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The throne room still smells faintly of iron and crushed petals when Jude finds him.
Cardan is not meant to look like this—slumped against the base of his throne, crown tilted and almost covering his whole brow, dark fabric torn and stained. The ever-present arrogance is still there in his eyes when they flick up to her, sharp and assessing, but it wavers just slightly at the edges.
An attempted attack occurred earlier in the throne room. An organised strike by masked intruders who managed to breach the palace defences before being driven off by the guards, leaving behind chaos and injury in their wake.
He makes no move to stand, and that alone concerns her. Cardan and Jude never had a great relationship; they've been enemies, pestering one another any chance they got, but that didn't really come to mind.
A shallow cut traces his jaw, but the real damage is lower, hidden beneath his hand pressed too tightly against his side. Even now, he seems more concerned with how he appears than the blood seeping through his fingers.
Jude’s heart leaps in her chest, her legs staggering forward, dropping to her knees beside him.
Cardan keeps his eyes closed, his breath coming in short, panting gasps. God, he lost much blood already; there is no time to argue. The distant sound of the court's distress echoes through the palace, but here in the now cramped space of the throne room lies their High King, bleeding out.
“Bloody hell, you're such an idiot...” She murmurs, pressing mere leaves to his wounds as simple bandages. “Who did this to you, Cardan?”
Cardan scoffs, yet winces slightly at the movement. “Oh, some fools wearing masks and thinking themselves brave. They'll regret it soon enough.”
He watches Jude bandage the wound on his jaw with a critical eye, nose wrinkling slightly at the scent of the medicinal herbs.
“You think I'm an idiot? How charming. I thought we'd moved beyond such pedestrian insults.”
Despite his words, he doesn't pull away from her touch, though his body remains tense. His breath comes a bit easier now, the initial shock of pain starting to fade.
“I suppose I should thank you for playing nurse. Though I wouldn't get used to it. I'm not in the habit of needing saving.” He tilts his head, studying her face intently as you work. There's a glimmer of something softer in his eyes, gone as quickly as it came. “As for who did this... it matters little. They'll pay. All in good time.”
He shifts, trying to sit up straighter, and grimaces. The effort seems to drain him further.
“The question is, why are you here? Come to gloat? Or perhaps you merely couldn't resist the chance to play hero?” There's a bite to his words, but it lacks its usual venom. He's weakening, despite his stubborn refusal to show it.
Jude furrows her brows, concentrating. “Shut up, I'm trying to think here. You're losing a lot of blood, and we cannot have it here. Oak isn't ready to take up the throne, so it's my duty to keep you alive somehow, alright?” She muses, rubbing his shoulder with her free hand as an almost comforting gesture, the other hand pressing the leaves firmly to his skin, trying to tame the flowing royal blood.
Cardan lets out a sharp, hissed intake of breath as she presses the leaves into the wound. For a moment, the mask of the High King slips, replaced by the raw, unadulterated expression of a man in pain. His tail, coiled loosely near his feet, lashes once in a violent, whip-like motion that betrays the agony he’s trying to hide behind his teeth.
"Oak?" he repeats, his voice dropping to a low, mocking velvet despite the tremor in it. "Always the strategist. You speak of the throne as if it were a piece of furniture that needs dusting. Do try to remember that the crown is quite heavy, Jude. It might crush your precious brother if you aren't careful."
But as her free hand finds his shoulder, his reaction is traitorous. The muscle beneath her palm, previously corded and tight as a bowstring, gives a microscopic shudder before beginning to yield to her warmth. He hates how easily Jude’s touch settles the frantic rhythm of his pulse. He hates that her presence, even when laced with such blunt pragmatism, feels more grounding than any guard standing at his flank.
He leans back into the stone of the throne, his head lulling slightly toward Jude. His gaze is heavy, hooded by exhaustion and the haze of blood loss, tracing the line of her sharp jaw and the focus in her eyes behind a fog of desperate determination.
"Duty," he murmurs, the thought a little delayed, the word sounding like a bitter taste on his tongue. "Is that all this is? A matter of protocol? To ensure the machinery of Elfhame continues to grind along without a hitch?"
He reaches up, his fingers pale and stained with his own crimson, and catches her wrist; not to pull her hand away from the wound, but to hold that steadying pressure in place. His grip is surprisingly weak, lacking its usual commanding strength.
"Tell me, Seneschal," he whispers, his eyes searching Jude’s with a sudden, uncharacteristic intensity that feels far too intimate for a blood-stained throne room. "If the blood stopped flowing... if the king fell... would you stay to mourn the duty? Or would you move on to the next task on your list?"
She closed her eyes in response, biting her tongue not to say back something witty that could escalate into a fight. Not here, not now, not in those circumstances. Ignoring his question, she asks softly, “Can you stand? I could take you outside. You're the High King, after all, even if you do not take that position seriously yet; the earth could heal you if it truly accepts you as the ruler of Elfhame.” Briefly, she looks up at one of the stunned courtriers. “Bring us the healer, will you? Cardan is safe with me; we'll be right outside. Can you stand, please?” She asks again, turning back to the brunet.
Cardan watches her with a look of profound irritation, his dark eyes narrowing as she dodges his provocations. He loathes it when Jude uses her competence as a shield, shutting him out with that calm, professional veneer. It makes him want to reach out and shake her or pull her closer to see if he can force a crack in that composure of hers.
When she commands the courtier, he lets out a dry, breathless chuckle that turns into a wince. "Safe with you," he echoes, the words tasting of irony. "You treat me like a wounded animal, Jude. One of your many responsibilities to manage."
At the mention of the earth healing him, a flicker of something ancient and weary passes over his features. He knows the legends; he knows the magic of the land is tied to the vitality of the crown. But he is too proud to admit how much he needs it.
"Outside..." he mutters, the idea of the open air, the living grass, and perhaps the mercy of the land appealing to him more than he cares to concede. "Fine. If you insist on dragging me across the floor like a discarded cloak."
He attempts to push himself upward, his knuckles white where he grips the edge of the throne. His muscles tremble violently; the sheer effort of trying to stand while his life's blood is soaking into the floorboards is immense. For a terrifying second, his eyes glaze, and he sags heavily toward Jude, his forehead nearly dropping onto her shoulder.
His tail curls tightly around her ankle, a subconscious, desperate anchor to keep him upright.
"Careful," he hisses through gritted teeth, his voice strained and thin. "Don't... don't look so smug. I am merely allowing you the honour of assisting me."
He manages to get to one knee, swaying precariously. He looks pale, the sharp lines of his face even more pronounced in the dim light, but he refuses to lean on her fully, not yet. He wants to maintain the illusion of strength, even as he breathes in shallow, ragged bursts.
"Lead the way, then," he commands, though it sounds more like a plea. "Before the court decides to start a procession in honour of my spectacular collapse."
Jude raises her brows, hoisting him up and carrying him bridal-style instead. “Come on, we're losing time,” she mutters, her lips close enough to his face that he can feel her breath on his pale cheek. “Besides, they always talk, and you don't seem to mind. You can always chop their heads off, anyway.” And with that, she storms off and out of the court, carrying him out into the forest he's the High King of.
Cardan grunts in surprise as she abruptly sweeps him up into her arms, his own coming up to rest uncertainly on her back. He's not accustomed to being carried like this, not having experienced it so firmly even when he was a child. The sensation of surrender, of relying on someone else's strength, is foreign and unsettling in his lonely soul.
He opens his mouth to protest, to bark out some biting remark about a seneschal overstepping her bounds, but the words die on his tongue as he meets Jude’s gaze. There's a fierce determination in her eyes, a set to her jaw that brooks no argument. He sees the urgency etched into every line of her body, the grim resolution to get him to safety, no matter the cost.
For a moment, he's struck dumb by the sheer audacity of it. By the fact that Jude, of all fae and people, would dare to manhandle him so brazenly in front of the entire court. He should be furious. He should order her arrest, her execution. But as he looks into her face, seeing the flush of exertion colouring her cheeks and the steadiness of her grip on him, he feels a treacherous thrill run through him.
Perhaps it's the blood loss making him giddy, or maybe it's the perverse excitement of being at the mercy of his greatest adversary. Whatever the reason, he finds himself leaning into Jude, his body moulding to the curve of her arms as if it belongs there.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he murmurs, his lips brushing against Jude’s rounded ear. "Carrying your king out of the throne room like a damsel in distress. They'll talk. They'll whisper. They'll wonder..."
He lets the sentence trail off, leaving the implications hanging in the air between them. His hand rests on Jude’s hip, his fingers curling into the fabric of her clothes as if to anchor himself.
"I should punish you for this insolence," he continues, his voice a low rasp. "I should strip you of your title and toss you into the dungeons for daring to touch me without permission."
But even as he says it, he knows it's an empty threat. Because the truth is, he's never felt safer than he does in this moment, cradled against Jude’s chest as she strides purposefully through the halls of the palace. The world seems to blur and spin around the two of them, the court falling away until it's just her and him, locked in this precarious dance.
"Lead on, then," he whispers, his breath mingling with hers. "Let them talk. Let them whisper. I'll deal with them later."
And with that, he surrenders himself to her care, his eyes fluttering shut as the motion of her walking rocks him gently in your arms. For now, he allows himself to be vulnerable, to be weak. For now, he trusts Jude to keep him safe.
Effortlessly, she carries him out and lays his limp, weak body onto the covers of the woods. Just then, she kneels beside him again, grabbing some of the soil and rubbing it firmly into his wounds, determined to keep him alive.
“Was there any poison involved, Cardan?” She looks up at him, noticing she's losing him, his gaze now hazy and mind absent. “Cardan? No, no, fuck, no... “She mutters again, desperate to keep him there. “Talk to me, Cardan. Talk to me, be frank with me.” Jude pleads, not even caring if anyone hears how weak she's being for her High King that moment. “Talk to me, Cardan. Make fun of me, joke about how hideous I am, please say anything,” she whispers, her fingers still rubbing the Elfhame soil into his freshly wounded, sensitive skin. “Just... talk to me. Please.”
The cool, damp moss of the forest floor provides a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his feverish skin. As Jude presses the rich, dark earth into his wounds, the magic of the land begins to hum a low, vibrating thrum that resonates in the very marrow of her human bones. The soil reacts to his royal blood, swirling and knitting together with the essence of the earth, but the connection is fragile.
Cardan’s eyes are unfocused, staring up at the canopy of trees above, the sunlight filtering through the leaves in dappled, dizzying patterns. His breathing is shallow, a mere ghost of a rhythm. When Jude calls his name, his eyelids flutter, struggling to stay open against the encroaching darkness.
"Poison..." he rasps, the word barely audible. A faint, ghostly smirk touches his lips, though it's marred by the pallor of his skin. "If there were... poison... I would have... felt it sooner. It would have been... much more elegant... than a simple blade."
He coughs, a wet, rattling sound that makes him wince, and for a moment, the mask of the High King shatters completely. He looks less like a god of the fae and more like a boy exhausted, terrified, and desperately lonely.
"You're... terrible at this," he murmurs, his voice cracking. He tries to lift a hand to brush her cheek, but it falls limp halfway, his fingers grazing your arm before settling in the dirt. "So loud... so frantic. A proper seneschal... should be... composed."
His gaze drifts back to Jude’s, and for the first time, the defensive wit is gone. The cynicism, the sarcasm, the practised cruelty; it all bleeds away, leaving behind a raw, terrifying honesty. His eyes are wide, searching hers with a vulnerability that feels like a physical blow to her chest.
"Why do you care so much, Jude?" he asks, his voice a mere thread of sound. "We have spent years... trying to... best one another. Why are you... crying over a king... who would likely... mock your tears?" He swallows hard, his throat working painfully. The shadows in his eyes deepen as he struggles to maintain consciousness.
"Talk to me..." he repeats your plea, his voice fading. "You want... frankness? Very well. The truth is... It's infuriating. Having you... Look at me like this. Like I am... something worth... saving."
His eyes begin to roll back, his head lolling to the side. The connection to the earth is working, but he is slipping through her fingers like sand.
"Don't... don't stop," he whispers, a final, desperate command. "Stay... stay here. Don't let the silence... take me."
“I... I'm not crying, you're lying,” mutters Jude, even though a stray tear slides from the edge of her eye and drips onto his clothed chest. “Crying would be... weak. And I am not... weak.” She murmurs, one of her hands still gathering soil into his chest and the other cradling his head gently so he doesn't drift away that easily. “The healer shall be in here any minute now, I promise. Just.. trust me, alright? You are... You are worth saving, Cardan. Even if you always somehow manage to infuriate me, you're still my High King. My marionette, mine only. You’re mine, alright?”
The word mine seems to ripple through the air, more potent than the scent of pine and damp earth. At the sound of it, Cardan’s eyes snap open, a sudden, flickering spark of lucidity fighting through the haze of his fading consciousness. It isn't the look of a king receiving a subject's vow; it is the look of a man being claimed.
His tail, resting in the dirt, gives a singular, weak twitch, coiling instinctively around Jude’s forearm as if to tether himself to the reality of your voice.
"Marionette..." he breathes, the word a broken, huffed laugh that turns into a pained groan. "How... possessive of you. Claiming a king... as if he were a trinket... stolen from a market stall."
Even as he mocks her, his hand, the one that had been limp, finds hers. His fingers, stained with soil and drying blood, curl weakly around her palm. He doesn't have the strength to squeeze, but the contact is deliberate. He is holding on.
"You lie so poorly, Jude," he whispers, his gaze fixed on the single tear that has soaked into his tunic. A strange, lopsided smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, not the arrogant smirk of the High King, but something softer, something devastatingly human. "You say you are not weak... yet you weep for a man... who has done nothing but trouble you."
His breathing hitches, his chest rising and falling in uneven stutters as the magic of the earth works to knit his flesh back together. The pain is clearly immense, but he refuses to let go of Jude’s hand. He seems to realise that if he lets go, he might truly slip into the dark, and the thought of drifting away without feeling the weight of her claim terrifies him more than the encroaching shadow of death.
"If I am... yours..." he murmurs, his voice dropping to a level so low it's almost a secret shared between the trees, "...then you had best... keep a tight grip. I am a notoriously... difficult prize... to hold onto."
His eyes begin to droop again, the effort of staying present nearly undoing him, but he forces himself to keep looking at Jude. He is watching her with a fierce, quiet intensity, as if memorising the shape of her face through the fog of his delirium.
"Save me then, my Seneschal," he challenges, his voice a mere ghost of a sound. "Prove it. Don't let... the silence... win."