#character: lacha

[ofproseandmusing]

changes

Closed to @violettebaudelaire for Camellia.

It occurred to Lacha, as she let her mind wander and her gaze found Camellia seated on her right looking far more attentive as Sorrel talked and talked, that she’d gone about this whole thing with Gale entirely backward and wrong. It wasn’t exactly a surprise—the afternoon, while ultimately pleasurable, had been messy and full of misunderstandings—only once the realization hit her she couldn’t believe her own stupidity.

How had she neglected to tell Camellia what she was going to do first? 

“Oh, Sorrel, do shut up,” she said, words blunt and temper shorter than usual as shown in the way she simply interrupted him, which was partially born of the realization and partially of Sorrel’s tendency toward prose and flattery to soften Adare’s requested favor. “You needn’t waste your breath with flattery and the fucking long-winded explanation. I’m not in the mood to hear it or be difficult. He can use the sword, but Rowan and I go where it does and that best not be somewhere warded to his favor. If that’s acceptable to him then he can name a time and place.” There was a pause before she gave him a disdainful look. “Preferably by other means than via you.”

Sorrel’s expression didn’t flicker, which was no surprise either because Lacha voicing her distaste for him was a regular facet of their interactions, but all the same, he took the dismissal for what it was, leaving her, Camellia and the rest of the Archfey to finish the meeting his arrival had interrupted. Only, Lacha wasn’t much in the mood for that either. “Everything else can keep until tomorrow,” Lacha said in the wake of Sorrel’s exit, “I’m in no mood.” 

The sentiment wasn’t greeted with protest, though Lacha didn’t know if that’s because she wasn’t alone in being tired or because no one found it worth their time to argue with her. What she did know was this: she needed to talk to Camellia before Gale said something indiscreet on the assumption she already had. A hand reached out as the room began to clear, gently stopping her daughter from walking too far away, as she quietly said, “Stay, love. We need to talk.”

[ofproseandmusing]

a winter night, a winter wake

Closed to: @written--infinities for Jasper. Date: early-1960s

Years were a funny thing when one knew they had several centuries of them. Time could pass and it felt like nothing, time could pass and it felt like forever. Since losing Caora, time had felt so much like latter for Lacha, though slowly that was changing. No one but she and Gale knew it so explicitly, but Lacha was somewhat healed, a process started after twenty-some-odd years of punishing herself, of refusing to live in certain ways. Dark days, by her view, were what the court had seen and been under her mother’s rule, but if her reign had any, hers were these years slowly fading, the ones where she mourned and all but punished the court for what it had cost her, the ones where she could be the ever competent queen, the ever merciless executer of an Unseelie brand of justice, and all the while live like she’d forgotten what the very word happiness meant or felt like.

Gale had reminded her she had a heart, though there were pieces of it were that iced over still; he couldn’t fix everything but loving him was a start in the right direction, a long overdue thawing, one that left promise for others, for more.

Perhaps that was why she found herself with room for pity for Jasper when saw him across a room, looking too much like Celeste for her to miss the resemblance, a crowd between them. There were fey that enjoyed wakes, the celebration of a life and the indulgences and memories that went along with it, but Lacha had never learned the art of enjoying herself for public consumption, least of all at events like these; wakes only made her think of herself at twelve, of herself squaring her shoulders to face a court that suddenly—unofficially—belonged to her despite the fact that she was terrified. There was nothing pleasant in it for her, but her presence was due here, not just because she was queen and Celeste was Unseelie. It was right because Celeste had served her well, because she gave her Archfey their due, because Lacha had never had too many people she genuinely would consider a friend, but Celeste had been one of them.

She recognized Jasper across the room, but somehow her first thought was: I’d forgotten she had a son, followed by the half-sad smile as she remembered that she had wanted to forget. Gracefully, Celeste had kept away from Lacha’s presence much as it could be managed then; she had never said it in so many words, but it was fairly common knowledge that since losing Caora, the queen could not stand to be around fey who had everything to look forward to while she had nothing at all.

She knew she ought to let her gaze slide over him, but while she lingered on him with an impassive expression, his turned to something that betrayed sheer volatile rage, at what she didn’t know. It was enough for the ground to tremble and for him to flee the room as eyes turned on him.

She only hesitated a moment before cutting through the room, following after him, motivated by some strange sense of pity she hadn’t felt in years. She stepped outside just in time to hear the telltale sound of rushing snow in the not-so-far-off distance and catch sight of a small avalanche, snow shifting and rushing harmlessly into more of the same that made up the Unseelie wilds. 

Brows raised, mostly at the power of the thing, but also because the ground was still shaking beneath her feet as she approached him, but she was careful to stay mild here. “Impressive.”

[ofproseandmusing]

entertainment, or something.

Closed to @kiplingwriter​ for Larkspur.

Perhaps it was the folly of being fey, of the way that had already given her more than two centuries worth of years and promised another three that made things repetitive. Or perhaps that was a little unfair to the nature of the thing, giving less credit to the woman herself. There were certain things Lacha found comfort in repeating, rituals she allowed herself because she placed herself last every single time, but even so, she still had to carve spaces out of the world for herself as a woman rather than as the queen in order to survive being the latter.

And so, perhaps it was that repetition that had Larkspur already waiting in her office the Rookery when she got there. Though brows raised slightly at the sight of Larkspur in her chair, Lacha wasn’t entirely surprised. They had been here before, had done this before, and there was promise they’d do it again, no matter what that repetition said of her, most of all because she didn’t care what it might say. There were few things in her world that were simple, and technically Larkspur singing wasn’t necessarily one of them, considering there was a Siren song aspect involved, but she liked it. It was soothing,

After all, better that than the elixirs, which Lacha personally didn’t trust herself with; she’d see to it that they were sold, let Malachite mix special batches for her that weren’t replicated elsewhere, but she was careful. The cornerstone of her world was serving her responsibilities no matter the cost, and she couldn’t afford to fail because of something so simultaneously powerful but avoidable as addiction.

Still, she didn’t much like to assume anything. Anything was possible, most of all with someone like Larkspur. Better to ask and see than think she knew.

“Larkspur,” Lacha lilted out, with a bare bit of rare amusement, as she hovered in the doorway, “is there some particular reason you’re in my chair?” Accompanying the question was an unspoken command: get up.

[ofproseandmusing]

melodies & measures

Closed to @treasure-writings​ for Elise.

The Rookery was her's, though, to some degree it wouldn't have mattered if it wasn't; so long as the bar belonged to the complex wide, messy web that made up the Unseelie Court or was within its realm of influence, she could demand it close or use it as she so pleased.

Being Queen came with steep costs, and she paid them silently, but she had to admit that there were some days she enjoyed the sparse benefits the position had to offer as well.

Tonight she’d done the rare thing and used it to her favor, though to her credit it wasn’t so heavy handed as she could be. Tonight it was a quietly made statement that she’d close the bar instead of leaving it for Ivy to do, which was underpinned with a touch of the Unseelie steel she so well embodied in  a clear telegraph toward one sentiment: accept it, don’t make me order you to leave or let me close.

As such, there was a quiet bit of encouragement, more so than usual tonight, to get people to vacate; she wanted the bar to herself or mostly to herself. Rowan refused to leave, saying that if she was going to stay someone was going to stay with her and if anyone knew a fair number of her secrets, it was Rowan ( after all who else had seen her cry? ), so she ungracefully acquiesced to Rowan’s insistence and sat herself at the piano anyway, ignoring her Shadow’s silent watchfulness in the back of the room, losing herself, or attempting to one of the few things that belonged exclusively to her; it would have been an easier task if several minutes after she started, someone ( she assumed Rowan ) hadn’t started to make noise.

"Rowan,” she lilted out, over fingers that pressed softly into keys, continuing, despite the chastisement, though the distraction caused several discordant notes in rapid succession. “If you can’t sit still go wait outside. I won’t be disturbed by you when I didn’t want you here in the first place.” 

[ofproseandmusing]

uncharted territory.

Closed to @mockwrites for Camellia.

More than two centuries of years and a dead child had taught Lacha a great deal about life; some of which was relevant to present day, much of it that was not. However, of everything she had experienced and endured in raising and then sacrificing Caora in the name of peace nothing had prepared her for the conversation she knew she had to have with Camellia now. The thing was, though, not only was she totally unprepared, part of her really wanted to believe she could avoid having it. Lacha believed in facing the truth no matter how painful it was, in theory; it was a rule she had lived her life to since childhood, mostly because she hadn't another choice — too young, she had been forced to confront realities that no child should endure. So, it wasn't for that, that Lacha wanted to avoid this conversation. Instead it was simply that Camellia seemed shockingly, stunningly okay.

Considering about the wager wasn’t fair to Camellia or Gale, considering nothing about the situation was pretty or neat or simple, Lacha had expected less of her daughter. After all, she had told the truth to everyone because she wagered it, endured the whispers and the speculation and the questions because it was the price for losing. She endured the more private hurts, too: the way Gale was happier and somehow sadder than before because giving his name and the truth had done nothing to change her insistence that she would not date him openly, that she would not take him for a consort, that she would not pretend that he, she and Camellia could be a family; the way Hyacinth seemed a little broken and was presently not speaking to her because she had gambled for him and it hadn't worked.

Everything had a price and she had paid with the same cold grace she endured every other the court had exacted or demanded of her over the course of her reign, but she hadn't expected Camellia to follow suit, to play Princess so well or bear it all like a daughter of hers should: without flinching. No, it was something she would have expected of Caora, the daughter that had been dear and reckless, a child of her soul in that she had squared her shoulders to the challenge of the court in the very same way Lacha always did rather than manipulate it with the facade of softness.

“Camellia, I'm very proud of you.” Lacha, murmured, as she set a mug of tea on the table for Camellia who sat opposite where she had just settled, high praise from a woman who barely knew how to offer it at all and she hoped that would mean something, would encourage the honest conversation she really wanted to have. “Only, are you sure you're okay with all this? It's just. . . I never really expected you'd take it so well and I didn't know what would happen. I never. . .” She paused, hesitating, before she forced the rest out, “I never told Caora.”

[ofproseandmusing]

surprise planning

Closed to @written--infinities for Jasper.

There were many things the Queen of the Unseelie was capable of managing without help or advice. As it turned out, planning a birthday party for her daughter's fiftieth was not one of them. Generously, the argument could be made that this wasn't necessarily something she should be good at, that planning a birthday party wasn't the same as planning Samhain or Imbolc; the latter was something she had been doing for a century and then some, and there were traditions to adhere to closely.

No, birthdays were different and Lacha didn't have the greatest history of observing Camellia's; in almost fifty years, Lacha couldn't count the number of times she had shot Camellia an apologetic glance and disappeared to take care of something. It was probably more than the half her birthdays and there was something about that which broke Lacha's heart, even as it didn't stop her from knowing that she would do it again if she had to.

Lacha loved her daughter, but she loved the Unseelie Court more. Part of her was ashamed of that, but the rest of her knew it was how things had to be. She had worked too hard, lost so much, and abandoned a great deal of happiness all for the court; it couldn't be any other way. And yet, Gale had reminded her more than once that she should do something for Camellia's birthday, that fifty for fey was no small thing, that she owed Camellia this, owed her a good birthday for all the impossibly lackluster ones she'd already had. Even she couldn't protest the truth of that. 

However, Lacha knew better than anyone else that desire didn't imply ability. With almost two centuries between them, with the sometimes stark differences in their personalities that left Lacha wondering if she could ever understand this daughter of hers at all even as she loved her no less, it simply wasn't going to come together without outside intervention, which was how she settled on doing something she had only done a handful of times before, calling for Jasper, the same way she often did these things; it was a quick note penned off for delivery by a player, reading: Come see me before the day's done & don't tell Camellia I've called for you. She had hesitated and it showed in a small dot of ink pressed into the page before she had added on another word. Please. 

Despite her discomfort with something so basic as a nicety, she hadn't allowed herself to hesitate or linger over it. Doing so was a luxury, a waste of time she didn't have. Instead, she had turned her attention to another of the dozen things she needed to accomplish today, certain that Jasper would show up as called for. . .  eventually. Wasn't that the point of being Queen? 

Perhaps that was why, later, when there was a quiet knock at the door to her office she simply called out, “Come in, Jasper.”