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Captain Hob,
My feet are still gliding from dancing with you last night at the ball. I am feeling overjoyed, incredibly grateful, and absolutely lucky to have you by my side that night. That experience was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. To share a moment with you, absolutely magical. And, I must admit, my feet still hurt from when you stepped on them as I was teaching you how to do the Electric Slide.
And in those moments where I saw you look down at your feet, frustrated that you couldn’t get something perfect right away, I realized, this is the person I love. Those quiet moments, those moments of your genuine curiosity peeking through, the kind way that you held me, you asking me if I was all right and if I needed anything at all.
I want to have more moments like that with you. I want to know you, Captain. I want to know you like no one else knows you. I want to be the only one to know that you, I don’t know, dance when you’re by yourself or mutter to yourself as you’re making food. I cherish the new delights that I will know about you. And for now, the only thing that will keep me going is four words that you have given me so graciously: Captain Knickolas Pnackleless Hob.
Yours forever and always,
Delloso de la Rue
Hob allows himself to be selfish for a moment, the letter held tightly in his hand. It smells ever so lightly of Rue, of that faint scent of perfume and something uniquely Rue, a scent that has lingered on Hob’s mind since he first met them. He allows himself a moment to dream of a world in which he is not bound by his duty; the other letter, tasteless, disgusting, lies buried under maps as though it will magically appear under the distant earth of the Seelie Court where he may never need to see it again.
For once, Hob allows himself to shirk his duties, responsibilities, and to dream. To dream of a space in which he and Rue can live. Simply, delicately, as they are; though Rue is inclined to performance, Hob has no doubt that they enjoy the simpler things in life—that much was discussed across countless dances, during which the world faded to nothing around them. Noise and people and color faded to a blur and Hob’s world was narrowed, to simply Rue. No details to focus on but the subtle ways in which a blush danced across their cheeks when he delivered genuine, soft compliments, of the way Rue met his eyes every so often only to look away as if shy. How one so beautiful could be shy in his presence, he could never know.
Duty would change. No longer would Hob find himself bound by the orders of royalty but instead living at a home in which Rue occupied his every thought and breath and desire. Rumpus and ruin be damned, when he could simply spend his evenings folding laundry and doing dishes while listening to Rue hum in the other room, dancing around the shelves of the books Hob would bring with him to the cottage in which they would live. Their friends—for they are friends, not merely allies—would visit them and greet them warmly. Andhera and Binx and, perhaps, the Lord Squak Airavis and Lady Chirp Featherfowl, and with tea held in their hands in delicate china teacups, they might discuss the gossip of the courts, or the latest Airry Pearry movie adaptation and its rather intentional casting, or whatever might occur to them.
Hob allows himself a minute to dream and feels his heart swell until he can barely breathe. Rue. The name sits on the tip of his tongue, as though desperate to leave him.
But walls have goblins, and goblins have ears and feet with which to scurry away and mouths with which to deliver the news that one Captain K.P. Hob might shirk his duties for the sake of love.
So Hob takes a deep breath. He folds the letter carefully and tucks it into the pocket under his uniform jacket and exhales until his heart is no longer swollen, until he is able to breathe, to compartmentalize.
He often forgets he is a war hero. Decorated, with countless awards of bravery and heroism and commotion. He often forgets he too is a political figure in this chess game that the Lord Blemish and Lady Boil play, and that he often is not made privy to their decisions and moves until it is far too late. For goblins to excel in trickery of this nature is uncommon but not rare, but for Hob to find himself genuinely surprised is rare indeed.
An arranged marriage is far from what he expects.
Certainly not for him.
But, he wonders as he strides across the grounds, his steps purposely smaller than usual; but who else might accept a marriage as such without complaint? He is a good soldier, a good captain, and he has never refused an order given. He has given away his everything for the sake of his court. And now they reward him with but a reminder of his importance that is for show and little else, and they make a laughingstock of his heart.
Hob thinks to reject the order.
His hands tremble, shake as he stops by the treeline, in the shade of the forest, garbage piles in the distance behind him. He calculates silently the distance, the time it would take for a salt goblin to reach him, and gives himself just under two minutes before one of them reaches him.
Hob sinks to the ground and exhales, his breath coming shaky. “Rue,” he whispers.
And for now, the only thing that will keep me going is four words that you have given me so graciously: Captain Knickolas Pnackleless Hob.
To be swept off of his feet at a masquerade ball is one thing. To hear his name, his actual name, murmured so sweetly by Rue… His heart aches, again, as he hears it echo in their voice. Knickolas.
“Dance with me, Knickolas,” they had said, smiling as though they were the only two in the room. “Don’t overthink it, just move.”
“I am well aware of how one dances,” Hob had returned, doing his utmost not to grit his teeth. He was not so fluid, elegant, as Rue. But they hadn’t minded, just smiling at him and laughing and reaching for his hands when he would allow it.
“Don’t overthink it,” Rue had said and, in a moment of seemingly surprised familiarity for the both of them, had tapped his snout ever so gently. “Knickolas, don’t overthink it. Focus on me.”
And how could he not? How could he not, when they were an angelic sight to his eyes? How could he think of anything but Rue when they smiled at him so?
Hob spins on his heels and punches a tree. It does little to help the situation save for the slightest of pains in his hand. “Shit,” Hob mutters, and punches the tree again for good measure.
Does he shirk his responsibilities? Does he pack up and leave? Would it be worth it, for him to walk away so easily from all he has done in his life, to devote his everything to Rue?
Knickolas.
Squaring his shoulders, Hob takes a breath, shakes his head, and walks back towards the heaping piles of trash.
~
Major.
The word, the title, weighs on him heavy, like the weight of the world, of the betrothal, of everything that has come to ruin him. Not twelve hours before, Hob would have thought himself in a moment that he could never recover from. True happiness, felt as only one could, with a moment of love, with a person one loves. A night spent in the bliss of the Bloom, existing in a space only Rue could create.
Masks do little to hide identity, and yet Hob felt as though no one would see them, as though a sheer sheet covered them until it was only them, only Rue and Hob and no one else. Knickolas.
Hob has been known to cry easily but now not even tears can comfort him in a way only tears can. A blanket of emotion does little to help the pain like which he has never felt before. He is not a stranger to physical pain but pain of this variety, emotional shipwreck; it is like nothing he has experienced before.
An emotional shipwreck, in which the cargo of the ship floats out to an endless empty sea. In which each painfully intimate moment floats away from him. Of their hands touching, of seeing their true self for the first time, of writing his name on their dance card; it all floats away from him and he sits sinking in an endless sea of hopelessness. Binx provides helpful distraction in that she is equally confused about her emotions with Andhera, and Hob has always been good at solving problems for others.
But in solving Binx’s, Hob finds himself still at a loss as to what to do. Does he honor his new betrothal to Lady Sylmenar? Or does he throw all caution to the wind, all hopes of a future within his court, and seek out Rue?
Hob wants nothing more than to sink into a quiet room with Rue and simply be. They are comforting in their presence alone. Hob would give the world to be with them for but a moment now. He sits instead in the tailor shop and watches Binx pace, muttering to themself. “What if,” Binx starts, stopping suddenly enough to jolt Hob from his thoughts; “I could offer Rue a place in my court, and you could- I mean, if you wanted to, you could come. Marry Rue.”
Marry Rue.
The thought dangles like an apple just out of reach of his long arms. He wishes it would be so simple, so easy.
But politics are not always that simple. “And leave the Goblin Court to deal with a second betrothal disregarded– allegedly?” Binx frowns at him, their brow furrowing.
“What do you mean?”
“Apollo and Grabalba,” Hob says, leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees. “And, were I to accept your offer, then, myself and Lady Sylmenar. The Goblin Court would be devastated politically. What respect I had once won would be lost.”
“Is that such a bad thing?” Her tone is innocent but when Hob looks up, Binx’s eyes are sharp, focused on him. He swallows heavily.
“What?” he asks. Not for lack of understanding, rather, but for the time to come up with an answer that doesn’t leave him feeling empty, with a hole in his chest.
“The respect you won,” Binx says. “I mean, you’re a war hero, Captain, and if the Goblin Court cannot stand on its own without you, then, well…” She trails off and scratches the back of her neck. The gesture does little to hide their sharp gaze. Hob flounders, at a loss for words.
“Rue-” he says finally. “Would they agree? Should you offer them a place in your court?”
“I don’t know,” Binx says, more hesitantly. “I think so. I mean, obviously they’re unhappy with the Court of Wonder.”
Hob doesn’t hear most of what Binx says, despite his own question. The sound of blood rushing past his ears overwhelms everything as he considers the offer. Marry Rue, leave the Goblin Court, find himself a new sense of duty.
Could he survive it? Could he survive this change in identity, in duty, in thinking?
Knickolas.
“I accept.”
Binx stops moving and stares at him, mouth open. “Huh?”
“I accept,” Hob says quietly, steadily. The world seems to stop around him, as all falls silent, rightfully into its place. “Should Rue, too, accept the arrangement. I would be delighted to marry Rue, to join your court.”
She stares at him for a moment longer and then her lips spread into a delighted grin. “Really?”
“If Rue accepts,” Hob reiterates, but it does little to keep the matching grin from his own lips. Binx claps their hands together and a strip of cloth near her lifts from the table, spinning around one of the ventriloquist dummies.
“Excellent!” she says. Hob looks down and allows his ears to droop, to comfortably settle. For the first time in a long time, he feels at peace. An inner war he didn’t know he had been fighting settles under a white flag, and Hob simply breathes in and out. With each inhale, exhale, the calm settles more.
Knickolas.
“Would you write to Rue? Tell them to come here?” Hob asks. Binx snaps at him and grins again and reaches for a quill and paper. “Thank you, my lady.”
“Captain,” Binx says before correcting herself; “Hob. We’re friends. You can call me Binx.”
“Thank you,” Hob says slowly; “Binx.” She smiles and, without thought, Hob smiles back.
~
Rue stands before him in all of their presence, overwhelming and shy and warm, and Hob can feel himself melting before them. Binx explains her thoughts and Rue listens in a silence that leaves Hob with little to do but worry. Would it be too soon, he wonders, to proclaim his love?
But Rue had proclaimed their love already. In their letter, tucked neatly to the pocket above his heart, they had said, this is the person I love. The person I love, was him. Hob. Rue loved him.
And now Rue sits in the tailor shop atop a chest and listens to Binx ramble their thoughts, and Hob can do little but watch Rue’s expression, chasing each cloudy expression with a neutrality that borders on hope, eagerly drinking in every tell they give.
Silence falls between the three of them and Rue contemplates until Hob can’t stand it any longer. “Delloso,” Hob says, his voice softening; “Rue.”
They look up at him, as though startled—though by what, Hob knows not. The tenderness of his voice, the gentle pleading with which he said their name.
“Please,” Hob says simply.
“Of course,” Rue says immediately. Hob’s heart seizes. “Of course, Knickolas.”
“Your name is Knickolas?” Binx whispers. Hob barely hears it; the world drains out around them, until it is yet again only Rue and himself, watching each other with the worlds, the universe, in their eyes.
“I have to ask, why now?” Rue asks, looking between them. Hob looks down at his hands and for the first time in a long time, he fidgets, uncertain, unsure.
“I was to be wed, to the Lady Sylmenar of the Seelie Court.” His voice is dangerously empty, as though he is floating out to sea again. A warm hand finds his and he leans into it instinctively, as Rue’s fingers touch his own, as their hand settles comfortably against his own. “I received the letter with my orders after your letter this morning.”
“You don’t wish to marry her?” Rue asks. Hob looks up, startled, almost hurt, and nearly misses the amusement, the gentle teasing, in Rue’s eyes.
“No. I have eyes for only one,” Hob says sincerely. Rue falters. Their hands find his own and hold tight.
“As do I,” they whisper.