[ How does he do that? Just charges forward even when the strings of fate that hold them in the positions the play for Ravka make themselves known. He doesn't shake them off, doesn't fight against them or run away like she's inclined to some days. He accepts them, stubborn and relentless in a way that deprives them of their power.

Still, she wonders what ambition he might have followed if he wasn't bound to the throne. Is that indeed what he wants? She is afraid to ask, because if she asks if he wants to be a king, she may have to answer if she would choose to be a saint.

It's not a question she intends to contend with today or maybe ever. Instead, she relents, softening into his embrace, grumbling in a way that is more exaggerated and playful than genuinely mournful. Her weight sinks against him as she loops her arms behind his neck, swaying from the ball of one foot to the other with him. They get to be so freely affectionate here. Even in the alternate impossible future they might have had together, she can't imagine the scandal a scene like this might have caused among the royal court. ]

I'll have you know I can be melancholy no matter the weather. [ She can't keep a straight face when he is already successfully cheering her up. ] Unless you have any suggestions for brightening my mood.