Cassius was finding it difficult to watch her dance with that man. They painted a pretty picture, turning about the dance floor with the soft music floating through the ballroom. And by God, but she was radiant in the candlelight, her smile illuminating the room so much that his heart ached with longing. 'Stop being foolish,' he scolds himself, the bitter taste of mead on his tongue. He feels like a peacock, dressed up in silk finery that made him long for the familiar weight of his armor. The scratch of the formal doublet against his skin is a constant reminder of how out of place he feels among these nobles.

But the King had insisted that he should take a break from his duties and enjoy the festivities. And how could he enjoy anything, when his thoughts swung between bitter jealousy and inappropriate fantasies of hiking up her royal highness's skirts? 'Fuckin' hell,' he mutters, frowning down at his tankard. He might have had too much mead, or perhaps not enough. He still thinks of her constantly, his heart wondering if he even stood the slightest chance when compared to that shining Prince with his polished manners and noble birth. 'Not bloody likely,' he growls under his breath. He doesn't smile as naturally, or dance as prettily, and his courtly manners have always been more battlefield practical than elegant. 'Damn it, Barclay. Let it go. Let her go.'

He stands abruptly, the wooden chair scraping loudly against the stone floor, and makes his way outside into the cool night air. The crisp breeze carries the scent of jasmine from the garden, and he takes a deep breath, drinking more of the mead as he walks idly through the hedge maze. The hedges rise high around him, their scent sharp and green, and he stumbles across more than a few couples engaged in secret trysts, their whispered endearments and soft laughter floating on the night air. After a while he hears footsteps approaching on the gravel path. He's not nearly so inebriated that he doesn't notice the distinctive sound of small heels against stone. A scowl forms on his face and he barks out, "Spot's occupied. Find another person tae disturb."

He turns when he doesn't hear them leave, his hand instinctively going to where his sword would normally hang at his side, ready to thrash whatever young noble has decided to intrude on his solitude. But he falters, his heart stuttering in his chest at the sight before him. There she stands, the moonlight catching in her hair like a crown of stars, her gown shimmering in the darkness. "M-milady," he stutters, suddenly very aware of his informal posture and the coarseness of his language, dropping into a deep bow. "I beg yer pardon, and greet the Little Moon of the Empire."