, a vow, a declaration that she would not leave, would not abandon, would not give up. She would be here, through the mood swings and the doubts and the fears. She would be here, through everything.
"My sweet Eiravelle, you look so beautiful, my Love." The words were whispered against Eiravelle’s skin, soft and reverent. Qazaethel meant them with every fiber of her being.
Eiravelle finally smiled despite the tears and she finally nodded as she believed her words. "Thank you, Qazaethel." Then she leaned forward and kissed Qazaethel’s cheek which left the dragon in a state of blushing like a boiled tomato. The kiss was soft, gentle, barely a brush of lips against skin, but it was enough to make Qazaethel’s heart stop and then start again at twice its normal speed.
Her heart was pounding and she have to look away to compose herself while Eiravelle took the daffodils and sniff it gently with a smile.
Qazaethel stared at the wall, her cheeks were burning, her mind racing. She was the sovereign of Solkanaia. She was the dragon empress who had faced down armies and crushed rebellions. She did not blush. She did not get flustered.
She did not turn into a stammering mess because a pretty omega kissed her cheek. And yet, here she was, staring at a wall like a lovesick teenager, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain Eiravelle could hear it.
She took a deep breath, then another, trying to calm the racing of her heart. It did not work. She could still feel the phantom press of Eiravelle’s lips against her cheek, could still feel the warmth of the omega’s body beside her.
She was not used to this. She was not used to being affected by someone like this. But Eiravelle had a way of breaking through her defenses, of making her feel things she had never felt before.
When she finally turned back, Eiravelle was still holding the daffodils, her fingers were tracing the petals with gentle reverence. The omega’s tears had stopped, replaced by a soft, contented smile that made Qazaethel’s heart ache with love.
She looked beautiful—not despite the tear tracks on her cheeks and the redness of her eyes, but because of them. Because they were proof of her humanity, proof of her vulnerability, proof that she trusted Qazaethel enough to let her see her at her worst.
"You’re staring," Eiravelle said softly, and Qazaethel felt her cheeks flush again. She had been staring, had been drinking in the sight of Eiravelle like a woman dying of thirst. She did not care.
"I like looking at you," Qazaethel admitted, and the words were raw, honest, stripped of the careful composure she usually maintained. "I like looking at you, and I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."
Eiravelle’s smile widened, and she leaned her head against Qazaethel’s shoulder, the daffodils still held close to her chest. "Then I will try," she said. "I will try to see myself the way you see me."
They sat like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the daffodils between them. The lamp flickered softly, casting dancing shadows across the walls, and the room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing. It was peaceful.
It was perfect. And Qazaethel knew, with a certainty that settled into her bones, that she would do anything—anything—to keep this. To keep Eiravelle. To keep the love that had somehow found her in the middle of a life that had been cold and lonely for so long.
She pressed a kiss to the top of Eiravelle’s head and closed her eyes, letting herself be present in the moment. The celebration for the Golden Rabbit was tonight. The court would be filled with people and noise and endless demands. But for now, in this quiet room, there was only Eiravelle. Only love. Only the promise of a future that Qazaethel had never dared to dream of.
"I love you," she whispered into Eiravelle’s hair. The words were soft, almost inaudible, but they were the truest thing she had ever said.
Eiravelle did not respond with words. She simply pressed closer, her hand finding Qazaethel’s and holding it tight. And that was enough. That was everything.