The Seat
by Lyra
The weather was finally warm enough to leave the castle and head out over the hills with only a thin jacket on her shoulders. The breeze across the land was thick with the smell of the earth opening itself again, uncurling frozen limbs to welcome life back once more. The grass spread underfoot was still that strange yellow tint it always became when warmth pressed into them. There was a brilliance to it, not the tired heavy green of autumn or the dreary exhausted colorlessness of winter, but something potent and waiting, all too ready to burst free once again.
With spring always came the damp, and Taraesa's galoshes squished noisily on the boggy land under her feet as she trudged around the back of the castle towards the stables and fields. The buildings waited for her beyond, stones as old as the castle's and maybe even the hills'. She could see the small stables, shingled with smooth slates, hear the horses and the cattle mingling inside, shifting back and forth, eager and giddy in the novel warmth. She nodded to the farm-hands who smiled at her as she passed the buildings, making her way through the long ancient structures towards one of the fenced areas just behind them.
Taraesa heard the sheep before she saw them, brittle cries anxious and excitable. She leaned against the old wood of the fence posts, splintery and tinted with lichen. The sheep normally wandered wherever on the land they pleased without restriction or borders, but it was spring, and there were certain chores that needed their presence.
She smiled. He hadn't seen her yet, too distracted by the task at hand. Even though it was hardly warm enough he'd stripped to his shirt, arms freckled and corded, dancing with his actions. He held the sheep he'd wrangled firmly, running the clippers over her with practice. Under him she could see the knees of his jeans soaking against the damp of the earth, but he didn't seem to mind. His tussled red-hair seemed all the brighter against the grey of the day.
After a minute or two he let the sheep go and it bounded out of reach, bony legs exposed and quick, agile after it's initial awkwardness upon standing. It shook roughly, feeling the air against it's now exposed skin and bleating out short confusion.
"There, better now, eh?" Ronan called after it. The sheep ignored him, wiggling it's tail idly and returning shyly back to the gathered group, nose down in the boggy earth.
"Doesn't seem terribly grateful," Taraesa observed, leaning heavily on the fence under her.
Ronan turned with a surprised smile, hefting the shorn wool up with him. "Where'd you come from?"
"Been here for hours," she shrugged. "I'm surprised you didn't notice."
"I must be terribly distracted," Ronan teased back.
"Seems so." She eyed the wool in his arms, all of it dirty with mud, thistles, twigs. "Replenishing?"
"Don't have much yarn left after Brogan's," Ronan answered, dropping it into a basket where more was already waiting. "I'll have to spin more. Don't want to run out."
"It was good to see them, up in the mountains," she said.
"It was," he agrees fondly.
"Do you miss them?" She asks after a moment. "Even now?"
He drops more wool in the basket. "Every day."
"It was nice to be there," she continues. "To forget about things for a moment."
He smiles. "Did you? Forget?"
She frowns. "No, I suppose not."
"Distractions can be tricky," Ronan says, moving across the grass, scattering a few sheep as he gets close enough to lean next to her. "You can tie as many lures as you like but you'll have to toss them in sooner or later."
She'd heard that one from him before, a little too often in fact. "It's not lures I'm worried about it's the bloody boat."
The nerves that had been dancing around her stomach since that morning tightened as she remembered what was waiting for her in only a handful of hours. She'd come out here to breathe some air, to try and forget it, or at least push it aside for a moment. Worrying did no good, she was as prepared as she was going to be and she knew it well enough. All thinking about it now did was make her stomach sick and hands clammy. It was best just to push it aside. Best, but still impossible.
"You'll be fine," Ronan says, leaning over to nudge his freckled arm against hers.
She lets her head tip over to rest on his shoulder heavily. "How do you know?"
"Because, you always are."
"That's not a good answer."
"How about, there's no reason to be nervous?"
She lifts her head up again with a vexed expression. "There's a thousand reasons for me to be nervous, millions, one for every citizen who could hate me even more as the months go on."
"They love you. They know you are doing the right thing."
"I don't know if that's true. Why should they care about refugees?"
"For the same reason you do," he answered simply.
She couldn't find the right words to respond to that, so she settled instead for silence. She stared off at the sheep sullenly, watching as they nudged at each other, feet quick and light on the budding land underneath. She found herself wondering for a moment if they were being considerate of the life trying to grow there, or if they simply didn't like their feet getting wet if it was possible to avoid.
"Are any pregnant?" She asked quietly.
"Four. I think," he answered.
She hummed quietly. Did they know, she wondered? Did they sense the life as soon as it was part of them? They didn't need sticks and colors and doctors confirming or denying. Early on she'd checked at least three times a day, boxes of sticks littering their bathroom every week. Then, eventually, only daily, and now she did her best to test only a few times a week. It minimized the disappointment that way, but to replace it there was more room in-between for hope to spring.
Did they know, wandering around now alive with the smell of the earth? Did they feel the life as it expanded? Did they even care?
"Maybe we'll ask Brogan and Catarina down this way," Ronan suggested. "Cat could see the little ones once they come."
"I'm sure she's seen lambs before," Tarasea said, voice still distant.
"Not these lambs," Ronan smiled. "These are the best of the best." She couldn't help smiling back.
He wrapped a long arm around her shoulders pulling her close. He smelled like mud and spring and salt, pressing a kiss close and warm to the top of her head. He ran his hand up and down her shoulder, quick, comforting, and warm.
"Come on your Majesty," he squeezed. "Let's get you ready."
She hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep until their state-car came to a slow stop. Ronan's suit jacket scratched against her cheek as she lifted her head up to look out the window, eyes still bleary. There wasn't much she could see from where she was through the clustered bodies outside and the tinted windows blocking them, but judging by the noise and the movement she could see, a reasonable crowd was waiting for them just beyond those doors. There nerves in her stomach began to dance again.
She turned back to him. "How's my...?" She gestured vaguely to her face.
"Good," he smiled. He leaned in and kissed her on the mouth. "Very good."
She just managed to smile back at him before their door opened. The noise poured in all the better for it, giving the crowd a whole new weight.
Ronan stepped out easily, waving over the roof of the car. Voices cheered appreciatively, camera flashes splashed across his face, white and quick. He held a hand out for her and she took it, easing out of the seat and standing beside him before them all. It was a large crowd, spread out across the square opposite of the state buildings. Larger than she expected.
She waved, formal, loving, wrapping an arm around Ronan's waist as he smiled bright and full. The Seat waited behind them, a long stone building constructed far later than the castle they'd left, but still centuries hence. She'd always felt it was gloomier than their castle, sterner lines, straighter edges and stricter windows. But then again she'd spent her childhood learning the fold and curves of the castle, and nearly every time she'd arrived at The Seat her stomach had been a messy knot of nerves and concern. Their flags waved in the spring air atop the ramparts, proud and bright against the grey sky. She focused on them, doing her best not to let her attention linger on the crowd.
"The Lords are all gathered, your Majesty," a tall man in a dark suit with a stern expression said beside them.
"Thank you," she answered, turning to make her way up the long stairs towards the wide wooden doors of The Seat. Ronan followed her, arm tight and warm around her own.
The crowd that had gathered opposite The Seat was chanting something. She tried not to listen, the words were hard to make out anyways. In the end it was merely voices, raised, passionate, throwing themselves against the stone building that looked down on them. There had been signs in the crowd when she'd looked: "Send Them Home", "Our Land Our Right", and maybe most definitively "Fuck Gloriaterra".
The marble steps scuffed gently under their feet as they headed up set after set till they finally reached the top. The large ornamental doors were pulled open by footmen on either side and they bustled in quickly.
Inside the space was all cold echoes and rushing bodies. The staircase at the back of the circular foyer was wide, spiraling around up through five floors and stopping under a domed glass ceiling. Taraesa looked around, wrapping her scarf closer. All of it still felt as big as it had to her when she was a child holding her father's hand, walking these hollow halls. Wasn't it supposed to feel smaller by now?
"Your Majesty," a smiling woman stepped forward from where she had been waiting just beside the stairs. She was wearing her dark hair back today, body small but sturdy. She was older than Taraesa by about ten years, though her eyes seemed far older.
Taraesa smiled. "Hello, Ina."
The woman approached, files and folders neatly tucked under one suited arm. "Ready?"
Taraesa sighed. "Bloody hope so."
Ronan chuckled beside her.
"You'll be alright," Ina said, voice low and careful. "We've been over the figures a dozen times this past week. Trust them."
Taraesa sighed, feeling the comfortable weight of Ronan's arm under hers. "Best get it over with."
Ina nodded, stepping aside to open the way up the marble steps. They scaled them all together, climbing past tall windows that looked out to the cities shining scenery and the hills beyond, past suited security posted at regular intervals staring into space as if it were a book to be read. It didn't take them long to reach the third floor.
Ina led the way, snaking down the halls with familiarity. Taraesa was glad of it, she was always afraid she'd become lost if she were here alone. She'd been to The Seat every month since she was a girl, but she was always so distracted by the events at hand that the twists and turns of the building never seemed to set in properly. She suspected the lords might move things around on her when she wasn't there, just to make her feel more lost.
Finally, they reached a tall proud door. It swung open from the inside, Taraesa took a deep breath, and stepped through.
"Good morning, my Lords," she said, voice steadier than she felt.
All around the wide conference hall chairs squeaked on stone as they were pushed back and the Lords of the land stood to acknowledge her presence. They bowed their heads politely as she Ronan, and Ina moved into the space. She and Ronan took their places at the head of the table, their chairs pulled out by two servants waiting against the wall. Ina settled herself in next to one of them, the seats were for the lords, not her own staff. She sat quickly, it always made her wary that they had to stand as long as she did. Ronan could be terrible about it, standing by his chair and talking to them for half an hour before finally sitting down. She'd never been exactly sure if he did it on purpose or not.
"Thank you for convening today," she said as she sat.
Stupid. All of it. If it were up to her she'd still be out in the field, watching her husband roll his sheep over and running the shears easily as anything. But these reports were required, and even though the lords most certainly were the ones doing the requesting, it was her "formal invitation" that gathered them all in this place.
"Thank you, your Majesty," Lord Richard said at the opposite end of the table. He earned that seat with the largest parcel besides her own, representing twenty percent of her people alone. She'd never liked him. He always looked back at her the way cats looked at dogs that were smaller than them. And he was clever. More clever than her by three fold at least, and he knew that perfectly well. Her father had always called him "that bloody mink" while cutting his meat too roughly at the dinner table.
"Are we all gathered?" She asked. Another stupid question. Formalities.
"All gathered," a staff member's voice towards the back confirmed.
She ran her eyes down either side of the long table. There were forty of them all told, maybe three women's faces in the lot. Less than ten of them were under fifty. None under forty.
"Now, I'm sure we all know what the most pressing issue at hand is currently," she said, "the continuing conflict in Gloriaterra, and the current state of the refugees seeking asylum within our borders."
"With due respect your Majesty," Lord Francis replied, "their status as refugees has come under some debate. They are being checked only loosely, and it is possible that under these circumstances rebel militias are entering our borders."
First sentence in and the tension was already growing.
"The refugees," she pronounced, "are here to avoid war, not cause it. The war to be fought is in their land. Not ours."
"Gloriaterra is limited," Lord Thomas added, "maybe a hostile takeover of land that is not under such contentions seems an attractive possibility to some."
"Now, now," Lord Julis eased in. "It's quite a jump from some tents on a hillside to hostile takeover, Thomas."
"Maybe a jump, but a few well calculated steps, spread over a year, possible two, that is not such a leap," Lord Richard's eyes shone across the table.
"These people are not fighters," Ronan said next to her.
"Gloriaterra was full of peaceful men," Lord Francis continues, "until one decided peace was no longer desirable. And now, their country is on fire."
"I am happy to discuss all of this in full," Taraesa broke in, "it's why we've gathered after all. But we should allow General Durran to debrief us before we begin properly. Would you agree, Lord Richard?"
The cold eyes didn't leave hers. He nodded quietly.
"General," Taraesa gestured to the man a few seats from her left with medals shining in the dull light. "Please."
The man stood, seat creaking as his weight left it. He spoke through his whiskers with practiced clarity. "Gloriaterra's state remains, as it has been: chaotic, and unpredictable. We lack the intelligence resources within the border to understand the details of the specific conflicts, but it appears that of the four factions which have been battling for control, the Pilum, Free Gloria, Equites, and Velites, the later two are moving into the strongest position in the conflict. They are now the center of most of the fighting, which is orbiting around the western coast and Rhodyne. The other two factions are still battling but at far lesser strength, and moving north towards the mountains."
"Ah, you see," Lord Julis said. "The east is quiet. They're fighting for their cities, their ports, resources. There's nothing in the east worth the conflict. Her Majesty's right, refugees are the extent of this 'intrusion'."
"That's well and fine, Julis," the thin voice of Lady Vance returned. "So, we shall call them refugees if it pleases, but they are not without power to disrupt under that seemingly benign title. Our resources are pressed as it is. And everyday, more and more flee into our hills."
"Pressed seems a fairly ambiguous word for it, my Lady," Lord Wolton joins. "Do we not have some responsibility in the greater scheme of humanity towards these people? Would you rather send them back again, into mortars and chaos. Half of them are bloody children."
"Do not curse at me sir," Lady Vance returned neatly. "And I will not be painted as a villain for turning injured children from our borders. But if one of these children came to your door, asked to sleep in your beds, eat your meals, and use your home as it's own, would you welcome it without question?"
Lord Wolton laughed. "I don't see why not."
"And what if there were fifty children standing on your doorstep?" Lord Richard asked quietly.
"But they're not on his doorstep," Lord Julis joined again. "They aren't on anyone's doorstep. They are in a regulated area that's been nothing but rocks for years."
Lord Richard ran a thin finger down a paper in front of him. "My sources have informed me that the current 'regulated area' is being expanded by one hundred dwellings each day on the average. There's no knowing how long this conflict will last. There's no knowing what further violence may push these individuals more aggressively eastward. It could not be long indeed Lord Wolton before fifty starved dirty faces are looking up at you for charity."
"Well Sara and Hugh off at university now, been a bit too quiet, big house like that, the wife and I could use some company," Lord Wolton smiled back.
"If only the struggling citizens of our own nation shared your charitable spirit," Lord Richard smiled back.
Ina cleared her throat lightly behind them. Taraesa took the hint. "We have prepared additions to our screening at the borders to ensure that only the most in need will be given refuge," Taraesa said.
"The most in need?" Lady Vance asked.
"Families," Taraesa defined, "children traveling alone, women with child, the elderly. We are limiting the number of lone women of fighting age entering to thirty per day, and the lone men of fighting age to ten."
"And what of the others?" Lord Thomas asks. "Is there a limit on them?"
Taraesa felt her chest tightening angrily. "Not at this time."
Lord Thomas almost laughed. "So if every child rendered homeless by this war, arrived at our borders all at once, we'd simply open the way."
Taraesa's eyes tightened on him. "They are starving. They are maimed. They are lost. And they need our support."
"Here, here," Lord Wolton affirmed, giving the table a smack.
"When will it end?" Lady Vance asked.
"When Gloriaterra can support it's own citizens once more," she answered.
"And what if it never can?"
"I will not deal in hypotheticals."
"You'll excuse me your Majesty," Lord Richard said quietly. "But it seems that is exactly what you have been doing."
"We will take this as we have," Taraesa said firmly, "one day at a time. We will look at what we have, and we will look at what they have, and as long as it is reasonable, as long as it is manageable, we will maintain our support."
"What is it, your Majesty, that you believe qualifies as 'maintainable'?" Lord Francis asked.
"I invite you to judge that for yourself, Lord Francis," Ronan said suddenly. "All of you in fact."
Lady Vance's thin eyebrows lift. "Excuse me, your Majesty?"
Ronan's hand squeezed her leg firmly and warmly under the table.
"We will be announcing, on the steps after this meeting, that we will be taking an evaluating committee to the borders, to the camps, to meet these refugees, and examine the situation first hand," Taraesa said
The table stirred uncomfortably. Lord Richard remained still.
"I invite you now, as I shall publicly soon enough, to join Ronan and myself on this trip. I invite you to see these people with your own eyes and decided then what you believe is 'manageable'."
The Lords shifted in their seats. Lord Wolton looked at her with concern. "Your Majesty, the camp isn't without danger, and being that close to a warzone--"
"I'm sure you'll manage alright Wolton," she smiled back.
"I might, but yourself," Wolton continued, "your Majesty, it is a risk, and not just to yourself but all of us."
She felt an anger tighten in her throat. "If you think that I will be slaughtered by a stray mortar, leaving you all without an heir, I would urge you to understand that such danger is utterly minimal. And I would thank you to discuss my body and it's conditions as little as possible. I will bring it to your attention when it is necessary."
Lord Wolton nodded solemnly. She felt a pang of regret. She couldn't blame the man. She remembered his face shining as he threw her in the air when she wasn't more than six. And it wasn't her body, not completely, it was theirs. Her womb especially.
"We will be leaving within the month to evaluate the conditions," she said firmly, twisting the subject back to it's main focus.
"Then," Lord Richard said smoothly, "may I be the first to accept this invitation."
Taraesa bowed her head respectfully, trying not to let her stomach squirm. "Of course, Lord Richard. I can think of no one better suited for the assignment."
The night was warm enough to leave the windows of her father's library just barely ajar. A breeze, slight a sweet smelling slipped over the land and pushed its way inside to join her. There was darkness on all sides. She hadn't turned on the lights. She hadn't needed to. The moon was bright, hanging heavy and pale against the sky.
She'd been in the library since just after dinner. She'd watched the darkness creep in from the corners outwards. Funny, how if you watched a room grow dark, watching it, waiting for it, it never seemed as black once it finally got there. She'd sat in her father's old tall back armchair, bare feet curled under her, one of Ronan's sweaters pulled close under her chin. She'd watched it come, watched the room go golden against the sunset, then a paleness that slipped into blue, and a blue that darkened, bit by bit, into black, like sinking deeper and deeper into the sea. But then the moon had risen, and silver slipped in the windows, slashing the floor with dim light once again.
She wondered idly how late it was. It didn't matter. She wasn't tired. She'd had two glasses of warmed milk already and it did not good.
She held her sweater closer, gazing out the window across the hills and the fields. Soon enough they'd be nothing but green, vibrant and lush all across them. Her eyes travelled up to the sky overhead. The moon stared back, constant and watchful. The stars winked at her. They seemed brighter somehow, brighter than they should be. But that was foolish, who was she to know about such things. They could shine exactly as bright as they liked for all she cared.
She heard the door open behind her. She didn't turn to see who it was. She knew him by the way he moved so easily and so silently across the floor towards her. He was always quiet for someone so large. All of them were she'd noticed, Brogan, Ruary, everyone. Hunters. Men who grew up walking in forests and doing their best not to make a sound.
Ronan's hands snaked around her hips, pulling her back against his chest. She leaned back, feeling the warmth of his breath as he nuzzled his head into the space between her neck and her shoulder, inhaling her deeply.
"The stars are bright," she murmured gaze still against the sky.
"They have been," Ronan said without looking, his hands pressed closer, easing back and forth with smooth movements. His voice was close enough, low enough, to make her shudder ever so slightly. "They've been bright since Brogan’s wedding. I think they followed us home."
She leaned into him, letting his touch fill her with a hazy lustful comfort.
"Come to bed," he whispered.
"I can't sleep."
He urged closer. "You don't have to sleep."
She did sleep in the end, but only eventually.