The list of puzzles is never ending, it would seem.
Even with the new Councils making progress - the Council for Mental Well-Being is doing pleasingly well – there is still an unsavory pile of mysteries. Who is truly trustworthy? Will her staff ever fully heal? What is Ror trying to do, hauled up in Leinid? What other secrets had Leck hidden behind the walls of the castle? With all of these questions and more plaguing her mind, Bitterblue felt compelled to read what remained of her father's journals again – in her endless search for answers.
Bitterblue's head ached after spending too long of a stretch thinking through all these things at once. Seven hundred and eighty one times one hundred and thirty eight. She calculated to herself, slowing her breathing and leveling her head a bit. One hundred and seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy eight. When Leck had been in her mind, the numbers had helped her sort out what was true and what was fallacy. Now, the numbers are soothing, reminding her that sometimes there is one clear answer to a seemingly difficult problem. An answer that she is capable of solving herself.
Of course, she's glad for assistance when it's available. Her new advisers are doing well, so far. Not too pushy, and she finally feels like she is queen of her castle, the goings on of her city, and her own life. Katsa and Po are off exploring a rumored second tunnel to the Dells. Raffin and Bann are making their way back to Nander for the time being – they had both been missing their lab, and their privacy.
The trials are ongoing – some more difficult to bear than others. She continues to testify on her staff's behalf, as best she can with what she can surmise. The majority come off clean and are put back to work, gratefully. A scattered few snap under oath and are escorted out for psychological treatment, and a very small handful are found to be guilty, and will be sentenced accordingly. Rood's trial had been the worst. It lasted four days, nearly the entire castle staff had been called upon to testify, and in the end, he was found guilty of the bulk of his actions over the past eight years, but was granted great leniency and merely ushered into a rather secluded retirement.
And so, life goes on.
It is nearing the end of winter, right on the cusp of spring, and Bitterblue has sunken into a rather dull routine. While she is no longer as suffocated with paperwork as she had been, there is still a fair bit to get out of the way every morning. Each afternoon she makes an effort to visit a corner of her castle. The kitchens are her particular favorite – she had found a unique sense of relaxation while kneading the soft dough.
Today, however, she doesn't want that kind of comfort. She doesn't want to become ensnared in the bustle of the cooks and bakers around her. She wants calm and quiet.
Bitterblue dons her thick, fur-lined cape, hat, and gloves, and strolls to the frozen-over fountain in the middle of the gardens. Above her, skeleton trees dangle icicles, glimmering as they begin to melt, a drop of wetness landing on her pert nose. She dabs it with the finger of her glove and walks in contemplative circles around the stone fountain. The ice covering the small pool is clear and thin, and Bitterblue places her hand on a patch and presses down lightly... The ice breaks easily, the water freezing cold, and she removes her hand immediately.
And now her hand and glove is wet and cold. Balls. She whips off the knit garment and begins wringing it out, just as a familiar voice calls out, "Lady Queen!"
Giddon is striding towards her, still decked in his riding gear. She smiles as he approaches, and he grins back, taking her small, cold, gloveless hand in his when he reaches her.
"Bitterblue," he says, grin still in place as he dusts his lips gently on her bare knuckles, and she flushes. He has taken to calling her by her given name when it is just the two of them. She doesn't mind. "What happened to your glove?" He asks, still holding onto her bare hand which has become very cold.
"Oh, nothing," she says, feebly trying to tuck the soaked glove under her cape. He raises an eyebrow, and she smiles sheepishly, "I just broke some ice and ruined one of my gloves. Poking around, you know me."
He smiles, "Ah, I see," looking to the small cracks in the ice where she had broken it, water quietly seeping out. "Here," he removes one of his own gloves and helps her slip her freezing hand inside. He takes her still dripping glove and puts it in his coat pocket. "Thank you," she stutters. Grinning, and without another word, he brings her hand to loop around his arm, and they begin to walk.
"How did it go?" She asks, inquiring about the Council business he had just been attending to in Estill.
"As well as could have been expected," he sighs, "The people are still reluctant to elect an official leader, even temporarily, but I think they're making progress. I'll tell you the details later." They walk a lap around the fountain and continue on down a short path that loops through the garden. "How are things here?"
Bitterblue twitches her mouth into a half smile, "As well as can be expected." Giddon nods, and she knows he understands. He has been her sounding board over the past year, as she has struggled to bring new order to her kingdom. He has been her best friend, and her greatest source of comfort. Since his banishment, Giddon has spent much of his time at her court. Their friends and allies are always coming and going, providing him with ample excuses to stay. Now and then, he'll take on a mission for the Council, and disappear for several weeks. Seeing him return safely after Council business always relieves her, and gives her the sense that her life can once again return to normal.
The garden is lovely, but nothing is in bloom yet. There are still a good few weeks before anything green will be spotted. The pair merely stroll through the light coat of snow and slush that remains on the stone pathway. They walk for what must have been an hour, Bitterblue's small hand warm inside Giddon's glove, with smatterings of conversation in between the peaceful, easy silence.
******************
Giddon has supper with Bitterblue, Helda, and Hava in Bitterblue's sitting room. They discuss the details of Giddon's experience in Estill. It turns out a small band of leaders has been selected by the people, and they are doing their best to keep the city running. Many believe a single leader is needed to make the big and final decisions, as the group of men currently in charge have a habit of debating the smallest of issues back and forth for weeks, while the city outside crumbles again. Some, however, fear the tyranny that could come with one leader enshrined with power. Bitterblue understands their plight, and vows to herself to give the issue her personal attention and to come up with alternative options - on top of all her other responsibilities.
"He is much happier," says Hava, and Bitterblue brings her attention back to the table, "Holt likes to boast that his Monsean Guard are the finest he has ever seen. He wagers that not even the Leinid navy could rival them, though I challenged him to put it to a test, and he suddenly became very preoccupied with his orders for the smithy." Helda and Giddon laugh, while Bitterblue offers a smile, still trying to pull her mind back to the present. While her stroll through the garden was pleasant, it was only a temporary distraction, and now, back in her tower, the list of questions on her bedside table seems to call to her.
"Lady Queen, are you alright?" Asks Helda.
"Yes," says Bitterblue, removing her hand from her head, where she hadn't realized she'd been resting it, "I'm just a bit distracted tonight."
"Mmm, you ought to be getting to bed," says Helda, shuffling as she prepares to stand up and start clearing the table.
"Oh, no," says Bitterblue, not ready to be left alone with her thoughts quite yet, "Please stay. I've missed this company." She smiles genuinely in turn at Helda, Hava, and Giddon.
Something sparks inside her when her gaze lands on Giddon, who is looking right back. His deep brown eyes are soft and warm, as they often are when he looks at her. She's seen him hard and impassioned during Council meetings. She's seen him heartbroken and weary, when he learned of his estate's destruction and subsequent banishment. She's seen him tired, she's seen him content, she's seen him many ways – but her absolute favorite is when he is looking at her.
They remain in her sitting room a while after supper, Giddon sitting beside Bitterblue on the couch, with Helda and Hava in chairs in front of the fire. Everyone seems to sense Bitterblue's tension, and they make an effort to keep the conversation light – reminiscences of Raffin and Bann and Po and Katsa. Speculating as to when they may return, most likely with the arrival of spring in a few weeks, Helda supposes.
Hava takes her leave as the small clock on the mantlepiece chimes ten. Helda strongly suggests that it is late and the Lady Queen needs her sleep. Giddon smiles softly at this and stands to leave. He takes Bitterblue's hand in his own and kisses it, lingering only a moment before looking up to her with those gentle eyes.
"Goodnight, Giddon," Bitterblue whispers.
"Goodnight, Lady Queen."
And he is gone. Helda shuts the door behind him and shuffles Bitterblue to bed.
************
She can't sleep. Not exactly an anomaly but extremely inconvenient, considering the list of duties she knows awaits her tomorrow. Two more trials at which she shall testify, the arrival of another lord who undoubtedly wishes to seek her hand, on top of her usual paperwork, the list of mysteries beside her bed, and Leck's journals, which Death has finally finished translating and now lay under his desk in the library – away from prying eyes, but accessible to the queen whenever she may need.
The same journals which she had promised her friends she wouldn't touch again. Not yet, at least. It's not even been a year since they were discovered and she was tortured with the monstrous truth of Leck's tyranny. But with the ongoing trials, the news of Estill, the rest of the lands trying to salvage themselves, and her own unquenchable need to just understand, she makes up her mind.
The library is cold. All the fires have been put out and Bitterblue carries a single candle. Lovejoy hisses his hello to her as she crawls underneath Death's desk to grab the stack of papers. She considers reading at her usual table in the room with the tapestry of Fire, but instead opts to return to her chambers.
She stokes the fire in her sitting room back to life and settles into the couch she had just shared with Giddon. She sighs. She used to think the next time she'd pick up these journals, years later, when the events might be able to be viewed as a far distant part of her history, that she would do so wrapped up in the arms of someone who could make her feel safe, and make the words on the page seem less horrible. She imagines for a moment Giddon's arms around her. Always strong, always steady. In the precious few times she has found herself in his embrace, she'd felt her tension ease and her heart lighten, as if he truly were taking some of her own stress onto himself.
But tonight she is alone. She decides to skim as best she can, and merely look for certain words that relate to the questions she is looking to find answers to. Leinid. Ror. Estill. She jots down lines and details that seem relevant, leaving them to be pieced together in the morning. She flips through the first few pages easily enough, pointedly skipping paragraphs that begin with "blood," or "experiments," or "little girls." But when she sees "Ashen" she can't stop herself.
Ashen is trying to stop me again. She has locked herself and our child away in her rooms. It is clear to me now that she has realized my Grace, and I assume she has warned Bitterblue of it as well. My daughter, disappointingly Graceless as she is, was my only hope. I have considered killing Ashen before, of course, but to what end, I asked myself. Now, it seems I have no other option. I must do whatever it takes to get her away from Bitterblue. Ashen has been punished thoroughly for her behavior these past few months. For her refusal to let me near my daughter. For her behavior with Theil. Theil has been punished as well, but there is still so much more I should like for him to do. If I can ever be alone with Bitterblue, get her away from Ashen, in one way or another...Bitterblue lets the papers slide from her fingers onto the floor. It is not the worst she has ever found in his journals, but it has been so long since she'd dared read from one that the shock of the contents hit her all over again. Leck written of killing her mother. Of what he would have done to her. Of what he would have Theil do.. But her mother had saved her, with Theil's help. Bitterblue tries to calm herself, remembering that Leck is dead. But so are so many others. Mother...
Her small hands won't stop shaking. She brings trembling fingers to her face and feels wetness on her cheeks she doesn't remember producing. She is coming out of her numbness. She begins to collect the papers on the floor, but her mother's name pops out at her once again, and she stands up sharply, leaving them scattered.
Still in her nightdress, Bitterblue grabs the candle she had been reading by and walks quietly out of her room. In no time, she finds herself outside of Giddon's rooms. Tears still streaming down her cheeks, she rests her forehead against the door, and takes a deep breath before bringing a small fist up to knock. Three short raps and she stops. If he doesn't answer she won't try again. She doesn't want to disturb him. She just craves the comfort she knows he can provide.
She begins to pull back, lifts her head from his door and wipes a few tears away, just when the door opens. Giddon appears before her, rumpled and drowsy, but alert when he sees who had knocked.
"Bitterblue," he says, questioning and comforting, as he takes in her tear stained cheeks.
She looks up at him, catches his tired but understanding eyes with her own and she breaks down entirely. Simultaneously, he reaches for her and she folds herself into him. He murmers something soft into her hair as she grips his thin white shirt for dear life. She allows herself to sink into him, savoring the warmth of his arms around her, listening to his steady heartbeat as she tries to match her breathing to it. Fingers on her face call her attention, and she looks to him. He must see how broken she is, as he wordlessly scoops her up in his arms and brings her into his room, closing the door behind him.
He settles into a chair beside a fire, arranging Bitterblue on his lap. Her hair hangs loose, and he runs his fingers through it as she sobs silently into his shoulder. He doesn't ask just yet. Knows she'll tell him when she's ready, as she always does.
It's something they both treasure about the friendship they have formed. Even before the agreement struck by Bitterblue last year, they'd never kept any secrets. And neither Bitterblue nor Giddon has ever had a problem with sharing – they've always found a distinct comfort in each other when anything particularly difficult comes out – and they are always better for it.
Tonight she just needs to be held. They've been here before. When Rood was found guilty, Giddon had held her close well into the night as she cried for her old friend, for his betrayal. That time, however, they'd been in her sitting room, side by side on the couch, with Helda mere feet away, as she always was. Now, with Bitterblue in his bedroom, in his lap, small and trembling, he holds her tight, buries his face in her hair, and whispers soft words in her ear. Tonight she just needs his comfort, whatever he can provide, and it seems he is happy to oblige.
Bitterblue's breathing begins to slow, falling in rhythm with his. She keeps her head tucked into his shoulder, enjoying his warm hand moving in circles on her back. Her fingers, which had been clinging to his shirt, loosen and she attempts to smooth out the wrinkles she'd made, stroking her hand across the fabric, across his chest, and fingers brush course hair where the collar hangs open. His hand at her back freezes, and so does she. From where her head leans against him, she can hear his heartbeat quicken ever so slightly. She begins to pull her hand away, opens her mouth to apologize, when she feels his arm wrap around her waist and squeeze her tightly to him. She lets out a small breath and flattens her palm against his chest once more. She nuzzles deeper into him, and his arm tightens accordingly, determined to keep her safe, with him.
After a few minutes, it occurs to Bitterblue that his legs may be hurting from her weight. Reluctantly, she begins to lift herself up, which causes Giddon to stir, pulling him out of the warm and content stupor he'd apparently been in.
"Are you alright?" He asks softly.
"Yes," says Bitterblue, as she tries to lighten the weight she had been putting on him without actually having to get up, "I was just afraid you were starting to grow sore."
Giddon chuckles and moves his arm back around her, holding her in place, "I'm quite alright, I promise you."
Bitterblue allows herself to lean into his neck, as her squirming had caused her to sit up a little. She rests her forehead just below his jawline. He smells of trees, embers, and Giddon. His scruff scratches her cheek but she doesn't mind. She is hyper aware of his hand at the small of her back, of the shiver that courses through him when she tilts her head ever so slightly, and of the way his pulse jumps when she brings her lips to his skin. She'd wanted to feel his scruff against the soft skin of her lips, and now that she's begun, it is difficult to stop. Her breath shallow, she allows her lips to glide lightly down his neck to his collarbone, where she can see the dusting of course hair that disappears beneath his shirt. She reaches her hand to his shoulder, clinging to him once again. His breathing seems to have stopped entirely.
She raises her head. He is looking at her with a hooded, fire eyed expression, one she has never seen before, but of which she is more than happy to be on the receiving end. She opens her mouth to say...something. There's no way to adequately explain her actions...so perhaps she should excuse herself? But then again, she doesn't want to. And the way he is gazing at her, mouth slightly open, lips wet, eyes sparking...she supposes that he may not want her to either.
"Are you alright?" He whispers. He brings a hand to her cheek and gently wipes away the last traces of her tears with the pads of his calloused fingers. And he doesn't pull away.
Bitterblue smiles softly, placing her hand over his. She tilts her head, bringing her lips to his palm, and places several soft, lingering kisses there. "Yes." And she doesn't want to let go.
His thumb brushes over the apple of her cheek which flushes darkly under his touch. She sits up a little straighter, this time her nose brushes his and his hand tenderly cups her cheek just as naturally as it had when he brushed her tears away as she wept for him all those months ago. She rubs and feels the stubble along his jaw as it pricks her palm. Rests her forehead against his, sliding her fingers into the hair at the back of his head, and pulls ever so gently. He comes easily and seals his lips over hers.
He is soft and gentle, as he always is with her, and when he begins rubbing her back again, with his lips still moving tortuously over her own, she can't help the moan that rises in the back of her throat. The kiss is slow and deep and everything. She opens her mouth slightly, just to taste his bottom lip and she feels a rumble in his chest as it vibrates against her own, so tightly together are they pressed.
Just as she wraps her other arm around his neck, pulling him even closer, his lips still and he pulls away, just a breath. "Bitterblue," his voice rough and ragged, but soft as he breaths against her lips, "darling..?"
Bitterblue takes a breath, gathering herself and, in one brazen move, slides out from her position on his lap, and places one leg on either side of him, his hands falling to her waist. She looks up, directly into his face, and the sight makes her entire body flush. His hair stands obscured, his lips oh so slightly swollen, and his eyes...are like she has never seen them. Dark and glazed, gazing at her as if he'd like nothing better than to drink all of her up, and she'd let him, happily.
He blinks, "Lady Queen -" She presses her lips to his in a desperate move to silence whatever nonsense he wants to say. Two. Three more kisses and she pulls back a moment. While she may not want to hear any doubts or reason from him, a treasured part of their friendship is that they can always share their thoughts with one another.
Bitterblue sighs, "Please don't call me that," keeping her hand on his cheek, forehead to his, "Tell me what you're thinking, but please, please don't distance us like that."
Giddon nods, and his fingers begin to gently stroke along her sides, up the curve of her waist, just below her breasts, and down again to her hip.
"Alight," he swallows, meeting her eyes with his own, which are now focused but no less wanting, "I am not a lord." Bitterblue opens her mouth to argue but he quickly silences her with his own soft kiss. "It's true, and I could never be considered a suitable match for you. Not anymore. I cannot lie that before my banishment...I had considered...the possibility..." he stumbles through his words and Bitterblue smiles softly, "My affections for you have grown...quite deep in the past few years. You've grown into a beautiful, strong, magnificent woman and queen." His hands have moved from her waist to grasp her hand that isn't currently mapping the features of his face as he speaks, "You were so young to go through so much, but I realized my feelings some time ago and, before Randa..." he stops short and Bitterblue gently squeezes his hand, "I had intended to ask for your hand. In a few years. After we had time to settle back into our lives and perhaps you'd have the chance to see me as more than just a lord, or a friend, or a dirty old man," Bitterblue breathes out a laugh, and Giddon's mouth quirks, "I have since, of course, had to abandon my plans -"
"Giddon," Bitterblue cuts in, "Please," she kisses his cheek, "Please stop talking about how unworthy you are. It doesn't matter to me that you aren't a lord anymore. I love you. I love you, Giddon."
Giddon stills. In his lap, in his chair, in his rooms, in her castle... Queen Bitterblue has told a disgraced former lord, a man without a home or a cent to his name, that she loves him.
As always, she senses his thinking. Placing both hands on either side of his face again, she leans in so close their noses brush, and whispers, "Please...just please don't say anything about duty, or honor, or respectability... Just don't say anything unless it's that you love me too."
Giddon's breath against her lips, his whiskers scratching her palm, his eyes boring into her own, as his hand comes to cradle hers against his cheek... It's a moment Bitterblue swears to herself she will always remember, because it was the moment before she heard the man before her say, "I love you, darling."
And for Bitterblue, there is nothing to do but kiss him.