Was it possible to walk herself out of the present day reality, backwards through the past until she arrived in front of a younger Magnus, all dance and smiles? She had sent him a letter; requesting that he meet her at the place where they'd spent so much of their time. Enough time that every regular had once known her.
Funny enough, it was the same fucking tavern she'd met her husband in. A lot of memories there; a lot of history. But there was guilt here too.
Guilt in the way she craved Magnus' touch and his comfort, the words he could whisper into her ear. Guilt in the way that her children glanced at her, when they thought she wasn't looking. Some of them didn't wait for her gaze to be elsewhere before they sent scornful, fiery glares her way. The people reacted similarly. Francesco had been a King of his people. And the people had never been quite certain that his wife loved him; she'd acted so cold towards him in public...
Alfred had not sent word about her husband, so she had to go on. She had to manage this kingdom, a role she had never wanted to begin with. Thoughts of abdication, of fleeing Antiva with Magnus, were fleeting. But they were there, like intrusive ear-worms, demanding that she listen to them before she was able to chase them away.
Magnus was safe. Familiar.
Stable.
And she craved stability, when the world felt like it was tumbling down around her. She'd dressed down, hair free from its usual restrictive bun. She looked like any other commoner, as she entered the tavern, hood pulled over her head to keep her warm.
The booth he'd picked... of course he'd choose that one. They'd spent many nights getting drunk here, she snuggled into his side, feet propped up on the seat across from them.
Once she had thought she might marry Magnus. He'd been a way out of the Crows. Instead, she was so deeply entrenched in everything the Crows were, she saw no way out that didn't end in her death.
The smile on her lips was real, perhaps the realest smile in a long time. She paused next to the table, before slipping into the booth next to him.
Funny enough, it was the same fucking tavern she'd met her husband in. A lot of memories there; a lot of history. But there was guilt here too.
Guilt in the way she craved Magnus' touch and his comfort, the words he could whisper into her ear. Guilt in the way that her children glanced at her, when they thought she wasn't looking. Some of them didn't wait for her gaze to be elsewhere before they sent scornful, fiery glares her way. The people reacted similarly. Francesco had been a King of his people. And the people had never been quite certain that his wife loved him; she'd acted so cold towards him in public...
Alfred had not sent word about her husband, so she had to go on. She had to manage this kingdom, a role she had never wanted to begin with. Thoughts of abdication, of fleeing Antiva with Magnus, were fleeting. But they were there, like intrusive ear-worms, demanding that she listen to them before she was able to chase them away.
Magnus was safe. Familiar.
Stable.
And she craved stability, when the world felt like it was tumbling down around her. She'd dressed down, hair free from its usual restrictive bun. She looked like any other commoner, as she entered the tavern, hood pulled over her head to keep her warm.
The booth he'd picked... of course he'd choose that one. They'd spent many nights getting drunk here, she snuggled into his side, feet propped up on the seat across from them.
Once she had thought she might marry Magnus. He'd been a way out of the Crows. Instead, she was so deeply entrenched in everything the Crows were, she saw no way out that didn't end in her death.
The smile on her lips was real, perhaps the realest smile in a long time. She paused next to the table, before slipping into the booth next to him.
I remembered that you always liked me in marigold,she murmured, an effort to start small-talk.
01-26-2023, 11:56 PM
