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“Your ex-friend’s sister met someone at a club and he kissed her.” Cardan felt quite sure this human lady had mistaken him for someone else but he nodded along, listening with the attentiveness of someone who truly cared. “Turns out it was the guy you hooked up with ages ago, some wannabe Z-lister. And the outfits were terrible!” (Cardan did not think the lady was qualified to give her opinion but he stayed silent) “2003 unbearable. Did you see the photos?” She turned to him, expression expectant.
“No I didn’t but thanks though.”
And finally did the lady leave, permitting Cardan’s eyes to find Jude from across the room, his view no longer blocked. For once, she was alone, and her gaze was already latched on him, burning with an emotion he could not name. Perhaps it was a loathing glare, brimming with hatred. Perhaps there was a triumphant glint in her brown eyes, that she was victorious because Cardan had fallen into a carefully laid trap she had schemed, that he had succumbed to her web of lies.
But he saw none of it, and if he did he did not care. Cardan plunged head-first off the edge, he willingly let himself be lured by the tempting chance of something more. Because he was so in love he might stop breathing, incapable of believing that this was all true. Faeries could not be glamoured, blessed with True Sight from birth. And yet he couldn’t fathom how Jude had weaved such a convincing farce, that she loved him too. Because in this surreal universe, Jude finally met his stare. In this peculiar world, the taste of Jude’s lips lingered on his tongue.
Cardan desired it all, the consequences be damned. He craved Jude and every scrap she could afford him. And every time their gazes met, or every time their skin touched, he felt sparks fly, he felt that the world could burn and yet he would not turn away from his Jude. He wanted it all. Jude finally loved him back and that was worth more than the air he breathed.
Every night they would sneak out the back door, to Jude’s house, an arm slung around one’s shoulder or a hand clutching at one’s waist. And when he woke, early in the mornings when the sun had yet to rise and Jude had yet to wake, he drew a map on Jude’s bedroom ceiling. He painted the blank white with his whirling thoughts, with his love-drunk thoughts. It wasn’t a place near or far but rather a philosophical outline of his mind’s wanderings; how all this had begun. Again he pondered if this was real, or if he was a delusional prick daydreaming in another Living Council meeting.
But that did not seem right. The touch of skin wasn’t a muted, faded blur every time they parted ways but instead a stark collection of memories haunting the rest of his day. Everything but Jude had become distant, irrelevant and insubstantial. No, he didn’t see the news either, not of Elfhame’s latest developments or rather deterioration. The kingdom had never cared for him, he would return that sentiment wholeheartedly. And if he truly believed Jude had entirely given up on the Isles, then he would abandon his title as High King too. He would go wherever Jude went, only if she asked. She hadn’t asked.
Lately his mind was distant. And because it would always conclude with an arguing match over who could shout the loudest or beg the more desperate (only Cardan ever won in this aspect because Jude was much too mature to plead for anything), neither touched or mentioned the topic of exile or Elfhame as a whole. Mutually, they had decided to pretend it all away, a wordless decision they had made. Because within the premises of their minds, they were somewhere else. From a magazine at the bookshop Cardan had passed on the way here, he had seen a glittering tower plastered in the middle of the cover, bright letters proclaiming a place named Paris to be the City of Love. He had liked the idea of a landmark dedicated to love and romance.
So as they walked out the bar, fictional Cardan and Jude stumbled down pretend alleyways. And as they sipped the bottle of cheap wine Jude had found, abandoned in a cupboard she had forgotten existed, Cardan made believe it was champagne. That they were at the finest of restaurants, and the sparkling drinks in their hands were vintage, recovered from a cellar. But he didn’t have to pretend to be thoroughly pleasured, he was completely taken by the view; Jude’s rare smile and dazzling eyes right before he claimed Cardan’s lips with hers.
Like they were in Paris. Not stolen moments in a darkened corner of a mortal bar, not the shabby apartment Jude had put together since her exile. They told no one of their many escapades, not her mortal lover Cardan disdained to think of, not the Living Council who demanded to know why the sun had cooled and why the drought had ended, lands fertile once more. Their inquisitions were futile, Jude and Cardan had put privacy signs on their doors and on their lips, blocking out the whole world.
“Romance is not dead if you keep it just yours,” he had joked.
So they spent their time carefully levitating above all the messes made, unwilling to glance at the sight below. It wasn’t precisely like precariously clinging to a slippery cliff but instead ducking inside a hidden alcove at the side of the mountain, secluded to everyone but themselves. It was reminiscent of sitting quietly by Jude’s side in the shade and not the kind that’s thrown. Instead, the kind under where a grand tree has grown; tall and grand, branches bent with everapple.
They were so in love the emotion felt suffocating. Impossible, unattainable, Jude had been classified as such for as long as he remembered. And for so long in his life he had wished Jude to be gone from Elfhame, for the distractions she brought to disappear forever. But now neither of them were in Faerieland, instead somewhere else, stumbling down pretend alleyways, playing make believe.
But somewhere deep within his heart, Cardan knew it would not last. That although the fae were the fickle ones, Jude would be the first to change her mind. She would tire of him, just as she did before. He wanted to brainwash her into loving him forever, to concoct a spell or a potion or craft a glamour but there would come a time where no amount of persuading could convince her to stay. She would turn her back on him one day, just as she did Elfhame and there would be no regret, only absolute conviction in her heart that she had done what she believed was right.
He wanted to transport her to somewhere the culture’s clever. Far away from the lands of Elfhame, where people knew nothing of the High King and Queen. Far away from the human lands of Portland, Maine where they had previous ties. He craved and yearned and desired nothing more than to find a place where they were no one but Cardan and Jude, two lovers consumed by love, enveloped by each other’s relentless embrace.
And yet Cardan still wanted to confess his truth. Whether in swooping, sloping cursive letters or poetic words and vows. He wanted to cradle Jude’s hands in his and tell her he did not mean to break her heart or maim her soul when he had proclaimed the exile. He had only meant to jest and joke, he would tell her. When her temper had soothed and wounds healed leaving nothing but jagged faded scars, he would tell her how he regretted it all, how he wished to change the trajectory of past events.
He gazed out at the bright city, turning away. And let the only flashing lights be the tower at midnight, in Cardan’s mind.
“My love, we were in Paris,” he whispered against Jude’s lips.
Yes, they were somewhere else