Their marriage had been arranged when they were little, when they were too young to do more than bow and curtsy as their parents directed. He remembers her as a bright, bubbly child, eager for her parents' affection, if not always as well behaved as they would have liked.

He thinks he might have liked her too, if he'd had the chance. But that was before the war, before he was captured, tortured, and sent back broken.

He's had time to recover; it hasn't helped. Now his grace period is over, and he's been summoned to the palace to present himself, to find out if Elle-- and more importantly, her parents-- still find him a suitable match.

He's not stupid. He knows how this is going to end. His heart is beating jackrabbit-fast as he stands in the antechamber waiting for his name to be called, and suddenly it's too much. He turns on his heel and stalks out the door into the adjoining garden, tugging at his starched uniform collar, feeling like he can't breathe. There's a fountain; he scoops his hands into it and splashes the chilly water on his face, shaking his head like a dog, blinking droplets out of his eyes.

There's a sound behind him-- he turns, and it's her. He doesn't know what to say (words don't come so easy to him, these days) so he just stands there, water dripping down his neck, staring.