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Hob watches Apollo unsheath his blade, yet he does not falter. Despite the hot flush of goblin temper that rages behind his skin—heart steadily clamouring like the beating of his dear Wrackingspelt’s hooves upon the soft earth—he steps back. He is a military man, and the order of that does not escape him; first military then man. He will not allow his most odious sense of honour (the thought of which, enchanting his mind’s eye at once with the image of Rue’s kind words hidden beneath the ruckus of the hart hunt, then of their obvious distaste for his affections in turn, and then again to the night spent dancing with them at the masquerade) to distract him from duty. Not again. Still, Hob takes solace in the image of Apollo’s throat, slit open under the cover of darkness. His thoughts of murderous intent are his to have privately. That is his right. That may not be taken from him, unlike so many other things in that regard.
“Apologies, Prince Apollo. If you take offence at my leave, you may air your grievances in a more public… And official… Manner. Satisfaction is, as always, mine to give…” Hob pauses for a moment to reign in the low growl that overcomes his voice as he speaks. He takes a breath and continues.
“But, seeing that we are met in such a clandestine local… I must away.” And before Hob leaves, he gives into a small goblin instinct and delivers one final blow to the Court of Wonder.
“I have more important matters to attend to.” His tone is airy and careless, but his eyes carry weight his voice cannot. Steely and cold, they lock onto Prince Apollo and hold his gaze, daring him to contradict the words hung in the air. The disposition of a soldier sits, heavy, on Hob’s shoulders. There is a confidence to it that silences refute, as, in the quiet, Hob’s unaffected countenance speaks of his own assuredness that, should a duel come to be, Hob will win. Apollo says nothing but glares with intent of his own. Eventually, upon the realisation that Hob will not break the growing tension tying their sights to one another, he allows himself a measure of formality.
“Good day. Captain Hob.” He grits, but Hob lets the slight pass. ‘Military, then man.’ He thinks to himself, marching toward Andhera’s apartments, unsure what conduct to follow in the knowledge that there would be no purpose to him staying in wait for his betrothed.
Standing before the splendour of the rooms of the Unseelie Court, Hob reflects upon this wonderful gift that Andhera has bestowed upon him in the form of the prince’s friendship. Stepping, slowly, deliberately into the long shadows cast by opulent obsidian walls, he looks into the dimness, cut into sections—sharp pristine edges of gemstones—noticeably devoid of softness and warmth. Yet, almost in spite of the overbearing gloom, Hob feels a surge of brotherly—teetering on the precipice of paternal—affection, seeing a lingering remnant of Adhera’s visage, even in the barren blackness of the inescapable dark.
With calculated steps, his gait not one of overzealousness and impropriety (as to not incite another scandal), nor one of hesitation or dread (a scandal in its own right, although one of a more personal nature), he soldiers towards a looming stone door. Hob is careful about who sees him walk toward the entrance of the Unseelie Realm, watching those who watch him. He marches like a blunt instrument, though deeply within himself, he feels uncomfortable in the role. He blinks away the revelation of what his born nature has cost him, not just in his recent dissolution of a dearly craved love match, but from his low-born title. The sting of status desired but undeserved nestles itself far within the crevices of sentiment that, if he were not a failure of every expectation so kindly laid before him, he would not possess.
In the wake of Prince Apollo’s sudden appearance, Hob thinks of the Lord Blemish and the Lady Boil, of their trust, and his cowardice. He thinks of Binx, and her command over tacticianship that proves Hob’s prowess to be nothing but a futile distinction between himself and uselessness. His respect for her mirrors the shame and dishonour that he holds within his own mind; in a kindred spirit, he can only find another barb with which to gut himself further.
Moments before he allows his furred claws to touch basalt—the material of which one of the two ornate knockers upon the doors of the Unseelie Court is made—he steels himself with an idle concession, that at least he needs not to face Rue while the wounds surrounding his feelings for them are still so raw. He inhales as far as his lungs allow as he knocks, the smell of ozone, like the anticipation just before a storm, reaching past his nostrils and deep into the back of his throat. No, he would not have to face Rue today…
But even the Major knows himself deluded in his worthless hopes as the odour of the wind changes, and, carried upon the sadistic breeze, is the rich, unforgettable scent of peonies.
The door opens, and Hob cannot help his eyes as they bee-line to Rue. His traitorous body, whom he once considered his most controlled and formidable ally, stood full attention, every indication of reverence attuned toward Delloso de la Rue’s company. As he comes to terms with his own instincts, everything crashes around his ears. Even in the beautiful, beautiful swell of ardour, rumbling deep within his chest and resonating outward to encompass him fully as one being (the decisive wholeness of which is foreign to him), the allure of sweet and pure emotion is drowned by urgent sorrow, reproach and dismay. ‘I am happy.’ He tells himself, and his words ring half true. The nature of his passion is not demanding, nor selfish, and a part of him, an integral, although well hidden, part of Hob, is joyous with the offering already freely given. This noble and un-goblin fraction of Hob would not dare ask any more charity from the dearest Rue, content with the gift of one perfect night. A night where Hob was more than just a goblin; where Hob was instead the jewel in the eye of his most beloved companion…
A very large portion of Hob reiterates this sentiment in the careful attention to which he cherishes Rue’s memory, yet, dissimilarly to the gentle virtue and sacrifice within the underlying affections, the portion that guards these treasured flashes of nostalgia is the utmost goblin part of Major K.P. Hob. This secret character, hidden by layers and layers of self-reproach, is greedy, jealous, and hedonistic. It hoards and covets every brush between fur and feather, every sideways glance or double take, and every word, like a mantra, is burned into the broken record of Hob’s thoughts. Playing a bittersweet melody again and again and again, it is ad nauseam in every sense; Hob gorges himself on tender moments until he is sick, but bile is his lone companion. His stomach cannot reach into his heart and pull from it the metaphysical ache that he has inflicted upon himself. Thus, with no reprieve, the sickness turns inward, angry and twisted. Its feral spirit of revenge is everything that a goblin ought to be, but for Hob, it is just another sign that his only successes are hidden behind doors already closed… Because he knows that the one time he might join the rumpus and ruin, the bonfire will die and propriety will drag him, kicking and screaming (but never out loud), away from the familiarity of his warm abode and onto the unknown but cold ground of the battlefield.
Blood will join bile, and both will be his. He has very little left under his command, and he will not let his tears join the weakness staining the dirt.
Despite this resolve, Hob cannot quite catch himself in time to stop a shaky exhale as such thoughts crowd his mind, nor can he stop recognition from dawning on the faces of his sudden compatriots. Feeling trapped he flickers his gaze across each of them, assessing what they might have ascertained from his slip.
First, Andhera at the door, opening it politely. He is frozen, perfectly still, a tableau of panic interrupted by an unexpected guest. His eyes glide slowly from Hob to Rue, and though they remain kind behind subtle lashes, his grin becomes conspiratory. Mischievous and playful, and Hob does not like it one bit.
In the next split second, Hob’s eyes appraise the Lords of the Wing. Lady Chirp Featherfowl, carrying a suitcase in one hand, comforting her cousin—who is asking rapid-fire questions, all of which are overlapping one another in the echoes of the caves, rendering the individual words indistinguishable—with the other. She inclines a brow inquisitively and smiles. Hob squints distrustingly at the glimmer of her teeth but he can’t ascertain the true nature of her motives. From what he knows of her already, he fears his own foolishness in that he might have placed the perfect opportunity in her hands for the crafting of a rather spectacular scandal. It would be such a ripe taste on her tongue, that she had the power to best both Major K.P. Hob and the whole of the Goblin Court in one swift blow. What a thrilling whisper on the wind would it be if the Bloom knew there was reason to believe a second betrothal from the Goblin Court might be called off? That the Major himself was so easily persuaded into the motions of tenderness that he forgot his place entirely and pursued a love match between himself and the highly esteemed Delloso de la Rue? A match doomed from the start! Even in the good graces of his own mind, he hears the tittering laugher of fae as they mock his impertinence. Beyond himself, he also recognises that a broken engagement, once, is a scandal, but twice? Twice is a pattern.
Anxious to disengage, Hob quickly finds Binx’s eye. She is, as she always has been, a kind face. Despite that being so, Hob recoils at the garish sheen of pity in her eyes as she inclines her head softly. The scar of his faltering courage deepens as he meets a gaze that only seems to regard him as an object to feel sorry for. Hob immediately deems himself a fool, Binx is a leader of their own court, a stunning exemplar of military intelligence, and the one lone fae to pique the interest of the Unseelie Court’s heir; the openness and comradery they shared must only be a creation of Hob’s own self-aggrandising nature. Hob is but a delusional soldier, unfit for courtly duty. Why should Binx see him as anything of value?
With that thought, Hob’s critical stare returns to Rue. He does not hold eye contact, he could not bear it. His eyes fall to the floor in a final show of weakness.
“Ah, Captain Hob!” Andhera grins, picking up on the tension in the entryway. He pats Hob on the back and gestures for him to join them in the drawing room.
“Major Hob, actually,” Hob replies, his voice soft, carrying an underlying undercurrent of venom, not for Andhera, but for the circumstances of his increasing rank. Andhera does not feel this riptide as it washes over the rest of the group, drawing with it intrigue and curiosity from those who do not know of Hob’s orders.
“Wonderful! A promotion! Uh, of course… A-a… A celebration must be in order, yes!” Andhera chirps gleefully, puttering about in the darkness for any food or drink with which he could offer hospitality. Hob says nothing, torn between his honest nature and the privacy that secrecy affords him, especially with Rue present in current proceedings.
“U-Uh… Advisor!” At the beckoning of the Unseelie Prince, hopeful heir to the Unseelie Court, Advisor bounds into the plane of reality from the cover of ephemeral darkness. Andhera looks upon them kindly but retreats upon the notice of grandpa-dog in their arms.
“Please find our guests some of our finest cave water!” He orders, but it is without the malice or even the indifference that members of the Unseelie usually bestow upon each other. Andhera has only warmth and gentleness in their countenance—and something in the unyielding nature of their posture, tells Hob that this is an intentional play against the ideology, and subsequently, the hierarchy of the Unseelie Court.
Hob takes a mental note of this, intrigued, but also, and probably more pertinently, intensely proud of Andhera’s courage. Once again his friends—he dares to hope and still calls them friends—amongst the Bloom show him the innate valour that they possess, of which he is distinctly lacking. All at once, he revels in Andhera’s strength and steadfastness while silently berating himself for his own shortcomings. He nods toward Andhera in recognition.
“I see you forge your own path this bloom. You have a great tenacity, one that I wish I could possess. Determination is a credit to you, as you are a credit to your court.” Hob tells him, voice hushed just enough to convey his ardent sincerity as well as the genuine personal respect that he has for Andhera without being dismissive towards the others within the gathering.
“I-I thank you. Please know that I deeply, deeply return that sentiment.” Andhera replies, eyes misting over as this emotional bond between them is pulled taught, just enough to demonstrate the thickness of the ropes that tie them together. Hob claps him on the shoulder and moves away, retreating into the shadow furthest from the group, but more specifically, furthest from Rue.
Hob watches Rue notice this, and watches their face fall. Before this moment, and unrecognised by Hob, there had been a dancing fire of hope beneath the surface of huge owlbear eyes. Now there is nothing but drowned embers, made even more obvious by the absence of that flame. Rue no longer leans towards Hob as though waiting upon an answer, which they had been doing previously. Whatever question they had been looking to resolve, Hob does not know it, but, clear in the dullness of their expression, they nonetheless find Hob’s honest response, and further still, they find it lacking.
“Speaking of promotions,” Rue speaks up, voice cracking in a way unfamiliar to the ears that entertain them. They swallow, and Hob winces at the disappointment clearly written for all to see in the slump of their shoulders.
“I was offered a position in the Chorus of the Court of Wonder.” At this announcement, Hob staggers, unprepared for such a declaration, and bombarded with unwanted images of Rue absorbed into the unfeeling indifference of the Chorus. It pains Hob, to an extent that he did not expect to feel, that even such a grotesque perversion of Rue’s true splendour would still not avert the fathomless depths of his regard for them. He sees himself, longingly gazing at the uncracked mask of the impervious Delloso de la Rue, member of the Chorus. Waiting, day after day, for just a hint of recognition from beneath the marble. Ultimately unsuccessful, but satisfied in the fact that he at least got to try. It also doesn’t escape his notice, that even in his darkest of imaginings, he remains unbetrothed… His heart is decided then.
His brain is still not convinced.
“I did not accept!” Rue interjects quickly, turning to Hob, hurt. Hob feels it sting as though he were once more struck by Wuvvy’s poisoned blade.
“I wouldn’t accept.” They say slower, gaze still locked upon the Major. Hob releases a breath, blinking away tears before they even had a chance to take form. Stepping further into the darkness, and trying to hide the magnitude of the effect of their words on him, he replies.
“You would have been the star of the Chorus. I truly think that- that they have lost, in losing you, something truly precious… But… I cannot help… I cannot- I… I ultimately find myself glad that you chose to stay… Here… With- with us.” There is a clear air of unspoken truths and carefully decided upon words in the halting baritone of Hob’s clumsy speech. Already having said too much, he fears that even the moderated nature of his regard will be far too forward for Rue’s sense of propriety.
Ever the tactician, Hob plays a game of numbers in his head.
In the case that another duel is proposed, he will choose Andhera as his second. Should Andhera refuse, the salt goblins under his command could not. The difficulty of the scenario is in the duel itself, as it would, in reality, be a duel between Hob the soldier and the overwhelming nature of his own secret sentiment. Hob doubts in his ability to lift a sword to Rue, and surely, if—like the last—this duel is to be a public spectacle, the sordid nature of his true inclinations would be revealed, in outrageous publicity, to all; a problem solved if Wuvvy is once again chosen as Rue’s champion, a probable but not certain outcome. Being unlucky in that regard, upon facing off Rue on the sparring grounds, Hob should prepare for humiliation. At the very least, he would be deserving of it.
In the case that Rue is spurred to tears—for a second time, he ashamedly reminds himself—it would be best to let Binx soothe the wound, to save Rue from more of his ineloquent apologies. Under that circumstance, a letter should be delivered in the morning, offering a favour as an apology in place of words.
In the case that their reaction is one of anger, Hob should not offer a duel, for both the want to salvage what is possible of his relationship with the gracious Rue and also because of the aforementioned vulnerability, would Hob be honour-bound to duel them. Humiliation is assured should a duel happen, thus Hob must do all that is available in his power to quell any wrath that he unwittingly incurs upon himself. A further strategy must be developed within the heat of battle (or a battle of sorts, the physical and verbal fog of war within the courts much the same despite the differences in weapons) due to the little information he has access to.
There are only two scenarios that Hob can picture ending without utter ignominy and or the subtle pulverisation of his own fragile affections. Firstly, indifference, for if Rue is to be aloof toward his indecorum in matters regarding his own perfidious cardiac vasculature, he need not worry that offence might mature into something of a more insidious nature within the courts. And secondly, humour, as Hob has always been good for one thing, and one thing only, within the Goblin Court; mockery. It would be an honour for Hob’s tender sentiment to bring Rue any course of joy, uncaring of how mean-spirited that joy is.
Despite the careful whirring and planning of Hob's brain, and contradictory to every possible response that he had thus planned for, Rue’s face shifts into a very touched expression, underneath which, the spark of hope reignites, and with it, a swirling pool of confusion and doubt. They look up into the empty darkness above them, towards the Lords of the Wing, to Andhera, and finally to Binx. It is whatever Binx sends to them that steadies their nerves enough to say their next words.
“Please, Knickolas-” Hob gasps at the use of his first name. He then flushes at his own inability for subterfuge, even in this, his most guarded of secrets.
“You have not been forthcoming as to the nature of your thoughts regarding my note this morning. I beg you, my mind knows no mercy until I hear your response… I will respect your choice, no matter the answer you provide me… Please, what say you?” With this plea, Rue steps towards the darkness in which K.P. Hob is hidden, before quickly catching themselves and retreating back to their original position. Hob longs deeply to shorten the divide between them but holds himself.
“I… I have not received any note from you. I do not know for what answer you search.” Hob is quiet, gentle in his mannerisms. His brain is working overtime to make sense of this new information, and the recent reactions of Rue come into sharp focus very quickly.
“If this is a rejection, please respect me enough to speak plainly.” They tell him, squaring their shoulders as though they expect to receive rebuke. Hob blinks at this, the last person in the world prepared to refuse them. If Rue had asked at that moment, that they might borrow one of his kidneys for a quick game of catch, he would have dutifully unsheathed his halberd and sliced himself open on the spot.
“No! No, please do not misunderstand—I could not deny you anything—but I am left clueless in the wake of this supposed letter. I, truly, have no recollection of ever receiving such a dispatch in your hand. Ask me now what was contained within this letter and I will answer you in full.” His timber is soft, and Rue looks away, the feathers where eyebrows ought to be, furrowed in contemplation.
An expression of dawning horror and understanding flickers past Rue’s hand-crafted facade of decorum. Their eye twitches and their face takes on a bitter pain that both laments and scorns something beyond Hob’s grasp.
“Wuvvy?” They call, and, for the first time they can remember, Wuvvy does not appear after being beckoned. An admission of its own right.
As subtle tears form at the very edge of Rue’s vision, they choke back a sob.
“I-I… I am so sorry, I must leave you.” And with that, they disappear from the apartments of the Unseelie Court.
Andhera, smothered in his own good nature, follows Rue’s retreating form, but Hob does not move to go with him. Hob would not want to intrude as an unwelcome guest to the comfort that Andhera is clearly more adept at providing.
Watching him leave, the Lords of the Wing also bid their goodbyes, gossiping about recent events and something about birds leaving the nest. Hob lets them go, preoccupied with his own musings. Soon, it is only Binx and himself left alone.
“I know you are, well might be… I don’t mean to presume… I know that recent events serve as a sufficient distraction from our current plans, but I implore you to take this moment with me to prepare for our…” Binx allows herself to trail off, looking pointedly at Hob. For his part, Hob snaps to attention, as though her gentle missive were instead a pointed admonishment.
“Yes, yes. Quite right.” Hob coughs, attempting his damnedest to push down the bubbling brew of stormy emotion into the deepest pit of his stomach. It swirls there but seems content to just cause suffering, without overflowing to the surface of ruin. Binx smiles softly at him, and, from her wing, she retrieves the map she had made for their scheming.
“I hope you will agree with me in the knowledge that Rue is rather adept both in general intellect and in the art of subterfuge.” Binx is clawing at a raw nerve in the cavernous recesses of Hob’s heart, and it takes a moment too long for him to compose himself. Binx, to her credit, allows him his time, and as she does so, Hob is terribly aware that she is playing a much larger game. Despite his suspicions, he knows himself as a fool when interacting in courtly proceedings, and as such, he does nothing to defend himself against Binx’s cunning. He will be a blunt instrument, whether he predicts the strike against him or not.
“The good Delloso de la Rue is endlessly talented, in many regards.” Hob finds himself saying, split between unnecessary pretence and the vulnerability of informality. He busies himself with arranging ventriloquist facsimiles of important court members into something resembling a coherent order. He does not truly consider their placement, only wishing for a distraction to lessen the strange intensity that has enveloped the room.
“If we are to commit to our plans...” Binx casts a quick glance towards Hob in an attempt to meet his eye. Hob, military first then man, returns her gaze. He is confident in only matters of war, and some of the distance at which he holds himself melts away, heated by the militaristic air that has consumed them.
“...We must prepare with the utmost caution. If, as I believe you have suggested, you would like to sever a certain neck yourself, I ask that you allow me an hour of your time to perfect a spell that Rue taught me. One that might sneak you into his chambers unseen.” At the mention of Rue’s name, Hob flinches, but he agrees nonetheless. Binx is right, Rue has been dazzling the Court of Wonder for countless fae millennia. They would of course have a brilliant insight into the art of sneakery and subterfuge.
With Hob’s full consent, Binx casts polymorph upon him, and, behind the shade of ash-filled smog, Hob becomes a tiny, golden beetle. Pushing a hand into the liminal spaces behind her wings, Binx retrieves a safety pin.
“If you perch yourself upon this pin and allow me to cast command so that I can magically freeze you in place, you will be indistinguishable from any other broach. If I am seen wearing you today, it will be easier to sneak you into locations where goblins ought not to go.” Binx speaks gently, as though she does not wish to command nor force this role upon Hob. Touched by the gesture, Hob daintily balances himself upon the pin, allowing Binx to continue.
Not many would give Hob the chance to back out. He will reward her for it.
Binx closes her eyes and inhales. When her lashes flutter open, Hob feels the magical core of himself compelled by an unknown force. The power clutching him is not unfamiliar; it is kind and gentle, and distinctly Binx’s. He knows this force, in a more holistic sense than he would attribute to himself.
There is a culmination of Binx’s crackling energy, just under the surface of physical space. It manifests in a single word.
“Halt.” The command is intentionally reminiscent of orders given in the heat of militaristic action, designed to grasp at the soul of his very being. Hob does not fight against the spell’s hold. He is but a blunt object, he needs no agency in this regard.
Binks lifts him, and with him the pin, and attaches him to her gown. She grins warmly at his golden eyes and makes for the door of the Unseelie Court’s apartments.
“We have little under an hour before this spell wears off.” She whispers, blustering forth, uncowed by the light. Hob cannot blink due to the nature of the enchantment, so the sun pierces his pupils as the contrast of dim indoors and bright outside is made apparent to him. If he were not frozen at this moment, nor a soldier used to far worse pains, tears may have gathered beneath his lower lid to alleviate the hurt. Binx does not notice this as she makes her way across the grounds.
Hob expects her to flitter about, introducing herself and meeting with enough fae to instil the memory of her broach—which is definitely not a goblin in disguise—into the collective consciousness of the Courts. But Binx, however, is clever, too clever, Hob realises, as she instead turns towards the crown of the Bloom: Rue’s tower—in the centre of the Court of Wonder’s apartments—and her steps hasten into a stride with utmost determination.
Her pace is slow, but, even still, Hob is powerless to it. He fights the curse in a futile effort, but he had already let it take hold. There was nothing he could do. With mounting dread, he watches the tower draw ever closer, turning, from a speck upon the horizon, into a looming fortress containing all that Hob held dear.
Binx knocks upon the door, wicked and devious in her calm demeanour. It is Andhera who opens it, allowing the soft sniffles of a distraught Rue to be caught upon the wind and brought towards Hob’s ears. More than the apprehension, or even the betrayal, Hob wants, from the deepest root of his personage, to comfort them. It overwhelms his emotional palate, like a bucket of red paint, poured over a carefully crafted artwork of cool blue tones. Dwarfing any sort of complexity, it pounds against the barrier of his skin, but the spell holds it in place so that only Hob might know of its intensity.
“Andhera!” Binx flushes, and Hob, despite the treason burned into his chest, smiles secretly. There is sincerity in his wish for their happiness together, as a match that only a lucky few are given, and even fewer are allowed to pursue. The flicker of bitterness he tastes within himself is not for them, nor their happiness, but instead turned towards his own cowardice and inadequacy.
“I don’t mean to deprive you of your time with Rue, but I must speak with them. It is a matter of utmost urgency.” Binx tells him, and Hob wishes to growl at the lie. Unfortunately, his vocal cords are still reverent to Binx’s magic, and they outright refuse his request.
“O-Of course! Please, don’t let me stall you.” Andhera stutters, opening the door wider to allow Binx’s entry into the tower. Hob sends a pleading thought to the prince, but it seems that no more potions of Detect Thoughts were handed out at the tea party, as his appeal is left unheard.
Binx enters while Andhera takes his leave, so that it is just Rue and Binx—with Hob as an unobserved (not to mention, unwilling) spectator—alone in the room.
“Do you love Hob?” Is Binx’s first question, sent forth in an abrupt but frantic wave. Rue seems physically assaulted by it as they sit, suddenly straight, and Hob feels the emotional laceration without the allowance of a similar physical release. The wound cuts deeper without a bodily outlet, the inertia, angry, as it tears him apart. Rue opens their mouth, closes it, and opens it again. They seem to chew on their words, brooding over the inquiry.
“There is nothing that comes more naturally to me.” Rue eventually concedes, sardonic in their watery laugh. This, more than any spell ever could, stuns Hob into statuesque inaction. He fears that he has misheard, that all of the hope in him, this beautiful, building symphony of tentative joy, will come crashing down in discord and cacophony as Rue’s real sentiments are revealed as less-than. Optimism has been Hob’s greatest enemy. He knows, should he let himself get carried away, that the penalty for overstepping is the final destruction of his subjugated soul.
“Thus you wish to marry?” Binx presses, and it suffocates Hob in its inevitability; whatever answer Rue deems appropriate will seal his fate. He will accept both the reply itself and the consequences therein. His recent betrothal, and, more tellingly, his very sense of propriety, is but a drowned splash in the tides of fate that Rue controls through their next words.
“I do not think there is a greater prize that the universe might bestow upon me… But, I have now seen two letters of my regard denied to him. I fear that Lady Luck may be sending me a warning, and I would never intend to force his hand.” Rue laments, eyelids screwing shut in the wreckage of desire, now hollowed by burning disappointment.
Two letters? Hob had been the subject of the glorious Dellosos de la Rue’s affections for time enough to pen two letters?! Their radiant majesty, smitten to the extent that they found reason to ink such tenderness onto vulnerable parchment, that they might inform him of such revelations?! Hob would recoil in shock, were he granted the charity of free movement. Hob’s hand has already been forced, and he desperately aches to tell them that they have never conscripted him in anything, that his actions are but the binding repercussions of his own compelling devotion. He wants to assure them that he is the lone entity deserving of such blame.
“If you remain silent in this matter, Hob will be obligated by his court to enter into an unwilling marriage,” Binx informs Rue plainly. In return, they gasp in horror, unable to contribute anything more in the wake of their raging thoughts. Hob echoes the sentiment, wishing that he could close his eyes and block out some of the scene before him. He did not want to see Rue’s reaction to his betrothal, just as he did not want to feel his own.
“He confided in me, both of his, and I quote him directly, love for you, and his acceptance of a proposal to which every aspect of him was united in refusing. He will never confess to you unprompted. His sense of honour prohibits him from taking any more than he has already been gifted, and he has told me that he would not squander that little happiness in the pursuit of more.” Binx lays Hob bare before Rue, hiding nothing. It is, at the same time, the fulfilment of his innermost yearning for connection with them, and the realisation of his darkest fears, exposed by the light. The conflicting quivers of his heart make Hob’s head spin, and he can only watch Rue’s reaction to steady himself.
Said owlbear is breathing heavily, clutching the corner of a desk to hold themselves steady. The wooden top crumbles under the strength of their grip as their eyes alight with a determination that sparks curling flame in the pit of Hob’s stomach.
“We are both fools, the two of us. Do you know where I may find our most gracious Major?” Rue asks and Hob dreads Binx’s response; to entangle Hob within the depths of her deceit, or to reveal him, thus making him shoulder the consequences of a trickery, to which he, too, was a victim.
Binx smiles sheepishly and removes her broach—who is, in actuality, Major Hob— so that she may place him in the palm of their paw. Rue’s expression is one of recognition as the image of a golden frog flashes between the hollow indents in their head where ears would be. Hob himself is absent between his ears, as he is suddenly overcome by the feeling of being clutched in claws belonging to the owner of his heart.
“I must admit that I was deceptive in bringing him here, as he was not aware that I was coming to see you. If you wish to speak with him, I can cast dispel magic. I may have frozen him—just a little!—to stop him from ruining my plans.” Binx confesses, rubbing the back of their neck in a facsimile of Andhera’s self-conscious mannerisms. Rue laughs, too overwhelmed by relief and love to take offence on Hob’s behalf.
Graciously, they wave their other claw over the golden shell—within which Hob had been trapped for the last, excruciating ten minutes. Their magic nuzzles into him, lingering over every part it can reach as it lifts the enchantments and returns Hob to his preferred state; seven foot and mobile.
Although Hob would elect to be reconstructed with a witty comeback at the tip of his tongue, he is distracted by the fact that his paw is still clutched in Rue’s (and he—fortunately for his ability to speak in the future—does not realise that the magic could have been crueller in its dissipation, nor that one clawed hand is better than the whole of him replacing the beetle in their palm). Obvious in his infatuation, his face turns to gaze up at them, a furious flush discernable, even behind the fur of his cheeks.
“I’ll leave you be.” Binx winks, unheard by both as she, very noisily, exits Rue’s room.
Hob has no words adequate for the totality of his feelings, so he settles on the least inadequate words he can scramble together in the aftermath of so many epiphanies. Clearing his throat, he takes Rue’s other claw in his unoccupied grasp.
“If you wish it so, I would call the wedding off this instant.” He tells them, face earnest in the dire need for Rue to understand the intensity of his offer. That he would forsake his court, his honour, his status, for only the chance to be with them.
“I…” Rue is interrupted by the fervour of the emotions that are inspired by Hob’s declaration. They are moved to tears as they clutch at his face. The wetness on their cheeks and the romanticism of their grasp seem contradictory to Hob as he attempts to identify the emotions hidden by flesh and feathers.
“If I have misread-... I would sooner demand a duel from the Viscountess Grabalba than have my most odious affections cause you any discomfort.” He amends, halting his fingers as they yearn to wipe away tears. Finding themselves doubly overcome, Rue presses their face into the soft fur that lines the junction between the length of Hob’s neck and the outermost edge of his shoulder. But this only confuses Hob further, and Rue feels his perplexment vibrate through the touch of skin against skin.
“Knickolas… My dearest Knickolas Pnackeless Hob. I am an open book to you; do not doubt your reading of me. I could find no fault but one in the delight of your conduct.” Rue mumbles, words slurred in the muffling wedge of their beak pushed into Hob’s trapezius muscle.
“Praytell this flaw, that I might amend it.” He requests, unable to hold himself one second longer from embracing Rue tightly, seeing that he was seemingly allowed to do so. Rue responds in kind, the two of them packed together, far closer than they were at the masquerade.
“I request satisfaction in only one manner; that you will never describe your affections towards me as odious again. It is an insult to my judgement and, even if it were not, it is a deplorable fabrication most foul and untrue. Do not ever imply that my treasuring of your precious sentiment is an act of foolishness, as you do suggest in any inference of your own unworthiness.” Rue scolds, suddenly serious. Hob recognises it as an appeal to his overactive sense of honour and devotion, thus he sees the admonishment for what it is; an attempt to dissuade him of his own self-flagellation.
To be celebrated as something dignified and valuable, even to the likes of the admirable Delloso de la Rue, sends sparks of devastating infatuation down Hob’s spine and he cannot help the next words that emerge from his lips.
“I adore you.”