All Hail the Queen

when: 11 july 2018 where: tara who: seelie & unseelie

            “Demifey daddy? And here I thought I was the messy royal.”

“Don’t.”

You could, Willow mused, live side by side with someone for one hundred, two hundred years and see only glimpses of them. They supposed that the relationship between the two courts had never been the most intimate - even when war was put aside for a greater cause. But even so, Willow had spent more than a few moments glancing at Lacha, a puzzle to read, a mystery to be solved. If you could crack the Unseelie Queen, the reasoning went, then you could help your own court. In centuries, Willow hadn’t managed that. In all honesty, she never thought she would. Perhaps some marvels were better left untouched.

But tonight, Willow saw a new side - intimate and private, for their eyes only. She saw a Queen who broke Unseelie custom to protect themselves, who laughed at the joy of infants and basked in the sunshine. Who felt pity (and Willow swore, sympathy) for someone who was nearer an enemy than a friend. Lacha wasn’t just an Unseelie, she was a person. And where, with anyone else, Willow would have filed the information away - a mental profile on each and every person inside of their brain (evidence could be trusted, could be used to legitimize feelings) - Willow swore they would keep it private, the personal from the business. What Lacha had given her was…not a gift, but it had been gracious nonetheless. 

Willow never stopped to wonder what could have been if they had born an Unseelie. Not since troubled youth days anyway, when they had sworn the Seelie court was plagued with liars and false light. But now, she saw a glimpse. It made her shiver, like a soul passing over your grave. Some ghosts are better left out of sight.

Although Ruby was the topic of conversation, Willow couldn’t bear to look once again. To do so would be to stab her heart a thousand times over. A tangible reminder of what had been denied…would it be the fury or the grief that was unbearable this time? Such…overexertion of emotions were troubling in public. They were mercies she granted to herself only in fleeting moments - tears mixed with water in the shower, a punch to a bag, a howl to the moon. The depth of her feelings horrified her. She had only ever wanted to be better than her parents, a beacon, a tender pillar the Seelie could rely upon. Who was she becoming now? What would this fight take from her?

Instead, they steeled themselves. “Sometimes I think that if more people saw the world as children do, it would be a better place. Certainly, they can be a welcome reprieve.” Idyllic dreaming had been denied to them by the actions of their parents, but Willow recognised - and used to be envious of - its value.

Focusing wholly on Lacha, they paused, wishing to collect themselves before speaking. Surprised at the Queens admission of struggling, it took longer to piece the words together - what could she possibly say? In the end, they decided to treat Lacha as they would have anyone else. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Willow never said anything they didn’t mean. It’s been a long few days. No point stating it, for Lacha would know it better than all of them. “If it’s any consolation, I know you’re not alone.” If there’s anything I can do - No. Willow knew better than to ask - and Lacha knew better than to accept. Even tender moments couldn’t erase centuries of tension between their courts. “But I’m glad you made it out of the fire safely. I trust Camellia did too?” Neutral words. A question of good will.

This was not a conversation Lacha ever imagined having with Willow, or any of the Seelie. And yet, here she was having it.

A flash of a smile came first, more unhappy than it ought to be; what did she know of seeing things with a childish innocence? She only knew its ruination. “You would think so,” Lacha returned; there was nothing unkind in it, it wasn’t meant to be a sharp-tongued dig the way it would be if she’d been talking to another Seelie. After all, she didn’t miss the way Willow kept their gaze steady on her as if to avoid hurting themself further by staring longer at something they wanted and couldn’t have. “I prefer to see things as they are, even with the cost.” For a moment a dangerous offer hovered on lips, almost made for the sake of sympathy and pity as well as knowledge that a change in allegiance would provide opportunity for what they clearly wanted but could not have. ( You could too, if you so chose. There’s a price, but wouldn’t it be worth it to have a child? ) She swallowed it down. Willow was not for her to try and claim. “But the reprieve?” she asked trailing off to smile down at Ruby, “I’ll take it, too.” 

There was so much silence between them, of a real sort; it was something Lacha was familiar with, because she traded in truths and the silences born of the hard ones, but the last place she’d expected it was between her and Willow. Still, she merely waited Willow out, waited for them to offer more, surprised, again, by what came of doing so. Was an apology from a Seelie supposed to mean anything? Perhaps not, but she found it did, though she didn’t do more than wave a hand, brushing aside both the apology and consolation. She didn’t much favor such things; niceties irritated her deeply.

“I’m always alone,” she countered, without a show of the heartache that came of it, or the anxiety in wondering how things might change once she gave up Gale’s name. “You wouldn’t understand that.” This, too, wasn’t a dig. It was merely a fact: rulership was a lonely business and it was more so for her with her choices, with the fact that she and Camellia did not understand each other as she and Caora had once upon a time. “And I you. Frankly, there’s already been enough unnatural loss this year.” She allowed another smile for the sake of the sentiment. “She did.” Everyone would know if Camellia hadn’t; Lacha would have ruined the very stars themselves in figuring out exactly who to blame. “She was...” Lacha trailed off for a moment, before she swallowed hard and mentally chastised herself; what was the point in omitting details for a secret she was going to have to give up in full as soon as it could be managed? “She was with her father. He saw her to safety.” 

Ro arched a subtle brow of surprise herself: she rarely saw the Queen surprised. Perhaps it was to be expected; there was little Ro approved of. Love was a difficult topic for her, a curse she’d never break clean of, but she didn’t wish the same for her m—her Queen. What little softness Ro had, she gave to Lacha, knowing she would keep it safe, under deadbolt and behind thick stone walls. The only place women like them could keep their softness, nowadays. Rowan laughed as Lacha smiled, following it with a shrug. “Faithless isn’t a word I’d use for myself,” she teased, referencing her intense devotion to the feyry gods, “But you do always find a way. It’s your will.” It was admirable and what made her an excellent Queen. One didn’t save the Court from ruin by sitting idly by; no, instead, she had forced a path to salvation.

There was no surprised on Ro’s features as she listened to the Queen recount how she’d have passed over a demifey child. That was as it should be. Lacha was too smart to ever make the mistake of crowning a demifey of her own blood. Ro assumed the child would be cared for, as even a baseborn royal demifey was a demifey and such were beloved by the Unseelie. The child would have just lacked a crown, as it had to be in order to keep the Court’s longevity thriving. But the latter part—about the Court choosing for Lacha—Rowan hadn’t considered. Ro survived being loveless because it was her choice; to have to share a bed and a kingdrom with someone chosen for her felt somehow even more unbearable as she imagined herself in the alternate timeline of Lacha’s shoes. But she knew Lacha would have done it. For the Court.

Surprise did cross Ro’s features when Lacha relayed what happened between Adare and Gale. “Bastard,” Ro agreed, an edge to her voice. “Adare didn’t—doesn’t—know, right? He thought he was just fucking around with one of ours?” She hoped that was the case or it was an even greater mess. “I would have hoped Gale would have known better, but he is young. It wasn’t long ago you were teaching me the ways of the Court, a Hand I couldn’t handle in a world I wasn’t ready for, but you did. Maybe he needs the same—help.” Her voice broke on the last line; she didn’t like to admit she’d had help, or even advise that he needed help, but if this all was true—and it was—he was about to be thrown into this world, same as she’d been, and it wasn’t the same as writing books in the Rookery.

“Love is weakness,” Ro agreed. “But it can be weaponized.” She didn’t mean that as cruel as it sounded; she hoped that somehow, Lacha would understand, having seen her with Caora. “Rarely, love doesn’t have to make you weaker, it only leaves you weaker. Love is a weakness if you let it be. But if you mark your territory—” Ro shrugged; it was the only shameful advice she could give. It’s the only version of love she’d been left with—after. “If it helps you, I’m owed a favour by a particularly favoured fey of his.” It probably didn’t, but it was worth the mention. As the talk shifted to Tierney, Ro sat beside Lacha on the bed, uncharacteristically so. Caora dripped from every wall of this castle for her like bloody honey. “I miss her more than I ever regret having loved her,” and that came out as a hoarse whisper. “What does he say of me?”

A nod first, the cold smile Lacha gave the court when she was looking to make a point, when she was amused in the cold, marginally cruel way she could be. “That it is,” she returned, voice stunningly certain. “So I do. And as ever, I’ll manage what comes.” It was a positive affirmation equally important for her as it was for Rowan to hear tonight when she was making herself vulnerable. Still I rise, was tattooed across her ribs for a reason and that was it.

“No, he thought he'd simply earned a favor from my Collector, not my...” she paused, trailing off, before she laughed, humorlessly, “Danu, I have no idea what to call him.” She shook her head, and decided not to let the possible impending need for terminology and definitions she didn’t have bother her. “If we lose, Adare will. He’ll know exactly what he has, and I’m sure he’ll find some clever way to put it to use. I would were the positions reversed.” There was something to Rowan’s vulnerability, to the reminder that she’d played a part in making Rowan the weapon she was just as much as she and Caora had, once upon a time, employed numerous tactics in an attempt to help Rowan slide more comfortably into what it meant to be like them in anticipation of a time where she sat at Caora’s side more officially, that softened her anger just a touch. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough to lead her to forgiveness, but it was... something. “But, don’t you see? He’s already proven me right. I haven’t even had to announce it yet, and he’s put me in a bad position, made himself a weakness. I can explain from now until the end of time what I need in a consort or someone I’ve publicly acknowledged as mine but it’s too late to undo that.”

She sighed then. “So, I mark my territory and then, what? I endure seventy, eighty years of challenges to it? I don’t want to live like that.” And yet, even for the honesty, she knew Rowan was right, knew she’d deliver the name and a threat upon it’s back that those of her court who might attempt to use it would find their way to The Wandering Wood so fast they would not know what hit them, which she’d deliver upon without exception. It was the only way. Still, she offered Rowan half a smile, appreciative that at least Rowan—unlike Gale, Camellia or anyone else—had managed to turn tables to her favor lately. “Perhaps. But, I’ve cards of my own yet, Sorrel amongst them.” She tried very hard not to be without cards precisely for moments like this. 

And then, the smile widened to something more genuinely pleased as Rowan came to join her; Rowan’s reputation was all hard edges and Unseelie steel, so she valued the shows of softness doubly so, even as the more focused mention of Caora, as ever, was a sharp stab to the heart. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her. It steals my breath to think it’s a century this year,” she confessed softly in returning, answering grief with her own, before she cleared her throat and went where Rowan was guiding, “He tells me ‘fine’ isn’t a sufficient answer when he asks after you. He worries you’ll never find a way to really mend your heart. Hearts matter to him, more than you or me, I think, but he isn’t wrong. Camellia mended mine in a fashion. It’s not the same, it never will be, but it’s better than broken. He—we—hope you’ll find someone who can do the same for you.” A pause, before she finished it out, voice gentling measurably, using her own words rather than Tierney’s, “Caorann, you deserve to find happiness again.” A moment’s hesitance then, as she naturally moved to offer a gesture of comfort and then staid herself, because she didn’t know how Rowan was going to take it, because Rowan wasn’t her daughter even as maternal feelings were there; she wouldn’t assume it was something Rowan wanted of her or would accept. She settled on something in between, on a fleeting touch, a momentary offer of comfort. “She’d never have wanted you to live like this, with a heart iced over because it’s never stopped bleeding.”

“Not exactly my fault that I can’t fly either,” he pointed out. It wasn’t like they got to choose their shape. Even if he could, he didn’t think he’d change…being a dog had it’s advantages. She was right, though, Camellia rarely caused a fuss when she had someone assigned to her. There were some who might view that as weakness, but Raven couldn’t fault the Princess for choosing her battles. Raven glanced back over at the man waiting on him and smirked. “Today. Want a tooth or two to go along with the pictures?” 

Lacha smiled slightly, head canting, a gesture of agreement more than anything else. “I suppose not.” At his question, though, she got more serious. She leaned back in her seat then, not bothering to follow where Raven’s gaze went. “No, just the pictures’ll do.”

Frost’s eyes lit up as Lacha’s laugh echoed through the air. To say that Lacha rarely smiled was an understatement so to cause the usually stoic queen to express joy as such felt like a bolt of triumph to the runner. Not to mention that the vindictive part of her reveled in Adare’s failures and mistakes as a king. She suspected that no matter what kind of king he was, she’d always loathe Adare for Storm. It was upon his orders that she infiltrated the Unseelie - whether he expected her to shack up with Frost was another thing. Of course, Frost couldn’t blame him for her own naivety in falling in love with the traitor. She could only blame herself for that - and she did. “If there’s one thing the Seelie love to be, it’s infuriating and they definitely learned it from their king.” 

Still, with every hardship and tragedy in the Seelie court, every tragedy that happened to Adare, Frost relished in his agony. She had laughed at the meaningless sacrifice of his daughter, sneered as his beloved queen left, and as the fertility crisis in the summer court continued, Frost found herself actively praying that no Seelie whelps were ever born again. She could not punish Storm as it was Lacha’s right to do with a traitor whatever she pleased so Frost turned her negative thoughts to Adare. In her deepest despairs, she had considered risking a Bullán curse on him. 

Her eyes once again flicked up to Lacha’s face at the question but there was no hesitation in Frost’s voice when she answered. “I’m always good for a drink with you.” She kicked her tail under the water. “I might need a minute to dress but if you have a place in mind, I’m not picky.” 

Funny how things could go. Lacha often forgot that with the unendingly cool fashion she ruled, that people could be surprised by something as simple as a show of her own amusement. There was something charming in that response, in Frost’s slight, but perceptible pleasure, and Lacha filed that away, as a piece to a puzzle that she wasn’t sure she could assemble just so. There wasn’t so much room for all the pieces, not with who she was, what she was, and despite more than two centuries of living, she only managed it just right occasionally.

And there was so much there, when it came to the Seelie for the both of them. For Frost there was more hurt to color all of it than there was for, but she appreciated Frost’s unflinching disdain. She knew, some days more than others, that there were those who did not know or understand the luxury of the world they had, one where they could think: Maybe the Seelie aren’t so worth hating. Frost wasn’t one of them and for that she was grateful.

But she didn’t care to dwell there, not when there was the promise of something more pleasant lingering between the two of them. 

At Frost’s answer, one given without hesitance, Lacha glance to her phone, noting the time and the fact that The Rookery was still open, thereby discarding that idea. The Queen and a runner sharing drinks? No. She was after more privacy than she’d find there, the sort of privacy she’d get in the places that belonged to her more fully and she didn’t have to be anyone. And so, instead, she smiled, teasing gently, “Oh, I think I know a place.” There were perks to having a castle and a realm at her disposal; she knew where she could take Frost that would be both unscrutinized and appropriate. “Will you meet me on the other side?”

Her eyes opened wide at the queen’s final comment.Every ounce of her being was holding her back from laughing right in Lacha’s face. Though if it were anyone else, Peridot would have happily done so. But she knew her boundaries, watched where her mouth took her. If Lacha was trying to get a rise out of her, then she wasn’t heading in the right direction. Children were the last things on her mind, as was being a mother. Peridot wasn’t even sure she had a maternal bone in her body. But still, the played up her response — adding a slight flair for the dramatic. 

“Oh my…” She spoke her words during the exhale of a gasp, hand raising to her chest and she pretended her feelings had been hurt. “You really truly hit a sore spot there, my lady.” But she couuldn’t keep up the charade much longer, her teeth already biting the inside of her bottom lip to control if from laughing. But she couldn’t do it. Letting out a real cackle of a laugh as she waved her hand, near dismissively. “Does it REALLY look like I’m the kind of person who is capable of raising a child? Oh god… could you imagine! The hilarity of it!” She truly was laughing, having to calm herself down slightly before she could continue. “Oh jesus Lacha— Uhhh Queen. I also find that motherhood can really age a person, yanno… wrinkles, stress lines, general toll on the body. I simply have too much youth left in me for motherhood. I don’t think you’d understand though, I suppose we’re just highly different people, right?” Peridot punctuated her statement with a broad smile, eyes blinking almost expectantly for a rebuttle. She could do this all day. 

It was obvious from moments after she started to respond that Peridot was not being sincere in the slightest. Except, the thing was, fey couldn’t lie, there was only doublespeak and truth and so she wondered where the kernel of truth was in Peridot’s comments that made the charade possible for her to say. It didn’t matter, really, it was just an idle consideration that faded as Peridot let loose with a laugh that startled her, but more importantly ( by her view ), visibly startled the child sitting in front of her. Left hand reached out idly, brushing against the infant long enough to get a feel for what she wanted, ( which predictably was Mom ) and she glanced away from Peridot for a moment, even as Peridot continued to speak, and scanned their nearby surroundings, wondering, idly, just how long it took to find a bathroom, and come back; shouldn’t Coral be back by now? Couldn’t she come back quicker so she could get out of this conversation?

Eventually, she turned an unamused glance back at Peridot.

“I never claimed you should have one—” and I think we’re all better of that you haven’t “—I only said it was odd to hear you use that phrasing since you haven’t. And as for the rest...” she said, before shrugging; she was the kind of woman who glowed through pregnancy and genuinely didn’t mind it, she was also the one fey in the Unseelie Court who didn’t have a choice when it came to having and raising children. She didn’t see it as an obligation first and foremost but there was an acute awareness to her situation that it could be, if she ever lost Camellia and took too long to have another. “I find it rather suits me.” Then she paused, leaning back just slightly, letting her gaze flicker over Peridot, in a clear assessment. “What’s not to understand, Peridot? You figure life’s only worth living if you can live it for yourself and have a good time from start to finish. Just because I’ve never had that luxury doesn’t mean I don’t know what it looks like or what it’s like to want it.”

“I believe you.” She said, making every effort not to allow her voice to grow soft. Because right now, more than ever, she needed to be solid. Unwavering, able, and capable. She felt sick about Fidchell, she felt vaguely panicky about what was coming. However, that was not an excuse to show weakness, not around her mother least of all.

“I have to say, seeing his face if you had said that would have been quite something.” Camellia sighed. “I only wish it could have been something,” anything “different than this wager. Even beyond my own hesitations surrounding it, if we do lose, I do not wish for this to be used against you or our Court.” Or myself, in a hopelessly selfish way of wishing. 

Part of her wished that she could switch the topic, to ask her mother about her long-forgotten other self, whose memories had left her with a lack of concentration and appetite after the beginning of last month. Who she had not seen since then, even though they had to have vaguely crossed paths at their place of work. Somewhere, yet once again invisible. But right now, the topic of Fidchell was more important than discussing long-lost pieces of herself. Maybe sometime soon, on a calmer and less high-stakes time. 

(Would their ever be such a time?)

“Has Adare attempted to have you make this sort of wager before now?”

“I don’t lie to you, Camellia,” Lacha returned firmly, without hesitation at Camellia’s statement; it was a policy of hers, that went beyond being bound to some form of the truth the way all fey were; she might omit to spare Camellia, but she rarely, so rarely, utilized the doublespeak they were capable.

Lacha merely snorted though, at the comment about seeing Adare’s face. “Love, he’d be more shocked if you said it than me. I really ought to let you sit in with us more often. The game’s always the same: Adare’s arrogant, unflappable and self-satisfied. I’m the cold bitch with a mouth like unswept glass.” That was one way of putting, a way that omitted how she tried to shatter Adare’s facade with the truth while he worked to get under her skin by saying just the right thing in just the right way. It also didn’t acknowledge how he more often found success than she did.

Still, she hesitate before addressing the rest. Hand ran through her hair in an uncommon gesture of something between frustration and anxiety, but when she spoke her voice was nothing but gentle. “I already had this argument with—” her mouth moved to form ‘Gale’, but she stopped herself before she could breath the word into air, “—your father. It’s not fair to either of you, I know that, but there’s nothing to be done now. I couldn’t go back on it if I wanted to and frankly, I don’t. It’s not fair, but it’s a good wager. I’d rather be made vulnerable a thousand times over than go to war again and risk losing you too.” It was an odd admission, a vulnerable one because she barely every discussed this; so long ago, she’d acknowledged Caora’s existence when Camellia asked and then told her not to ask again because it hurt so unbearably to even think about talking to one daughter about another. As such, a flash of grief tore across her face and she swallowed hard, shut her eyes, took a deep breath, and mentally counted to three before she turned her attention back to Camellia, wondering all the while if it would ever stop being so raw. “Nothing that can come of it would be as bad as that.”

Is the Queen using slang? A party game for fey under forty. Nickel decided to play it safe. “No, I’m not getting … dragged there. It’s important to my human mother, it looks good if I participate. Keeps things easy.” 

Nickel’s place in his family was only a bit of a balancing act. He had a powerful ally in the human woman who had borne the original Nicholas Dalton, as she would not easily give up the child she assumed was of her body. No matter how tense things got with him and Dad, Mom was always there insisting that Nicky ought to get one more chance. There was a part of Nickel that wondered what his dad thought about his job–was his oldest son getting suckered into the same game? Did that worry him at all? Fear of the fey kept him silent so far.

“I’ll see you there?” Nickel asked, remembering, suddenly, that’d he’d need to track down a tie.

“Right.” A slight nod followed, an expression of uncertain understanding passing across her face briefly. In some ways there was very little she understood about typical parents; she was a parent herself, but she was hardly a typical one and the relationship she’d had with her parents hadn’t been normal either. To claim a relationship with her mother was to claim a thing half childish hope and half agony, she’d never had the ability or the desire to find the right moves and ways to get along with any of the fey that had engineered attempts to try and fill the hole left behind by Celia over the years, and while she loved her father, what they’d had traded and centered most around the concept of Queenship and obligation, always; she had no idea what it was like to humor a parent simply to keep them happy. She’d never done that with Tierney. Every time she’d done things she hadn’t wanted to do at his request, the foundational under-pining hadn’t been happiness, it had been obligation and the future.

His question split his reverie though, prompting a smile, “Unless you want to glamour yourself into an appropriate outfit, I’d imagine so.”

When she retreated he knew his time was over. She was placing everything carefully back into its spot and the settling of her expression was an easy indicator that the precious moments he had collected were just that. Precious few moments allocated in increments. Just enough to keep him grasping at more and yet satisfied, for now, with what he had been given. Perhaps he would grow tired of it (in truth he suspected he had begun to) but she offered the respite that granted life and joy in a world that offered little. At times he wavered between whether she was granting him too much or had already claimed all he could possibly give without as much in return. Regardless of how much he chafed at the bit provided he would always respect it and had learned to love what scraps she threw his way. 

His fingers dragged down the last brush of her arm, seeking the closure there, before finally falling back to his side. Formalities began reality and he allowed her to wear her armor once more and become the woman he saw outside of their privacy. Always the same woman, just…more aware. While he wanted nothing more than to help her forget now it would have to be on her time as always. “Very well. Your wish is my command,” he said with a hint of teasing. He very much followed her commands as placed forward but he had done more on his knees in other terms of service than she would admit. 

Gale couldn’t know, because Lacha would never tell him, but there was something in her that ached at his response. The teasing tone softened the blow and she understood that he was still upset, but frankly, she’d hoped for something more... pleased at the invitation. It wasn’t as if she frequently went out of her way to offer spontaneous invitations to chunks of her time or give many such promises regarding her evenings.

Instead of letting it show, she dug up a somewhat lackluster smile for the sake of the teasing, though she found little amusing or pleasing in the idea of it; for another woman, perhaps, it’d be charming to have someone at their disposal like so, but Lacha was a different creature altogether. Too intimately familiar with what it inherently meant and felt like to command, what she wanted from Gale, what she always wanted from the people to whom she gave her heart, was for what existed between them to be free of command as much as possible; she only wanted him if he wanted to be there and everything he said made her wonder if her offer was an obligation to him.

She left the misunderstanding alone, and matched the smile with a half-felt sentiment, the one she knew he’d rather hear, because, for once, she was tired enough of fighting not to vocalize the way sharp words that came to mind first ( “Very well, Gale? Are you joking? Come around when it’s not such an obligation to be there.” ). “Well aren’t I just spectacularly lucky then?”

Maybe. Maybe not. She didn’t know right now and it didn’t matter because she wasn’t going to stay to try and understand how that could be. Instead, she simply said, “I’ll see you later, then,” and turned away. Hands settled into pockets as she left him, a casual display that hid the way she was trying not to wonder what she was going to do when everything she could give wasn’t enough, when being sorry for that didn’t matter anymore. 

Willow stared at the ball at her feet, following its trail back to the infant who had thrown it, eyes softening. Even the Unseelie Queen, authoritative and compelling, couldn’t draw their eyes, for how could the Queen of another court compare to the sight of a dream that was not yet theirs? It was dangerous, Willow knew, to let their mind overtake reality, to plan out a future that was not yet within their grasp - frustratingly thwarted by Adare’s actions. But in the softest and most tender of moments, the space between sleep and awakening, they had. They had a baby who they took to Central Park, who gleefully threw toys and shook with laughter at their disobedience. Her child was alive…in the flesh.

At Lacha’s words, the illusion faded. It was probably the safest thing for both of them.

Steadying herself, Willow reached down to pick up the ball, grass brushing against their fingertips - sharp and charred from the suns beating. Approaching the Queen - and the nameless infrant - Willow bent down, placing the ball at the toddlers feet with a longful smile. Then, turning their attention to the Queen, they nodded sharply - a mark of respect. Spies, more than anyone else. obeyed the silent rules of decorum. More than anything else, Willow was startled by the still sense of calm that possessed Lacha - and even the smile on her face. The child’s influence? Willow couldn’t be sure. But surely, this was not someone alarmed by fire. Did Lacha have the situation under control? Or did she believe that it was the work of Seelies? Although Willow loathed small-talk, they obliged. 

“You look well.”

There was a longing in Willow that Lacha immediately recognized, seeing an echoing of things she’d once done herself. It was nothing more than the the way Willow's gaze found Ruby first and lingered there, the way their whole expression softened carelessly, in a way that couldn’t be helped, nothing more than that smile, the way her request started them from a reverie and how the ball was returned gently, so gently.

The Unseelie Queen, the Seelie Watcher, there ought not be room for the vulnerability a child could bring, not between them. And yet... 

There was something there because it was easy to hate Adare; Lacha hated him often, for various reasons, but now, for just a moment, she hated him on Willow's behalf. To rule was a burden, there were obligations others couldn’t fully comprehend, but she’d never understood his choice with Fianat. Never. She'd rend the very sky itself before carelessly throwing Camellia away for nothing more than a desire not to play politics. And look what it had bought him: peace, but at such cost, and she pitied Willow, because they paid the price for choices not their own and Lacha never would.

No, Lacha’s choices were always her own. Once upon a time, on a night that was ice and snow and stars, that was disgust and so much black anger, she'd wandered the Unseelie Court's grounds without coat or gloves, using the cold to burn out her temper; she had wanted to be numb so that she might find the strength to go back to her mother, to her father, to once again bear witness to the tragedy that was her mother’s existence. She'd been young for such heartbreak ( Much too young; ten, maybe eleven. What did it matter? She didn't pity herself. ), but that night she'd promised herself that she would be better. It had meant so many things, one word imbued with endless optimism, with childish absolutism: a better mother, a better Queen, a better person: stronger of heart, more certain, more true, more willing to face the world as it was no matter what. She had thought then that she would avoid Sacrifice with nothing more than wanting it to be like so, and she could make things exceptional without cost.

If only childish certainties were truths. 

Lacha wasn't who she had wanted to be, who she thought she'd be that night when she anticipated the future, but that had all been born of her choices; she'd made the sacrifices of her volition, she'd decided to prioritize the Court over anything and everything else. Every last choice had been hers, but Adare had stolen Willow's.

And so, the pity flashed over her for a moment longer than a mere instant; a perceptible flicker before she returned to the placidity that was her norm. If her words were a reminder to Willow that the fantasy of a child was just that, then Willow’s mere presence for her was a reminder that there was an outside world waiting that was so tense that, despite her tactics and choices in how to handle things thus far, everything might just s n a p. That alone was enough to erase the full of her calm, to add tension to the way she sat.

As such, the attempt at small talk was met with a sharp bark of laughter. Glamours made to hide the physical signs of tiredness ( dark circles under her eyes, most predominate of them ) she couldn’t afford to let her court see right now fell away as she looked Willow straight in the face, unflinching because whether or not they’d intended to Willow had show a piece of themselves and such a thing earned return ( even as she’d deny the implications she was freely giving if pressed ). “Infants have a habit of making things seem better.” A quick glance to Ruby followed, a small smile, as she idly watched her pick up the ball and wave it around in her tiny hands, before she glanced back to Willow. “Don’t let the idyllic escapism of my here and now fool you.” My world is falling apart a g a i n and I am tired.

I. THE BEGINNING.

There are days that Lacha out and out loves the Unseelie court for everything it is and has become and the day of An Fidchell is always one of them. This year it’s hard, this year it hurts, this year her heart feels like it’s cracking and mending all at once, because the game’s always a reminder that there’s animosity between her and Adare, between her court and his, and with that reminder comes a remembrance of what the costs are when they let things get out of hand.

( “Not a day goes by, Caora. Not a single, solitary day.” )

Except even so, this year, it’s the same as ever: the stave, the entrance, the affirmation of her end of the wager. 

Of course, there’s pride in Lark’s performance, in showing off a thing that’s hers for nothing other than Adare’s small-mindedness. Oh, she knows she has her sins, but she likes to throw his in his face, and there’s pleasure in doing so publicly. 

( “Look Adare, look. She ought to be yours, but instead she’s mine because you didn’t even want her.” )

But truthfully, she could do without the performance; she knows it serves a purpose, but her heart catches in her throat when she thinks about what’s on the line, and she’s eager to get on with it. To that end, she only pays the performance and ( moreso ) the Seelie introductions minimal attention.

Still, she can’t ignore her own court, nor does she want to. She leans forward, just slightly at Ivy’s entrance and if the Seelie are loud at Forrest’s call, her Unseelie are triple as such at Ivy’s and Lacha isn’t surprised; they want a win badly and so does she because ignoring the issue of the wager, she is tired of losing. 

The court’s loud, and she lets it go on and on, much longer than strictly necessary, amusement and pleasure playing in the corners of her mouth, because the wild, unfettered enthusiasm her court has makes her genuinely love them. Fuck Adare and the Seelie with their polite, respectful, perhaps even classy reaction. She wants the chaos, wants the reflection of the bloodlust and the eagerness for the fight.

At least that’s real.

Yet, it’s not just the chaos she adores. It’s the fact that she has the power to silence them all, too. Only, it’s not the power she likes in that, not really. The power’s nice, but what pleases her is the way it serves as an affirmation of what she’s done for the Unseelie Court, of the way she’s made the crown mean something again and brought stability back to the court in doing so.

( “Dad, I don’t care if they love me. I just want to know that when I speak they’ll listen, when I command, they’ll obey. I will make this court exceptional if it is the last thing I do and if the price is in blood, so be it.” )

When the moment feels right, when she thinks they’ve gone on long enough, she simply holds up a hand, palm open, in a request for quiet, rather than an enforcement, something that shows in a hand kept open, in fingers left splayed. Her court knows her power, they aren’t strangers to the way she can force them to quiet should she so choose with little more than fingers tightening to a fist and a whisper of will, of magic. But they know too that on a day like An Fidchell, on a day where it’s bloodlust and battle, only one rule remains, with an understanding that punishment will be viciously given for disobedience: However we might act when we’re amongst ourselves, do not make the mistake of making me look the fool in front of Adare and the Seelie.

They quiet at her behest and she revels in the affirmation inherent within that: I am the one thing that will hold amidst the chaos.

II. THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

The moment it comes down to Davey and Elise, Lacha’s stomach flips and she knows what comes next is bound to be unpleasant for her one way or the other. She has endured much unpleasantness over the years, she’s no stranger to bearing it with a brand of cool stoicism that betrays nothing of her own heart or her own hurt, but that does little to make it easy. After all, this time, it’s worse for the fact that no matter what happens next it’s a mess of her own making. 

Elise had been her choice, not Ivy’s recommendation, made for the sake of Hyacinth.

( “You deserve a fair chance at salvation, my love; my heart was yours first, a piece of it is yours always, though that alone cannot save you.” ) 

And she, more than anyone else, knows there’s absolutely no one to blame for a wager equal parts foolish and real but herself.

( “I should have said, ‘no’, told him to fuck off. We’d have settled elsewhere, we always do.” )

And so, the only question really is, which version of Hell does she prefer? There are two options:

There’s the one where she endures whispers about her and the Knight she broke her traditional inflexibility for and saved once upon a time, about how she’s now being forced to spare him a second time.

( ‘Always thought she must have been fucking him; why else reveal a secret unprompted and save him then, why else try to tithe him now that he’s got another girl?’ ) 

And there’s the other where her heart is flayed open with little more than one sentence leaving her—them—vulnerable to pressures she’s long been disinterested in giving a name and a face to focus upon.

( ‘You can’t have him, under any circumstance. He’s unsuited, he’s unsuitable.’   ‘You have to have someone, it needs to be him; he’s already given you both child and heir.’ )

She doesn’t know which is worse, both can’t and won’t choose; it’s out of her hands anyway and how much does it really matter when she can forgive neither Gale his idiocy and the way he’s managed the one thing she fears above all else nor Hyacinth the fact that he knows her so well that she has no secrets?

The only thing left for her is to wait and see. 

III. THE END.

Lacha watches as Davey kills Elise with an expression like stone ( placid & immovable ). She’s seen death before, she’ll see more before her time as Queen finishes. It isn’t that which makes her expression shift for a moment afterward, but rather the thought of what inevitably must follow, what she’s sworn an essentially unbreakable vow to do.

Now more than ever, she’s grateful she believes in hope for the best plan for the worst, because all she has to do is glance briefly to Rowan and nod slightly before she efficiently slips away as they discussed the night before. Gaze tracks her as she cuts through their side of the arena and its crowd, watches as she seeks and finds Gale, watches as she tugs him away, as all the while Adare makes his way down to Davey’s side and starts to acknowledge his victory. A gentle brush of her hand against her father’s, too, easily done as he sits next to her, waiting in the silence, and without her saying a word, he does as she’s asked of him; she watches him draw Camellia away. Gale doesn’t deserve this, not anymore, but a promise is a promise and truthfully, she isn’t doing it for him; she’s doing it for Camellia because she doesn’t want her—their—daughter to pay for what is—or perhaps more accurately now, isn’t—between her and Gale more than necessary. 

( “I’m sorry, Camellia, that you won’t get the happy ending you might want. He’ll give you the truth, but there’s nothing that will follow. Love, there’s no such thing as happy endings or perfect families and right now I’m so angry I don’t know how to forgive.” )

Reassured that things are as she wants them, reassured she’s making the best of a bad situation, she sits coldly uncompromising through what follows. Adare gloats further, Davey asks to forget, but she can barely hear it over the sound of her own heartbeat; it sounds like drums, the almost consuming mix of fear and anger that’s begging to be released, to be used to create an out or a delay because she’s scared, she’s scared, she’s so fucking scared. Except, she hates that, hates her own fear. All she has to do is tell the truth, and she’s very good at that, but there’ll be questions and speculation and she hates too that she knows there’s nothing she can do to stop it. 

( “All I’ve ever wanted is something good that belongs just to me, that isn’t for everyone’s eyes the way everything else I do is. All I’ve ever tried to do is protect him from the court, from being used to hurt me.” )

Davey disappears through a portal except, just as she’s getting ready to stand and make good on her side of things, there’s a flash of green fire. It takes her by surprise, this answer to her silent desire for an out or a delay, and she quickly stops being scared; there’s no fear for her in an emergency, only a well ingrained reflex to take control of the situation. She notes the banner in passing, as her gaze flicks about the arena and she takes in the whole of the situation. It’s simple message makes an impression, but she doesn’t stop to consider it; there’ll be time enough for that later. Instead, she reacts, moments after Adare does, once she’s taken stock of things as they are; she doesn’t like to play secondary to anyone, but he takes command of the fire quickly; he’s closer. She quiets the chaos, momentarily, long enough for him to give rapid orders without panic, long enough for her to instruct those who can leave up and out of the arena by virtue of flight to do it so that everyone else can get out the doors, but as he continues, she notes that something is stopping people from leaving at all.

And so, while he fights the fire, she takes her own advice, flies up and out, only to land outside and change back at the sight of a field of grass that doesn’t belong. She doesn’t consult Adare. Instead, she simply decides to leave him to the fire and tackle the grass as best as she’s able.

Later, she wishes she could say she’d found a way to get rid of the problem, but the best she does is create several workarounds for those who haven’t found one of their own or decided to brave the grass themselves.

It isn’t nearly enough, and she’s annoyed by the whole situation, but she can’t help the small part of herself that is simply awash in a profound sense of relief. She’ll have to tell, eventually; a vow is a vow. But she’s living on borrowed time and she’ll take it gladly. 

IV. THE END OF THE END.

When Lacha thinks about Fidchell the next day, everything is startlingly clear; there’s a technicolor crispness to the day that seems to be the primary effect and benefit of hindsight, and she wonders how she missed the signs that something was bound to happen soon.

After all, she’s never half so unaware as her critics like to believe; she rules with an iron fist and keeps a very good pulse on the satisfaction of the court because she knows there’s no other choice. The court, as a whole entity, doesn’t love her and never will, so the best she can do is make sure its majority is content, and make it her business to know when there are murmurings that betray it might not be like so, even as she doesn’t care to have the source of them unless it grows more serious than mere complaining.

( “Oh for fuck’s sake, everyone’s so quick to try and tell me who’s said what. Don’t start naming names; I don’t care who complains about me, I don’t care who disagrees. If complaining makes them feel better then let them. So long as they don’t act on it and do as I say anyway, there’s no harm. It’s their obedience I’m after. Nothing more, nothing less.” )

The banner and the feyry fire are far more serious than just complaints though. There’s an off-chance, of course, that neither have anything to do with the Unseelie Court or its whispers of dissatisfaction, because she’s sure Adare has his fair share of the same with an unborn child of his own and no proven solution to the fertility problem for everyone else, but it doesn’t strike her as particularly likely. The Seelie are a sly bunch, slick and terribly concerned with appearances. Flash and feyry fire, a weapon as wild as her own court strikes her as inherently Unseelie, along with the maybe careless, maybe not-so consideration that it could have easily been her down there when the fire erupted instead of Adare.

She doesn’t take kindly to the idea that this could have been an assassination attempt. It’s not even the fact that such a thing betrays a level of hate she hadn’t been aware of embedded into this cycle of dissatisfaction. It’s the presumption that everything would be fine following her death that angers her.

( “How dare they? Don’t they understand Camellia’s not ready? Don’t they see the style of my ascension isn’t something to be repeated? She’d be ruined by it and everyone will suffer. I don’t understand, I don’t understand at all. It’s like they want a return to dark days I’ve sworn we’ll never see again.” )

And so, it leaves her with little choice but to decide how she wants to address their trite statement regarding change. She’s put down more than one burgeoning or full rebellion in her time and she knows her options fairly well, knows that it boils down to choosing one of three paths.

One: Ignore the problem, hope it goes away. 

Except, that isn’t an option here. The words, attempted assassination, whether true or simply her perception of events, have already branded themselves into her skull. She can't afford to do nothing, she won’t stand to do nothing. It’s not even for her own sake, but Camellia’s. If unknown individuals want her dead, they’ll get their way eventually if she does nothing to counter. And Camellia’s not ready for what would follow.

This isn’t going away, much as her heart might ache and she might wish it would because she’s only trying to do what’s best.

Two: Lead with force. 

It isn’t a hard thing, necessarily, to round up the usual suspects, to subject them to the brutally effective combination of Rowan, Raven and The Modest Blade. She’s done it before, and she always gets what she wants out of it eventually; pain inevitably births a willingness to say something, The Modest Blade and their inherent inability to lie ensure it’s the truth. 

Only, leading with that kind of force is more effective when she has a name she is certain of and uses it to compel the rest. 

Starting from scratch isn’t to her favor, because it gives too much time, too much warning to those involved who aren’t of suspect. When action comes in the form of words printed upon a page or public outcry, she doesn’t mind the warning because there’s less risk that her force would earn retaliation in kind. 

But this time, the promise of rebellion is led off with feyry fire. Lacha has a feeling resorting to some widely-directed violence of her own that doesn’t have near enough guarantee of success will only lead to another demonstration of reciprocal force.

She isn’t overeager to push this to out and out civil war.

Three: Start with diplomacy.

She hates this game. There’s a part of her, the vindictively angry part, that wants to reject this option outright. 

( “If they want battle, I will give them war.” )

After all, she isn’t much for curbing her tongue or biding her time. But even so, she has played the game before, she’s knows the moves well: find the players that matter on both sides, rally her support, prove that she’s not without means to fight the fight should she need to, get them to tip their hand, meet somewhere in the middle and end this with compromise. 

The last is a challenge in its own right because Lacha’s track record speaks for itself. She’s put rebellions down both ways, with violence, with words, but when she does it the latter way, what she promises more often than not gradually lapses; no one ever thinks to make her explicitly promise in terms of perpetuity rather than implied, perhaps because she never offers it as an option.

She rules as she pleases and forced change does not often suit her.

Still, she resigns herself to starting here, not because she wants to; if she can end this without ever having to pick up a weapon, she is morally and ethically obligated to do so because such a thing is always what’s best for the court. And even if diplomacy doesn’t work, at least she can use it to buy herself time, to collect names and information, to figure out who she’s fighting this time.

With diplomacy in mind, she calls for the court to assemble in the throne room at 2130, figuring twenty-four hours since the fire began is a fairly appropriate turn around time.

V. THE BEGINNING, REDUX.

The sound inside the room is deafening, even for the ceiling open to the stars; she could hear it from the other end of a corridor that leads to a room off to the back of the throne room where she now sits and keeps her peace, waiting for the clock to strike the time she’s called for, refusing to start any earlier. A summoning is an obligation, one she’s not fool enough to believe will go completely heeded, but she’ll wait to make sure everyone who wants to be there is, so that she only has to say things once.

The clock strikes 2130. Lacha stands, but before she walks in, she takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders, the same way she always has since she was twelve-years-old and faced the court as newly made Queen—in theory, not practice—at her mother’s wake. There’s something about the thirty second ritual of setting herself just so that soothes her, that reminds her she can and will do this just as she always has.

The moment she steps into the room, the roar softens just slightly, anticipatory quiet beginning to drop over a room in gradations as she makes quick work of walking across the front of the room to the throne and settling comfortably into it. She makes a gesture for quiet, same as yesterday, without trying to talk over the din. 

She could silence the room by force, but the tactic of the day is diplomacy, so she waits, and waits, and waits until the room is silent but for a few scattered conversations, which don’t seem to want to die. After reminding herself there’s only so far diplomacy can go, at random, she then picks one of the few people who are still talking, and singles them out.

“River, do tell what’s so important.” They stare at her, cheeks heating as all eyes turn on them, but they say nothing. “It is important, isn’t it? After all, you’ve continued to talk despite my call for silence.”

River shakes their head.

“No?” she asks then, voice still dangerously soft, “Then I suggest you hold your tongue before I do it for you.”

The silence in the room is now deafening. She comfortably sits in it for a very long minute because the silence doesn’t bother her. It has never bothered her.

“To put it mildly, yesterday was not a good day,” she then says, breaking silence.

The pronouncement hangs in the air, a promise that more will follow clinging to it, as Lacha studies the room, looks for agreement and finds it, looks for neutrality and finds it, looks for anger and finds it, emotions playing across various faces.

“A third loss in a row is not the outcome I was hoping for, least of all when prior to this we managed a string of four wins. However, what concerns me more is what followed. Feyry fire is not an appropriate weapon for making a point.” A pause to underscore her chastisement, before she continued. “Now I could play the fool, I could say, not my court, I could refuse to take ownership of the promise that change is coming because of the ambiguity as to whom the message was intended, but I think that would be a mistake. I’ve ruled this court one-hundred and sixty-seven years, I know when a message is meant for me.” 

A low tide of murmurs rises and falls quickly. She waits it out, her gaze playing across the entire room, her expression a cold mask that doesn’t betray any measure of her emotions. 

“I’d do this quieter, but then, brash action gets a return in it’s fashion, and I haven’t the slightest idea which of you I’m actually talking to, so I’ll simply say this. Change is coming? Fine. But we do it my way. No more feyry fire, no more stupid, brazen gestures that have the potential to kill.” She says it like an order; it is an order, one that comes with the subtext that she will ensure there is hell to pay if she’s disobeyed. She leans back in her seat. “If the goal was having my attention, believe me, it’s had.” She sighs then, “Owing to that, within the next fortnight, I’ll take one list and one list only of demands or changes meant to be considered. I don’t care how it makes it’s way to me any more than I care in what fashion it’s written, but I swear to you, here and now, should I get more than one, especially if they have conflicting demands, I’ll consider none and deem the matter closed.” 

A rising tide of response comes into being once again, this one louder than the one previous. It’s not her typical tactic, and she has a feeling everyone’s struggling to recall the last time she played at being so reasonable; the last rebellion she quietly ended with an “accident” before everyone even entirely knew what was brewing and the one before that was put down with weapons and blood and force. But then, she hasn’t been quite this disadvantaged for a long time.

“Should there be any concerns regarding this arrangement, I’m afraid I’ll only hear those in person,” she adds, speaking over the noise rather than waiting for quiet, a hint of sharp amusement playing across her face; they can do things her way, but if they don’t like it, she means to make them give her a name and a face with whom to start the association earlier than she’ll get it otherwise, leaving her room to do more with it. The part of her that lives for tactics prays they both have concerns and are stupid enough to play this her way rather than work harder to force her hand. Right now she has so much room to turn this if not entirely to her favor, than certainly to her benefit and she’d like it to remain that way.

Still, she’s not quite finished. She calls for quiet, this time with not a gesture but with a singular word, issued with force above the noise: “Enough.” She gives thirty seconds, before she runs out of patience; hand tightens to a fist, and she taps into her magic, muting the room.

“One last thing, on a peripherally related note. For those of you who might be wondering or are concerned: I will be making good on my wager, as soon as Adare and I can settle on a date to call both courts together. I fully expect that those of you in similar circumstance do the same. Chaos preventing the normal way in which we do things does not give justification for failing to meet our obligations.”

“Yeah! It might at least be a little useful,” Nickel said, speaking rapidly. His carriage was just a little more upright; his tone just a touch less informal. He gestured in the general direction of uptown.  “My mom is hosting a fundraiser auction. Dad hasn’t said whether or not he’s showing up, but odds are good-ish. You have a real invitation–” 

Nickel unslung his backpack, and produced a beautifully embossed ivory envelope. Only one corner was bent. 

“–which I guess is like a thank you for employing me for so long,” Nickel observed, as if he had just made the connection in his head at that moment.

Lacha took the invitation, opening it without saying anything, sliding the card stock from the envelope, taking in the details briefly, wincing at the black tie dress code embossed at the bottom of the invitation because she didn’t enjoy that.

Yet, she already knew she was going to say yes; how could she not? There were certain aspects to the games she played that necessitated the personal touch when and where she could take it.

“I suppose she wouldn’t understand that you always have a place here,” she returned, with a degree of conscious sincerity ( some days she wasn’t even sure Nickel believed it ). “But I’ll take good-ish, if it means the evening turns into paying your father a surprise visit.” A quick smile, not exactly kind followed, “He’ll hate that, mostly because he hates me.” She didn’t find that particularly bothersome, but instead the natural price to being the holder of a debt he’d never repay, one that had earned him the very comfortable, superficially perfect life he had. “Tell me, are you getting dragged?”

Rowan could only nod with a newfound understanding and—if possible—more respect. Before, and that was well enough, she assumed the secret was to consolidate power, which was important when re-establishing a Court out from the disaster Ro learned it had been not long before she was born. But now, to learn that the Queen had loved the father, had kept it secret both for the trouble of what if Camellia had to be bastardized if she’d been born demifey? and what if still no heir after the loss of Caora? and what chaos that could have caused among her people; far better to avoid that simmering. That choice had played out well with Camellia being born with no trouble to tell save for her blonde hair. And what a rebel the Queen had been, to take a demifey lover and dare to have an heir with him! And to keep him! And—Ro arched a brow without saying any of this aloud—to still? be keeping him? There was something in the depth of that which made Ro’s heart, for the smallest moment, soften.

Of course, there was no crime in the Unseelie Court to love and wed a demifey; they weren’t so callous as the golden court. All the same, demifey and human affairs had nuanced troubles for dalliances with the royal line. Only the rulers had to remain pristine, paragons of all that was fey. Suddenly, with this dawning, a new heaviness fell behind Ro’s eyes. These were the sorts of matters she never could have understood when she was younger. Briefly, her heart moved to the thought of Caora before Ro just shook her head to clear it all out. “Not dislike.” Ro knew Gale, worked with him; he was short-sighted at times, but not a bad man. “Surprise. Understanding. I wouldn’t have guessed a demifey. You’re fuckin’ lucky Cam wasn’t born one, too.” Ro breathed out through her teeth; the cursing was her natural state; it wasn’t used harshly, it was a linguistic tell of her standing on ceremony dropping in turn with Lacha’s.

“What are you afraid it implies about you now?” she asked out of sheer curiosity. When Lacha praised her, Rowan did the one thing she never did: she blushed and looked to the ground. It was like a mother praising her and she’d never really had that before. Ro reached out, tentatively, as if she might have had a passing though about hugging her, but then rested the arm again at her side. Stunted, she was. Nothing to be done for it. She listened to her orders and nodded, but another look of surprise crossed her face at the news. “Why is he going to the Wood?” This wasn’t dissent; she’d readily do it, it was just news on the heels of the other new information. “I will tolerate being dismissed by granddaddy fey,” Ro added with a soft roll of her eyes, “and I can do the rest.”

“No?” Lacha asked softly, genuinely surprised. Funny, how little more than not quite approval, but a lack of condemnation from one of the few people who’s opinions mattered made Lacha think this could be more bearable. A flash of a smile followed, not the sad one she’d found herself offering before, but a thing made of absolute certainty and just a touch of amusement. “Ah, Rowan, you’re faithless. I do things my way, you know that.” But she sobered quickly, “Oh, I know it. Gale never knew, I didn’t tell him, but I worried the whole time. I’d have done the hard thing, of course, passed her over if I had to,” she admitted softly ( the court or her daughter? the court, the court always. ), “but if things had gone that way,” she paused and shook her head. “I think it would have been a mistake I’d have been allowed only the once. Someone would have been picked for me and that would have been the end of it.” She was certain of that; there was a great deal of pressure she could handle especially if the court was fractured in terms of what they supported, but if Cam had been born demifey, there would have been no respite, or not enough.

Thank Danu, that Rowan was savvy enough not to enquire what had passed between them, what not exactly being on speaking terms meant or how long right now had been, instead asking the only question that actually mattered. “Adare smug bastard that he is, threw it in my face a couple days ago that Gale owes him a favor and wasn’t even clever enough to ask for any terms.” She didn’t bother to hide the way she wasn’t remotely over it, though she didn’t offer explicit details as to why she was so angry, figuring the implications would be as plain to Rowan, no doubt, as they were to her. But unspoken was the corollary: it might be impossible for me to forgive him.

Except Rowan’s question still needed addressing and she didn’t have an answer she could well articulate. She sighed, uncomfortable expression passing across her face because she didn’t do vulnerable particularly well. Moments here and there, sure, but this whole conversation was built on a premise of vulnerability she wasn’t accustomed to. Not that Rowan did much better; she didn’t miss the start of a gesture that didn’t come to any conclusion. “Love not fear, not power. It’s a weakness. You know it. So do I.” That didn’t make it the wrong thing to do but it didn’t mean everyone or anyone was going to like it. But Rowan’s last cheered her, pulling a soft laugh, “Don’t let him hear you call him that. You know how he is.” A soft smile played in the corners of her mouth, because it rarely showed but she was a Daddy’s girl at heart and Rowan had been—if not still was, in a fashion—family. “He always asks after you already.”

“Oh, you mean when you cheat, Your Majesty?” he asked, smirking at her. In the past when she’d fly off, literally, to do whatever it was she intended on doing and leave him behind, he’d remind her that was cheating when he caught up to her. Not that he hadn’t cheated himself a few times, walking through mirrors to catch up when the need arose. “You’ll get it,” he promised again. “Today, if I have anything to say about it.” 

“Oh, don’t be sore because you couldn’t keep up, Raven. That’s hardly my fault,” she returned, un-offended, as ever, by the notion of cheating, and very obviously teasing him, both marks of her trust. “And it’s not as if I ask it of you much anymore, nor is Camellia half so... impossible about it when I demand she have accompaniment.” She nodded, “Today would be useful. Pictures are only as good as the pressure that can be exacted from using them and there’s a time window for the particular bit of leverage I’m actually looking for.” She smiled slightly at Raven, “What an endless web we weave.”

The silence was deafening. He could hear the roaring of his own blood in his ears as she stared at him in utter disbelief, his humiliation echoing louder than her own words. How had he managed to be so stupid? Even a simple demifey such as him should have known far better than to accept anything at all from someone like Adare. The Seelie King was infamous for his trickery and Gale had been too young, too blind to his own culture to see just how easily it was to fool another. He rarely escaped from his paperwork in the Library, cooped up in the Rookery turning humans into putty with simple samples that melted their minds. They were not manipulated or bargained with but simply promised things they had already expected. He should have known better. He was out of practice. 

The breath he had been holding left him in a rush at the severity of her sentence. Three days? He had witnessed fey return with their minds barely intact after a single day. They sometimes still screamed in their sleep until he stepped in to provide some elixirs to ease their suffering as long as he could. Not only would he bear her disappointment and the weakness he had so easily offered to Adare but he would have to fight for his life amongst the ruins of those who had failed. He’d proven her right and shown her yet again he was never going to be worthy of her consort of her trust ever again. She might as well have shoved a blade through his abdomen. 

“Yes, my Queen. I’ll do my best to return,” he said stiffly before bowing once more. The movement was jerky, all stiff and harsh, but he rose and quickly left to avoid looking at her eyes. 

There was nothing to say, so Lacha simply watched him go. She was angry, she was so, so angry at his carelessness that there was nothing there but her temper so long as she looked at him and like so she was satisfied with the punishment; it was odd to decide how much violating her trust and proving her right about the very worst thing was worth, but she genuinely felt three days was sufficient, that it balanced the scales to some degree. She’d done it cruelly, but that was little more than being Queen and she’d retreated to the safety of what she knew best with her temper as it was.

He left quickly, he left painfully, clearly hurt by her choice, enough to throw words that were painful in their own right at her, with the implication she didn’t care, with the accusation she didn’t necessarily want him to return, with the question, veiled and maybe created of her own imagination, of whether this was her way of getting rid of him. 

Except, even as he left and she found herself alone, his words didn’t stop circling her brain. As the sharp edges of cold temper receded gradually, giving her back her heart, it began to ache; what he said was as much a stab to the heart for her as the length and breadth of her punishment was for him. 

Look, Gale, look how we hurt each other. When did what we are come to include this? she wanted to ask, but then, she knew the answer: the moment she’d decided she wouldn’t acknowledge him as Camellia’s father, the moment Camellia had been born full fey and become her heir, the moment she’d let Gale see Camellia, fall in love with his daughter and then torn away the illusion of family in the traditional sense by sending him away. Lacha’d started it and it was about time he return her an ounce of what she’d done to him. 

There was pang, and her stomach twisted, as the ice broke to the point where she thought about calling him back and amending her punishment before he got too far away. She was angry, sure, but she loved him and the idea of losing him was unbearable. ( not yet, not yet, not yet; please God, one day, sure, but not yet. ) She wasn’t ready for that and three days was no easy ask. Head fell into hands as, not for the first time, her heart warred with her head and her head won; she knew she couldn’t do anything her heart was begging for, because this wasn’t just about the fact that she loved him. It was about the fact that he’d potentially put her in an impossible position just as much as he’d proved her right.

She sat there in silence for a lot longer, wondering what she was supposed to do; normally she’d call for Gale in a moment like this, where her heart hurt for what being Queen first and foremost demanded of her. But what was she supposed to do when the person who’d put her in this position was the person she’d normally call?

"If you don’t come back, I will never forgive you,” she murmured, words echoing in an empty room; the sentiment wasn’t empty, even if there was no one there to witness her putting it out into the universe for whatever such a thing was worth. 

There was nothing else to do then, but move forward. Just that, only that.

Her title. She should have laughed, keeled over and slapped her knee at the hilarity. But she didn’t. She was smarter than that, so much smarter. Instead, she offered a smile that practically exuded her false geniunity. “Apologies, my Queen.”  The words still felt rotten in her mouth, causing her tongue to tingle. Peridot had so many snarky words just dancing on the tip of her tongue, wanting so badly to breach the late morning sun but again, she knew better. Lacha, unfortunately, was still Queen and still had power of Peridot. She’d bide her time, and her attitude, for a time when she call speak her mind to Lacha without any consequences. For now, however? She had no choice but to play nice. 

She delivered a snort, head shaking and brow raising. “Hardly. There was construction going on where I usually run so I had to take this route. Probably would have taken it knowing I would run into you here.” Again, she wore that classic smirk. Confidence etched across every bone that constructed her features, seeping out of her pores. Peridot wasn’t sure of much in her life, but one thing she was sure of was herself. She was quick to pick her sentence back up, offering the queen a grossly delightful wink. “I’m kidding, my Queen. It was utterly delightful seeing you out and about. S’just too bad you can’t have your own little bundle of joy again, isn’t?” 

A better woman, a nicer woman might have said thank you for being given what she demanded, as a method by which to smooth things over. Except, when it came to Peridot she had no inclination to be kind. Queen first, woman second, neither mattered much here considering she didn’t even like the other standing in front of her. And so, she didn’t even verbally acknowledge the apology at all; instead she simply accepted it as her due with a short nod and left it alone.

So it goes.

Gaze settled, again, on Ruby as she listened to Peridot’s response, though gaze slipped back up to her with a sharp expression as she finished the first bit, “Pity.” She meant that; the day would have continued to be more pleasant if chance hadn’t wound up with this conversation. Still, she forced the quick smile, the casually unbothered response once Peridot picked the thread back up, “Charming as ever with that sense of humor of yours, Peridot.” Charming was a word for it, it wasn’t hers; she more meant in the typical doublespeak style, that it was as non-charming as ever. “One day maybe.” She shrugged. “I’d like a boy.” One child that she was guaranteed not to have to sacrifice nor have to raise to follow after her. “Funny to hear you phrase it like that, though, seeing as you’re older than me and you’ve never even bothered with one of your own.”

Ten seconds was all he needed. It was like a match sparked inside of his veins, turning his body molten until it threatened to consume him. There it was again, that desire for her that was as passionate as it was the very first time they had kissed. He’d always felt that inkling of something stirring inside even from the very moment she had simply brushed her knuckles against his until she had pressed her lips to the juncture of his hip. He was all too aware of their proximity to outsiders and yet he felt more alive than he cared to admit. His own magic flooded out and away from him, casting Go away, Go away, Go away in every pool of water available that such fey might be peeking into. 

“It’s alright,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. “I know what this time does for you. Let me help.” Though he longed for her Wild Hand, to see the feelings she kept so desperately hidden inside, he swore for a moment he could see them reflecting in her eyes. The impossible dangling threads of all of her feelings that threatened to spill out of her in a tumble that screamed from behind locks long since closed. These few precious and fragile moments were all he had and could collect like falling leaves to be pressed into the books of his memory. 

While he never knew the true extent of her hurt he was more than welcome to accept it with open arms and take the pain full force. He’d come to her nothing more than a blushing soldier hidden behind the stacks of his books and knowledge that he wielded as best he could. Each grace of her presence and touch reminded him of so much more that it was the least he could do to share some of her burden. But the lingering yearning for his daughter’s wholehearted acceptance still burned in the front of his mind and caused him to ache. “How badly do you seek to keep it hidden?” How much did she plan to lose? remained his unspoken question.  

It wasn’t alright. It wasn’t, it really, absolutely wasn’t. But there was comfort to be had in resting her forehead against his, in taking the thirty second further to settle, to tuck the grief away, to let herself put Caora back in the box she belonged in and make peace with this is who she was, what she had done, what she still might do. Gale could do that for her and she’d let him at least here and now. After all, this, without ever explicitly saying it, was one of the few things she depended on people like Gale for. 

( We all have things to live with and ways to live with them. You’re one of mine. )

She could rule alone, she could even do it well, but she couldn’t always handle her heart or the feelings that might come with by herself; when that happened she either tucked them away and ignored them or she used someone like Gale to find the way to rid herself of them altogether. 

"Obviously less so than I once did, considering the wager.” It wasn’t a good answer, she didn’t have a better one. Instead, she merely sighed and stepped away from him in full. “You should go, I should go back.” This was her closing the matter, simply because she didn’t see what else there was to say. What was done was done and she’d apologized much as she was able. A pause, before she smiled, a relief to unending strain, “but if you come by tonight, I’ll finish what I started.”