Work Text:
The First Time
“Are we married?”
Cardan was fairly taken aback, lips pursing, fingers idly tapping on the bedsheets. He had denied it, sure, but surely she knew that that was the point. The exile was a farce, a trick, nothing serious, “Could you say that again?”
“We…” Jude scowled, “We are married, but you laughed.” She gave him a pointed look, “Like he does - did - but he doesn't wear gold.” Cardan’s lips pursed. The sentence made little sense at all, especially the end part. Who was “he?” They both “laughed” which wasn’t an incredibly identifying characteristic. The fact that the mysterious person did laugh was more interesting. He was dead… Did Jude kill him? What did she even think of him in the first place? And they “didn’t wear gold”. Not many people could afford gold — which was precisely why he wore it — so that was of no help, too.
Cardan sensed that were he to ask one of his many questions her eyes would glass over. He ought not forget that she was partially delirious, after all.
“So we aren't married,” Jude continued, oblivious to his inner turmoil. She slowly rolled over so that she was laying with her stomach to the wall, face obscured by thick locks of brown hair. It shouldn’t have stung. It didn’t. But still. He would have hoped if his personality was that insufferable, that his face might be pleasant to look at.
“We are,” Cardan sighed. The tension from his shoulders drained somewhat as he slumped on the desk in exhaustion. Silence stretched on, and he found his mind wandering, untethered without distraction.
The paper work needed doing, the council needed to be appeased, though he would need to counsel the next meeting because it was scheduled when Jude’s bandages were going to be changed, and he had yet to compile the information which they so desired, the lunch with Vivi and Taryn ought to be arranged, and—
“You're awful.” Jude interrupted his chain of thoughts. He startled, having assumed her asleep.
“I am.”
“I hate you.”
Cardan paused. “I know.”
“Why would I ever marry you?” Jude spat with sudden animosity.
Cardan bristled. “You tell me,” he eyed the newly-gifted bottles of liquor which sat on the bedside table. It didn’t seem fair; that Jude could be delirious and yet her words still cut with the sharpness of a knife. It wasn’t like he cared. Their marriage was supposed to be casual, was it not? Jude had clearly interpreted it as such - something he was duly envious of. How much easier could life be, if he had the power to bend it with the sheer force of his denial?
It didn’t seem fair; that Jude could be delirious and yet her words still cut with the sharpness of a knife. It wasn’t like he cared. Their marriage was supposed to be casual, was it not? Jude had clearly interpreted it as such - something he was duly envious of. How much easier could life be, if he had the power to bend it with the sheer force of his denial?
Jude hummed, eyeing him, as if to make sure he was listening. “I wanted,” then her mouth suddenly shut as if she’d had no memory of even speaking at all. Cardan shifted uncomfortably. What if it were "amnesia" that odd mortal condition where their brains shriveled into cauliflower? That would make for an interesting ballad, certainly. No. Jude could never have… that. It ought to be the sleeping draught, mingled with doses of pain medication.
The thought made him grimace.
“You wanted?” He figured it was best to prompt her - especially if he desired any fragment of a rational conversation.
“To become Queen?” Jude asked, voice all floaty and wrong. She let the silence stretch on, as if grasping for her words, “You’supposed to want me to become.” is what she finally settled on - like it made any sense at all.
Cardan sighed. “Yes. You did want to become Queen.”
“What was in it for you?” Jude asked wearily, gazing at him askance.
What was in it for him? Marrying the woman he loved. Getting to rule beside her. To provide her a safety net, of sorts; the High Queen Of Elphame ought to be more untouchable than an advisor. Rescinding her control over him - not only for his own sake, though largely so - but perhaps so she could see him as more than a puppet King. Cardan thought of saying. It’s not like Jude would remember any of this. But if she did…“So you can no longer command me.”
“I commanded you?” Jude tilted her head, then snorted. “That’s funny.”
“I’m sure you found it so.” Cardan crossed his arms. This wasn’t the first time Jude had awoken from her sleep, though it was the longest duration she had done it for. He couldn’t quite decide what he felt about it; it was most unsettling, to be around Jude when she seemingly had no filter, while she was also much too delirious for any of it to provide valuable insight. And it was terribly wrong, too. She ought not be so… needing of help.
“I’m cold,” Jude huffed.
Cardan made a face. She ought not be cold, either, for she was swaddled in layers upon layers of silken coverlets, head propped up with a pile of feather-stuffed pillows, a fluffy pink blanket laid over her lap. His shoulders tensed. What if it was a fever? In her state, Jude was much prone to infection, and from what he’d heard Liliver say—
“Don’t make that face.” Jude scoffed. “Get me a blanket.” Cardan frowned, eyeing her carefully. Just how delirious was she? Nonetheless, he did as she said, dutifully standing up and handing her a fuzzy velvet blanket.
But just as he did so, laying it down with painstaking gentleness, she gripped his hand. Cardan startled, gazing down at it. Jude’s grip was fairly weak, nothing he had associated with Jude; he imagined that so much so that he could drop it without a second thought. “Stay.” She blinked up at him weary, “I thought you married me. If you had married me you would’ve stayed.”
“Ah,” Cardan said, eyes falling down to the floor. She definitely was not in the presence, per say. After they had gotten married - which was a month or so ago, unless she was referring to the very night. “Just now,” The words took much effort to mutter, for it was an incredibly thin stretch of the truth; but he did not view time quite the same way she did, days were months and months where seconds, it all flowed in on itself, with little rhyme or reason. He looked over to see how Jude had responded, though, rather infuriatingly, she had opened her mouth then shut it again in quick concession.
“You're lying.” She finally said. “When we were married, you were here.”
“Oh? I can’t lie, though,” he replied, oddly curious to how she would respond.
Jude shook her head. “You can’t lie, but you might as well be able to. You deceive and it's awful and I hate it.” Her head fell to the side, her lips pursing. Cardan flinched, his eyes widening. The words trying to process them was like trying to hack blood from a stone; ramming water through a rock. He had not the energy for any of this, and he just wanted things to stop.
“Right,"
Eventually, he fell asleep, thoughts petering into nothingness - faint sensations, like the feeling of a soft, warm hand in his own, silken sheets pressing against his bear arm.
He awoke to a scream. Sharper than shattered glass. He looked down and found himself half-slumped over the divan, Jude staring at him with wide, shaken eyes.
Cardan startled so badly he fumbled off the bed. Hastily pushing himself upwards before fleeing his - their - bedchambers
The second time
Balekin was really down there.
Perhaps it ought to be a given; he was visiting Balekin's grave, after all — if you could even call it that. It was more a hunk of rock, half-stuck-up in the middle of the mud, unkempt and uncared for.
He’d really rather not be here, but the revel was over - or, mostly so, the four remaining pixies where drunk out over their whits, and being around drunk people was little fun when you, yourself, where not. And trying to remain so, too. After what had transpired with Jude… it seemed wrong, to just waltz in there again.
Sometimes he imagined his brothers face, where he to tell him he was the one who would rot in the dirt. The very concept was so counterintuitive to there way of things; He was the wayward, drunken fool who ought to have drowned in a bath, or something like that. A death stupid as the fact that he became High King. And yet, Cardan became did king - by no means of his own - and he was the one left to remember Balekin.
Cardan knew not what to feel. He did not miss his brother in any stretch of imagination, and on the nights where he dreamed of it; the whip digging into the flesh of his back, breaking away layers of skin and splattering blood onto the creamy, beige walls. He tried to let the fact bring him comfort. Bakekin was gone. Balekin couldn’t hurt him anymore.
But that wasn’t quite true now, was it?
Perhaps it would have been easier for Balekin to have always been cruel. And ridiculously, he had not been. Cardan had dulled memories when he was a young boy, eight or nine, tailing after Balekin in the dreary, weeping halls of Hollow Hall. He remembered the raw sting on his back, mingled with the slightest, most unbearable itch. It was almost a punishment within itself, to walk down the hallway in a thin white shirt which completely failed to disguise the mauve-brown blood stains on his back, and though it mattered not, for the maids knew better than to gawk; Cardan also knew that the blood would dry and stick if he did not remove it soon. Which was almost worse than “the punishment” itself.
Still, he dutifully joined Balekin into the kitchen, letting out a startled laugh as Balekin kicked one of the cooks from their stool, everyone else fleeing the kitchen, to then draw it by the table and wait expectantly. For what, Cardan did not know.
He slowly inched into the wall, and waited, eyes never leaving his back. “Don’t look so sheepish, brother,” Balekin smiled in a way that was supposed to be kind, or maybe frightening, Cardan could never quite tell.
Like clockwork, he fixed his posture. Setting his back straight and tilting his chin upwards. “Good.” Balekin would smile, the most he had this month, all year, perhaps, and Cardan would hate that it made him all warm and glowy on the inside. He didn’t want his brother's approval. “You know I want the best for you, yes? Cardan would nod. He didn’t think he could bring himself to quite mutter the words.
“And sometimes,” Balekin paused, as if to draw out his unease,” that means punishing you. But worry not, brother, for it is all for the best. You don’t think Rhyia would take you in, would she? She won’t. I’m all you have.” Balekin would puff his chest in victory, ” He plucked the lid of the ceramic pot, ceremonially picking two day-old cookies and placing them onto a plate, partnered with a glance of yellowed milk. “And Cardan,” he drew closer, cupping his face in smooth, flawless hands. Don’t flinch
Cardan knew that he ought to sneer at him. He had just whipped him ten minutes ago, had he not? But Balekin was being kind. And he was never kind. And if he forsook his affections now, he might never receive them again. So he smiled, the way which made the old countries at court coo, and nibbled at the biscuits slowly. The milk seemed much more suspicious, but he drank it, even though it tasted like rotten fish and sour cream.
Waiting until Balekin finally left to puke it down the sink, repeating what had happened through words, so that he was sure that it had even happened in the first place.
Even then, he was not
The memory stirred up ugly, wretched, emotions in his chest, and Cardan decided he would simply not think of it any longer. He made his way to the stables. Kicking the half-rusted door open, wading through the heaps of scratchy golden hay and unceremoniously collapsing onto the ground. “I’gonna get so many bruises after this,” he said, to no one but himself, and laughed hysterically when no one replied.
The temptation for more wine weighed down on his dazed, sluggish mind, his back ached - a heavy, pulsing ache, almost, dulled by intoxication and the heady essence of nevermore. His grave briefly flashed in Cardan’s mind. Covered in shattered shards of glass, stained a deep, brilliant scarlet from the wine bottle he had thrown.
Cardan got up promptly and slammed himself into the ground, so that he would feel no more but the pain in the side. He stared up at the barn’s ceiling with blood-shot eyes, imagining the swing of a door. The soundless crunch of footsteps. The irritated, but fond smile of his mother as she scolded him for hiding so. The fantasy soon drifted a way, with little reality to base it off of. Terribly inconvenient, Cardan thought, that ought to be what a fantasy was for.
With little to occupy his restless mind with, his consciousness drifted away like billowing smoke, and that night; Cardan dreamt. He dreamt he was in sun dappled fields of wheat and barley, the grass swaying slowly in the breeze. Jude had found him, approaching with loud, unmasked footsteps. She was radiant , her thick locks of honey-brown hair softly framing her face, her skin shining with the luster of pearls, her lips pressed into a thin line - not quite a smile, but the closest equivalent, for Jude, at least.
But then she snarled, eyes glittering with bright, fiery anger. You hate me…
“I hate you not!” Jude giggled. Dropping down to crouch beside him as she plucked a wilted daisy from the ground. Her curved ear floated in the air, before drifting back again.
Odd, Cardan thought.
“Not odd!” She laughed, sweeter than malted honey mead, “a game.”
“A game?” Cardan raised a single eyebrow, grasping for his ever-eluding composure. Wrong.
Jude gave him a look, as if he were incredibly daft and foolish. Her blood-stained hands clutched the rose possessively, glitching like static. Her head drooped unnaturally low. Cardan didn’t remember it being a rose, but then again, he didn’t remember much of anything.
After a long gap of silence, she finally spoke once more. “Yes.” She snorted, voice taking on a slow drawl, “a mortal game. Too great his gracious majesty?”
“I—-”
“Dirt!” Jude bellowed. “You think we belong in the dirt! You think we should die, useless, weak.
Dirty mortal liars.”
Cardan sputtered. “I’m s—”He wasn’t sure why he was apologizing. The words weren't a lie.
The words weren't a lie.
The words weren't a lie!
Jude just giggled once more. “I forgive you, dearest, darling god. My sweet villain,” she cooed, “Don’t you want to play my game? You like games.”
“I’ll,” Cardan swallowed, “Play it. Yes.” He felt most odd, reality hinging on a wavering line. This had to be a dream - that he was most sure of. Though it seemed not so bad, he thought. At least Jude was not bloody, bruised and still.
She nodded and smiled. Cardan had pleased her. “Your turn,” Jude handed him the flower, the thorns breaching and breaking his skin. He looked towards her, but there wasn’t even the slightest semblance of concern on her face. The sight of blood - sticky and wet, made him wretch all over the scratchy grey grass.
Jude played it no heed, grabbing his hands with further insistence.
Cardan felt very much like a fool. “I don’t know how to play,” he said slowly, eyes averted. Snarl, a voice in his head whispered, hate her. Hurt her.
Jude scoffed and shook her head. “Say it. I,” she waited.
“I…” Cardan said quietly.
Jude shook her head, pointing to her chest. “Me, I. Not you.” Cardan nodded as if he had the slightest clue what she had said. “You,” he frowned, “hate me.” It wasn’t quite a question, but the intonation of his voice raised higher at the end.
She just sighed, plucking two blood-red petals from the rose. “I hate you not, hate you…” Cardan couldn’t breathe.
Jude placed the flower in her blood-stained hands. “You— You hate me–...n,” Cardan couldn’t bring himself to mutter the sordid words, head reeling, words sticking and catching onto his throat until he wretched congealed, oily black blood
She only shook her head. “If you cannot say it,” she grasped his face with death-cold hands, coated in a swirling mixture of congealed reddish-brown blood. “That that is answer enough.”
He knew not what happened next; Jude was seized by cloaked figures, their capes billowing in the howling wind, They prowled closer, tearing her body from the ground. She looked perfectly indifferent, giving him a tiny wave as they carried her off. Eye’s dark and glassy, head dangling to the side.
Cardan did not think, he grabbed a knife from the sheath on his vest and chased after them. Plunging it into their chests until their guts splattered across the palace floor. “I am no murder.” He shook his head. “I am no murder.”
It was not until a few moments later that he found Jude. In the pond. Her hair was knotted and sopping wet with seaweed, screaming as she sunk lower and lower, head bobbing atop the surface.
“Your back.” He grinned, lurching into the ice-cold pond, wading through its deep depths until he reached her. Jude fell into his chest not unlike a marionet doll. Feverish warm hands wrapping around his neck, “I thought,” Cardan sobbed, “that I lost you,” nails dug into his color bones.
“Oh dearest,” Jude crooned, “You’ve only just begun.” She dropped down into the water, sinking motionlessly in one fell drop, like her body was weighed down with an oceans worth of stones.
Cardan froze, until he was dragged down along with her. Lungs engulfed with the sharp sting of cold, salty water as he fell down Down
Down
Jude giggled.
The third time
Cardan awoke shivering, cloak drenched in cold sweat, stuck with tiny pieces of hay. His forehead pounded - the way it always did when he drank too much - and he rubbed at his temples, half curled in on himself.
Oh, if Jude saw him now…
The four walls of the stable stared at him judgmentally. Cardan dragged his leaden legs up onto the ground, bumbling like a drunken fool as he left the stable. Bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed it back down. It had been a long, long time since he had last been in there, and he had sworn himself away from them ever since. Such a display of neediness was pathetic, after all. It mattered not, for he simply wouldn’t do it again. Sounds familiar, does it?
Shoving the door open, he marched his way to the palace grounds, waving in through one of the many secret passages which littered its hallways. The tunnel was relatively narrow - lacking the ostentatiousness of the palace - the floor was merely wooden planks, the ceiling a dull-grey.
He stopped suddenly as a harsh hand clamped down on his shoulder. He shook it off, turning around to glare at whomever had the nerve to put a hand on the High King Of Elphame's shoulder. It was The Roach. Cardan sneered, taking a reflective step back - though it was more of a fumbling motion, for he was still rather intoxicated. “What?”
“We were wondering where his majesty,” the man gave him a sharp look, “had wondered off too. Alone, in the middle of the night, unguarded and unprotected.” Cardan scoffed - he almost sounded like Jude, though Jude had the confidence to be fully impertinent, not half-way, which was by far less annoying.
“You dare insult a bereaved brother, mourning his loss ?” The words were rather disingenuous to his own ears, yet he still said it because it was a much better excuse than I messed up and Jude screamed and I freaked out. And perhaps if he enjoyed how The Roach squirmed, then he would lend himself the tiniest indulgence into his worser nature.
It was only once the silence stretched on - ever a beat too long - that Cardan wondered if he had presented himself as most pitiful indeed. “You need not respond.” He huffed, eyeing The Roach's wavering mouth, “Is there anything which requires such urgency?”
“You may see for yourself.” The man said, averting his gaze to the floor. Cardan felt his shoulders rise. What was simply so awful that it couldn’t be explained by mere words alone? He allowed himself to be semi-escorted to his chambers, freezing when he saw Jude.
It was hard to tell quite where she was bleeding; for it covered the entirety of her arms and lower stomach - angry-red lines of raised flesh running down her sternum as if a wolf had mauled them until the skin broke.
The fourth time
Cardan gently dabbed the sticky, warm blood of Jude’s arms, stomach roiling, hand twitching. He knew not what had happened - nor why she did it, or why anyone would do such a thing, for that matter. Was it his fault? He had scared her earlier, quite clearly. Presumptuous as it was to ever assume that he could scare Jude.
Perhaps it was the windows? Nothing much had changed from the few days she had been… in this state. But he had closed them - not that it would explain such an extreme reaction to the mere shutting of a window, but he quite preferred it to the idea that Jude had done.
Now that he looked back on it, perhaps it wasn’t so shocking. He had seen Jude leave rooms once the window was shut. Though Cardan knew not why, and sometimes he wondered if he ever would.
The undersea?
The thought came to his mind suddenly, unbidden. Jude had never had such a… fear towards closed doors, not before it happened. But every time since it happened, the window in her chambers had always been open - which was fairly odd, considering she was the type to be paranoid about people aiming arrows through it - and every time they had a meeting with The Court Of Shadows, the window was conspicuously open, if only a hairs inch.
He tucked the idea away, half convinced Jude would stab him for even wondering if she could be scared of anything at all. Whatever had transpired down there she had never told him, and if she seemed worse of after the.. Incident, losing weight so rapidly he could hardly recognize her at all, and then only gaining a third or so of it back (he really ought to feed her more cake) But what did he know? They did not share such things, and it ought to stay that way.
“May your hands always be stained with blood.” She chanted, eyes foggy and grey like stilled pond water, mouth parted ever so. Cardan jumped, wincing as he took her left palm in gentle, slow hands, scrubbing away the blood beneath her nails.
“You don’t happen to be cursing me, do you?” He asked, forcing a half-amused, half-pleasant smile onto his lips.
Jude did not respond. Her head lulled back onto the pillows, precariously so, like a door which hung off its hinges. Cardan hesitated for merely a second, before tugging at the pillow ever so tentatively, until her head was back where it belonged. She looked up at him, then. “Not you,” Jude insisted, voice muffled as if she were drowned under ocean water.
He shuddered.
“Someone else, then?” Cardan almost laughed. He did not think mortals could curse people, but a mortal ought not acquire a geas which rescinded the ability for others to command her, or command a king until he was little but a puppet.
When she did not reply immediately, he sighed, returning to dipping the warm cloth into the basin of water, wringing it out with more force than was quite necessary.
Dirty. Mortal. Liar.
Jude shook her head and he watched it lull back once more, to an angle most uncanny. “Not someone else.” She scowled, gaze drifting down to her hands. Cardan had the sudden urge to leave. He wished not to see Jude like this, to hear her fevered murmurings and be subjected to whatever torment she could inflict through mere words alone.
“He would deserve it though.” Jude continued on, oblivious to his inner turmoil.
“He?” Cardan questioned. Noting how more often than not, men seemed to be who she directed her ire to. It made sense, he supposed, and it was most funny, too.
That was until that same ire was directed at him.
“If you should really despise him,” Cardan said, not at all irked that she hadn’t told him his name, “that much, you should take it up with Grima Morg. I’m sure she’d be much obliged to help you.”
Jude shook her head. “He’s dead,” an unfocused look crossed her eyes, as if she were deep in a memory.
“Forgive me for assuming,” Cardan almost smiled, perhaps Jude had not changed so much after all. How murderous his wife was.
“Dead…” She murmured once more, eyes flashing. It wasn’t too dissimilar to the look she had gotten when recalling how she had murdered Valerian — well, implied that she had murdered Valerian. He remembered it well; how she was standing in the courtyard of Madoc’s stronghold, chin set and shoulders relaxed, as if she were passing a simple comment on the weather.
He much deserved it, and Cardan doubted it was unprovoked, though it was… complicated. He ought not miss Valerian, and all the ways they used to terrorize her and Taryn together, but Valerian, after Nicasia, had been his most, for lack of a better word, “loyal” friend. He certainly never viewed his life as a fiddle he could manipulate for his own amusement, or an old plaything which ceased to be entertaining.
“Though I am most curious,” is it Valerian? The words almost fell from his lips. He caught her eye and held it for a second, “If he is dead, why do you curse him so?”
“He cursed me,” Jude spat, seemingly affronted by the question.
His heart dropped.
Curses were no things to take lightly; they ruined lives. They ruined his life. And it was a terribly fitting curse for Jude, was it not? May your hands be forever stained with blood, Jude had murdered many people, that he knew for certain. The vaguest memory - from his dream, most likely - of her blood-stained hands, mingled with black, oily liquid.
Or how every time she bled, it seemed to pool there, instead of the sheets or her skin. That was a rather literal interpretation of the curse, he knew. Once you had murdered anyone, your hands would be forever stained with blood. Cardan knew that well.
He shuddered.
May death be your only companion, that one just wasn’t true. Taryn, fickle as her loyalty was, did care for Jude. Somewhat, at least. Not quite enough to deal with the consequences of her own actions, but enough to linger around the palace hallways, standing vigil by her bedside when he was gone - more than a lot of of siblings would do, curse or no curse. And Vivi was so beside herself that she wasn’t eating. Oak, too, clearly adored Jude.
Perhaps she was merely delirious? It would not be the first time she had said something that was rather ridiculous. And the third clause of the curse was missing, too. It was terribly odd for one to come in couplets - redundant, considering two was a lucky number, or so Baphen said - what had happened to the third one? “Did he curse you a third time?” Jude hummed. “Yes?” She hummed again, firmer this time. “I don’t know what that means.” Cardan was convinced his wife was just playing with him, especially when she hummed again.
The silence stretched on for a little while. He found himself rocking backwards and forwards in his chair, “She’s delirious,” he murmured to himself, it wasn’t a lie if he could say it. “Delirous, she’s ju-– she’s being delirious, delirious…” Even though Cardan knew he looked most peculiar, insane, even, he couldn’t bring himself to stop. “She dosn’t—-”
Until Jude interrupted his crazed litany by humming softly. He looked up, hoping for her to give any further elaboration, but she merely gazed at him with half-lidded eyes, dazed like those of a servant in Hollow Hall. “Knives.” She scowled at him, as if he was the cause for all her problems, ever, (which upon reflection he would wonder if he was.) “I want knives.”
Cardan banged his head on the desk.
The fifth time
“You look rather… disgruntled, your majesty. Shall I send word to cancel your breakfast with Viviene?” Cardan frowned, wiping the excess water off his face, staying turned so that Bomb would not see. He had read about it in mortal books before, “crying”, they called it. It was terribly unpleasant - warm and wet and salty. Excessively long, too. The clock had stricken midnight before he was finally able to attain the slightest semblance of rest.
“That is not needed,” he sighed, making sure that his face was clear before dragging himself upwards to take a glance at Jude. For the first time in weeks, she almost looked better than him; having stolen his favorite down jacket in the middle of the night - a very, very nice down jacket; for the insides lined with fuzzy-fur, the fabric would shimmer a brilliant gold, too, if the light hit it just right.
Cardan couldn’t quite bring himself to mind. She looked very nice in his clothes. Even better was that her mouth set into a pleased, half-smile as she clutched a knife - her favorite one, it seemed - to her chest, which rose and fell slowly as if she were in the deepest throes of sleep.
Though that made him. He had had to reposition that damn thing five times throughout the night, merely so she would not stab herself in her sleep. “May your hands be forever stained with blood,” she kept whispering.
The memory made him shudder.
“If you should give me a minute,” Cardan groused. Bomb nodded and fled from the chambers. If she had noticed his tears, despite his efforts to hide them, she did not comment - something he was immensely grateful for.
He drew himself a glass of water and choked it down, wandering over to his vanity and inspecting the various cosmetics. Applying black powder in long, diagonal strokes, so that his cheekbones would appear sharper than they were. Most important was the concealer, which he painted onto the sallow, bruise-like crescents beneath his eyes; for it was not particularly regal to look like the walking dead. His favorite part was smattering heapings of shimmering glittering gold onto his upper cheekbones and lower lashes, layering the lightest swath of rouge on top.
Then - the most dreaded step of his routine - practicing his smile in the mirror. The first was quite too fake, stretched too long at the ends.
So he let it fall a little.
But then that looked a lot less like a smile and more like a grimace, so he went back to the first one.
Which was still wrong, so he dropped it entirely.
Taking a deep breath in, Cardan gave it one last try. But the effort drew the lines around his eyes so tight they looked half-crazed.
He sneered at the mirror, resisting the urge to growl and bang his head on the desk.
Jude called out, her voice was direr than parchment paper and startled, feeling much like a deer caught in headlights. It was mortifying - really - quite how quickly he rushed to pour her a glass of fresh, ice-cold water.
Nudging her into a sitting position with painstaking gentle touch, as she wasn’t allowed to sit up, on her own, at least - as it would tear the stitches - but she also wasn’t supposed to drink laying down, lest she choke.
She sipped at the water, slowly, in a horrifyingly docile manner.
Cardan couldn’t decide if he was dreading the moment; or its end.
She was still looking at him, however - he couldn’t quite make out her expression. Half-furious, half… fond? (Maybe he was the one who was delirious.) “Yes?” He prompted, wringing his left hand behind his back, awkwardly hovering by her bedside.
“You look pretty.” She tilted her head, not unlike a cat. Cardan’s eyes went wide as he choked on a stuttered breath, but before he could reply, Jude had interrupted her once more. “That.” She said, pointing at him with a limp hand.
“What?” He asked, wincing at the bluntness of his tone Pretty. Cardan knew he was attractive - he wasn’t humble, by any means, nor stupid. Being “pretty” had granted him a great number of things, and, truthfully, he knew not what to do without it - it was terribly hard to be hideous and charming, after all.
They were practically two parts of a whole and too lack one would mean having to overcompensate for the other. And perhaps he knew Jude viewed him as such, lest she be blind, but an acknowledgment was nice.
Quite too nice. It made his heart feel all warm and glowy, a most repulsive feeling. Unraveled. Unmoored. Undone.
“Turn…” Jude mumbled, her consciousness dimming like the flicker of a light. Cardan frowned, already mourning the absence of her company, though he still turned around. Startling for the second time in their interaction. He was smiling - brief and fickle as it was.
The fact shouldn’t have startled him so, for he couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled - for the sake of it, at least. A smile was a weapon in one's arsenal, a way to charm, deride or to put someone at ease; they were certainly not expressions of joy.
May your hands be forever stained with blood…
The expression fell quickly after that.
Cardan soon realized that the moment had drawn on too long and where he too continue at such a rate, he would be late. So he rushed to adorn his thick, heavy robes, layering golden chains on top. The last item was his crown - and he turned around to do it in front of Jude, so she may laugh if it was lopsided. She did not. Which was good, he reasoned, Jude ought to get some rest. And now that he thought of it, quite how delirious must she have been, to compliment him?
He shook his head. Moving to open the door, to which Bomb stood on the other side. She walked in promptly, closing it behind her with a soft click. Cardan noted how her eyes widened - ever so slightly - at his transformation - then stumbling back. “Right,” she shook her head, as if removing herself from a daze. “If you are ready,”
“You shall watch Jude now, yes.” Cardan nodded, hurrying to leave through the door, but still, his feet stilled. Making it so that he lingered by the doorway. He chanced another glance at Jude - who was dozing off, the very embodiment of content. She knew not the torment she caused him, or perhaps she did, and enjoyed it all the same. Cardan huffed, seeing Jude’s bloody arms once more. “Oh, don’t close the windows, turn off the lights, or take away her—”
“Majesty’s knives, even if she stabs the handmaidens,” Bomb finished for him, her lips pulled into a wry smile. His shoulders lowered ever so slightly, good. He wanted to say, you should address her as such. The folk did not hide their opinions, much less their displeasure, and truthfully, Cardan did not know the balance between overstepping, and correcting their nonsense - options he used to espouse, no less. Or too simply let it be. He had never fought Jude’s battles for her, he ought not start now.
“I feel bad for them, actually..” Bomb continued, snorting, Cardan frowned, realizing he had lost track of their conversation.
“For the handmaidens?” Cardan scoffed, “They should've known better than to rid Jude of her knives. She’d have no qualms stabbing me, if it were such a case.” The fact was almost a comfort. Jude was equally - ok, maybe not - murderous to everyone, not just him.
“Well…” Bomb laughed, “I think that’s a rather flawed example.” Cardan definitely did not pout, it was not, and if it was, that was besides the point. “Now go. Stop stooling.”
He gasped, turning around with a dramatic twirl, pushing his arm back and flicking it in a sharp gesture. “Leave I must, then. Since you tire of my terrible company.” He smiled as Bomb cackled, cheeks flushed, his pulse roaring in his ears, many thoughts racing through his mind, but the most loud being; Jude thought he was pretty?
Plus one
Cardan lay on top the silken divan, his hand in her hair, his jacket wrapped around her shoulders, trying to shut his eyes. He could not. Every other second or so, they flew open, as if somehow Jude could have ran away while he slept. Leaving him alone, in an empty, cold bed. Or perhaps he would wake up to the scent of blood, sickly saccharine, like treacle but sweeter, twinged with the slightest note of iron. To open his eyes and see the bed drowned in it; rivulets of blood dripping from the spider silk sheets and onto the floor.
It was foolish - childish, Lady Asha would say. He couldn't even stand his own chambers. At least, without Jude there. Her presence made it bearable, if only because could hold her hand, listen to the steady rise and fall of her chest
He tried to shut his eyes, smiling, despite himself, as he carded through her hair one last time, softer than cornsilk and smoother than satin.
Of course, sleep evaded him, his mind drifting to the meeting tomorrow; with some stuffy, presumptive foreign nobles, who would surely want more than they let on. Apparently it was important, too. Cardan didn’t particularly care whether it worked out - as far as he where aware, meetings meant whining, and whining meant Jude would try to appease it, and that meant that she wouldn’t be functioning - at all. He dreaded to add more stress on top of her while she was in that state, and if meant getting enough sleep so that he would not be thoroughly dazed throughout the meeting, then so be it. Which he could only do if he slept.
Cardan huffed.
The quiet ought to help him sleep, instead, it amplified all the thoughts he really didn’t want to be thinking.
May your hands be forever stained with blood…
Jude had been cursed. She was cursed, and she hadn’t told him; of her own discretion, at least. But what, was he surprised? She’d have to be near delusional to dispel a drop of water in the oceans of her many, many secrets. Perhaps he was never so naive as to think she would rid of them entirely - it may even make things dull, in a sense, - but they where finally married! Equals, after scrabbling for scraps of control, imbuing words with the intent to hurt and playing a blind eye to all the harm it caused. Surely, they need not resort to this.
Everything may seem fine but what if it wasn’t? What if it implicated those she loved? Would she, and her family, fall victim to undue death - all because of some curse, a string of words which ought not hold so much power. Would he? If Jude had not told him, the least she could do was get it fixed. He knew not by who - or how - but she was Jude, she would find a way, would she not? Maybe she had already gotten it fixed, and through her delirium she… muttered the words again?
But they had to have been playing on her mind, for her to think them in a state where she was thinking of virtually nothing at all.
He shifted, hand jittering against the bedsheets in an obnoxiously loud manner. His head was so loud, and he wished for nothing more than it to be quiet. It was a rather unfortunate aspect of marriage; worrying for Jude was like a muscle he had overextended, and now he couldn’t stop, even when everything was supposed to be fine. She had— had fell from the rafters just barely a year ago; now; the subject ought to go away. What more could he think about it, that he hadn’t thought already?
And if it hadn’t affected her by now… maybe it wouldn’t at all? But whose it to say it hadn’t? When she murdered Balekin, and he exiled her for it, was that death being her only companion? But they defied that - which was a sign that the curse was weak, perhaps unfinished.
He couldn’t fathom how he hadn’t thought more of it at the time. He hadn’t asked, or made a fuss, he just— allowed it all. She knew far more about his secrets than he did about hers, that was just a fact, wasn’t it?
Not that he hadn’t told her them of his own violation. He talked far too much, though she claimed otherwise, and something - something minor, or something that he had not thought unordinary until he compared it to Jude, or to Oak, - would slip. And then he wouldn’t be able to stop talking, unpleasant and mortifying as reliving the experience through words where. How could he, when Jude was so gentle? She wouldn’t offer much words of advice, or sympathy, but she would hold him, scratch his hair and hum every other minute or so, to show she was listening.
Perhaps his favorite part, was that the next day, she would act as if nothing happened at all. She held no qualms about stealing the lions share of the blanket, or his honey cakes, or lying to his face about how she had very much not snuck out of the palace on some rouge mission - which she need not even do in first place - for it was far above a Queen’s designation.
Jude did not tell him nearly as much. Which was fine. He resolved to glean most of it from observation; like her favorite food - honey cakes, even better if they his - which he had resigned himself to ordering three bowls of. She was incredibly fond of soft things, curling up far closer when he wore night-robes, with hems cuffed with fur, material crafted from spidersilk, to bed. She did not tolerate fish, or the smell of it. Would go as far to flee the room when it was bought out. Neither did she seem to like the sea - or rivers, or lakes.
He had invited her many times to lounge in the reservoir with him when Elthame was too hot to think clearly, and she refused every time. Though, when she was in a good mood she would lurk just beside the pond and watch him swim with a sort of distant look in her eyes.
He never really asked why, he supposed. Most often than not she was too tired to talk, and he adored her company whether she spoke or not; and maybe that worked - most of the time - only it failed them when he wanted to something which could not be noticed by virtue of effort and a sharp eye.
All though there was one thing he hadn’t tried - not ever - and in retrospect, it seemed so simple - too simple.
He looked down at her, making sure that the rhythm of her breathing was normal, tilting her head ever so gently so see that her eyebrows where not furrowed. He had learnt, the hard way, that if she was having a nightmare, he ought not wake her. She had pulled a knife on him, once. And whilst Jude was quick enough to see his face and not impale him - as he was half sure she would do it all the harder.
Still, she made him swear not to ever wake her when she was like that.
Of course, he had many qualms with it. How was he to sleep peacefully when his wife was not? But, of course, he ended up acquiescing - only as she bought up sleeping in a different room.
“Jude?” He took a deep breath in, tugging at her hair - not harshly, of course, but firm enough to wake her. Perhaps deriving her of sleep was not a good idea; but if not now, it would be after the meeting, and she would be too tired to talk, and after that, she would be burrowed in her old rooms as Schneshual, scribbling down mad schemes and doing paper work.
She grumbled, burrowing further into his shoulder. “What?”
Cardan paused, trying to find the best way to breach the topic. He decided to not mention anything about the undersea, or when she did… that to herself.
“Do you remember what you had said, when you where recovering?”
Jude gave him an odd look, shifting up, half-leaned against the headboard. He mourned the loss of contact, awkwardly pulling the blanket closer//colder where warmth had once been. “Recovering?”
“From when you fell from the rafters.” The words where lead on his tongue.
It was subtle, the slight aversion of her gaze. “No. Why?”
“I’m merely curious,” Cardan frowned at her, taking her hand in his and rubbing small circles - the way which sometimes made her shiver. “You need not be so tense, come, closer.”
“You need not interrupt my sleep.” Jude glared, tugging him into a sitting position, winding his arm around her waist. He melted into the touch with no resistance, tugging the blanket up both of their shoulders. If this went well, perhaps they could stay like this. “You always whinge—”
“Whinge?” He gasped in offence.
“About me not getting enough rest.” She carried on as if he had never spoke. “Whatever it is, get out with it, or drop it, and let me sleep.”
“So demanding,” he teased, laughing warmly as she looked about five seconds away from skinning him alive. Really, it ought not excite him so. “Fine.” Cardan dropped his smile. Though he regretted it when her eyes widened ever so slightly, shoulders tensing all over again. Jude never let anything slip, unintentionally or not, when she was on guard.
“When you where recovering,” He made an effort to soften his tone, starting too smiling again - only ever so slightly, because coming off disingenuous would be even worse. “In your delirium, you mentioned something odd.”
Jude crossed her arms, picking at the skin of her fingers. He itched to tell her off for it - but kept his mouth shut. One thing at a time. “I don’t remember when I was unconscious.” She scoffed.
Cardan very much envied the sentiment. “And nor I do not expect you too, but you remember what you where talking about, do you not?”
“I do not. Because you haven't told me.” Jude inched away from him, slowly skirting onto the other side of the bed. Something flashed in her eyes and he got the distinct impression that any further probing would make her run for the woods and never come back.
Cardan felt his heart knock against his ribcage, mind racing; what if she did leave? For real, this time. What if she never came back? What if she got sick of him, and his stupid questions, and found someone else? Someone better? His own mother didn’t love him, how could she?
Taking in a stuttered breath, he paused. He had gone this far, he couldn’t really go back, could he? “You mentioned being cursed.”
Jude froze, her skin paling until it was whiter than freshly fallen snow. “I… You said it yourself. I was delirious.”
“But you where not lying, where you? What was it that you said? “May your hands always be forever stained with blood?”
Jude flinched, ripping her arm away from his. But he couldn’t stop. He needed to know. “And when you saw me, you screamed.” The sound echoed in his ears, shrill and horrible and so, so wrong.
“That was you?” The words seemed to fall from her lips outside of her own violation, for she clamped her mouth shut and reeled back.
Cardan frowned at her. Who else could it have been? Was she implying that…? He was just about to ask when she opened her mouth one more.
“I’m going to spar with the Ghost.” Jude cut him off, scrambling of the bed and walking away on shaking legs.
The door slammed shut before he even could blink.