When I put the ad up online, I was skint and desperate. I would’ve taken anyone short of a serial killer, really, but I was hoping for normal. Or at the very least, boring. It’s just my luck that the only person who responded to the ad was someone so insufferable.

We were civil with each other for all of a day. Three weeks had me almost driven to moving out. Me. Moving out of my own damn apartment because even that is easier than living with Jude Duarte. 

That’s when corona hit, so I guess I’m stuck.

It’s been a fortnight of isolation. Putting up with her unmitigated bullshit. Her ceaseless presence and mulish disposition. Our constant butting heads. 

On a good day, I give myself over to the ashen taste of resignation. On the bad ones, I want to throw myself down the stairs just so I can spend the night in hospital. 

Anyways, I’m fucked because my wretched flatmate is sitting there in her baggy black sweatpants and oversized hoodie. Her knees are tucked up to her chest, giving me a plain view of those stupid rainbow socks she’s always wearing. Her hair is a mess on top of her head. Everything about her sets off a tick in my jaw.

Except the way she eats strawberries.

Her full pink lips wrap around one now and—fucking hell. I swear my cock twitches. When she sinks her teeth in, those lips come away red-stained and glistening. A line of juice dribbles down her chin as she chews. Then, she pops the stem into her mouth and eats that, too.

I find myself imagining her on her knees, strawberry lips wrapped around something else of mine. The way the back of her throat would feel as I ram into her mouth—

I blink. My lip curls. I need coffee, and maybe a cold shower.

The former is closest, so I stop standing in the doorway like the twat that I am, and walk into the kitchen. Thankfully, she’s got earphones in and is so immersed in whatever the fuck she does on her laptop all day that she hasn’t noticed my blatant ogling.

If she notices me at all, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

Good. It’s better this way. The less we talk the less we end up screaming at each other. It’s only happened twice. The neighbors came round both times.

I pull a mug and the instant coffee down from a shelf.

It irks me. Just last night, I was standing in this very spot, doing everything in my power not to lose my shit after finding a pile of her dirty dishes in the sink. For the third time this week. She always says “they’re soaking”, and I always end up doing them later anyway, because I can’t stand the mess.

She does things like that a lot. Dishes and crumbs and wrappers. Stealing my food. A week ago I found a pizza crust jammed in between the cushions of the sofa. She denies all accountability, of course.

Not to mention, she sets her alarms for the ass crack of dawn. She’s such a heavy sleeper that I’m invariably wide awake well before she is, listening to the incessant shrill of her phone through the walls as she hits snooze, over and over.

I’m certainly not without my faults, of course. I know she hates me just as much as I hate her. She’s told me as much. Which is why I’m miffed that suddenly, without any warning, I want to fuck her into the kitchen counter.

There’s a spoon in the drying rack and I use it to stir my coffee. 

Nicasia hated me, I think to myself. She loved me once, but she hated me for a while before she did anything about it. Then, I stop. Because I don’t want to uncork that bottle today. Point is, maybe it’s not completely out of left field. To want someone right when they’re giving you the very least of their attention.

I tap the spoon against the lip of my mug. Usually, I’d retreat back to my bedroom at this point. Instead, I throw the spoon in the sink and turn around to lean against the counter.

She’s still sitting at the island, honed in on her computer. I can hear the thin, metallic wail of a guitar coming from her earphones. She bobs her head slightly to the beat.

It’s not as if she isn’t attractive. In her own, unique way.

She’s strong. If I didn’t hear her pummeling that blasted punching bag she’s got hanging in her room every night, I’d have known she boxed just by the way she looks. She’s got a fighter’s build about her. It lives in her shoulders, in the barrel of her chest. As if every line of her was made bold and unyielding. With intention. 

Again, I have to stop my own wandering thoughts. I’m starting to wonder if maybe my dead end job that has me editing bad romance novels for a living is starting to go to my head. 

It pays the bills until it doesn’t. And then it rots my brain. Maybe I should quit.

Still, I tell myself it’s the quarantine talking. That if I wasn’t trapped in here with her, I wouldn’t find anything about her attractive. That I’d probably be willing to whore myself out for one cigarette right about now. And I don’t even smoke.

But then she looks up at me, mid-bite. Those honey-brown eyes are wild. They threaten to cut straight through me. She squints, accusatory. Chews her bite, slow. Swallows.

My mouth goes dry as the fucking Sahara.

“What are you staring at?” she demands, glare blazing.

Apparently, I’m in the mood to walk that fire, because I take a sip of my coffee and say, smug as I can, “You.”

Sometimes, it’s better to be completely honest with Jude. The truth always seems to appall her far more than any lie ever could. As if she expects everyone to be deceiving. Or maybe it’s just that my truths are so outrageous to her that she doesn’t believe them.

I wouldn’t blame her there. I can hardly admit to this truth, myself. Whether she believes me or not, though, it gets under her skin.

“Right,” she scoffs. “Is it because I’m pretty? Is it because you like me so much?” She bats her lashes at me, mocking. I am stunned by the fact that, for a moment, I wish it was real. That I’d gladly lose myself in that look if it came from her eyes in earnest.

Then I shake my head. I sound like the biggest shit-for-brains. It’ll take more than a few eyelash flutters to make me surrender.

“Oh, no,” I say, trying to match her taunting tone, “I don’t like you. I adore you.”

That makes Jude roll her eyes. “Please,” she says. “You’re probably plotting ways to stick me in my sleep or something. Fucking psychopath.”

It’s that last part that makes me take a step toward the island, lean forward to rest my elbows on the counter so I’m nearly in her space. She doesn’t draw back. Just gives me a scathing look from over the top of her screen.

“If I’m ever depraved enough to stick you,” I tell her, smirking, “I guarantee you won’t be sleeping, love.” Which may come off as anything from perverted to downright murderous, but I don’t care. The face she makes is worth it.

It’s all jaw dropped, vicious gaze, blush creeping into her cheeks like red smoke. I’ve never challenged her before. It makes her look at me like she despises me. Like the only thing she’ll ever do is despise me. I don’t know why that eggs me on, but it does.

“Would you look at that,” I hum, “You’ve got the face about right, too.”

Her nostrils flare. Jaw sets. There’s a lovely shade of puce coming up on her already heated cheeks. She’s absolutely livid, and I can taste it in the air between us. It’s like static on my tongue.

That’s when something cold and slimy hits me dead between the eyes. Jude’s half-eaten strawberry plops to the counter. I’m so surprised I almost laugh.

“You’re disgusting,” she says with as much derision as I feel coursing through me.

Part of me wants to give into that anger. Sling a string of curses at her. Throw the strawberry right back in her face. Those things won’t annoy her half as much as what I actually do.

Keeping an unbothered expression, I pluck the strawberry off the countertop and pop it right into my mouth. Stem and all. I lick my fingers for good measure. All while keeping direct eye contact with the little menace sitting across from me. Her gaze flits to my lips. So I swipe my tongue over them. She blinks.

“Delicious,” I say.

She looks just the right amount of scandalised for me to straighten, take my coffee back up in one hand, and saunter out of the kitchen. I don’t say anything about the strawberries. Or how stealing isn’t a very good exercise in courtesy.

We’ve never been courteous with one another, anyway.

When I’m back in my room I lean against the closed door and scrub a hand over my face. My heartbeat is raging since I did not.

Sometimes, I think the irritating things she does are all on purpose. Just to get under my skin. I rarely give her the satisfaction of knowing it works, but I don’t like letting her trample all over me, either. It gives me an oily feeling. Like I’m back to being under someone else’s thumb, and I hate it.

But that—whatever that was—felt more like fighting back than I ever thought I’d have the balls to do. I feel more alive now than I’ve felt in months.

Maybe that makes me a bastard. C’est la fucking vie.

I start shucking off my clothes, throwing them into the hamper in the corner, one by one. My bedroom is mercifully en suite. If I wanted to, I could live in here for days at a time without leaving.

I don’t know why I ever bother.

I go into the bathroom and turn on the shower. As I stand there under the cold stream, I think about how dangerous it is, this game I’ve entered. Flirting with Jude to get a rise out of her is one thing. That’s clear cut. A direct retaliation.

It’s another thing entirely if part of why I’m doing it is to take the edge off of my own perversions. I mean, what kind of sick fuck has sex fantasies about someone they hate? Someone they’re stuck in isolation with, twenty-four-seven, for the foreseeable future? Someone who hates their guts, too, and could probably easily take them out if it came to physical blows?

I guess that sick fuck would be me.

It’s a fine line to walk but there’s no turning back. I’ve already begun.

☽☽☽☽☽

AN: So I guess I’m hopping on the quarantine fic bandwagon 😅 this is definitely not what I expected to come out of this song crossover prompt, but I kind of like it? It’s (very loosely) based off of Adore You by Harry Styles- the threads are there if you look for them 😉

I’m planning on making this a 12 part series (one chapter for each song on Fine Line) so if you’d like to be added to the tag list for this, or to my Jurdan Forever tag list, let me know in the comments/my messages/inbox and I’d be happy to add you! 

-Em 🖤💫

Title Inspo: Fine Line (album) by Harry Styles, Adore You (song) by Harry Styles

Tag List: @velarhysismine​ @knifewifejude​ @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte​ @clockworkgraystairs​ @thesirenwashere​ @judexcardanxgreenbriar​ @nite0wl29​ @aelin-queen-of-terrasen​ @whocares-idont​ @babycardan @mysweetvilllain​ @aesthetics-11​ @storiesandschemes​ @jurdanhell​ @poeticbrownmermaid @thechainofiron​ @random-llama-socks​ @villanellevi​ @lady-thea-of-narnia​ @b00kworm​ @flowersinvegas​ @vanessa172003​ @cardanstrickytail​ @queen-of-glass​ @doingmyrainbow​

Next Chapter

Fine Line Masterlist

“Cardan shut the fuck up, we are fine!”

Cardan Greenbriar had tried for hours to convince his very stubborn—very pregnant—wife that maybe a trip to the mortal world this close to her due date wasn’t the wisest idea. Naturally, she stomped her foot and crossed her arms over her swollen belly and that was that, off to the mortal world they went.

“Jude, my love, will you at least let me carry your purse?” He would keep trying to help her until she finally snapped and killed him.

Jude wasn’t happy about having to carry a purse now, but she was unable to lean down to strap a knife to her thigh and her breasts had grown too large for her to force a dagger between them without risking injury, so a handbag was her only option to carry her weaponry. Cardan, wisely, had long since decided that questioning his wife’s ability to even wield a knife in her current state wasn’t the smartest move.

She huffed and shoved the bag square into the center of his chest before turning on her heel and waddling her way down the baby aisle of the local Target.

She had no mortal maternity clothing, so she’d settled for wearing a simple dress of flowing silk, held closed by a belt just under her breast and giving way to the large belly that she always kept one protective hand on. Cardan walked closely behind her, his mortal sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor as he tried not to remind himself that this was very stupid.

Jude Duarte Greenbriar, his wife and the High Queen of Elfhame, had given new meaning to the term stubborn today. As the entire palace tittered with excitement over it being the baby’s due date—she would forever curse herself for sharing that information from her human OBGYN—she’d lost her cool. A strongly worded letter had been sent to every one in her family and any courtier or guard close enough to the royal chambers could hear her screaming at her husband about how “THE BABY WILL NOT BE COMING TODAY SO EVERYBODY CAN JUST LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!”

Then she’d decided that they needed something called a “pacifier,” whatever that was, and next thing he knew they were walking into Target.

Jude had wanted to go alone, but Cardan had been wise enough to insist that Fand and the Bomb accompany them. She’d finally given in, but only once they’d promised to stay out of sight the entire time.

He was, naturally, fucking panicking. Today was their daughter’s due date, and now that Jude had gone and told everyone off, all their family and friends would be preparing for the upcoming Christmas festivities, set for two weeks in the future. They had no way to get in contact with anyone if the worst were to happen.

Jude picked out a set of pink pacifiers with different zoo animals drawn on them. Evidently unsatisfied, she then set about grabbing every baby blanket and stuffed toy she could possibly reach. Cardan was bemused, but chose to hold everything she handed him, rather than fight her.

“Do we need diapers?” She asked, both hands under her belly as she looked over her shoulder.

“Our baby will be fae,” he reminded her. “No need to worry about all that.”

He couldn’t help his snort of laughter as she looked heavenward and thanked the gods.

Then she was back on her quest, looking for something or another that they suddenly, desperately needed for the baby, despite her not even knowing it had existed a few minutes ago. When her eyes catch on a baby pink stuffed lion on the top shelf, she got up on her tippy toes and reached for it, her fingers just barely brushing against its little feet.

Cardan, seeing his wife struggling and being comically taller than her, reached over and plucked the little toy with ease, not noticing how Jude froze when he did.

Her face twisted in anger and disgust and she stomped her foot once more. He, thinking he had somehow offended her by helping her out, was halfway through apologizing before she loudly announced that she thought she’d just peed herself and he needed to go get her new panties while she went to the bathroom.

She left in a flurry of silk skirts and wild hair, headed for the woman’s restroom and leaving her poor husband behind with an armful of baby products and a rogue thought about how uncomfortable it must be for mortals to have to do things like go to the bathroom.

After so long with his Jude, he had come to love all her mortal quirks. Her rounded ears were his favorite part of her body and her dulled senses made it all the easier to surprise her. But he still found himself occasionally wishing that she wasn’t a mortal, now solely because he saw all the discomfort it brought her. Pregnancy had kept her sick and cranky for nine full months. He’d never known a fae mother to have such terrible morning sickness, and he had no idea how mortal women did anything while pregnant, given how often they had to pee.

“I’ll get her the panties.” He about jumped out of his skin when the Bomb popped up behind him, like she’d been lurking just one aisle over and had heard everything.

By this point in the pregnancy, he’d long since learned when he just needed to shut up and go with the flow, so he went about purchasing all the new baby products with a few leaves glamoured to look like mortal money. When he looked up, Target bags hanging from his fingers and handbag firmly situated on his shoulder, his wife was waiting by the exit with her arms crossed.

“The Bomb promised to stay away,” she explained with a scowl. “Why’d she bring me panties?”

“She promised to stay out of sight,” he countered as lovingly as he could in an effort to calm her. “I’d say, as long as she didn’t come in the stall with you, she kept her promise.”

He transferred all the bags to one hand so he could grab hers. Jude, scowl still plastered across her face, took his hand and led him out of the Target.

“I want donuts.” She switched her direction mid-step and started stalking down the sidewalk towards the little donut shop in the same plaza as the Target.

Cardan sat across from her at a two-person table in the donut shop for close to an hour, just watching as she angrily ate three glazed donuts. He’d left their shopping bags outside for Fand to grab and have sent back to Elfhame.

It was as he watched Jude eat her third donut that he began to sense something was amiss. Every so often, his darling little demon of a wife would get inexplicably angrier, her brow furrowing and her nostrils flaring and her teeth grinding down. Then, after a minute or so, she’d go back to her calmer level of pissed off.

As Jude announced that she wanted to go buy something called “pads” for after the baby’s birth, Cardan started paying more attention. He grabbed her handbag and kept his other hand firmly on the small of her back, feeling how she’d tense up for a few minutes and then go back to normal.

Holding Jude’s brand new supply of extra absorbent pads, and the few extra things she’d spent an hour dragging him around the store for, Cardan fully began to panic. Jude’s episodes were getting longer and closer together.

He’d done enough reading to know she was having contractions, and he’d done enough reading to know that when you have contractions two minutes apart, you aren’t getting on a ragwort steed and making it back to Elfhame.

When Jude went to the bathroom again, Cardan was ready for the Bomb.

“She’s in labor,” they announced simultaneously.

“Send word to her sisters and have the healers ready for when we return.” Cardan let out a sigh. “I think we’re having this baby in the mortal world.”

“I’ll call Vivienne.” Just like that, the Bomb was gone.

Cardan could fall to his knees and weep with relief at the reminder that Vivienne lived close. She was only a few minute’s drive away, she would know the way to the hospital, she’d be able to help him get Jude in the damn car.

By the time Jude was out of the bathroom, Vivi had broken a minimum of seven laws to get to them and she was waiting outside the front door, heavy parka pulled up over her pointed ears and dark sunglasses blocking her cat eyes.

“What’s all this?” Jude looked ready to murder Cardan, and he didn’t doubt she could do it even with him having all her knives. “Cardan, I wanted to be alone!”

“Jude, you’re in labor,” he announced, doing his best to keep his voice calm. Internally he was losing it, but he didn’t think that letting her see that would help the situation.

“No I’m no—“ she breaks off with a growl, her face contorting in anger right on time with the counting in Cardan’s head. From his reading and the stories he’d heard, he expected tears or screaming when her contractions got this bad, not to have her hide her pain behind a wall of pure fury.

He opened the car door and threw their shopping bags in, offering a hand to his wife and desperately trying to coerce her into the car. “Darling please, we need to get to the hospital. I don’t know how to deliver a child, and I don’t plan on finding out today.”

“They’re just Braxton-Hicks,” she tries again, almost whining. “I’m not having the baby today!”

“Baby says otherwise,” Vivi calls out from the front seat as Jude once again tenses. “Now get in the damn car, it’s a fifteen minute ride to the hospital.”

“We can’t go to the hospital!” Jude digs in her heels and looks to Cardan with wide eyes, suddenly coming to terms with the fact that they were in the mortal world. “Cardan, our baby has pointed ears and a tail!”

They’d been going to regular OBGYN appointments and seeing ultrasounds of the baby so they’d have an idea of what animal characteristic their child would present, glamouring the doctor after every visit. They knew that their little girl had a tail like her daddy. That would be a fucking problem if the hospital noticed.

“You focus on the hard part and leave the glamouring to me, darling,” he said with a kiss to her forehead.

Vivi had to threaten to knock her out and drag her into the backseat before she finally gave up and climbed in, grumbling the whole time.

“Cardan, start timing.” Vivi threw an old wristwatch over her shoulder and he caught it mid-air, marking the time and then staring at his wife as his sister-in-law did her very best to break the sound barrier with a beat-up SUV.

By the time they made it to the hospital, Jude was silent, save for her episodes of heavy breathing. A minute and a half apart now.

They pulled up to the women’s center and Cardan picked his wife up like she weighed no more than a feather. Vivi sped off, promising to go pick up Heather and return with food and a baby bag, since they were going to be in for the long haul.

Cardan made it to the maternity ward check in and was suddenly faced with the fact that he had literally no idea what to do here. Back in Elfhame, Jude would’ve had the baby in the comfort of their private rooms, with healers waiting on her hand and foot. The sterile smell and white walls of this mortal hospital made him infinitely more nervous than the comfort of their home would’ve.

“Hello sir,” the receptionist lady started, eyeing how he held his wife and how she didn’t seem at all panicked, and deciding that she has another father who had no clue what’s going on. Her tone was somewhere between soothing and mocking, like she’d dealt with this sort of thing all day. “If you’d like to fill out these forms—“

“My wife’s contractions are a minute and a half apart,” he cut her off, his fear somehow taking a backseat and his voice coming out with all the authority of a High King.

The receptionist’s eyes went wide. “I’m sorry, what?”

He maneuvered Jude so he could throw the watch down on the desk. Then he counted down from five and, right on time, Jude tensed with a contraction.

Then it was a flurry of movement, the receptionist throwing the papers to the side and calling for a wheelchair as Cardan stood dumbfounded. A nurse took Jude from his arms and settled her in a wheelchair before running through a set of double doors, leaving him to chase after her.

They ended up in what looked like a little sitting room with a table in the center. Then, as he watched, the nurse hit a few buttons in the wall and the whole room transformed. The two chairs pulled away from the table and the table unfolded into a bed, lowering down enough for Jude to climb up.

His wife was far past claiming that the baby wouldn’t be coming today. She’d gone somewhere within herself, both hands on her belly and focus written in every line on her face.

He helped the nurse undress her and tied her into a hospital gown while they strapped her into a bazillion different monitors. Soon, her heartbeat filled the room and he was watching all the screens, utterly terrified by his confusion.

“Can you give a urine sample?” A small nurse with a sickeningly fake grin asked, holding up a little plastic cup.

“Not with my baby’s head in the way,” Jude grunted in response, her teeth grinding down and one of her hands reaching for her husband’s. “Can you get the doctor?”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad, sweetie, let’s see how far along you are.” Cardan’s brow twitched at the offhanded way she spoke to his wife and he found himself gripping her hand harder to keep her from swinging for the nurse as the woman bent under the blanket, pulling Jude’s knees apart.

She was down there for a few seconds before popping back up, that smile even bigger as she said, “you’re at about nine centimeters. Don’t you worry at all, I’ll go get the doctor!”

Cardan, unaccustomed to speaking to many mortals, would’ve never thought twice about her words, if it weren’t for the way Jude snorted at the nurse all but sprinted out of the room.

“She’s lying,” Jude observed, sounding callous.

“My love?” He turned to her, new fear sprouting in his stomach.

“The nurse is lying about how dilated I am.” She nodded after where the woman had run out. “They have you start pushing at ten. She checked me and then said I was a nine and ran. That’s what they tell you when you’re at a ten and the doctor isn’t here.”

That comment leaves his mouth tasting like ash and she must see something amusing in the way his face changes, because she gives a little laugh.

For the next ten minutes or so, nobody came in except for one nurse who tried to force Jude again to give a urine sample, only getting blood and one pissed off couple for her efforts.

Jude turned onto her left side and Cardan sat on the bed by her hip, fingers carding through her hair and opposite hand rubbing her back to help her through a contraction.

They were like this when the door slammed open and a man, wearing a suit that most definitely wasn’t even close to sterile scrubs, ran in.

“I’ll be right back!” His hair was wild and his jacket half off as he held out both hands, almost like he was telling them both to wait. Just that quickly, he was gone again.

“What in the hell—“ Jude broke off with a groan and her heart rate spiked. Cardan may not know a lot, but he wasn’t that stupid, he knew this baby was coming soon.

A minute or so later, the door crashed open again and the doctor skidded into the room sideways, his scrubs pulled up to his elbows and a nurse tying on his cap as he finished adjusting one of his gloves.

“Let’s have a baby!”

Cardan watched in fascination as the man picked up what looked like a magic wand with a bulb on the end. He held it high above his head and pressed a button, causing the bulb to flash and all the lights to come out of the ceiling and angle towards the wand. The doctor then ordered the nurses to get Jude on her back and aimed the lights between her legs.

“Jude, did you see that?” Cardan asked, his jaw on the floor as he battled between awe at mortal technology and amusement at how his wife was now lit up like a stage. “The lights followed him!”

“I’m a little busy!” Jude hissed back and Cardan suddenly remembered that, oh yeah, his wife was literally in labor, and he should probably be paying attention to that instead of the lights.

“Shit, sorry!” He gripped her hand once more and kissed her forehead.

The whole room was alive with movement as the doctor got Jude in the right position and she began to push. One nurse was watching the monitors, keeping an eye on both mom and baby. Another was trying to force Jude to take some oral medication called Tylenol, because she had nothing to ease her pain, and Jude was batting her away. A third nurse held an oxygen mask to Jude’s face and kept one of her legs back.

Cardan held his wife’s hand and kept his other hand on her knee. He tuned into her, watching how a preternatural calm took over. The only thing giving away her pain was how she was nearly breaking his hand with every contraction.

He knew that a lot of woman were in labor for a long time, and that some pushed for hours, so this all seemed to be moving quite quickly. He kept his eyes on her face, on how focused she was on their baby. She still wasn’t crying, wasn’t screaming in pain. She just looked angry with every push, like she was using her fury to keep her cool in the situation.

Then something changed, just a little. She’d been pushing too hard, hadn’t stopped long enough to recover. For just one moment, Cardan saw fear flit across her face.

“I can’t breathe!” Cardan’s heart leapt as his wife cried out and he frantically ran through his options, trying to find something, anything to do to help her.

Then the nurse with the oxygen mask made a mistake.

“I just don’t think you’re trying very hard,” she snapped at Jude. It was the same woman who’d lied about how dilated Jude was.

Pure, unadulterated rage grew from the very pit of his stomach, but he didn’t get the chance to unleash it. Instead, he watched his wife’s eyes go murderous, her face go as blank as it did every time she held a knife to someone’s throat.

She stopped pushing and sat up, raising one finger to point at the nurse’s forehead like a witch laying a curse.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!”

It was the loudest he’d ever heard her scream, and her shout was a low bark instead of a shrill order. She was a general ordering a court marshall, the High Queen ordering an execution, not a woman going through the pain of childbirth.

The nurse fell back in shock, turning to him like she expected him to counteract his wife’s wishes.

“Get the fuck out!” He waved a hand to the door and made a face at the very idea that he’d even think of going against his wife’s word when she was busy birthing his daughter. How fucking dare this woman?

The nurse, now completely flabbergasted, turned to the doctor, who had only looked up when he heard the screaming. He took one look at Jude’s face and told the nurse to get the fuck out.

Jude grabbed the oxygen mask from the nurse as she left and held it to her own face, turning back to the ordeal of childbirth with twice the ferocity of before. It wasn’t a minute afterwards that the crying of their child filled the room.

Cardan threw himself full-force into glamouring away their daughter’s ears and her tail, a short little tail of fluffy black fur, sticking out like a sore thumb the way a kitten’s tail always does. The nurse and doctor didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary as they laid the little girl on Jude’s chest and asked Cardan to cut the cord.

She had a shock of midnight black hair just like her father and she certainly shared her mother’s temper as she angrily cried her little heart out, her face turning red.

Jude didn’t relax as they took her away to clean and measure her. She stayed focused on the rest of the birth, nodding her head to Cardan to tell him to keep an eye on their daughter.

It wasn’t until the little girl was weighed and cleaned and wrapped in a blanket that Jude keyed into the fact that it was over, their baby was here. She took the child in her arms again and wept, holding her as close as she could.

Cardan reaches a finger out, running it over the tiny pointed ear that only he and Jude could see. In response, the baby flexed her little hand and showed that she had the claws of a housecat.

His heart swelled with an emotion he couldn’t really describe as he took in the sight of his wife and daughter, his two girls.

The next two hours consisted of Vivi and Heather showing up, the Bomb in tow with a carriage to take them home since there was absolutely no way Jude was getting on a ragwort horse in her state. Vivi couldn’t believe that the baby was already there, just a half hour after she’d dropped Jude off. Cardan had to glamour their way out of the hospital after stealing the baby from the nursery, removing a little pink bow from her forehead that they’d affixed with toothpaste.

“Who the fuck puts toothpaste on a baby?” He raised an eyebrow at Jude from across the carriage, holding their daughter during the ride back so Jude could lay down.

It was a mess getting her out, especially so soon after birth. He’d had the Bomb ensure that healers were waiting in their chambers to help her in ways that the mortal doctors couldn’t, so he knew that it was best to move them both as soon as possible, but it still hurt him to see how drained she was.

“I can’t believe they put toothpaste on our baby,” he continued, looking down to where his daughter was watching him intently with big black eyes. He knew then and there, as he looked to her, that he was in trouble. He’d never recover from how much he loved this little girl.

“What in the world are we going to name her?” His whisper filled the carriage and Jude blinked back tears once again. Just seeing him with their little girl did things to her heart that she didn’t even know could be possible.

“Well,” she started, doing her best not to move too much, “why did your parents name you Cardan?”

“I don’t pretend to know why my parents did anything,” he snorted. “Why were you named Jude?”

She smiled up at the carriage ceiling. “I was named after a song that my mother enjoyed. Hey Jude. It was by a band called The Beatles.”

“You’ll have to show me the song sometime.”

She laid her hands on her belly, which still looked pregnant, and studied how her husband’s long fingers curved over their bundled up daughter.

“How about Lucille?”

He made a questioning noise, obviously having gotten lost in their baby’s eyes.

“Lucille,” she tried again. “The band who wrote the song I’m named for had another song, Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds. We could name her Lucille and only ever call her Lucy. It would make it all the harder to guess her truename.”

“Do you ever stop scheming, my darling nemesis?” He smiled as he turned the name over in his head. He liked the idea of naming their little girl after a song, especially a mortal one. He wanted her to be proud of her roots.

“Not when it comes to protecting my family,” she promised, her voice suddenly grave.

Cardan just smiled again and looked up at his wife, at his whole world.

“Lucille Greenbriar,” he tried the name out. “Little Lucy.”

Jude’s face softened once more and she reached out to take the baby, tucking the child close to her chest as they sailed over Elfhame.

“I like it,” he announced.

~~~~~~~~~~~

For those of you keeping track at home, here’s a list of things that:

My mother actually did during labor/my birth that Jude Duarte 100% would’ve done:

•Refused to believe I would be born on my due date. Was so adamant that she called every family member and told them to leave her the fuck alone/stop fucking asking about the baby/there was no way the baby would be born on her due date so shut up

•Confused her water breaking for peeing on herself

•Had to be threatened with physical violence before she’d go to the hospital

•Had to remind a nurse that she couldn’t actually pee with a bABY’S HEAD IN THE WAY DIPSHIT

•Called a nurse out for lying

•Pointed at the nurse who told her she “wasn’t trying that hard” and screamed to GET THE FUCK OUT

•Took no medication because she was a fucking boss, held her on oxygen mask after she fired the nurse. Didn’t cry or yell, just got angry

•Had her baby 30 minutes after showing up to the hospital. On the baby’s due date

My father literally did during my mom’s labor/my birth that Cardan Greenbriar 100% would have done:

•Stood by and let his wife call all the family yelling, even though it was two weeks from Christmas and he knew they’d have no way to get in contact if the baby came (everyone was 15 hours away and it was pre cellphone)

•Started timing his wife’s contractions and then dragged her into the car when they were 2 minutes apart after a huge fight

•Slam dunked on the receptionist when they checked in

•Was in awe of the hospital technology

•Literlly, I’m not kidding, when the doc did the whole “lights pointing at the wand” thing and aimed all the room lights at his wife’s crotch he actually yelled “Honey look! You’re a star!”

•Backed his wife tHE FUCK UP when she fired a nurse (the doctor also literally told the nurse to get tf out that really happened. He also really 100% did slide into the room with scrubs half on)

•Asked a nurse why the fuck she put toothpaste on his baby

•Named his baby after a song

My parents’ best friends did that Vivienne would’ve done:

•Brought the baby bag because the dipshits forgot it

•Went “what the fuck do you mean the baby is already here it’s been half an hour”

•(not in the story but) Offer the pregnant lady fried chicken and then never make it iT’S BEEN 21 YEARS SIR WHERE IS HER CHICKEN

•Help no-longer-pregnant lady sneak out cuz she didn’t wanna be there anymore

~~~~~~~~~

*

two months. oak is recalcitrant to her teachings. vivi is buoyant in her obliviousness. they do not see her. she cannot see herself. the closest thing she has to a mirror is miles away, attending a new husband and parading with stars dangling from rounded ears. if taryn were to come, jude thinks she wouldn’t recognize either of them.

*

she is ashamed to watch her pillowcase blotted with tear stains at nightfall.

it’s more embarrassing than waking up the first time to menstrual blood staining her sheets, two stories up in madoc’s estate, knowing not what it meant or what to do.

jude duarte avoids as superfluous emotions as sadness or hopelessness. being a mortal in faerie, those sentiments would wash her out of focus, riddle her with doubt, and with a certainty would so far as kill her.

but, she thinks, i am not in faerie anymore. i am no longer in a place where blood is a better find than tears. where eyes are dry and swords are sated by throats and bellies.

perhaps in her native world it is safer. that’s what jude wanted this whole time, was it not? safety. if she were meant to feel relief, she should feel it now.

survival feels wet against her cheek.

*

he keeps slugging his damn arms. jude tugs oak roughly to her, fixing his stance, and urges him to strike.

“will i still be king someday?”

as per usual, he tries deflection to talk out of a combat lesson. jude is unmoved. “yes.”

“are you sure?”

she shifts her weight to her other leg. “there is no other way.” his form is poor. she identifies his weaker side and rounds slowly to it. “the crown answers to blood. raise your elbow higher. protect your face.”

oak listens for once. his voice is shrill still. “so there is no one else?”

of course there’s someone else. another bearer of the crown, another royal to lead their nation. but jude grits her teeth and resorts to her best asset: lying. “no. no one else.”

her little brother pauses, their lesson half-present in his mind. intrigued, she watches the scrunch of his brows as he formulates a thought. “unless cardan has a child. then there would be another.”

if he sees her freeze, he doesn’t mention it. the scenario turns her thoughts errant, threatens her with a conniption. some sick part of her wishes to linger on the possibility, but with oak before her and posed to fight, she cannot allow herself that masochism.

oak stands expectant, his arm growing weary and slouching. the least she can do is not lie.

“i suppose.”

he remembers none of the stance the next evening.

*

“no word from dad. taryn either.”

jude lifts her face to catch vivi rummaging through envelopes of mail. “what, were you expecting miracles? a shift in the weather?” she scoffs, coming back to her task. counting money. hard-earned cash from late shifts of all services and flavors. espionage, theft, the occasional sparring match. the underground fae crime ring taints the soul, but it pays in fifties.

vivi interrupts her quick fingers. “he liked you best, you know. dad always gave more of himself to you than to me or taryn.” she notices her brother sitting at the couch, leans in to rumple his hair. “or oak.”

jude shoots vivi a cruel look, an exasperated look. “what good that did to me.”

her sister’s eyes are fierce as a growling cat where they pin her in place. “quite some good, your highness.”

jude does a fucking great job at not screaming.

*

she hates to think of the name.

what could his true name be, she wonders? if she commanded it, before the brokering of their epically failed marriage for his release, jude asks herself if he’d given it. if he’d hated her that much more.

her mind swirls with reminders of midnight black eyes, of fingers against her lips and the abstruse feeling of possession by another being.

she won’t think of it. she won’t dream of it. she won’t aerate the two syllables in a whisper of dark sky. she certainly won’t be pelted with the scariest word, the four letters she refused since childhood to allow a place in her. the word that died with a blade on its back as it ran to the kitchen. the word that meant a certain foolishness, a certain danger. she won’t. it’s her new mantra: she won’t, she won’t, she won’t.

falsehoods have always been her strongest asset.

*

“we shouldn’t be watching this shit,” heather sighs between mouthfuls of red licorice.

they’re leaning on the couch, lined up like soldiers catching their breath amidst pilgrimage to battle. the television blares high. jude notices heather has shifted her free hand to cover oak’s eyes.

she inspects the playing show more closely. one second there’s a wide shot of scenery, familiar in its medieval setting, and the next there’s a person. a striking young woman with silver hair like new iron falling in tresses across pale shoulders.

the figure is so intimate it nearly makes jude jump. “a princess,” she murmurs.

heather shakes her head. “no. oh no. well, sorta.” oak squirms in her hand, breaking free of her hold, to which she sighs and acquiesces. “sure, i guess, but more than that. it’s complicated.”

from her place next to oak, jude nods. “royals tend to be.”

her sister’s lover, or ex lover (certainly an ex something), barrels on. she uses hand gestures to further her explaining. “her father was the mad king, but she was only a baby when he got dethroned. she was exiled from her home, far across the sea. then she married a powerful man, leader of a tribe, and sorta grew into herself. after he died, his rivals and his people tried to disbar her. turns out she had more in her arsenal than was believed.” heather wags her eyebrows at the show.

jude couldn’t be more confused until a huge, black winged creature crosses the screen. “are those…”

“yup,” heather confirms. “the mother of beasts. and her husband’s people, they followed her. even though he was gone, and was their real ruler, and it was unacceptable that she rule on the basis of who she was, they still accepted her as leader.”

jude stiffens. “really.”

they made it seem so close, so easy to reach. the princess-who-wasn’t-a-princess straightens her spine, amplifies her voice. when she speaks, people heed.

heather slices her reverie. “because she has magic.” she points to the overflying monsters. “badass.”

ah. because. she. has. magic.

a non-magic girl slouches back in her non-magic couch, watching a non-magic box, consumed by baneful imaginings.

*

unprepossessing. that is what they called her. ugly, if wine or fury loosened their vocabulary. how had i let someone who called me that touch me at the collarbones? kiss my throat? call me his sweet villain? jude has no answer. she replays and loops the plethora of adjectives her dear husband and company had called her. wormfood. unsightly. repellent. direful. unbecoming. synonyms alike to the same derivative, final word.

mortal.

the circle of worms, she and taryn. daughter of dirt.

she wishes she were nobody’s daughter.

*

it takes her three nights after that to realize now she really is nobody’s daughter.

*

her exile hits the half year.

*

bride of faerieland. the mortal queen.

a fugacious dream, she finalizes. no more than a fleeting child’s wish. had she remained at home, no, in faerie , she’d never have been queen. not without the people’s approval and not with her mortality. a hollow crown, a fool’s wreath.

she cements it into her brain, sears it to memory. she never. would. have been. a true. queen.

oh, but what a vision they would’ve been. jude, stiff boned with graying hair, and cardan beside her, youthful as ever and tethered to her with ball and chain. unescapable. a fresh minted prison for him. he’d be gagged to ask for her kisses, much less beg for them. when her skin sagged and time plundered her heart, how quick he’d be to run from her. a bat out of hell.

when it processes that she’s thought of his name, written it to existence in the myriad of her thoughts, she breaks into a cold sweat.

*

she won’t call her exile a blessing. there’s many descriptors for the singular event that redefined the last leg of her fleeting teenage life, and blessing won’t cut it. recently, however, jude has had the chance to add timely to the list.

jude kills a troll. he’d been preying on humans the same time as her abscond to the human realm. this particular troll began his horror streak after developing a taste for the helpless glaze in their eyes at final moments before teeth sunk into shoulders, the way they rolled back or if the occasion came up that the eyelids would fall crookedly. the funny look of a drugged, passed out, mindless loon. except these were dead loons, victims to the desire of a beast. these humans had been lured into the abandoned subway tunnel, but jude had strolled there all on her own.

“that bitch carries the devil,” commented one of the fae. gathered in a ring, stealing glimpses of her over their shoulders.

waiting for her pay, jude kicked the tip of her boot into the solid ground, arms crossed. “that bitch can hear. i may not have fae hearing, but i’d abstain from testing me were i in your shoes.”

the fae she had spoken to was of the sea, and was barefoot. irony not lost on her.

sooner than expected, jude duarte developed a reputation. successful runs, frightening recounts of what she did to earn her money, it swiveled up and circled around her like a tornado. some fae considered testing if the legend was bigger than the person, and some fae had lost the use of a limb. she knew she’d been strong before, but this new world taught her what an unstoppable force she was. had always been.

they give her a nickname. fearful of evoking the name given to her at birth, though being human it had no effect on her. still, shadows shivered at her wake, watching, consuming jude duarte’s trail of defeated foes. in the damp, cold streets of maine, in a world she long since had cut true tethers from, she’s reborn as the wrath.

in her mind, somewhere in the bowels of the elfhame palace, the court of shadows laugh up a storm.

*

oak grows less querulous and more capitulant to his role. jude in turn decides to do the same with her old-but-now-new home amidst mortals.

she watches tv. repaints her bike. buys new clothes. eats toasted waffles with peanut butter and honey.

when heather mentions a museum across town, jude no longer stares at her blankly. she doesn’t fumble or grasp for words. her foot’s planted on the ground, steady and strengthening.

she becomes inclined to music. an old trait, now in a new ambient. vivi glamours money to grant her a gift, a small excuse to cheer her up. the gadget fits most of her hand, sensitive to her tact and bright during the darker hours. heather hauls her laptop once in a while to upload new songs onto it, teaching jude how to sift through the list.

music player in her hand, jude sheepishly assembles a queue of songs that she likes. tunes that have replaced bards in taverns or notes plucked from lutes.

an aggressive song by a vexed wife goes first, the one with words that hit jude harsher than she wants to admit, the title saying not to hurt yourself. another one called once upon a time. a wedding song turned rock, a “strong electric guitar” according to heather, the singer belting about being loved tenderly. paint it, black by the stones that roll. where once her fingers would’ve stumbled over the gadget’s buttons, today she masters with ease.

the stunted child, the wraith of a human girl she once was rears her head in jude’s dreams. she gains color with each passing day.

*

by the time her exile hits eight months, jude begins the transition. she intends it to life, gives it air to breath.

i, jude duarte, will be happy in the mortal world.

she wills herself to change on a molecular level. when the desire of faerieland hightails back, she slams it to the back of her mind. she transforms the pain into power, into will. the scar left behind from her banishment becomes fuel for her new life. for the transformation into who jude could truly be in this wide, marvelous, enormous human world.

they don’t want you. they have not once wanted you.

he doesn’t want you. not like you do him.

he

doesn’t

want

you.

move on, she begs herself. move on. move on. move on. stop chasing after ghosts.

*

the wrath is elbow deep in a goblin’s guts. he swindled bryern a bagful of gold coin. it came down to her to rescue it back, and assure the impediment of a repetition. that’s when she met her.

“hnnnnggg…” moans a figure across the room.

jude ignored the drugged out junkies on her way in, leaving them in the back burner while working through the bulk of her job. but the turncloak goblin is dead, and was that noisy mound moving?

“help…” she hears.

jude rarely considers herself so altruistic. but the meekness of the plea pulls her across the room, tugs her legs to the sprawled person.

human. a girl, dirty blue hair all too reminiscent of nicasia, but not so polished as to pass for a sea princess. no, this girl appeared on the edge of a precipice, thin coat of sweat across her body.

“more,” the girl begs.

like clockwork. jude squats down to get closer. “want me to get you out of here?”

weakly, the girl nods. “she’ll find me.”

“what’s your name?”

the stranger smacks her lips, eyes rolling in her head. “lolli.”

lolli turned out to be an easy haul but a terrible map. jude exasperatedly dragged her through alleys and corners, hearing the laments of her companion through the journey. lolli got sidetracked from her ride-or-dies, see, shot up a bit too much powder - something she called never - and had an urgent need to return to the clan.

jude’s self-preservation rang high when she knocked on the selected door and met a fae two heads taller than she. his red skin shone bright in the doorway, his glamour invisible to jude’s geas.

“thank you for bringing pop back to us. i’m qylin” he says across from jude, having invited her in and given her a once-over. “uh, you mortal?”

she’s declined a drink, but accepted a chair. “as they come.”

qylin moves closer. “and you took out melbor? pop’s supplier?”

“is pop meant to be lolli?”

“her full name’s lollipop.”

“oh. i see.” a red flush runs across her face. “melbor huh? didn’t catch his name. i did catch both his kidneys though.”

qylin whistles.  “damn. a mortal.” he pronounces it with wonder. nothing like she’s used to. it falls with disbelief in her ears.

“that’s quite a might you got in you. here.” in an outstretched hand, jude finds a tiny acorn that no doubt has a message inside it. “if you ever quit meandering for coin and want to run with the real wolves, i’ll answer.”

wolf. she’d been a girl and she’d been a mortal. then she’d been wormfood and after that she’d been a queen. couldn’t say jude once considered herself a wolf, or imagined running with them. then again, she had become so many things far from her imagination.

the ward. the mortal. the queen. the wrath. her list of faces ran endless, each mask pressing heavier and heavier on her fragile composition.

*

in the beginning, vivi congratulated her like a preschooler with a trophy. “look at you, making an effort. i told you home wasn’t so bad.”

months later they’ve turned to “you are too far out” accompanied by the tapping of her foot, a face riddled by concern. “you’re jumping into danger again.”

vivi didn’t know how jude missed being afraid.

*

if she dreams of cardan, the sting pulls her awake and breathless into the chirping crickets of the dark hours.

*

ninth month. her exile is a baby somewhere, born and breathing. a marking reminder of her incipient rule cut short.

jude duarte makes a decision. she steps outside of the girl she used to be, the teenager latched to a world that had not once been hers.

the acorn is light in her hands. she splits it open, unrolling the paper inside, and when she sees the address and phone number it takes her a total of eighteen minutes to pack.

*

saying goodbye without telling them it’s goodbye cracks a new wound in her already shattering heart.

*

oak thinks she’s going to the gym. vivi thinks she’s babysitting oak. heather might’ve had a clue, but she kept silent while jude hugged her, muttering a quick thanks for watching her brother while vivi came from the post office.

it appears, after years, she’d learned to say farewell to all things that were close to her.

*

qylin refrained from asking questions, just as jude liked it. she watched, studied, learned, kept to her rank while scheming for more. the room and cot qylin offers is as home as any she’s had.

*

when she urged cardan to inveigle the princess of the undersea, it led them to a hidden alcove draped with vines, to a couch where she’d bared more of jude duarte than she had in her entire life. the memory is both a memory and the dream that recurs most in her sleep. their tryst, their unculminated tumble, their fumbled connection, whatever people would want to call it. in her sickest hours, jude allowed herself to think of it with a tender gaze, with a pink shiny filter, with the dreaded word she’d been on the run from for years.

that you hate me. tell me that you hate me.

“i hate you,” jude whispers. “i hate you and i married you and i hate you.” the two phrases weren’t mutually exclusive.

*

lollipop has been gone for weeks, but her junkie spirit is alive.

the wrath evaded nevermore like cats did water, but the gradual acclimation to qylin’s ring fills her with misplaced ease. it took them damn near six months, but jude finally surrendered her arm.

it pricks, the needle, like the pinch on her finger when cardan stabbed her for the salt in her blood. for the antidote to faerie fruit.

she’s high. she’s at a revel in new york and she’s vulnerable and she’s high.

it doesn’t take long for jude to cement her decision to never do drugs in her natural life again. but once that’s been engraved in her think tank, the world turns mellow and technicolor. it tells her to enjoy while it lasts.

she’s surrounded by leaves, platter of fruit, dancing pixies and slender fae. painful reminders of the home she direly tries to forget.

in a mirage, she pictures black curls under a golden crown of flowers. cruel lips forming a smile.

as if underwater, ears plugged with chlorine liquid, jude hears a seductive voice to her side. “what a pretty thing.” a woman. tall and thin, fae ears and slit green eyes. eyes that fall down to jude’s chest. “busty.”

not all quite there, jude struggles but succeeds in recognizing the tone coming from her courtier. and before she can respond, to her surprise, a second woman emerges from the back of her new companion.

she’s got beautiful straight teeth and straighter talons. “careful. saphine can bite.”

after being called hideous half a life, this come-on douses jude awake like a bucket of water. she studies the two girls and the raking nature of their eyes. she thinks perhaps if she paid more attention she could’ve recognized that in cardan’s eyes. could’ve told it apart from the hatred, the arrogance and the disgust.

without preemptiveness, without pause to think it over, jude tugs both girls to her. her body busts in sensation.

she remembers cardan in a maze, draped in languor and gold faerie drug and girls. black shark eyes watching her while horned girls had their way with him. one kissed his neck, she remembers, and another his knee.

“here,” she scoffs, pushing down sapphire or whatever’s head to her knees. “above my boot.”

a chuckle. “feisty, huh?” she hears, and she truly doesn’t care.

next, jude unceremoniously pulls the second girl up to her neck, leading them exactly where and how she wants them. she’s a constellation of heat and brief spikes of libido.

does cardan think of her? when he’s in bed or bedding someone new, whichsoever activity he performs at night, does jude cross his mind? does he remember her? sometimes in the ridiculous seclusion of her mind she thought cardan would be faithful to her once upon a time. she could slap her own cheeks for such foolishness.

his face appears stark in her memory. deep hollows on his collarbones, raven black hair and eyes devouring her like fruit. his lips, they’d been so soft.

jude leans her head back and laments her ghosts. she inhales sharply.

after the hot spell passes, after jude feels the trickle of tongue make its way up to her thigh and another down her chest, she pushes them away.

why? she doesn’t know. jude is only sure of the fact that she’s tired and doesn’t want this and instead wants a glass of water then maybe a bed.

saphine tilts her head, rolls her eyes, and waves her off, moving along. jude is thankful, for the first time, at being so easily discarded.

*

a month later makes two years since her infamous exit.

“unless cardan has a child,” oak said. many moons past.

the memory of him brings upon a dream. the opposite to her listless, watered-down dreams she grew used to having.

she sneaks through the palace, it’s name near forgotten to her, crawling against walls or chasing shadows.

he’s there. he’s in many of her dreams and he’s there in this one. hair astray. tilted crown. reclined on a couch, his tail freely swishing left and right.

if he remembers their pact of marriage, he doesn’t bother to show it. no mourning, no sadness, no desperation. unlike the other dreams of him, in this he’s placated. joyful, even, in a way so seldom his character.

jude’s understanding is little.

something squirms in cardan’s arms. when she gets closer it nearly takes her breath away to a fault, threatening to kill her. it’s a baby. older than a newborn but small enough to fit in his arms, to paw at his chin and gargle.

no test could prepare her for this sight.

and cardan. he’s absolutely changed. reinvented in the light of this babe, this creature jude hasn’t seen the face of. because that is his spawn, the tiny tail swishing from its rear indicates as much. that, combined with the black tresses, leaves no doubt that she is looking at a king and his heir.

in the depths of her shriveled dignity, jude duarte senses another break, another disgusting branched crack.

her husband is inconsolable in love. his bright smile slashes wide across his face, softening his sharp cheekbones. he lifts the baby to his face, pressing their noses together, cooing. she hardly recognizes him. but she recognizes the lack of a need for her.

this was a nightmare.

cardan lets the child descend, adjusting them in his lap with heartbreaking gentleness. to her horror, the toddler turns and pierces jude in place with raven black eyes.

she runs cold all over. the child has the look of a girl.

her coloring is unique, darker than cardan’s and any fae’s. it’s closer to… jude’s own. and below the black curls, which she realizes now is actually dark amber brown, there’s ears. rounded, untipped, human ears.

jude is utterly unmoored. the scene melts. she wakes up to hands descending upon her, to frightened questions of why she was screaming and that she’s woken up half of the gang. they cannot get a straight answer from her, and after plowing her with cups of water and aspirins from a quick run to the mini-store, the most they get from jude duarte is a somber face and a fall into her pillow.

*

jude becomes a gallery of girls. she’s judy, and she’s martina, and she’s amelie with the occasional latika. running in qylin’s underworld gang requires her to. police don’t catch her, fae detectives don’t either, and if by chance she needed to run an errand the name she gave was one of a basinful of fake i.d. cards.

“i once had a twin,” she offhandedly told someone.

“what was her name?” they asked.

jude slurped from a tall gas station soda cup. “doesn’t matter.”

*

three years. the earnest smile she’d lost a number of winters ago returns tenuously but surely. as a sliver, as a tiny reminder, as a planted seed showing the very smallest evidence of root.

*

a pixie joins their ranks. young and limber. her cerulean skin reminds jude of a blue court under the sea.

“fand,” she greets the mismatched group. “newborn nomad.”

jude welcomes her by the form of a nod, turning back to the display of headshots splashed on the table, organizing it into a semblance of order.

she feels fand dance around her, suspicious to her presence. she thinks for a hot minute that fand might want to cause trouble. jude focuses her attention to the knife hidden between her breasts.

the pixie stares at her, unabashed, and right as jude thinks to reach to her chest, fand grows the courage to ask. “you. do i know you?”

the question falls flat. “i don’t believe so. there’s little chance our paths crossed.”

fand squints. “well, i’ve just left elfhame. finally broke from that unruly mess.”

lightning forks in jude’s chest, attacking her nervous system. an old phantom possesses her body, causing her to still.

the pixie moves closer, inspecting. “your look, it’s so familiar.”

jude understands in a minute.

taryn. fucking taryn. always, forever, impossible-to-be-rid-of taryn.

summoning years of falsehoods and acting experience, jude breaks eye contact to laugh and feign offense. “all mortals look the same to fae, i’m sure.”

that is not a lie. she learned that from the wickedest prince himself.

*

when fand slips away from the gang two nights later, jude forces herself to block it from memory.

*

she’s almost twenty-one. in faerie she might have died since she was eleven.

here, she’s got a family. a rough knit circle of confidants, people she rarely thinks twice about trusting anymore. her music keeps her company, and her growing arsenal of skills, of wins, it warms the smallest piece of her soul.

how could she have hated such a place?

*

“counterinsurgents. we calculate two dozen below the bridge,” jekka, qylin’s second, explains over a map.

jude’s focus is precise, uninterrupted.

the years, the lack of practice from a simple lack of need to, makes it so that she doesn’t religiously check the perimeter, doesn’t spot a green face. his dark tuft of hair and hooked nose, spying from the window, hidden among leaves and wind.

if she had seen him, she might’ve remembered her old friend. if she’d seen him, she might’ve broken down in tears, or begged for a word, or done none of those things to help jekka figure out their positions for the next day’s raid.

*

“watch for the sniper!” one of her gang yells.

jude ducks, experienced muscles leading her across the space, the shielded street with broken streetlights. abandoned houses repurposed for criminal night creatures sprawl one after the other. they’ve chosen one a stone throw from the river, so close they could taste the salt while counting bloody fae or human scalps.

five, six, seven leaps and she’s out of shot, crammed into a wedge in the building. she took down three counterinsurgents already. the wrath ran rampant today.

another figure jumps out the window, two yards from her, and takes off running through the backside of the house, the one facing the water. swift as the wind, jude pursues in fervor.

bam.

first the noise like thunderclap. then the pain.

oh.

when they screamed sniper, she expected an arrow. she expected a taut bow and a sharp, easily removed tip of metal. not a bullet.

*

in the end, jude has been a galaxy of abridges.

she’s had abridged parents, gone before her eighth birthday. that led to an abridged innocence and an abridged life in their rudimentary home in maine. she’s had an abridged relationship with her sisters. an abridged sense of belonging.

she had an abridged romance with a prince and king. that chapter being severed short was, as they all were, not her fault.

she had an abridged marriage. an abridged kingdom rule.

to be culminated in an abridged life. thin and meager.

she hopes no matter how small her garden has been, that each poison flower and cherry blossoms she’s sowed has done its best to enrich the tiny piece of universe allotted to her.

*

she should’ve known when she saw the river.

in water all began, and in water it ends.

there are no screams. no chaos. the gang has left her, chasing their foes further up the street, looking to corner them. jude? she’s going for a dip. a passage to the next life. she’ll float to it. gargle on the last of life.

“huh,” she whispers.

the ache is pungent in her back, the bullet hitting close to the spine but not quite. deadly, though. deadly for sure.

she wasn’t queen of nothing. she was queen of death, the hierophant of misery. her whole life has been a string of it. well, no longer.

jude duarte reaches the water’s edge, using each fiber of her strength to not fall in quite yet.

*

in the haziness of all that she’d done and all that she’d run from, he comes to her. in dream, in flesh. she’s not yet in the water.

“jude.”

this has to be the mark between. the straddling line of life and death. because somehow, impossibly, she hears him.

“jude!”

or?...

her brows scrunch in confusion, a naked toe in the river already. she wants to turn, but the seeping life at her back won’t allow it.

she doesn’t need to. long arms surround her, someone moving in front of her to read her face, to see what lies there.

it’s him.

jude’s lids droop. her back is on fire, and she burns in the flames. he’s barely changed. matured into his looks, if she had to put it into words. his tar eyes, slender lips, pointed nose and legendary black curls suddenly remind her of being seventeen.

there’s so much in his face she can barely read any of it. “is it you? is it really you?” he demands.

she’s always been jude. who jude became, that was a different question. one she no longer cares to ask.

“i found you. i finally finally found you.” his voice is incredulous.

is he the harbinger of the beyond? was that his role to play this entire time? her thoughts eddy and murk the more time passes with a hole in her back.

it is an arcane thing, in truth, to be held by a creature she’s craved and despised. her body responds on its own by pressing closer, seeking warmth.

he might be crying. could also be the angle of the sun.

“please,” he whispers.

she hasn’t said his name in years.

“cardan.”

his eyes fall closed.

her mouth repeats the motion, recognizing the familiarity of his name. cardan. once her king. her husband. the sight of him brings forth a wave of emotions, cascading through her like a waterfall.

cardan tugs her close to a punishingly tight degree. “i thought you dead.” he speaks into her ear. “we searched for years. i thought you were gone. gone, jude.”

the word pulls her back, creates distance between them. jude lets herself get lost in his eyes, those splendid eyes, bottomless and infinite, a serene look on her face as she responds:

“almost.”

the fractious prince too arrogant to be a ruler does not stand in front of her. this man is similar, but a sense of strength she hadn’t seen is forefront and shining. jude wishes she could appreciate it.

if only this weren’t the last time.

“so it is you.” she says it with wonder, with a detachment that lets her turn away from his arms and face the river.

cardan’s intake of breath indicates he has finally seen her wound. he twists his neck, shouts to someone far back, hidden in the houses. “shes hurt! SHE’S HURT!” his voice is raw and desperate.

jude walks into the water.

a hand at her arm stops her, keeps her in place, but she shrugs it off with newfound confidence and turns around. cardan’s incredulous face sparks memories of faraway lands and kingdoms.

“what are you doing?” he demands.

jude’s lips break into a smile. how she missed his voice. she walks back until water reaches her waist, then her chest, then the crown of her head.

“stop!” she hears.

the layers of the girl she was, who she is, who she could’ve been, they merge. yes, she had missed faerie. yes, she had wanted cardan. yes, she had wept tears of rage at knowing she could not have either of them back. if she cried now, her tears would turn to river water, melding into the beautiful greater whole.

a hand grips her chest. another tugs on her neck, urging her up, up, up.

air. sweet air in her lungs.

jude gasps, her plans interrupted. the bulletwound at her back sears at the salt water, the sensation so intense it actually numbs her and leaves her feeling very little.

cardan presses her flush to his body. he raises her up, and his face is marked with horror and betrayal.

“how could you?” he weeps. his features are anguished, desperate. he’s shaking her by the shoulder. “how could you?”

jude smiles a wet smile. “remember when you pushed me into the rapids? and you forced my twin to abandon me and kiss your cheeks? i can’t remember a time when i’ve been warm since then. the water, it was cold. like a leech.”

“the roach is gathering for a salve. jude, you will be okay. you need to get out now.”

she realizes there’s something wrong. “wait. no. that’s a lie. i am a liar.” she tilts her face to his, eyes meeting. “you were warm. behind the throne room and in your bed. you kept me warm. but you ripped me from my home and i've been cold since.”

cardan does something she didn’t imagine him capable of. he didn’t do so when balekin beat him. he didn’t do so when his family was slaughtered. he did so this moment, with her encircled by his arms. cardan sobs.

maybe this is when he understands he’s been forever her herald. the marker of her death. their destinies, interlinked, but only for this.

as he bares himself open, jude candidly studies his face. there’s freedom in allowing herself to admit she missed him. missed all of it. her kingdom that never was.

“i’ll heal you,” he implores. his hand runs down wet and shakingly down her face. “you’re my queen. we’ll use our magic. we will, jude, if you stay with me. don’t you get it? the exile was fake. i never meant for you to vanish. i’m begging you, please, help me heal you.”

her forehead falls on his. waist-deep in water, she feels his short breaths fall on her cheek. “you held hatred for me once.”

slowly, miserably, cardan shakes his head. the motion makes her pull away but he doesn’t let her, staying together. “love. i held love, jude.”

love

four letters.

years of running. and it caught up to her all the same.

his words hit her worse than the sniper did. she staggers in his embrace.

“hold.” he says the word with intensity. “i hold, jude.” cardan refuses to let her go, won’t let her fall. “you walked away with my heart.”

thoughts swirl in her head. they swim around like the fish crossing in between their legs.

“hold,” she says weakly.

hold love. he loves me.

impossible. and true.

“huh.”

*

“hold me,” she asks him. and he does.

he does.

he appears vacillant to his actions save for holding her.

jude can’t remember a time when she wasn’t running. from her parents’ demise. from madoc’s threats. from the cruel fae. from her sister’s betrayal. from cardan’s torments and, apparently, his ministrations of love. from her own shadow.

they haven’t moved from the water. it’s been a minute. it’s been four years.

jude feels her body slag, the water making up for the new deadweight.

“i wish you’d never left me,” he murmurs.

gratingly, she lifts her hand to trace a finger along the hard, straight line and point of her husband’s ear. “cardan, are you here to ask me for a divorce?”

his face breaks. she’s fully leaning on him, his long arms cradling her to his chest. amidst their soaked clothes, she feels the thudding of his heart against her cheek.

jude’s eyes flutter open and closed. “i want to tell you i will. i want to tell you i’ve waited for it. i - ah…” a jab of pain causes her to pause. “i want to tell you it hasn’t been eating me alive to be apart from you. i want to tell you… so… many… lies.”

through her misty vision, she sees cardan shake his head. “you are not leaving me.” the conviction in his voice draws a laugh from her.

“oh, cardan.” it’s the last good breath in her lungs. in the distance, she feels the ripples of someone entering the river, racing towards them. she sees only pitch black eyes. “i already have. i already have.”

My stomach does another little flip. If it wasn’t for the fact that my sisters are currently trying to prove that I am pregnant, I would have rushed to the parking lot to be sick. As it stands, I’m trying to prove them wrong.

I muster up a simper for my dear older sister. “For you, I hope.”

“I’m not the pregnant one.” Vivi closes the magazine she’s holding and places it back on the rack.

“Neither am I,” I tell her firmly, nodding at the bag in her hand. “So you can return those.”

She doesn’t budge. “Oh, come on, Jude. Humour us.”

“No.” I step around her and out the automatic doors. “I don’t think you’d find me very funny.” The summer air is thick and cloying—claustrophobic on my skin.

Vivi doesn’t leave off, remaining close on my tail. Which is annoying and makes me want to snap again. But I think that might bolster her and Taryn’s point further, so I clench my jaw against her badgering.

“If you’re so sure you’re not pregnant, what do you have to lose?”

“Time?” I offer, looking for the bus stop on this side of the street. “And my dignity.”

“Fine,” Vivi says, “What say we make a bargain?”

A laugh bubbles to my lips. “I’m not bargaining with you.”

“A deal, then?” Vivi grabs my wrist to stop me. She wants me to take her seriously. I do not, but I roll my eyes and wait. “I will give you $8.95 in real mortal dollars for every test that comes back negative.”

I cock my head to the side. “Why $8.95?”

“That’s how much one of these babies cost.” Vivi pulls a box out of the bag and gives it a shake. The contents rattle around inside.

I give her an acidic look. Really? A baby pun? Tasteless considering I’m not pregnant.

I regard her for a moment. If I take those tests, I could get my sisters to stop hounding me about things I am nowhere near ready to consider—things that make me want to be swallowed up by a black hole, or fling myself into the stormy sea.

I’d also get some money out of it. Which I would probably just give back to Vivi and Heather anyway, since they’re always strapped for cash. But I could buy myself a lotto ticket first. Or maybe a packet of Skittles. The tropical kind that taste like a sugary vacation.

“And if it comes back positive?” I ask—out of curiosity, not because I believe it will. I want to know what’s in it for her, and I refuse to participate in being the butt of a joke for less than thirty bucks.

Vivi’s cat-eyes gleam. “Consider it my ‘congrats on getting knocked up but please don’t ask me to attend the birth of said little progeny’ gift.”

I scoff. As if I’d want anyone but the midwives there to witness such a butcherly event. I would maybe allow Cardan to be there, but only if he wanted to, and only if I could use him as a personal stress ball in lieu of an epidural, since I very much doubt I’ll be given one of those in Faerie.

Then, I shake my head, because I’m getting way too ahead of myself.

“Fine,” I say, “Make it ten real mortal dollars. For every negative or inconclusive test. Consider the extra charge a tax for my wasted time.”

Vivi gasps a mock. “A Queen taxing her subject? You know, some around here might think that’s in poor taste.”

I have no idea what she means by that, so I shrug and pluck the lollipop from her mouth. It makes a popping sound against her lips. “Fortunately,” I say, “I don’t care what anyone thinks.” I stick the candied end between my teeth. 

It tastes like kiwi and a lot better than I expected.

With that, I sling my plastic CVS bag over my shoulder and strut across the parking lot toward the bus stop.

“Hey!” Vivi shouts after me. “If you get your gross sick germs all over that—”

“According to you, I’m not sick,” I remind her. “So you have nothing to worry about.”

☽☽☽☽☽

More like this:  make up  |  You Are  |  To Dance With Danger

Masterlist

AN: Since I am notoriously the most tortoise-like writer on the face of the web, I’ve decided to release snippets for the Jurdan Week one-shots/fics I plan to release sometime in the near future. 

I’ve tagged everyone who has either asked to be tagged in this one-shot specifically, or is on my Jurdan Forever Tag List. If you would like to be added to the tag list for this or to my Jurdan Forever Tag List, please let me know in the comments/my inbox/messages and I’d be happy to add you! 

-Em 🖤💫

He captures her hand in his and holds it there against the crook of his neck before turning his attention back to the show. She can feel his pulse.

“What is a Sephora?” Cardan asks, suddenly. “They keep mentioning it.”

Jude presses her lips together. She briefly considers telling him it’s a bank. Or an antique shop. Anything to keep him from knowing the truth. But she hesitates for too long, and Cardan can always tell when she’s lying.

“It’s a store,” Jude hedges.

He eyes her skeptically. “That is a remarkably vague description, wife.”

She bites the inside of her cheek, cursing his perceptiveness. “It’s a store where you can buy things?” 

Cardan gives her a flat look, seeing right through her stalling tactics. “Yes, I guessed as much,” he says, impatient. “What kinds of things?”

Jude draws in a long breath. “Face things.”

“Face things?” His brows knit together.

“Yeah... Like face wash. Or toner.” She shrugs. “It’s all very boring.”

Cardan is squinting at her now. “Would this face store happen to include glitter and paints? Pigments, mayhap?”

“No,” Jude says, too quickly, then clamps her mouth shut.

Cardan grins. “My sweet little liar,” he says, reaching toward her face with his free hand. He brushes a cool thumb across her bottom lip. Jude’s eyes widen, half-spellbound by his heated gaze, half horror-struck for the monstrous box she’s just opened.

“We’re going,” her husband declares after a moment, pulling his hand away from her face.

“What?” Jude shoots him a pleading look as he stands. She doesn’t let go of his hand. “No, Cardan—”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she huffs. “I don’t think Oak wants to spend time at a makeup store on his birthday.” Jude nods pointedly at the boy. Oak has turned himself around and is now hanging upside-down over the front of the couch, eyes glued to the screen.

Cardan pauses, contemplating. He looks like he’s about to forfeit, and for a fleeting moment, Jude is relieved.

Then, Oak sits up. “No, I’m fine with it,” he chirps. An annoyingly delayed response. “They have those sheet mask things I like.”

Jude’s brows rise on her forehead. “You use sheet masks?”

“Yeah, they’re all slimy and gross feeling.” He grins. “Plus, Vivi and Heather ran out last week. They told me I had to buy them more because I kept stealing theirs.”

“See, my love?” Cardan croons. “Oak wants to go.”

Jude wants to groan. She cannot believe she’s being coerced into this. Today was supposed to be a relatively calm day. The chaos was supposed to come later, when dozens of pre-teen boys and girls poured into their apartment for Oak’s birthday party. Now, with the prospect of mall crowds and florescent lights and Cardan wreaking havoc upon a store full of body glitter... 

Jude shudders. Cardan and body glitter. She cannot help but feel like this is an undermining of her very sanity.

“Please, Jude?” Oak begs. 

“Yes, please, Jude.” There’s a smug smile pulling at her husband’s cruel lips.

She scowls at it. “Fine,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. Oak springs to his feet. “Who am I to deny the birthday boy, after all?”

As Oak runs off to find his shoes, Cardan gives Jude a soft smile. He lifts her hand, still nestled in his, and plants a gentle kiss to her knuckles before letting it fall and making his way to the coat rack.

Jude folds her arms across her chest. She lured herself into this trap. She supposes she must now brace herself for her fate. 

☽☽☽☽☽

More like this: Wicked Game  |  Only You  |  Kiwi

Masterlist

Author’s Note: Since I am notoriously the most tortoise-like writer on the face of the web, I’ve decided to release snippets for the Jurdan Week one-shots/fics I plan to release sometime in the near future. I’ve tagged everyone who has either asked to be tagged in this one-shot specifically, or is on my Jurdan Forever Tag List. If you would like to be added to the tag list for this, or to my Jurdan Forever Tag List, please let me know in the comments/my inbox/messages and I’d be happy to add you!

-Em 🖤💫