Chapter Text
The sun is just rising when they come.
Misty’s feeding the gators when Zoe had calls out to her, and in a mixture of confusion and shock she almost falls into the water. The sound of hooves on the ground echoes unusually around her head, and the sheer shock of knowing someone is coming here, since no one ever comes this far out into the swamps from the city, sparks her curiosity.
She comes to the front of the modest little shack she lives in with her older brother, Kyle, and Zoe, his girlfriend. The pair are already standing there stiff and worried when she steps over to them barefooted, observing a man in black who jumps down from a horse in front of his entourage.
“Is this the Spencer residence?” He asks, tall and strong like gods in story books. Misty gulps and looks to her brother.
“Yeah.” He nods with surprising confidence. “Wha-what are you here for?”
The man thrusts a letter into Kyle’s arms and frowns. “We expect to see you soon, Mr Spencer.”
They ride away as quickly as they came, and Zoe looks to Misty’s brother nervously. “What does it say?”
Kyle bites his lip, ripping it open and slowly skimming the elegantly scrawled note. “It’s about...recruitment.” He pulls Zoe against him, and kisses her forehead. “One man from each family under the Queen’s rule must serve her and report to one of her war camps in four days or face castration.”
“No!” Misty rips the letter from his hands and reads it herself. “Ya can’t go—your injured.”
It’s true. A few years ago there was an incident with machinery which lead to Kyle’s body being almost completely paralysed and heavily scarred. If it wasn’t for Misty’s extensive knowledge in the department of natural healing and medicine, he probably wouldn’t have survived—you don’t get real doctors this far away from the city.
She’d tried her absolute best to fix him up...but his limbs are still weak from the experience, and the chances are that he won’t ever be able to properly run again. He has Zoe and Misty to help him in the swamp, at home, so his disability has never been a problem—without aid in a war camp he’d be crushed like a brown leaf underfoot.
“I don’t have a choice, Mist.” He sighs. “I got no choice.”
Zoe pulls him closer. “Bullshit! There must be something else we can do, you’re an exception.” Neither Zoe nor Misty voice the fact that Kyle is too weak to fight anyone for fear of offending him, but they all know it’s true.
He looks at her kindly. “Zoe...this isn’t something I can just get out of. They could take everything away from us if we don’t try—me and Misty are the only ones in my family left, and she don’t even have the same Pa as me.”
Misty doesn’t say anything else on the subject at all that night—but she does think about it when she’s out watering the plants late like she always does. When she goes back inside, she sees Kyle try to pick up a pan full of soup and cry out from the weight. Zoe rushes over to help him, but that doesn’t change the fact that he can’t even carry a pot with some soup in it.
He can’t go to war. They’ll kill him.
Misty Day is a lot of things, but unfortunately, a man isn’t one of them. The letter specifically asked for a male warrior.
It’s not like they’ll be lookin’ down my pants to check.
Their shack is small but Misty still has her own room, mostly because she has absolutely no desire to try and sleep to the sounds of her brother kissing and getting all lovey-dovey with Zoe. Her room is plain with not much in it decoration wise except for her indoor plants—the little colourful flowers that are her favourites, but too soft and gentle to be kept outside for when the rain falls hard and the wind blows strong.
They make her happy.
“I could go.” She says it aloud so it seems more real—and the more she thinks on it, the more she likes the idea. “I could go.”
It’s not like anyone really needs her here anymore except the alligators, and they really just see her as company. Zoe is perfectly capable of taking care of Kyle by herself, they’ll have a life together, a family. Misty’s just dead weight here at the end of the day, spending all her time talking to plants and animals who won’t talk back.
She has Kyle and Zoe, and she loves them, but she’s lonely.
So maybe she’s not a man, but Misty’s arms are stronger than any man she’s ever met—she can carry Kyle with one arm after years of pushing him around in a wheelchair, and she can hold her own against a couple angry gators when they’re in a mood. She thinks about telling Kyle about all of this and listening to his refusal (for a last conversation if nothing else), but if she goes now—gets to camp a day or so early—then he won’t be able to stop her and she’ll have saved him.
Sitting up, she pulls her blanket close to her chest and looks out of her window to the swamp. It’s the middle of the night but the moon is bright and there are thousands upon thousands of stars in the sky shining back down at her. Misty wonders if she’ll still be able to see them in the camp.
Taking a deep breath, she gently places her hand on the glass. It’s deceptively cool considering how hot and humid the swamp always is, and Misty acknowledges that she can’t just leave. She loves Kyle and Zoe a lot...and the swamp is everything to her. Every creature from the size of an eyelash to great big predators, every herb, flower and tree, it’s all part of her very soul.
You won’t be gone forever if you really try—but Kyle would be.
Tearing her hand away, Misty throws her blanket off and picks pull a strand of her hair out in front of her. Both her and Kyle got their curly blond masses from their late mother, and they have a slight sibling resemblance if you really look. Misty pulls her hair up in a tight pony tail and holds it, seeing what it looks like in the windows faint reflection.
She could pass as a guy if she kept it like that every day and strapped her admittedly small chest down—couldn’t she?
Maybe. Some guys just look feminine, she supposes, and it’s not like anyone would know any different is she tried to pass for her brother. They’re a private tribe, all their neighbours are either above the age of eighty since some people like to be ‘with nature’ towards the end of their life or not human. No one would know any wiser.
“Hi, I’m Kyle.” Misty offers her hand to the thick air in front of her, lowering her voice to make it sound like her brother’s. “Kyle Spencer.”
Decision essentially made, she grabs a bag a stuffs some of her more boyish clothes in it with some money and a poncho in case it rains. Using the glass for her mirror, Misty pulls her hair back tight into a bun and ties it with a red piece of ribbon, squinting at her attempt at a masculine appearance.
Close enough.
Leaving without even a little goodbye will break her heart, and Kyle’s even more, so she scribbles a quick something down and leaves it on her bed with the hopes that he won’t be too mad about it. Maybe he’ll be proud of her, one day.
The door opens and closes behind her, and Misty Day leaves her life behind in pursuit of the training camp.
“What do you want me to say?” Cordelia Goode snarls at her mother in a fit of previously compressed rage. “I can’t do anything about it—it isn’t my fault! I’ve tried everything! Do I have to just say it—I’m messed up, ruined , broken.”
Her mother, Fiona Goode, the ruling Queen since the recent death of her late husband, slaps her daughter across the face to which Cordelia cannot help but whimper. It’s stupid, she knows, to be almost thirty years of age and still get upset when your mother scolds you but she can never seem to help it. “If people knew about your failures, then we’d be on spikes!” She roars. “Try harder!”
Since her failure is certainly not for lack of trying, Cordelia cannot help the twinge of tears that claw up her throat. Don’t you dare start crying, Cordelia Goode. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry is not fucking good enough, Delia.” The Queen snarls. “’Sorry’ doesn’t stop our line from ending, ‘sorry’ doesn’t stop that army of men rising up—it doesn’t change the fact that Harrison Renard’s army is getting closer to us every day, doesn’t stop him breaking down our gates and tearing our throats out, does it?”
That break her admittedly weak resolve, and Cordelia chokes out a sob. “It isn’t like I chose to be i-infertile—I want a baby even more than you want an heir...that’s all I ever wanted, mother.”
“Boo fucking hoo Delia.” What Fiona says is true—to an extent. Cordelia is the only heir to her father’s throne (though it’s always really been Fiona’s) and if she can’t have a baby, then they die out. The lack of patriarchy has led to one of her father’s greatest supporters rising up to claim the throne from himself, but if she can’t have a baby, there needn’t be a battle.
They have no other relatives. It’s a waiting game—but the way things are looking now, they won’t have much more time when Renard’s army comes with their knives and swords to tear their hearts out.
She’s tried everything she can think of. Her and Hank have seen any Doctor that Fiona can swear to secrecy, and no one has come to any conclusion other than ‘that’s just how things are, sometimes.’ In truth, Cordelia mostly wants a child for her own selfish reasons rather than the more pressing political issues—because she’s trapped in a marriage with a man she doesn’t love, with a man who was rich and horny and her father was easily convinced to sell her off.
“I’ll try harder.” She swallows and bites her lip.
“I don’t see you trying!” Fiona yells with finesse. “What are you doing here, talking to me, when he could be pumping you up with our fucking heir right now?”
You say ‘our’ heir like I’d ever let you lay a single finger on a single hair on any child of mine’s head.
Cordelia bows her head in shame she can’t help feeling. “I’ll...I’ll go find him.”
She runs out of the room before her mother can reply like the pathetic, weak leader she is. She isn’t even a proper leader, not really, just the future face of her mother’s rule. All she wants to do since she was a child is make her mother happy—all she wants is to be a good daughter, a good princess and future queen, but her body keeps failing her and if she can’t even have a baby then she’s useless.
Her husband would normally have been fucking the scullery maid—a red haired girl called Kaylee—around this time, but Cordelia isn’t the only person her mother’s knuckled down on. Everyone but her is off limits to him, which should make her happy, she supposes. A wife should want her husband to be loyal but Cordelia doesn’t give a flying fuck who he sleeps with as long as she can have a child, as long as she can finally have someone to pour all the love she has to give into.
“Spalding?” She calls to the servant who passes her by. “You haven’t seen Hank, have you?”
The man without a tongue shakes his head, so Cordelia keeps walking down to the maids quarters. Kaylee—as off limits as she has become—might know where he is since her husband has a reputation for disobeying her mother, no matter how many times Cordelia begs him otherwise.
The maids all live together in a couple of rooms underground that have 36 beds all crammed in together since Fiona doesn’t believe in giving the help any benefits that aren’t strictly required. Personally, Cordelia finds that philosophy ridiculous. There are more than 200 big bedrooms with enormous beds and old wooden furniture in the palace they live in, and literally two of them are occupied in total.
She goes down the spiral staircase that leads to the maids quarters in her black corseted dress that has white flowers sown into the bodice and skirts, to find three of the maids in conversation about something that clearly isn’t work related. At the sight of her they bow their heads and keep their silence.
Cordelia forces a smile and rushes past them, turning into a room to her left where, to her relief, Kaylee is sat with one of the cooks playing a card game. “Kaylee?” Cordelia calls.
The girl stands up and bows. “Your grace,” She says. “How may I be of service?”
“Have you seen my husband today?” She asks, self consciously wrapping an arm around her stomach that should have a baby in it but doesn’t. This girl is younger than her, prettier than her...of course Hank likes her. Hell, even Cordelia likes her, but not like that.
“No, your grace, but I think someone saw him in the library earlier.”
“Thank you. As you were.”
When she’d been younger, Cordelia had been under the delusion that her mother might take her own wishes into account once and again. And in fairness, it hadn’t been her mother’s plot to marry her off to Hank—the Queen had even tried to stop it—but only because she’d claimed he reeked of a wet dog (spiritually and physically). It isn’t like her own ideas for Cordelia’s marriage had been any nicer; they were all tall muscle men with thick biceps and even thicker minds.
She hates to think it, but Cordelia knows that’s exactly how her father was.
The library is on the third floor up, next to a few empty bedrooms that are never used. Not really a reader herself, Cordelia never really goes in there and keeps the few books she does look at in her greenhouse—her sanctuary. No one else can abide her plants and her chemical experiments, and she likes that.
I can’t believe I’m going to have sex because my mother told me too. I don’t even want to. It’s 11 o’clock in the morning, for God’s sake.
As Kaylee told her, Hank is in the library sitting on a purple sofa, back hunched over a large leather bound book. If he notices her entering the room, he doesn’t show it and keeps his eyes trained on the parchment.
“Hey,” Cordelia says almost timidly. Three years married and she still finds herself uncomfortable around him. “What are you reading?”
The look he gives her is blatantly fake, but she returns the smile. “History. Nothing interesting. Are you here to try again?” The book slams shut with a big slap and he’s unzipping his pants before she can answer the question.
I don’t want to have sex with you.
“No! No. I mean, that’s why my mother let me go but it can wait.” He looks mildly disappointed. “I’m just...I’m not ready to give up, but I wanted to talk to you about why we’re doing this.”
“I’m doing it because you’re mother blackmailed me, Delia.”
She sighs. “I know. But if we did manage to have a baby, do you think you could love it? Maybe not even that—spend time with him, or her, at least, help raise your child.”
The fact that Hank gives her a blank look tells Cordelia everything she needs to know, so she leaves the library with a sigh and heads for her greenhouse where no one will disturb her. Plants aren’t rude and don’t talk back or scream at you—she likes that about plants.
Misty Day doesn’t know a lot, but she does know that she probably shouldn’t be crying about the worm she just stepped on. Crying about Kyle and Zoe—that’d be reasonable—but for whatever reason it’s this still, pink little legless creature that’s lying on the floor that’s really set her off.
Wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her baggy blue t-shirt, she scoops it up and wraps her hands around it gently in some sort of apology, some sort of deep rooted regret that she knows is probably silly and immature but she can’t help it.
It’s takes ten minutes before she forces herself to move on from the lonely little worm and she gently lays it down by a tree and sends it a mental goodbye. Misty doesn’t see it, but a few minutes after she leaves that little worm wriggles back to life.
The watercress she pulls from the creeks have been her most stable source of nourishment in her trip so far, and she quite likes that, though is secretly craving some variation. There were directions to the camp in the note that Kyle was given and so Misty does have a rough idea of where she’s going, though is simply enjoying the simple pleasures of the nature around her while her journey goes on.
When she looks at herself in the admittedly murky water, she looks like a man. Not a very manly man—in truth, she could really pass for either sex—but there are surely some more feminine men out there. She’s also been practicing her man voice too; that’s something that’s more amusing to her that she likes to admit.
The camp is around the border between the swamps and the city—but still about two days from the palace and high command. When Misty comes across a trail in the swamp she realises that she’s never been so close to mainstream civilisation before, at least not that she can remember. There aren’t even any people here, but the path shows evidence of ghosts who’ve walked on it before her.
It’s only on the second day of her walk that she meets another person—as shocking as that is to her. They’re sitting on the front of a carriage with a horse plodding slowly onwards in front. The person notices her and smiles.
“Hey!” Misty says, excited. She’s barely ever met anyone that didn’t live in the swamp, and ever then they’d just been representatives of the Queen for a couple minutes.
The person, female, seems bemused. “Hey.” She says, stopping the carriage. “Can I assume you’re heading for the camp?”
She nods, remembering to use her low voice. “Yeah. I’m Kyle.” She says.
“Queenie.” The girl replies. “I’m just dropping off some supplies for the soldiers. Do you want a lift?”
Boy do I!
“That sounds great.” Misty smiles, having never been on a carriage before. This idea keeps getting better and better—she can’t believe she never left home sooner.