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1 - Ria
You find your lady in her cabin. She is staring out the porthole, her expression unreadable. By now, you know: the more inscrutable that Lady Golbahar is, the more unhappy she is. That worries you: it’s been a peaceful sail to Corval, so far. Nothing troubling had happened over the past few days - or at least, nothing troubling that you know of.
You’re trying to decide what would be the best way to announce your presence, when she says “You might as well come in, Ria,” and only then turns to face you.
You tentatively step into the cabin and close the door behind you. Lady Golbahar looks at you for a moment more, and her expression softens, even as you can finally see an emotion there: worry. Your ears burn. Is she worrying about you? That is not what you should be doing, adding to her burdens like that.
She pats the space next to her on the bed. It’s a clear invitation, and Golbahar is not like other ladies, but somewhere in the back of your head, Head Butler Jorges is outraged that you do step in and timidly sit down next to her.
It’s another moment before she speaks and when she does, her voice is very soft. “Do you remember when you told me about your friend, Imogen, and how she came to the Isle?”
“Yes,” you answer cautiously. Then you can’t hold it in any longer. “Lady Golbahar, are you all right?”
She’s a little bit slower than usual to reassure you that she is. Then, before you can even think about what that means, she continues “Sometimes--" then shakes her head and tries again. She’s such an excellent speaker; you’re not sure what it means, that she’s having difficulty expressing herself now, but it can’t be anything good.
Your stomach clenches. Golbahar takes your hand without even looking at you.
“Terrible things such as these can and do happen to people from all walks of life,” she says quietly.
For a terrifying moment you think she’s talking about herself; but surely that sort of a thing would’ve come up before now? Or is it the trip to Corval, to where she grew up, that makes her recall something she’d been able to push aside for seven weeks?
She glances at you sharply and her hand holds yours a little tighter. “Ria, no. Had anything like that happened to me, this is not how I would go about telling you.”
“Then who did it happen to?” you ask, your voice as soft as hers. Servants know how not to be overheard, too, not just ladies of the Corvali Inner Court - for you have no doubt that that is why she wanted you to sit down next to her. But if Golbahar is not protecting herself, then who is she protecting?
She must see something in your face, because her expression melts out of inscrutability. Tears rise in your eyes and you lean forward to hug her, and no matter propriety. You have never seen her look so full of sorrow, before. And that, that tells you who the terrible thing had happened to. You might as well have known: you’ve heard enough about Revaire to know it had been a terrible place for almost 15 years. And you know, now, that Lord Clarmont had been in with the rebels all along - even while being raised in the bosom of Princess Gisette and Prince Jarrod’s family. It’s not like you hadn’t wondered about that. Now you know: know - and understand why your lady compared what had happened to her betrothed to what had happened to your own best friend, your foster sister.
There are few things in this world more terrible than being utterly dependent on people who have caused you harm.
Golbahar nods. She must have realized that you understood. Her other hand joins the first, almost absently. You glance down at your joined hands, and continue to worry: you have a feeling that whatever horrible truth your Lady Golbahar holds inside of her is not done being unfolded.
“But it’s all over now, isn’t it?” you ask. Your voice is very small.
Golbahar just looks even more sad. “Oh, Ria,” she says. “You should know that what we have been through continues to live in our hearts long after the moment passed.”
You’re not quite sure you understand and, after a moment, your lady sighs. “Imagine that it had been almost 15 years before Mrs. White had found Imogen. Imagine that she could’ve somehow fixed the circumstances that had put Imogen in that predicament.”
“She would’ve been very grateful still,” you say. “Probably even more.”
Lady Golbahar’s eyes are wise and sad as she says, “Yes, that is, distinctly, part of the problem.”
You almost miss it, but you do in fact know enough about the ways in which people can be horrible to one another to understand: being grateful to someone gives them power over you. You’ve even heard that in the native language of Skalt, the word for gratitude is captivity. It’s not hard to understand why this bothers your lady: after all, you know how much care she takes to never, ever harm anyone.
“But you would never!” you protest, your voice rising to its normal volume for a second. “Lady Golbahar,” you continue more quietly, your words rushed, “you would never hurt him, you have to know that!”
Her eyes are serious as she says: “I already have.” She raised her palm to silence your protest - or your horror, you aren’t sure which one would’ve spilled out first. “Night of the play, he almost broke up with me. He was terrified both for me and of me. Said he didn’t know who he was. I persuaded him to stay.”
You know something had happened the night before the play, something that had involved both your lady and Lord Clarmont. You know that, because you know which butlers were worried and more secretive than the usual. You don’t know what had happened, but if it was enough to have unsettled Jasper it had to have been more than enough to unsettle the kind lord. You don’t ask about it, though: certainly not on a Corvali ship.
“How is that hurting him?” you ask instead. You aren’t blind; everyone could see the change in Lord Clarmont after the ambassadors’ welcome feast, after he proposed to Lady Golbahar; he’s been walking on air since.
Lady Golbahar’s eyes are sad and piercing at the same time. “All I had to persuade him with was a dream, Ria. A fantasy. At the time, I had no idea that I did in fact have access to the resources necessary to save Revaire. Everything he knew about the world told him that what tale I spun out of thin air couldn’t be more than that. It told him that believing in the dream I spun might endanger everything he fought for and everyone with whom he fought.”
But he believed you! you almost protest. The words don’t even make to your lips before they shrivel up and die, though, because you remember: If it had been 15 years, your lady had said earlier, and you remember Imogen when she’d only just arrived on the Isle. You have some basis from which to imagine what 15 years of that might do; you can understand how having to endure what Lord Clarmont had, he had no idea which him was the real one. And when you put all that together your gut twists violently, and not because of the movement of the ship. There is something more lurking just outside your grasp; whatever Lady Golbahar is trying to tell you seems to be too terrible for you to grasp on your own.
“What does it do to someone, to completely give in and let go on their ability to understand the world, in favor of someone else’s ability to do that?” Golbahar asks softly, so quietly you can barely make out the words.
Now Ria’s gut clenches in earnest. “But you--" made it real! you want to protest, but your lady shakes her head.
“That achieved the exact opposite of undoing that choice. If it can even be called that: in my experience, people only ever give in that way when their alternative is to wither up and die from despair.”
And the thing, the horrible thing is-- She’s right. You know she’s right. You remember what you heard from the servants assigned to Lord Clarmont: they were terribly worried for him the entire Summit, on the account that when left to his own means, it seems all he did was sit and stare into the nether. And that-- you know what it means. It’s not like you’ve never seen that. So many people ended up at the Isle, who were haunted by loss and ruin.
So you know kind Lord Clarmont had been in that much despair. You can understand why. You know exactly how persuasive your lady is. And you can, in fact, imagine the feeling of letting go of your own judgment and trusting someone else’s instead. No: trusting that person implicitly, more than everything and anything else.
And then to have the promise they made you come true?
It’s a terrible, horrible power to have over another human being. You understand exactly why your kind, loving lady is so upset. You lean forward and hug her, unreserved.
She hugs you back unhesitatingly, whispering: “What have I done, Ria?”
“Saved his life, Lady Golbahar,” you mumble into her shoulder. “You saved his life, that’s what you did. His staff at the Isle barely dared to leave him unobserved.”
“But at what price?”
You sniffle and pull back. You think it would be better if she saw your face for this. You make no attempt to dry your eyes. “At no price. You would never use that against him.”
“This is the kind of power that resists being used against itself,” Lady Golbahar reminds the both of you. “And if I fail to do that, then I fail at avoiding harm.”
It takes you a moment to understand what she means: she’s talking about using that power to help Lord Clarmong heal. “If anyone can do it it’s you, Lady Golbahar,” you say before you can think better of it. Seeing her face, though, you know: you just added to her burden. Being trusted, being believed in - that, you know now, is a burden to bear.
“Oh, Ria,” she says, and you blush at the affection in her voice. “I very much hope that you are right.”
2 - Golbahar
You’ve barely been in Revaire for two months when you are summoned to the kitchens by the Head of Staff. Your husband and your maid, he tells you, have brought a wild animal in there. Knowing your husband you are reasonably sure that the animal in question is most likely injured; yet you agree to come to the kitchens post haste - both to spare all involved some agitation, and because you are curious how Ria is involved.
A few steps into the kitchen, you spot your quarry: two flaming red-haired heads close together. There is a bubble of empty space around them. You cannot spot the animal yet, so it’s probably quite small - but you can think of several quite-small animals that, nevertheless, don’t belong in the kitchens. It’s not until you’re closer when you finally spot the animal in question. You stop in place, your poise keeping you from laughing out loud: the ‘wild animal’ is a baby bird.
That… actually explains everything. You can see in your mind’s eye how the situation might’ve developed. Ria must have been the one to find the bird; as much as you trust her, you’ve never outright told her that for your husband, caring for others is an out-and-out need - but you’ve been at Revaire for several months, and Ria is brighter than she gives herself credit for and must’ve figured that out; which perfectly explains why she took the baby straight to Clarmont.
And apparently, baby birds eat pureed fruits. Ria is preparing the fruits, while Clarmont does the delicate job of feeding them into the tiny thing’s beak. By now you’re close enough that you can hear him speak over the kitchen ambience - not his words yet, but the tone of his voice. That’s enough for you to understand that he’s instructing Ria in how to care for the bird - which is both completely and utterly not a surprise, and also good news as it means that he gets to care for a human, alongside the animal.
You really ought to find some way to reward Ria for this idea.
Ria actually notices your approach first. She catches your eye, you grin at her, and she grins back, full of enthusiasm and - probably - relieved that her deduction had been correct. Clarmont puts aside the improvised feeding instrument to look up as well, and his eyes catch yours.
Moments like this one never fail to catch your breath. Almost always, there is some sorrow in the lines of your beloved’s face, wariness in his eyes, tension in his posture. But right now there is none of that. Instead, he’s in the moment - and in this moment, there is nothing to fear or be sad or wary about: he’s at home, surrounded only by those he trusts, and engaged in doing something he both needs and loves to do - something that’s been so dangerous as to be almost forbidden for most of his life.
Clarmont isn’t sad, anxious or wary - and the smile he gives you is, as always, dazzling. “Golbahar,” he says.
You need your poise again. The tone of his voice is full of wonder, yes, but that’s not all that’s there. In that moment, he’s very nearly that eight-years-old again, who’d brought home an injured bunny rabbit when he was supposed to learn how to hunt. And that-- that breaks your heart a little. Growing up in the Inner Court, you learned all about the little tells that indicate where the cracks are that one can use to crawl into another’s heart and gain power over them - and the way the little boy looks at you through an adult’s eyes, that’s one of those cracks, and a big one at that.
“My love,” you say as you close the rest of the distance. The young quality recedes a little, but the crack remains as wide. “I see that the news of a wild animal in the kitchen was somewhat exaggerated.”
Ria looks around and winces a little, having just realized what they’d done. Clarmont is unfazed. “They were,” he agrees. “This little fellow is going to cause no trouble at all.”
“Of course he won’t,” you agree, choosing your words carefully. This moment is far more delicate than most observers would realize.
Ria opens her mouth, and you try very hard not to sigh as you tell her: “You have nothing to apologize for.”
Clarmont blinks, and then he looks around, and finally grasps that he has, in all likelihood, upset the cooks. Then he looks at you.
You soften your expression before the wariness can arise - before he can even think that he might have upset you, too. You have no desire to experience what that will cause, particularly because of the significance of what he’s engaged in.
Still, his voice is apologetic as he says: “He’ll need to eat every few hours for a while more. I’ll--"
“--we’ll take shifts,” Ria corrects, chin slightly raised.
“All of us,” you agree.
The joy that lights up his face is breathtaking.
You step just a little closer. He closes the distance and, communicating every move before he takes it, puts his arms around you and leans down to kiss you, eyes fluttering closed.
You tip your chin up and claim that kiss.
You love Clarmont. You love him more than you knew it was possible to love. Then again, the masquerade of hearts that is the Inner Court was hardly conducive to genuine love; other than your mother, he’s probably the first person you’ve ever genuinely loved. You love him fiercely, almost vehemently, and that makes you want to reach into his past and change the things that left him with a heart so badly injured. You can’t do that; you know that. All you can do is change the present so he can heal, and that--
That does not always feel like enough.
When the kiss is over you stay close to him. You brush your thumb over his cheekbone, and his eyes very nearly flutter closed again. That doesn’t always happen, and it tells you a lot about what he is or isn’t feeling at the moment.
The smile that follows is softer.
Good; that’s what you were aiming for. Now you can suggest, in your best lovingly amused tone, “Perhaps we can move this out of the kitchen, love? I’m sure some other space may be prepared.”
“On it!” Ria declares. She heads off, but not before catching your eye again and smiling a little.
“Have I ever told you how glad I am that she came with you?” Clarmont says with another smile.
This is, in fact, new to you. You shake your head and offer a smile of your own.
The baby bird squawks. Clarmont turns back to it immediately. “Help me?” he says over his shoulder.
You shake your head, step forward, and let all that you feel into your voice as you reply: “Always.”
3 - Golbahar
Clarmont had had to get up in the middle of the night to deal with some emergency in the estate and upon his return he’d gone to his bedroom rather than yours, where both of you usually slept, on account of not wanting to wake you up again. That was, in all likelihood, why you had no idea anything was wrong until you looked at him across the breakfast table.
Sometimes you know ahead of time that it’s going to be a bad day: either because you can see the signs, or because Lyall warned you that one horrifying anniversary or the other is approaching. This time the bad day snuck up on you - and, you suspect, on Clarmont also. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s tense until he very nearly snaps at one of the servants - at which point, a look of horror crosses his face and you can tell exactly how much control he needs in order to not flee the room.
It seems like such a tiny thing, but you know better. You well remember the night he had nearly broken up with you at Vail Isle: you remember every last detail of his face, voice and body as he told you I don’t know who I am anymore and why that was. He’s had to wear another person’s skin for almost 15 years. You wondered, before, if his kindness to all servants had its roots in the way he’d had to behave when Gisette and Jarrod’s parents could see. You wondered; now you know. Having snapped at the servant might’ve thrown him back in time, might’ve upset the nascent sense of self he’s been growing under your delicate care.
This particular servant is old, old enough to have probably known Clarmont’s parents, and the only expression on his face and in his body is concern for his young lord - which you’re absolutely certain that Clarmont is far too shaken to notice.
Your husband doesn’t flee the room, but he excuses himself at the first barely-polite opportunity. You saw that coming and made eye contact with one of the waiting servants, which is why Clarmont is followed on his way out. You finish your breakfast, knowing that the intel you need will come to you.
You’re not sure whether to breathe a sigh of relief when you’re told that he’d gone to your rooms and not his. It gives you more to work with, yes, but he would’ve never done that if he wasn’t terrified out of his mind, never gone into your space without asking if he was thinking at all.
You give your orders to the servants as you walk.
You barely arrive on time: you open the door and find him immediately on the other side of it, clearly intending to leave. You step into the room as imperiously as you can, forcing him back in. You had to do it to ensure he wouldn’t leave, but you very nearly wince at the fear in his eyes, at knowing you put that there. Instead, you say his name in your softest voice.
Some of the fear drains out, but not enough of it: he’s frozen in place as you step towards him. You have only those few steps to decide how to handle the situation. Most of your usual tools will be useless: you’ll have to try something new. There is only one option, really: you hate to try it, knowing how dangerous it is, how easily it might backfire, but you have to act. You have to. You cannot leave him like that. Whatever had happened during the night, right now Clarmont isn’t entirely in the here and now. Allowing him to suffer that and do nothing to help is something you would never do. Ever.
Gently you push him towards the bed, and he sits down. You hesitate for a split-second, and then begin to take off your own clothes first. You wait until he looks more stunned than afraid before you ask for his help. He stands up to help you, and you begin taking off his clothes also.
He lets you. Of course he lets you. He’s never refused you anything. He’s barely capable of that on a good day, and this is the worst day you’ve seen to date. Ordinarily you’re excruciatingly careful to not use the power you have over him, but at that moment it’s your only chance. Both of yours.
You leave both your undergarments on. This is not about passion. This cannot be about passion. You touch him, yes, slow and careful, but your purpose is not to arouse.
His laboured breath is the only indication of the distress he’s in. His body seems as confused as his mind: unmoving, neither frozen nor tense. He doesn’t reach to touch you back, which spares you from having to decide how to deal with that. This is not about you. This is entirely about him. It has to be.
You’re slow, careful and tender. That last one is the key, what all your actions are about: communicating tenderness at the most basic of levels. Clarmont knows how to be tender with others, and he’s exceptionally bad at accepting it. You know why. After all, you grew up in the Corvali Inner Court; you don’t even remember how young you were when you learnt that giving people what they need was the shortest way to gaining power over them.
He needs the tenderness, badly. No-one is that careful with others unless they need that care themselves. And for most of his life, he’d had to train himself to never accept it - because accepting it from the wrong person could’ve destroyed everything, could’ve harmed the cause that had eaten up his sense of self.
Bit by bit, his breath calms down as he sinks into your touch, unable to resist, unwilling to refuse you. Then the tremors begin, at first so fine you’re unsure but moments later, his entire body shakes. That’s when you begin to use your voice again, keeping it soft and tender as your touch, speaking what you used to think of as sweet nothings, promising your presence and your love as you encourage him to shake out the horrors of his past.
You keep at it until the first signs of exhaustion; then, you lay on top of him, pinning him down with the warm comforting presence of your body. You pillow your head on his chest, in which his heart is hammering like a terrified rabbit’s, and leave his arms free as you pull the duvet over both of you.
Bit by bit the tension drains out of him and, eventually, he falls asleep.
You wait a considerable while before you dare get up, pull on a gown and pad over to the door. On the other side of it there’s a small folding table bearing the largest pitcher in the kitchen as well as two glasses - and Ria, standing next to it.
You hug her without thinking. You need the comfort, too. Ria, blessedly, hugs you back with no reservation. “I’ll be right here, Lady Golbahar,” she said softly as you reach for the pitcher - full of juice, not water - and the glasses. “Don’t you worry about anything else.”
Several hours later, he wakes up softly. You are the first thing he sees when his eyes blink open; you’ve made sure of that. His expression, still foggy with sleep, lights up at your presence. You lean forward slightly to kiss him on the mouth and he opens up to you easily, eagerly. With soft touches and gentle words you encourage him to drink the juice, knowing that he needs the water and the sweetness. He downs half the pitcher before clarity begins to return to him, and with it - memory.
You still and wait quietly, letting him decide as freely as possible how to respond. You well know that in moments like this one, speaking or touching too soon would sink him into the need to please you. Keeping your terror and your fury tightly leashed is one of the hardest things you’ve ever done.
You know that you probably saved his life, when you talked him into not breaking up with you. You’re still terrified at the power you now hold, and you hope that you continue to be. This is a sort of power you’ve never wanted, least of all over one that you love.
And oh, how you love him.
His voice is raspy when he says “Thank you”, and you cannot hold back the tears that these words bring to your eyes, even though you know he’ll worry. You shake your head, relieved that it’s only worry you see in his expression, and not fear. It means that your dangerous experiment works.
“Golbahar?” he asks softly.
He’s once again speaking your name the way an Arlish person might speak the word God, and it shatters your heart just like it does every time. You shake your head, only barely managing to whisper “I love you” through your tight throat. Then you kiss him, this time letting it be about passion - at least, until you can feel his body give in to the weariness from the past few hours. Then, you stop moving and lay on top of him again instead.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite remember what happened,” he admits. You’re not sure whether you should be relieved or furious that he doesn’t sound upset, only confused: relieved that he’s not upset, furious because it tells you how fragile he is in that moment.
“Nothing of consequence, my love,” you whisper against his skin.
He’s lucid enough to read between the words, as evident by his sounding more awake as he asks: “Did I hurt you?”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“I hurt you,” he says again, and this time it’s not a question.
You raise your head to look at him.
It’s a moment before he ruefully says: “You will talk me down if I insist, won’t you.”
You allow yourself a smile. “Yes, my love.”
He sighs and relaxes back into the bed, the expression on his face melting into the utter trust of the young and the broken.
You can’t cry. He will know, and it will upset him, and then you will have to insist that he didn’t hurt you. Instead you lay your head down on his chest again. This time you allow yourself to pin his arms to his body, and you feel him relax even more in response, again drifting into the haze.
Ruefully, you realize that it may take days until he’s fully recovered from whatever had happened to set this off. Or, well, as recovered as he can be: you have no illusions about how long it will take for him to fully heal. It may be a lifetime’s work for you.
You love him more than enough for that.
4 - Golbahar
Ria is unbraiding your hair when there’s a soft knock on your door. You look at each other through the mirror, both of you knowing who that is, before you call out, just loud enough to carry: “Come in.”
It is indeed your husband on the other side of the door, and he does indeed seem rueful and ashamed.
You knew this conversation was coming. That’s why you put it off for as long as was possible - perhaps, for longer than you should’ve. You are about to find out whether you have - finally - made an error in your judgment.
You don’t need to tell Ria Please leave us. You also don’t need to apologize to her. At this point, a year since you came to Revaire, she understands the situation almost as well as you do. After all, you’ve been teaching her this way of thinking from the start.
The door closes behind her with a soft click. You and Clarmont look at each other for a few seconds before, simultaneously, he says “I’m sorry” and you sigh.
Then you both smile at each other in recognition of how well you know one another, how well you complement. You’ll take this win.
You say, “I’ve grown tired of you apologizing, love.”
He replies, “So do I.”
You shake your head. “I think we mean very different things. I’m not tired of you needing to apologize; I’m tired of you apologizing without need.”
He visibly recoils. “How can you--"
You cut him off. “Whether or not you hurt me is my call, not yours.”
“I’ve been hurting you for the entire past week. How can you say that I didn’t?”
“Because you didn’t”, you reply quietly.
“I don’t believe you.”
You flinch. You wondered what it would feel like, when these words came. You had no idea it would hurt this much.
“Golbahar,” he says, and in his mouth your name is a plea. “You knew it would happen. You knew I was going to act this way. That’s why you didn’t tell me you were pregnant. You knew I was going to--"
“None of this is your fault,” you cut him off. Then words slip off your tongue that you did not plan to say. “I’m sorry.”
He rocks back as if he’d been hit. You have never seen him so shocked, not even when you told him - a week before - that you were nearly five months pregnant.
If only I was good enough, you want to tell him. I’m sorry that I keep failing you. But you know if you say that, he’ll only hear that he’s causing you pain; you know that in his mind you are everything that is good in the world, and the possibility of you failing does not exist. The only possible cause for failure between you is, always, him. You well know that he is not at fault, not for what had happened to him nor for the marks it left on him, but it’s a point you just can’t get through.
You sigh, shake the last of the braids from your head, and get up. Clarmont flinches as you approach him, but you ignore that and reach up with your hand, tilting his head so that you are looking into each other’s eyes. He’s tense; you think he would’ve looked away if you hadn’t made it so clear what you want of him.
One day he will refuse you something, and you will weep with joy.
In that moment you are looking into each other’s eyes as you tell him, “It’s not your fear for me and for our child I was avoiding, my love. It was this conversation.”
He seems confused. That’s good. It means he’s beginning to understand that he does not understand the situation.
You hate that you have to keep doing this to him.
“You have every right to be afraid, for both of us,” you say, quieter but just as firm. “For most of your life, anyone you loved could’ve and would’ve been used against you. You have every right. It’s not your fear I was avoiding. It’s my own helplessness to help the one I love most, to help you. Every time I see you suffer for other people’s deeds--" Your eyes flood suddenly and you avert your gaze.
It’s his turn to tilt your head back and re-establish eye contact. “My love,” he says, just as softly, “how many times have you reminded me that we’re together, that we are partners, and neither of us needs to face those things alone?”
For once, you are at loss for words.
“You are not at fault for what had happened to me before we ever even met.” His smile is both beautiful and broken, brilliant and sad. “I’m beginning to understand I wasn’t either, for all that it’s excruciatingly hard to feel that way.”
You turn into his palm where it’s cupping your face. Tears are streaming down your cheeks. You don’t remember ever crying this hard. “How long will you see yourself through the eyes of your once-enemies,” you ask, “and when will you see yourself through mine?”
The words hit him like a blow.
You follow that up, relentless. “Who do you see when you look in the mirror?”
Now he’s crying as hard as you are. A long moment passes before he replies in a broken whisper: “Someone that you love.”
He’s speaking the truth. There is no sneaking a lie past you and besides, you don’t think he would’ve - could’ve - tried. And this– this is a victory, and one you’ve worked very hard for; but at the same time, you do not want any more power over your beloved. You just don’t know any other way to help.
His lips part.
You know what he’s going to say.
“My salvation.”
5 - Sayra
Parts of this don’t surprise you. For example, you couldn’t be less surprised that Golbahar ferreted out latest attempt to displace you. After all, that’s what you summoned her to court for, having noticed some suspicious activity yourself. Golbahar is a supernatural force on the matter of people; that’s the least surprising thing about the current situation. You’re also unsurprised that Clarmont had managed to kill the assassin from across the throne room - or, for that matter, that he had a throwing knife on him and knew how to use it. Of all the nobles who were part of the rebels, he’s the one who came closest to the usurpers and their inner circle; that sort of a skill is prudent, when that’s the life you lead.
In fact, everything that happened right up to the moment the would-be assassin lies dead before you is entirely unsurprising. But when your eyes go to the other side of the room, to where Clarmont and Golbahar are, you see that his face and body are completely devoid of expression almost to the point of looking unalive, and Golbahar-- She’s looking at him, her attention completely focused, and though there is no anger visible in her, you have the uneasy feeling in that moment, she too could kill.
It takes you two, three seconds to notice all that. It’s long enough for your guards to step in formation around you, ready to evacuate you to one of the secure, secret chambers in the castle’s belly until this matter is fully settled. The odds of there being more assassins are low, but that is not a risk you’re willing to take, particularly while you are still childless.
“Fetch Golbahar and Clarmont,” you tell the captain of the guard even as he reaches for you. “Unless she identified more concrete threats. In which case--"
The look he gives you says, quite clearly, that you don’t need to complete the sentence: there is a standing order to the entirety of your guard that Golbahar’s lead is to be followed.
The three of you are hurried through the secret corridors, surrounded in two separate bubbles made of guards. It makes it hard for you to follow up on what you have noticed, which is why turning to them is the first thing you do when you reach your destination and the guards complete their formation - except for one guard, which the captain sends on an unknown errand.
This particular captain was promoted on the basis of Marchioness Valentine’s word, so you’re inclined to worry about the mysterious errant later. Right now, Golbahar is still quivering like an arrow and Clarmont is still expressionless like you have never seen him. Golbahar shoots you the world’s quickest grateful look, then takes her husband’s hand and leads him to the other side of the room. Something about the way he follows her sits uneasy in your stomach.
She has that way with people. You know that. You had a first-row seat for seven weeks, to watch how deftly she turned everyone she had met the way she wanted them - and Clarmont loves her more than life, more than anything. You’ve known that too, and the only reason you’ve never probed into the dynamic is because you know how deeply his wife’s ethical commitment runs. But even knowing all that, you strain your ears and watch their conversation like a hawk.
Golbahar’s voice is not much more than a soft murmur. She speaks for a good few moments, never reaching for her husband until his shoulders suddenly tense. Then she reaches up to hold his face between both her hands.
Your breath catches. You’re not even sure why.
The tension melts out of Clarmont. The two embrace tightly. You’re not sure, but you think he might be shaking.
The guard is back. As it turns out, the captain had sent him to fetch tea. Another surprise, then. You search for the captain. He strides to your side as soon as your eyes meet.
“Yes, Highness?”
“Enlighten me, Captain. What was the great tactical importance of tea?”
The look he gives you is a little odd, as if he expected you to have grasped his logic. “Not tactical, your Highness. But being thrust back into combat after you tasted peace, that does things to a person.”
That, combined with the smell of the tea that has by now reached you - one of Earl Emmett’s blends, meant for relaxation - puts the situation in a different light. You realize that the captain may be able to enlighten you on the matter of the mystery across the room from you.
“Upsetting things?” you ask.
He nods. “Very unpleasant.”
You’re familiar with the kind of unpleasantness that makes all of one’s emotions freeze then shrivel up. You’ve been there yourself more than once, over the decade and a half of your exile. You imagine what being tossed back into the feeling of exile might do to you, and you better understand Clarmont’s reaction.
You turn your head to watch the two again. Each of them is holding a cup of tea, now, and Golbahar still has her hand against Clarmont’s arm, the touch open and unrestrictive. Suddenly, you recognize the nuance to her body language that alluded you before; or, more correctly, that you briefly identified back in the throne room then discarded it from your attention because you thought it was about you.
It shouldn’t surprise you that Golbahar is protective of her husband, but you haven’t expected quite this degree of fierceness. You know that ordinarily Golbahar will shy away from violence, but you’re also sure that if anyone did anything to upset Clarmont in this moment - even a little - she will sic the guards at them.
And knowing what you do now, you also know that you won’t stop her.
It occurs to you that you have been handed tea also - and that you, too, was just thrust back into memories of war. You sip your tea, and make a note to yourself to reward this particular captain, somehow. The tea was a splendid idea.
It’s not until Clarmont seems mostly recovered and starts looking around, clearly looking for something to do, that Golbahar leaves him and comes to your side.
“I hope you’re taking notes,” you tell her.
She gives you a quizzical look. She looks, if you’re honest with yourself, quite a bit tired. The past few days had been draining, yes, but she seemed fresh enough a few hours ago. The effort she just expanded must’ve taken a great deal out of her.
“There’s a lot of us carrying the marks of war in our hearts, Golbahar,” you tell her, when it becomes obvious she neither follows nor will she ask in words. “And I now realize that you made a study of recovery.”
You just managed to genuinely surprise Golbahar for the first time since you’d told her of your heritage.
When she speaks, it’s to say, “I’ve been hesitant to commit this knowledge to paper.”
“A caution I completely understand,” you reply.
The ghost of a smile pulls at her lips. “And yet disagree with.”
“I recognize that it could be argued you have already done enough for the world,” you say, as factually as you can, “but I think this too may be worth doing.” You smile suddenly, recalling what the marchioness has said at your summit, a year and a half before. “And as I recall, someone once said something about all worthwhile endeavors coming with risks.”
The looks Golbahar gives you says that she remembers exactly, and does not appreciate having her own tricks turned on her.
More softly, you say, “Write it down, Golbahar. There’s so many more lives you could save.”
She doesn’t exactly sigh as she replies: “I will think about it.”
+1 - Clarmont
The winter of Moria’s fifth birthday, it snows. It last snowed in your memory the winter after your family had been murdered; it’s not a fond memory. Your daughters don’t know that, of course, and they run out the door so they can catch snowflakes on their tongues. Or, well: Moria runs and little Nur does her best to follow, as clumsy as any toddler her age. The dogs run ahead of them, and they are followed by Marieka and Tao - Nur’s nanny and the Jiyeli tutor Golbahar had imported on Lyon’s word.
Your eyes keep returning to Moria. Her colours are darker than yours: her hair is a rich reddish brown and her eyes are her mother’s brown. Other than that, though - other than that, she looks exactly like Elspeth had looked at her age. So far you watched Moria grow and knew what shape her features will take. Now, though - from here on, you have no map. Elspeth had never reached her sixth birthday.
The memories, like the snow, don’t stick. It’s a relief, and it lets you enjoy how adorable the scene is, complete with Tao’s stern words that have no real ire behind them. You stand in the doorway and a smile comes to your lips, unbidden. The smile is small and fragile, like your newfound freedom from the tyranny of your past, but just like said freedom it’s decidedly there.
Your wife comes to stand by your side and sneaks her arm around your waist. You lean into her, grateful as always for the miracle of her presence. Between her and your daughters running around laughing, the sense of peace is almost overwhelming even across the darker background of memory. It takes you a minute to realize that Golbahar is tense. It’s minute: while you’re fairly sure Ria would’ve noticed it also, you’re just as sure that Sayra would’ve missed it and possibly Avalie as well.
“Love?” you ask quietly, turning your head to look at her.
She tilts her head up to meet your gaze. You get lost in her dark eyes, only noticing the question in them when it nearly turns into concern. For once, your sense of guilt at having worried her again is that much weaker than the warm relief at being seen. It used to be the thing that scared you the most, being seen; it used to be the thing that could kill you. Nowadays you think that being unseen almost killed you, too. You still remember what it felt like to look in the mirror and see nothing but lies and disgust, but you no longer feel that way; you no longer know how you survived like that for so long, either.
While you think all that, Golbahar continues to search your face. The emotions on her face flicker and change as she takes yours in.
“I love you,” you remind her. You may never grow tired of watching what these words do to her even now, six years down the road. And the love in her gaze - that soothes your heart and uplifts your soul. To be fair, you need that: by now you know that the worse a memory is the more it loves anniversaries, and Elspeth’s body tossed in the red-stained snow is one of the worst. Your sleep has been troubled lately, your temper short, the tension in your shoulders back.
So that’s why Golbahar is looking at you that way.
It used to be that her concern made the guilt overwhelming. Then it became gratitude that overwhelmed you. Now you let the emotions flow instead of attempting to wrestle them into submission and as it turns out, wrestled emotions build up like water behind a dam; letting them flow makes life easier. It certainly took you some time to learn that: after all, you went through half your life knowing that expressing your emotions would get you killed.
Golbahar’s expression softens and relaxes a little.
Out of everything in your mind, the words that tumble out are: “One day she’ll turn 10.”
“And we’ll wear that out together, too,” Golbahar replies. She smiles a little and adds: “Besides, it’ll be much easier than you think.”
“Not that I doubt your word…” You begin, unsure how to ask, How do you know?
“You haven’t even looked at her for several minutes,” she points out. “Would that have happened two years ago?”
“No,” you admit. You’re fairly certain it wouldn’t have happened a year ago, either. Six months are a toss-up. In five more years… in five more years, perhaps you really will be able to handle it.
The thought makes you realize something more.
You take her hand in yours, lacing your fingers. “I didn’t use to have a future,” you say, looking down at your hands. “I couldn’t even imagine one.” You don’t need to add, Now I do, now I can; instead, you lift your joined hands and kiss her knuckles. Only then you dare meet her gaze again.
Her eyes are welling with tears. She surprises you completely by rising on tiptoe to kiss you.
You close your eyes and open up to her. There is no sorrow in her kiss, only joy. You don’t entirely follow her reasoning, but you know better than to doubt it. Golbahar’s grasp of people is legendarily acute, and on the matter of you she’s even more precise. That thought used to terrify you; it still makes you feel as if you have just turned into a puddle, but now the feeling is a mostly pleasant one.
It still feels as if you hadn’t earned having her in your life. You know better than to speak about it; it upsets her to no end. But as you stand there and stare into her eyes, letting that melting feeling linger, it occurs to you that perhaps you never needed to have earned her. That so long as you use what she’s giving you to do good in the world, that just might be enough. And that-- that’s something you think you can do, that you think you’re already doing.
For the first time, it occurs to you that you might be good enough.
She sees your revelation on your face. Of course she does. She tilts her head. You shake yours, and she nods: whatever questions she has, she’ll wait for later to ask. In that moment you can’t speak. It’s fine; you don’t need to. There will be other moments in the future, many more moments. You have enough time: both of you, the four of you, your family, and the circles that extend beyond that.
You have a future. You might even be worthy of it.
And finally, you can believe that.