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The days pass in a muddled haze of wine, fake laughter and scrutinizing gazes from his subjects.
The High King of Elfhame could not care less.
He lounges on his throne, decked in the finest jewelry and clothed with the softest silk that Faerie could offer, his slender finger swirling the gold wine glass in his hand, a bored look on his face.
His eyes trail from the palace doors to the white columns that arch across the ballroom—they would flit from the revelers that make fools of themselves, their eyes glazed and their hands wandering to each other. They would twirl and sing and dance with no shame as the heat rises to their cheeks and they collapse from delighted exhaustion.
Cardan was like that, once.
Sometimes he wishes he could be like that once again.
However, a few folk catch his eye. It's hard to notice unless one was truly looking—but Cardan sees it. He always sees it, no matter how hard he tries to look away. He sees the quiet exchanges and stolen glances among some members of his court. Tentative touches and lingering stares that they thought no one else would see. If they are bold, they would brush their hands against the other's hair or place a chaste kiss on the cheek in their secret moments. Some would slip out when they think no one is watching them, and Cardan would see them leaving with their faces flushed and lips swollen, their scent mingling with the others.
He hates seeing those the most.
Then his eyes would flit to his side of his throne, and though he knows what a fool he is, it does not stop his chest from hollowing to see the space vacant.
What he would give for him to look and see his seneschal scowling at him again.
If he closes his eyes, he knows he can picture it down to the last detail—her brown eyes fiery, her eyebrows scrunched together in annoyance. Her dark hair would be pulled back except for the one tiny strand that always irked Cardan that he just had to brush it away. She would stand with her arms crossed, Nightfell strapped to her side, and her lips—God, her soft, sinful lips—would be downturned in irritation.
Some days, Cardan tries to.
But every time, he feels a piece of himself break when he opens them to find her gone.
And so, he stopped. Instead, he asks for a bottle of wine and finishes it on the spot, hoping the buzz of the alcohol could take the sting away—or at least keep the memories at bay.
It doesn't work.
It's your fault.
He knows.
She hates you.
He knows.
You love her.
He knows.
He knows.
He knows, and yet it changes nothing.
Cardan tries to convince himself that he did it for her; that though she may despise him for the rest of her mortal life, she may do so in safety and that it's worth it in the end—Cardan's selfish wants be damned.
It doesn't work.
Faeries can't lie.
When Cardan could take no more, he rises and stumbles to his bedroom, collapsing in his revel clothes and tries to let sleep claim him.
It doesn't work.
He spends his waking hours staring at his ceiling, reaching for the cold bedsheets with the only the ghost of the indentation of his beloved left. Cardan grabs the pillow she once laid upon and inhales, trying to remember what she felt like pressed against him, of what could have been, if only...
Sleep is no mercy for him, either. As soon as it claims him, all he can see is Jude, Jude, Jude, her face, her voice, her laugh, I love her, come back, I'm sorry, I need you—
Then he bolts awake, aching for the woman he drove away.
In his weakest moments, Cardan considers running back to her—to kneel and beg for her to come home to him.
It doesn't sound quite right to him anymore.
In his weakest moments, Cardan realizes that Elfhame is no longer his home—his kingdom, yes, but his home was somewhere in mortal realm, heart aching and mind racing at his betrayal.
His home is Jude.
And Cardan laughs bitterly to himself as the tears he only allows to flow when alone comes—The High King of Elfhame can go anywhere he wants.
Just not home.