“It’s also factually incorrect. Turkeys and chickens have entirely different motivational structures.”
“You’re not supposed to analyse the joke, Dyfri. You’re supposed to groan and then tell an even worse one.”
“I don’t know any jokes.”
Of course he doesn’t. The thought makes me want to wrap him in blankets and never let anyone hurt him again.
Dinner is a simple affair. Just the two of us in the smaller dining room, sharing a meal that has nothing to do with diplomacy or politics or the weight of two worlds on our shoulders. Dyfri seems to relax as the day progresses, the careful guards he usually maintains slipping away until he’s just... himself. Witty and intelligent and surprisingly playful when he’s not calculating his every action.
I find myself watching him more than I probably should, cataloguing the way his eyes light up when he’s amused, the graceful gestures he makes when he’s explaining something, the way he unconsciously touches the wedding plait in his hair when he’s thinking.
Dyfri is clever. Brilliantly so. Strategic and politically astute in ways that make my head spin. He’s gorgeous enough to stop traffic, with that otherworldly beauty that marks him as definitely not human. And he’s willing to fight for a cause, whatever that cause may be, because I can’t be sure where his loyalty lies. He could be an unseelie agent plotting seelie downfall. He could be a misunderstood seelie prince trying to save his people.
Whatever his intention, he is fighting for it. With a fierce determination that’s both inspiring and slightly terrifying.
But more than that, he’s... kind. Underneath all the sarcasm and defensive walls, there’s a fundamental decency to him that shows in the careful way he treats thestaff, the genuine concern in his voice when he asks how I’m feeling, the way he listens when I talk like my words actually matter.
When did I fall for him? Because I definitely have, somewhere between the wedding night awkwardness and this moment, watching him attempt to understand the concept of Christmas pudding.
“You set it on fire?” he asks, eyeing the flaming dessert with deep suspicion.
“It’s traditional. Don’t worry, the alcohol burns off.”
“Most of it.”
“Most of it,” I concede.
After dinner, we settle back in the living room, the tree lights twinkling cheerfully in the growing darkness. I retrieve the gift I’d hidden behind the sofa that morning, suddenly nervous in a way that has nothing to do with politics or Resistance movements.
“What’s this?” Dyfri asks when I hand him the wrapped box.
“Your Christmas present.”
He stares at the package as if I’ve handed him something potentially venomous. “My... what?”
“Christmas present. Gift. You know, the thing people give each other to show they care.”
“I...” He looks genuinely lost. “I don’t have anything for you.”
“That’s alright. I wasn’t expecting anything. I just... I wanted to give you something.”
Dyfri turns the box over in his hands, examining the wrapping paper with the same intense focus he’d applied to the Christmas ornaments.
“I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“Why you would... why anyone would...” He stops, shakes his head. “I’ve never received a gift before. Not like this. Not one given freely, without expectation of something in return.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Never? In his entire life, no one has ever given him something just because they wanted to make him happy?
“Well,” I manage, my voice slightly rough, “there’s a first time for everything. Open it.”
He unwraps the paper with painstaking care, as if he’s afraid to damage it. When he opens the ornate wooden box and sees the collection of silk ribbons inside, deep blues and rich purples and silver threads that will complement his colouring perfectly, his breath catches audibly.
“They’re for your hair,” I explain unnecessarily. “I noticed you like braids and intricate arrangements, and I thought... well, I thought you might like some new options.”
Dyfri lifts one of the ribbons from the box, a length of midnight blue silk shot through with silver thread that matches the ribbon in his wedding plait perfectly. His hands are trembling slightly as he runs the fabric through his fingers.
