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Never Alone

"So," Lady says carefully. The Whistling Choir Deathmatch was a complete success. You and Lady are alive, anyway. The trip back to Central Ooo is a long one though. Long enough for you to reflect on more than just your hard-won permission to keep living. "Have you seen her?"

This is why Lady is your best friend: she is unafraid to be direct and never misses where your thoughts go when they wander. She is careful, you notice, not to mention exactly who she means.

"Yes," you answer carefully. This is technically the truth, though you saw her only briefly, spoke less than a handful of words to her, and still are on the verge of tears at the prospect of talking about it. Because she was just so damn happy, and it isn't fair that you have spent the last four years two words and a name away from a breakdown, but she can look at you and sing your name and smile, all fangs and tongue and laughter.

You have no effect on her; she isn't yours anymore, and you suppose that part is mostly your fault, but its justice does little to assuage its sting.

"And how are you now?" Lady wonders gently.

This question makes your lungs seize, and the thin night are makes it worse. It hurts, physically in your chest like your heart guts are drawn away from you. You used to let them go, knowing who they would rather be with than you. Truth be told, you liked their intended destination. Now, you keep them caged, because it isn't safe at night anymore.

But as hard as regret and guilt are, you are also overjoyed. She could have stayed away forever, but no—she came back, and not just to the Candy Kingdom but to your window, and she could have met you with the same frostiness you showed her, but she didn't. And through the teasing melody she wrapped around your name, you swear you heard something like reunion, relief so buried that you wish she had spoken to you again because you've had four years to fall out of practice dissecting her voice.

Lady waits patiently for you to answer her.

"Scared," you decide finally. The truth of it slumps your shoulders forward until you lay flush against Lady's back. You are scared—terrified. Terrified that your name crooned in jest will be the last word you hear her say. Terrified that a quick twiddle of fingers will be the last hello-goodbye you get from her. Terrified that after four years, the only woman in the world has moved on, and it is entirely your fault.

Lady makes a clicking sound that you mistake for disappointment until she speaks again.

"You give yourself too little credit," her tone accepts no argument.

"That's a new one," you manage a stilted, choppy chuckle. Confidence has never been something you've lacked, at least not where your own abilities are concerned. Ruling a kingdom requires shameless surety. The job would have ripped you apart otherwise.

"Trust me," Lady reassures knowingly. "Your queen came back for her princess."

She seems so sure, and you like—love what she says so, so much, so fiercely and with such hope; stupid, stupid hope. Your queen. Her princess.

"You'll let me know when it works out."

This is why Lady is your best friend: she is unafraid to be direct and never misses where your thoughts go when they wander. More than that, too—she knows how to guide them back. You scratch her under her mane like she likes.

"Of course, Lady."