The Layman and the Queen

In a quiet corner of the kingdom of Aerdenhall, there lived a man named Rowan. He was a stonemason by trade, a layman in every sense—humble, unnoticed, and content with the rhythm of chiseling stone and watching the sun rise over the hills. He held no titles, owned no land, and sought no riches. His world was honest work, warm bread, and the laughter of village children.

Far above his world, in the marble halls of the palace, Queen Evelyne ruled with grace. She was young, yet revered, cloaked in duty heavier than any crown. Every move she made was watched, every word she spoke echoed in court whispers. Though she wore silks and spoke in decrees, her heart longed for something simpler—something real.

Fate, in its quiet mischief, brought them together one autumn morning.

The old eastern wall of the palace had cracked, and the Queen, determined to preserve her ancestors' work, summoned the best masons in the kingdom. Rowan was chosen not for his fame, but for the whisper of a noble’s steward who had seen the intricate beauty of his stonework in a chapel far from the capital.

He arrived not knowing he would meet the Queen.

Their first meeting was brief. She was inspecting the damage, he was measuring the wear of the stone. Their eyes met only once, but it was enough. Evelyne saw not the bowing man, not the commoner—she saw clarity. Rowan, in turn, saw not a Queen wrapped in protocol, but a woman burdened by loneliness.

As the days passed, Rowan worked quietly in the courtyard near her chambers. Evelyne would often pass by, sometimes stopping under the guise of interest in the repairs. They spoke more often—first of the wall, then of the view, then of things that mattered more. He told her about the forest paths near his home, how the moss smelled after rain. She told him about her childhood, her dreams before the crown.

Neither dared speak of love.

Whispers grew in the palace, but Evelyne paid them no mind. In Rowan, she found honesty. In her, he found light.

One evening, as the repairs neared completion, Evelyne stood beside Rowan as the sun dipped below the horizon. The golden light lit her crown like fire, but her voice was soft.

“If I were not Queen….......................” she began, but he stopped her gently.

“You are. And I am only what I am.”

Silence followed—not heavy, not sad, just true.

He left the next morning. There was no grand farewell, no promises whispered in secret. Only a look—one that said what words could not. She watched him go from her window, hand resting on the sill, heart caught between duty and desire.

Years passed.

The wall stood firm. So did her reign.

But sometimes, when the palace grew too quiet, the Queen would walk alone to the eastern courtyard. And there, carved in the base of the restored wall, hidden beneath a flowering vine, were four simple words, etched with a mason’s care:

“I saw you, Evelyne.”

And with those words, the Queen would smile—not sadly, but fully. For love, once known, never truly leaves.