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After the double wedding, the pomp and circumstance, the shower of blossoms—after all the ceremony, once the reception is safely raging on, Rue slips out of the party and walks down to the shore.
The Lords of the Wing, Peckersburg and Cluckingham, are blissfully wed to their respective paramours. The Prince of the Unseelie Court is seated at their table, laughing and clapping shoulders. Binx Choppley is holding court with a champagne flute in hand. Wuvvy is dancing in the candlelight.
All is well. In the grand ballroom of the Seafoam Court, all is well.
Rue approaches the water’s edge, stopping just shy of the swell of the tide. Their feet sink into the sand. It’s still warm with the day’s sunlight, and they dig their claws in, enjoying the sensation.
So many little things like this, they missed, hidden within their glamor. So much of the world never reached their skin.
The beach is vast. The sky arches above them, shining with slowly turning stars.
Rue stands at the edge of the ocean and lets the world expand.
After several peaceful minutes, there’s a footfall in the sand behind them, followed by the faint jingling of medals on a dress uniform. Rue smiles, to themself, to the sea.
Hob stops at their shoulder. Slightly closer than propriety. They can feel the heat of him, and hear the timbre of his voice when he greets them, “Mistrex of the Bloom.”
Rue turns then, just to see him. He’s handsome in the moonlight. His clever eyes are bright. “Captain,” they murmur in reply.
Hob steps up beside them and looks out to sea. “Congratulations.”
Rue glances over. He’s peeking at them out of the corner of his eye, but doesn’t look away when they meet his gaze. “On what?” they inquire.
“On all of this. The Bloom has gone off marvelously. And to see the Lords of the Wing finally wed?” He turns to them, and bows gracefully. “A masterstroke.”
“Mm.” Rue inclines their head in acceptance of the compliment. They add, “I lost the bet, though. All that gold…”
“I shall duel them for it.”
“Don’t,” Rue says. Perhaps too quickly. They restrain the rest of the comment: that they have seen him on the dueling pitch one too many times, that they would not see his blood spilled again, much less over them. That they would rather spill their own blood. That they can’t bear to see him hurt. That they would rather bring him joy.
“As you wish,” Hob replies gravely. “No duel, then.” He pauses. “Rue?”
“Yes?”
“It is a lovely night, but I feel I should inquire what brought you out here, away from the ball.” His eyes are sharp and guileless. Wind ruffles the fur of his pricked ears. “Your presence was missed inside. By other of our friends, and by myself.”
Rue holds that admission in their chest—the gold, glowing light of it: that they slipped away not twenty minutes hence, and Hob missed them.
But the question is a fair one. They open their mouth to answer, then close it again. “I simply felt… restless, I suppose. I don’t know.”
“Hm. Quite so,” Hob replies. “I often feel restless myself, at enclosed events such as these. We do not have any walls in the Goblin Court, because they are customarily destroyed in rumpuses. But you are certain nothing is amiss?”
To anyone else, they’d answer in the affirmative. But this is Hob, kind, protective, inquisitive Hob, and Rue considers their answer.
“I’m not certain,” they reply, finally. “The Bloom is my domain, and I have felt its ebb and flow for millennia, but I…” They trail off. The magic has been rooted in them for eons. Sometimes they cannot perceive where it ends and they begin.
But tonight, something is different. Subtly, unmistakably. “No,” Rue tells Hob. “I’m not certain that nothing is amiss.”
“Where does the danger come from?” Hob asks. His hackles are up.
Rue gestures toward the horizon. “Out there, somewhere.”
Hob stares out to sea. The lines of his body have grown hard as he watches for the threat, though it’s something only Rue seems to sense.
“Let’s talk of other things,” they say.
“Indeed,” Hob agrees. “Of what do you wish to speak?”
Rue casts around for a topic. “This has been your first Bloom, correct?”
“It has.”
“And did you find it to be… everything you thought it would be?”
Hob considers. “I do not think I understood what the Bloom could be,” he says, at last. “I thought I was here to do my duty. Nothing more. But the viscountess is dancing in the ballroom with her many suitors, last I saw her, and I am not there.”
“If you must pursue your duty—” Rue begins.
“No,” Hob says.
“There is nothing more you must do?”
Hob looks out at the dark horizon. “I wonder,” he says, “if we have both chosen, each time we had the chance, to fulfil our duties at this Bloom, instead of following our desires. And I may guess that we have not made those choices lightly. Perhaps we may each hold some regrets, for choices we should have made differently, had we the chance.”
He’s speaking of himself, and guessing the truth that is even now rising to Rue’s skin. “One must never leave the Bloom with regrets,” Rue murmurs.
“Is that a law of the Bloom?”
“Never one I obeyed.” Rue can’t look at him, but they can feel his presence, there beside them. Sure in the darkness. “You must have heard the rumor that this is the last Bloom?” Dread rolls in their stomach just to voice it.
“I have,” Hob says. He pauses. “Do you have regrets, Rue?”
Rue steals a glance and finds themself caught. Hob is watching them with an expression they can only call tender. Open, and trusting.
Too much has passed between them, now. That meeting in the woods. His duel with Wuvvy. The moment in the hedge maze. The night on the moors. The masquerade. The entire tangled web of misunderstandings and doubts and foolish errors, every time their hands met, every time they shared a glance that spoke of both their souls—it is too much. Rue cannot dissemble now.
“Yes,” they answer. The words are fragile in the air. “I have many regrets. But those are—for the most part—in the past. There’s really only one thing I wish for now.”
“Name it,” Hob murmurs.
Rue shakes their head. “I can’t ask this of you. It would be—too much.” True, they’ve shared too much to lie, but they can still shield him from this. The fear rises, choking. Perhaps he holds the same regret—but there remains the possibility that he does not.
“It would be my greatest honor,” Hob says, “if you would permit me to fulfil your heart’s desire.”
“Tell me yours,” Rue whispers. “And I will tell you mine.” They’ve never pretended to be brave. They stare at Hob, dear, courageous Hob, and silently plead for him to understand that they need him to reach across this last divide. Anticipation—anxiety—dread—hope—twine all together in their chest.
Hob draws a deep breath. Then he says, low and clear in the night: “If I were a better fey, I would have courted you the way you deserve to be courted. I would have declared my intentions, brought flowers to your door, written you poems, asked you to dance, invited you to walk in the gardens so that all could see us arm in arm. I fear I have brought you only dishonor instead. That is my regret. And yet my desire is only you, Delloso de la Rue. Only to be by your side. I bear the deepest adoration for you, and the greatest repentance, and my heart is yours. Entirely.”
“What a coincidence,” Rue whispers. Their voice trembles.
“How so?” Hob asks.
“Well, since the moment we spoke in the woods,” Rue says, “my heart has been yours. And my desire is—you.”
They’ve always celebrated the Bloom for the swell of magic, the outpouring of light and joy. Rue thinks, now, that this is what the Bloom ought to honor: the way Hob smiles, to hear them say it. A thousand dormant chrysalises break open in their chest. A thousand butterflies soar.
Hob offers a tentative hand, as though escorting them over the moonlit waves. Rue doesn’t bother with the delicate touch of fingertips. They grab his hand in theirs and hold on tight.
“Can you forgive me?” they ask. “For taking all this time…”
“If you can forgive me,” Hob says, and there is a distinct tremble in his voice, “for being a fool, for far too long.”
“Of course.”
“Then consider it done.”
Rue squeezes his hand even tighter. “I never dreamed—I never thought I’d get… anything like this. I couldn’t imagine.”
“Would it be too bold,” Hob says, “if I were to ask for your hand?”
Rue’s jaw drops. They do a double take. But Hob is still watching them, quiet and sure.
It strikes Rue that, if he did ask, they could agree. Unions have been built on less, and quicker. They’d bring Andhera to officiate, procure the rings from Binx, call Wuvvy and the Lords of the Wing as witnesses three. It could be done on this beach, without even moving their feet. Without alerting the rest of the guests. Only them, in the moonlight, in the wide open world.
It’s that possibility that makes them brave enough to murmur, “Court me first.”
Hob stills. “I apologize, Rue. Is there some doubt in your mind?”
“No, no doubt,” Rue says, and raises their clasped hands, his and theirs. Fur and feathers glimmer in the moonlight. “For my hand? You didn’t even have to ask.”
Hob stares at their hands, the interlocking fingers, and an expression of stunned shyness washes over him.
“It’s only,” Rue continues, “that you spoke of your regret. And perhaps I am willing to think, for once, of myself. Of what I would want.” Waves are rolling through them, crashing over them. A storm is growing. “You are a good fey, Hob. The best. And I would be honored to be seen walking in the gardens with you.”
It’s this, finally, that brings tears to Hob’s eyes. Slow tears, and quiet, gleaming like stars.
Rue reaches up with their other hand and brushes them away. They cup their hand to his face. “Let me court you, too. How is it done by yours? Shall we hunt together? Shall I sing of your exploits? Shall we tell no one and let them gossip, or shall we proclaim it to everyone?”
“I would like it to be known,” Hob murmurs, “that the Mistrex of the Bloom and the Captain of the Goblin Army are betrothed. For no one’s desire but their own.”
Rue laughs, through the beginnings of tears. The ocean surges in them. “Yes. Yes, I would like that very much.”
And they are so free, and the sky is so vast, and the space between them is so small in comparison, that it is the easiest thing in the world to fall into Hob’s arms.
“Delloso,” he whispers, against their feathers. “Delloso.”
Rue feels themself expand. Somewhere else, music soars in a brilliant ballroom. Somewhere else, their friends are dancing. Somewhere else, a wind is blowing. Somewhere else—out to sea—
Rue stiffens.
“Is something wrong?” Hob asks.
They pull away from him, just a little, enough to turn toward the horizon. The sky is dark, and the waves are rolling over and over. There’s still that sense, in their gut, of something rising. Something surging. They had thought it was anticipation or nerves, but it remains, and it’s growing stronger.
“I told you,” Rue says, “I’m not certain that nothing is amiss?”
“You did.”
“I’m sure now. Something is wrong.”
Hob squares himself to the horizon, to the vast black sky. “Is it something of the Bloom? If you can sense it—”
“It must be,” Rue says. “Do you remember what the human said? A gathering of power amid the planes?”
“She meant to warn us,” Hob says. “Or to defeat it herself. I thought nothing of it at the time.”
“It seems the fight has come to us, after all.”
Far away, across the sea, lightning flashes, and for a moment the sky is lit. And Rue sees.
Somewhere else, it is a declaration of war. Here, in the placid climes of Faerie, it is a storm. Black clouds tower to the heavens. Walls of rain scrape the sea. The winds rage and howl. And as the lightning flashes, the storm grows ever stronger, devouring the vast and lovely sky.
They can feel it, now: the forces gathering. The surge of power. The Bloom beginning to fail under the assault.
“It’s all ending,” Rue whispers. “All of this. Everything…”
“Not everything,” Hob says.
The conviction in his voice is clear. Rue whirls to face him. “Hob—you can’t go.”
“I must.”
“I can’t lose you.” They grip his hands in theirs. “Not now that I’ve found you.”
“I swear that—”
They cut him off. “Make me no promises, Captain.” It would be formal, but for the desperate quaver in their voice. Their claws dig into his skin, nearly drawing blood. They’re not above begging. “Please.”
Hob holds on just as tightly. “I will not promise, then. But hear me, Delloso de la Rue: while I walk in Faerie I am not parted from you. I have lived this long to meet you, and if I live any longer it will only be to see you again.”
Someone else must notice the storm and raise the alarm. The distant music of the ballroom ends in a discordant clash. The golden lights flicker. Shouts and cries rise above the crashing waves and the wailing of the wind.
Rue and Hob stand, silent, on the darkened beach.
“Very well,” Rue whispers, at last. “Go. But know that I—that I wait only for you.”
Hob enfolds them in a crushing embrace. Rue clings to him.
For a moment, the waves and the wind seem to subside. There is quiet on the beach, beneath the last of the starry sky.
“Will you walk with me in the gardens?” Hob asks.
“Will there be gardens left, after this?”
“I will plant new gardens.”
“Then I’ll meet you there,” Rue says.
It’s this memory that Rue will carry with them. Duty calls, but they and Hob steal one final moment, just to imagine that they’ll have their happy ending.
They separate slowly. The wind picks up. The clamor in the castle reaches fever pitch. With a last squeeze of their hand and a final glance, Hob starts up the hill, shouting for his army. His halberd gleams with the lightning.
Rue lingers on the shore. They stare out to sea, toward the shattered horizon.
The Bloom is still within their grasp. They reach for it, and greet it quietly. They remember the way Hob smiled when they said their heart was his.
Rue plants their feet in the sand and faces the storm.