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Jude Duarte prided herself in a lot of things: her strength, her resilience, her wits, and her power she’d won and kept thanks to all that. But more than anything, she prided herself in her control. Control of her emotions, of her pain, of her reactions. After all, one cannot become the first mortal High Queen of Elfhame and hold on to that title without the gift of self-possession. Always be in control, never show your weaknesses. Gosh, she was starting to sound like Madoc.
That self control was the reason she was so frustrated with her husband right now. Cardan has the ability to unravel her, often without even trying. That was, by far, the High King’s most grave offence. Jude also prided herself in the fairness of her judgements. If one crossed her, she would make them pay, whether they were friends or foes. It would not be different with Cardan because he was her husband. She couldn’t start to play favorites, couldn’t she? What kind of queen would that make her?
It all started on a surprisingly warm autumn day for Elfhame. The Court was unusually calm, possibly lulled into sleep by the weather, leaving the High King and Queen with rare free time. Jude, as mentioned, was nothing if not very self-possessed. A slow day at Court didn’t automatically translate into a day off, despite the insistence of Cardan. Power never rests, and the same could be said for her–for them, really, but she found herself unable to force her husband into an evening of reading and signing petitions. She would be more efficient on her own, without him whining that she was no fun, anyway.
Thus, Jude spent a very productive evening by herself in their royal office. Satisfied by the progression of her work, she put away the last scroll of parchment, stretched, and headed to their rooms in search of her husband. At this time of the night, she expected Cardan to be reading or drinking, maybe both. She looked forward to joining him. When she found their chambers vacant, she swallowed her disappointment.
The High Queen headed to the secret passage leading to the Court of Shadows’ lair. Cardan was probably there playing cards with the Roach and the Ghost. Sure enough, she could hear their voices as she approached the door. What she wasn’t expecting was seeing them sparing and training instead. One recruit, the one guarding the door, made a move to bow and salute her, but Jude lifted a hand, silencing him without a word.
She approached quietly, putting her sly-footing training into practice. Cardan training wasn’t a rare occurrence in and by itself: he was, after all, as much of a spy as she was, and a long standing member of the Court of Shadows. It was seeing the way he fought and spared without knowing she was in the audience that mesmerized her. As a prince, the High King wasn’t well versed with arms. In fact, Jude had beat and humiliated him once with a practice sword in front of the gentry. Even now, it was no secret that she was still the better weapon wielder and fighter between the two of them. There was no shame in that: Jude was very good. For all the arrogance and flair that Cardan donned in front of other people, he always held back when they trained together. Perhaps partly due to his own insecurities, but mostly–she suspected, anyway–so that Jude could maintain her mask of a ruthless and powerful queen in front of everyone else.
She remained in the shadows, quietly observing. Cardan had swapped his usual extravagance for much simpler garbs. Gone were the fancy doublets, the jeweled collars, the rings and the feathers. She was reminded of that night she first really saw him as a spy, no longer just a puppet king playing pretend. He had infiltrated Madoc’s camp with the Roach to save her. He was beautiful then, just as he was beautiful now. Even moreso, now that he was hers. Not just as a husband and her king, but he was hers in the sense that only she knew all the façades of him. The world only saw the mask he’d chosen to show them: a cruel king who charms and tricks with his wicked words, leaving the fighting and the heavy lifting to his mortal wife. But Cardan was so much more than that. He was cunning and clever, fooling everyone who made the mistake to underestimate him.
Over the years as his life partner, Jude had seen him grow into his birthright, becoming the king Elfhame needed and deserved, but she’d also seen him evolve as a spy working in the shadows, protecting the very crown they both wear. Cardan had trained as hard as any of them, and had poured his own sweat and blood into the protection of this land. It saddened her that most people didn’t know that, that he wouldn’t get the credit he deserved. But part of her also relished in the fact that only a selected few had the privilege to know that side of Cardan. Contrary to the hedonistic nature he liked to display at court, the High King was a highly guarded person, and only his queen was privy to all his complexities.
Jude gripped Nightfell tightly, grasping for control as her heart leaped at the sight of her husband panting and glistening in sweat. The faes rarely ever show sign of fatigue. It was a testament of how hard he was pushing himself. She loved Cardan in his extravagant fineries, she loved him bare, but she loved him most like this: spent by physical exertion, not a king or a lover, but a soldier, just like her. Cardan’s build was tall and lite, ever the graceful faerie, but he’d gained muscles over the years with his frequent training. She was distracted by his laced-up front black shirt with a ridiculously low neckline, by how it showed his skin and the muscles that contracted when he fought. His laces were coming loose, and she desperately wanted to grab them and tie them up, lest he be distracted, too. Or maybe just rip the damn shirt off. So he would be more comfortable in his movements, of course. Not because she would enjoy the view; she sees him naked all the time anyway, so it wouldn’t make any difference to her, or so Jude told herself.
Jude would hit herself in the head later for this, but she was so distracted she didn’t notice right away that the sparring had stopped. By the time she did, Cardan had turned around, eyes glinting with mischief, and his smirk was so sharp it rivaled her blades. Most of the spies have scattered, but not the Roach and the Ghost.
“Enjoying the show, my queen?” Her husband asked.
Oh yes, she definitely was, but she wouldn’t admit that. Cardan could be insufferable whenever he had the upper hand. And currently, her pride was still slightly bruised by her loss of control in front of everyone. So she did what she did best: she lied and relied on her weapons.
“I was admiring your form as you fought, my king. Good form, but not as good as mine.” She threw him Nightfell and grabbed another sword for herself. She wouldn’t use her beloved blade as it would give her an unfair advantage, even more so because she was obviously the best fighter in their couple. Jude played fair, unlike her husband who had used his handsomeness to distract her. She bet he’d been aware of her presence long before he let on. Her slyfooting had never been as good as his, she had to admit that.
Their swords clashed, and Jude smiled, finally in her element. Her muscle memory took over, sending both of them in a frenzy of clashing metal as one hit while the other ducked. Cardan was good, and held his ground respectably and far longer than she expected to, but he was finally sent sprawling on the ground, Nightfell knocked on the side. Jude was pushed into another familiar sequence of movements as she straddled her husband, immobilizing him and hovering over him with her forearm on his chest, the dull side of her sword to his neck.
“I win.” She smiled triumphantly, satisfied by the way his breath hitched and how his eyes darkened at the proximity of her lips to his.
Cardan lifted both his hands in surrender.
“On the contrary, dear wife, I think that I'm in no way losing.” He smiled at her, amused. Did she accidentally hit him on the head?
“Do not be deluded, High King. Even you should be smart enough to know when to admit defeat.”
“And yet, I’m the one pinned beneath my panting wife with one of her knifes against my throat, after a wonderful display of power and strength, no less. I’d hardly call that a loss.”
Jude gasped at her husband’s shameless flirtation, in front of the core members of the Court of Shadows, no less. She turned furiously to look for the Roach and the Ghost, but they too have disappeared. When did–
Jude’s moment of distraction cost her dearly. In the microsecond it took her to take offence, Cardan had flipped them around, reversing their positions. She was pinned underneath him, with the High King’s straddling her hips. He had been fast and efficient, she’d give him that.
It was her husband’s turn to hover, his eyes dark and blown wide with desire, his smile wicked, full of promise. She could feel his hot breath on her skin, and her neck lifted itself up reflexively, chasing the intoxicating scent of his honeyed wine.
“I win.” Cardan countered before kissing her. Jude just had to conceded.
Later, much later, as Jude and Cardan were tangled in bed after he’d thoroughly claimed his victory, she was tracing lazy patterns on his belly with her finger when he stopped her with one hand.
“I can practically hear the gears turning in your head, my devious fox. You are scheming again.”
“I’m not.” Jude didn’t even bother to sound convincing.
Cardan’s hand languorously slid up her body, stopping at her chin and tilting her head up. He made sure she was looking at him. “You are a slick, slippery, liar.” His words were deliberate, as always, and they struck true to her current state.
“And you’re a smug faerie king.” He grinned wickedly, his beautiful mouth still swollen by their earlier activities. As if on cue, her traitorous body made her core contract, sending another zap of desire through her. Decidedly, her control was no match to Cardan’s ministrations.
A good strategist should always know when to admit defeat, and the time was now. She was too spent and tired to resist him, not that she even managed to, in the first place. But Jude Duarte was nothing if not determined to win. She’ll just have to wait until it is time to strike again.
“You’ll pay for this.” She panted, already trembling from his roaming hands.
“Oh, trust me, my sweet poison, I cannot wait for what you have in store for me.”
His mouth descended on hers, and Jude knew control no more.