Chapter Text
Chapter 25 Draft:
[This one is pretty close to the original, except that Jude and Cardan talked a little bit more before Claire and Annalise arrived.]
Jude:
A flurry of healers had rushed into their chambers, several tripping over their own tails and clawed feet as they rushed to check on the Queen’s vitals. After what felt like an exceptionally unnecessary amount of poking and prodding and questioning, they all arrived at similar conclusions.
It stunned them to discover that despite the quantities of Deathsweet that had been traced in the remains of her meal, enough to surely send her into slumber from here to the end of existence, she was seemingly unaffected save for a heavy bout of fatigue.
What truly worried her was their inability to answer for the state of their child—all lacking in contact with pregnancy, both faerie and mortal. Just this once she wished they were able to lie, if only to spare her feelings momentarily. Cardan assured her that the mortal midwives had been sent for and were well on their way, the Roach having been tasked with retrieving them from the mortal lands by way of ragwort steed.
Cardan orders the healers to give it a rest, employing the most colorful of language, insisting on the Queen’s need for rest. She takes a good look at him, the heaviness of her eyelids starting to subside from all the remedies. She maps the lines of stress that carve his features, pooling between his brows. Worry from her meant much of nothing, coming as naturally as breathing, but from him it was an unusual sight. Perhaps his nurtured fear in the time she was taken drove away his hopes of uttering reassurances that rang true to him.
“Cardan…” Her voice is more level now, the sweltering thirst remedied by a poignant tea brew of Liliver’s.
“The Roach should be returning any moment now,” he grumbles something under his breath, pacing before the intricate doorway, stealing glances at her.
“You’re sure to wear the floor with those pointy boots of yours. Won’t you come here and rest with me?”
“Jude—” His steps cease.
“If I was feeling particularly cruel, I would feed you your own advice.”
“And were you particularly cruel, what ought I to hear?’ He quirks a brow, settling on the edge of the bed, placing his hand over her blanketed ankle.
“Cardan,” her tone is serious, “I will not ask again.”
Chancing a look at the door, he replies not looking at her, “Were I to join you, I fear they would be incapable of prying me from your side.”
“What else?”
He tilts his head to look at her, querying with his eyes.
“I ask you clue me in, Cardan. As you are adept in reading my facets, I, too, am skilled in the language of your heart.”
“Poetic,” he takes her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles.
“You may be skilled in a plethora of areas, but masking your feelings is not one of them. Your demeanor does not lie and your tail helps you not.”
“I—” A rhythmic knock at the door cuts him off.