Chapter Text
On this misty night, the Palace of Elfhame is in a flurry of activity on what was meant to be the Coronation. High King Eldred, my sire, was due to abdicate and pass on the mantle of ruling to one of his six heirs. Maybe the plan changed when Eldred learned his favoured son, Dain, was serving him poison for years. Or when he discovered his eldest, Balekin, was planning a coup for tonight with the Grand General in his ear. I suppose that learning that all of the other four of his children were unsurprised and uncaring towards Dain and Balekin’s plans might have something to do with it. Alas, the plan is not to have a Coronation tonight. Tonight we revel.
I barely manage to pick my first drink for the night when Lord Randalin II appears behind me in an ornate, deep blue velvet pet coat. “Ah, there you are,” I say with a small deferential nod, “I should be showing you my gratitude for not having to attend the revel in wet clothes. Still, that is.”
Randalin II, Father’s main advisor and Elfhame's de facto Minister of Keys, bleats. Unsurprising — he’s an actual goat.
My breathing is suspended by the sight of Jude entering the brugh in the ombre blue dress I had commissioned for the re-purposed coronation. She walks in with her twin. I wouldn’t expect Jude and Taryn to be in such civil terms after Locke requested Taryn’s hand. And then, Jude's frown was already fully formed when her eyes found mine. I smile foolishly, part nervous, part ecstatic to see Jude marching towards me without speaking a word to her sister.
“Mortal,” I say with too much fondness, “Come to pay your obeisance to your Prince?
Jude looks away to the rafters, and for a moment, I think she’s looking at someone. After I see nothing other than the ceiling, Jude crosses her arms. “You knew about Locke’s game.”
“Is that a question?” I ask, knowing the answer. Had she phrased it as one, it would still sound like an accusation, on tone alone.
“No. Did you plan it with Locke?” Jude says with a clenched jaw. “Or were you just enjoying the view from the bleachers?”
I tilt my head, momentarily confused by the human expression. My smile widens, like a foolish boy hoping she cares about my actions. “Oh, dear mortal, Locke enjoys his little performances too much to take my advice, wise as it may be.” Jude scoffs at the concept. Before I can think myself out of it, I close the distance between us and grab her hand, “You may continue your interrogation during a dance.”
“What?” She croaks but coughs over the social faux pas of almost refusing to dance with a prince of Faerie. The dirt-packed floors already stick to my boots from all the spilt wine as the folk part to let me through. I am still their prince after all, even if I am worth less than a goat, and everyone knows it as well as their own place in the hierarchy — beneath the goat in velvet.
The moment I put my hand over the soft fabric, beaded into waist-hugging constellations, I know this is a terrible idea. “Go on. Interrogate me.”
“When did it start?” Jude asks without further context.
I chuckle. “Taryn and Locke? Some months ago. Locke told us about the wooing and swore us secrecy.”
“Why would you swear it after Nicasia and Locke —” Jude stalls, “You know.”
“After he stole her from me, yes.” My jaw is tense, no matter how casual I try to sound. “He made it sound like a lark.” And I didn’t think my silence would matter. Not to me, anyway.
My hand drops to Jude’s hip without my informed consent, and she scowls. “You really do hate me.”
“Almost as much as you hate me,” Jude replies as if sharing an inner thought spoken out loud.
I stumble back at the thought that her hate could be anything close to the bright, burning desire I have for her. I open my mouth for a light retort, but as I let go of her hand, she loses balance. Too late, I see that Randalin II was right behind her, as Jude dives onto the dirt, skirts up and flailing limbs as the goat bleats following her down.
Before I can process what just happened and decide who to help up first, I hear a thunderous voice I had never heard in Father before. “Halt the music.” The High King walks, almost runs, to where the goat is standing once more. From our conjoint lessons, both Jude and I will remember that the High King does not kneel, yet Father kneels to check Randalin II. Worse, he whispers something at him, as a crowd starts forming around us. It takes all my willpower not to facepalm myself when Randalin II sneezes three times in what Eldred perceives as a response.
Jude gets up without ceremony and mumbling, “Just what I needed”. Her eyes find mine, and I mouth the word “apologise”. Jude was raised to be overly proud and more redcap that sensible, there's a good chance she won't.
“Sir Randalin II,” she begins with a small bow, ”Forgive me for entering your space. I hope I can make amends, perhaps a carrot?” She deadpans. I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent an inappropriate laugh.
“You have assaulted my most esteemed advisor and dare to insult him with an offer of produce?” Eldred replies with his head raised high.
Oh no, this is not good.
“I mean no disrespect, High King,” Jude lowers her head. “However, it was only an accident. Mortals are clumsy, as I am sure you are aware. And Sir Randalin II seems back to normal.”
Jude is trying to reason with a mad king. Typical mortal behaviour.
Eldred moves his hands behind his back. “Perhaps I ought to turn you into something still, yet graceful. How about a willow?" Father asks his advisor. "It would match her hair.”
Jude blanches as the crowd gasps and whispers. Despite myself, I find that I am now next to Jude and that my lips are moving. “That would be far disproportioned, Father. She’s a mortal girl who tripped, as mortals do. And she offered something like an apology.”
Eldred looks at me as if trying to remember who I am, or why I called him father. The goat bleats once more, and the High King laughs. “Oh,” he laughs some more and addresses me, “You like her.”
“I —” don’t want to finish that sentence. “Does it matter?”
“Not to me, it does not. What do you say, Ran?” Eldred asks the goat who bleats twice. I don’t recall what he believes that means. Nor am I sure that the belief remains constant in any given moment. “Alright, we’ll do that.”
Jude frowns in pure revulsion but remembers herself. “Do what, my Lord?” She asks sweetly.
Instead of answering her question, Eldred looks at Jude and me, up and down. “Prince Cardan, since you are so keen on the ward of my Grand General's well-being, you may keep her.”
Someone in the crowd screams. “Pardon?” I croak.
Eldred looks bored. “Sir Randalin II advises you two are to be married in a fortnight. I don’t believe a marriage should be compelled, hence the option of being a tree is still open,” he taps his chin in deep thought, “I really do think the mortal would make a beautiful willow.”
I hear a hysterical laugh and fear it’s my own.
"Marvellous,” Jude says, looping her arm onto mine. “Marriage it is.”
“Jude,” I warn her, surprising her with the use of her name. But what am I to say — I am not marrying you to save your life? This close, I can feel how fast her pulse is — is Jude scared?
I look again at Eldred and the goat. I suppose I was partially responsible for the tripping after all. Jude pulls at my sleeve, urging me to lower my head. "Play along," she whispers in my ear, "Faerie marriage vows are designed to be broken."
I give Jude a smile she will certainly misread. "They can be," I answer just for her, more wistful than intended. I take a goblet in reach from a pixie's hand. The pixie may well be considering thanking me for the honour. I raise the drink while addressing the whole audience, goats and all, ”Jude and I hope the entire court will celebrate with us in a fortnight.”
The folk cheer, as one does for additional royal celebrations that will extend for a few nights. The music restarts, Father and his advisor move to the dais. We walk to the royal gardens to get away from the sea of folk looking for our reaction.
My bride doesn't let go of my arm, looking unsure at how the night ended this way when it has barely begun.