Cihro nabbed Theotae after her goodbyes with their mother in the wake of dinner.
“I have one last thing for you,” he said, as innocently as he could.
Her eyes thinned, looking more suspicious than interested. He couldn’t blame her after Talsin’s stunt from before.
He withdrew the pouch he bought—very Syngorn-esque, its body a sheer emerald green with golden-yellow lace tying off the top. He pulled the drawstring open and fished out a folded-up sheet of parchment while Day slowed to a stop beside him, frozen like an ice sculpture in place when he spied it.
Cihro grinned. “There was actually an undisclosed first draft to that letter I sent you that kicked off the whole search, but they were Day’s words. I just took what he said and made it nice.”
“Oh?”
“Here.” He passed it to her. “We wanted to hold onto it in case we ever ended up on better terms so we could have a laugh about it.”
She unfolded the note and skimmed the text. She scoffed, smiled, and tucked it into a hidden breast-pocket of her dress. “Was holding onto this your idea or Dayereth’s?”
“Mine,” Cihro said. Day bloomed red, shoulders hiked up to his ears, but his lips were pressed together, trying not to laugh.
“To think you had faith our relationship would improve even while writing such things,” she said, tapping the pocket. “I should be touched.”
“I’m glad you see it that way.” Cihro pulled out the second gift, a wooden block whittled into a hand giving the middle finger—long fingers with prominent knuckles, since Kishore was his model. “I also made this as a Winter’s Crest gift. I made them for everyone.”
She plucked it from him with more caution than the note, holding it where the wrist merged into a square base. “You mean to say you made carvings of middle fingers for everyone?”
“Oh, no,” Cihro laughed, and for a moment he regretted that he didn’t. Next time. “I made carvings of different things. Yours is the only one that’s a middle finger.”
“I’m honoured. Where shall I display this? My front entrance? The banquet hall?” She rotated it in the light, then took the pouch from him and dropped it back inside. “I do wonder if this could be seen as an insult to Syngorn.”
“But you don’t.”
“No,” she said, smiling again, fainter. “Thank you for the…gifts, and dinner. It’s been…different. Pleasant, even, at least for my part.”
Cihro nodded. He wondered if it was easier for her to forfeit the noble façade when he and Day were around and they treated her like a person—family—instead of royalty. He wasn’t even sure he could call it a façade; he didn’t know where the noble ended and Theotae began or if they were one and the same. How much did one influence the other?
Day shuffled forward to hug her. An awkward silence dusted the space once they split. She opened an arm to the side, a single eyebrow raised at him, and he relented, stepping forward to hug her as well.
It wasn’t as bad as he expected. She didn’t stiffen or touch him like he was going to sully her clothes. Instead, she wrapped both arms around him snugly—briefly, but with purpose, giving him just enough time to return it. And then he thumped her on the back to at least make it kind of weird, because he didn’t know if he could deal with a serious hug yet.
She separated and patted him on the cheek. He frowned to the tune of Day snickering until she patted him on the cheek, too. The worst part was it didn’t feel wrong, even if it was annoying. He wasn’t the oldest sibling anymore, now that they could comfortably call each other siblings without contempt, and he could expect all the patronizing it entailed.
He’d take patronizing over harsh and insufferable. His brother smiled a lot more than he used to.
Anger and poison boiled in her blood. The Feywild—or the glimmering spires of Syngorn backed by the kaleidoscope colours of the Feywild—didn’t shift into focus. They remained blurred and off-balance as the dust settled around Iona, her mother, and the infant with them.
Bickering reached her ears, adding to the din pounding in her temples, and then her baby sister began to wail on top of it, creating a shrill cacophony. Part of the arguing sounded like her dad. Chaos—utter chaos.
Three figures stood at the outskirts of a tall, circular room of a tower, outside the door that punched through its wall. Sure enough, one was her father. He tried to shove past two guards, but they blocked him, crossing their halberds and pushing in retaliation.
Faolin raised an accusatory finger at the soldiers, to no effect. The gesture was so unlike him, too hostile. He was tall, but not imposing—lean with auburn hair flowing out like the surf and golden eyes that were made to quell anger, not incite it.
“Those are my children,” he hissed. “You are in our domain, under our protection.”
“And you’re in Syngorn,” the left guard said. “Our laws are still our laws. We’re following orders; no unapproved children.”
“She’s already here,” Iona’s mother pointed out. She sounded hoarse and irritated. “We only want out of the city. Iona is sick.”
“Not without an escort,” the second guard said. “You weren’t supposed to be let in in the first place.”
“What’s a newborn going to do?” Iona spat, hoping to dispose of some the venom inside her by launching it at them. “What were we supposed to do? We were nearly ambushed. Are me and mine not adequate escorts?”
“Faolin isn’t of Syngorn,” guard one pointed out. His eyes flicked over her from over his shoulder. “And you and your mother are unfit.”
“What’s going on here?”
A fourth figure joined the mix. Iona recognized the curtain of braided gold hair, leather armour, and the swoop of two finely-crafted swords. The guards flinched and hastily bowed with a quick, “Lady Theotae.”
“These are our own,” she declared, robbing them of their authority, arms folded tightly across her chest. “You will let them out.”
The guards exchanged a panicked look from beneath their helmets. If their orders were from the High Warden, they could stand their ground, but in the face of Theotae’s unrelenting presence, Iona saw them buckle like they had their knees kicked in. They either suffered Theotae’s wrath now or someone else’s later—it was about deciding whose was worse.
“Do you want to be the ones responsible for withholding care to one of the Lady of the Redwood’s bodyguards?” Theotae pressed, stepping forward, into their space.
“No, we can grab a healer, but the child—”
“Comes with me as well,” Theotae finished for them. “I’ll escort them personally. No harm will come to Syngorn.”
They relented at last, splitting their halberds apart and opening a path. Theotae and Faolin strode in before the polearms were fully raised, Faolin rushing to her mother and sister to help calm and meet her for the very first time. Theotae appeared taller as she approached—likely because Iona was hunched over with an arm clutched around her stomach.
“Thank you,” she managed, and hazarded a step forward. The room slanted, then stopped—Theotae caught her around the middle, one hand on her stomach and the other landing on her back like a set of pinchers. The pressure made Iona want to vomit, heat flaring in her throat and head, but she held it in. She would not throw up on her or Theotae’s boots or show anymore weakness in front of the guards that belittled her family.
Theotae hefted an arm around her shoulders while a hand settled at her waist, none the wiser. The nausea settled.
“Let’s be on our way, then,” Theotae announced, helping Iona through the exit with her parents close at hand. Orla’s cried waned as they exited down a short staircase flanked by two pulsating orbs, a few of the dozen Threshold Crests that anchored Syngorn to the Feywild.
Like anything even mildly out of the ordinary, they were the subject of odd looks as they made their way through the streets. Theotae was their barrier against any rumours or any sort of escalation, though, diverting gazes and keeping lips sealed shut. The tension mounted on Iona’s malaise made her feel like she was hallucinating everything.
Faolin hovered behind them like he wanted to usher his praise and thanks, but their troupe was silent. Iona understood; her gratefulness went beyond words. They broke one of Syngorn’s laws in bringing in an unapproved child, even if the circumstances were complicated. If Iona had been able to keep her mother and sister on the material plane or found another entrance to the Feywild, she would have, but the risk of keeping them in the Verdant Expanse while dragons razed nearby settlements was too great.
A bird streaked past, close enough that feathers brushed her cheek. It circled once before her older sister abruptly landed into view and straightened before them, dusting off an emerald jacket. Theotae jerked to a stop, Iona with her.
“Hello, all,” she said, slightly winded, raising a single hand laden with rings. A few more Verdant Guard in their peripheral started, then relaxed when they saw an eladrin. Eireann reached for Iona. “I can take her from here, my lady.”
Theotae’s grip reflexively tightened. Iona gave an awkward flap of her far hand as if to pat her shoulder. “It’s my sister.”
Theotae relaxed, nodded curtly, then helped transfer Iona to her sister’s shoulder in the same position, only flipped. Eireann was taller than Theotae—it would’ve been cumbersome, but her sister bent over to accommodate.
Eireann planted a palm against her stomach. Before Iona could protest or snap, warmth radiated outwards and pulsed through her entire body. Sweet, sweet relief coursed through her, supplanting the sickness building and thrashing inside her. She sighed. From there she was able to peel away and stand on her own, swiping a bead of sweat from her forehead.
“Thanks,” she said again, with the impression she’d be repeating the sentiment a lot in her near future. Her sister only grinned and nudged her, then fell into step beside her group.
With her sickness removed, Iona was left to contend with a quiet gravity while Theotae escorted them. She knew her loyalty ran deep, but she never asked herself how deep, too afraid. She didn’t want to lose sight of the line that set professional and personal apart.
Devotion to her work was part of her molecular makeup, but now, she knew, it was also to Lady Theotae herself. She spent decades wondering how much Theotae was willing to sacrifice for her, which pieces on her board she’d move to help her in her time of need—if Iona’s problems were as important to her as Theotae’s were to her.
Like many aspects with Lady Theotae, her answer was nebulous and malleable, prone to change. Objectively, Theotae had taken control of a situation that was out of Iona’s hands, then made peace and righted it. She didn’t have to, but she did.
The seeds of her romantic interest were already planted. Iona had nothing but admiration and respect for her pride, her tenacity, that she would stop at nothing to achieve what she set out to do. Her help with a matter so close to Iona’s heart was the water that nourished them, coaching her feelings into something deeper.
[EDIT: this is no longer totally canon, but I like it so it gets to stay. maybe parts of it still happened]
[116]
Theotae came out of her trance not long into Cihro and Aritian’s watch. Came to? Woke up? What did elves say to refer to coming out of a trance? Either way, she came to, unfolding her legs and taking on a more relaxed position while Azariah did the reverse and Symania stood up to stretch.
Cihro dipped into the bag by Kishore’s resting body and withdrew the jug of alchemy. He popped ones of its corks and carefully refilled his flask while Theotae watched on, expression neutral.
“Elven wine,” he explained, tipping the jug so it sloshed in the crook of his arm. “Want some?”
“Now doesn’t really seem like the time to be drinking,” she said. In her voice he heard the memory of him and Day being reckless with pixie concoctions back at the pub in Astrazalian. That was on them—but he knew this alcohol was safe.
“Suit yourself.”
Aritian gave the tiniest smile while he pretended not to listen, gaze cast into the wilderness. It must’ve looked disingenuous or comical to him, Cihro offering alcohol as olive branches to people he had unstable relationships with. He couldn’t help it—it was one of his ways of bonding. He didn’t need the alcohol as a bridge, but it helped—loosened the tongue and inhibitions and all that, even if a little. Cihro only needed a little wiggle room.
He corked the jug and replaced it in the bag of holding, then made his way across the fire to Theotae and sat cross-legged next to her. He gave her more distance than he’d give his friends, and she shifted slightly, more upright. Behind her, a twig snapped under Symania's foot as she turned.
“I wanted to talk to you, actually,” he said. “You’ve been really quiet for a lot of the journey. I wanted to ask how you were feeling about things.”
Theotae levelled him with a calculative look. “I didn’t think you had much respect or care for my opinion.”
“Depends on the opinion,” Cihro said. “Most of them I don’t, but I know you’re not stupid. You just put value on different things.”
“We’ve lived different lives,” she said. Cihro tipped his flask to her and drank in agreement. She blew out a long, slow sigh, indicative of someone who'd been holding on to a number of thoughts. Cihro wasn’t sure if it was a dismissal or agreement until she said, “We weren’t sure if you were all coming back when Lady Shandria sent you off.”
“Neither did we,” Cihro said, cracking a half-grin.
“There’s nothing I hate more than being forced to put my life in someone else’s hands.” She tossed a line of hair over her shoulder. “We were starting to consider escape options when you returned. I couldn’t stand the thought of waiting for death instead of meeting it myself.” She paused. “But you all proved capable, in the end.”
“We try. We’re kind of constantly sent into deadly fights that aren’t always ours.” His eyes dropped to his lap, where his hands folded his flask side over side. He was reluctant to share with her before now, too scared to see a callous indifference about it. “Success for us hasn’t always been as easy as it was with the leviathan. It’s not a yes or no. Day and me died, before we came here.”
She said nothing. He glanced up to see her brows knotted with a quiet, ruminative intensity. He shook his head, mostly at himself—he didn’t know why he was sharing. Maybe he just wanted to see if she actually cared for them, but he didn’t know why it was important to him that she did. He couldn’t see his answer, either. The set of her brow could’ve meant a lot of things.
“For Day it was a few seconds, but for me it was hours,” he continued. “And this whole time we’ve been here, every time we go out, I just think about how it could happen again, before we find our mom.”
“That would be...unfortunate,” Theotae decided, choosing her words precisely. “I had the same thought when your group was gone.”
“Yeah.” They lapsed into silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it also wasn’t pleasant. Cihro sipped at his wine again. He made a quick scan of the treeline around their clearing, heard and saw nothing but bramble and the button lights of fireflies. Symania had wandered off to the opposite side of their camp, behind Aritian to a place where she could see them but lend them some privacy.
“I didn’t like how you suggested I should bargain some of my life for this,” Theotae said after the lull. “To Queen Titania.”
“I was feeling a little desperate,” Cihro admitted. “Surprised you weren’t.”
“Our mother’s been gone far longer for me than she has for you.” Theotae shifted again, propping her lower back to rest against a mossy rock and crossing her arms. “If you were really desperate, you could’ve given your own. What you and Kishore said applies to me as well—and not only people, but civic responsibilities.”
Cihro could’ve rolled his eyes, but he resisted.
“So. A brother-in-law?” she asked, gesturing to Cihro’s hand with hers.
“Didn’t wanna mention it,” Cihro said, rolling his ring between his fingers. “You barely accept us as brothers, I didn’t think you’d care about a third.”
“Well, like you two, it makes him a brother whether I like it or not,” she said.
“He knows about you,” Cihro said. The urge to withhold info on Talsin was harder to suppress than an eyeroll—he wanted to gush and brag about his husband, especially with someone hard to impress like his sister, but she would dismiss his praise for Talsin until she saw it for herself. “He’s agreed to be civil so long as you are.”
“I’m perfectly civil.”
“I wish.” Cihro tucked away his flask. “And what about the stuff with being Queen Titania’s great grand-daughter?”
“What about it?”
“What do you think?”
Theotae shrugged, an unimpressed look falling over his face like a fine mist. She stared into the fire and the flames danced in her eyes, a shadow of their mother Cihro saw from the illusion.
“I suppose I could find a way to add it to my title,” she mused, half-serious. “But really, I don’t think it makes much of a difference. We were who we were before we came here—there’s little to no archfey in our blood. These are different domains, and our connection to her is so thin we can’t do much with it.”
“Seems reasonable,” Cihro said. “I think a part of me is holding out hope that I get to live a bit longer, though.”
“You mentioned your husband out-living you,” she stated. Cihro was making a joke—he didn’t expect her to unknowingly twist a knife he’d lodged in himself. “What is he?”
“He’s an elf,” Cihro said with some irritability, but it didn’t last for more than a second.
“Interesting. From Syngorn?”
“Oh, hell no.”
Theotae snorted, but it was less derisive, more ‘that sounds about right.’
Cihro wasn’t sure what kind of note to end on. He’d hoped over the course of their trip she’d open up more, but she still hadn’t come forward with an apology and Day hadn’t spoken with her. There was time, but a lot of it had passed with her at a distance. She watched their backs from a place where they couldn’t see. They were separated both by choice and the influence of higher powers lording over them in the Feywild.
He clapped his hands to his thighs and rose to his feet. “Well. We’re here, you know. I don’t always wanna be the one reaching out.”
“I never asked you to,” she said, eyes flicking to him without moving her head.
“No, but that’s what makes me decent, I think.” He dusted his pants. “Besides, I know what it’s like to want to open up but not being able to for whatever reason.”
“Don’t pretend I don’t know that, brother,” she cautioned, and though his eyeline was above hers, she still sounded like she was talking down her nose. “You don’t know what’s going on with me.”
“I know. That’s the point. I can only make assumptions ‘til you talk.”
They stared in silence, trying to find faults in each other’s armour. Cihro thought he saw tension in her shoulders, a trace of tiredness under her eyes, of wanting everything to be over and decided—but it was still conjecture on his part. Whatever his guess, he thought he could relate to her. She just needed to reach out.
She looked away first, back into the flames. “Thank you,” she said softly. “There’ll be more danger soon. Keep your guard up and your wits about you.”
“I’m trying.”
He returned to Aritian and sat hard, drawing a knee close to his chest. Aritian said nothing, then held out a hand. Cihro passed him his flask.
Blood roared from one ear to the other when Lady Theotae cupped a hand over her knuckles. Iona plastered on her most neutral expression and made a concentrated effort to focus on the conversation through the commotion in her head. She was a seasoned warrior, for gods' sake—she would not unravel at the touch of a hand.
Only, Theotae hadn't specified what the purpose of the dinner was; personal, professional, a thank you. Theotae had been kinder in the last month, not just to her, but to all her staff, likely a holdover from the Feywild. It wasn't that she was unkind before, but she felt less like a machete cutting through her problems. Iona suspected she could easily revert where necessary, but the added touch of delicacy was curious to see.
Fortunately, Theotae didn't waste time: the dinner was just the backdrop to ask for a personal favour. To once again act as her stand-in, only instead of steward of her home, Iona would travel out as part of a delegation. Her job as Warden of foreign diplomacy, deferred to Iona.
Iona wanted to joke that a dinner wasn't a fair exchange for a complex assignment but bit her tongue. How else was Theotae supposed to ask? As a casual aside in her office? No.
Iona remembered almost protesting staying behind when Theotae planned to leave for the Feywild. It was pure reaction and stubbornness. Symania was the logical choice, and being a protector wasn't always literal—it was knowing which decisions to fight and which to accept for the best outcome.
Too often work interfered with her personal feelings. At some point in the last fifty years the two had tangled her in a net. Rationality usually won, but there were tender feelings that demanded to be heard. Yes, she wanted to go to the Feywild because she felt like she and Theotae worked best in tandem, but also because she didn't want to be apart from Theotae, especially for a matter so close to the heart.
The same selfish part of her that wanted to be at Theotae's side in the Feywild wanted to stay in the city, logic be damned. Her answer didn't change, in the end. She would've accepted under any circumstances. Her love for the woman was what made her say yes as much it wanted her to say no.
"If that's what you wish," Iona said. "I can do that."
“I could think of no better person to go in my stead as an ambassador to Syngorn than you,” Theotae praised. The intensity of her honesty helped justify Iona's acceptance but did nothing to quell her racing heart.
Abdar’s Promenade was much nicer without scrutiny and rubbernecking. Iona revelled in the anonymity lent by a cloak; their make and delicate embroidery did single them out as Syngornian, but with their faces in shadow, hair tucked away, and the silhouette of their armour removed, most folks paid them little to no mind. A diamond white sun warmed the cobblestones under her tread, lending the day a pristine shine.
Iona’s nose carried her over to a stall selling premium loose leaf teas, custom sieves, ceramics, and glass pots. She smiled at the vendor, a gnome woman standing on a stool. She smiled politely in turn.
“Welcome,” she said, half recitation but all genuine. “We offer a unique tasting experience based on historical and important figures of Tal’Dorei.”
Iona’s eyes fell to the nearest bag of tea. Zan Tal’Dorei front and center. Smaller letters below made up a small description of the tea itself, Zan’s significance, plus brewing instructions.
“That's our bestseller. Your cloak is beautiful—have you visited the Feywild? Or perhaps you're from Syngorn?”
“Syngorn, yes.”
She beamed. “We have some teas inspired by the Wardens.” She gestured to a different section of bags. Most of the bags were uniform, but these had viney filigree drawn up the edges. Iona blinked. There was High Warden Tirelda, but also her ancestor, Yenlara Alderwreath. Then the other present day Wardens: The Verdant Lord, Guildrunner, Voice of Memory, and of course, the Branch of Concord. Lady Theotae.
She muffled a laugh behind her hand and cautiously picked up the bag. The main font was Lady Theotae Raethran, but her full title—Iona's surname included, she was pleased to see—sprawled out below. It explained how she was the newest Warden, known for her command of a room as much as her command over swords. The tea was an earl grey blend: elegant but with punchy blackberry and some cream flavours to marry them together.
“Oh, an excellent pick,” the shopkeeper said, giddy. “Most folks reach for the High Warden or the Voice of Memory, but that’s a personal favourite of mine.”
Iona glanced over her shoulder. Theotae browsed at an adjacent fruit stall, but like she had a sense for Iona, looked up. Iona gestured with a gentle nudge of her head. Theotae set down a basket and padded over, eyes on the bag in Iona’s hands, gaze narrowing as she neared enough to read.
“Oh, are you two together?” the vendor asked, brightening at the prospect of more customers and potentially Syngorn locals to taste and spread the word. “Would you be interested in—oh, oh my.” She lost her breath. “My lady? It’s an honour. I—I had no idea.”
Theotae smiled at her, but it was the cutting smile she wielded against vexations. “I suppose it isn’t so different from having a portrait or sculpture made,” she reasoned. “Though like any art form, it may not capture all the layers of an individual.”
The vendor’s good cheer dropped like she’d been thrown into a cold lake.
“You haven’t tried it,” Iona scolded Theotae, but she grinned, enamoured by the idea of a tea based on her wife. She turned back to the shopkeeper, taking pity. “Were you going to offer we try it? I’d like that, thank you.”
The shopkeeper nodded rapidly, ashen-faced, and quickly turned to the kettle kept on a low simmer behind her. She fixed up two small, handleless mugs.
“We have sugar and cream if you’d like,” she offered, visibly sweating. But, taking root among her nerves seemed to be a tentative excitement, confident in her work. “Please, enjoy.”
White sugar cubes, a small dish of brown sugar, plus magically-cooled cream and milk waited off the side. Iona picked up the left sipper and held it under her nose as Theotae did the same. She preferred herbals to black teas, but it smelled divine—earthy and creamy with the underlying breath of fruit.
“I’ll try it black first,” she said, and sipped tentatively. The blackberry wasn’t subtle—its taste was brusque, immediately in the back of her throat, tart and demanding. The cream and bergamot eventually smoothed it over when she swallowed. Strong, certainly. She sat with it for a moment. Theotae sipped her own, looking thoughtful but not directly broadcasting what those thoughts were.
“Well?” Theotae asked Iona. “Do you find it accurate?”
“It could use some sugar and cream,” Iona said, smiling archly, reaching for a bit of each. Theotae huffed almost imperceptibly, but followed her lead, adding the same. Iona dissolved and mixed with a stir stick and took her second sip, sighing.
“That’s better,” she teased. "It should matter more if you think it fits, love."
“I do like it,” Theotae conceded, looking almost peeved that she did. She preferred the black teas. Her expression thawed into a more polite mask when she returned her attention to the vendor. “This is creative. Good tea does have layers."
The shopkeeper relaxed. “Thank you, m’lady. The goal isn’t to make a tea we think the figure will like, but what suits them, though it’s certainly a bonus if they do. Not all are alive to try them, of course.”
“I’d like to buy a bag,” Iona said. Her eyes skimmed over the other Warden teas. They’d make good—if cheeky—gifts, something Theotae specialized in. And if Theotae couldn't bring herself to give them away, Iona would happily drink them. “All of them, I think.”
The shopkeeper’s eyes bulged. “All of the teas? Or just the Wardens?”
“One of each of the Syngorn teas,” Iona clarified, “for now.” She could have bought her entire stock, but she didn't want to rob future customers a nice tea.
The shopkeep bustled to grab all six flavours and deposited them in a brown paper bag. Iona thanked her, paid, tipped, and tucked the package into her travel pouch. The shopkeeper kept bobbing in flustered gratitude and mild contrition.
Theotae dipped her neck in a subtle but gracious thank you, and the pair stepped away and back into the main flow of foot traffic.
“My Lady Theo-tea,” Iona said, patting her satchel, unable to resist.
Theotae snorted but smiled, then rolled her eyes to the sky. “What’s next, candles? Please. I'm not for consumption.”
"For nobody but me," Iona said, twining their arms.
The bed gently depressed as Theotae climbed under the covers on her side. Iona was already comfortable, a tall pillow propped lengthways behind her and an open book in her lap. She lowered it while lifting a smile to Theotae—and frowned instead.
Theotae wasn’t herself. Her skin had taken on a waxy hue and fatigue wore on her, measurable in how sunken her eyes were. To a stranger the differences were negligible, if not invisible—she was still, and always, beautiful. To Iona, they were stark as a fireball to the face.
Iona hadn’t seen Theotae since she’d left before dawn. Even when she was in Syngorn, their work separated them for long hours. So much could happen in the space of a minute, nevermind a day.
She retired her book without taking her eyes off Theotae and began reaching for her, fearing the worst, but Theotae threw her a wry smile.
“Rest easy, darling,” she announced without fanfare. “I’m only pregnant.”
Iona’s pulse fluttered in her throat. She finished bridging her hands to Theotae’s and grasped them tight.
“Oh, my love,” was all she could breathe, at first. She raised Theotae’s hands to kiss them and that simple action delivered her back to herself. “How do you know?”
“Azariah,” Theotae explained. “I experienced morning sickness once you’d gone and summoned her straight away. She was able to confirm what I suspected.”
Iona didn’t need to ask why Theotae hadn’t messaged her the news. Their lives were as familiar to each other as paths through the estate, able to walk them blind. Theotae wouldn’t have wanted to disturb Iona’s focus or, on a broader scale, make a scene.
They’d had to inform the Voice of Memory they were trying to conceive, so in a manner it was official but private—but Iona was sure there was gossip spreading about why she was never more than a day’s travel from Syngorn. If Iona or Theotae suddenly vanished from their respective jobs, there’d be more whispers to follow.
“How are you feeling now?” Iona asked.
“I'm better, only tired. Azariah gave me medicine for the nausea. I’d hoped to be one of the ones to escape it, but no such luck.”
Iona nodded, processing. Theotae didn’t rush her, untucking her thumbs to soothe over Iona’s knuckles in soft swoops.
The air bubbled with potential, like they’d put on the kettle and were waiting inside. It was charged with new life—new legacy. They would meet that precious new light, guide them, guard them, watch over their accomplishments. Fail, succeed, try again. Their love would last long after they were gone.
In some ways, the responsibility of rearing a child felt more daunting than fighting off Hells’ droves. But, like when she’d fought with the Gilded Thorns, they weren’t alone. She’d backed them up, and they would return the favour whether she liked it or not.
She’d known all this when they agreed to start trying. All the mental busywork stretched out was recycling itself and ganging up on her all at once—she breathed out evenly, letting it wash over and settle around her feet. Her worries were familiar waters, now.
“When do you want to formally announce it?” Iona asked.
“For as long as I can avoid it,” Theotae said. “There will be ways to use it to my advantage but I’d rather not field all the incessant questions before then. We only have so many weeks before I start showing—maybe we announce it shortly before then.”
“And to family?”
Theotae’s eyes softened. “Sooner—but let it be our little secret for a spell.” She sighed. “My father will be insufferable.”
“Mine as well.”
“How practical for you he’s not here, then.” Theotae untangled their fingers but closed the gap between them, tucking herself into Iona with her head pillowed on her collar. Theotae’s temperature was higher but her hair was a cool, familiar spill as Iona carded it through her fingers like harp strings.
“You won’t have to use the ring anymore, are you pleased?” Theotae asked.
“Yes,” Iona admitted, resting her cheek on Theotae’s crown. She had bathed without washing her hair so her perfume had waned, replaced with the bergamot and sage fragrance of her soap. “It was interesting and lovely in its own way, but I do prefer my usual body.”
Theotae hummed. “Perhaps I’ll have to try it for myself sometime.”
A laugh tumbled out of Iona. “You won’t be able to for a while, I’m afraid, love.” Mixing transmutation magic and pregnancy was ill-advised.
Theotae scoffed her frustration but added nothing else. In the ensuing quiet, Iona tried to map out the next nine to ten months in her mind. It would be a reverent journey of sorts. Not without its dangers, but a lot of gestating, preparing, monitoring, and waiting.
Iona wondered what their child would inherit, what would be unique, what pleasant surprises laid in wait. The good, the bad, the messy—she wanted it all. She wondered if Theotae was imagining the same, their heads quite literally pressed together.
“Should I start keeping crackers by the bed?” Iona asked. She hadn’t expressed it as a joke but it sounded funny aloud. “Do you need water or anything?”
“No,” Theotae said. Her voice grew heavier, trance looming, and Iona sank with her. “I want you to stay right here.”
[based on this artfight piece from meowtownpolice b/c I couldn't resist]
Iona considered a lot of facets of marrying into nobility when she’d asked for Theotae’s hand, but she’d still missed some of the most obvious. Case in point: modelling for paintings.
It wasn’t that Iona hadn’t posed for any before—impossible when she’d lived over two centuries and was close with her family. She’d sat with her sisters and parents, plus the odd one with another Emerald Archer. It was that she’d never posed for so many in such a short time and rarely, if ever, alone.
Iona was used to standing on her feet, stoic as marble for hours on end, but holding a pose proved different. She didn’t have to do it all at once, thank the gods, but in batches depending on the size of the portrait—she found herself a little stiff at the end of each session regardless.
For this one, she reclined on a bed of cushions, draped in some of the finest robes Syngorn had to offer—long, elegant sleeves, shades of olive green trimmed with gold. She had one hand raised close to her jaw, hair loose and a section of it curling over her wrist. Her fingers were cuffed with delicate gold caps resembling claws. Her earpiece was there, too, tilted towards the painter, adding a touch of martial to an otherwise purely regal vignette.
Theotae commissioned the clothes, the jewellery, and the portrait itself, all bespoke to Iona. She had confessed wanting it for ages and Iona had delivered her the perfect excuse. Despite being embroiled in the upper-class lifestyle for half a century, Iona thought it a bit excessive when she was the focal point—but this was her life now, and she would have to find some normalcy to it. There were far worse fares to adapt to.
Theotae entered the makeshift studio—they’d borrowed one of their estate’s many sunrooms—and came to stand beside the artist. Iona flicked her eyes to her, resisting shuffling for the burgeoning ache in her lower back and shoulder. Theotae smirked, looking every bit like the cat that caught its supper.
“Relax, dear,” she chided. “It’s nearly finished; you’ll be free before long. You look as stiff as iron from where I’m standing. Beautiful iron, mind you, but iron all the same.”
