mattaeus

with the entrance of his summer kin, the gravity gardens become a lush cavalcade of hedonism, air singing with a humid litany of wanton feasting - of the senses, of the body.  he is home here, in the elements of summer, even if they are far from their lands - this abandon and flagrant indulgence is intrinsic to their makeup, this effortless zeal and passion. it flows freely from drink to mouth to words, and when lucius speaks, mattaeus drinks eagerly from the well of his lips. they are close amid the spread apart debauchery, sprawled together in natural melding. it is a comfort that cannot be overstated in this gilded nest so far from their beloved fields of gold and lush greens.

“lucius, you have been swallowing it all this time?” soft chiding that sounds like coaxing, like tempting. mattaeus rests his head along the crook of the fae’s neck, fingers and lips idly brushing the stubble on the other’s neck, the lump in his throat, as if to free the desire from if, as if it were lodged like a marble. “choking on it? when you could have let me imbibe on it as a mortal would after days of worshipful fasting?” gently, he coaxes a thumb past lucius’ lips, into slick warmth. “when will you learn that i will not stand to let you agonize alone?”

location: the throne room date: tba event: after the coronation status: closed featuring: @summersovereign​

Dottie once saw a beheading, saw too many for her own comfort. Back during the days her heart thundered and her blood coursed with mortality, she saw the head of a dissenter roll during a rare trip to Paris, an inevitable thing if her family wanted to have food to put on the table that week. She’d frozen at the sight of the crowd, of the man they all focused on. The metallic scent of blood stayed with her during the walk back to the carriage, during the following months, during the following centuries.

And now she added another to that horrible tally. She knew how the fae saw weakness, knew how her reaction, a thing of emotion inappropriate for the occasion, might be twisted, knew all the ways this all could go wrong. She had already lived it. Still she stood there frozen, her face contorted in horror, even as the crowd around her pulsed. Moments passed, the crowd jostling her, while she stared at the head left on the ground. In an instant for jolted forward. She stumbled in the direction of where she’d seen Matty in the crowd. 

Finally finding him, she grabbed his hand, her own shaky. “Matty.” She breathed out, the nickname rarely used by her slipping out without a thought. “Matty. This is… How could something so horrid happen?”

“dorothée.”

he rumbles her true name like an invocation, a prayer for this entire affair to turn out to be only a hellscape amid the clouds. a respected elder - nearing a thousand with a plethora of wisdom to show for it, slain, as if she were naught but cattle - all for speaking bluntly, for daring to speak her mind at all. acacia’s words ring truer now - why should one court be beholden to another? why should one be felled by one not of her own kind, and her kin be told to be quiet, to be grateful that it was none of them?

there is crystallized fury, forged by feral grief and it burns like wildfire - only momentarily quelled by a warm hand, a beloved face calling for him.

05.03, coronation ii      // the elessedil forge                   @summersovereign​

Dimitri makes the prudent decision to liberate a flask of Aurelia’s personal ambrosia before the coronation, and reaps the benefits of his foresight as the arrows and accusations unfold. He listens carefully as he meanders back to his forge, languidly drinking like he’s not a care in the world. And perhaps he doesn’t. But he listens to the whispers of those who do, snippets of betrayal and sabotage and the blood bond is broken and oh, isn’t that interesting.

He waits for his mentor, who will surely have insight on the matter. He runs his fingers over precious metals and gemstones, wondering if they will become part of the next crown, if a creation wrought by his hands will ordain the most powerful fae in the realm.

It clicks, then, his purpose here. If it is truly premeditated, it is ingenious.

He thinks briefly of the revel his brethren are surely preparing for, even now (especially now), and is briefly consumed with yearning–for his completion, for the freedom, for the unashamed, unadulterated pursuit of pleasure. The High Court, for all its espoused superiority, was hopelessly repressed, delusional in their self-aggrandizement. Their arrogance limited them, and it was a tiring mask to mimic. 

He much prefers the honesty of the Summer Court. And, as if manifested, the very embodiment of that world steps into Dimitri’s view.

“Your Kingliness,” he hails, masking surprise with irreverence, “I was not expecting you.” He paints a smile across his face, allowing the slant to cant feline, just the slightest bit predatory. For all Dimitri will die for the man in front of him, this is not his realm. “Come to ask me for a crown, darling?”

a dark gem, he thinks when he spots dimitri, opaque and strange. there are those, perhaps the late high king even, who fancied him an ore in need of refinement, laden with potential unrealized. no... such a thought never sat right with mattaeus. he’d watched dimitri flourish among the company of the revellers and cassian - nothing unfinished survives in their blazes of debauch. he’d watched something crueler claw its way to the surface, something sharp with intrigue, and while mattaeus does not allow his own wickedness free reign, there is a great beauty in watching in flow rife among his kin. 

how they turn it into an art, his beloved summer court. and there is nothing unfulfilled about it - only bare savagery, blunt and unending.

“were you prepared to forge one?” his staff drags behind him. 

dangerous boy. such sly talk could be perceived as treasonous. 

mattaeus matches the slant in dmitri’s grin and all its lethal undercurrents, drawing closer, fingers running over the gems and jewels before them. “there is to be a revelry in the gravity gardens - are you tethered to your master here while we remain guests in the high court? or does the taste of summer tempt you in this gilded roost?” 

does he seek to taunt the fae by nonchalantly referring to his mentor as his master? perhaps.

he expects to find her here, among their brethren, amid her comrades of fate and circumstances, forever bound to summer and its selfish loving. he is poisoned by sadness, though the sorrow has been elevated to great breadth by titania’s kiss - it takes on a glimmering effervescence sneaked from the dew found on the underside of a bloom, a weightlessness as if all his physicality had been robbed of him and that he’d happily allowed it. it reminds mattaeus of deneva - he thinks she was apart from them all before she ever found him, everything beyond this world in one body. he wonders what she thinks of executions, if they horrify her or if they are simply another blighted echo from the mortal realm resonating here - or vice versa. 

words fail him for a moment - though they were seldom needed when they’d called each other lover, my beloved. he is still undecided if such old habits ought to be broken. “i’m sorry you’ve had to see such a thing, deneva.” he swallows thickly, a languid sprawl in his seat with long legs splayed out, fingers tangled in his own hair, the long line of mourning. “i have never been good at numbing myself to the death of a loved one - immortality discourages that sort of stupefying. fae only lose things when they are stolen, and each time it is a shock.”

when: after the coronation where: gravity gardens who: summer fae & anyone who wants to crash a revel music: ♫

for summer fae, revels were as necessary as the sunbeams that kissed their flesh or the jewels that adorned their bodies. as much as the summer court celebrated,  aurelia had been taught to question the impact of each revel she threw. to think about how each night of debauchery could be a tool to increase mattaeus’ - their - power in faerie. each revel needed to have an impact, they needed to create value. her mentor had been no other than acacia, one of the first masters of revels and the quintessential summer fae. she taught aurelia the inner workings of court politics at the start of her career and coached her into the fae she was today. 

despite what the high court chose to believe, tonight’s revel in the gravity gardens was in honor of the legendary summer elder who died representing her court unitl her very last breath. in partnership with isali, the gardens was overfilled with merriment as summer fae did what they did best. wines and delicacies, served by humans who yielded their wills to the might of the summer fae. titania’s kiss, a new drug created by aurelia herself to best ursa, the drug used by the high fae, had been distributed among her court. tonight was a night to mourn their fallen, but it was also a night to tighten bonds among summer fae. 

“she had been the best of us.” grief colors his voice red and raw, and quiet fury mined from a godfather’s once-love and the admiration of the deceased stills him. how he had loved acacia. their singular beauty, their sheer knowing, their infallible, courageous - so damned courageous - wisdom. “aurelia, do you know?” he swallows down a mouthful of summer wine. his sadness sweeps with a honeyed lushness attributed to titania’s kiss - had aurelia and isali fathomed it heavier, it would drown him. “that they threw the revel celebrating my birth?” for centuries and centuries, after having served as an illustrious master of ravels, acacia stepped down gracefully to stand abreast with mattaeus in an advisory role. they’d long spoken of a fairer way of choosing a ruler, even before cedric. even when he’d been alive and a tyrant. she never stopped speaking of it, even then.

he snorts bitterly. murdered. not then, but now. “i had hoped she would outlive me."

titania’s kiss proves itself it to be a generous, merciless lover. around them, summer fae grieve in beautiful, spinning anguish. some are tucked into another’s embrace. some swallow their sadness and spin into song, lilting and echoing in the gardens. even mourning could be lovely in summer. “aurelia, will you tell me something our acacia taught you?”

    an acting sovereign. cassian lets the statement fall flatly on his ears, understanding and yet tossing it aside. where mattaeus was a calculated mind with an eager heart, cassian was his hellfire on wheels. it pained the general to see a heart so tender, so heartbreakingly caring and even more to know said heart so closely. it was a sight to behold the few times the general saw his king unleash in all his glory. a sight so rare, it was perhaps better a kept secret than something so rash, so loud like himself, so terrorizing to many. and yet, with their differences, they still found ways to lead. it would be a lie if cassian said he didn’t love admire his king. 

    it was whispered the future acting queen would be nothing but a mask for a group in the shadows to play puppeteer with and seladon was the perfect choice. it would never be said out loud to mattaeus, however, he knew there was a line to be drawn when it came to family. it only took the right person to have him consider it. 

   his mind is miles away considering the possibility of the following days when a touch creeps on his arm, gentle and distant and strong enough to raise subtle goosebumps under his garments. for his king, he’ll always submit. yet his eyes are too proud to meet his. instead, cassian continues to survey the crowd of fae around them. “you more than anyone would know tensions are high. it is in my nature to do and expect the worse… in my head - the high court have gathered us here to take out the sovereign of the other courts and reign supreme power over the realm.”

   “entertain me with your thoughts of the future days?” he muses, at last turning his head to mattaeus with such nonchalant grace, one would not even suspect he uttered treacherous murder in such capacity. 

it is true they have known each long and well, and in their time together mattaeus has seen cassian emblazoned with righteous fury often and seldom tender. but he holds each quality with equal weight when measuring the general’s soul, and he knows him for his fealty and faith as much as he does his fire. whereas mattaeus might be defined by his humanity, few realize what lie beneath the peonies and honeysuckle - beneath their lush trembling, there is terror - black as earth. few realize - but cassian does.

there have been wars, with his general at the helm of his command, wars that seem so distant and long ago they might as well be a dream, nothing but debris caught by the wind carried off to mist and sea. most might have forgotten them and the reasons behind them - he remembers the gore cassian cut through for him - he remembers never being far behind cassian’s warpath, laying paths and spreading seeds where he’d razed in his scorching. 

“an ambitious ploy that would be. lose a high king, might as well cut all the monarchs down.” he chuckles airily, though the show of mirth is more for cassian’s benefit than his own. “your pessimism has only served you well in the past, cassian. i would be remiss to question it. it comforts me, when i’m most alone, when the night is darkest.”

thoughts of future days. he ponders only for a moment. “continuing unending summer. a fair high ruler, who reigns with all the courts in mind. a regent for ours, so that we may flourish as you’re all meant to.” he gestures widely and in it he encompasses all the summer fae and the summer children, and he swallows thickly, swallows as if he’s swallowing the peach-pit of guilt borne of trying and failing for centuries to empower the court and grow it into what it is destined to become. “it is what you are owed, after all. all of you.”

Thorns of grief turn honeyed in his marrow at the visage of the monarch, fondness unravels within the expanse of a broad chest in a manner involuntary– Lucius turns feline, uncoiling within the heat of Mattaeus’ rays as though they’d had a winter apart; tension dissipates between the notches of a spine, the swell of shoulders relax. “Perhaps,” jest is pearlescent wedged between teeth, aureate irises follow the bottle to the crescent of the other male’s mouth. “I have been indulged with a century of summer celebrations, I’m afraid none can quite compare,” a brow lifts, “not even a coronation.”  

He meets the sovereign’s gaze until he’s certain his skeletal is tinder ablaze, shadows tuck beneath a jaw as molars clench, pupils avert to the darkness over the balcony’s edge. “Tell me, Mattaeus–” a splay of sable lashes descend, and he can envision the flesh of a swan neck, the round of a cheek, the syrup of laughter to his velvet tongue, “have I been a fool, to love?” A knot bobs at the curve of his throat as he swallows thickly, “it haunts me, Matty. The loss, the agony, the ire–” lids open, and when he meets his counterpart’s gaze Lucius is a boy burning, “I cannot escape it.”

he has never claimed to be free from pride nor possessiveness. it is a futile effort to deny one’s own foibles and a more worthwhile one addressing them, tending to them, stamping out their seed before allowing their roots to take hold - but why would he want to temper his delight at the revelry and debauchery his court offers that precedes and exceeds anything any being could even fathom? “what a grand sentiment.” he beams at lucius’ words, a summer offering, a cornucopia of graces. “aurelia and isaliendrin will surely reward you with all of titania’s tears you could ever hope for if they heard you saying as much. even at a high court affair, they find ingenious ways of ushering in the summer.”

the shift in the fae strikes him as stark as the turning of the hour from dusk into evening, as solemn as the beloved tender tide receding with the swaying of the moon. his heart hangs in his chest with honeyed heaviness and damp sorrow and his hand moves without realizing it, lifting to cup the back of lucius’ neck. how feeble he feels, in the face of the other’s despair. “if you are a fool for loving, then what am i, if not an imbecile?” he says, his smile rueful. his grip tightens. “i know your anguish. how it feels like you are sick with sorrow, with loathing. and i will not tell you time will rid you of it, for that is not entirely truthful - nothing is ever truly gone. but i am here, lucius, and i will not let you mourn alone.”

her attire for the night had been deliberate, after careful study of of high court fashion which she considered to be rather conservative. she wrapped herself in gold and gems, spurning herself into the picture of opulence, wit, and undying danger. even now in her sheer gown, aurelia remained the diligent right hand of her king - her best friend.  

though the silk pillows they lounged on were plush, they lacked the comfort only possible from the pillows made from the swan feathers found in the golden court. everything in the high court felt just right, never more and never less. almost as if the high fae feared overindulgence. tonight had only reaffirmed her home in the summer court, where passion and ferocity were limitless and burned as hot as the sun. “could you imagine?” she laughed, not holding back the haughtiness in her voice after holding her tongue all day around the high fae. she slowly felt the familiar lethargic waves come to her. “as a treat for the other courts, i also brought the recent batches of sweets and drinks isali and i created.” a subtle reminder of their might if tonight’s display from isali and cassian wouldn’t be enough. “though i have heard rumors the rosewoods had a private collection hidden below the kitchen,” she shared the tidbit of gossip she got from a human servant. 

although she was curious on isali’s and cassian’s plans for the night, being with mattaeus was always a delight especially when it was just the two of them. just two fae at ease, removed from the mediocrity outside mattaeus’ bedroom. “never, the last time i saw them they were talking to seladon. knowing cassian, he has to tease her at least five times before the end of the hour.” 

"if there is ever a moment, and there are so very many, that i am grateful you are of the summer court and that no one from the high court is wise enough to steal you, it is this.” a reveler she is by title, but a strategist she is in nature, and the two lent themselves to the other with golden aplomb. he cannot count any instance in which he’d thought a thought that aurelia hadn’t already fathomed minutes before. surely he had not been the only one nostalgic for the touch of summerlands’ sunlit succulence upon the illicit substances offered here, but that she’d anticipated his - and surely the rest of the summer court’s - needs, was unsurprising. he feels sunbeams caress his face, imagines inhaling bright summer air as if he was laying back upon the fields within his own realm, and all the pleasures of it exalted to greater heights, higher than the high court, higher than firmament. he laughs, exhaling with just a hint of a tremble. “we can’t have the other courts too envious of our merrymaking, can we? although i am quite fond of it when they are, admittedly.” he shoots her look edged by mischief. “tempting. although i don’t doubt your creations' potencies would exceed the rosewoods’ cache thrice.”

jest comes easily, naturally, when he is coupled with aurelia’s company, scrutiny and judgment so far from the mind that it hardly lays a shadow. “it is a great relief to see few things change throughout the years - but he ought to be warier of teasing a high queen, no?”

        His seriousness lasts briefer than a second, dispelling as swiftly as a thing woven of air & wanting. The greenhouse gardens have been infused with fluorescent tinges, cicadas and chrysalises that go pink in the night, cobalt blue, seared umber. His face is dappled with canyons of floating light, where new lines are buried and rewritten. On its surface, gravity breaks in waves. He smiles, brimming, boundless. As though he is amused to no end at the knowledge Mattaeus possesses about him: no, not possesses, hoards. Accumulated over the years and wrapped in even bundles, a taxonomy of his silly deeds, his offhand remarks. Not only analyzed, but preserved. Pinned somewhere close; every now and then held up for inspection. In the fact that Mattaeus can summarize him up, render his measure with a single word, he finds a sort of metamorphoses in itself. A transformation. The fact that one person, just one person in the whole known world, has known the dark and linear trajectory of his becoming — and knows it intimately enough to explain it: that makes the becoming bearable. Even if the end result is not. Theirs is the kind of memory that does not elude, resist, distort attempts at touching it. If no other touching, then that. If no other stepping into the light, if no other consortium with the past, then this.

        Warmth clings to him in fluttering touches, a half-dreamt thing, a swarm of dragonflies. If not tender, then his smile is still the closest mirage of it, the second best refraction.

        Around his friend, he can rarely sustain hauteur at its full intensity. The bite and blood of it. This thorn in the side routine, the defiant and prodigal son, thirsting on habitual cruelty — this act which is no more an act than a pelt he’s hunted down and earned. Iron knows he’s doing it with everyone else. Has been doing it ever since the world was still holy.

        But if the other’s eyes say: well, that’ll do now. If they say: your anger is the kind that lights empires on fire. mine is the kind that builds them. If they say: well, are you? In those moments, Isaliendrin can only laugh, or drink, or leave. If he stays, he’ll yield to it. Lest it be said that Isaliendrin couldn’t dance to anyone’s tune: they simply hadn’t seen Mattaeus playing it.

        With the Sun-King, he is never as dire as he could be. Recalcitrance is a rare thing, a comet compared to the usual starfall. With an entire court, he is catastrophic, devouring, a scorching wildfire in either desire or in rage. With some select few, he is merely eager to share the flames. With one — with one, he is light. Light, or its absence.

         “  And would you stint on a riot or two, as long as you’re the one leading it ? I won’t buy that. ” The fae winks, pointedly to the mark. He wants to be sure the word is taken for what is is, no double entendre, no hint of courtly politics. It’s not exactly rebellion they’re discussing : it’s not  something he’d put Mattaeus through the pain of considering just yet. But even so, it manifests itself in a sort of double-sight, a facade inlaid with deeper marquetry. Should there be a riot — should there be a riot, he’d yearn to see Mattaeus in its forge, at the forefront of it, and his own teeth ready to bite into any throat that would oppose him.

       He turns away by the slightest amount. The corner of his mouth perks up.  “  You wound me, pal. I’d never repeat my old tricks on new targets. Rest assured, my brazenness was born and broken in by you alone.  ”

there is great depths of knowing between the two of them, a dark and whispered history, only a select few passages in all their centuries of being that would be polite and predictable enough for the likes of a tapestry. for what artisan would not blush at simply their beginnings, two bright, young stars brought into orbit parallel to one another, curved by their own paths, intersecting by luck, by cosmic will, by desire. how marred they’d become - one with the burnt ashes of the bright lights of his revels, the flame burning high in his soul, the other with the shadows he casts, all the bitterness he has swallowed in trying to give his court what it is due. 

he remembers yet when their purity overlapped with each other’s. it had only been brief - perhaps lasting only just a moment when he could say he believed - not that they’d been untouched by their burdens nor their keepers - but that they’d elected to forget them. ‘bend for me,’ he’d said, green voice still slick with a summer youth’s unabashed wildness, giddy with fruit wine and an unrelenting notion of godhood. ‘bend for your king.’ nevermind he was only a princeling, then.

and, watching his friend prostrate in play, he imagines he is a mortal - for what is more human than playing at things just barely beyond their reach?

how unyielding they burn. how much they have yet to shine.

“my friend, i have enough to worry about simply trying to find a regent. and i have no taste for the energy required of insurrections of any kind.” to an ignorant spectator, his smile might appear weary, his voice appeasing. but he has always bitten his tongue numb to acquaint himself with the taste of blood, and he dreams of surpassing the winter’s curse and attaining a higher power - through merit, rather than station.

rest assured, my brazenness was born and broken in by you alone.

ah. could even a god hope to hear such acclaim from one of their own acolytes? how heavy with liquid lasciviousness, his heart could lay its stake in all the courts as its monarch with this absolution. “your new targets then - they are fortunate enough to receive your modern deceits, your conspiracies? pray tell, what do those entail?” briefly, he thinks of florence, of whoever else isaliendrin has preoccupied himself with, and he tastes ash. “i bid you not forget it.” therein lies jest, yes, but nothing like jest at all. “just as i won’t soon forget my appetite was weaned off your own.”

few could say they were in possession of the pristine privilege of fathoming his moods. even the slightest errant expression escaped few in petty games of politics, and he had long since schooled himself in remaining impassive in front of all, especially while in the high court - and, of course, excepting those he has deigned closest and most beloved. if he appears discontent to those select few, it is because he worries. he has always known seladon to be a darling, eager girl, endlessly kind and sweet - and it is this sort of goodness that always attracts the worst kind of greed and cabals.

how fortuitous, that she would find herself as acting high queen. and how dangerous.

while his own aspirations for the high crown had already been torn and strained, the announcement only serve to further muddy his intentions - certainly, the appointment is only temporary for now, but would it sustain into permanence? does he still aspire for it? does it even matter, if she proves herself competent?

he seeks her out, subtle as the faraway shadows his light casts.

event: arrival to high court date: april 29th closed to: @summersovereign​

even the slightest misstep could imply weakness, so when cordelia happened to stumble in front of the summer king, she felt her blood run cold. she held no regard for him, not anymore ( and perhaps none of fae — with exception towards the insurgent ) but she had to pretend. hastily, she straightened up before curtsying, her head dipping in faux-respect. “ your majesty, ” she said, “ i hope you’re finding the high court to your liking ? is there anything you need that i could have found for you ? ”

grace has become reflexive in all his years of being, and so too has the art of salvaging another’s pride, for a fae’s hubris could be greater than gold - at times, it was all they possessed. he could not fathom if it held true for mortals as well, but he could guess. he pretends not to see when she missteps, gaze trained ahead into the expanse of the high court’s halls and corridors, but quietly, imperceptibly, he holds out his hand should she need to grab it - and withdraws it when it is clear she doesn’t. “i always do.” mattaeus offers her blithe smile. “nothing you needn’t worry over - at peace. you ought to enjoy the festivities, cordelia - i cannot say there has ever been a mortal who has been able to witness a fae’s coronation. tell me, of what you’ve seen so far, is it similar to those in the mortal realm?”

location: the sovereign’s room date: april 29th event: arrival to the high court status: closed featuring: @summersovereign​

Her knock on the door on the door before she pushed it open was quick, a few consecutive taps before she entered Matty’s room, a habit that perhaps should’ve been broken when she turned down the staff all those centuries ago. By now she’d gotten used to it, used to seeing him in whatever state, her respect and loyalty never wavering no matter what. 

A large smile was plastered across her face, genuine and bursting with joy. “Mattaeus, darling, I have a question to ask of you. it’s nothing too serious, I promise.” In her arms she held a gown, a thing of sheer fabric and embroidered flowers. It was a dress similar to the fashion she’d worn since she first became fae, light and flowery and just revealing enough. She held the gown up. “What do you think? I was hoping to get your opinion before we left but it slipped mind in all the hurry.” 

She lowered the gown, folding it back over a crossed arm. “I haven’t been to many coronations or any really. I’m not sure what’s too much or not enough. However, my King, I assume you know more than your fair share about what we are getting ourselves into.”

there had been a time in which she had been privy to every one of his states. how eager he had been then, to part his ribs, his flesh, and allow her a glimpse of what laid in repose beneath, if she desired it. thought it has been centuries since such fervid undressings, the nonchalance has remained. an attendant is in the middle of pressing half-way gilded orchid mantises and glasswing butterflies to the curved flesh between his neck and shoulder and waxy chrysanthemums to create a diverting trail from collarbones parting into the adonis’ belt. 

neither the attendant nor mattaeus startle at her intrusion, though he does cant his head to cast his gaze upon the gown in question, smile dimly lit and aglow. “it is transcendent, dorothée. i daresay you will be the talk of this coronation, leave the crown to the crows.” his attendant parts, seemingly satisfied, and he faces her fully, staff in hand, the golden sun on one end softly lit with a perpetual summer light. “but such is routine for you, isn’t it? i trust you will have no trouble gaining favor this evening.”

date: april 29th location: a balcony at the high court

Digits fold to the balcony’s edge, his other palm curved to the tender throat of a bottle, bronze irises roam the sable darkness that had consumed the sun as though it held his answers tucked between the teeth of cosmos. Gathered within the clouds, perhaps in theory the high court was in equal parts his home as the stretch of summer. But Lucius could not deny how thoughts often drifted to the court of sun, and he’d insist his skeletal was already beginning to chill. He loves his court with every fibre of his being, yes– but he can’t help the shade that has begun to bleed as of late: the murder of his consort still haunts him, it keeps him from sleep; when the sun descends the questions gone unsaid are embers to the curve of his tongue. Who had betrayed him? Who is to blame? 

An audible step signalling the presence of another stirs the blonde from his thoughts, “I wasn’t expecting company, otherwise I would have brought glass. My mother would be truly ashamed,” he tilts the bottle of wine pressed to his grasp for emphasis, the full of his bottom lip stained with the watercolour of crimson, light features twisting to see who had joined him.

there are the echoes of his summer lands’  lush and generous warmth that spread from underneath each step he takes, stretching out not unlike roots across the marble floor with each pace for a brief moment, before dissipating into ether. even here, above the clouds and mist and in the heavens’ maw, he thieves parcels of his home - the kaleidoscopic sunbeams, the succulent, fruit-bearing heat - and folds it into himself, keeps it close to his  heart and marrow. it is natural, then, that his path would cross with lucius’ even in such a grand scape as the high court, as he’s sure it always would.

“did you intend to spend the entire coronation in the solitude of your own company?” mattaeus‘ voice curls and coils with abundant fondness as he moves closer, his sun scepter dragging soundlessly beside him. a long favorite of the summer court, lucius draws his benediction as easily as sweetness from a honeycomb. the decision to appoint him high court representative for the summer fae had been an effortless one, as offhand as sliding his fingers around the neck of the wine bottle and the fae’s fingers and lifting the lip up to his own mouth. 

gaze as lustrous as a beacon’s blaze remain trained upon lucius even as he drinks, searching for remnants of outward grief that could not be salved by the distractions provided by the high court and by dottie. “my lucius, how i hate to see you languish alone.”

event: high court arrival date: april 29th @summersovereign​ { somewhat also answering your darkness drabble/hc ask}

     it only made sense for cassian to be one edge, unaware and always skeptical of what those from the other courts were planning. it had been nearly a decade since he had last been to the high court, if not, and the summer fae was to play no games or run the risks when every passing soul was a risk not to be toyed with. his hand hovered over the hilt of his blade resting at his hip underneath his coat, his footsteps aligned with his king beside him. there was an unsettlement burrowed deep within cassian, a leech that nestled itself onto the heart of the war general and rather than sucking; it filled the organ with a darkness stemmed from centuries of bloodshed, centuries of tearing through the heart of another to survive another day. 

    beside his sovereign, there was no darkness. there was a heavy relief of security, of home. a comfort that could not be bought by a promotion or a a price tag by an enemy. cassian had sworn to the summer king and to his king, he would die for. his eyes observed the slightest itch of movement amongst them in a manner so calm, anyone would think the fae was out for a stroll in the park. “tell me, mattaeus, what do you think will come from our little trip here?”

who of the fae knows that blood makes fertile grounds? do they know that from certain carnage springs glory eternal? how fond he is of his general, a relentless weapon begging to be sheathed, to be exposed, to tear asunder. a chaos that must be leashed, but who does not seem to mind being tempered during peacetime. 

it is a shame, he thinks idly, gaze flickering to cassian beside him. it is a shame, that he cannot simply tell him go, and sit back, throw his head back in distant bliss, and watch. but it is a shame that must be endured. for he cares not for meaningless bedlam, rapture without reason - especially not if it endangered his goddaughter.

“what we have been promised. an acting sovereign.” it is a simple answer, but there is enough space left between each word for illicit meaning to fill. does he truly believe the coronation will be as uneventful as they are led to believe? no - and he is far too old to play at naivete. 

he slows his pace to a languid lingering, eyes dark with knowing following the curved line of the general’s arm as it leads to a point just above hilt of cassian’s sword. he traces the path with his own palm, stopping at the general’s wrist, appeasing and lenient. “your battle arm itches, cassian. what is it you anticipate?” he smiles blithely. “my grand defender, my bloody champion, do you fear for me?”

the winter is kind to no one, and it is especially avaricious with winter children, for it is they who carry remnants of the summer, still traces of having once been sun-slicked and irresistible to the chill that sinks its teeth into warm flesh until there is nothing left to leech, nothing with which to feed. 

already, he sees safie garbed in winter trappings, claimed by her sovereign in court and in dress, ice-swathed, and yet it is he who feels the cold transfix to his marrow as if he it is he who will never know the summer again. how troublesome she has proved herself in interfering in the pursuit for a regent, a hindrance so persistent and adamant that he can’t help but admire her for it. therein this frostbitten woman was the mortal who dared to pick up the winter staff, a once-human who possessed far more mettle and grit than most faeries ever learned in their centuries of living. 

perhaps it is this very same admiration that has him searching for her shadow. he had not been blind to her avoidance all evening, and he’d meant to return it in kind, but the night has grown long awaiting the ceremony, and late hours lent to yearning. 

he finds her having been made into a sacrificial lamb in her own dress, embellishments of icicles and blossoms pointed up in threat at her own neck, a practice in precariousness. steady is his gaze as it lingers upon her skin, searching for signs of injury, however slight, from when she’d torn herself away from the warmth of his court, from the vindictive’s sight. 

“your sovereign cares not for your own defiance?” his voice belies nothing, not even his aching, deep and unyielding as sun pushing forth from the seam of the horizon. “i dare say i would be surprised to hear it. i would think they’d rather keep you near, have their mockery close where they can see.”

at rest, two souls. 

he wears gilded marigolds and butterfly wings, a carnage of spring along the sculpt of his body, eclipsed by a cloak that carries warmth thieved from the sun and stars. atop his head, his crown of thorns. perhaps to lounge among the plush silk as if they’ve made a home in the high court, steeped in bliss and thick with humid whims, is inappropriate, not only of their garb that speak of higher intentions but also of their stations. but high court affairs are not known for their revelry and illicit humor, of which aurelia carries with her in spades; in her charm, and in the palm of her hand in the form of a confection.

the pleasure comes in soft washes, in velveteen embraces, and his arms comes to curl around her seat, around her shoulders. “to think, aurelia. we could have had to find other means of distraction, had it not been for your ingenuity. small-talk. drinks -- and who can trust the mead here to carry any potency?” 

distractions. the rest of the retinue were nowhere to be found - distantly, he wonders where they’ve gone, but oft times it is better to find out when they feel as if they want the answer to be known.

“tell me, ought i worry about where the others have gone?”