The High King of Flowers
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Fandom: The Folk of the Air
Ship: Jurdan
Word count: 1.1k
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They were sitting in the throne room, Cardan looking as bored as ever as two little faeries droned on and on, complaining endlessly about their measly little problems. He absolutely loathed this part of being High King; always having to pretend to care about even the smallest of quarrels in Elfhame and judge them accordingly, lest his subjects would turn away from him for not acting as a “proper and prosperous High King” would and should. Cardan hated it. He like the gifts, the praises, and the long revels with wine and dancing that went on and on until the early mystical hours of the day. Though, in some twisted way, he enjoyed all the attention and importance he was finally being rightfully given as faeries come to him with all of their troubles and worries.
“Well, perhaps it was his fault, this time. As such, Diaspor, you shall give Torren your first berry harvest every month for the next fifteen years, and in return, Torren, you shall teach him how to weave his dried bark strips into the finest of enchanted baskets,” Cardan mused, glancing over at Jude, waiting for her usual approving nod at his conclusions. Jude stared absentmindedly into space, her fingers vacuously stroking the colorful petals of the flowers and the many plants decorating and encasing their thrones. He quickly noticed her dazed state, her gaze fixed on an unfocused spot in the room.
His eyes snapped to the faeries and guards in the throne room as he dismissed them. “Leave us be.”
At his immediate words, they all filed out of the large ornate room, though not without sparing a few curious and inquisitive glances behind them. Cardan reached out his hand, each finger carefully and glamorously embellished with daintier, shiny rings. He lightly grazed his knuckles over the soft round curve of her ear, meticulously admiring the glittering golden ornaments decorating it, the same color as the shimmery swipe of glitter that he always wore on his well-defined cheekbones.
“Jude, my lovely, what are you thinking about this time?” he probe, not exactly used to his High Queen being so utterly… absent. At the sound of his silken voice, her face tilted upwards, her calculating eyes rising to meet Cardan’s adoring ones.
“I was thinking about Vivi, she murmured, “she snagged a date with Heather for tonight. I hope everything goes okay with them this time.” Jude wasn’t the type to worry, yet her voice sounded uncharacteristically strained. She truly cared about her sister, and hoped that Vivi could rekindle her relationship with Heather. Heather, whom both Vivi and Oak dearly missed.
His fingers moved downward, tracing and weaving through the silky brown locks resting on her nape. “And no date for us tonight as well, hmm?” he teased, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his perfect plush lips.
“You know, these flowers really are beautiful,” she remarked, her attention once again turning to the lovely decorations around their thrones.” Cardan raised an eyebrow. “You think?” It was unlike Jude to pay such attention top details as small and insignificant as decorations.
“Sometimes it’s hard to believe that someone like you could conjure up such delicate and colorful flowers,” she shot back.
Cardan gasped dramatically, his hands immediately leaving Jude’s smooth cheeks to clutch theatrically at his chest as though she’d shot a glamoured arrow right through it.
“How dare you! I am very much delicate; my skin is as soft as the finest of moth’s dew-bathed silk, and my palms are free of the scars and scratches of a forceful warrior,” he retorted, quick to defend his honor. It was all true, and it was difficult to imagine a faerie more delicate than Cardan. Cardan, who wore eyeliner and kohl to enhance his mischievous eyes. Cardan, who carefully brushed shimmering stardust on his cheekbones. Cardan, who wears the most lavish and unnecessarily intricate doublets and royal clothing. And finally, Cardan, who had recently developed a new liking to lightly staining his lips with the ripest and best of autumn faerie gooseberries. It left a faint sour taste on Jude’s tongue every time she kissed him.
To prove his point even further, he sprang up from his seat, carefully clutching Jude’s wrist and dragging her behind him. Cardan led her straight out of the throne room and into the royal gardens, making sure that all of the faeries who worked to maintain it where gone. Unlike his brother, Balekin, Cardan had never, ever, glamoured defenseless humans into working for him at the palace. Hell, he’d even brought forth a law that forbade it. Yet he still wasn’t willing to admit that on that night, many moon cycles ago, he’d truly cared about that human and saved her from Balekin.
And so, the High King of Elfhame sat his queen down amidst the prosperous rows of blooming flowers, standing proudly before her. Cardan kneeled besides Jude, under the large willow that hid both of them, tucking them into their own little world.
“Jude,” Cardan breathed. His eyes were locked on her, drunkenly inhaling on the image of she who haunted his mind all the time, be it in his thoughts during even the most important of meetings or at night, dancing with his heart cradled in her hands in his dreams. She was his anti-medusa, the ferocious beast of a warrior who had shattered his heart of stone, filling it with the pulsating life of her ambition. The mortal girl who so obstinately wore her hair up in little horns. It was such pure, primitive sense of life that no faerie could have or understand, no matter their eternal lifespan. It was iron that faeries, who could live forever with their magic and enchantments, never truly lived, not in the way that humans do. Not like Jude.
Cardan removed Jude’s crown off of her head and set it safely on her lap, yet it was immediately devoured by the many sparkling layers of red fabric. Red, just like the color of the roses he was weaving into each other by the stems like a flower crown, making sure no thorns remained. He intertwined the flower circlet through her royal crown, then placed it atop her head once more, admiring the way it matched her dress and the faint blush on her cheeks she believed so soundly that she was able to hide. “Wear these. Just like my love for you, the flowers shall never wither or fade.”
“My darling High Queen,” he murmured, utterly drunk on her very presence eternally by his side, his lips brushing against hers, “my Jude.”
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