You Don't Want the Crown

The Story of the Crown - 6

Slaine
"We need to talk," Kara says, as she follows myself and the queen up to our rooms. Ita comes as well because the queen is past asking why she's always here. I'd like Bran here too, but he's watching the children in theory. He'd better be. No, I trust him, he is. And as much as I might want to I'm well aware Cuan is more than used to living his own life and abiding by his schedule. He doesn't want me putting him to bed.
"Yes—how exactly do you know my grandson?" The queen asks, very judgmentally for a person whose son faked his death and tried to kill our son.
"Oh, that was very judgmental considering the child you raised, tried to kill his own son, and faked his death and spent the last four years stalking me through four oceans taking pot shots at MY ship," Kara says.
"I've absolved myself of Conri I tried with him, but I gave up when he was about five. He has no soul, with no judgement whatsoever how did you come to know my grandson?" The queen asks.
"I saved him from drowning and took him aboard my ship," Kara says, flicking braids over one shoulder.
"You're—not an ordinary—sailor, are you?" I ask.
"No," she says, dark eyes flashing, "This frankly isn't the time or place, but I wanted to appraise you of a few things."
"What?" Ita asks.
"One) from what I spoke with Hound—Cuan, he does plan on retaking his throne. I'm fine with that and will stay as long as he'll have me. Two) he and his brother and father are going to probably come up with a bad plan while at a pub. Three) I realize you're his mother, and therefore are attached to him, ergo I wanted to tell you that I am promising you, Cuan is going to be completely fine and live for many, many more years no matter how stupid said plan is he will not get hurt," Kara says.
"How can you know that?" Ita asks.
Kara shrugs.
"She's a witch, aren't you?" the queen asks.
"There are more things from the sea than you can hope to understand. I'm one of them. I wouldn't normally come on land but—it's his land. And he invited me," she says, shrugging a little.
"Okay," this—thing—is attached to my son this is fine, "You're—not a—person are you?"
"Depends on you define it," she says, smiling.
"Does Cuan know—,"
"Unfortunately," she rolls her eyes a little, "I pulled him from the heart of a storm, he was drowning. He quite knows what I can do."
"Do I want to know what he was doing that he wound up drowning?" I ask.
"Insulting the admiralty while tied to the mast of a ship," Kara says, nodding.
"Oh god," the queen is not pleased.
"That—sounds like him," I nod.
Kara nods.
"How does he act like the feral hostile foul mouthed one he is not related to? Just tell me right now if he's actually related to that one. I wouldn't blame you," the queen has her face in her hands.
"What—Sir Gallagher? No, no, just—yeah now that you say that that's true he acts more like him than Conri, no," I say.
"Oh that's—oh he's related to the other one? I keep forgetting that yeah you're right he totally acts like the preferred dad," Kara is amused.
"Let's just be glad none of them act like Conri who tried to kill his son," Ita says, annoyed.  She is one of six people to get past Bran's gruff exterior and immediately pack bond with him over mutual hate of stupid people. I'm not not one of the six people. I'm just saying it's a select crowd.
"Speaking of Conri, shouldn't we—do something? I don't want him around Cuan not after he tried to kill him," I say.
"Oh that's—no, I'm handling that," Kara says, we all look at each other.
"You're here," Ita says.
"And I have been plaguing him with visions since dusk, he's gonna be really sick—he's not okay," Kara says.
"You can do that?" The queen asks.
"Mmhmm," Kara, kind of proud, "I didn't know he had visions till last night, or I'd have fucked him up when he was shooting cannon balls at us—,"
"Oh so the trying to kill Cuan is like, very recent?" Ita asks.
"Well, it wasn't gonna work. I feel like he knew that. I think he was more at massively inconveniencing us but yeah," Kara says, "Like I said he's out of commission now I fucked with him good. That said he can't like—your son is fine, I promise."

Lonan

We make it to a pub in record time and line up at the bar because all the tables are full. As promised, I sit between Conri and Cuan, but I also don't want my father next to him. From what we could tell they were not even speaking when we found them, but I'm still not trusting it. My father does not protest, sitting between me and Cuan, such that Conri and Cuan are at opposite ends of our group and as far from the other as possible.
"So—Matuac is not doing all right," Cuan opens with.
"We know," our father says.
"Yeah he's um—been going a bit down hill," I admit, "But he's clinging to power, he's not going give up the throne just because you're back he's got enough faculties left for that."
"Yeah, but he's not right in the head. I can't just kill him," Cuan says.
"I can. Give me a knife," Conri, so tired. He threw up twice on the way here and looks half dead, just holding up a hand for the requested knife.
"No," all three of us say.
"Why not? I'm legally dead, nobody knows who I am, I stab him, and you let me leave, and none of you people ever have to talk to me again, and everyone is happy," Conri asks. Oh so they didn't make up, great, that's really good.
"And then we would be blamed for the murder anyway, because you are dead, you fucking idiot," my father says.
"Okay, what's your brilliant plan then?" Conri asks us, "Hmm? Anybody got a plan to steal the throne back?"
"I do," I say, "I was thinking, since he's not okay, we just sort of ship him off somewhere like, in the country, so he can have quiet and feel better. That's where we say he is. And then in a couple of years we introduce Cuan and say he's him."
"That's the second stupidest fucking thing I've heard tonight, who raised you?" My father, just so disappointed.
"Um, literally you," I say, "What's your idea? Then? Hmm?"
"Okay, I realize this is very dark but I didn't think I'd have to have one, I kind of figured before we even got around to deciding he'd die from eating glass and we wouldn't have to do this," my father says, raising his hands.
"What—and be like —look the prince isn't dead, convenient eh?" Conri asks.
"Oh, you don't get to criticize plans, because you are the reason we need to do this in the fucking first place. You could have fucked off on a private ship after ditching us, and left the kid," my father says.
"Not to bring up what I know is a sore subject, but I didn't intend for him to be alive," Conri says, putting his face down on the bar, cradling the beer to it, "God I want to die."
"Sure, give me a knife," my father says, not overly sarcastically. I do give him a knife. Conri slaps it out of my hand.
"That was hyperbolic," he hisses, "I'm ill because of fucking him and I'll be two thousand miles away after your father stops kidnapping me to help."
"To help fix the situation you literally caused? Not sorry," my father hisses.
"Look, I think we're over complicating this. I think I should just declare who I am and duel him," Cuan says, looking at his pint. He's shed his jacket and his his shirtsleeves rolled up though he has yet to stop fiddling with them.
"I need a list of stupidest fucking things I've heard tonight," my father sighs, "There's about eighty reasons that won't work."
"Name one," Cuan says.
"You don't know how to duel somebody????"
"That's, you picked a good one, yeah name another, I might be able to argue it," Cuan says.
"Oh Jesus these kids," my father sighs, looking up at the ceiling.
"What are you even going to do once you win eh? You got any idea what it's like to run a country? You going to marry that girl who I personally think is a siren but no, I'm not supposed to talk about that—who you brought back? Do you have any idea how to be a father? Or to be a politician? No, you don't, you're a sailor boy, you know how to swab decks, and mend rope, and settle bar fights with your fists and a dirk, and that's all you'll ever be," Conri says, leaning to argue with him.
"Well, I've got a good starting point. I'm not going to do what you did," Cuan says, scathingly.
"So you'll fail in different ways and tell yourself you're a good man, good for you," he scoffs.
"Okay, lay off the kid, I don't think you can fucking comment on anything in either of their lives, okay?" Our father says.
"I think I can when you're encouraging them both to get themselves killed doing something that doesn't even have to happen," he snarls.
"Since when do you care about them?" my father asks.
"I think I've figured out life so far without any of your help no thanks especially to you," Cuan says.
"Nearly dying ten times figuring out life was it?"
"Okay, stop it, all of you. We're meant to be thinking of a solution here, to the mess yes, he created, we all know what he did,  and you—," I look at Conri, "Stop arguing, and help us get done with it, and we'll let you fuck off to your ship and be alone again like you apparently want."
We are all silent for a moment. I rub my face and take a breath. I am not up to reffing them right now. And Cuan doesn't deserve me to fail this badly but I am. I wish we'd just let Conri leave. He's half the problem here. We don't need him.  And yet Cuan does need him we all need closure I just don't know how to get it.
We all sigh and then look away. None of us have any idea what to say first or what won't make it worse.
Cuan taps the bar, drumming his fingers lightly, then begins singing, softly:
"Of all the money that e'er I had.
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I've ever done;
Alas it was to none but me."
"And all I've done for want of wit;
To mem'ry now I can't recall," my father joins him in on the third verse, not looking up, so softly, his voice as always low and husky.
"So fill to me the parting glass; Good night and joy be to you all," Conri sings the last verse, not looking at them or me, his hands flat on the bar top like Cuan's.
"So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate'er befall,
And gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all," we all four join together for the familiar stanza. It's an old old song, I remember my fathers signing it to me before they'd leave and put me to bed. I suppose it came from pubs and like but it's ingrained in my memory now, their voices now beside me again.
"Of all the comrades that e'er I had
They're sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e'er I had
They'd wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all," as we finish, I find I'm almost smiling, Cuan is too. Our voices match the other, his young and so very clear it's infectious. My own familiar I suppose, and my fathers, well, my first memories are of them singing to me.
"I am done with lies, in this family," Cuan says, "I am going to tell Matuac who I am. And if he does not want to give me the crown. Then he can duel me for it. But the time for schemes, is done. I will be king, and I will do so honestly. With as little bloodshed as possible. I'm not saying it will be easy. But it will be right."
"I'll be by your side," my father says, patting his back.
"As will I," I say.
"No," Conri looks over, "It's not your crown to take. It's mine. You're right. The time for lying, is over. I will tell them the truth. The truth of where you've been. And then I will secede the crown to you. And I will go."
"Why?" I ask.
"I can duel that boy. He can't. If he wants a fight he can have one, I've been in more jousts than—years he's been alive. I don't know," he says, "You were right, Bran. It is my wrong to put right. So I will."