#The Geo Political Polycule

[asha-mage]

Rand/Mat/Tuon, judicious

[Send me a character or pairing, and a one word prompt, and I'll write you a drabble!]

Fortuona Athaem Devi Paendrag stood at the edge of her chambers, luxuriating in the feel of silk curtains brushing against her bare skin. The faint salt twanged breeze that came up off the River Eldar had mostly dried her of the left over water from her bath, and she could at any time, retreat back into her chambers to be dressed and begin hearing the day’s reports. But for the moment she was content to simply stand, hidden by the fluttering of the curtains and observe the garden below.

Inarian laid sprawled out beside one of the ponds there, where she had left him the night before, a sheer silken blanket covering his naked form. His hat, coat, scarf and other effects she had ordered returned to his sleeping chambers, but his ashandarei and his medallion she had ordered to remain untouched. If he wanted to depart, he would do so inconvenienced but not seriously hindered. A fine line to walk, but a necessary one, now more then ever.

She had acknowledged him officially as Emperor Consort, which made him Lord of the Tower and, in theory, her most important councilor and ally, as it was supposed to be with every Empress and her consort, though it had rarely been so in truth. Even Lothair Paendrag had kept a Favorite to shower with his affection and love, while marrying for the good of his budding Empire, as was practical and necessary for a ruler.

Yet the common folk required some illusions and romantic notions to take away the sting of harsh truths. A nation existed as much because people believed in it, as for anything done with a soldier’s blade or an official's pen, and to believe required the sorts of stories that made children starry eyed. That the Seekers never erred in their quest for the truth. That the army was truly always victorious in the end. That the Empress loved the Emperor.

She had never expected to find truth in the illusion, anymore then she had expected to be stolen away by a dashing hero.

And yet…

A silvery slash of light appeared in the garden and lengthened till it was tall an archway. From where she was standing that slash seemed to widen and part, becoming a silvery haze in the shape of a solid rectangle, before snapping back into a slash again and winking out.

The man who had stepped out of the gateway walked with all the confidence of a member of the Deathwatch Guard, as if he where not an intruder in the heart of Seanchan power and violating so many laws by his mere presence that he could, at the least, expect to be condemned to the Tower of Ravens for the rest of his life.

If he where anyone else that was.

Fortuona watched the man cross the garden, the blades of grass seeming to visibly grow greener, the trees more full in branch and flower, by his mere presence alone, and stoop down to where Inarian was laying beneath his blanket. She knew he was pressing his mouth close to Inarian’s ear to whisper to him. Fortuona watched her husband stir, coaxed by his lover’s voice to wakefulness, and she did not need to be near enough to hear to know that there would be soft laughter in both their words, anymore then she needed to see them to know that smiles would be painting both their faces.

The name Inarian would not be muttered, nor would whatever name that man was using these days. To each other, like this, they would simply be Rand and Mat, nothing more or less, no titles or burdens or barriers between them.

Inarian insisted that Fortuona call him Mat as well- in private at least- and she no longer minded doing so, no matter how much her skin itched from the bad luck of it. (In her friskier moods she even went so far as to call him Toy again, which he seemed to not mind at all.) She saw it now as a symbol of their trust, their connection.

Yet it still rankled something in her, that he rejected the honors and accolades she so freely bestowed on him. He was not ungrateful, not really, and he had understood the import, once she explained it. Yet he still did not regard the name she had gifted him with anywhere near the reverence as the one he had as a mud footed farm boy. And a part of her, the part that was still the petulant angry girl who had needed more switchings then any Imperial Princess in memory, couldn’t help but wonder if it was because that was the name Rand al’Thor had known him by.

For a moment Fortuona considered retrieving one of the hidden crossbows she kept secreted about her room- the one inside the tea table would be closest, loaded already with a single short bolt and tipped in powdered peach core already for a fatal blow even if it missed any essential organ- and firing down at the man who presumed to make her husband laugh. With the curtains fluttering around her still she was the next thing to invisible, and it would be easy enough to explain away: Inarian and his lover had not been as discreet as they should. A Deathwatch guard had assumed the Emperor Consort was being threatened, and acted in zealous protectiveness. She could even offer the life of one of her Guards to Inarian’s satisfaction, knowing full well her soft hearted husband would never claim such, would be horrified the very idea. It would be clean, brutal, and final.

Fortuona let the thought roll about in her mind for a bit, as she always did, and then as she always did, she set it aside firmly. It would be a misstep in the long run she knew, cracking something between her and Inarian that would not be easily mended. Cracking him maybe, in his heart. And for what? Silly childish notions like affection and love? She was a woman grown, and arguably the most powerful woman on the planet at that. She could not afford the silly indulgences of children. Her world was bitter reality. It always would be.

She would do her part in the dance instead. Inarian would listen to the sweet whispers to the man who had once been the Dragon and vanish for a few days, and she would hold back his hat and his coat, his scarf and his bag of oddities and keepsakes, to keep a tie to him that he would neither feel nor be able to break. She might burn something, perhaps the coat, to punish him in the meantime (she liked the hat and the scarf on him to much to destroy them) but when he returned she would act as if he never been away. She would not acknowledge his dalliance with his lover in any way, and instead let his guilt and anxiety prick him for her.

Inarian was suspended she knew, between her and the man who had once been the Dragon, each of them holding him by equal force, and with equal gentleness. He was like a fox between two dens. He would run this way, then that, as he willed, answering her call and then his lover’s, divided always between two masters, each playing the game to keep him enticed and entranced, each tempting the attention of dark glittering eyes. Fortuona knew not how the game would end, only that the surest way to loose would be to try and trap him, bind him in some way where he could feel the cord. He would bolt against which ever hand, hers or anyone else’s that tried to do that, and be lost forever.

The only thing worse would be letting him know how much of a claim on her heart he had. He would never take advantage of such- that was not her Inarian, in character or nature. Yet it would frighten him she was sure, if he guessed even half of the depths of her affection for him. The love that burned in her breast for her clever trickster of a husband.

An Empress was not supposed to love anything but her people. Love for an individual was a dangerous madness, a sickness of hot passion that had broken a thousand kingdoms. It made people value one life above the lives of the masses, one person’s opinion over the well being of an Empire. She had not believed it to be real for most of her life. What could one person’s opinions matter more then the fate of nations? The blood of thousands? It was a thing for stories, not bitter realities. Not her reality.

And then she had been stolen away by a fox that made the ravens fly.

So now she walked her fine line, of gentle push and pull and twist and turn. Never showing her hand, never letting the mask break. Never letting her fingers quite leave Inarian’s neck, while never pressing down so hard as to make him bolt.

She kept the secrets of Rand al’Thor, once the Dragon, and she said nothing when Inarian vanished from her life for days or weeks or months, smothered the ache in her rib cage as surely as she smothered the pain from knife wounds and cross bow bolts. The alternative was to loose him forever, or else reveal her weakness, her childishness, the defect within her that should disqualify her from sitting on the Crystal Throne. Neither outcome could ever born.

Better, more prudent, more judicious, to keep her cards to chest, and to play the game for as long as she could manage.

The Empress of Seanchan loved her husband, and their was maybe no greater danger to the Empire in all the world then that.

[asha-mage]

Rand/Elayne, secret 👀

[Send me a character or pairing, and a one word prompt, and I'll write you a drabble!]

Here is what the people of Andor know-

Queen Elayne Trakand, Radiant of the Light, Lioness of the Sun, is the finest Queen they’ve had in a very long time, maybe the finest in Andor’s long history. She is brave and compassionate and wise in equal measures, unafraid to be ruthless and cunning when duty demands, but unwilling to be cruel or harsh without cause. She keeps trade open and the granaries full, the nobles in check and the alliances that make up the Court of the Sun strong. If there is one fault to be found in Queen Elayne it is the fault of all Trakand rulers, the fault that had ended her mother’s reign and almost destroyed the world, though she has kept it better checked then her predecessors. A fault that is all to human, and yet easy for the bard’s to romanticize and rationalize away- the kind of thing that will fit neatly into both her legend and her her history books, and something that is easy enough for her subjects to forgive given all else she does.

After all, what doe sit matter if the Queen has a truly terrible taste in men? The Queen can do as she wishes as long as duty is satisfied and the rule of law kept and the realm stays prosperous. So what if she had loved a traitorous Darkfriend? She had taken his head during the Last Battle in the end. So what if their had been some rough handed mercenary? Was a woman not allowed to enjoy making a scarred man bend to her will? So what if she had taken her new Captain General to Warder and lover both? The man she would be grateful to rise so high on her esteem. So what if a some dark haired bard slipped in and out of the palace’s private chambers? A woman had needs.

Queen Elayne Trakand was the most powerful woman in the Dragonlands, perhaps the world. She was Aes Sedai and twice a sovereign and the leader of the stronger alliance to ever been seen, and even if none of that was true she was the Queen. She could do as she pleased, and if anyone had any aspersions to cast, the meanest crofter, the lowest beggar in all of Andor or Cairhien would raise a hand to silence such.

Here is what the palace knows-

The Queen has no husband and never will. It is not an unheard of state of affairs for a leader, particularly one with a secure heir already in place. If some of the nobles and dignitaries are nervous about the lack of a second in line after the Daughter Heir or the missed potential of a marriage alliance, well it was their job to fret about such things.

The Queen was the Queen, and her duty was to provide an heir which she had done. Her private affairs beyond that, where her private affairs. The why is not that important. Rumor in the palace would name a thousand different reasons, but the most common accepted is that she had seen what love had done to her mother’s reign, to the rules of countless men and women throughout the long history of the Dragonlands, had tasted it herself with that snake Mellar and thought better of laying herself so bare in heart and soul. She was wedded to her realm and that was more then enough. Pretty musicians and handsome commoners who would ask no questions and be grateful for their Queen’s attention, could fulfill any other required need, without risk. It was no more then her due as Queen, after all.

And if there is one particular dark haired musician who stays for irregular but frequent periods in the royal apartments, well. Maybe she just likes his singing voice.

(The rumor that she had loved the Dragon comes up too from time to time, that he had been father to her children and first flame of her heart, but it it’s solidly in the middle of the pack in terms of believers, and evne it’s adherents would never begin to guess at the full extent or truth of it).

Here is what the Lion Guard knows-

The rumors of a bond with Mellar where trash, any woman of the Guard could tell you that. Captain General Guybon is her Warder and Captain General, but no more. There had been a mercenary at one point, though he had been more of a fop then a rough sort, and belonged to the Seanchan now these days. And there had been a man with a face like misshapen clay, a rough laborer whose smile could curdle milk.

There had been an Aiel woman too, sometimes, beautiful as the sun and sharp tonged as a viper, but soft and gentle for the Queen. She still visited sometimes, when her duties as Wise One did not call her away, but there was a distance there too, created by the Aiel’s role as peacekeepers.

But the Dragon? That was foolishness. A rumor cooked up to strengthen morale, to lend the First Prince of the Sword and the Daughter Heir an air of mystique, of divinity to their legacy. A pretty thing for the legends, and the footnotes of history books. The Dragon had never looked twice at Queen Elayne as far as her personal bodyguard knew- and there was no way such an affair could have been carried off without their knowledge. Certainly not.

And none of them, not Dragon, not mercenary, not laborer or Aiel, or Warder or Darkfriend traitor could claim the truth of the Queen’s heart. That honor when to the pretty dark haired man who sang the sad songs for her in the Old Tongue, who juggled and told stories to make her laugh and lounged with her long evenings on the garden.

It was him who taught the First Prince how to use his sword, who listened to the Daughter Heir cry out her night terrors, who played games with them, and read to them, and showed them the affection and love and devotion of a father. The matter of blood was irrelevant really- weather they where the laborer's or Cauthon’s or hells the Dragon’s didn’t matter. It was the gleeman they called father, and it was the gleeman who fulfilled that duty.

That was enough for the Lion Guard. He might never been Prince Consort in name, but in all the ways that mattered he was one of the House od Trakand, and so, they would spend their lives to guard him, for the sake of their Queen, and their realm, and the man himself.

Here is what the children know-

It is a secret. A very very important secret.

Your father saved the world once their mother had explained to them, time and time again. It nearly cost him his life. If it is found out he still lives, it will cost him the rest of it.

Cethlyn does not mind, not really. She is a bright girl, and can put together the pieces as they stumble into her hands growing up. The tale of the boy who had climbed the garden wall, and the Dragon who had given everything over to saving the world. The way mother laughs when she is in father’s arms, the same laugh as when she dances with Aunt Avienda or Uncle Mat in the small hours of the morning, or hidden away at the secret cabin that they only ever visit by Gateway. They form the whole picture in time, and she keeps her silence and lets tongues wag. One day she will be Queen in turn, she knows, she will have to put up with worse said about her.

It bothers Shevan a bit more. He hates people thinking some filthy Darkfriend’s blood runs in his veins. But he knows duty, and he loves his fahter, and can’t stand the thought of anyone taking his father away from them forever. As it is they see him rarely- and though he always returns with a song and a laugh and a new story, Shevan is hungry for more. Hungry to travel with him, to know him, to be trained by him in earnest, even as he is to shy to ask.

Neither child doubts or questions or wonders, why they look so different from the dark-haired man their mother calls Rand. It dosen’t really matter. The world is full of impossible and strange things. What is one more?

Besides, when their parents hold their hands and laugh, when they gaze into each other’s eyes and smile, when father sings in the soft lilting Old Tongue and their mother seems to breath it in like air- their can be no room for doubt. Not witnessing the raw love that fills them both, the admiration, the bond.

It seems a shame to keep it secret, and yet it seems right too, to hide this fragile brilliant light from the world, lest it be broken by the eyes of those that can not be trusted.

Here is the secret-

Elayne Trakand loves Rand al'Thor, despite all that lays between them, and maybe because of it. Their are others too, other compartments in their vast hearts, and that dose not preclude their love for each other. They have a family together, and Rand does his best balance his wanderings, and his abstaining from events, and being their father too. He has earned his peace and Elayne does not begrudge him it.

It should be tawdry and scandalous and dangerous. But it isn't. It is shockingly, almost disappointingly wholesome and pure.

They love each other, and it is a secret, but changes nothing. When it's true love, it never could.

[asha-mage]

Call that a Geo Political Polycule.

(Alternative title: Olver can have SO MANY PARENTS. As a treat.)

As promised, here is my opinion on the WoT Polycule, as a celebration for my book club hitting AMOL. You might have to click and enhance, in order to see some of these: I spent a long time trying to finagle a version of the map that was readable.

(The only note I would add is that I couldn't find anyway to add the red line between Mat and Elayne that reads 'The Line Between Flirting and Annoyance is Paper Thin'. But like. It's there in spirit.)

Also this is by no means an exhaustive list my WoT ships even with these specific characters: I mean Asmodean dosen't appear ONCE! But to me this would be the 'ideal' dynamic for both these characters, and the future of Randland. So....it's actually just a ship? Or is it an armada, if it's a polycule?

I may come back an add more extensive explanation for each Relationship in the Polycule at a later date, but for now I am content to leave this hear for your enjoyment.