The Exiled Queen

Bonus Jurdan Scene

(art by @maggiepalmiter used with permission)

 After the War

I enter into the High King's apartments behind a servant whose complexion is the color of dark ivy leaves, he carries a silver tray which holds a steaming teapot, bread, cheese and a variety of fruit.

It has only been a few days since the war. And I feel awkward being back here. Cardan has been confined to his rooms, under the care of a healer for the injury given him in battle. The first night he was put under a sleeping draught. He slept for two days thereafter until the draught finally ran its course. And not quite knowing what to do with myself as we waited for the outcome of the High King's fate, and also not wanting to inadvertently get in the way, I've stayed mostly to myself.

Until tonight, when Cardan immediately upon waking, requested my presence.

Cardan rests atop his tapestry covered bed, propped against several pillows, in a loose frilled shirt, and loose breeches. His feet are bare, legs crossed at the ankles, hands in his lap, fiddling with the fringed edge of a knit throw. He doesn't pay the servant any mind as the tea service is set on a bedside table, instead his eyes are on mine.

The servant leaves with an unacknowledged bow, the doors softly closing behind him.

And then it's just us. The air around us begins to feel heavy with this unseen tension that we both know is between us.

Something in Cardan's eyes shifts, a flicker of hurt, anguish, shame, as if he is warring with himself inside as he regards me in the silence. And finally he speaks, his voice low, hushed, "I wasn't there for you."

When I open my mouth to protest, his hand curls into a fist. He interrupts me, "I banished you from your home. You were thrown onto those filthy mortal streets like--" He grits his teeth and looks away. "Had I known--"

"And had you known before you learned of our sons' birth and took them from me, would that have changed anything?" I challenge him, stepping around to the other side of the bed where he rests.

"I was angered," Cardan admits, "when I learned of my only surviving brother's death. No matter that he made enemies of us; He was still all the family I had left. Everyone of them murdered. Slaughtered. And what right did I have, the drunken cavorting fool, to be the one to take my father's throne?" He drops his gaze down to his hands, falling silent. And doesn't look back up at me when he speaks again, "But you must know I did not sentence you to exile as punishment. I did it to protect you, Jude. To protect the kingdom...from war."

A moment of shame heats my face, but I force the guilt away. My return may have brought the war he meant to avoid. But it was an inevitable war. My gaze falls to his shoulder, the bandaging visible beneath the collar of his shirt, the way he tethers his arm taut against his side in pain. His hair is damp, he must've bathed before I arrived, and the ends are beginning to curl around the points of his ears and at his brow.

Reaching out to sweep a thick dark lock from falling across his eyes, he catches my wrist gently and turns his face into my hand. "Stay with me," he says softly, as if sensing my intentions of leaving him to rest.

"I--you need to rest. I can see that you are in pain. Perhaps I should send for the healer, for another draught." I turn to head to the doors but he catches my hand, stopping me.

"I'm fine. Stay. Please."

With a sigh, I relent. Pouring him a cup of tea and insisting he drink, before settling beside him atop the coverlets. Feeling awkward in this proximity to him, this closeness, I think of how although Cardan and I have made vows, I am not sure of what we are now. Do we start where it was we left off? Or...do we start again? We have only been husband and wife, for but one night. And that was many, many nights ago.

I have heard that for mortals, the feeling of falling in love is very like the feeling of fear...I think of the way Balekin described his perplexion of mortal love, how he couldn't relate. I wonder how it is that Cardan feels love. How the Fey love if it truly differs from what I feel.

Finally after a long silence where I begin to fear Cardan's feelings of me, he takes my hand up into his. His long fingers and pale skin look more prominent when not bedecked in jeweled rings. "You are my queen...would that you were my wife as well?"

I know what he is asking of me. For our marriage to not be simply of political convenience, made only as a bargain to end the vow of obedience I had over him. He is asking for more. Asking if I want more as well. If I want him. "Yes," I say, heart racing in time with my thoughts. "Yes," I say again, sliding one knee over and settling on his lap. My hands slide into his hair, tugging just so, to angle his mouth to mine, "Yes." And I taste of him. Of nettle tea, tart plum and longing as his tongue slips over mine.

I move against him when his mouth wanders to my throat leaving marks that will be nearly impossible to hide. But I wouldn't dare stop him from touching me like this. Marks or not. I'll stay right here tangled up in this bed with him and not leave until they've faded away, however many days that may be. Or perhaps I'll sit upon my throne and attend Court for all to see how Cardan's hands have been on me. In this moment I couldn't care less.

Somehow we've managed to lose both of our shirts and my breeches and have cloaked ourselves in the throw atop his bed. Our hands searching every inch of what has been exposed. But I pause over Cardan's bandagings, sobering, "Does it hurt?"

"Not right now, it doesn't," Cardan replies in a strained whisper into the crook of my neck. He shifts awkwardly beneath me and a coy smile plays on his lips when pulls back to look at me. Returning his smile, I reach down between us, eyes locked with his, and pull on the lacing of his waistband. Cardan drops his head back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut in frustration, "What I would do to you if not for this wound."

But I silence him with a kiss. Feel the rumble of a moan in his chest beneath my hands when my tongue brushes over his. When his hands slip to my waist and guide me onto him. And my when my nails threaten to pierce his flesh at the rhythm I find. And I breathe his name again and again; a plea, a promise, a litany.