Chapter Text
Isolde never imagined that her life would be like this.
Dismissed, or rather unloved.
And if that word doesn't hurt, she didn't know what did. Sometimes, she looks at Leland, and loves the person she never knew. Or rather, the person in him that never existed in the first place.
'He's always been like this,' she thinks, bitterness seeping every word. 'Cold. Demanding. Selfish.'
She knows who he is, after four years of marriage. Four years of being the king's wife. The Queen of the Plaid Kingdom is a prestigious title, but she isn't proud to have it.
Isolde missed being 'that weird grunge girl.' She missed hearing her friends rant about it, saying that "those idiots! They don't know a thing about you!" only for one of them to giggle five minutes later, "well.. you are pretty strange."
And Isolde would laugh.
She doesn't do that nowadays.
Isolde has three boys, who are one for the very few lights of her life. Blaine (the eldest being four), Lance (three years old), and little Fredrick (the youngest at two).
If she had to pick a favorite, It'd be Lance. Lance, who looked and acted nothing like his father. Lance, with the brightest grin and the kindest, most energetic personality.
Isolde always thought that if she ever divorced Leland (which was unlikely, as a part of her was still in love with him and that part was very, very strong), she would take Lance, and move to somewhere where nobody knew them.
They'd live in a cottage. Isolde would prepare picnics every Friday, and they'd spend the afternoon talking. She'd enlist Lance into a study group (she suggested it to Leland before, but he turned her down, saying he'd be weak if he couldn't just learn by himself - like any normal kid could), because Isolde knew that her little boy understood things better like that.
Maybe Isolde would meet somebody who actually loved her. She'd be lying if she said she didn't want that person to resemble a certain person, but it was much easier not to think about that factor.
Her son would come home everyday, and ramble about from one topic to the next, and he would know that he would be great, even if he couldn't pay attention like the other kids. That he was smart, even if his grades didn't show it. That he was loved and he was normal, just like the other kids, even if teachers snapped at him more often than they did to other children.
That he was her miracle child, and to her always, he was the best one she could ever wish for.
But that could never happen. Lance was a prince, after all, and she was the Queen. There was no time for silly, wistful dreams.
She sighed, patting down her black dress. The funeral ceremony was over, but people still remained. They cried over the death of Queen Lilyth.
Isolde didn't know her well - they haven't even held more than two conversations - but she's seen her.
What she saw was beautiful. Big, yet sharpened with distaste to society, eyes - which Isolde understood, as she used to be, as the nobles called it, a "filthy commoner." (Very charming, they were.) Her voice was as alluring as a siren's - deep, and steady, so unlike the prisses that roamed like self-indulgent roaches, whispering about one person from the next. Isolde wished she knew more of her personality, other than what she's seen from afar.
Without a doubt, her past self - and faintly current, for that matter - would've fallen in love with her at sight.
And that's why she didn't like talking to Queen Lilyth. Because she was married to a man who clearly didn't love her, and her future was as certain as the grave in front of her.
'That was grim,' she thought, as she gazed at the crying man who was settling down a vase of flowers.
It was King Jack - her husband's best friend. He was sobbing, clutching his heart as if it was physically splitting in half.
Isolde doesn't know what overtakes her, but she feels her feet moving on their own and-
"Hey," she stood beside him, and his body jolted up in surprise. "...I can stand by you, if you'd like. It's always better to face these circumstances with a.. well, we're not friends, but.. you know."
King Jack composed himself, as he gave her a weak smile. "I miss h- her so much. She's- she's gone, isn't she? I… this can't be real."
"It is," Isolde suddenly squeezes his hand. "But you'll get through it. I promise you, I'll make sure of it."
(Isolde doesn't know where these words are coming from, as she's had less than one full conversation with this man, but now she's started, she can't stop.)
"Thanks." He's suddenly overwhelmed with emotion again, as his breath hitches. "Th- this sounds re- really selfish, but… can you act sad, too?"
Isolde watches him for a moment, nods as he relaxes, and together, they mourn the loss of love.