The Tyrant's Queen

44: the red-head

Thalia and Lucien had always been surrounded by the bare minimum number of palace workers. Ulla and Viva, Matia and Dehan.

But as they walked towards the main hosting hall, trailing behind them now was a whole procession of maids, servants and soldiers.

It was disturbing just how quiet their group was, even it consisted of at least forty people. The only sound reverberating through the corridors was that of Lucien's cane, the thud sound creating an empty, heavy echo.

"You might have some questions during the event. I will answer them afterwards." Lucien broke the heavy silence first, slowing his steps so that they were walking next to each other. "Hate me ardently, but be my ally during the time the monarchs are here."

What other choice did she have? "Yes, sire."

"Good. That is all I ask."

His voice was strained, and Thalia was tempted to look at his face.

They soon stopped before a pair of familiar wooden doors- those that Thalia had gone through too many times looking over the color of curtains and dimensions of paintings.

There they stood for a long time, Lucien perfectly still with one hand over the cane and the other holding his wooden cigar.

"You might have some questions during the event. I will answer them afterwards."

Hands folded in front of her, Thalia only stayed as still as he did, taking in all minute details of the doors before them.

Lucien did eventually thaw from his statue position, fixing his hair, smoothening non-existent creases on his shirt, and then fixing his hair again.

Thalia couldn't help but glance at his hand, fidgeting over his cane. There was a tremor running through both his hands. Not from alcohol, that was for certain. She'd smelled nothing but soap on him earlier.

He wasn't the type to be meek before a large crowd. Was his nervousness from anticipating his reunion with his former lover, Queen Estel? But to the extent that his hands shook? Why? What was in their past that he was so ruffled?

Matia, who typically would've pushed Lucien in through the doors, too, kept her silence.

"Thalia." His voice was barely a whisper, but Thalia still heard a quivering undertone.

"Yes, sire."

"What do you do, when you're faced with something you're afraid of?"

There had to be something, other than sheer anticipation of seeing his former lover. Even his face was blanched, and there was a thin sheen of cold sweat lining his temples.

"Dirt to dirt, sire. I tell myself, 'dirt to dirt'. Those who eat cake, and those who eat dirt-caked potatoes. Those who pay the workers, those who work the land. In the end, we all become fertilizers."

"Fertilizers." Lucien's laugh was hoarse.

"And I hold my hands, like this." Why was she even telling him all this? Thalia wondered, as she clasped both her hands together in prayer-style and gave a hard squeeze, till her knuckles whitened and the tips of her fingers turned ruddy.

His mouth in a small 'O' shape, Lucien looked down at her hands, trying to mimic her gesture with bewildering solemnness. But he stopped, and extended one of his hands towards her.

What a sly fox. Resisting the urge to narrow her eyes, Thalia took his hand in hers. Like one of those village boys waiting for passing aristocrats' coins, Lucien looked at her with almost innocent-looking eyes, waiting.