Hi everyone! Here we are, at the end. Thank you for reading along, and for all your lovely reviews, they've made me incredibly happy, and I'm so grateful. I hope to see you all soon, whether it's in another fic of mine, or one of yours! Fair farren.
Enjoy.
She's dreaming.
Oceans of cream paper and pods of wax-seals and a multi-headed squid that keeps asking for her to sign on the dotted line.
She's trying, really she is, but at the end of the line there's a crown-shaped hook and she keeps stabbing her own fingers.
Drops of ink flow from the delicate skin, swell on the written seas, swallows the world.
She's floating in black.
Not floating.
Falling.
Fast and hard and the wind cuts at her cheeks as it whistles past.
She passes her council as she hurtles down, the round table all cold stares until they crumble and blow away like disapproving sand. They're replaced by the Duke, cheeks bleeding and dripping upwards, then shackles appear around his wrists, pulling him up and away from the end.
It comes slowly, but sharply.
Twisted spikes, whispering blades, twinkling dangerously.
All pointed at her.
Bones looking too much like her own litter the ground underneath.
Silent and stiff against the imminent stop, she falls onto her own sword.
It's not supposed to hurt in sleep.
It does anyway.
She struggles to wake and feels herself die.
She's dreaming.
Oceans of cream paper and pods of wax-seals and a multi-headed squid that keeps asking for her to sign on the dotted line.
She's trying, really she is—
"Your highness?"
Her eyes fly open.
Blood-like ink flashes past her eyes, glinting swords and crowns, then it's gone and all she's left with is a vague sense of dread.
"My queen?" The voice tries again, muffled through the door.
"Yes, come in."
She pushes herself up on trembling arms, smooths the bedsheets, swipes at her leaking eyes.
"I'm awfully sorry to wake you," the waifish lady's maid mutters, eyes respectfully lowered. "But there's a... erm, guest in the garden who refuses to leave until you come down."
Mirana sighs.
It's not the first time a subject's demanded her presence, but the number of entitled citizens had greatly lowered since the Duke of Kinygent's downfall.
Mirana would never admit it aloud, but she rather enjoys the newfound fear. At the very least, she appreciates the respect.
"I'm sure it's been terribly inconvenient, but could they not wait there until the morning? I've heard the grass is quite comfortable."
"About that..." The girl chews on her lower lip.
"It's just—you see—well, she's painting the roses red."
"That is a highly inefficient way to redecorate."
Mirana's intruder doesn't so much as pause, her paint brush raised high and shaking ever so slightly down the white petals. Crimson drips indifferently.
"I was bored; took a stroll. Your hedges are in need of trimming."
"In the middle of the night?"
Shoulders shrug.
"Whatever the time, it needs to be done."
"Racie, why are you here?"
She finally turns, stands small and irate in a dress simpler than usual. Her head a normal size, age old scars faint against her vibrant hairline.
"Are you rejecting my company?" Words accusing, the tone too frayed to hold any sort of true malice.
"I'm merely concerned," she says softly.
Though Iracebeth pretends otherwise, Mirana knows she is still fragile, so she handles Racie the way she always has.
Delicately.
"No need for that. I just came for distraction, until your servants started making a fuss," Iracebeth mutters the last bit.
"Why did you want a distraction?" She asks, Racie's sigh is colored in irritation.
"Have you discussed the plans for Kinygent with the council yet?" She asks, changing the subject.
"Tomorrow afternoon," Mirana replies.
It's been nearly a month since the fall.
Iracebeth's been pardoned on the condition that she does not live in the queendom and does not visit often. She's kept to it rather well, but it does not keep Mirana from visiting her. The visits are not always the most pleasant, but they all have purpose.
Though there were many negative adjectives spoken of Iracebeth's reign, incompetency was never one of them, and Mirana's found her advice on settling disputes and other tasks most helpful.
"Don't forget to remind them it's more profitable to keep the castle under one name than to divvy it up between them, the greedy—"
"I know, Racie. You still haven't answered my question."
"Then it must not have been very important."
"Why do you need a distraction?"
"You're such a—" she stops, painting the reddening rose a bit too harshly. A white petal breaks, the torn edge starting to brown an ugly bruise. The trembling hand holding the brush drops to her side.
Chocolate eyes turn to the sky, Iracebeth counts the seconds as if she was counting the stars, cataloguing them in her mind.
It's technique to calm her, keep her head cool.
She often has to count a very long time.
"I can't be distracted if you keep asking what I need to be distracted from, Mirana," she says finally, the warning's bite is soft.
"Maybe it'd be more helpful if you talked about it with me?"
"It wouldn't," Iracebeth says stiffly.
"Can't you just try?" She pleads.
She knows what Racie wants distraction from, knows distraction only works for a little while.
Avoidance turns to ruination quickly. They've tried that road several times before, Mirana would like to break the habit.
"Can't you just leave well enough alone?"
Iracebeth glares daggers that glint silver like a forgotten dream, but Mirana doesn't back down.
"I'm trying to help you."
"That's all good and well, but I never asked—" she stops.
Screams.
Slaps a hand over her mouth, falling to the ground in her haste to scramble away.
Mirana races to her side, dagger that she keeps with her now at all times out and ready, eyes darting about in search of threat.
The threat is revealed to be a worm, resting on a lower rose. It has no teeth, but Mirana is alarmed all the same.
Dagger slipped back under her skirts, she kneels down beside her sister, far enough to give comfort without fear of panicked backlash.
Iracebeth's shoulders heave silently, hand still tightly protecting her mouth, her other hand clutching at her knees, eyes wide in terror and memory.
"Sister," Mirana says quietly, firmly. Petrified eyes flick to hers, dart away, afraid of illusion. "Sister, look around you. Notice what's real."
Quick glances. Dripping flowers. Grass under her un-shackled feet. A sister that does not waver or flicker into someone else beside her. No glitching butterflies or owls or cats in the air around her.
She's real, and the garden is real, and her sister is real.
For now.
"Thank you," she mutters, uncurls just slightly, hand slowly lowering from its death grip on her jaw.
Mirana smiles a bit kindly, a bit sadly.
"Why don't we go to the kitchen and have a cup of tea?"
The world seems much cheerier behind a steaming teacup.
At least, Mirana hopes so.
Iracebeth hasn't said a word, but she sips her dark tea without complaint.
Silence hovers between them like smoke and Mirana can taste it with every inhale.
She coughs.
"I didn't want to sleep anymore," Iracebeth blurts out, scowling deeply into her cup.
Mirana hums noncommittally, a bit deeper when she realizes Racie's statement is an answer.
"Why?"
"You know very well why," she says quickly, eyes closed, willing her weakness to stay hidden.
Mirana knows why, of course.
Suffers many a nightmare herself, though her mind has the kindness to forget most of them.
However, she knows Iracebeth's vivid memory hoards nightmares like a miser.
"So you came to me?" Warmth seeps through her tone though she knows it could be misconstrued as glee.
She can't help it, Racie's starting to seek her out and it's been hard-earned progress.
"I would have taken a long run instead, but—" Iracebeth winces at almost giving herself away. Mirana catches it regardless.
"But?"
"Never mind, it doesn't matter."
"Then tell me, if it doesn't matter."
A heaved sigh, agitated fingers tapping on the marble counter.
"Myfeethurt." She mumbles, gulps the last of the piping hot liquid down in one go.
Her wounds are closed and healing, but there are aches deep within her bones that linger.
With a dismayed gasp, Mirana hops up from her chair and flees to the kitchen. Returns a minute later, a green vial pulsing in her hands.
"You should have told me sooner," she chastises, forcing Iracebeth's thin, resisting fingers to grasp it.
Her gaze speaks plainly, with no room for argument.
Take the damn potion.
Iracebeth does so reluctantly, lips pouting at the too-sweet taste. Then a dull numbness settles over her, she sighs in relief.
The initial reprieve often leaves her soft and calm, she's usually more forthcoming in conversation and sentiment.
Mirana has come to appreciate these short moments immensely.
"How is Time?" She asks, Iracebeth shrugs in decided nonchalance. Or perhaps it's from the potion flushed in her system.
"I wouldn't know; I don't see him very often."
She grimaces at Mirana's surprise.
"I've been trying to give him distance."
"How lonely."
She scowls, Mirana plucked at a nerve she tries very hard to ignore.
"I do not need your commentary on my life, little sister. Perhaps you should find one of your own before poking at mine."
Accidental strike met with an intentional one, Mirana retreats.
Smiles in apology, it twists halfway in suppressed hurt.
"I didn't mean it like that," she mutters.
Mirana's smile continues.
"Yes you did."
She stands, Iracebeth flinches as the pale material of her dress rustles.
"But you can make it up to me later. Right now, we both need rest."
Reaches out for Iracebeth's hand, to help her up.
To battle the loneliness together.
Iracebeth sighs, but grabs her offering.
Squeezes back a tiny bit.
It's little, but it's enough.
It's dark under the sheets.
She can hear her sister's soft breath beside her. Doesn't look over, but she knows the picture Mirana makes.
Hair perfectly fallen behind her on the pillow, a delicate hand underneath her sloped cheek, pretty little eyelashes fluttering once or twice as sleep continues to elude her.
"Racie?" Her voice is soft, tentative, the slightest bit scared.
Perhaps it's from the potion still lingering in her veins, or the exhaustion dulling her aversion to vulnerabilities, or the guilt of years lost to anger, but it gives Iracebeth pause.
No sigh of irritation, no brushing off emotion.
She holds Mirana's free hand and replies quietly.
"I'm here, Miri."
"I have confession. When the Duke had you in his repulsive clutches, I killed. I crushed everyone in my way, and I enjoyed it. It was exhilarating, intoxicating...addicting. I broke my vows, and I didn't care. I wanted to do it again and again.
"Am I a monster?"
Iracebeth's heart clenches. It reminds her of the first time she ordered an execution.
The man had attempted to poison her.
She'd seen his fear as his head rested on the block. Felt his life snap off.
She'd morphed into a goddess, a raging, terrible goddess who could take life as easily as snapping her fingers. Such power gained in less than an hour.
It was glorious.
And then there came guilt.
Crushing, coating her soul like oil.
It must be the same now, for Mirana. Maybe even worse for her sister, for fighting's much more personal and jarring than execution.
She knows what to say to comfort, tweaks it a bit.
"You are not, Mirana. You did what was necessary. It may become necessary in the future, and you will have to do it again," here, she changes what she used to tell herself. "But don't become used to it. Don't let yourself be numbed. That is the difference. Lose your guilt, but keep the regret."
She turns her head, watches a tear escape from her sister's anguish.
Lightly pats the shoulder that trembles.
"And... Thank you," she says, feeling the gratitude seeped through her every bone.
For saving her, for what it cost, for taking the damage.
She doesn't say it, doesn't know quite how, but she does know Mirana understands.
"Distract me?" Mirana asks, a bit of teasing colors her voice. Desperation too.
"I don't have any stories."
"Tell me about Time's castle."
"It's big."
She snorts delicately at the reticence. Iracebeth huffs, but elaborates.
"And cold. And there's a constant tick that's really a tock in its grandeur. At night the stars dance a waltz so vibrant, you fear they'll sweep you up to join them."
Mirana hums over the new information, nods slightly in satisfaction at the imagery.
"What about Time's Seconds?"
"Little idiots."
It's quiet for a while, Iracebeth knows the question Mirana wants to ask next.
Miri doesn't ask it; she doesn't answer.
Then—
"And Time?"
Silence, for a long moment.
"He remains."
"You don't talk?"
"No. Distance, remember?"
"Why must there be such distance?"
"Because—" she bites her lips; darkness replaces sight as she steels herself from the answer. "Because the sight of me still causes him a great deal of pain."
She knows he loves her, but he can't forgive her yet, and it's hard to get over someone he sees every day.
She feels the hand in hers squeeze tighter, it comforts her enough to relinquish the blackness. Mirana's ceiling greets her, swirls of paleness that reflect light like the moon.
It's not at all like the ceilings in Time's palace, and the contrast eases the clenching of her jaw.
"Will you stay with him?"
She shrugs, the thought of permanent absence hadn't even crossed her mind.
"Where else am I to go?"
Despite her best efforts to separate and stop, her heart now thumps to the ticking of one clocked man.
She's found her home, and there's an Us stored somewhere in the future.
She won't take it into her own hands this time, she knows better now.
She can wait a little longer.
Mirana wakes from dreamless sleep to find herself alone.
Silently, in bare feet, she drifts through the slowly stirring palace. Servants bow as she passes, eyes downcast as they hurry past and out of their queen's way.
She sighs, allows them their distance.
She searches the kitchen, Iracebeth's not there. Nor the still dripping garden. Not even in the library. Mirana's about to turn back, she's got a meeting with the counsel soon, but then she hears a crash and a shout from the courtyard.
Oh dear.
Hurries a step or two faster, arrives onto quite the scene.
Marble statues taller than her have left their posts, animated and intent to play a macro game of chess.
Children and adults alike stand in rapt attention, wonder-filled eyes on the seemingly possessed knights.
Iracebeth stands in the corner, a peaceful sort of concentration settled over her features.
The game continues, entertaining in the intricate dance of strategy and war.
Applause rings at the close, game won, White King toppled.
Mirana smiles as she approaches her similarly grinning sister.
"How's that for distraction?" Iracebeth asks, exhilaration from the magic still coursing through her veins and leaving her quite satisfied.
"It was marvelous. I'd love to see it again, sometime."
"Next time, you'll play the other side."
Mirana wrinkles her nose, she'd lose in that suggested next time. Iracebeth knows it too, her grin turns smug.
Mirana's about to ask her to join her for the meeting and then a late lunch, but a little girl bounces up to the two sisters, capturing their attention completely.
She curtsies first, wobbles forward, smiles wide as she stands straight, grin sweetened by the lack of a front tooth.
"Highnesses," she says, completely at ease and seemingly unaware of the gaping courtyard. "That was very...spec-specataculer."
Mirana smiles down at her.
"I'm afraid the credit must wholly go to Iracebeth."
The girl looks up, appraises them both, nods in satisfaction. Looks up at the slightly blushing ex-monarch beseechingly.
"My mama said you, um, aminated those statues to play. Could you please aminate my chess set? Papa said I should learn it, but it's not half as fun as your game. Please?"
A pause. Iracebeth tries to grasp the words to deny her absurd request.
All that comes out is, "I suppose I could."
The tiny moppet squeals happily and decidedly latches onto her hand, Mirana stifles a laugh at Iracebeth's baffled eyes.
"Will you stay a little while longer?" She asks, not wanting her to leave while knowing she must eventually.
But the inevitable separation does not have to come so soon.
Iracebeth nods, so much hope in one tiny twist of the lips.
"I suppose I could."
Something is wrong. He knows it, but he can't quite pinpoint the feeling of error.
No pocket watch has stopped, no soldier has fallen, no tick has stopped before its following tock.
So what's amiss?
He takes a break from the Grand Clock, ignores his Seconds' sighs of relief and Wilkins insistence for his rest.
Time doesn't need rests. Unless there's a piano involved.
He paces through his him-shaped corridors, nearly falls over as he realizes the mistake in his realm.
Iracebeth is gone.
He doesn't know how long.
He hadn't even noticed.
A pang of guilt thumps hard and heavy in his clock.
He loves her. No matter the eggshelled issues they've crushed and stomped across, he does love her.
And it's unthinkable to forget about a loved one.
Reprehensible.
Unforgivable.
Guilt surges his system once more, only to be replaced with worry.
Deep worry, that steals breath from his lungs and causes the gears in his neck to tense.
Iracebeth.
Dear, impetuous Iracebeth.
It baffles him how such a small creature can evoke so many emotions from his rather mechanical being.
Walks the path to Mirana's palace quicker than his usual pace. Even his Seconds cannot keep up as he keeps his steps long and frequent.
He breathes deeply while stepping through her clock's portal—he does not like the sensation of portal magic, finds it sticky—and nearly scares the living day lights out of the poor maid dusting the clock's hands.
He has to speed up Himself, but eventually she tells him where to find his beloved.
Iracebeth is not where the silly nit said she was.
Nor is she in the palace at all.
Fear replaces worry as various scenarios run through his head. She's not dead, he can always tell when life pauses, but perhaps she's in pain. Perhaps the Duke escaped and she's enduring his vengeance again, perhaps she's been kidnapped by different enemies and surviving through other horrors, perhaps she's found someone else.
The last thought lingers, fills him with a separate sort of dread altogether. He'd prefer it to any of the other imagined situations, but his clock nearly ticks backwards at the thought of her loving another.
Jealousy replaces fear, irrational as it is.
He walks impossibly faster, though without any direction, stops when his gears steam from overheating.
Maddened wandering will not do, it's inefficient as well as undignified. Best to regroup and search with an actual strategy.
Laughter rings out, happy and bright, he walks towards it, to ask directions back to the palace.
He stumbled upon a tea party.
Not another one.
Unseen, he's about to turn around when a flash of red catches his attention.
Sitting amidst giggling children and waltzing teacups, is Iracebeth, mid-laugh. His breath catches.
She is radiant.
She sees him, freezes, the teacups fall hard on the table. Her smile fades, he fears his last scenario is true.
But her eyes are warm, they crackle like the fire in his parlor, she stands. Walks closer to him in tentative little steps, hands clasped in front of her, bemusement in those enchanting eyes.
"You left your realm."
It's more a statement than a question, though it's obvious she's a bit mystified. He doesn't leave if he can help it, only when things are most dire.
"You weren't there."
She looks down at her hands, something akin to guilt wrinkles her features.
"I meant to tell you, but I wasn't expecting to stay this long—"
"I forgive you."
Her head snaps up at that, and he realizes he means it.
Forgives it all.
"I forgive you."
Wonder in her eyes, wells there along with relief and gratitude.
He desperately wants to kiss her.
Doesn't. Not yet.
"I don't know what to do now." She whispers, somehow she's drifted much closer and he's intoxicated in the proximity of her.
"I'm not quite sure myself."
Her smile happens, like a quiet star shower, brilliant and special and only for him.
He smiles back.
"I think I'm ready to go home."
She waves farewell to the little children at the table behind them, and if Time had a heart, he's sure it will swell in affection for woman beside him.
They walk down the path, and Time feels something gingerly take his hand. He looks down, tiny fingers have slid between his.
Iracebeth.
She's blushing quite prettily, but resolutely staring straight ahead of her.
He wants to kiss her, it's a mighty need, but spares her the embarrassment.
Just holds her hand a bit tighter.
Together, they wander on.