3. Explanations 1
“What happened?” Juventia’s voice was mild, but cut through the dimmed room all the same. She glanced quickly around the room, counting heads, before turning to close the door behind her and to set the ward that prevented eavesdroppers.
“Good to see you too.” Ilmira murmured from her place on the bed, shifting aside the wet cloth she'd laid over her eyes. As always, she took a moment just to look, even if it risked angering Juventia further.
And as always, Ilmira appreciated the sight. Juventia’s courtiers, for all she despaired of them, managed in most instances to keep their charge properly arrayed. Today, her dark brown hair was smoothed and pinned at the base of her skull in a simple loop that barely cleared the bunched deep maroon fabric of her collar. The folds of the linen hid any signs of disarray as artistic layering; bunching into the shoulder closures and widening again to form the rest of the top in a shallow v. It was bound at the waist by an embroidered light gray sash tied at one side, with its ends allowed to trail with the maroon skirts that reached the floor. The fabric rustled as she turned back, revealing the window she’d cut - and summarily had to have a seamstress partially repair - into the front of the skirt, and the dark breeches she wore beneath. The breeches would’ve been more than enough for modesty’s sake on their own. The Queen’s sense of modesty, at any rate. Jury was out on the rest of the country, as ‘war time necessities’ were declining as an accepted reasoning for certain behaviors.
Ilmira knew Juventia had chosen the outfit to reflect a balance of both ideas, and that the Queen kept careful control over how her appearance could be interpreted. Every action in the public eye was carefully weighed, even her voice and pace kept firm and moderated. Her expression, here in the privacy of her own rooms, was not.
Ilmira knew her well enough to place worry, tension, and calculation among the quick cycling of emotions across her face, and to know she missed a few.
Calculation, in evaluating each of the figures in the room. One war hero, begrudgingly laid abed. One Mage Commander, sipping tea in a window seat. One Physician, rolling up her sleeves as she rummaged through her bag. No blood, no bandages, no sounds of distant screams. No immediate crisis.
Tension, because she would’ve heard that Ilmira had made a scene at the training grounds, and that someone had collapsed. Whether anyone had thought to clarify it was not Ilmira who had collapsed was always a toss up of gossip and messengers. And even if that immediate concern was resolved, Juventia was Queen of a very delicately balanced nation. She had to account for what would happen if someone were to take up a grudge against their national hero, or otherwise make a public disagreement of even a trivial matter with the aim or consequence of discrediting the fragile authority they currently held. It was a constant knot that never seemed to unravel, that tension.
And then there was worry, that melted into relief when she had ruled out the worst case scenarios. Without acknowledging her non-answer, Juventia crossed the room in a few strides to take Ilmira’s hand in hers.
“You said the walk wouldn’t be any trouble.” Juventia murmured, leaning in to greet the other woman with a kiss.
Ilmira tipped her head to meet her, reaching up with her other hand to tug lightly, affectionately, at the loop of hair swept over her brow. “You know wearing your hair like this gives you headaches.” She countered, when Juventia left her room to breathe.
A crooked smile quirked the corners of Juventia’s mouth. “I’m no longer convinced it’s the hairpins causing my headaches.”
“In her defense, it wasn’t the walking that did her in, your majesty.” Fio pointed out. He was comfortably settled on a cushion, reclining against the wider windowsill. He was just a little too short for it, enough that his heel didn’t quite reach the floor, but with the other leg crossed ankle over knee he almost pulled it off as intentional. Had she felt better, Ilmira might’ve thrown a pillow at him, his precariously balanced teacup counted as an acceptable casualty. As it was, she settled for glaring at him.
Still, it was let Fio tell it, or provide answers herself. Ilmira squeezed Juventia’s hand to call her attention back. “It really wasn’t.” She said wearily. “I - there was something unexpected. I used the diadem. I’m not....”
Some of the worry returned at that statement, a furrow in Juventia’s brow as she glanced up and down as though to find what she’d missed the first time. Impatient, Ilmira shook her head when Juventia looked to Mari, still absorbed in sorting her supplies. “No injuries.” She said firmly. “Nothing physical.” A sense of honesty made her reluctantly add, “for me.”
Juventia arched a brow at that, meeting Ilmira’s eyes. “For you.” She confirmed, with a two tone echo that implied there was a void of information to be filled. That tactic had worked on informants, captives, rebel leaders, and nobles alike. It also had a very impressive success record on Ilmira, who found herself on the verge of just spilling out whatever information first came to mind. Luckily, reinforcements arrived.
A sharp three note rap on the door preluded Catalin’s entry by a hair. “Your Majesty.” She greeted Juventia, folding one hand over her chest as she bowed. Her other arm was wrapped over and around a small leather-latched chest, which she kept propped against one hip with seemingly minimal effort. It didn’t seem to impede her bow in the slightest either.
Catalin shifted as she straightened, using one foot to close the door behind her rather than turn, as her attention turned to the room at large. “How’s the squire?” She inquired.
“Squire.” Juventia echoed again, this time a single flat and unimpressed note. Her expression matched - a neutral mask that hinted of disappointment. If the echo itself was not enough, this particular mien had won the respect of mothers across Theolin. Ilmira winced.
Catalin was not as unobservant as some claimed. She took a moment to blink, then found a place for the chest on an open stretch of floor to one side. By the time she had straightened again, Fio had cleared his throat, and lifted his teacup again in acknowledgment as he stood. He then made what might as well have been a bee-line for his colleague, who had already found the door handle again.
It was hard to say which was angling to hide behind the other, by the time they were vying to fit in the same doorframe.
“Our apologies for intruding, your majesty.” Catalin said politely.
“We are at your service, should you wish for our aid.” Fio added, making pointed eye contact with Ilmira as he said it. The face she made in return was hardly decorous, but it did convey what she thought of their sudden propriety.
Juventia hadn’t missed the shift either, though she only inclined her head towards them, the motion slow and regal. With another bow, the pair fled fully into the hallway, closing the door behind them. It was a brilliant move of camaraderie - but unfortunately one that had left out Lady Mari.
The marooned noblewoman lifted her head, finally seeming to realize something was amiss. She blinked at Ilmira and Juventia, twice, then lifted a small tin from her bag. “I found the ointment.” She said, in an admirable bid for normalcy. “Shall I… leave you to it?”
Juventia held out one hand for the tin, glancing briefly at its markings. “Shoulders again?” She asked mildly, reaching for the hand towel Mari had produced earlier.
“Calves.” Ilmira murmured, before wincing and admitting, “Legs in general, at this point.”
Juventia nodded. “You’ll need to roll over then.” She prompted Ilmira, with a formal nod to Mari. The physician knew them well enough not to take it personally.
“I’ll go check in on… our guest.” She said diplomatically, swinging her bag of supplies onto one shoulder. “Do call for me if it worsens?” She didn’t wait for an answer, instead dipping into a habitual curtsy before making for the door.
That left Ilmira alone to face her sovereign and lover, who was still considering her with that expectant expression. So much for her reinforcements.
Ilmira collapsed back onto the pillows she’d been propped against. “It wasn’t assassins.” She offered. It was easier to rule out worst case scenarios than to explain what had actually happened.
“This time.” Juventia commented, beginning to roll up the hems of Ilmira’s pants legs. “Ah, good, you did wear the -“
“- yes, I wore the stockings.” Ilmira smiled. “They were helpful. And I like their color.”
The stockings in question were a brilliant red color that defied all attempts to match it with more normal clothing. They’d been a gift, last Fabrest, specially made by Mari’s instruction to fit snugly enough to apply slight pressure. It was testament to the tailor’s skill that they didn’t chafe, and hadn’t yet lost their shape. Ilmira wasn’t sure if the color had been Juventia’s idea or the tailor’s, but Juventia had commented on them almost every time she wore them. That, as much as the fact they did genuinely help on days she had to walk or stand for long periods, ensured she kept wearing them.
“Good.” Juventia sounded pleased. “And they didn’t get scorched off by whatever it is you’ve gotten up to, so they’re holding up well.” She tugged at the vibrant fabric, glancing up to chide Ilmira, “Go on then, roll over.”
With a soft exhale and a wince she tried to hide, Ilmira obeyed. She resettled herself on the various pillows and cushions, pushing most of them out of the way before finding one to bury her face into. She tried to force herself to relax, and didn’t speak again as Juventia began working the relaxing ointment into the tense muscles of her calves. Juventia let her have the silence - she could read Ilmira as well as Ilmira could read her, and gods only knew what was poking through the spiky bundle of stress at her core now.
After a few moments, Ilmira was able to distill enough of what she was feeling into words. “He’s like me.” She said, wonder and desperation and sorrow blended into a beseeching explanation that explained little.
Juventia, however, understood. Her ministrations paused, as she considered the new concerns that news presented. When Ilmira twisted to look at her, she searched Ilmira’s face for something unknowable, hazel eyes pensive.
For her part, Ilmira desperately wanted to explain. She wanted to put into words the sudden certainty that had hit harder than any of Orellia’s best knights, the relief that was as dizzying as winning the war had been, the guilt and commingled despair for a boy she’d never met before that threatened to choke the words from her throat forever. She couldn’t make herself do it. Fractions of sentences formed, half trains of thought. The sounds never made it to syllables.
Juventia moved to the other side of the bed, boosting herself up onto the mattress and its covers. She laid on her back, watching the wood grains on the ceiling, and reached over enough that the back of her hand rested against the back of Ilmira’s.
“This isn’t how choosing the squires was meant to go.” Ilmira whispered to the ceiling.
It was not remotely how the choosing of the squires had been meant to go. There was meant to be discussion, file review, interviews with students and instructors, an appropriate divvying of workload. Ilmira couldn’t even recall if Davins was one of the blade or mage instructors. Probably more to the point, Ilmira had been against taking on a squire at all.
“Do you want me to override it?” Juventia asked, just as quietly. As one of the monarchs, only she or her brother Pyrion could reasonably do so. Technically Catalin or Fio had the power to, but Ilmira knew they wouldn’t. Not after such a public declaration. “I could have Pyrion do it, if you’d prefer.”
“No.” Ilmira’s voice was steadier on that one, a denial she didn’t need to consider. “No, I didn’t claim him just to abandon him. Though I may not be doing him any favors either, especially if I’m wrong.”
Juventia lightly twined her fingers with Ilmira’s, tilting her head to watch her. “Do you think that you’re wrong?”
Ilmira met her gaze evenly. “No.” She said, “But I wish - and I hope - that I am.”
Ilmira was still scrubbing at her face over the water basin when Juventia returned from the door.
“I can’t stay longer than a few more minutes, I’m afraid. Otherwise the messenger might well expire.” Her words were sympathetic, but her tone was amused.
Ilmira didn’t respond at first, instead splashing her face one last time. When she looked up, first squinting to see Juventia over her shoulder in the mirror, then turning to look her directly, excess water dripped from the tip of her nose and chin. She blinked, and a droplet ran down one cheek. “That bodes well. Your court is desperate for your attention again.”
“Or Pyrion’s panicking at the thought of handling them on his own.” Juventia mused. She held up a small hand towel, but pulled it away when Ilmira reached for it. Indulgent, the taller woman closed her eyes and leaned over just enough to allow her face to be gently patted dry.
“He can handle them.” Ilmira murmured when Juventia released her. She ran one hand back through her hair, now slightly damp at the roots. The other settled around Juventia’s waist. “Not that I’m not grateful for the time you’ve taken to spend with me, of course.”
Juventia leaned into the embrace, resting her head briefly on Ilmira’s shoulder. “Having a twin was annoying when the worst he would do was steal my clothes.” She complained. “Now he does things like arrange luncheons, and sends angry nobles at me. And still steals my good skirts sometimes.”
Ilmira smiled, and refrained from mentioning that most of Pyrion’s thefts these days were meant to rescue the garments long enough for a seamstress to repair whatever damage Juventia had done to them. Or that half the time she offered them to him instead of him having to ask. Or that she had stolen his breeches far more often, only sometimes to wear them.
The monarchs of Theolin were not married, as the King and Queen of Orellia were. They were also, depending on who was asked, not really true monarchs. Instead, they were twins, and their official titles were the Interim King and Queen, respectively. The two had always been able to play off of each other in any given moment, and in the end, terrorizing their parents had been good training for terrorizing their country. Apparently neither had ever been fond of authority. The irony of their current situation had been the subject of an innumerable amount of eye rolls and sighs over the past two years.
Their bloodline wasn’t royal, nor even noble, but that wasn’t what had won the people to their side, or convinced the revolution’s leaders to choose them as the temporary heads of state. Instead, it had been their passion for the nation’s people, and their involvement in the war. Their father had been one of the ‘founders’ of the revolution - though he’d always deny that honor, citing that the work had begun well before he was even born. It had just been their generation who had seen the thing through, with both of his children learning treason along with their letters.
When the final push had come, and it had been time to face the pinch-faced and bitter representatives of the Orelli crown to sign the treaty that had officially recognized Theolin’s independence, it had been Juventia and Pyrion who held them to their words and past promises. It was the twins who had ensured no further ground was given, that no violence broke out between groups at the newly established border, and that every concern was given its due. So when the Orelli demanded a head of state to deal with on equal terms, it was Juventia and Pyrion who were crowned that evening in a little stone temple, swearing even as they accepted their crowns - woven from flowers and grass stems - that they would return them.
No single individual would ever have such power in Theolin again. They would rule together, until a new path could be forged. The first, and last, of their kind.
If only it had worked out that smoothly.
“You’re frowning again.” Juventia predicted, startling Ilmira out of her reverie. She couldn’t actually see Ilmira’s expression, given she was still tucked into Ilmira’s shoulder, but her voice held certainty all the same. “Stop that.”
Ilmira hummed. “Just considering who might have to clean your poor messenger out of the carpet if you make them knock again.”
When Juventia groaned, Ilmira laughed. The messenger hadn’t actually interrupted much - Ilmira had finished recounting the morning’s events, and they’d moved on to discussing other matters of the Order program - but they’d clearly been expecting something severely inappropriate. Ilmira had long since moved past being uncomfortable at others’ assumptions about her relationship with Juventia: there were just too many songs about them at this point, each more ludicrous than the last. Not that they didn’t have a kernel of truth.
Ilmira kissed the top of her lover’s head. “You wanted to talk to Ovori about our Visitor’s arrival.” She reminded her. “At least he’ll probably give you more of that hard candy that’s so popular in Stillwater right now.”
Juventia picked her head up, sighing. “And if it’s the yellow ones, save some for you, yes, I remember.” She made a half hearted swat at Ilmira’s shoulder, but it turned to a pat even before landing. “His children really do send him much too much of it. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
“I believe it’s all the candy their aunt confiscates from them.”
“Ah.” Juventia nodded. “I understand now. And why he’s always eager to get home. Perhaps our Visitor will like the candies. Though I’m not sure where that falls on a welcoming banquet menu.” She frowned.
The ‘Visitor’ was a largely unknown entity. They - with ‘they’ being both monarchs and their council - had done their best to prevent word from spreading about anyone being expected at all. The timing had worked out in their favor, in that regard; most of their preparations were written off as preparing for a Vernest celebration. Now, with only a little over a week before the ship was expected, it was time to explain their plans to the unofficial Lord of Stillwater port.
The limited correspondence they’d had with the envoy hadn’t offered a name for the delegate, nor explained their rank or place in their own society. The caution was understandable, though it made planning for their arrival nearly impossible. Instead, their knowledge boiled down to very few points: A retinue of seven, and servants. The name of their ship, Aspevo. And that the leader of the group spoke with the authority of the only other nation they knew of - the Aherana Islands.
“Were there any candies in the, ah, gift?” Ilmira asked.
“No, I don’t think so. Unless their candy is very different than ours.” Juventia reluctantly slid out of Ilmira’s grip. Her focus seemed to be on the mirror, but Ilmira knew it was hundreds of miles away.
During the course of Theolin’s revolution, Orellia had turned to trying to starve them out. They sacked major roadways, blockaded all trade from ‘loyalist’ parts of the nation, and seized whatever food supplies they could find. What they didn’t consume or send back to Orelli towns, they burned. The southernmost tip of what was now their territory had suffered the worst, with a drought still in recent memory and impeding their food stores. They’d been close to breaking, that winter.
Then a ship had arrived, of a design no one had ever seen before. It had snuck up to Theoli shores, laden with food stores, and had deposited nearly all of it into the hands of the revolution’s forces. And a note, in rare lilac-dyed paper, words written in gold. “For those fighting for a future.”
It had been signed by Queen Alinthi Kellsong, of the Aheri.
Last year, they had received another missive, though this one was much longer. It was written in the same hand, the same impossible color paper and ink. In it, the Queen explained that her country was overjoyed to hear of others who had finally overthrown Orelli rulership, and her intentions to dispatch an envoy. She had also explained her concern that Orellia would try to disrupt any communication between them, and expressed her regret that she could not be more open. There had been no request as to whether the envoy would be welcomed or accepted, nor when it would be most acceptable to send them.
The best case scenario was this was simply how monarchs conducted business with each other, and the envoy would be a relatively peaceful addition to their court. The worst, that this was an invading force or demand for fealty, sent to the heart of their nascent nation. There had been no terms, nor request to bind them to the Aheri’s gift - but the feeling of a blade hung overhead had persisted.
They would not bend to another distant monarch’s whims. But nor could they afford another enemy.
“Speaking of our Visitor.” Juventia pivoted, smiling at Ilmira in a way that invoked the memory of distant alarm bells. “I can think of no greater honor than to have Theolin’s own hero greet them.”
Ilmira had known this request of Juventia’s was a possibility, but she had been hoping to be free to roam the grounds or otherwise keep an eye on their visitors. Their own ships and messengers had confirmed the rough size of the traveling party, and that it was too small to be a coup attempt by military force - but that didn’t account for potentially hidden magical might, as Fio had been quick to point out at their last council. So much rested on this unknown arrival; not only as a reckoning of the past, but to determine Theolin’s future.
“If the Stone Man allows it.” She said aloud, dipping her head.
“Good.” Juventia nodded. There was another timid knock at the door, but both women ignored it. “That reminds me.” She held up one finger, moving to the small standing wardrobe where she kept several shawls and cloaks. That it had become where Ilmira kept a few spare changes of her own clothing had been an accident they’d never bothered to correct.
“When you go meet your boy-“
“Squire.”
“- yes, him. Wear this.” Juventia picked a bit of cloth from its peg, holding it up so that Ilmira could see it. Ilmira caught the glint of gold, and winced. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the piece; far from it, it was among the most beautiful things she owned. But it was the opposite of what she would’ve chosen for this meeting.
She might’ve protested, but Juventia pressed the cloth into her hands and kissed her cheek before she could. “And I want to meet him.” She reminded Ilmira, before slipping away towards the door.
“You will.” Ilmira called after her, affection tingeing her words. “Your Majesty.”
Juventia’s smile brightened, “General.” She said cordially. She winked, on her way out the door.
It helped, a little.
The ward prevented her from hearing any chatter between Juventia and the poor messenger who’d been sent to fetch her. Ilmira listened anyway, waiting a few moments before looking down at the cloak in her hands. Absently, she rubbed a thumb over the weave of it, and watched the play of light across its finery.
It had been intended to be something she could wear in the field, so the material was sturdy, if not warming. Juventia had called it a ‘statement piece.’ The line of its hem was asymmetrical, barely covering the right shoulder and draping low over her left arm, never reaching her hip. A strip of maroon silk scarf bound it instead of chain, though it still affixed to the front of her tunic with pins.
It was also made of cloth of gold, and nearly glowed even in the dimmed light of Juventia’s rooms.
It may have felt like a cheap gimmick, Ilmira reflected as she set the pins in place, but damn if it hadn’t become part of the legend. Her magefire had reflected off of it and her armor like a beacon on battlefields. Particularly when she’d interrupted a night time raid, and arrived when the camp was already aflame. The perspective of those who survived had apparently been that she had come out of the fires, a portion of it given life by their fear and anger. Future accounts had later recognized the cape for what it was, of course, but the image had been sealed in people’s minds. She had wondered on occasion is the bards would consider her “cloak of golden flame” quite so impressive if they knew it was made from the scrapped remains of a noble’s overcoat. Or that the “fatal red slash” she’d somehow survived had just been a part of a red scarf that had belonged to the noble’s wife, used to make an impromptu tie for the thing.
Ilmira glanced in the mirror to make sure the pins were set correctly. For a moment - a moment - she saw the woman they lauded as Theolin’s savior. The grays of her tunic and breeches seemed silver, offset by the gold. Her expression seemed noble instead of simply tired. The woman in the mirror, who was potentially Ilmira, or had been her once, could command a room’s attention with a glance.
The rest of the details caught up, of course, but the reminder was surprisingly welcome. Usually references to her status or hero worship made her feel uncomfortable at best, and more commonly like a fraud. Ilmira still wasn’t sure she’d ever deserved to be called half the titles she’d accrued. Using them now felt unearned. She still felt flashes of guilt when she saw the black armbands used to signify mourning among the war’s survivors. Staying here, in a castle with expansive rooms, felt like profiting from their losses.
But they’d won. And Ilmira had survived. She couldn’t help those who had gone on to the Stone Man’s reaping anymore, but she could focus on the fields that still needed tending.
With that in mind, Ilmira went to meet her new charge.
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