MOONSTONE

“I do, when it’s necessary,” they reply, tilting their head to the side as they gaze down at her, their eyes studying her’s with an amused satisfaction. “I guess I just assumed you trusted them enough you didn’t need me watching. If you do though, “ they pause as their lips curl into a small smirk, “I’d be happy to step up the surveillance a little more.” If they were being completely honest, they usually did keep an eye on the two of them when they were together, not because Nathair suspected Katurian capable of regicide- but more so they simply preferred to know everything that was going on. 

Of course, the real reason why they hadn’t been watching that particular conversation, was that Nathair had been hidden away, talking with the adviser of an entirely different court at the time. It wasn’t their intention to hide that fact from Sorcha, they had nothing to hide after all. Declan was just more of an odd subject between them, a ghost that they both seemed to dance around but never really address was there to begin with. His weight in their lives was significant, for two very opposing reasons, but there all the same. Neither of them were prone to sharing such emotional baggage though, both preferring to keep such pesky emotions buried than out in the open. And so his ghost remained, haunting them both separately in their own self made cages. 

“Perhaps it’s better that you string them along then,” they nod, their eyes darting from her’s down to her lips as they step another inch closer. It would have been so easy then to give into what they wanted, rather than what they knew they should do. Part of them wanted to rationalize the decision, to shrug off their responsibility and give in to the temptation. They were so far from the others after all… Lips hovering over her’s, their frame loomed over her as they stood before her. 

“Let them fight a little more for your attention, until they have nothing left to offer” they breathed. They had officially stepped into dangerous territory, should someone happen across the two of them right then, there was no explanation they could give as to the nature of the conversation other than the reality of it. But they had no plan to follow through with path they’d appeared to set themself on. As much as they wanted to do otherwise, their desire to not become a weakness of Sorcha’s for someone to exploit outweighed any other. 

Just when it seems they’re finally going to close the achingly small distance between the two of them, they glance back up at her, a devilish look in their eyes. Ducking their head to the side, their lips now hovered over her right ear. Although the distance between them is still much closer than was safe, the only part of them that touches her is their own breath against her earlobe as they whisper, “Let them promise you the world with trinkets and pretty smiles, all in order to win your favor, “ they pause, their voice even lower as they add, “but I know whose form you watch for as you stare at your bedroom window in the dead of night.” 

It’s a sweet victory to have captured their gaze, those piercing eyes that always see too much. Beloved scout, beloved servant, the firm hand that Sorcha always needs to help her lead her little kingdom. A sweet victory and a beautiful thing. The words fill her with such fond amusement, all this talk of trust. “My ability to trust any man is a fickle and flighty thing, you know that.” Wry and amused, sharing this common knowledge that Sorcha’s true and honest trust was a hard thing to win. She wondered, sometimes, why Nathair had been given it so freely. Perhaps it was her fathers influence. He’d trained them, practically raised them. He’d let them go on their merry way when Nathair had started feeling Sorcha’s pull. 

She trusted Katurian, sure enough, to be alone with them in any situation, even on her most fragile of days. Still, she liked when Nathair watched. She liked that gaze to be firmly on her.

Standing just a little straighter as she sees their gaze flicker, as they inch closer. God, what a tease. It wasn’t as if they’d really touch, here where anyone could see the weakness of it. It’s nice to picture it, none the less. Lips meeting lips in the middle of this fray. Sorcha never dared, not in front of her foolish little courtiers. Couldn’t have them thinking she needed a king, couldn’t have them knowing that she yearned for touch, be it gentle or rough or somewhere in the middle of the two. They’re close enough that they could break the rules of it, lean in and steal something. She knows they won’t, even if she wanted them to. And Sorcha wouldn’t truly force it, either. “Quite a talent of mine,” She breathes, slow and syrupy sweet. “I know how to keep them on the hook.” 

Those bright eyes meet her own sharp gaze again, and she almost breathes a laugh, relishes in the feeling of the warm breath when Nathair moves and whispers low. The words do win a huff of laughter, in the end. Secret and safe, the kind of thing that comes out too often around this favoured fiend of hers. “Is that so?” She asks, quiet. It should make her shudder at the thought of it, someone knowing what she wants. It should, but it doesn’t. It’s nice to be seen, on rare occasions and by rare souls. “And yet I find myself disappointed so often.” A tilt of her head. “Curious. Perhaps we share a the same talent.” 

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.’

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.” 

Her gaze is a heavy one, felt even with their eyes diverted away, focused on the fire crackling in front of them and not the one burning at their side.This is precisely what they meant earlier when they told Declan they were better able to watch over Sorcha from afar. Far enough away from her, her pull on them had lost its intensity. They could better focus on the potential dangers hiding behind the Queen’s back, rather the Queen herself. Now, with her barely a feet away, they’d almost completely forgotten about the party that was still humming at the bottom of the hill. 

This was a dangerous game they were playing, although perhaps they were merely a participant in her’s. They’d fought against it in the beginning, pushing aside every carrot she dangled in front of them, knowing the only end it’d bring them was a bloody one. Carefully and steadily she wore them down, like a droplet of water carefully eroding away a piece of jagged stone. Her plays and tricks began to grow more personal, more bound to touch a nerve Nathair thought they’d either overcome or didn’t know they had in the first place. 

Somewhere along the line she’d come to know them without them ever really having to tell her a thing. It scared the living hell out of them, but more so it made them more willing to participate in the game she’d already long ago started. They had found they’d begun to like the attention she afforded to them, craved it even. After all, who else had ever paid more attention than a passing glance to the shadow that always hung behind Declan. 

The moment Katurian’s name is mentioned, they knew where she was taking it. They could almost feel her hands reach out and graze over each individual nerve she’d long ago uncovered, seeking out the one she desired. The smile they can feel radiating off of her tells them she’s found it, as she yanks at it unmercilessly with her next words. 

Possessiveness once hadn’t been a trait they carried, but they’d grown all too familiar with the beast now as it rares its ugly head. Snapping their head in her direction, their eyes reveal for a moment the wildly primal little fae Duncan had once domesticated all those years ago, eager to devour all that crossed its path. The moment soon passes, as they gain back control of their emotions, although this time they leave their gaze settled on her. 

“I didn’t,” they confess. Narrowing their eyes, they flash her a small smirk before glancing down the length of her form, curious to see if she was wearing the gift. Finding no evidence of it, they meet her gaze once more. “And what about you? Did you give them anything in return?” They ask, oddly just as curious as to whether she gave anything to them. 

Maybe its cruel of Sorcha to find the two people in the Unseelie Court she manages to care for and set them against each other. Katurian had climbed into her good graces slowly, but so seamlessly that they had often been the first person she called for in times of trouble. She could send them to go, send them to do or fetch or carry or deliver messages, and trust that they would always succeed in whatever she had asked. They were so graceful, so sharp and efficient and curious. Those keen ears, those sharp eyes. She’d grown to care for them over the years, grown to hold Katurian in high esteem, a special corner of her heart reserved for the fondness. She liked them, despite any instinct that told her she shouldn’t.

She liked Nathair more. With a possessive fire that drove her to do terrible things. She’d liked them the first moment she saw them, recognised something that made her want. Sorcha had known, those years ago, that she would not be satisfied until Nathair followed her instead of Brín. It had surprised her, after the fact, that she still wasn’t sated. She wanted more, she wanted to swallow Nathair whole sometimes. To ruin them. To be the centre of their universe. 

A child would call it love. Maybe it could be. Sorcha found it more comforting to consider them a pretty plaything. A brave knight. She could trust Nathair, she knew it in her bones. Trust them to keep keen eyes trained on her, trust them to ensure her safety in the crowds, trust them to know what to say and when to say it. If Nathair told her to jump, she’d probably do it. That’s a closely guarded secret. God forbid someone truly understand the ways they can affect her.

“And here I thought you watched me so closely.” It feels easier to take her favourite toys and make them jealous of each other, play the sweet sweet song of possession and jealousy, make them want to best each other at every turn. Keeps them sharp. The narrow of Nathair’s eyes makes her smile, just the barest hint of it. Vicious glee. It pairs well with the minute shiver that overtakes her at their gaze, the searching nature of it as they look and come away empty. There was something wild there for a moment, something that made Sorcha wonder what it would be like to be possessed, to be hunted, to be the prey of whatever wild and feral creature could lurk in the corners of Nathair’s mind. Maybe she’d feel alive, in a distant and long forgotten way. But Nathair is in more control than that, a calmer beast.

“Nothing they didn’t deserve. Pretty words. Pretty touches. Our brave emissary is so easy to please. A simple kiss would send them to the stars.” A teasing lilt to it, a tilt of her head as she considers. There hadn’t been a kiss, but the statement of it was true enough. To be graced by such a thing would have been thrilling, no doubt. “Still, they promised me something far greater than a pretty trinket in the end. I’ve been trying to think of what I’ll give them if they truly do win me the world. Something grand, don’t you think?” 

Part of her always wonders if the things people offer her are true. If someone won her the world, would they actually hand it over to her? Does she have that sway, that level of love and devotion? Katurian could very well attempt to keep it for themself if it came down to it, might try his hand at crafting themself a throne and a crown. If they tried, Nathair would fight for her. She’s sure of that. Her eyes are warm and molten from the feeling of it, from some semblance of certainty that there’s someone at her back. 

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?’

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.” 

Better than his Queen’s approval, her attention, is having it in front of others. Others’ opinions are trivial in his mind, worth little more than a means to an end, and so often times incorrect, or at the very least disappointing. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy showing them just what they should think of him, how highly he should be viewed, even when those lesser can’t possibly understand all he does.

Of course, it’s more than that, he’s not foolish enough to think every ounce of the attention is for his sake. It’s for her, too. Mutual benefit isn’t something he minds, not when it shows itself as such. “And I’m forever grateful you see such value, my Queen,” he hums, inclining his head.

She approaches, and he stands a bit taller for it, well aware of those watching them, the performance of it all. All of the watchful eyes on them, his eyes only on his Queen. Her hand resting delicately on his shoulder sends a thrill through him, as very little else does, and his smirk only widens into something more auspicious.

“Someday soon. It draws nearer with every moment, and I look forward to the day greatly when I can hand you the world. The work never ceases; even tonight, there are moves to be made…I hope you don’t mind this moment taken to just enjoy, though.”

It’s a nice sensation, to watch him preen. He’s like a delicate exotic bird, ruffling his feathers so that everybody knows to look at him. He stands tall, stands proud, and she remembers in times like this why she bothers putting so much faith in him. So many must doubt her for it, must wonder why he’s honoured with a station above theirs, why she trusts him to do his work. 

He’s slick, and ambitious, and he tries so hard to please. She wonders what her would do to make sure he stayed on top, what he would give to climb to the top of the heap. 

“Good.” She says, playing at soft, playing at caring. She does, care, more than she’d like to. It’s true of nearly everyone she knows, but perhaps she feels it stronger with Katurian. A fondness, despite it all. She’d still throw him to the wolves if it protected her. She’d still knock him off his high horse at a moments notice, always ready to take him down a peg. Now, she indulges in it and offers small tidbits of approval. Good, she said. Because he was. A good little servant. She reaches up, pets through the softness of his hair. 

“Enjoy it all you like, tonight, as long as your eyes stay sharp for me. I’d hate for someone to beat you at your own game.” 

Aoife always did like being seen. Not looked at like some bright bird of paradise stuffed in a cage, but really seen; understood. She liked the way Sorcha looked at her, like she was more than the sweetness of her face. She liked the way the crowd looked at her as they went past arm in arm. They were probably wondering what Aoife had done to earn the queen’s favour.

Truthfully, Aoife didn’t know the answer. She couldn’t say why, but she could say she deserved it. Perhaps the Winter Court didn’t hold her in its highest esteem, but she worked hard in its interests and she resented anyone that didn’t appreciate that. The people that mattered knew, anyway. The queen knew. Nathair knew. Canaan knew. Beyond that, she didn’t much care about the opinions of individuals. The Winter Court as a whole, yes, but any singular fae within it? No.

She smiled, sharp toothed and bright eyed, at Sorcha’s jab towards the Seelie. It’s true enough; by Aoife’s standards the Summer Court did little that was right, or interesting. The Winter Court was a stark contrast of beauty and fascination. “They’re not very interesting. I don’t know why the humans are so fond of them.” Aoife said, not quite bitter. It wasn’t that she hungered for human appreciation, but it was peculiar to her that in the human world, Seelie meant good fae and Unseelie meant bad fae. “I’m not sure we need them to survive. How does Brín intend on keeping anyone safe? Humans won’t let you sweet talk their knife away from your throat, not if they really want to cut you.” Maybe the Seelie’s relationship with the humans will be useful, but maybe it’s time the Winter Court step up and get involved. Just because a job is distasteful, that doesn’t mean it’s not essential.

Sorcha spares the bare mimimum of attention for the courtiers who gaze at them. Gives them a smile. Gives them a nod. Turns her attention to Aoife and lets it linger there. The girl is a curiosity, that’s for sure. The type of girl that Sorcha likes, innocent flowers that hold endless potential and endless violence in their veins. 

She hasn’t admitted it out loud, but she likes the way Aoife plays the game. Likes the attitude, as well. Her sharp smiles, her bright eyes. Her own joke lands well, a humour shared in dislike of others. 

Sorcha lets out a soft sounds of amusement, thoughtful in the summer air. Why did humanity hold the Seelie court in such high esteem? They were entrancing, beautiful. Sorcha knew that they held danger, too, in the eyes of humanity. But any fear was often set aside in the name of love and adoration, sweet fascination. “They’re rather dimwitted creatures, humans. They don’t understand the way of things.” It comes out with a sigh, despairing of their natures. “Weak-willed, most of them. No point fighting it or trying to change their minds.”

An amused smile blossoms on her face, and Sorcha squeezes Aoife’s arm gently. “Brín intends on finding someone with a good idea and following them to success. Little Princeling doesn’t have the grit to come up with a plan of action on his own.” Her voice is low, just for the two of them. “He’s as weak willed as they are, that’s why he loves them so much. Believe me, the ideas in that court come from others.”

She fixes Aoife with a curious look, searching for the venom and cleverness she knows lingers beneith the pretty face. “Tell me, sweetling, what would you do to survive? Do you wish to go to war?” 

The moment the Queen’s eyes lock into their’s, bold and defying against the flickering firelight, a quick flutter rushes through their stomach. They hate she has that amount of power over them, the same power they’ve seen dozens fall over themselves for before. Once upon a time they’d have called them sorry fools, falling so helplessly for the Queen’s games, and to be honest they still do. The only difference now was that Nathair recognized they were one of them. 

To be fair they did try to steel themself from her in the beginning. They saw from Declan first hand what it meant to be a good adviser, which to them meant leading with their head rather than their emotion. Humoring the Queen, and letting her crack through the platted armor that was their demeanor certainly wouldn’t help in that matter. Yet two years later here they were, ready to slaughter whoever the Queen desired as long as she kept looking at them like she was now. 

“As tempting the offer,” they chuckle lightly, “I doubt my added presence will do anything but give them a heads up to the danger that lay ahead.” Breaking her gaze, they stare back into the flames dancing before them, finding their bright light far less intense than that of the Queen’s. 

The diversion, as small at is, proves fruitless as they feel her draw closer. And so, as soon as they had looked away, she had snatched their full attention right back again with a simple step to the side. 

“The last I checked there’s still a couple hours left of the night,” they retort with an arch of their brow, “And if I know you at all, the chances of you behaving diminish with every wine barrel that gets tapped dry.” 

Her eyes are keen and sharp like weapons. She’s crafted herself well, honed every blade to a perfect point. It’s a small talent to know what people want, to glean that information off the surface and keep it for herself. Nathair is a deep well of wanting, in so many different ways. That was how Sorcha knew them best, how she had played some hand in lulling them away from the Seelie Court. Oh, she isn’t delusional enough to think it was all because of her, but the weight of her influence is there none the less. 

Nathair was an endless curiosity, back then. As enthralling to Sorcha as someone could be. All these buttons she didn’t realise people could still really press. Sorcha is still enthralled with them now, still curious and wanting and waiting to dive in more deeply. She can sense the wanting, but there’s a strength that comes out and prompts them in to hesitation. 

She lets a thoughtful noise play out, a soft little thing in the air, settling in amongst the sound of the crackling fire. “Yes, you do have that look about you. It can be off-putting.” A sigh, then, lofty and drawn out. “Well, it’s no matter. Not everyone finds danger as enticing as I do.”

And Sorcha doesn’t need Nathair to look at her. Their gaze may be fixed on the flames, but Sorcha knows where their attention is settled. If Sorcha is in a space, after all, all attention is usually on her. They’re no exception to the rule.

A dry chuckle escapes her, genuinely amused. “Darling, I think i’m made of stronger stuff than that. You’re confusing me with our dear Katurian. They’ve been enjoying the libations greatly.” Her smile turns into something savage, then. “They gave me the prettiest little gift, did you see?” 

It’s been a very long time, an amount of time some might consider a small eternity, in service of his Queen, and yet still every time he’s graced with her approval, a smile, words of thanks, anything she offers, he can’t help but be pleased. It’s the feeling of warmth in his chest, the motivation for everything he does, the soaring sensation he’s come to associate with satisfaction, a job well done. Perhaps it’s foolish for something as small as that to affect him so, but what else is all he does for but exactly that, after all.

“I don’t flatter, I only speak truths. You know that,” he shrugs, only just tempering the smirk on his lips from an outright grin. 

He’s been around her for long enough to know genuineness from indulgence, and it’s clear that her appreciation of his offering is something real. Not a surprise, of course, considering the careful thought he put into his gift, the time he spent putting it together with sure fingers, but again, it’s all he ever seeks, her approval.

“As you should,” Katurian teases, before giving another half bow. “I’m pleased it’s satisfactory. What can you give the Queen who has everything, after all, when it takes more time than a few weeks to conquer the world?”

There’s something rife with a pleased contentment radiating off of Katurian in the wake of her happiness. It makes her feel so powerful, the way a genuine smile can get under the skin and bring people to new highs. Everyone around them knows, in this moment, that Katurian is better than them in her eyes. It will make them try harder too, to win some fraction of the smile on her face, a few syllables of the words she spills out for him. 

“Yes, the truth comes so easily to you. I value every word of it, all the same.” An almost demure little thing, sweet words and appreciation she’s summoned up from deep below. 

She moves toward him, then. Committed as she is now to the show of it, to making sure that everyone knows where the hierarchy stands tonight. Sorcha on top, Katurian favoured above those who fawned over her all day. A hand on his shoulder, a playful smile.

“I imagine you’ll keep working on that, even as we strive towards other goals. You’ll win me the world someday.” An order lays underneath, an expectation that Katurian will bring her anything she asks. “I’ll thank you very kindly for it, when you do.” 

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?’

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.” 

Maeve has lived for five centuries, but she was still considered a child in the eyes of her people. Regardless of her years, her parents were extraordinarily protective and had often warned her about interacting with the Unseelie. Though they shared the same unholy beauty, they told her tall tales of poison-laced whispers and touches that can corrode; they were the darker part of their world, the side that gave into their baser urges. 

The mere thought of their faces should they learn she went willingly into the reach of their Queen - ah, it made her giggle, a bell-like sound. 

“Ah, then I have done my duty then.” Maeve spoke gaily, blatantly ignoring the heated words, the furious glares she received from the rest of Sorcha’s Court. They knew not to cross the line with her, else Brín would come for their blood. “I only aim to entertain, to please.” She curtsied, mischief in every line of her expression, the very glint in her bright-hued eyes. 

“I hoped, since this is a celebration of peace between our Courts-” Grunts, twitters, and snarls greeted her words. Discontent was rife in the air. “-that I could enjoy the festivities as your treasured guest.” She spared a thought for her prince, her beloved Brín, and she felt a pang she did not recognize as guilt course through her chest. He would take her actions to heart, she was certain, but at the end of the day she did all this for him. To solidify relations. To become someone who mattered.

“Is this too much for this humble soul to ask?” 

"Treasured indeed, little one.” The prince’s pet, who thought she was so clever. Sorcha could see it in her. Hope. Determination. Sharpness she thought she could cleverly mask and hide away. Ambition. The look in her eyes was that of a girl who wanted to climb the ladder, who wanted to be on top. 

Sorcha had played that game with the best of them. Demure, sweet. A loyal little servant. A loyal little wife. She knew what the unseelie court had thought about her, so many thousands of years ago. The prettiest little caged bird, who never had the chance to sharpen her claws. The Unseelie King’s little toy. She had been a faithful and sweet wife, until she found his death for him. 

There’s endless potential in girls like Maeve, if they learn to play the game correctly. 

She wonders how quickly Maeve would learn. You don’t become someone who matters with love. You gain that privilege through sweat and blood and cold, hard respect. 

“There’s a place for you here, dove. At my side, until the sun rises again.” She waits, then, until Maeve comes to her and settles down. “Your darling Prince must be a lucky man indeed, to be surrounded by such pretty things.” Pretty toys. Pretty pawns he could throw away whenever he liked. 

TIME: 21st of June, midsummer’s eve PLACE: the stone circle @unqueensorcha​

Raucous laughter rang true and honeyed wine was abundant. The scene that welcomed her was a familiar one - alien eyes and inviting smiles, a flash of flesh and bone and limb as they danced in a whirling dervish. The music was discordant, loud, grating and yet still the fae danced and danced, past her, around her, a hairsbreadth away but never truly touching. 

None would dare. 

Her dress was reminiscent of slow summer days, bright, sweet, and buttery yellow. It captured sunlight in its threads; a pattern of dandelions taking flight sewn onto the folds of her skirt. The ruffled hems, the lovely little bow was at odds with the valleys of skin that peaked through - an enticement, a dare. 

Maeve walked through the crowd with ease, a sea parting before each step. As was expected, she found her at the heart of it all, seated on a throne of sorts, fashioned from things Maeve dared not look at too closely. Snarls, growls, and spittle greeted her approach, and yet she walked with a surety and a boldness that was uncommon in one so young.  

Maeve stood in front of her, hands clasped daintily in the folds of her gown, flashing the Unseelie monarch a winning smile. 

“Are you enjoying tonight’s festivities, your Majesty?” 

Sorcha quiets those surrounding her with one cutting look. One glance, the barest arch of a brow. This little girl is bold indeed, but Sorcha commands with a power and grace that will never belong to her. The world is hers to control, hers to shape, hers to find her fun in. 

She knows this girl. Maeve. A dear little toy that belongs to the Prince. Certainly drawn here for some reason that does not pertain to him, a curiosity that has lingered in her. Sorcha levels her with a smile, saccharine sweet and cloying. The fact that she belongs to Brín makes Sorcha all the more curious about her, makes her want to take control and monopolise her attention until Maeve’s dear prince realises that he has been abandoned, if only for a day. 

“Why yes, little dove. I’ve had a splendid time indeed. Though my evening is significantly brightened by your presence.” With playful fingers she beckons Maeve closer. “Come and sit a while, dear Maeve. Take a rest from the festivities with me. My servants will bring us wine, and won’t that be splendid?” 

location: midsummer party

time: evening

status: closed to @unqueensorcha​

Midsummer had once been one of Nathair’s more favorite times of the year- not for the gathering they’d currently found themself in, that they could always do without, but instead for the season it welcomed. As a child who’d spent their life outdoors, it meant longer hours spent traversing the forest they’d already known like the back of their hand, finding trouble if they could- or creating it if they couldn’t. It meant feet always caked in some layer of mud, and hair more wild than any creature they’d ever sought to encounter. Now though, now all it meant was that time had continued on it’s slow and tedious march, and still they weren’t anywhere close to finding the faceless enemy that sought to exterminate their kind. 

The party is as lavish and decadent as they would have expected from Sorcha, and they are at least thankful for that. They may not have been one for such affairs, but it’s evident in the faces of those around them, it was one well needed after the brutality of the last few months. They’re certain Katurian is making the most of the free flowing wine, and the loose lips that will no doubt be a result of it. They should perhaps be aiding him in the endeavor, but had yet to be pushed by the strong urge to do so. 

What they found themself doing instead was strolling up the hill, towards the pyre that’d burned brightly since that morning. Like a moth to flame, they make their way up the well worn path, although it’s not the bright bonfire that that has caught their attention, but rather someone standing beside it. 

“Please don’t tell me you’ve already gotten bored, and shoved some lovesick fool in after you brought them up here with a promise of a midsummer tryst,” they speak up as they step to her side. “It’d be absolute shit for relations, and besides…,” they let out a sigh as they look over to her, a hint of a smirk playing at their features, “you said you’d let me watch if you did.”  

The day is starting to drag –– restlessness doesn’t suit Sorcha well. She needs to move, she needs to hunt, she needs to make more solid plans than those provided by drunken seelie fools or fleeting mortal souls. The moments she’s stolen on her own have been a balm, while they last. The moments stolen with her own courtiers have been enjoyable, for as long as she could forget the rest of it.

This moment, by the flames, is already shaping up to be enjoyable before Nathair arrives. The flickering of their warmth, the possibility inherent in them, a gateway to destruction that could break out with one wrong move. 

Sorcha relaxes into the sound of the voice before she even realises that she’s doing it. Nathair is a stealthy one, and Sorcha can’t help but feel delighted by them and their arrival. Thank god, someone she likes. Someone she can trust, depend on. Someone fun. They’re a wonder, and Sorcha lets out the softest of chuckles in response to their words. 

“Bored? Yes. But fret not, all the lovesick fools that flock to me have escaped their funeral pyres so far for tonight. Unless you want to lure one in with me.” Sorcha moves closer, enjoying the presence beside her, relishing in it. Very few people get this treatment from Sorcha, very few are honoured with something growing this near to genuine. It’s a little too immense, a feeling Sorcha should want to run from –– but she wants to do the opposite of run from Nathair. “I’ve been terribly well behaved tonight, darling. I hope you’re proud of me.”

june 21st, mid afternoon, midsummer party      ( @unqueensorcha​. )

The party is tiring. Seelie are such easily amused creatures, content to dance, and drink, and laugh, and blind themselves to greater purpose. He has to remind himself, perhaps too often, that this is all worth it for their own good. It’s the beginning of something that could save them all, or it could be. If they all allow it to be. If she allows it to be. Which will be no easy feat, especially knowing how begrudgingly done this coming together was planned in the first place.

But nature moves slowly, and he has the patience of eternity, even if their foes do not. No matter, of course, time will move at his pace when he needs it to. 

He finds his Queen at the feast, sitting so regally amongst those so much lesser than them. A generous queen, even when it is so undeserved. He bows deeply when he stops in front her her, speaking his first words to her feet.

“The party is spectacular, my Queen, a midsummer that will be spoken of for millennia to come. Although, that’s no surprise, of course,” he finishes, coming back to standing, before pulling his gift from seemingly nowhere, offering it up to her. A polished fox skull, with eyes of rough black stone, throne twisted through the spaces.

“For you.”

Sorcha is already leaning forward in pleased anticipation as she sees Katurian approaching her. Her keen eyes don’t miss much, and she’s relieved that someone is finally coming to rescue her from the relative monotony of the last few moments of her day. She may be a generous queen, but even she has her limits. Sorcha needs a little delight to liven up her life. 

Katurian, secretly one of her favourites, bows before her, and a pleased smile crosses her face. Indulgently sweet, indulgently fond in response to his sweet words. “You’re flattering me, Katurian. Be careful, my head will grow too big.” 

Her eyes glimmer at the sight of his offering, such a pretty little gift. She moves closer to him, huffing out a delighted little breath. She’s allowed to take joy in the small things, after all. Light fingers reach out and delicately remove it from his grasp, running reverent fingers over the rough black stone.

“It’s lovely, such a precious thing. I’ll keep it close.” 

Decay had always seemed, to Aoife, to be a more vibrant form of life. A bright clutch of honeysuckle is too obvious, the coo of a newborn dove is nothing more than a cry for attention. Aoife likes rotten things. Decay and fungus, they seem to her to be quietly superior. The Seelie, with their perfumed flower crowns and bare toes sinking into the earth, were just… dull. Yet in keeping with the occasion, she had chosen to dress in their like. It would be impolite to attend a summer solstice party dressed in her usual attire, and though she didn’t care about offending the Seelie, she did care for the opinion of her own court.

So there she was in a silvery white dress, hemmed with mud, sweet peas and baby’s breath ribboned through her hair, smiling like a hapless foal. And a good thing, too, as Sorcha sought her out. It was an honour as much as it was a surprise, to be asked to walk with her queen. Perhaps the saccharine boredom of summertime revelry was weighing on her as it weighed on Aoife. If it did, Sorcha didn’t show it. Her mask hadn’t shifted once. It took a true queen to make sacrifices for their court, like the sacrifice of smiling through this party.

“I would be honoured, majesty,” Aoife said, gathering her skirts in one hand to sweep an affected curtsy. She was teasing the niceties of the Summer Court, having never really had the patience for it herself. Linking her arm with her queen, Aoife allowed herself to be led - there were few enough people Aoife would let lead her. The queen was one of them. “It’s a beautiful party. I suppose if we’re to celebrate the summer solstice, the best way to make it tolerable is to do it better than the Seelie.” And, call it bias, Aoife did think this party was more tolerable than any thrown by the Summer Court.

The grin slips over her face like a second skin, benevolent and sharp all at once. She’s always liked the ones like Aoife, who can blend into the crowds seamlessly, a mockery of any other traditions. The fair folk that run with the seelie court have been bowing and scraping for their Prince all day. Sorcha likes her fair share of deference, but at a certain point it starts to look a little ridiculous, all their manners. 

She links her arm with the girl, beginning a slow walk through the party. It’s a fun little game, sometimes, to signal someone out and make them the centre of attention. Let the world see them arm-in-arm with a Queen and wonder what they’ve done for the honour of it. And it allows her the chance to know her courtiers better, as hungry as she is for every inch of them. Hopes and dreams, savage instincts, whatever they have to offer her.

“It’s very easy, dear, to do things better than the Seelie.” A wry smile, a hint of laughter in her voice that points directly towards mockery. “I just hope their little boy Prince isn’t too terribly upset that the day can’t be all about him. Tell me, precious thing, how have you found the company of the summer court?”

He’s lost in thought, when she finds him. He’s spent most of the day keeping an eye on Brín, following at a distance to make sure no harm comes to the prince, with only half his heart in it. He isn’t a soldier, and Brín is past advising when it comes to his need to be adored, his interest in fraternizing with humans and changelings. There’s nothing he could do, if Brín misstepped, so he’s not sure why he tries.

    ‘My liege,’ he says, when her voice calls his attention over to her. She may be his daughter, and he may not technically be her subject, but he’s lived enough of his life constrained by formalities to fall into them, to wear them like comfortable clothes, easier than honesty or earnesty when he’s taken by surprise. And he is—surprised, that is. He can’t imagine she’s been happy with this attempt to unite the courts under a common cause. The one lesson he never managed to impart to her. She’d never admit it, but her moods can be as flighty as Brín’s are. He hasn’t been sure she’d want to see him.

He stoops to the ground, flowers springing into being under his fingertips, plucks them from the ground as soon as their bloomed and rises again to tuck one behind her ear, parting the hair there to make room for it.

    ‘It’s a wonderful party. I’ve never seen a better midsummer celebration.’ And then, to indulge her just a bit, an unspoken thank you because he knows how much she must hate that she has to do this, ‘It puts any Seelie celebration to shame.’

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.” 

It becomes a matter of obligation, to attend a ‘party’ hosted by the Unseelie Queen. Hard to escape the festivities when they take place right in the cool and frosty places he calls home. Not that he has anything against the summer solstice—it is one of the small handful of traditions of his kind he still values, in fact—but with the Seelie company has come such obnoxious gaiety and effervescence, their sugar-sweet exuberance bounding into the otherwise peaceful quiet of the winter court… it’s nauseating. 

The worst of it is, however, that Canaan knows this is what he has asked for. For years, he has said that peace between the two courts is the only way, despite his distaste for the Seelie. For years, he has even believed Sorcha to be their greatest hope against humanity. Blood hungry and relentless, she shares his beliefs in seeking vengeance against mankind, and taking back what is owed to them. And so this union of a coming truce should be a good sign—he also knows it can’t be a gesture she makes lightly, considering she is little more of a fan of the summer court than he is. 

So he’s all the more bitter that the sourness of his evening is a drink he in fact, ordered. In many ways, he did this to himself. 

Nonetheless, her dry teasing brings a subtle, appreciative grin to his lips. At least, in the midst of all this, he still has those who share in his fondness for mockery of the Seelie Fae. “That’d be easier to believe, my Queen, if you seemed at all the type to care about parties,” he drawls back. But her mention of a ‘job’ has him lifting his brows. He may not be the most agreeable or social of his kind (far from it) but he is as loyal to Sorcha as an Unseelie Fae might be capable. 

“That so? And what sort of job might that be? For your sake, I hope it’s not to do with winning over any of our summer guests. You’d be setting the both of us up for failure, I’d think.”

Her smile is a genuine thing, almost. Amused with the playful little tete-a-tete. “Well, if I ever become the type, feel free to take the leap and put me out of my misery. It’s a pretty little means to an end, nothing more.” Words that ring true. She finds the company at large disgusting, too much mortality in her own domain. They’ll have to cleanse the place as best they can when the day is done, purifying smoke and statues of bone to reclaim it as their own. 

“Don’t fret, dearest Canaan. I would never give a job such as that to a beast like you. I think far too highly of you to send you off and make you play pretty princess with the summer court. They’re toothless, clawless things, and I have no fear of them. Let them hate us, let them worship us, neither will matter in the end, when this story is finished.” A gentle hand on his shoulder, a gentle grin. “No, our matter rests much closer to home. A member of our court has made me very angry, yet in troubled times I have taken it upon myself to show him mercy.” 

It is a mercy. Had it been a different year, had Keiran been a different man –– things may have gone in a very different direction. Her fury is her right. She doesn’t need a petty little thing like Keiran acting out, acting without orders and getting them all tangled up in things they would rather leave behind. 

“Keiran is your friend. Your little pet monster, correct? He values you above many, I can see it in his eyes. Well, dearest, the ice he stands on has gotten thin. It shall be your job, from now on, to keep a close eye on him. He stepped out of line with the Prince’s pets. That girl Ailis and her group of rogues. I don’t believe he’s the type to make a choice such as that unbidden, with no orders from on high. He isn’t sharp enough, he doesn’t have the mind for it. He must have gotten the idea from somewhere.” 

She’s as sharp as a knife, suddenly. Deathly serious. “Watch. See who moves him to act as he does. Mind that he doesn’t step further out of line.” Voice lower, gaze intense. “You’ll be rewarded greatly, granted that you do your best and keep this between the two of us.” 

Sorcha is more committed to anyone to the act, here. For the whole party she’s been playing it perfectly –– like she could be a summer princess, flowers in her hair and the sun gleaming against her skin. She’s glowing with it, resplendent and unmissable. 

But even she can admit it’s getting tiresome. Seelie fae are tiresome creatures, after all. Spoiled, stupid children. They don’t have enough of a cutting edge, they’re too willing to lay back and enjoy the sunlight. 

Aoife doesn’t have that problem. It’s why Sorcha likes her so much. It’s why she takes the opportunity to steal her for a moment, when the chance comes along. “There you are, my lovely little thing. Come take a turn around the circle with your Queen.”