Floofy Bois

Reorganizing Cedric's workshop was more of an undertaking than Evaline initially expected. She was happy to help, of course, but the longer they worked, the more she felt like she was just making things a mess.

Towering stacks of scrolls and books were laid out on every inch of flat surface they could find. Jars of herbs and powders were pulled from cupboards, some labels faded and others fully worn off with time. Crystals of all shapes and sizes were gathered into baskets, casting colorful reflections all over the walls as they caught the sunlight.

Cedric stood in the middle of all the chaos, his arms full of miscellaneous scrolls and his brow drawn into an expression caught somewhere between determination and distress.

"Merlin's mushrooms," he muttered. "What have we gotten ourselves into? I'm beginning to think my old system was just fine."

Evaline blew a stray curl from her face and looked around at the battlefield of parchment and powders. “Your old system,” she repeated mildly, “involved hiding unfinished spells under teacups.”

“They were not unfinished,” Cedric protested. “They were… pending refinement.”

“Hm.” She slid a stack of books aside with her hip. “And what about the jar labeled ‘Probably Harmless’?”

“That was optimism.”

She huffed a laugh in spite of herself.

Moving one of the taller bookshelves proved more difficult than expected. The thing had likely not been shifted in years. Evaline braced her shoulder against the wood while Cedric, muttering incantations under his breath, lifted just enough of its weight to help her drag it a few inches across the stone floor.

It scraped loudly, dust billowed, and something small and wooden clattered down behind it.

Evaline coughed and waved the dust from her face. “I think we’ve unearthed a relic.”

Cedric peered through the haze. “Please tell me it’s not about to pounce.”

She crouched to investigate the fallen object. It wasn’t quite a relic. Not in the way she initially meant. 

It was a perch. Simple, and made of dark wood, smoothed by years of talon scratches.

Evaline’s fingers stilled and Cedric held his breath. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“…Oh,” Evaline finally uttered softly.

He set the scrolls down very carefully.

“I thought I’d thrown that out,” he murmured.

But he hadn’t.

 She could almost hear the sharp, impatient rustle of wings. The indignant little croaks. Wormwood had spent countless hours there — watching, assisting, judging.

Evaline ran her thumb along one of the deeper gouges. “He used to sit here while you worked.”

“Yes.” The word was barely more than breath.

She stood slowly, holding the perch between them. “I never understood why he left you. Why he joined with Grimtrix and The Horned King.”

Cedric’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away this time.

“He didn’t leave without reason,” he said quietly.

A beat of silence passed between them.

Brow slightly furrowed in concern, Evaline set the perch aside to gather Cedric's hands in hers. She tilted her head to try and meet his eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. For a moment, his hands sat limply in hers before he gave them a gentle squeeze.

“I always knew,” Cedric said at last, voice low, “that if I ever stopped wanting what we planned… he would leave.”

Evaline’s brows furrowed more, and she reached up to brush his hair from his forehead. “Planned?”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting toward hers for just a second. After a moment of consideration, he began to lead her to the nearby armchair. It was one of the few surfaces in the room that hadn't been overtaken by bottles or books.

"I think it's best that you sit for this," he murmured. Evaline didn’t laugh. Rather, her look of concern only deepened.

That, more than anything, told him he had already misstepped.

Still holding his hand, she allowed him to guide her to the armchair. The cushions gave softly beneath her as she sat, eyes never leaving his face. Cedric did not sit. He paced once, twice, as though rehearsing words he had avoided for far too long.

“Cedric,” she said gently, “whatever this is—”

“It concerns Princess Sofia’s amulet.”

Evaline blinked. Cedric had told her about the battle at the Horned King's castle, and how Sofia's amulet— The Amulet of Avalor— had helped them win the day. It was a powerful artifact indeed, and the implication that hung between them was one that weighed heavy in the air.

"Go on," she encouraged.

Cedric stopped pacing.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, hands clasped in front of him as if he were trying to hold himself together. Sunlight spilled in from the windows above, catching in the floating dust stirred up by their earlier efforts. The workshop, so recently chaotic and almost playful, felt strangely cavernous now.

"I've known about it and its power for quite a long time," he began, choosing his words carefully. "Long before it came into Sofia's posession."

Evaline's posture shifted— subtle, but perceptible. Not defensive. Simply alert.

"I imagine it was an object of fascination then?" she asked lightly.

"It was."

"And?"

He drew in a slow breath, then released it just as slowly.

“And I intended to take it from her.”

The words did not echo, but they seemed to settle into every corner of the room all the same. Evaline did not move. Her expression did not shatter into outrage. It simply… stilled.

“Take it?” she repeated, her brow crinkling.

“Yes. I wanted it for myself.”

Cedric straightened, though he still did not look at her. His gaze fixed instead on Wormwood’s perch, standing as a stark reminder.

"But why?" Evaline pressed, sitting forward in her seat just a touch more.

"Because…" With a sharp intake of breath, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "I thought it would give me power. Power to take over the kingdom."

The words fell between them like something fragile and irretrievable. For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Not the dust in the air. Not the light on the walls. Not even Cedric.

"You wished to rule Enchancia," Evaline said after a long pause, her expression still carefully neutral.

“I did.”

The answer was immediate. Unadorned.

Cedric finally tore his gaze from the perch and forced himself to look at her. There was no triumph in his expression. No nostalgia for a lost opportunity. Only something raw and entirely ashamed.

“I was tired of being small.”

The admission was soft, but it carried far. He took a step backward toward a nearby worktable, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“I was tired of being dismissed. Of being the sorcerer people tolerated rather than respected. I thought if I wore the crown—if I commanded instead of asked—no one would ever laugh at me again.”

Evaline’s chest tightened.

“And Wormwood knew,” she murmured.

Silence stretched between them. It wasn't sharp, but it was heavy with recognition. Evaline’s eyes drifted briefly to the perch again. She could almost picture the raven there, head tilted, dark eyes sharp and knowing.

"But you changed your mind, yes?" she asked, rising from her seat.

Cedric did not answer immediately.

The silence stretched — not evasive, but searching. His hands braced against the edge of the worktable behind him, knuckles paling as though he were steadying himself against something that still had the power to tilt him.

“Yes,” he said at last.

Evaline watched him carefully.

“But not all at once,” he added.

Her brow softened slightly.

“It was not some grand moment of clarity,” he continued. “There was no lightning strike. No sudden moral awakening.” His mouth twitched faintly, humorless. “It was quieter than that.”

He drew in a slow breath.

“I began to realize that every time I imagined myself wearing that crown… I was alone.”

The words hung there.

“Alone?” she echoed.

“Yes. Above everyone. Feared. Obeyed.” His gaze flickered up to hers. “But alone.”

Evaline’s heart gave a subtle, painful pull.

“I thought ruling would make me feel larger,” he went on. “But the higher I placed myself in my imaginings, the further away everyone else became. Respect born of fear leaves very little room for affection.”

His eyes drifted again to Wormwood’s perch.

“Wormwood did not understand that,” he said quietly. “He believed power was the answer to every humiliation. He believed that if I rose high enough, the past would shrink beneath me.”

“And you stopped believing it?” she asked.

Cedric hesitated.

“I stopped wanting to become someone who needed others to kneel in order to feel whole.”

The distinction mattered.

Evaline took a slow step closer. “When?” she asked gently.

He swallowed. “When I realized I cared more about who stood beside me than who stood beneath me.”

The confession was soft, but it settled warmly rather than heavily.

Evaline felt her throat tighten.

“You were part of that realization,” he admitted, not quite meeting her eyes. “You did not treat me as small. You did not need me to be grand. And I found that I preferred that.”

A faint flush crept into his cheeks—not embarrassment at the affection, but at how simple the truth was.

“I still felt the ache,” he continued. “Still heard the echo of laughter some days. But I began to understand that taking a throne would not silence it. It would only teach me to make others feel the same.”

Silence fell again, but it was different now. Less brittle. More reflective.

"I see," Evaline finally said, reaching to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. It was a simple gesture. A tender one. One, that Cedric didn't anticipate.

"You're not angry?"

Shaking her head, Evaline's lips curved into a smile.

"Of course not, Cedric," she said, slipping her hands into his.

He searched her face for hesitation, for the faintest crack in her composure. He found none, however.

“But I imagine,” she continued softly, “you are wondering why.”

A faint, uncertain huff of breath left him. “It had crossed my mind.”

Evaline’s gaze drifted past him. Not to the perch this time, but somewhere further back. Somewhere years away.

“When I was quite a bit younger,” she began, “I was told that I was responsible for the death of a king.”

Cedric’s brows knit immediately. “Evaline —”

“It was not true,” she assured him gently. “But it did not matter. The accusation was enough.” Her fingers tightened slightly around his. “I learned very quickly how easy it is for others to decide who you are before you have ever chosen it for yourself.”

The workshop seemed to shrink around them.

“Later,” she continued, “on my travels to stop the Blight, I met a man who had been sent to kill me.”

Cedric’s expression sharpened in surprise.

“He was an assassin,” she said calmly. “A talented one. Efficient. Raised to believe that survival justified cruelty. He tried to take my life, and failed.”

Cedric blinked once. “And you are telling me this in a tone that suggests he is not dead.”

“He is not.”

Cedric stared at her.

“You spared him?” he asked, incredulous.

“I did.”

“Evaline —”

“I spared him because when he looked at me,” she said gently, “I did not see a monster. I saw a man who had been shaped by pain. By betrayal. By being told his only worth lay in what he could take from others.”

Cedric went very still.

“He did not know how to be anything else,” she continued. “No one had ever offered him another path.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his.

“So I did.”

Silence bloomed between them, warm and steady.

“He chose to walk it,” she said. “Not perfectly. Not easily. But he chose.”

Cedric swallowed.

“And you trusted that?” he asked quietly.

“I trusted that people are more than the worst thing they once intended,” she replied. “Zevran became one of my nearest and dearest friends because of that.”

The words hung between them, gentle but unyielding.

“When you told me you wanted the throne just now,” she went on, her thumb brushing lightly across his knuckles, “I did not hear a tyrant confessing ambition. I heard a wounded man admitting he mistook power for healing.”

Cedric’s throat tightened.

“I have stood beside men who were ready to kill me,” she said softly. “I have watched them choose something different when given the chance.”

Her gaze softened further.

“You did not take the amulet. You did not take the crown. You changed.”

A faint, almost disbelieving breath escaped him.

“And that is what matters to me.”

He studied her as though seeing her anew. She was not just the steady presence beside him, but now he saw her as the woman who had looked into darkness before and chosen mercy.

“You are remarkably forgiving,” he murmured.

Evaline’s smile tilted, faint but knowing.

“I am practical,” she corrected gently. “If I condemned every person who had once made a terrible choice, I would have very few allies left. And perhaps no friends at all. People are not defined by the worst road they nearly walked. They are defined by the one they choose instead.”

Cedric’s grip on her hands tightened. The gesture wasn’t one of desperation, but of gratitude.

Across the room, Wormwood’s perch stood quietly in the afternoon light. A relic of a path abandoned.