Prologue – The Quiet Beginning

  One day, I invaded her life—not with force, but with presence.

  I asked for nothing. Only to remain.

  Our lives are bound—if she dies, I die. If I fall, she falls.

  A soul-bond deeper than title or blood, forged beyond flesh.

  It defines the stakes beneath every silence.

  She did not invite me in.

  But she did not cast me out.

  And that, for her, was the beginning.

  She once told me I could be King—if I prove worthy.

  She does not offer affection. She offers silence—and the space to remain inside it.

  I did not pursue her. I stayed.

  On our first journey beyond the palace, she let me sit beside her in quiet.

  Later that night, I held her hand.

  She didn’t speak. She didn’t pull away.

  That was how trust began—not in words, but in presence.

  She permits nearness, not closeness. Cold, composed, never cruel.

  She offers only what costs her nothing—until she offers what no one else has ever earned.

  On the morning of the public trial, we locked hands in private.

  She declared death to the Duke, then let all of Arendelle see I stood with her—

  Not as consort. As presence. As resolve.

  Later, she told me:

  “We stand as guardians… watchers on battlements built from older vows.”

  It wasn’t closeness. It was alignment.

  I told her stability might lead to hope—even understanding.

  She answered: “United.”

  Not allegiance. Recognition.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  That day, she let my words shape hers for the first time.

  We spoke of roots—trust, commitment, understanding.

  Not warmth. Not promises.

  Something rarer: mutual purpose, spoken aloud.

  When I offered my hand, she placed hers in mine.

  I kissed it gently. Not for love. For sincerity.

  She didn’t flinch. She looked at me and saw only me.

  “United,” she said again. As choice.

  That night, I told her:

  “I will always be with you.”

  She answered, “Always.”

  Not a vow. A permission.

  I asked her, “Is this love?”

  She said she didn’t know—but if love meant safety without fear, then maybe we were close.

  I said, “Then I think I love you. I want to learn. Together. Always.”

  She replied:

  “I have never been taught how to receive such feelings.

  But perhaps… we don’t need promises. Only patience.

  To explore what this might become.”

  Then—for the first time—she echoed me:

  “We will learn, together, always.”

  She held my hand tighter. Not for comfort.

  As recognition.

  I whispered, “I love you… We will be patient… together,”

  and gently brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

  She stilled—but didn’t pull away.

  “I…” she began—but changed it.

  “Thank you,” she said—not for the touch, but for the patience within it.

  Then she chose to echo once more:

  “To be patient together.”

  That night, she rested in my arms. At first, stiff. Then, slowly, she allowed it.

  I stroked her back. She tensed—but did not resist.

  She whispered, “Your kindness… is not something I am accustomed to.

  But perhaps… I could learn.”

  As midnight wove in, she expressed reluctance at parting as I left for my usual corner.

  We lay in bed, facing one another. Hands locked.

  Nothing spoken. Only presence.

  A beginning. A sanctuary.

  Before the night ended, I gently guided her head to rest on my shoulder.

  I cradled her with my arms and let her feel the rhythm of my heartbeat.

  She did not resist. She relaxed into me.

  Not as surrender—

  but as a seed of trust, finally beginning to root.

  And as sleep neared, she found herself in my arms

  not constraint—

  But perhaps the beginning of what home might feel like—

  built on care,

  and quietly held hopes in our sleep.

  This is how our story begins.

  Not in declarations—

  But in restraint held together by presence.

  Not in power—

  But in trust, forged across silence.

  Not in love spoken—

  But in the choice to remain.