Summer Sky
The princess has decided on a rare promenade on one of the spire's open terraces, face turned up to the sun and soft breeze in the warm air. Even the Fool, for once, seems mellowed by summer, sharp edges submerged beneath sun-sleepy honey, capering and juggling wound down to sitting near her Highness's feet, fingers sunk into pillowy moss, smiling at the sky.
Everything is quiet, in a different way to the emptiness of the spire; warm and open and faintly underscored by the stirring of water and the yelping of seabirds. Alive and nourishing.
Glorie looks upon the princess, standing, and the Fool, seated; the unaccustomed relaxation in both frames; the way in which, despite everything, and even with both looking at nothing but the blue of the upper air, they are turned toward each other, flower-blooms ignoring the light to seek instead for company.
Something within her aches. She imagines taking her duty in her hands, like a down-stuffed pillow, and holding it grimly over that thing's face until it stops and leaves her alone. She squares her shoulders and silently shifts her feet to turn her own body a little away, to fall back into a guardian knight's posture of vigilance.
She imagines she can feel the Fool's eyes cut to her carefully unobtrusive movement, scorch her neck. But it's only imagination. She ignores that, too.
