#project: pen to paper

[aimzicr]

Someone's in the garden, and there shouldn't be. "You shouldn't be here," she tells him, to his face, like she has the right to be here and he does not. She comes striding over to him, her hands holding her skirts so that each step can be longer.

He looks up at her face before he accidentally catches a glimpse of her ankles. He doesn't think he recognises her, but he's never been good with faces. "Well, I came out here to get some air. It was getting stuffy in there." Too many women with cloying perfume and powdered faces and pressing close to try to dance with him. Too many advisors staring him down like he was on the verge of making the wrong choice. Too many people just... there. "What about you?" He challenges the stranger. "This is a private garden."

"Someone's planning to kill the prince tonight."

He feels his heart leap into his throat. The world fades away at the sudden terror.

She's continuing, "I'm here to stop that from happening," and she isn't even looking at him. She's scanning the dark gardens and letting her eyes raise to the castle parapets and windows. A slow economy of movement, like he'd seen the stable mousers and that owl that roosted in the chapel do. A predatory glance, patient and certain that prey will appear. (And she isn't bowing to him, does she not know who he is?)

He swallows, and folds his hands behind his back. "Well, the guards surely--"

"They won't," she interrupts, her eyes snapping to him, and he flinches as though she might peck him or something. She takes a breath, lets it out through her nose, then tries in a more diplomatic tone. "I tried telling the guards. I wrote letters to every administrator. I sought audience with noble families. I tried," she insists, "But no-one believed me. So, here I am, in this..." She looks down at her dress, and her lips twisted sourly, "Outfit." Like there is no term more insulting that she can call to mind right now that would be appropriate to use in company. "Blending in." Her gaze scans the gardens again, then flick briefly towards the ballroom windows.

"So..." He's still reeling, still trying to recover. "You weren't... invited?"

She stops, and looks at him, and she gives him the most withering look anyone has ever given him.

"S-sorry, I didn't mean..." He winces. "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. I have the evidence." She looks back to the ballroom, her hands kneading at fistfuls of her skirt, like a cat planning to use its claws. "No-one believed me. So either they're overconfident in their security, they don't like the lower class challenging them, or they're involved in the plot."

The idea that there could be threats nearby has been drilled into him since he was young. He has a food taster, he has bodyguards, he has rules and regulations that keep people from getting too close. But it's a shock to hear it said by someone else, so bluntly and confidently. Someone's trying to kill him, tonight. And they could be someone close to him? Someone he trusts to keep him safe?

"Complacency, pride, or complicity." She frowns. She has very strong eyebrows. "I'm not sure which is worse." She looks back at him. "So you shouldn't be here, in case someone is sneaking in through the gap in security here."

"There's a gap in security?"

She tenses. Her eyes are very bright, all of a sudden. "You should go inside, sir. Now."

"I --" Why is she looking at him like that? Why is she suddenly picking up her skirts and running, running at him, like that? He brings up both hands to shield himself from her, and feels himself losing his balance and stumbling back to the gravel and sprawling.

The woman's wig, impaled by a thrown blade, plops down on the ground beside him. Just past the wig, he sees the woman's ankles. The latter feels more terrifying, because he knows he shouldn't be looking at them, but they're right there and they're very nice and --

"Gods fucking dammit!" She reaches down to her ankles, grabbing one of her fine and gleaming shoes, and lobs it into the garden. Someone's rapid footsteps are moving away from them. The gleaming shoe lodges itself ineffectually in a topiary, missing the fleeing figure. "Fuck!"

He's never heard anyone curse like that in his presence before. He looks up at her in wonder - and then panics, because it looks like she's bleeding.

It isn't until she bends down to pick up her wig and the dagger that he can see it isn't blood cascading down her shoulders: its her hair. She makes eye contact with him, fierce and terrible, yet her voice is very calm and very polite. "Go inside, and raise the alarm. Where there's one assassin, there's always more." She scoops the other shoe off her other foot, picks up her skirts, and runs into the dark.

He scrambles his way up the stairs and back into the ballroom. At least people take a disheveled, screaming prince seriously. The guests are sequestered, guards fill every hallway and block every door, and two more assassins are chased off the property.

The next day, the castle is on lockdown. The king, old as he is, is still capable of tearing the advisors a new one. Security hadn't been enough. Multiple assassins after his son. Why hadn't there been any preparation for this?

"There was a woman," the prince says, speaking up for the first time in a meeting since... well, since ever. "She said she had evidence. She tried to warn us, but no-one listened. She saved my life."

"And who is this woman, exactly?"

"I don't know," the prince admits. She'd had red hair and strong eyebrows and bright eyes, and reminded him of an owl or a cat, but he had no idea what she looked like. He was terrible with faces. But... "But she left this behind."

He brings his hands out from behind his back, to the gleaming shoe that he'd picked out of the topiary. A single shoe, too sturdy to be a dancing shoe, and stitched with impatience and glass rather than silk or pearls.

"She wasn't invited," the prince says, with a faint smile, turning the shoe over in his hands. Then he looks up at the room. Everyone is staring at him. But he's not scared, not anymore. Maybe this strong woman's shoe is imparting some kind of power to him. He'd like to thank her. He'd like to borrow a bit more of that strength for later. "We should find her. I need to thank her. And you," he tilts his chin at the room, at the advisors and councilmen, "Owe her an apology."

[aimzicr]

The Court of The-King-Who-Would-Be-Crowned has never seen such uproar. His daughter has never been so loud, so furious, has never filled a space with screams and feathers and the blast of a winter storm. And all over a mortal? She is bid to be silent, and she refuses.

"There has been no crime," the King insists, the pressure of his authority coming down like a hammer. "Behave yourself in my presence."

"No crime?!" Her voice has never been so loud. The air crystalises around her. "They were mine and my own, and stolen from me!"

"Were they?" The King asks. "I saw no brand upon them. They had not eaten or drunk of your table. They were mortal. Therefore, I am not bound to answer your call for vengeance." His voice softens, as though in appeal to the one he calls his daughter. 'It was just one mortal, dearest. You can find another."

Agony at his description of a friend unbound to law turns again to fury at the idea that such a person could be replaced. "Never. Never will I. And there must be justice for this!"

"You defy your father's judgement?" The Honoured Dealer smirks.

Other members of court are not as bold as he, and hide their smiles behind fluttering fans or raised hands or carefully-maintained glamour. There has not been such entertainment had in centuries, to see the polished and poised Winter Swan raving and weeping and defying an open order from her sovereign.

The Swan rounds on the Dealer, hissing, teeth bared, an inch from his face. He flinches, but holds his ground. His confidence is not shaken when she whispers her promise: you shall bear the blame for what is to come. Then she twists herself into feathers, and in swan form she leaves. The whole countryside - fae territory and mortal scope alike - ring with her agonised and mournful howls all night.

Things move too quickly, then, for the Courts to understand. For them, who have centuries of seasons, a week should be less than a blink. Yet in a week, the territory of the Dealer and his kin is laid bare. Mortals come in their greedy droves, with picks of iron shattering the border stones and axes of iron to cut down the ancient oaks. When the Sisters of the Petal went down with song and seduction to call mortals to their doom, these greedy men threw handfuls of salt, and bound each woman to a name, and burned them at stakes of yew wood. A week, and the ancient untouched forest became a logging camp, and all ancient mystery was stripped from this part of the world.

The-King-Who-Would-Be-Crowned sought out his daughter, where she stood upon her frozen pond. He scolded her for her vengeance, for stripping the Courts of one of their own. The Winter Swan looked on her father like she would look on a hated stranger, and told him to go drown himself.

Mortals continued to learn about the sacred mysteries that kept the Courts safe. Rivers were dammed, lakes were dredged, standing stones were defaced and toppled; salt was scattered, names were used like lassos. The Summer season was stripped and shrivelled. Autumn and Spring soon felt their territories likewise invaded, and could do nothing. They were named, and they were burned, and they were lost.

The-King-Who-Would-Be-Crowned sought out his daughter again, and told her she had gone too far. If this continues, there will be no court left. The Winter Swan arched her neck proudly, nodded, and told her father to go drown himself.

Songs full of salt and iron and binding names were sung by children, taught by the wailing bird that circled overhead. Axe and shovel and poker and spear press and push and dig into the territory of the fae. The Courts are broken. All will become fable, or forgotten.

The-King-Who-Would-Be-Crowned sought out his daughter, one last time. "All this for one mortal? Our world ends, our lives end, because of one mortal? You cannot follow him if you die! You will be unmade, and for what?"

"For one mortal," she said, with a cold smile. "For one dear friend."

Bonus:

A fae forms a genuine bond of friendship with a human. As a prank another fae decides to kill their friend. Their ruler decides the murder did not violate any fae laws and issues no punishment, so the first fae dedicates their life to getting revenge by teaching humans all the rules of the fae.

[stil-lindigo]

the parade.

a short comic about when love dies slow.

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