Crying Over Spilled Ink

In the winter, the cold always seemed to make its way into the Alliance’s castle and deep into Margaret’s bones, regardless of how many layers she was wearing. She hadn’t been wearing her division leader cloak much since Faviola had first handed it to her, the golden thread shimmering faintly in the light from the window. But right now the thick fabric felt necessary, even indoors, so she had shrugged it on and fastened the clasp. She’d been right—it was cozy and warm, but the longer she had it on, the more suffocating it felt. 

She made her way down the hallway, trying to look like she knew where she was going. She faintly remembered the instructions Faviola had given her several days back, when she’d met her in her office. “Division leader meetings are held every two weeks, unless there are some additional circumstances that need your attention. The others usually meet at the far end of the west wing, so that is where you’ll find them.” She’d paused for a moment before continuing. “You will take notes and report back to me upon each meeting’s completion. That is normally Kion’s job, but his handwriting is…” she’d pursed her lips, in the first show of emotion Margaret had seen since entering the room. “…lacking.” 

It had seemed so straightforward and simple then. Go to a meeting, talk with the others, take notes to summarize the discussion. Now, though, she felt her heart hammering in her chest the longer she spent trying to figure out which room Faviola had been referring to. She knew that Kion and Robin didn’t like her. Kion hid it much better than Robin did, and he was never outright rude, but she was no fool. She took note of the rolled eyes and too-tight smiles and curt phrases that had unflattering implications behind them. 

The issue wasn’t that she wanted them to like her. They were her fellows, nothing more. But… well. Margaret already wasn’t sure if she belonged here, and both of them making it clear that they didn’t think she was in the right place didn’t exactly do wonders for her confidence. 

She paused for a moment, making a show out of adjusting her cloak for a lower-ranking mage passing by. She didn’t consider herself much of a performer, but she’d found herself doing it more often, lately. So many people were watching her, after all, for so many reasons.

Then, she heard the faint sounds of a loud conversation coming from several rooms down. Well, she’d found the meeting room. Now all that was left was to show up. 

There wasn’t a clock around here, but she was fairly sure that she was at least a few minutes late. Normally, she liked to be early to everything, but she’d been too nervous to go along with her normal habits this time. 

She listened at the door for a moment longer, but she wasn’t able to make out exactly what they were saying through the thick oak door. So she steeled herself and pushed it open. 

Although Margaret couldn’t remember being in this particular room before, it was laid out in a similar way to the other areas where higher ranking members of the alliance did their work. The circular table in the middle was designed to seat five, and the chairs were all cushioned and very comfortable-looking. There were some rolls of parchment, along with ink and a quill, laid out in front of one of the seats. There were no windows in the room, but the walls weren’t bare by any means—several paintings were hanging at regular intervals, along with one long tapestry that occupied the opposite wall. She would have loved to linger and look at them a bit more, but then someone slammed the table, drawing her attention back to Robin and Kion. 

Robin was slouched low in her chair, her legs spread wide and a scowl fixed on her face. Her cloak had slipped off her shoulders, and half of it was lying in a sad heap on the floor. It had gotten stuck under one of the chair legs, too. Margaret’s fingers itched to dust it off and hang it up somewhere. “I’m telling you, they still haven’t learned their lesson. Even without their prince, there are still some squabbling idiots who want to get back at us for what we did. We need to crush them—“ she pounded her fist twice on the chair’s armrest for emphasis— “before people start paying attention.”

Kion, sitting in a seat across from her, was the picture of composure, but as Margaret watched, he sighed and cast an irritated look at the ground. 

“Need I remind you that you already crushed their forces several months back? There’s no need to waste time doing it again. We have more important matters to deal with.”

“I’m h-here!” Margaret stammered during the lull in the conversation, when Robin shifted her weight to glare back at Kion. “Sorry for being late…”

Robin continued as if she hadn’t heard a thing. Maybe Margaret hadn’t spoken loud enough. “That’s something a coward would say.”

“They’re not a big enough group to be relevant. You’re giving them exactly what they want by indulging them every time they open their mouths.” Kion insisted, smiling tightly. 

“I don’t give a shit about relevance. Faviola keeps me here so I can destroy anyone who opposes the Alliance. And that’s what I’m doing.”

“Faviola keeps you around so you can follow her orders!” He snapped. “Not run around and fight whoever the fuck you want!”

Margaret shuffled her feet quietly. 

“You talk an awful lot about fighting for someone who only lifts a finger to cast Faviola’s spells!” Robin cackled, clambering to her feet and looming over Kion. He didn’t look intimidated in the slightest. “Why don’t we settle this properly, huh? Like the equals we are?”

He picked an invisible bit of lint off his cloak and got up. “Equals? We’ll see about th—“

“A-are you two actually going to start a fight in here?!” Margaret yelled, waving her hands around in a panicked frenzy. “You’re supposed to be having a discussion-! What even—“

“Oh. You!” Robin peered down at her as if she were some small animal she’d stumbled across while in the woods. “You’re late.”

“I… came in earlier. Did you not see me?” She asked slowly, trying to regain some of her composure. She thought she’d been getting used to those two, but what had happened just now… that was downright terrifying. She needed another month, at least, to not be so alarmed if something like that happened again. 

“No.” Kion sat back down. “Approach the table next time instead of standing by the doorway like that, hm? It might help.” 

Margaret felt her face flush with shame. “…Right. Next time.”

As Robin took her seat again with a huff, Margaret made her way to the seat with the parchment and quill in front of it. Technically, the conversation they’d just had should be in her notes, but… well. She doubted Faviola would want to know that two of her division leaders had been at each other’s throats during the meeting. Speaking of which, did she… know about that? She had a hard time imagining something as big as that escaping her notice, with how shrewd and intelligent she was. That couldn’t be very productive, though. Right? They’d need someone to keep them in check, at the very least—

Oh.

She was supposed to keep them in check. 

Margaret unrolled a sheet of parchment, trying to hide a shudder. She knew that Faviola had faith in her—she’d said so on several occasions, with an uncharacteristically warm smile on her face. She couldn’t figure out why. She hadn’t done all that much with her life up to now. When she’d set out on her travels, she’d expected to be taught about all the things she didn’t know, not be told that her “ability to make people feel at ease and willing to speak their mind would be an asset to anyone, no matter who they are.” She didn’t think that was something altogether special—it just came naturally, that was all. But she knew that she should trust Faviola’s judgment, which meant that she was capable of doing this. Wrangling these two, keeping them on track, and keeping them from… killing each other. Or her.

…Now, there was no need to go that far. She was sure they were just having a bad day or something. Clearly. Otherwise, they would exercise some more self-restraint. 

Robin was back to slouching discontentedly; Kion was back to staring at some point between them. Margaret cleared her throat, reminding herself that they were all on the same level here. If she said it enough, she was sure it would eventually start to sink in. 

“So…” she dipped her quill in ink and held it at the ready near the inkwell. “What’s our first order of business?”