Small mercies
OP rules:
I want to read about (or see, for my VPers/artists) a small mercy in your fic. A quick action, a split-second decision, a moment where kindness won when it didn't have to. This includes acts of self-kindness, too - maybe the hardest type of mercy.
Thank you for tagging me, @lucretiouswept 💜 Hope it's alright, even if I'm not a VP artist! 😅 (spoilers below if you haven't read Instinct but intend to!)
Tagging (no pressure): @aerin67, @babydinosaur930, @goldbootsgirl, @bhaal-battle-beer-bard & @quinthebard
A vision of splendor: a silver circlet crowned her brow, its interwoven arches cradling a single diamond at its center. Her hair—burnished copper—fell like sunlight through autumn leaves. Her angular face held the sharp sweep of noble brows; her golden skin gleamed, and her eyes shone like faceted amethysts. Her mouth was shapely but stern. And—like all true Fey—her mind was as incomprehensible, unending, and ancient as the domain she both embodied and ruled.
Tempest bowed low—far lower than custom required—as heat climbed from her neck all the way to her scalp. At least her loose hair hid the worst of her mortified expression.
“M–My Queen! Forgive me, I—you—I wasn’t expecting—!” Tempest stammered, tripping over words.
“Speak up.”
The Fey Queen’s voice was austere, though not without familiarity. Tempest felt terribly exposed beneath that cosmic, all-seeing gaze.
Clearing her throat, she ventured to lift her chin a fraction—her eyes lowered. “Your Radiance and Star Eternal… your loyal subject humbly begs your forgiveness, I fear I am in no fit state to receive—”
The Lady of Stars lifted one slender hand, silencing her chosen.“Spare me the titles and frippery of courtly speech. Tell me instead how my eyes and ears—entrusted to you—have wandered so far beyond my sight.”
Even layered through magic, Tempest felt the command and power in those words. She would have to tread with exquisite care.
“Yes, my Queen.”
The projection rippled—like a mirror disturbed by water—shifting from Morwel’s ethereal visage to the image of a tiny dragon. Moxie hung their head miserably, as though awaiting a reprimand that Tempest suspected would soon be hers. The gleam of white marble beneath them, streaked with veins of gold, confirmed the location: the throne room.
“Erh… well… seeing as Moxie somehow made it back to you unscathed—funny how that works, right?—it stands to reason that I might’ve, at some point, given my draconian colleague a friendly shove through the proverbial veil. So to speak. Not deliberately, mind!” Tempest cleared her throat. “As to why… there’s not much to tell. Honestly. Is it anomalous? Sure. But hardly cause for alarm—as you can clearly see. It won’t happen again, though, that I can promise you!”
She attempted a confident smile. But wilted under the Queen’s expression. Unmoved.
“So this lends credence to your familiar’s account,” Morwel said. “ here is a disturbance in the Weave. And as a result—intentional or not—lives other than your own have been affected. You no longer hold mastery over your powers.”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly—”
“Hmm… flushed cheeks, restless eyes, and that state of undress…” The Queen’s gaze raked her in a way that felt more like a divination than anything remotely carnal. “Tell me, child—have you finally mounted the male elf?”
At that precise moment, the bedroll’s hem slipped off Tempest’s shoulder. She panicked and fumbled it back into place, face blazing.
“My Queen, you… You’re asking if—if I’ve what?! Who?!” Her mind stuttered to a halt, aghast.
“Do not play coy with me, child. The Great Druid.”
“H-Halsin?! The. Master. Halsin?! No! Why would you even—Of course not!” Tempest abandoned her attempt to look decent, scrubbing her face and hiding behind her hands.
“Then I trust the Grand Druid has a different course of action in mind?”
“No! Because there’s nothing wrong!”
“As demonstrated by you? Fresh out of a Weave trance. The most disruptive and violent eruption to date.” Tempest’s patron narrowed her eyes in disapproval, her voice laden with anger.
Tempest flinched at the truth of it. She turned away from the Fey Queen as if struck, grinding her teeth, fighting the sting of tears. She refused to let them fall.
“You disappoint me, daughter. Have I not raised you better?”
“Your education was more than sufficient, my Queen.”
“As it stands, I am withdrawing you from the field. The foe has been vanquished, the war may be over, and bodies mended—yet your spirit has not. This cannot continue.”
“I am fine,” Tempest replied darkly, unable to contain the frustration and helpless edge in her voice. Her tattoos glowed.
“I am stripping you of my powers.”
“You can’t do this! I’ve slain your monsters! Safeguarded the realms of men! And this is how I am repaid?!” Tempest tiptoed the fine line between irreverence and insolence, unable to contain the sting of betrayal.
“Your wounded pride is misplaced. You have no notion of the price I’ve paid to mitigate your punishment. Power comes at a terrible cost—you know this better than most.”
“…Why? Why would you intervene on my behalf?!” Tempest wanted to say more, but her voice failed her; she bit her lip to stop its trembling.
“You would ask why?” For the first time, the stony façade of the Lady of the Lake cracked—just enough to reveal astonishment in her eyes. “I have mothered you more than the woman who brought you into this world ever could.”
