Cardan & Jude oneshots

Aching Cravings

I'm sorry it took so long. 

But it took me longer because honestly I didn't know how to write this chapter, and then I started writing chapters for my other fanfic, and I've been binge-watching HOTD again and re-watching Game of Thrones, so I lost track of time. I'm already on season five; someone hold me back.

This chapter is a request of Locke catching Jude and Cardan while they're having sex. Basically it's that :)

This chapter takes place at the coronation.

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"Where have you been?" Vivienne asks, grabbing hold of me. "You need a leash like Oak's. Come on, we're going to dance."

I eddy along with them. There's music everywhere, urging a lightness of step. They say the pull of faerie music is impossible to resist, which isn't quite true. What's impossible is to stop dancing once you've begun, so long as the music goes on. And it does, all night, one dance bleeding into the next, one song becoming another without a pause to catch your breath. It's exhilarating to be caught up in the music, to be swept away in the tide of it.

Of course, Vivi, being one of them, can stop whenever she wants. She can also yank us out, so dancing with her is almost safe. Not that Vivi always remembers to do the safe thing.

But really, I am the last person to judge anyone for that.

We clasp hands and join the circle dance, leaping and laughing. The song feels as though it is calling my blood, moving it through my veins to the same ragged beat, with the same sweet chords. The circle breaks up, and somehow I am holding Locke's hands. He sweeps me around in a giddy whoosh.

"You are very beautiful," he says. "Like a winter night."

He smiles down at me with his fox eyes. His russet hair curls around his pointed ears. From one lobe, a golden earring dangles, catching the candlelight like a mirror. He's the one who's beautiful, a kind of breathless, inhuman beauty.

"I'm glad you like the dress," I manage.

"Tell me, could you love me?" he asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Of course." I laugh, not sure of the answer I am supposed to give. But the question is so oddly phrased that I can hardly deny him. I love my parents' murderer; I suppose I could love anyone. I'd like to love him.

"I wonder," he says. "What would you do for me?"

"I don't know what you mean." This riddling figure with flinty eyes isn't the Locke who stood on the rooftop of his estate and spoke so gently to me or who chased me, laughing, through its halls. I am not quite sure who this Locke is, but he has put me entirely off balance.

"Would you forswear a promise for me?" He is smiling at me as though he's teasing.

"What promise?" He sweeps me around him, my leather slippers pirouetting over the packed earth. In the distance, a piper begins to play.

"Any promise," he says lightly, although it is no light thing he is asking.

"I guess it depends," I say, because the real answer, a flat no, isn't what anyone wants to hear.

"Do you love me enough to give me up?" I am sure my expression is stricken. He leans closer. "Isn't that a test of love?"

"I—I don't know," I say. All this must be leading up to some declaration on his part, either of affection or of a lack of it.