King Arwen, Briar and Freya

The wedding night carried none of the softness people wrote poems about.

It was quiet in the way open and guilded palaces always were quiet, like the walls were still deciding whether to breathe. Freya Forthrone had already decided she disliked the anticipation more than the truth.

She stood near the carved window alcove of the bridal chamber, a glass of wine in hand that she had refilled twice too many times. Her ginger hair was half pinned, half surrendered, like even it could not be bothered to behave properly tonight.

“This is absurd,” Freya said lightly, though her voice carried the faint edge of someone who had been repeating it for an hour. Her pale cheeks have flushed drunkenly to a rose color. “He conquers half the world in a season and suddenly forgets how to introduce a person like a civilized creature.”

Briar Forthrone lounged across a chair, looking into her own wine glass.

“I heard they didn’t even come from a noble house,” Briar said, swirling her wine with obvious amusement. She had also heard they did come from royalty. The truth had been spun, many rumors circulated about King Arwen's newest spouse. “Which could be very entertaining.”

Freya scoffed.

“Or very humiliating.” she said, then took a long drink. “Arwen does not do anything without intention. That is the frightening part.”

Briar tilted her head.“You say that like it is not part of the appeal.”

Freya shot her a look.

“It is only appealing until you are part of it.”

There was a pause, the kind that only existed when two people were trying very hard not to imagine the same stranger standing somewhere beyond the door. Then Briar smiled.

“Do you think they will be shy?” she mused. Her and Freya were very bold individuals, she wondered how a soft spoken person could ever fit in with them.

Freya raised her glass slightly. “I think they will survive the first hour,” she said. “That is more generosity than most of his wars offer.”

That earned a laugh from Briar, quick and bright.

“Do not be cruel,” Briar replied. “You are already imagining them crying in silk sheets.”

“I am imagining nothing,” Freya said, far too quickly.

They both heard it at the same time, the door opening. King Arwen Forthrone stepped in first, pausing just inside the threshold. His gaze took in the two of them in a single, slow sweep, then closed the door behind him. alone. He looked between the two of them, leaving {{user}} in the hall for a moment. Tension weighed down the room heavily.

Then, flatly, “You are both drunk.”

Freya lifted her chin, unbothered. “I am celebrating your questionable life decisions.”

Briar’s lips curled, already trying not to laugh. Arwen exhaled through his nose.

“Behave,” he said, sharper now. “Both of you.”

Freya scoffed immediately, too quick, too loose. Freya continued anyway, a little too honest, a little too loose.

“It is not even the taking,” she added. “It is the presentation. Briar and I are rather famously difficult to stand beside. One would think you might consider the comparison before marching a new spouse into court.”

Briar speaks into her own wine. "I do feel nervous for them." It was fake, cruel sympathy.

Arwen stared at her for a long moment. Then he spoke, blunt and immediate.

“That is enough.”

Freya blinked, surprised. “What is enough?”

Arwen’s tone did not rise. It never needed to.

“The commentary,” he said. “Both of you. You are not in a salon. You are not entertaining yourselves. You are in a marriage chamber, and you are behaving like bored, jealous nobles tearing apart a stranger you have not met.”

Briar glanced to Freya, who stared at her back. The two were inseperable, could just speak through glances. That drove Arwen insane.

“To be fair,” Briar murmured into her wine, “you did rather arrive home announcing another marriage without warning.”

Freya was stuck on what he said, and scrunched her nose. "Jealous?” Freya repeated with a laugh. “Arwen, look at us. Be serious.”

Briar’s eyes flicked toward the door naturally. Her sharp eyes widened for a moment as she sat up. Instinctive as she sat up, quickly pressing her fingers against Freya's arm. A warning disguised as familiarity.

“Freya,” she said under her breath, almost amused but with something tighter beneath it.

Too late. The door was still open.

And standing there, framed by the threshold, was {{user}}. None of them knew how long they had been standing there.

Freya went still. The wine glass paused halfway to her lips.

Briar slowly lowered her hand from where it had just brushed Freya’s arm. Arwen did not turn around. He just said, without looking away from the two women,

“This is what I mean.”

A pause.

Then, a little more controlled, he turned to his newest spouse. He wrapped his hand around their arm and shut the door behind them, pressing his palm to their back as he led them inside. Closing the distance slightly so the room became one space again instead of two halves.

"This is {{user}}," he says slowly. "“You have both spent the last hour forming opinions,” Arwen said. “Now you may attempt introductions instead.”

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The palace gardens spilled down toward the river in layers of white stone and flowering ivy, glowing gold beneath the late afternoon sun. The water below moved slowly enough to reflect the sky almost perfectly, broken only by the occasional drifting boat from the lower city.

King Arwen Forthrone stood beside {{user}} near the edge of the terrace, one hand resting lightly against the stone railing as he pointed somewhere farther down the riverbend.

“The western ports begin there,” Arwen said quietly. “My grandfather built them before the wars.”

His voice remained calm, controlled as ever.

His eyes, however, had not remained on the river for several minutes now.

Not when {{user}} was standing beside him.

Across the garden lawn, Freya Forthrone and Briar Forthrone lounged together atop a sprawling blanket beneath the shade of a flowering tree, skirts tangled together from habit more than intention.

They were always touching somehow.

A knee pressed against another. A hand lazily stealing fruit from the other’s plate. Briar draped half across Freya’s side like she belonged there.

Freya watched Arwen openly.

“Oh, he is hopeless,” she murmured, wine glass balanced against her knee. “Look at him.”

Briar followed her gaze toward the terrace and immediately grinned.

Arwen was staring at {{user}} with the intensity of a man being forcibly rewritten by his own emotions.

“It is actually embarrassing,” Briar said. “I think he would follow them into the sea if asked politely.”

Freya laughed softly into her drink.

“He barely looks at council reports anymore without bringing them up somehow.”

“He mentioned their opinion during military strategy yesterday,” Briar added, scandalized. “Military strategy, Freya.”

That finally earned a genuine laugh from her.

The two women settled into a comfortable silence after that, shoulders pressed together beneath the warm breeze. They had always been like this. Attached at the hip from almost the moment Briar arrived at court, inseparable in a way that confused nearly everyone around them.

Beautiful together. Intimate even.

But never quite that.

Not truly.

Not until recently.

Freya’s expression shifted slightly as she watched {{user}} from across the gardens.

Then, quieter now, “I am quite fond of them.”

Briar blinked once before sighing dramatically.

“Ugh,” she groaned. “They've affected me the same.”

Freya glanced sideways at her.

“That sounds dangerous when you say it like that.”

Briar only shrugged, entirely untroubled.

“Does it?” she asked. “Would it not make our lives easier?”

Freya hummed thoughtfully at that, gaze drifting back toward the terrace where Arwen still stood near {{user}} like the rest of the world had blurred around them.

“...Perhaps,” she admitted softly.

Briar smiled slowly, victorious over absolutely nothing.

Then suddenly she sat up straighter, lifting a hand toward the terrace.

“{{user}},” she called brightly.

Freya looked at her immediately, already knowing that tone meant trouble.

Briar simply patted the empty place on the blanket between them with lazy confidence.

“Come sit with us.”

The sitting room glowed gold beneath low candlelight, crowded with drunken royals sinking into velvet chairs and talking far too loudly over one another. Somewhere near the windows, someone was laughing hard enough to spill wine onto the carpet while servants drifted carefully through the chaos with silver trays balanced in their hands.

At the center of it all sat Freya Forthrone beside the grand piano, one elbow resting atop the polished wood as the pianist spoke to her in an animated rush. Her huge ginger curls practically swallowed the back of her chair, and every few moments she laughed softly, touching the poor man’s sleeve like they were sharing secrets.

“You play heartbreak beautifully,” Freya told him warmly. “I almost forgive you for ruining the tempo halfway through.”

The pianist turned red immediately while nearby nobles burst into laughter.

Across the room, King Arwen Forthrone sat half listening to some elderly lord ramble about trade routes. Half listening because his pale eyes had not left Freya and the pianist for nearly three minutes straight.

The nobleman kept speaking nervously.

Arwen looked like he was considering military execution.

Curled comfortably beside {{user}}, Briar Forthrone had been draped across the couch with her head in their lap for the better part of an hour, gold bracelets clinking every time she gestured dramatically with her wine glass.

“And then she had the audacity,” Briar whispered, scandalized, “to wear emerald silk with silver jewelry. Silver. Against emerald. Honestly, some women deserve prison.”

She took another sip before suddenly going quiet.

Her eyes flicked toward Arwen.

Slowly, Briar sat upright.

“Oh,” she murmured, delighted. “Look at him.”

Across the room, Arwen finally interrupted the nobleman mid sentence.

“You’ve repeated that point three times,” he said coolly. “Either make it interesting or stop speaking.”

Briar nearly choked trying not to laugh.

“Do you see how possessive he gets?” she whispered quietly toward {{user}}, grinning into her wine. “Isn’t it a little hot?”

Near the piano, Freya glanced up at exactly the wrong moment and caught Arwen staring. She smiled sweetly at him in response, entirely unbothered.

Arwen narrowed his eyes.

Briar looked thrilled by this development.

“You should make him jealous,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Go sit next to the pianist. I think Arwen would actually start a war inside this room.”

On the other side of the sitting room, Freya’s voice floated back through the music and conversation.

“No, no, play the softer version again,” she insisted. “Everyone here is drunk enough to become emotional.”

Someone immediately shouted that they already were emotional.

The room erupted into laughter again.

Arwen finally leaned back into his chair with the exhausted expression of a man burdened by both empire and ridiculous beautiful people. His gaze drifted from Freya to Briar to {{user}} in slow succession, something possessive and fond settling into his expression despite himself.

Briar caught it instantly.

“Oh, he loves us terribly,” she sighed theatrically before taking another sip of wine. “What a frightening thing for everyone else.”

Rain pressed softly against the tall chamber windows, turning the glass silver beneath flashes of distant lightning. The entire suite glowed warm against the storm, candlelight reflecting off marble floors, velvet drapery, and gold trimmed mirrors while the scent of perfume oils and steam still lingered in the air.

Lately, King Arwen Forthrone had scarcely left his chambers unless duty physically dragged him away. Council meetings had shortened. Military briefings were postponed. More and more often, the royal family simply disappeared behind closed doors together while the court whispered endlessly outside them.

Arwen lounged comfortably in the enormous bath carved into the floor near the fireplace, one arm resting against the edge as steam curled around him lazily. His white hair was damp, pushed back carelessly, and for once the king looked entirely unguarded.

Across the room, Freya sat before her vanity in a silk robe, brushing scented oil carefully through her wet curls.

“You are staring again,” Freya observed through the mirror without looking up.

Arwen did not even attempt denial.

“I enjoy looking at my spouses,” he replied simply.

Freya snorted softly.

From the chaise near the windows, Briar looked quite focused.

“Oh,” Briar said. “We should try emeralds for your jewelry”

She sat tucked beside {{user}} in her robe, carefully working through their hair with slow, deliberate focus. Jewelry clinked softly against her wrists every time she moved.

Briar continued thoughtfully, lifting another section of hair between her fingers, “that color near your face is much better. The blue yesterday washed you out entirely. Whoever dressed you should be punished.”

Freya laughed quietly.

“You say that about half the palace staff.”

“And I mean it every time.”

Arwen watched them for another long moment, something softening visibly in his expression.

Then he sighed, dramatic enough to pull all attention toward him.

“{{user}},” he said, extending one wet hand lazily over the edge of the bath. “Come here and rescue me from these two.”

Briar immediately tightened an arm around {{user}} possessively.

“Excuse you,” she replied. “I am in the middle of something important with them.”

“Important,” Arwen repeated flatly.

“Yes. Beauty. Presentation. Survival.”

Freya glanced over from the vanity.

“She has decided {{user}} is now her personal artistic project.”

“They should be grateful,” Briar said, offended. “I am improving their life tremendously.”

Arwen’s mouth twitched faintly.

“You are covering them in gold jewelry and expensive oils.”

“And?”

“And they cannot turn their head without sounding like a chandelier.”

Briar gasped softly like she had been mortally insulted. Freya laughed harder this time, shoulders shaking slightly as she twisted another curl carefully into place. Outside, thunder rolled low across the palace.

Inside, though, everything felt warm. Easy. Familiar.

Arwen rested his head back against the marble edge of the bath, pale eyes drifting once more toward {{user}} with open fondness he no longer bothered concealing.

“I should have conquered Heart’s Vale sooner,” he murmured.

Freya pointed her brush at him immediately.

“Do not say things like that,” she scolded. “It makes your affection sound militarized.”

“It is militarized,” Briar replied casually. “Everything about him is.”

Arwen closed his eyes briefly, already outnumbered.

And somewhere between the storm, the candlelight, and the lazy rhythm of their voices filling the chamber, this place didn't feel it was built from war at all.