Kingdom of Gaelica (closed for QuirkyQuill)

[QuirkyQuill]

Meya was no stranger to scrutiny, but this felt differently to her. Perhaps because she felt that the judgment of these people would ultimately impact Aidan, and despite her initial misgivings, she realized that she cared about him finding the success he sought. What fate these strangers ultimately decided on would speak volumes to their trust in the future king of Gaelica. Meya did not intend to look defiant, and she hoped her expression was tempered enough that she looked determined, but nothing more. As an adolescent, she had frequently been told by her mother that her angular features and naturally arched eyebrows made her look severe, even when she was not intending to.

When they came to a stop, she held her hands in front of her, one placed on top of the other. Her blue eyes met the king’s green ones, unflinching, and she studied him. The resemblance between him and his son was undeniable, as was the difference in their demeanor. Where Aidan had a twinge of softness behind his eyes, even from the onset, Cathal was nothing but calculating. She ignored the other voices that floated around them with what she assumed to be dismay that someone from the South Seas would walk so openly into the heart of their kingdom.

“Is this not the woman who was captured leading a raid against our supply lines just months ago?"

A supply line raid? Where had he received that information from? Had Ronin fed them the lie in an effort to downplay why they had crossed the border? Meya could see the logic in that, throwing them off the real reason they were here. The only flaw in that idea was that she had a hard time believing Ronin would have given them anything, even a false path. But, she reasoned with herself, she had no knowledge of what happened to them after they were separated. Meya was not keen on contradicting anybody at this moment, especially since the truth would serve neither her nor Aidan.

It was a strange feeling, though, to stand before a group of people and be spoken of as though she weren’t standing before them. Her preference had always been to remain in the background of a crowd. Never one for the attention, Meya had always been content in letting her cousin bask in the watchful eye of the realm. Finding herself in the center of the group was uncomfortable, and her jaw clenched to keep her face unreadable. The muscles in her body had tensed up, and she stood perfectly erect.

“What makes you so certain that her change of heart is genuine?”

Meya doubted herself. Regardless of how she felt at the moment, she was still a daughter of the South Seas, and one who was pledged into the service of her uncle. Right now, her place here was a ruse to him. A sacrifice for Ronin’s freedom, but one he would look to rectify. Could she say with absolute certainty that she would never return to The Keep? Meya couldn’t. Aidan’s steadfast trust that she would stand true to this kingdom was nearly suffocating. As the conversation continued between the two men, she felt her chest begin to grow tight. The back and forth between father and son, father publicly pointing out the flaws of the son while the son held firm. Truth be told, Meya was proud that he had not backed down from his father, given their conversations over the previous weeks, but she wished it had been for a more noble cause than her.

“But know this—Gaelica does not suffer traitors lightly. If you falter, if you betray the trust my son has placed in you, the consequences will be swift and absolute.”

She knew the threat was meant to serve as a warning, a way to frighten her. Given what Meya knew she had to endure back home should be labeled a traitor there, she wasn’t as worried about what Gaelica had to offer up. Not that she intended to find out. While she couldn’t ensure even to herself that she would never return to her realm, Meya was absolutely certain that she would do nothing to cause Aidan harm.

Remaining silent, Meya bowed her head ever so slightly to acknowledge the king’s threat. Her eyes continued to study the king, taking in his body language, and the way his hardened features lifted every so slightly when they looked to his son. For all of Aidan’s uncertainties about how his father viewed him, those brief expressions told Meya all she needed to know. It might be buried deeply beneath the mound of duty, but there was a genuine love there.

When they left the council room, Meya remained silent until they returned to the familiar corridor, her muscles still uptight. Before they reached the door to her room, she cast him a sideways glance, her eyebrow raising. “You do know that Ronin and I would never be sent for something as mundane as a supply line, right?”

The wry look on her face and her tone suggested that the very idea of it was insulting. Meya was offended.

 

[Mr_Positive]

Aidan stopped just outside Meya’s door, his expression softening into something more knowing as he met her gaze. Her comment carried a trace of her characteristic sharpness, but beneath it, he sensed the weariness of someone who had been forced to endure more than anyone should. He nodded once, the barest of smiles tugging at his lips.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I’ve known for some time now. The supply line raid—it’s a convenient narrative for the council, one that makes you easier to define. But the truth of your mission was far more dangerous.”

His words hung in the air for a moment. He let them settle, studying her reaction. When no immediate denial came, Aidan continued, his tone steady but laced with concern.

“I understand it wasn’t simple. It wasn’t without risk. And I also understand why you’ve been so guarded about it. But I need you to know this—I’m not blind to the stakes of what we’re doing here. Or to the risks you’ve taken.” He paused, his eyes searching hers. “You don’t have to carry the weight of it alone.”

Her silence was answer enough for now. Aidan reached for the door handle, opening it for her with a quiet gesture of courtesy. “Rest,” he said, stepping back to let her pass. “We’ve both done enough thinking for one day. Tomorrow, we move forward.”

With that, he turned and headed to his own chambers.

---

Later that evening, as the moon rose high over the castle’s spires, Cathal found himself restless. His thoughts kept circling back to Meya. But his mind wasn’t solely on her. There was another piece of this puzzle, one that he had carefully shielded from most of the kingdom: Magnus, Meya’s father, and the unlikely ally who had been quietly aiding Gaelica for years.

Magnus lived in a modest stone cottage on the outskirts of the capital, far from the castle’s grand halls and the prying eyes of the court. Officially, he was a “retired scholar” who had sought refuge in Gaelica. Unofficially, he was a man of considerable influence and knowledge, one whose strategic insights had turned the tide in more than one skirmish against the South Seas. It was a dangerous arrangement, one that required absolute secrecy.

Cathal didn’t often visit the cottage unannounced, but tonight felt different. There were questions he couldn’t ignore, and Magnus was the only one who might have answers. He saddled his horse quietly, leaving the castle under cover of darkness.

---

The fire crackled softly in the hearth of the modest stone cottage, casting dancing shadows on the walls lined with books and maps. King Cathal sat in one of the two worn chairs by the fire, his regal bearing seeming almost out of place in the humble surroundings. Across from him, Magnus leaned back, his weathered face calm, though his sharp eyes betrayed the tension underlying his composed demeanor. Between them sat a small table holding a simple bottle of wine and two mismatched goblets.

Cathal swirled the wine in his goblet but did not drink, his piercing green eyes fixed on Magnus. “Two years,” he said, his voice low and measured. “Two years, and I still find myself questioning the wisdom of harboring you.”

Magnus smirked faintly, his tone dry as he replied. “I wasn’t aware you brought me here for your peace of mind, Cathal.”

The king’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I brought you here because your knowledge has been invaluable in keeping my people alive. But make no mistake, Magnus—your presence is a sword poised over my neck. If the South Seas learns that you’ve been aiding me, it won’t just be you they come for. It will be all of Gaelica.”

Magnus inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the truth of the statement. “And yet, you’ve kept me hidden, sheltered me even, when you could have turned me over for a brief respite in their aggression. Why? Surely there are others who could offer the same counsel I have.”

Cathal’s gaze darkened, his voice dropping a notch. “Because I’m not a man who trades lives for convenience. As much as it infuriates me to admit, you’ve proven your worth, Magnus. You’ve given me insights into their strategies that have turned the tide more than once. That’s why you’re here. But don’t mistake my pragmatism for trust.”

Magnus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to trust me, Cathal. I’m under no illusions about where we stand. But you should understand this—my brother will not stop. As long as I’m alive, he sees me as a threat. And that makes me your greatest asset and your greatest liability.”

Cathal finally sipped from his goblet, the bitterness of the wine matching his mood. “Your brother’s obsession with you is precisely why this arrangement feels more like a gamble than a strategy. And now there’s the matter of your daughter.”

Magnus’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—concern, perhaps, or regret. “What about Meya?”

Cathal leaned back in his chair, his tone growing sharper. “She’s here. In the castle. My son has brought her under the guise of an ally, a... reformed enemy. He believes she can be trusted.”

Magnus’s jaw tightened, and he exhaled through his nose, a quiet but telling sound. “Meya is... complicated,” he said after a moment. “But she’s no fool. If she’s come here, it’s because she sees an opportunity for something better than what she left behind.”

“Or,” Cathal countered, his voice hard, “she sees an opportunity to complete whatever mission she was sent on. My son’s faith in her is troublingly naive.”

Magnus sat back, crossing his arms. “Naive? Or hopeful? Don’t discount hope, Cathal. It’s a rare commodity in men like us.”

Cathal scoffed, setting his goblet down with a sharp clink. “Hope is a luxury I can’t afford, Magnus. Not when my kingdom teeters on the edge of ruin.”

“Perhaps,” Magnus said, his voice softer now, almost reflective. “But if you dismiss it entirely, you may find yourself blinding your son to the very qualities that could make him a great king.”

Cathal fell silent, his jaw tightening as he processed the words. After a moment, he shifted in his chair, his expression unreadable. “Does she know you’re alive?”

Magnus shook his head. “No. And it’s better that way. If Meya knew, it would put her in more danger than she already faces.”

“Agreed,” Cathal said, his tone resolute. “But if her presence here jeopardizes Gaelica, I won’t hesitate to act. Do you understand me?”

Magnus’s gaze hardened. “I understand. But let me give you a piece of advice, Cathal. Meya may not have chosen her path lightly, but she did choose it. Whatever doubts you have, remember that. The decisions she makes now will define her more than the ones that brought her here.”

Cathal stared at him for a long moment, then stood, adjusting the cloak draped over his shoulders. “You’ve always been a man of many words, Magnus. Let’s hope, for all our sakes, they aren’t empty.”

Magnus rose as well, his demeanor steady. “And you’ve always been a man of action, Cathal. Let’s hope you know when to pause before striking.”

Without another word, Cathal turned and strode to the door, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor. As the door closed behind him, Magnus sat back down, staring into the fire. For all his composed exterior, his mind churned with worry—for Meya, for himself, and for the storm he knew was coming.

 

[QuirkyQuill]

“Tomorrow, we move forward.”

“Sleep well, Your Highness.” Meya dipped her head in a bow, her mannerisms reverting back to a formal demeanor now that they were back inside the confines of the castle. As the door closed behind her, she felt the weight of the solitude, her eyes moving through the now familiar space. By all accounts, these chambers were much more grand than the inn from the previous night, but it felt cold and empty with just her. The fire blazed, so the cold that settled between her bones was the result of finding herself free from Aidan’s assured presence.

She had just walked over to chaise, preparing to sit, when a brief knock cut the silence. For a moment, her spirit lifted, but deflated as Hildy walked into the room.

“Good evening, Hildy,” she greeted the older woman.

“M’lady,” the woman's tone came out brusk, but Meya thought she saw a look resembling triumph in the woman's face. With her usual air of efficiency, Hildy assessed the situation and, within the hour, had Meya fed, bathed, and dressed for bed.

The bustle died back down, but despite Meya's best attempts, all she managed to do was toss and turn.

This is ridiculous. The thought flung itself through her mind after the second hour that sleep eluded her. She'd shared one bed for one night with a man she barely knew, and suddenly had forgotten how to fall asleep in one by herself.

Shaking her head, Meya reasoned with herself that there had to be a more logical explanation for her sudden restlessness. Untangling her legs from the blankets, she huffed her way out of bed, snatching up a blanket and pulling it around her shoulders. She slid her feet into the slippers that resided by the bed, and paced around the dark room several times. The fire burned low, and now merely cast a faint orange glow from the dying embers.

Knowing she would likely regret it, she pushed open the door to the balcony and pulled the blanket tighter around her in an attempt to shield herself from the frigid air. Closing the doors behind her to maintain what remaining heat still lingered, she walked over to the bannister, her eyes staring out at the sleeping kingdom.

Though cold, the crisp air brought stability back to her thoughts, the drastic contrast almost shocking her from her earlier thoughts. A lot had happened over the last couple of days, and she wasn't entirely sure what she had wholly agreed to. She still couldn't outright betray her uncle. If anyone on the council was, in fact, a well placed spy, or had one nearby, the message was likely already on its way to The Keep. What Ronin would tell her uncle remained a mystery, although she had no reason to fear the truth from his lips. Meya had negotiated his release by agreeing to her continued capture.

Chewing on her bottom lip, she continued to ponder on the coming days, giving up on the idea of sleep for the moment. Tomorrow was an ambiguous cloud hanging
over her shoulders.

 

[Mr_Positive]

Prince Aidan strode through the castle's dimly lit corridors, his boots muffled against the thick carpets that lined the stone floors. The weight of the evening’s events clung to him like an invisible shroud. He had left the council chambers hours ago, yet his father’s sharp words and the council’s judgmental stares still echoed in his mind.

His thoughts inevitably drifted to Meya. When they parted earlier, she had seemed poised, her demeanor reverting to the formality she so often used as a shield. But Aidan knew better. The moments they’d shared on the road—the honesty, the vulnerability—had peeled back some of her defenses, and he doubted they had fully returned. He had noticed the faint tension in her shoulders, the almost imperceptible strain in her voice.

When he reached her chambers, he hesitated for a moment before knocking softly. There was no response, but the faint glow of embers beneath her door suggested she was awake. He knocked again, this time more firmly.

“Meya? It’s Aidan.”

Still no reply. Concerned, he eased the door open. The room was dim, illuminated only by the faint flicker of dying firelight. It was immaculate, as though untouched despite her hours within it. His eyes swept across the space until he spotted her through the glass doors of the balcony, wrapped in a blanket and staring out into the cold night.

Aidan approached slowly, stepping onto the balcony. The chill hit him immediately, but he ignored it. “You’ll freeze out here,” he said gently.

Meya turned her head slightly, acknowledging his presence, though she didn’t speak. Her silhouette, framed by the faint light of the crescent moon, looked fragile against the vast expanse of the sleeping kingdom.

Aidan leaned on the bannister beside her, his gaze following hers out toward the darkened horizon. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked after a moment.

“No,” she replied simply, her voice quiet but steady.

He glanced at her, noticing the faint circles beneath her eyes and the stiffness in her posture. “I can see that,” he murmured. “And I don’t think it’s the bed that’s the problem.”

She didn’t reply, but her silence spoke volumes. Aidan exhaled slowly, his breath fogging in the frigid air. “Meya, I meant what I said earlier. Whatever doubts my father or anyone else has, I trust you. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t.”

Her silence continued, but her hands tightened around the edges of the blanket. Aidan pressed on, his tone firm yet understanding. “I know tomorrow feels like a storm waiting to break. But we’ve faced storms before, haven’t we? And we’re still standing.”

He hesitated, then added softly, “You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind whispered through the castle’s high towers, carrying with it the faint sounds of the sleeping city below. Aidan turned his gaze back to the horizon, giving her the space to respond—or not. He didn’t need her words to know she was grappling with far more than she let on.

After several moments, he straightened. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” he said, his voice low but sincere. “But try to get some rest, Meya. Tomorrow, we move forward.”

He paused at the door, looking back at her. She was still at the bannister, her face unreadable in the moonlight. With a final nod, he slipped back inside, closing the door behind him.

---

The following morning, Aidan’s mind was a whirlwind of plans and uncertainties as he made his way to the great hall for his morning briefing. But before he could focus on the day’s tasks, his father’s steward intercepted him.

“His Majesty requests your presence in the eastern gardens,” the man said, bowing slightly.

“The gardens?” Aidan frowned. “Now?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Aidan nodded, though his confusion lingered. His father rarely visited the gardens, and when he did, it was usually for private discussions. Whatever this was, it wasn’t routine.

When Aidan arrived at the secluded section of the gardens, he found his father standing beneath a sprawling oak tree. Beside him was an older man, his bearing proud despite the simple clothes he wore. Aidan’s steps faltered, a faint sense of recognition prickling at the edges of his memory, though he couldn’t place the man’s face.

Cathal turned at the sound of his son’s approach, his expression as inscrutable as ever. “Aidan,” he greeted, his tone formal. “I’m glad you came quickly.”

“Father,” Aidan replied, his gaze flickering to the stranger. “What’s this about?”

“This,” Cathal said, gesturing to the man, “is Magnus.”

The name landed like a thunderclap in Aidan’s mind. His eyes widened as he looked at the man again, realization dawning. “Magnus,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “The Magnus?”

“The same,” Magnus said, his voice steady but low. “Though I prefer to keep my identity a secret these days.”

Aidan turned to his father, disbelief etched into his features. “He’s alive? All this time, you’ve known, and you didn’t—”

“Enough,” Cathal said sharply, his voice brooking no argument. “This is not a discussion for now. Magnus’s presence here is a matter of utmost secrecy, and it will remain that way.”

Aidan opened his mouth to protest, but something in his father’s expression silenced him. Instead, he turned back to Magnus, his mind racing. “Why now? Why reveal yourself to me?”

Magnus hesitated, his eyes scanning Aidan’s face. “Because you’re on the verge of inheriting a kingdom that’s still at war. And because, whether you know it or not, my daughter’s fate is now tied to yours.”

Aidan stiffened, his thoughts immediately flashing to Meya. “What does she have to do with this?”

“That,” Cathal interjected, “is a conversation for another time. For now, you will focus on the tasks before you. Magnus’s role here remains confidential, understood?”

Reluctantly, Aidan nodded, though his mind churned with questions. “Understood.”

Cathal placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Good. We will speak later. For now, go. There is much to do.”

Aidan cast one last look at Magnus before turning and walking back toward the castle, his thoughts in turmoil. If Magnus was alive—and here—then everything he thought he knew about the war and Meya’s place in it was far more complicated than he could have imagined.

 

[QuirkyQuill]

Meya hadn’t expected company at such a late hour, but she was equally grateful that he was there and peevish that she should find such solace in someone else’s presence. Her thoughts had been a whirlwind, circling around her along with the night air, blowing her hair as it might the leaves of a willowy tree. The chill had turned her nose pink, but her face had grown numb to it by the time joined her.

“And I don’t think it’s the bed that’s the problem.”

Meya did not quite feel up to telling him that her empty bed was, in fact, the problem. Not the bed itself, but that it was empty. That confession spoke of need, and there was no way that she could even be honest with herself that one night under the blankets with him had brought her to a place of such contentment that its absence was impacting her. Silently, she scolded herself for thinking like a child.

When he left her on her own, she remained on the balcony for only a short while longer before retreating to protection of the walls. She practically sneered at the bed, and instead took a pillow over to the chaise by the fire. There was a small stack of logs still untouched, and she threw a couple of them back on, stoking it until they caught flame.

Curling up on her side, the blanket still wrapped around her, Meya stared hypnotically at the flames as they licked the sides of the logs, bringing a new surge of warmth to the area. Aidan’s words repeated themselves, making it difficult to find the peace she knew he’d sought to create.

“I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t.”

How could he have so much faith in her, when she couldn’t even trust herself that much? He had far more to lose by being wrong about her than she did. He was trying to build something great, and she was trying to do, what, exactly? Even now, Meya felt lost by her choices.

Eventually as the late hour drifted by, Meya did doze into a light sleep.

Hildy found her there, sleeping before a cold fireplace in the morning, and appeared annoyed that she would have left a perfectly good bed. She said nothing about it to Meya, but instead helped her into a dress and did her hair, leaving most of it down. After breakfast, she put on a cloak, needing to find somewhere outside to think, and finding the days growing a little colder each day. Winter would arrive soon, she had no doubt, and she almost dreaded imagining what that cold would feel like, if autumn was already this sharp.

Turning a corner, her body tensed as two guards walked by, but they each just nodded and kept on. Exhaling, she continued to follow the path she was certain would take her to the courtyard Aidan had shown her before. The next corner she turned, another guard was there standing, and when he saw her, immediately pulled his sword. The narrowed eyes met hers with that same steely hatred he’d given her when he stood outside her door. Meya stopped, her left eyebrow raising slightly.

“I am a guest here, not a prisoner. Your show of bravado is wholly unnecessary.” When she spoke, her voice carried that authoritative command to it that only the nobility could possess so effortlessly.

“You are scum and should be slit from one end to the next.” He spat his words in her direction, and the venom he directed in his gaze was felt clearly in his tone.

“That you will have to take up with the prince,” she responded, almost sounding nonchalant.

“One toe out of line, and I will not hesitate to end you.”

Meya’s gaze didn’t so much as waiver as she stared him down, her own eyes narrowed and her chin raised. “The dogs who bark the loudest tend to be compensating for having no real bite. You will forgive me if I find your threat lacking.”

Without another word or backward glance, she continued her way to the courtyard doorway, grateful that she’d remembered the directions when she finally stepped outside. Inhaling, she shook the interaction with the guard out of her head. It was to be expected that many inside these walls would wish her dead. Or worse. In truth, those who showed her outward disdain were less threatening to her than the dangers lurking in places she couldn’t see.

As she turned to the left, she saw the prince approaching from the gardens. She gave him a small, tentative smile in an effort to not be so rigid with him.

“Good morning, Your Highness.”