Chapter Text
There’s a difference between bad people and people who do bad things. The line between is razor thin in some ways, and vast in others. The difference between bad and annoying is often just as hard to define, with a few broad strokes examples.
In Elsus, “good” is rooted in personal honor, loyalty, and integrity. Actions are respected if they come from a place from honesty and commitment to one’s word. Being deceptive is heavily frowned upon, and being straightforward—even brutally so—is seen as virtuous. A knife in the back for the good of the community might as well be a clean one, even if no one likes the sight of it. She’d long grown up seeing predators on two legs dealt with in the same way a predator on four would be handled, a collective responsibility to maintain safety and order. It’s a hard land to govern, vast and dense as Elsus is, the crown a heavy burden she shouldn’t feel as relieved as she is to relieve.
Union with the prince of Angeles is an extension of these values she’s always grown up with; mutual defense and protection, reciprocity, honor and integrity. This is her putting her community over her individuality, the needs of her people, the security of future generations, above herself.
She already misses the trees.
She’d come so far on her own, self-reliance being a cornerstone of personal strength and character. It’s a sign of confidence and trust in her capabilities, a political statement that underscores the strength and independence of her people, a rite of passage. She was trained as a warrior, same as any man in her kingdom, she’d handled plenty of threats on her way here, but nothing had really prepared her for the first step out of the forest. Even her horse seemed startled by the vastness ahead of them, so much wider than any field they'd crossed before. She’d climbed hills and trees, she knew the horizon existed, she knew what the ocean was, of course, but she’d never seen it in person, never this much of it, at least. She parts with her horse at a small farm, she refuses coin, and continues on foot to the docks.
The port town is bigger than she’d expected, everything is spread so far, and the people mull about their daily lives and chores, either unaware or unimpressed by the water that laps at the shore, one edge of the world meeting the other. When she looks around the place, seeing men pull up nets with worn, knobby hands, wrestling with the weight of the fish that squirm and thrash inside, she finds it almost impossible. Elsus has lakes and rivers, she’d seen fishermen, but none as immense in their hauls, none so accustomed to the act that it’d become a natural, almost automated process. She sees children scour the sands for shells, digging their little hands into the wet earth at the sight of bubbles when the tide pulls back and pulling up small round things, tossing them into buckets with the same kind of efficiency that a bird might have pulling worms from the dirt.
She sees all of these new things, strange and wonderful, her face twists at the sharp smell of brine in the air, the salt that sticks to her tongue merely through breathing it in, and wonders where the line between bad person and bad things lies. She’s glad to be gone, to walk in this new place and feel her feet sink into the sand as a woman like any other, just Antonia. She’s glad for the stares she receives, a strange woman coming from God knows where, foreign and stern-faced with a sword on her back and nothing else, looking around like she’d never seen the world before today. She is strange, isn’t she? So is everything else.
She approaches the dock and flags down one of the sailors moving back and forth over the steep ramp. The man doesn’t believe her when she says she’s here to sail for Angeles. On her own? She has the gold to pay him, if he’s willing to make the journey there with her alongside them. She doesn’t ask for food or protection, only transportation. They’re reasonably suspicious, especially with her being armed.
“We’re not in the business of hauling assassins, miss,” the sailor frowns, “no one sails on an unassuming ship to the city with a blade that big and good intentions."
She has no intention of assassinating anyone, certainly not the prince. “I’m here to marry him, actually,” she corrects. This is the princess they’d heard whispers about? Where’s her entourage? Her trunks? Her escort? No princess travels without an escort. And what need does a woman have for a sword, let alone a princess?
It seems frivolous to her at first, the incredulous glances that turn to concern when her identity is confirmed. She’d never had a personal guard, not since she was about eleven, at least. Traveling through familiar territory without an escort is as natural as walking through the halls of her own home, and in the new environments she’d encountered, she simply used a map. This man is a sailor, right? He uses maps all the time, she imagines. “Well, yes, of course,” the man nods, “but you’re no sailor.”
Is it bad to feel a strange sense of freedom in her solitude? Or does wishing for more of it make her bad? There’s a feeling something like pride that swells up in her to see the sailors so stunned at her independence, to know that she is different. Pride in this way isn’t explicitly a bad thing, but it’s not proper, either, is it? If something as similar as a few day’s journey could shock the people so severely, what would it say about her as a future queen?
"What about your dresses?" one of them asks, "Never heard of a princess with only one dress."
Why would she bother dragging more behind her? It seems a bit ridiculous. "This is a traveling dress," she gestures to herself with a dismissive shrug, "I've got to many important things to worry about on a few week's journey than whether my hemline has dirt on it when I arrive." The sailor looks at her as if she’d grown a second head, his gaze trails her form before he insists she cover up before coming onto the ship.
The other sailors stare wide-eyed, they make protective signs and mutter prayers under their breath, even after she pulls a blanket over her shoulders. The dress is modest, suited for the autumn weather she’d been traveling through, a heavy velvet in deep green, with no symbols or embroidery. It seemed perfectly inoffensive, though apparently not.
She knew enough to bring offerings, as she’d been told they were important to seafarers, but couldn’t imagine what kind of offering would be appropriate. She brings a wreath of wildflowers and aromatic herbs to cast into the sea, as she would’ve for forest spirits, and presents the crew with small charms and tokens carved from oak, protective symbols meaningful to her own people that seem lost on the Angelesan sailors. She feels a little more secure with her handful of small polished stones, taken from the river beds near her kingdom, after seeing the sailors toss silver coins into the sea. They aren’t the same, but she hopes the little treasures made from the water closest to her home might appeal to the spirits of the sea, even if they aren’t the customary option. The sailors don’t seem offended by her offerings, unusual as they clearly are to them. There’s no sense of camaraderie between them, but the air is just a bit lighter. She’ll take it. She whistles softly, mimicking the birds who’d built a nest in her windowsill last spring, the song they’d wake her every morning with, and one of the sailors quickly snaps at her to be silent. The reaction is so immediate, she recoils from him, wide-eyed and nervous. She hopes these men aren’t violent. A queen stepping off of an unmanned ship, bloodied and annoyed, is likely one to be regarded well.
She isn’t usually one to be sheepish, but in such a strange new place, she takes in every reaction, or lack thereof, and picks it apart. What if I offend them? She thinks, what if I ruin everything? Am I bad for hoping I do? The thought alone is almost enough to shock her out of that particular train of thought.
Guilt. It’s heavy, metallic, it feels like blood in her mouth, and draws a hard chill up her spine. She shouldn’t want this to fail, she shouldn’t wish for failure, not when things between their respective kingdoms could be so much better with her success. Fear is a human emotion, Elsusan or otherwise, but she’s no ordinary woman, her fear shouldn’t steer her, her emotions should’ve override her intelligence. Still…
She can’t help but imagine her ‘new home’, her own form sitting motionless for a portrait, vacant and posed, sitting on some uncomfortable chaise at the side of her future husband. In her mind, she’s always beneath him, her head never as high as his shoulder, certainly no higher. If he's short, she'd simply have to walk in a squat, or be pulled along on some kind of cart over the floor, or maybe he'd walk on stilts. In portraits, at galas, shut away from the large concert halls where she would be discussing her kingdom’s future alongside him, were they ruling in Elsus. She imagines herself a small and waifish thing, her curls brushed straight, her body all but pinned into her dress, taking every step one at a time, hauntingly aware of each breath and glance, the position of her hands, the curve of her fingers. Angeles is home to people she knows little about, beyond stereotypes. She expected the Queen to be arrogant, detached, indulgent and fixated on aesthetics over practical concerns, the King to be rigid and conservative, fiercely protective of long-standing customs and resistant to change. She’d expected her arrival to be met with a sort of mob or small army. Because she’s an outsider, if nothing else. How would her class in Elsus translate here? Was the prince “marrying up” or “marrying down”? Was anyone above him? Elsusans aren’t known for compliance, she’s sure there are plenty of expectations already stacked against her long before she arrives. They’ll call her a wildling thing, she’s sure, and any number of names she’d heard growing up. They’ll try to bend her until she breaks, keep her in a tower, perfumed and motionless, waiting for the privilege of appearing on the arm of the King, a wild, foreign, warrior princess tamed at the feet of an Angelesan.
She'd considered the unusual proposal, she'd genuinely thought it through, she knows it'll be good for both of their kingdoms, if they can be good for each other.
She idles at the bulwark, careful not to lean too far forward, as if the ocean itself might reach out and snatch her into its depths. She’d swam plenty of times, but never in a pool she couldn’t see the bottom of. Her stomach churns, and for a brief, hysterical moment, she considers running. The ship rocks, even while still at port, the constant, unsteady sway makes bile rise in her throat. This is unnatural, it shouldn’t be like this, I shouldn’t be here. The ground is alive, like a river, but underfoot and without end, a sharp contrast to the stable earth and forest floor she knows. Ahead of them, the world looks unnervingly endless, and the thought of being out there, even just a few hundred feet away from shore, is enough to make her chest tighten.
She jumps at the brush of something firmly moving against her ankles, shooing it away on instinct, as she would any other small animal in the forest, and finds herself stunned to see a cat on board. A small thing, gray with bright green eyes. By the time she’s crouched and offers it her hand to sniff, a small apology for swatting at it, another sailor has approached them.
A robust man, despite his age, his eyes holding a youthful warmth that belies the salt and pepper of his beard, the worn complexion of his skin, and the scars across his forearms. He speaks with an accent she’d never heard before, and tells her to mind Fish.
“Fish?” she repeats, and the man nods. The cat’s name is Fish. Why? Because he likes them. A simple enough answer. The old sailor’s name is Moose.
“Do you like moose?” Antonia asks, and the man smiles wide, his teeth chipped, a few missing, most stained.
“Absolutely not,” he answers.
Antonia gathers the cat into her arms before standing, asking if Fish (a ridiculous name, she’s decided, though endearing) belongs to someone in the port town. Moose tells her that Fish is just as much a sailor as any of the rest of the crew, that cats bring good luck on long voyages. When she asks if the little thing isn’t afraid of the sea, Moose is quick to correct her choice of words.
It’s apparently a deep transgression among seafarers to call the sea by its name.
“This is the sea, why would I call it anything else?” she asks, equal measure curious and frustrated with everything she’d managed to do incorrectly thus far, the depth of knowledge she doesn’t even know she lacks. The Angelesan sailors were seeming more and more to her like life from an alien planet much farther than a few weeks travel from all she was familiar with before.
“The Great Mother is vast, powerful, immense ,” he tells her, “You wouldn’t call the king or queen by their first names, don’t assume that kind of familiarity here.” Moose regarded her with a sort of posture and furrow to his brow that suggested Antonia was little more than a curious, if mouthy, child to him. She was an endless fountain of questions, genuinely curious and just as confused, but wanting to learn more. She didn’t want to offend anyone, it was obvious to him that she hadn’t meant to, and that every step she made seemed to cause trouble, and the girl refused to stay still. There’s a warmth in him that luckily extends to her, a willingness to listen and educate, but she can tell that superstition is something he takes seriously, as do the rest of the crew.
She’d never heard of such a thing before now. The forests that surround her kingdom are dense, heavy enough to obscure day from night in some places, but she’d never held back from calling it what it was. This is the Shaudon Forest, those are the Baxby Woods, in one direction is the Bronora Covert, in another, the Pillowvine Woods. The forest had never swallowed her up for naming it, it seemed ridiculous that the sea might suddenly do the same.
“At night, you’ll see,” he nods, a warning but not a threat, and a chill creeps over her skin. Moose looks at her with such conviction, such earnest fear for the ocean, that it makes her question whether this is some kind of sign, an omen of horrible things to come. This, she decides, is the face of a man who has lived, fought for each breath he’s taken and each story he shares. He seems just as comfortable here as she does in her forests, and she finds herself following after him almost absentmindedly as he moves about the ship.
He’s the first to ask Antonia about her homeland, how the hell she’d managed to be so well read and educated without knowing the basics of maritime superstition. Her dress is green, she hadn’t (quite) brought the correct offerings, she whistled, she referred to the Great Mother carelessly. Each breath she had taken since arriving violated some kind of superstition, though Moose did praise her for not shooing away the cat, making quick amends when she’d moved to do so. Elsus is landlocked, she tells him this is her first experience at sea, then quickly corrects herself, “My first, um— visit ? With your Great Mother,” she says, an earnest attempt to apply what she’d learned. She’s endearing in her clunkiness, though he’d never admit it.
“There is no Great Mother in Elsus,” she tells him, “I've heard the forest as 'Old One', Whispering Mother, maybe,” she shrugs slightly, considering the legends around rivers, “but it’s only older generations that consistently call the forest anything other than the forest ,” she explains, “The forest isn’t alive in the same sense you tend to see the Great Mother as, we’re far more concerned with what’s in the forest.”
Moose sees something in her that he hadn’t expected, a sort of edge to her tone and unwavering gaze that he knows will mean trouble once they reach port. He warns her as much, tells her that even in their brief interactions, just in the way she moves about the ship, that she’s confident enough to move around the ship at all, really, tells of a culture entirely foreign to the one she’s about to walk into.
“People will spoil you, or try to,” he tells her, “I’m grown enough to know what’s under a skirt doesn’t make a woman, and a woman doesn’t make anything she doesn’t want to be, but it won’t keep people from expectin' things of you, expectin' what you aren’t.”
Antonia’s brow furrows, honestly already fed up with the evasiveness and polite ambiguity that seems to tangle the Angelesan people’s words into insubstantial fluff. Moose is quick to point out that this is exactly what he means. “You’re annoyed, I can see it in you, that alone is more than women are expected to show here. Princess or not. I’m looking forward to seeing it,” he confesses, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, he takes a swig of something sour from a brown bottle and brings the back of his hand across his mouth, offering her a parting sip, and she refuses with a slight grimace, earning a small laugh out of the man.
He concedes with a slight shrug, suggesting it might be best not to be tipsy on an already moving vessel, since she’s clearly not used to the movement.
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
The Great Mother certainly does scare the shit out of her, as Moose had warned her she would. She’s quick to move back from the bulwark, the sight of the moving water against the unmoving boards of the ship’s deck making her nauseous. She’s given the blessing to sit on the short staircase leading to the wheelhouse, and watches Moose pilot the ship at the helm with such ease, he almost looks bored. 1,058 nautical miles, just shy of three days' travel. It’s not much longer until the sun sets, and she’s absolutely enamored at the sight of it. The endless expanse of water feels magical but… eerie . Moose beckons her up to the helm and asks her what she thinks about the Great Mother, how it feels to be somewhere so wide. “Tell me what you’re looking at,” Moose encourages, “in your own words.”
It takes Antonia a moment to gather herself enough to even consider where she’d start. “It might as well be a new sunset, or a new planet," she breathes, "the sky caught twice,” she starts, “above and below, with no earth to separate them,” she marvels. The boundary between land, water, and sky, its strange mirror-like quality making her feel like she’s walking the mirror’s edge where worlds meet, one end of one universe and the other at once. “It’s so quiet, it’s unsettling,” she confesses, “as vast as Great Mother herself,” she breathes. She’s so accustomed to the constant chatter of the forest creatures, leaves rustling, the distant murmur of streams, the emptiness here makes her check her own ears, snapping her fingers on either side of her head to confirm she can still hear things, it’s really just that quiet out here. She’s terrified, unsettled, but deeply affected by the immensity Moose had told her about. It’s vast, it’s alive, unpredictable. He tells her about the creatures that live in the water below them, some as big as the ship itself, some so small they can hardly be seen at all. He tells her the water is so deep, no one has ever seen the bottom of it.
“No one alive, at least,” he smiles slightly, his tone lighthearted and teasing, and he laughs at the fear Antonia displays at the implication. He makes a point not to use words like ‘sink’ and ‘wreck’, more superstition, she imagines, and she doesn’t press the issue. The idea of a graveyard of ships and sailors below her feet makes her stomach churn.
“What do you know about your prince?” Moose asks, seeming earnestly curious.
“Less than you, I imagine,” Antonia frowns, watching the sun continue to set ahead of them. Moose snorts softly.
“Elsusans are private, but not really the other way around, huh? I’m sure you’ve heard more than you give yourself credit for,” he encourages, nudging her shoulder lightly with his elbow when she crosses her arms under her chest, taking up a guarded position. “I’ve heard plenty about you.”
“Me?” Antonia frowns up at him, her expression carefully neutral, her brow furrowed with thought, “What about me?”
“We’ll trade,” Moose smiles, “a rumor of yours, a rumor of mine.”
Antonia is reluctant, but concedes. She doesn’t know much of anything about the prince, not really, but she’d definitely heard enough about Angeles to have an image in mind. The Elsusan court calls him The Queen’s Puppet, given the domineering influence of his mother felt as far out as her forests. She admits she’s at least a little worried that she’ll always have him under her thumb, that he lacks independence and might obey his mother’s commands and judgements forever, ignoring her own experience and input. Moose confirms the queen is absolutely capable of being as bitter as she might suspect. Antonia had seen plenty of people coming and going through Elsus, some nobles who'd taken up residence near the mountains who come only in the spring or to brave the bitter winters. Gossip is a universal language, still, he's a little surprised to hear so many had spoken about how bitter the queen could be, given how hard he'd assume the woman would try to hide it.
“I’ve heard them call you a Witch of the Woods,” Moose quips, “Elsus is a dark and mysterious place. From where we’re standin', it’s outright spooky. I’ve heard rumors about you dabbling in magic or having some kind of supernatural power to charm the prince and court.”
The idea is ridiculous, of course, but she considers how limited Elsus’ contact is with Angeles, how esoteric she might seem by association.
“Even if I knew how to charm someone... we’ve never seen each other,” she tells him, trying to sound more unbothered than she feels, “no letters, no communication at all.”
This surprises Moose, even he knows it’s typical for the rich types to send portraits of each other or something . She has no answer as to why they’d skipped over the usual formalities and courting rituals, why her first time being alone with him will likely be the day of their wedding. At first, she thought it might’ve been an Angelesan thing, but Moose’s reaction confirms the strangeness in the way they’ve jumped from point A to B without navigating any of the space between.
“I’ve heard he’s… pretty,” Antonia says, almost sheepish to say so aloud, to hope that he is. “I’d rather have an ugly husband who’s kind than a handsome husband who isn’t,” she says quickly, “there are liaisons who once came to Elsus from Cadel who said he looks like he’d been born of a star,” she adds, “that the queen wished on one for an heir, and the star fell right into her open hands.”
Moose’s brows go up, finding the story a little endearing, amused to learn something new from her, a way that people from a place as far away as Elsus or Cadel might see his own. Princess or not, she's still a person under all that toughness, still probably dreaming of a kind, handsome man waiting for her on the other side of this. "The family has some... unique features," he nods, "I can see why you'd hear that."
Antonia's curiosity piqued, she asks what he means, but Moose only shakes his head, insisting he'll spoil a good surprise by telling her. “And?” he presses, "You've heard other things, otherwise you wouldn't be nervous," he insists. Antonia hesitates for a moment, then relents.
“They also said he was stupid,” she deadpans, earning a bark of laughter from Moose, who grins down at her, looking at her with bright eyes that seem to glitter and spark with amusement at her blunt honesty. “I’ve heard that his good looks are his primary asset, that he’s the “face” for the throne, handsome and agreeable, but not capable of leading in any meaningful way.”
Moose nods thoughtfully, “Well, I can see why that might be assumed,” he concedes, “people tend to be one or the other, huh? We should be happy to have such an earnest and level-headed future queen.”
Antonia’s eyes narrow with feigned suspicion, unsure if he’s calling her impulsive and pretty or even-tempered and ugly. The expression brings another laugh from Moose, quieter, but no less genuine. “What else, then?” he asks, “I’ve heard others say he’s too soft, more suited t' be a consort than a king. Maybe that’s why they’ve sent for you,” he thinks aloud, “a warrior would certainly whip him into shape, huh?”
“I don’t…” she pauses, unsure of what to say in response. She doesn’t what ? She doesn’t want to ‘whip anyone into shape’, certainly not her husband. She wants to be welcomed, or at least warmly regarded. She wants to be respected, regarded as an equal, spoken to kindly, treated softly. She’s a person, after all, and shields get heavy after a while, whether she was born with it in her hands or not.
Moose doesn’t speak for a while, he doesn’t try to fill the silence or press her to speak openly. It’s enough to stand beside him for some time, watch the sun disappear over the horizon and give way to night. Old enough to marry doesn't make an adult, he imagines she's more frightened than she allows herself to admit.
“Prince or not, a knee to the crotch goes a long way,” Moose says suddenly, his voice quiet, but firm. He glances in her direction from the corner of his eye, “princess or not, you’re a person, all of that training must be useful for something, so don't let 'em push you around out there,” he sighs softly, his shoulders slumping slightly as tension uncoils from his muscles. Antonia looks up at him like he's got all the answers, a lifeline of sorts, still a kid, as far as he's concerned.
“I can’t say shit about what kind of place Elsus is, but I can tell you about Angeles,” he nods.
After a moment of silence, he turns his head to look at Antonia fully, “I’ve seen the upper class from out here, down there,” he nods toward the ship, gesturing toward the belly of it, the darker corners others overlook, “From what I’ve heard, your people respect hard work, earning your keep. Doesn’t matter what class you’re in, how well off your grandparents were, which God decided your ass sits in which seat at which table, everyone gets the same voice, even if they don’t get to do the same things with it.”
Antonia nods thoughtfully, drawing the blanket a bit tighter around her shoulders as the night air creeps through her dress.
“There are people who think blood and gold speak louder than sweat and steel. We’ve got rules on rules, titles, fancy words that don’t make sense, but they’ve got power,” he warns.
“And yet you’ve kept your peace, haven’t you?” Antonia frowns.
“True enough,” Moose nods slightly, “Peace and compliance are easy to mix up from up where you’ll be sittin’. The court spends their days planning feasts, whispering secrets, worrying over who’s wearing what and how much it costs. Not much care left for the rest of us, especially down here, far from the castle where they can’t hear us,” he pauses, and seems to consider his words very carefully, as if unsure of how open he should be, “The prince, now, he’s known to be fair enough. Some say he’s more interested in books that brawls, there’s some who think he’s soft ‘cause of it, but others say he’s got a good heart.”
“It sounds like they don’t think much of him here, either,” Antonia frowns, feeling an odd tinge of something close to protectiveness, “Is he not your future king?”
“We’re a fickle bunch out here, Your Highness,” Moose responds, addressing her with the honorific for the first time, it sounds strange in his voice, but emphasizes her role as 'one of them', for better or worse, “From what I've heard, the prince doesn’t fit the mold his mother set for 'im — she’d have made him one of those polished stones, no sharp edges. But he’s a thinker, he’s got his own way. Might be what we need out here, though maybe we don’t know it yet,” He leans in a bit, lowering his voice, almost conspiratorially, “It’s a strange place, princess. Beautiful to look at, but it’s a hard land to rule, even for those in charge. Everyone’s got a mask on — even at the docks, y’know. They’re lookin’ at you for your titles, your jewels, judgin’ if you’re one of ‘em or not. Folks like me, we keep our heads down. Learn to listen, let the waves carry the gossip ‘cause there’s no speaking against the queen or her court.”
Antonia finds herself leaning in, too, sharing a secret with him like children might at a sleepover, grateful for his perspective, “Isn’t there anything they value? Anything real?”
“They value plenty, Your Highness,” Moose snorts, “Knowledge, riches, charm, a silver tongue. And they’ve got a way with words, the kind that cuts you up and bleeds you dry without so much as sayin' your name. The kind of ‘real’ you might mean? That’s scarce as fish in the desert,” he glances back toward the open sea, a slight smirk on his face, “You’ve made waves before you even got there, I hope you know that. Comin’ on your own, without the jewels and parade, big ass sword and no sign of wantin' to use it, it says something. If you ask me, a bit of Elsus spirit might do us some good. I reckon they won’t take kindly to all your ways. They’ll respect your birth and title, but strength and independence… you’ll have to remind ‘em that those are just as noble.”
Antonia draws in a slow, deep breath, the air out on the water crisp and clear, reminding her of the mountains back home. “Sounds like a challenge,” she smiles slightly.
“You don’t seem the type to back down from ‘em,” Moose grins, “There’s good folk out here, too. Those who’ve worked their lives away without much glory. We’re all watchin’ for someone to lead with more than a fancy hat and a gilded name. Showin’ you’ve got a strong heart might do more than all their high-born talk and fine clothes combined. Witch of the Woods or not.”
Antonia nods thoughtfully, considering his words for a moment before asking if he’d be willing to tell her specifically what ways the crown had failed him out here. She knows Angeles is a trading hub, that sailors are the backbone of the economy, surely. She wants to know how she can help keep him from being overlooked, if she can do anything at all to ease burdens on such hard working shoulders, or aid their communities. It’s a surprising sentiment, and he takes a moment before answering.
“If I’m speaking honestly,” he starts, and Antonia nods to encourage him, “most of us don’t have anyone listening to us at all, so you just askin’ makes you a rare one. The navy and trade keep the kingdom’s belly full and the court’s pockets heavy, yeah,” he nods, “but if you ask around in the docks or any ship, you’ll hear a different take about how much that’s appreciated.”
He looks out over the water, making minor adjustments with the wind as they sail, “If you’re lookin’ to change things, maybe start with respecting the craft, making sure it’s clear that the Great Mother doesn’t belong to anyone, least of all the men in high towers. The ones sailing, who know her best. Set aside a council just for us, maybe, folks from the navy and the docks, fishermen too. Bring us in, hear what we know.”
Antonia’s eyes widen a fraction as she listens, honestly surprised there isn’t already something like that in place, “We have something like that in Elsus for hunters,” she nods, “do you think the people would feel heard that way?”
Moose nods, glad to hear she’s accustomed to that kind of representation in her own court, “If it were real, of course. Not just a place for showing off noble folk who never set foot on a ship’s deck. If we had a real say, a voice in the trade laws, in the way money’s spent on the docks… that’d be something.” He hesitates a little, choosing his words carefully, the closest to cautious Antonia had ever seen him, “If I might be bold, Your Highness, we could use fair wages and decent living quarters. A sailor’s life is hard, but in Angeles, it’s barely enough to keep a roof. The royals talk about the kingdom’s wealth, but it doesn’t trickle far.”
She nods, “That’s more than reasonable,” she frowns, “How else could I help? What about your families? Surely you deserve better than the bare minimum.”
“If a sailor’s injured, his family’s barely got support,” Moose shrugs, “and if… in the worst case scenario, well, the crown could offer his kin more than silence,” he seems to soften a bit, seeing her genuine interest, the firm set of her jaw, something close to disgust at the lack of support, and it’s more a relief than he has words for, for a moment. “You’re a breath of fresh air, if I might say,” he chuckles, looking almost tired, “Angeles could use a bit of Elsusan courage, protecting our own, not just from other kingdoms, but from the toll providing for each other takes on us. And if you do that? If you gave folk like me a chance to stand tall, maybe with fair wages, a council, support for our families, anything more than what we’ve been given—”
“Haven’t been given,” Antonia mutters bitterly, drawing another wide grin from Moose.
“Well, I reckon you’d have a kingdom that’d fight like hell for you, storm or drought, rumors be damned. The people will see you listening, and they’ll remember it. Change like that, it might just ripple out, even to the court.”
⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖
She spends most of the night awake with Moose, curled up in whatever spot she can find safely tucked out of the way that allows her to watch the open water. Fish makes his rounds, stretches lazily and comes to rest in her lap, and Antonia finds the soft pur under her hands more comforting than she’d imagined. They talk about education, which things are normal in Elsus and considered strange here. He makes a point to warn her about which topics to tread lightly with, what to be careful of, as much as he could tell her, at least. It turns out people do an awful lot without second thought around people they think are too stupid to recognize what they’re doing. There’s a good amount of gossip shared between them, Moose filling Antonia in on stories about Angelesan nobles, who’s cheating on who and who else knows about it, who goes where in a shitty disguise and thinks their spouses don’t know.
By the end of their journey, Antonia’s had plenty of conversations with Moose and the other sailors about how Angeles works, mostly how it doesn’t work. She feels more herself than she had when she boarded, that’s for sure, and definitely on guard. She’s looking forward to meeting the prince more as a fight she’s eager to get over with than as a man soon to be her husband. Too much of what she’d heard of the Angelesan court is true, even if somewhat exaggerated. Amidst the topics and details that make her blood boil, she learns good things, too. The people of Angeles are broadly creative, particularly with earth art , something Antonia was familiar with but didn’t know as an art movement. Moose explains sandcastles, made by children and adults alike, with varying levels of detail. The people closest to Angeles’ shoreline have a historically strong connection to the Great Mother, and do a lot of ephemeral art like this. He tells her about a giant spiral made of collected stones, a jetty that disappears and reappears with varying water levels, a large stone tower someone sets out to light a fire in the center of when the tides are low. When the waves come back in, the fire is put out, a warning to those nearby to move back or risk being swept away. There’s a lot the people do to mark tides and plan voyages, each so unique and strange to her. Tide stones and water-marking poles, shell and driftwood tide clocks, sun and moon dial carvings, she can’t wait to see them all. It’s the decorated tide pools she looks forward to most. Colorful stones, sea glass, and shells set in specific patterns that work almost like calendars, revealing certain patterns depending on depth as a signal for when to fish.
Elsus has carved tree markers, there are plenty of elders who pass on knowledge for cultivating moss and fungus into paths and patterns, rock cairns and sundials, hollowed wood wind chimes that produce tones tied to seasonal events hung high in trees that help travelers navigate when the forest is unrecognizable, trees manipulated as saplings into living archways and shelters. The others seem exceptionally interested in that particular area of Elsusan art, and she’s more than happy to demonstrate with ropes the way she’s woven roots together to help create bridges over rough water. “The paths to the castle are canopied with allées,” she tells them, “long, straight paths lined with tall trees. There are hollowed wood chimes hung high in their branches, the pine and aster attracts fireflies, and they all meet at a center, a clover amphitheater, with a tall arbor made of living trees. We have meetings there, community and council events…”
“Sounds beautiful,” Moose marvels quietly, “sounds like you miss it already.”
Antonia hesitates, but nods, “I do,” she confesses, “it’s my home, the only home I’ve known, and Angeles is so different.”
“We’ve got trees, too,” one of the sailors smiles, drawing a genuine laugh from Antonia, even if quiet, “you’ll find plenty to climb in or nap under, Princess,” he assures her, “people might look at you funny for it, but I imagine you’re good enough not to get caught.”
“Oh, definitely,” Antonia smiles, “I’ve been hunting since I was little, I’m almost invisible in the forest…” it’s a good memory, being small, lighter on her feet than she might’ve ever become, almost like the wind, knowing the trees well enough to make quick decisions on where to grab and step, easy enough to spot a trap when you’re already so close to the ground. Her bow was homemade, little more than a pliant branch and a few of her hair ribbons, but in her mind she stalked wolves the size of carriages, hid from bandits and defended her toys the way a bear would her cubs. As she grew older she hunted and stalked real prey, she climbed high branches to fasten chimes, she napped in the bends of the trees in spring, wasted a day away reading under sunlight, watching the birds build new nests and squirrels skitter about underneath her. She was one with her forest in those moments, sharing breath with it, living alongside and within everything around her, one in the same. It’s an immense comfort she imagines Moose and the others might feel out here, why else would they call The Great Mother anything else? Certainly, after a while to get acclimated, the rocking of the ship might feel like being carried to bed as a child, the sharp salt of the air might smell like home, the sound of waves might be whispers. Just like the wind in her branches and chimes, the warmth of the sun, the scent of flowers carried through her hair when she slept in the bended arm of her trees.
It’s… sore, too. An ache she might not ever stop babying, already a longing for home that defies her upbringing, the leader she’s been raised to be. Is it bad, or am I bad?
“I have a question, if I could,” one of the sailors starts, his eyes narrowing at Antonia curiously. She nods once to encourage him, and he continues, “You’re a princess, Elsus is obviously very different from home, a day with you showed me that much,” he frowns, leaning forward to set his elbows to his knees, “what’s your plan with the sword,” he nods toward it, “you hunt, so you know it’s hard to use when it’s on your back, would’ve been easier to carry a bow or a less… noticeable weapon.”
Antonia shrugs the strap of the sword’s sheath and moves the blade to lay across her lap, still wrapped in the same leather her sisters had fastened for her before she set off. “I’m still armed,” she nods, “I had to eat somehow on my way here,” she glances up to meet the eyes of the sailor in front of her, “the sword is a gift,” she clarifies.
Moose’s brows go up, his pale irises catching the light of the lantern between the group, “For the king?” he asks.
“For the prince,” Antonia corrects, almost sheepishly, “it’s custom in Elsus, part of an engagement gift,” she traces the edge of one of the straps that cross over the blade, “if our roles were reversed, he would’ve proposed to me with a sword, a promise to protect me and our home. I could’ve rejected him if I didn’t find the blade to my standard, or if it failed a series of tests. The standard is set for me, too,” she shrugs, sitting up a bit straighter and squaring her shoulders, “the gesture has no gender, I’ve already seen quite a lot of things do out here.”
The small crowd of sailors is silent, not even Moose has something clever to say about it, genuinely shocked, maybe for the first time since meeting her. “The court…” he starts, his tone heavy with warning.
Antonia nods almost solemnly, “I know.”
It’s unbecoming, maybe even shocking. For Antonia to forge a weapon, especially one as detailed as a sword, is likely to be considered unladylike and suggestive of a “wild” and “foreign” upbringing. She can almost hear the gossip already, almost see the painted faces peering at her over some ornate fan, “lacks refinement” and “too bold for her own good”. Maybe the guards would respect it, familiar with the pledge to safety, understanding the significance of a promise to stand by him, all of them.
“The queen will have a cow,” one of them says, “I wish I could see it.”
She’s a bit relieved to hear someone crack a joke about the impending doom of her engagement present, “The cow or the queen?” she snorts.
“One in the same, depending on who you ask,” Moose quips, taking another long swig from the bottle he’d been nursing since sundown, “You’re really in for a world of shit, princess,” he sighs, then lifts the bottle slightly, “power to you.”
Antonia forces a small smile, hoping at least one person in the castle will be half as supportive as the sailors are. By morning she’ll find out.