The room was spared from the dullness of the night by a performance of leaping fire in the hearth. It tumbled over silken furniture and the room's single occupant in kind, but the light was more resplendent on the skin of the woman before the mirror, cream-soft, moon-pale skin accented by the thin white of a nightdress. A lantern perched on the vanity gave her quieter aid, glossing over her hair with a tint of amber as she guided a brush through it. She paid little attention to how it settled, watching the mirror with idle serenity, until the glass caught the motion of the door sweeping wide and her eyes reflected a flicker that was from no flame.

“Good evening, Rue,” Siegfried murmured, though it was later than evening by several hours.  Still, the speed at which he traversed the short distance on his feathery steps was itself enough to make her smile, and her smile was enough to gain a matching look from him. He settled to stand behind her, separating a single curling lock from the rest to trace it over his slim fingers to the tip. She straightened, though she had already been sitting quite primly, and brushed her back against the satin of his shirt. The embroidery was faintly rough against him, but he did not notice as he rested his hands over her shoulders. He waited for her to set down the brush before leaning her against his chest.

“My prince...” She tried to keep her tone neat, but the edge of her words fluttered as she trailed off. He certainly took notice of that; while she seemed to regret the plainness of her speech, it was entirely what he needed. To be her prince and to have his heart confirm it with a swift series of solemn beats, as though marking it with fitting ceremony.