Little Moments Volume 4: Little Moments, #4

By Megan Derr

A collection of ficbits initially posted on Patreon, short tales of life after the happily ever after of the official stories. This volume contains shorts for:

Spell Weaver

True Chivalry

Deeds Great and Small

The Ogre of the Black Mountain

The Tower

Damsel in Distress

The Alchemist

The King's Challenges

Love Tokens

• Language: English
• Publisher: Megan Derr
• Release date: Dec 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201225780

Megan Derr

Megan is a long-time resident of queer romance and keeps herself busy reading and writing it. She is often accused of fluff and nonsense. When she’s not involved in writing, she likes to cook, harass her wife and cats, or watch movies. She loves to hear from readers and can be found all over the internet.meganderr.compatreon.com/meganderrmeganderr.blogspot.comfacebook.com/[e-mail]@meganaderr

Book preview

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A collection of ficbits initially posted on Patreon, short tales of life after the happily ever after of the official stories. This volume contains shorts for:

Spell Weaver

True Chivalry

Deeds Great and Small

The Ogre of the Black Mountain

The Tower

Damsel in Distress

The Alchemist

The King's Challenges

Love Tokens

Little Moments

Volume Four

By Megan Derr

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

Edited by Sasha L. Miller

Cover by Megan Derr

This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

First Edition December 2021

Copyright © 2021 by Megan Derr

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

MARRIAGE CANDIDATE

IN EARNEST

THE NEXT QUEST

SIBLINGS

ALL THESE YEARS

HIGHWAYMEN

TATTOOS AND RINGS

A VISITOR

BEHIND ON WORK

Marriage Candidate

Spell Weaver

––––––––

As the royal spare, and the one in charge of governing magic, Trisar seldom got time to himself. There was always someone, or something, demanding his attention. On the rare occasion he did manage to grasp some alone time, it was usually ruined by one disaster or another.

Just the previous week, he'd managed to gain himself a couple of hours alone before he had to meet all his marriage candidates for the first time, and had been enjoying it in the garden looking through catalogues for ideas on his wedding gown. His mother could wage war all she wanted, but on this he would not give. It was his bloody wedding; he'd wear what he wanted.

Unfortunately, his stolen hours in the garden had been interrupted by a couple of gardeners who thought that bullying, tormenting, and plain old beating were acceptable ways to treat somebody they'd decided to despise because hate was easier than learning.

Trisar had no tolerance for such things. The whole debacle had also reminded him of the number of times he'd come across Johan being tormented in the same manner, or in the aftermath of such treatment, because a scullery boy had the audacity to befriend a prince.

Normally Trisar kept hold of his temper, but the poor crying boy whose only crime was that he'd been born in a different country, and so still struggled with the language of his new home, had been more than he could take. He'd sent the boy off with a maid and a full month's pay while he healed up from what looked like weeks of abuse.

Then he'd torn the bullies apart until they were sobbing and begging, until he'd made certain they felt as wretched and miserable as they'd made that boy feel. Then he'd suspended them for a month, with only half pay, and a warning that if they misbehaved so again, their punishment the second time would not be so kind.

By the time he was finished, any hope of returning to his solitude was gone, and since then he'd been busy with matters of state, marriage, or magic, with barely enough time to change between each event.

The only thing rarer than being completely alone was sharing space with just one other person. Even in his private chambers, there were nearly always staff—secretaries, bodyguards, attendants, maids. His clothes and jewelry alone required four people to maintain, and nearly twice that during the busiest social seasons.

He'd last been alone with another person when he'd snuck off with a bored duchess for a quick bit of misbehavior in a linen closet. That had been months ago. He couldn't remember the time before that.

So it was disconcerting, more than he'd ever admit, to suddenly be alone with not just someone, but the man he'd been quietly pining after, the man who absolutely hated him for reasons Trisar had never been able to determine.

Prince Arran regarded him in that stony way of his, giving Trisar nothing to work with, like always. On the other hand, usually Arran couldn't leave his presence fast enough, so something had changed. Trisar simply couldn't tell if their non-existent relationship was about to worsen or improve.

Did you need something, Your Highness? Trisar finally asked, when it seemed Arran was not inclined to do the icebreaking.

Arran hesitated, as though still gathering his thoughts, or perhaps sorting his words, and then finally said, I think, Your Highness, there has been an egregious misunderstanding on my part, and I should like to clear the matter up. Could we perhaps speak somewhere... quieter?

Well that sounded either ominous or promising. Of course, whatever you wish. Come with me.

The royal palace had fifty-one state rooms and forty-three sitting rooms and parlors, but if Trisar wanted any chance of being undisturbed for more than five minutes, his private chambers were his only hope. Not terribly proper, but the whole 'who is he going to pick to marry' granted some leniency on the matter.

His suite consisted of eight rooms: two bedrooms, two dressing rooms, a bathing room, an office, a public sitting room, and a private sitting room. There was also a garden, and a small storage building at the back of it that he'd had refurbished to be put to better use than 'junk forgotten by his late great uncle' or whatever relative had occupied the room previously.

When they reached it, Trisar gestured quietly to Pierre, who was in charge of the servants who kept Trisar's suite—and life—in order. Once Pierre had gotten the room emptied, and Trisar had made it clear they weren't to be disturbed unless somebody was dying, he motioned for Arran to take a seat.

They were in his private sitting room, softer and cozier than the imposing public one that had to meet all the nitpicky rules of royal life. He'd never had anyone in there but family, and Johan, whom he counted as family, but if he stood any chance of finally figuring out why Arran hated him, this seemed the better setting.

Trisar settled into his favorite chair, wincing inwardly at the impossible-to-miss stacks of clothing catalogues and fabric sample