heavy is the head

When had he become such a nervous thing? There was no need for it, especially not here. He had as much right as anyone else to seek out advice, even if at times he worried he didn’t. Plenty of others did so regularly without any sort of worry, or regard, but then he wasn’t sure that sort of entitlement suited him well, or anyone else for that matter. 

He nods, offering a small smile. He took a deep breath and sat down across from him, tried to brush away the insecurities, the paranoia that if he looked into the other’s eye a little too long, he might see something he shouldn’t. He wouldn’t get any help without his own risk of honesty.

“Tomorrow I’m going to be seeking out the armorer and his enchanter husband with Fiadh for weapons to aid the fight…you know that already, I’m not sure why I’ve told you that again…” Mordred shook his head, trying to brush off the worry of this being too trivial for the prince’s advisor. It wasn’t trivial to him, though, the fear that he was going to be asked to give up something he couldn’t, that he wouldn’t be able to get what they need because of his own fears, and that he would be abandoned again because of that, left to see what was left beneath the pretty facade he had crafted.

“I suppose I just…well, I’m happy to be of assistance is this small way––hunting is not something I have much skill in any longer, and fighting, perhaps even less so now, unlike my friends––but I worry about what they’ll ask for in return. What I mean to say is, how much should I offer on the prince’s behalf, from him, from myself? And what happens if…” he stopped himself, but there was no taking the words back, knowing Declan would know how the thought would have ended. So he sat up a little straighter, prepared to be honest. 

“Is there a line?”

He considered the question, for a long moment. He hadn’t thought much of it, when he’d heard that it was Mordred and Fiadh who had been tasked with seeking out the solitary armorer and enchanter, to ask for aid. He had thought, briefly, about what might be asked for in return for that aid, but only insomuch as that he was sure of what Brín would and would not give, for their help. He hadn’t thought that Mordred would come to him to ask about it, that he would worry himself about the cost. 

He looked at Mordred, seeing the trepidation but also the honesty clear in his eyes. He wanted to help, even though he was scared; he was going to help, even though he was scared. An admirable trait, that bravery, made almost dangerous by the fear that it meant he could not also be selfish in his own small way. There was such a thin line, these days, between courage and zealotry. 

     ‘You’re Ailis’ friend, yes? She trusts you. Trusts your judgment, your faithfulness, your heart. Where would you draw the line, if it were up to only you?’

He left the rest of the question unsaid, implied: how much is the life of our people worth, to you? It was a question asked without judgment. Everyone had things they were not willing to sacrifice for the greater good; everyone had things without which life would no longer be life. He himself would have given anything, anything at all, to stop this madness, except for one thing: the life of either of his children. It was a hard line carved upon his heart, clear as day in his mind when he thought the question. Whether or not he would say it aloud was one thing, but knowing it deep in his bones was another entirely, undoubtable. He imagined Mordred had a similar answer, deep in his bones, that he would know all the same, when asked. 

She smiles at his words, not realizing how much she needed to hear them. She’d been worrying for months how helpful her presence truly was for her queen, or if she was simply a distraction that could hurt her. Although that concern is very much still present in her psyche, she allows herself to simply take in Declan’s praise and let it warm her for a moment. 

Despite their occasional disagreements, and the opposing sides they now stood on, he was still her compass in so many ways, often thinking of how he’d respond to the endless choices she had to make while at Sorcha’s side. He of course would have never allowed himself to get as intimately involved with his sovereign as she had, which is perhaps why she struggles so much in trying to figure out how to navigate the treacherous path she’d embarked on. She wonders if he’d had any clue of the depth of her relationship with his daughter, but quickly shook off the idea. If he had, she would have already heard it by now, and his words would have been far more coarse. 

When he extends his hand, she simply looks at it at first. The formality of it pains her, millennia spent side by side, and here they are shaking hands like acquaintances at the end of a dinner. She knew she had to shake her mind free of what was, and give all her focus to the present. What they shared before was now long broken, and grieving over the shards that remained would serve her no purpose other than to further distract her from the task before her.

Extending her hand out, she stiffens her posture, reminding herself of the very lessons he taught her, as she grasps her hand in his and shakes it briefly. 

“Of course,” she nods, and removes her hand the moment it would be appropriate. Shifting her focus back to the party, which she could still see through the leaves behind him, she scans for the very queen in question, and finds her still seated with Katurian. “I should get back,” she adds, nodding towards the party as she flexes the hand that once held his. Looking back to him she hesitates as she tries to figure out a proper goodbye before landing on. “If you need me, you know how to reach me.” And with that she leaves, more shaken than she’d like by the interaction. 

The house is more alive than it’s been for years and years. Noise and people bringing it back to a shadow of its former glory. He tries, he really does, to feel content with it. To feel happy at the safety of his people, the joy and comfort they feel and the gratitude they show him for his effort. He tries. But he’s tired. 

Well, tired is an understatement. Exhausted. Fraying at the edges in ways he isn’t sure how to escape. He feels frantic with it, the endless things to do and the endless pressure to know what to say. People looking to him for so much. The risk of losing all he holds dear. There are moments when he has to find a quiet spot, like here upon the back stair in the afternoon light, relatively quiet compared to the hustle of bustle of life inside the house. From this spot, bathed in sunlight, he can gaze out at the old yard and seek some sense of peace. Almost like meditation. It still makes him feel mad and sick with old grief, but at least its something he can wear with more comfort. It sits underneath his usual skin more comfortably, he can layer the care free and self assured persona over top. 

He sees the land here through two different sets of eyes. Reality and memory mingling in one. There was a clearer path, once. It led to a stable. They kept horses. And further past the stable was where the trees had truly started, back then, though they’ve grown and crept and overtaken nearly all the yard by now. He’s exploring it inside his own mind when he hears the voice, pulled then from his reverie. 

Brín prides himself, quietly, on the fact that he only jumped the slightest bit. He knows Declan’s voice anywhere, the old familiar tones of it are a comfort through any storm. He glances up, plasters on his classic princely smile –– bright, speaking of pride and mischief and all things that put both the glimmer of fondness and the spark of impatience in the eyes of his most trusted advisor. “Of course it does.” He wants to make it gentler. It’s a good house. He fears, however, showing too much fondness for the place. He doesn’t want Declan to think him lost in the past, unable to carry onwards and put the best interest of others before himself. “Did you doubt me, old man? I told you it would serve us well.” 

It’s a credit to Brín that he doesn’t let Declan see him pull the mask over his face, his shift from hollow, worried contemplation to the confidence and ease of a Prince. He plays his part so thoroughly, these days, that someone who didn’t know him so well would likely believe that the ease and confidence with which he speaks is honest and not a carefully constructed facade. There are plenty of things, on any given day, which Declan could criticize him for, and he is still so young that it feels like watching a child sit on the throne, but... 

But the contemplative sadness isn’t a sign of a bad ruler, despite what their current location might lead Declan to think. Brín cares, and deeply, and Declan knows he will fight for his people just as fiercely as Sorcha will. Knows that he is trying his best in a situation that no queen or king of their kind has had to deal with before. War between the courts? Plentiful, but well understood. The slow death of many, as the humans expanded across their territory? It had been brutal, but again, it had been slow, and they had retreated best they could and saved many. This? This was sudden, and different, and entirely unknown. That Brín could even put a smile on, feign confidence to annoy the old advisor pestering him about things was a sign that Brín was holding it all together much better than he might have been.

      ‘When have I ever doubted you, my Prince?’ he replies, letting almost a hint of humor into his voice, moving to sit down on the step beside him. There is an instinct in him, hundreds of years old, to put an arm around him, to give Brín a chance to let his facade drop for another moment and lean on him; it is an instinct, it seems, that will never go away, no matter how often he restrains himself. 

Instead, he stays still, posture straight, as he follows Brín’s gaze out over the overgrown yard, only a memory left of the way its former human owners had bent and twisted nature to their own aesthetic ends. Fig buttercups overtaking the grass, trees growing across a carved-out path like green scar tissue. 

      ‘I think this will suit just fine. You’ve done good work.’

A small scoff escaped their lips at the warning of cautiousness, as if they weren’t infinitely more cautious than any of the other fae they were both surrounded by. Now didn’t feel like the time to play a waiting game to them, for once, but they could appreciate the need to assess things before planning next steps.

Perhaps in some way it was the creeping sense of dread settling squarely on their chest that pushed them away from their patience for once. The worry that if they didn’t act quicker than usual, if they didn’t make their moves without discrimination, they might be too late for everyone. But for tonight, this had to be enough, knowing that the risk they had taken in speaking to Declan had been worth it, and could potentially help them all.

The wheels were already turning even as he put a stopper on the conversation. By whatever means you must. Something that usually had different implications. They would have to tread even more gently than usual if they wanted these ideas to stand a chance.

“I suppose we’ll be in touch, then,” they nod. 

They offer a sharp grin, shifting back into something less genuine, more expected for the party, before giving him a rather rough pat on the shoulder, and disappearing back into the crowd.

This one had all been Brín’s idea, and though Declan had had his concerns about any remnant of this part of Brín’s history being so central to things at a moment when the prince was at risk of losing his sense of stability, well... it certainly did make a good headquarters, a good base of operations and a good safehouse for those who had been displaced. 

There is so much life to it, already, people moving around, moving in and out around them, Ailis ordering things moved into the dining room she has coopted to become something of a war room, others moving to and fro, a few of their human allies helping to get remaining iron moved out where it won’t cause problems. Brín has done a good job, of cleaning it up, of getting people on board, helping them feel safe and cared for. 

But he looks exhausted, lines in his face that aren’t usually there, a concerning distance in his eyes as he sits on the front stair and watches it all swirl around him. He is usually so enlivened, by the presence of others in proximity to him, but he seems drained, seems unsteady... 

     ‘It looks good,’ he says, voice approving, putting a hand on Brín’s shoulder as he approaches him from behind, taking a moment to survey the yard around them. He hasn’t spent much time, himself, in human places, hasn’t had much of any desire to, but at least the place is more fae than human anymore. And at least it feels as if they are moving in the right direction, towards something positive. 

Persistence has always been one of their strong suits, not one to let even their own frustration or annoyance blind them to their purpose. Of course, it was worth the anger flaring in their chest in the end, even just to receive that small indication that they were on the right path. And all the better if it perhaps showed him that it might be better to take them seriously from the start the next time they met.

“Precisely,” they hummed, looking at him with a little more scrutiny.

Not a surprise, of course, that he agreed with that point of view––they were fairly certain it was the sort of thing he was interested in even without the threat to their species as a whole––but it was still satisfying to know that they had been right to take that risk with him. Now, though, there was the question of what the next step would be, if there was even anything that he might be able to do to help push that thought even further.

“The question is, of course, where to go with such an apt saying. I’ve solved impossible problems before, but…patience isn’t going to do this time, I’m afraid. And it would do even less alone.”

     ‘One step at a time, Katurian,’ he said, after a moment. ‘See if the treaty looks like it’s holding and move from there, once we know how unstable our ground is.’

He was patient. Endlessly so. It was one of the things that had always made him a strong advisor. Ancient enough that the passage of time meant little to him, more far-seeing than those he had advised. They needed to move quickly, that much was true, but they didn’t need to rush so much they risked destabilizing the small step of progress they had made. Knowing that he and Katurian could be allies on this was promising, as much as they left a bitter taste in his mouth, but that didn’t mean he would rush his plans to suit Katurian’s pace. 

     ‘You have your queen’s ear. I have my prince’s. We’ll do what we can, with that, for now, and assess our next step once we’ve gained our balance from this one.’

He turned, slow, casting his eye at the crowd around them, smiled as if in enjoyment at the crowd, a gesture of openness that meant he had no secrets, the kind of thing that would keep prying eyes from feeling the need to turn their way in his direction.

     ‘We can meet, somewhere private, in a week. Do your best to persuade her this is in her favor before then, by whatever means you must.’

She simply nods to his response, not being surprised in the slightest by it. For a being nearly 1,000 years old, Brin was still like a child in so many ways. When life got hard he was more prone to run and hide until it got better while the grownups sorted the mess out for him. The few fights she and Declan had almost always included Brin as a common denominator. She blamed Declan for so much of it near the end- for holding Brin’s hand too tightly, all but giving him permission to do as he pleased. The prince was a child, and how she once saw it he was going to remain as such as long as everyone took up the responsibilities he fled from. 

Time and distance have now wizened her some. Looking at Declan right then she no longer felt a resentment towards his actions, but rather a newfound understanding. Declan didn’t want Brin to fail as much as she couldn’t bare to let Sorcha. Love and loyalty bound him to Brin for better or worse, no matter how worse it did get. And could she not now say the same for herself? 

“I wouldn’t necessarily call it luck. She’s done this longer, and mostly on her own,” she speaks up, can’t quite believing she was the one making an excuse for Brin. Excuse or not though, it was in fact true. Sorcha had built a better plate of armor for herself over the years, because she had to in order to survive the life that’d been given to her. 

“It does try on her though,” she confesses, lowering her voice as she does so. Talking about Sorcha like this made her feel like she was betraying her in some way, despite the fact the fae she was talking to was the Queen’s own father. Still, she knew he’d want to know. For the first time in centuries he finally had a lifeline to his daughter. She was loyal to her queen, but to him as well. “She hides it well, but it does weigh on her more than she lets on.” 

He nods, at her words—he knows it wears; he sees it in Sorcha’s eyes, whenever he does see her, saw it in her eyes earlier this afternoon for the brief amount of time they spoke. There is a rift, between them, he knows, that he cannot mend as long as the courts are separate. He is at fault for that in his own ways, as much as it is also determined by things he cannot yet control. But he feels better, feels still and at peace with it, knowing that she has Nathair at her side when she cannot have him there. 

     ‘She has felt every one of these deaths like a mark upon her heart,’ he says, and though he can not know for sure that it is true, he feels certain that it is: she is his daughter, after all, and has always felt things as deeply as he does, if not more so. And Brín has been the same, grieving every lost life, even the ones not in his own court. The lost ones, the solitary, even the unseelie he feels no real connection to. The two of them, still so young, with so much weight born on their shoulders alone. ‘But she doesn’t have to suffer it alone anymore. We can be grateful for that, at least.’

He is quiet, for a moment, and still, weighing the balance of things, measuring his heart against his mind. This festival, after all, is a show of unity, however temporary, between the courts. He hopes that it will be permanent: he intends to make it so. But on a day like today no one can say there is anything improper about two members of different courts clasping hands in solidarity.

So he offers his hand out in front of himself for Nathair to take, should she choose. A moment of comfort, for her, a moment to take the weight off of her shoulders, so that she’ll bear it all the better when they return to normal.

     ‘Thank you, for that.’

A soft laugh escapes her. A jagged, quiet thing, torn from her gut. 

Yes, perhaps it was a low blow, to bring up the boy. To play the truth out plain in the air, where anybody could hear if they were close enough. No one is, she’s sure of that. She never would have spoken to him at all if anyone might have heard her, never would have dared to split herself open, even this small amount. She’d never call Brín his son if anyone could truly find out. Yet she’d wanted him to fear it, wanted it to hurt. 

His voice sounds raw, and she feels only a small portion of the joy she’d expected from the sound of it. She can read too much in to it, through the words and beyond them. The love, the worry, the devotion, all for their darling Prince. Some for her, too. She knows. She hopes. 

She turns the laughter into a snort of derision, a blithe shrug of her shoulders. “I don’t have any time for masks, tonight. Though I hope it serves him well.”

Sorcha shifts, as changeable as the wind, and gathers her strength back to her. Her armour back in to place. She turns, more Queen than girl once again, and graces him with a slight nod. Already moving away with grace before she speaks the intent to move. “I’ll take my leave, and seek to keep your Prince from any further pain tonight.” 

They clenched their jaw, trying to temper the fury that flared up just beneath the surface at his tone. It was all too familiar, and Declan wasn’t alone in it by far, that mocking lilt, like he was indulging them by offering up the question. They were used to it. So few appreciated the art of a well structured conversation, and even fewer appreciated their own efforts to even try to play nicely. It was times like these they had to remind themself there was a reason it was so important to put forward the effort, even if it went unappreciated. They weren’t going to get what they wanted if they came in baring their claws.

That didn’t mean they were going to douse their anger completely, though, as childish as beating around the bush was now.

“Oh, nothing in particular to propose,” they shrugged, before taking another sip of their wine. Katurian was certain he would get the point, clear enough that they didn’t appreciate the way he spoke to them. There were others, of course, who they could go to in an attempt to measure if their idea could gain any traction, but then no one else had quite such sway over the lighter court, and brains to actually do the intelligent thing with it, than Declan.  

“I suppose I was just musing aloud. It just seems silly to let our imaginary walls rise up again so completely after the midsummer sun sets, with so much death on our doorsteps. But perhaps I’m bringing that thought up to the wrong person.”

More dancing around the point, more bloviating about the point, almost like they were doing it specifically to punish him for not having the time not the patience for their drawn out little games. It was almost enough to make Declan turn on his heel and leave altogether, despite how rude it would have been.

But he could read through their words well enough, even as they seemed stubbornly resistant to actually saying them. Imaginary walls. Maybe, for once, Katurian was being cryptic because what they were saying, if overheard, would be considered treason by their dearest queen.

And if that was the case, they had come to one of the few safe people to discuss the possibility with. 

     ‘Yes,’ they said, after a moment. A weight to his voice, to make sure that Katurian knew he understood what they were talking about, that he was taking them seriously now. ‘It does seem silly, doesn’t it? Especially when... oh, what is that human saying, there is power in unity?’

Little light. An old turn of phrase, fondness creeping through his voice in the quiet air. It brings back too many memories for comfort. Glimpses of the past: her joy, her freedom, the bright twinkle of her laughter and the way he looked at her like she was all that mattered. Little light, his precious spark of brightness in a world full of creeping darkness. 

The worst thing was that he was right. The hate was a heavy burden to carry. She held so much of it, cups overflowing with anger and vitriol and endless fury. She let it fill her up, crowd out everything else that might have made her weak. She couldn’t afford to grant much room to smaller, pettier emotions. Longing, yearning, sorrow. They were all meant to be tucked away, out of sight. She’d built an armour out of her hatred. A sword out of her anger. It was what made her a God, in the end, what gave her power over small and petty things. God of fury, god of vengeance, with a crown of bone and a heart of ice. 

She thinks, distantly, that so few people know what it’s like. She is alone in the world, even when she’s crowded by other people, even sitting on a throne. How can she explain the complexities of it all, the layers and layers of misfortune and pain and revenge that made her what she was. 

“My husband taught me well.” A barb, a dart thrown, though she really had no intent to cause pain. “And my shoulders are strong enough to bear the weight.” It had taken years for that fact to become a truth. Long seasons that stretch out in her mind now, when she’d learned to build the armour and sharpen her swords. She’d wiled away her hours looking for love, and embraced the hatred instead. “I hear your son has the opposite affliction. Too much love for his own good.” 

Her first barb hits at old, scarred over wounds: he long ago came to terms with the fact that he had failed her, that he could not undo what had been done to her in his absence, because of his foolishness and cowardice. Sorcha had grown strong on her own, without his help, and she had done it because she needed to, in his absence. In a perfect world, he would have been there for her always, she would never have needed to know pain or hate or anger like this. But it is an imperfect world they were born to, and his weeping will not change that unshakeable fact. 

The second barb, though, hits its mark—not because of her words themselves but because of the risk of them. It takes everything in him not to glance around like a guilty child caught out to make sure no one has overheard her. It would be stupid for anyone to challenge Brín for his throne, at a time like this, but plenty of the fae are stupid, and rumors of his illegitimacy are as dangerous now as they have always been—perhaps even more so. But they are alone; she is full of hatred but she is not reckless or unnecessarily cruel, not at her heart. 

     ‘He uses it to mask his pain,’ he says, his voice still low, the honesty raw and obvious because of it. ‘Much like you.’

Seeing that he’d received her message, she slipped a few steps further into the shadow. There were plenty of Seelie and Unseelie socializing out in the open for all eyes to see, but her and Declan had no longer become just any fae from two rivaling courts. Their shared history was a well known one, and the division that now separated them even more so. Should any one see the two of them together carrying on like all was well, suspicions would definitely be raised on both their accounts. 

Resting her back against the nearest tree, she waited quietly until she saw her mentor’s familar form emerge, freeing the small beetle back into the world. She has to fight off the urge to embrace him, which she found odd given the fact she could hardly think of a time she’d done it before. When she left the Seelie, she knew the hardest part would be leaving him behind, but knowing it didn’t make feeling it any easier. 

Guilt soon eclipses all other emotions though, the moment he mentions her queen. He’s right of course, this is the last place she should be, chasing memories within the shadows. She should be doing what he’d asked her to do the last time they had a moment to themselves- watching over Sorcha. 

“Probably not for a few more hours yet,” she chuckles with a shake of her head, hoping she was managing to hide the swirl of thoughts racing through her mind. “She’s back at the party, talking with Katurian though,” she adds, joking aside she wanted him to know she had been doing what he’d asked her to do. Sorcha was generally much easier to watch over from a distance, where she was far enough away not to distract her from her duty, but close enough she could intervene should something go wrong.  

“Speaking of passing out in bushes, how’s Brin?” she asks, curiosity getting the better of her. Her relationship with her former prince may have been a strained one at the least, but she couldn’t help but wonder how he’d been fairing during the chaos that was the last couple weeks. 

He is proud of Nathair, truly. Though he sees her so infrequently, these days, he remembers it every time that he does. Managing Sorcha is different than managing Brín, as similar at their hearts as the two may be, and he knows that Nathair’s hands-off approach serves her better with the queen than it would the prince. 

     ‘Distracted,’ he answers simply; it’s the best word he has for the multitude of things Brín is, the easiest way to express the Prince’s behavior as of late. He is in a kind of acute distress, most of the time, about the deaths in his court, those they have lost, and while he covers it, as usual, with bright laughs and loud smiles, with holding court and pretending as if he doesn’t give a care, it is easy to see in him, for those who know him. And he has been absent, more than is appropriate, running off almost nightly with that changeling masquerading as a human, irresponsibly abandoning his responsibilities for the follies of something Declan refuses to call love. It isn’t the first time Brín has let affection pull him away from court, but the last time he disappeared for years and years to watch a human grow old, his mother was still here, keeping everything running smoothly, and there wasn’t a murderer out for fae blood. ‘As he so often is.’

Still, this was what advisors were for. Brín could be distracted and Declan could keep him moving in the right direction all the same. As long as he was here, as long as he was present when he needed to be—and there were others, Brín would listen to, even when he wouldn’t listen to Declan. Ailis had been a boon, in keeping his head on straight, since she’d returned to court, and there were others he was working to recruit. 

     ‘Uncertain times are trying on us all; everyone responds differently to it. It is only my unlucky stars that mean my prince is running off to consort with changelings while your queen plans parties to gather support.’

The touch is a thing that could break her, if she was made of weaker stuff. She’s reinforced any cracks in her foundation over time, over long years. She’s a long way from the girl who spent long nights weeping, keening her sadness and grief to the stars. Sorcha still breathes in too softly, at the gentle nature of it. The tender touch of someone who loves her, unconditionally, no matter what she did or who she hurt or how hard she raged. 

She feels so small again in the wake of it, so she forces herself to square her shoulders, to glance away from him and the intensity of his voice, quiet as it is in the air between them. 

Will it be good for her? She isn’t sure. For all intents and purposes, it seems like a long walk toward damnation. There is a fear in her chest that her people will find their strength elsewhere, that their love for her will fade and she will be left behind. The Prince of The Seelie Court may win them over yet, may earn love and devotion. He has taken so much from her already, and uncharitably she wishes he would leave this world and let her have what’s hers. Still –– even her most selfish of acts had, in some small way, been for the good of the many. She would never admit it, but she’d done the worst things for the good of her court. What was the Unseelie King before her going to do? Tear them all apart. Sorcha was ruthless, but at least she cared.

“Isn’t it always, somehow?” Soft. “I tend to make the best of things.” She remains solid, but its more honest than she could utter to everyone else. “Them being safe is good for me. I don’t want them all to die.” And glancing back at him, finally, eyes betraying something more gentle than her words. “If I have to use the people I hate as a means to an end, I’ll do it.” 

The softness in her makes his chest ache, makes him think of a time before she was queen, before she was taken from him, before she had grown into the woman she’d become, when she was all softness and light and joy and hope. When she had no armor to keep between herself and the world. She loves her people, every single one of them; this he knows. She shows love differently, now, than she did when she was a child.

But Sorcha would never stop hating the seelie court, especially with Brín as their leader. He is at fault for that, he knows; as much as he would like to say that she shouldn’t, he won’t absolve himself of that blame. Even when there were ways in which it wasn’t his fault, there were just as many ways in which it was. And as fierce and dedicated as her love for her people is, her dedication to the rivalry between the courts is unfortunately just as strong. If he could change the past, he thinks, he would—if he could help her understand that he hadn’t chosen a side, hadn’t chosen Brín over her...

But longing for the past, dwelling on mistakes, wouldn’t change anyone’s mind. No amount of mourning for times past would repair the damage that had been done. To heal, they needed to move forward, and even if she was doing that with hate in her heart, at least she was moving in the right direction. And he can see, in her eyes, something else there, something past the hate.

     ‘Isn’t it tiring, little light?’ he asks, still close, still quiet. ‘Carrying all that hate?’

In the many years they had been dealing with Declan, they had found that he in particular had absolutely no interest in Katurian’s preferred methods of negotiating. He wasn’t interested in playing their type of games, which was fairly amusing to them, considering most other fae considered them too serious already, their games nowhere close to the definition of the word to other fae, too focused on their plans instead of ever truly enjoying their world. It was an art to them, though, and while they preferred to play things out slowly, they also knew the advantages of being adaptable.

“Yes, it’s a beautiful show of our potential strength,” Katurian agreed, with a low hum. 

Patience was their virtue, yes, but most others found it severely lacking. They let silence fall between them, the words hanging in the air for a long moment as they took a slow sip of their wine, savoring the taste. A small sigh at the end of their breath, before giving him what he wants; their purpose.

“But there’s more to be done.”

It was times like these he tired, of Katurian, wished they would get to the point instead of dragging the conversation along unnecessarily and dragging him alongside it, an unwilling participation of what Katurian certainly thought of as a delightful little game. It was always games, for the fae, for the young ones, playing with humans, playing with circumstance, playing with each other. Declan was an ancient thing, one of the last few of their kind from a time before games had been all anyone cared about. 

And Katurian’s games reminded him, in some way, of a dark shadow of the once-King of the Unseelie, the one he had followed into the dark when forced to choose a side. The king of ambition and want that had fractured their kind down its center, an irreparable cleft in the fae that he still felt the sting of after all this time. He had put all that behind him, long ago. Had buried it, when he’d buried his friend. The last thing he needed was for Katurians plots and plans and games to be the reason he had to bury anyone else. 

     ‘Oh? And what, exactly, do you propose should be done, Katurian?’

There’s an old childish instinct in her to cling, to ask for something pitiful like a hug. More weakness. The formalities are something she’s come to expect from everyone around her, but. they sound different from his mouth. How long has it been since he spoke her name with an aching tenderness? How far away from an innocent daughter has she gotten, in the countless years since his departure. She’s become a bloodied thing since then, something new that she built from the ashes of a different girl. 

She wonders if he’s gotten used to it. 

She moves with grace, easing the path of his hands as they seek to tuck the flower behind her ear. A delicate offering. It will wither and die in short order, but she appreciates the pretty gesture. The tenderness of it. Something she’s been aching for. 

“I’ve found that I can do anything impeccably once I set my mind to it.” A soft sigh, a shadow of a smile. She’d like to go home and back to court. She’d like to sit in her throne and speak words of war instead of these petty offerings of peace. She could do it all alone and the world would be no worse off for it. Still, at the end of the day, she may win the favour of more fae from outside her retinue and expand her court again, rebuild some former glory. 

“I think little of shaming them. Such pettiness is meant for younger folk than I.” She gazes back out at the party, distasteful as it is. Some small honesty slips from her lips. “Some merriment may be good for them, before the storm settles over all of us more heavily. They might fight harder if they know each others faces more intimately.” 

There is a swell of pride in his chest, for a moment; the arrangement may be under duress but it seems like she at least understands in part what he wants, why he wants it: they might fight harder if they know each other’s faces more intimately. There was a time, before time, when their kind loved without abandon, without reservation, without restraint. Without rules telling them who were theirs and who were not. Before they had inherited the kind of tribalism that brought humanity to such lows, before a precious few decided they desired power for themselves so much that they were willing to tear the world apart to find it. Before such immense selfishness.

Sorcha is selfish, in her own way. She is not unique in that—they all are. Himself included, in a deep-rooted way. He feels it every time he breathes, the desire for more, the want to shape the world to his wills, the wish that he could be whole again instead of split in half across his many thousand hears, half his heart in one court and half in the other and so many pieces of it lost to time and to the soil and to the sea. 

It is the selfishness that reaches out towards her again and brushes her hair behind her shoulder so he can see her face in full. She is radiant, and bright, but she looks tired in a way that he knows only he can see.

     ‘And you, Sorcha?’ he asks, his voice quieter now, for only her to hear. Sorcha—the greatest little spot of brightness in his long, long life. ‘Will it be good for you?’