That had been Celia's plan, at least.
To coax her husband into taking a little time out from his day to write a quick note to the King of Irquis, to thank him for the gift of a fancy sword we was never likely to use.
And then for Tobin to write a similar quick note to the handful of other monarchs who'd sent him equally luxurious and pointless birthday gifts.
It would've only taken him an hour or two at the very most.
She'd pleaded, she wheedled, she argued for days.
Tobin had flatly refused, claiming he was too busy.
"Too busy with what?" Celia finally challenged him one day. "You don't attend meetings with your father and his advisors. You don't train the army regiments. All you seem to do is spend your days idle, with your equally idle circle of friends. So how can you not have the time to write a few notes?"
That comment earned her a sharp and sudden slap across the face. It shocked her.
Tobin rarely hit her, especially in the face. Celia stood there frozen for a long moment, unable to do anything but hold her throbbing mouth. When she took her hand away from her lip, it was stained with blood.
Tobin also looked stunned by his sudden reaction. For a few seconds, his face crumpled. Celia could see the fearful, insecure youth that hid behind the mask of his bravado.
Then that youth vanished again and Tobin's expression hardened. "You brought that on yourself. I won't have you disrespecting me."
Celia trembled on the spot. "I wasn't trying to be disrespectful, Tobin. I just think it's important you do what's needed to maintain diplomatic ties. Not for my sake but for your kingdom's."
"What's it to you?" he crossed his arms above his ample belly. "Since when do you care what I do or don't do?"
"What's it to me? How can you ask that? I'm your wife and future queen! Do you think I want half a dozen kings sour towards Havietten because they feel slighted by you? Especially when it's so avoidable!"
Tobin rolled his eyes as if he were sick of arguing with a simpleton.
Celia almost contradicted him but didn't want to be struck again. She remembered something once said to her by her grandfather. The wily old King of Islia was adept at maintaining alliances with his neighbours, often pitching one as the counterweight to another.
Often, my girl, conflicts don't just flare up from one day to another. Most of the time, the road to disputes and eventual war is paved with many little perceived slights and misunderstandings, building upon each other until someone's pride snaps.
Always treat your allies and enemies with outward respect, Celia, even if you don't actually respect them. Wars fought over righteous causes are expensive and bloody. But wars fought because of someone's bruised ego are truly absurd.
Celia was more inclined to trust the advice of a cunning man who'd sat on a stable throne for decades, than that of a boy with no experience in statecraft.
She tried to explain her reasoning to Tobin again but he just cut her off. "I'm sick of this topic. If these letters means so much to you, then you fucking write them, Celia. Put that supposedly grand education you've been given, to good use."
"Husband, I can't do that! The ambassadors would notice the different handwriting and know right away the letters weren't actually from you. Besides, I don't know who gave you each gift, so who would I thank for what?"
"I guess that's your problem to solve, isn't it? I'll leave it in your capable hands then." Tobin replied airily. "Don't bore me with this ridiculous issue anymore. And clean yourself up if you plan to leave these apartments. You look a fucking mess."
Celia looked down and realised blood had dripped down her chin and dotted the front of her gown.
Tobin stalked out of their bedchamber, slamming the door shut behind him.
Celia felt nothing but impotence and anger. Why did no one dare hold that man accountable? He wasn't just any prince, he was the heir to the goddamn throne! If he ruled poorly, everyone within his domains would suffer!
Why didn't his own father demand better? Celia was well aware of how the queen would forgive Tobin everything, considering him perfect just by virtue of being her only son. But did King Aron not care what happened to Havietten once he was dead? Was he happy for all his hard work to just go to waste?
Celia had very little to do with her father-in-marriage, finding him both boring and intimidating. He tended to mostly ignore her in return. But the man had been king for almost as long as her grandfather. Did he not want to leave his country in safe hands?
Her own grandfather Edward had high expectations from his own heir. Celia had watched her father and grandfather clash on more than one occasion. But most of the time, her father Leo would eventually grumble - far, far away from King Edward's earshot - that the foul tempered old wolf had raised a valid point.
In a daze, she walked over to Tobin's desk in a corner of the room. Amongst the clutter on the surface was a half written military report that he'd clearly abandoned. She picked up the document and studied his large, looping script for a while, tracing it with a fingertip.
It wouldn't be too hard to copy his handwriting, she mused. With a bit of practice, I should be able to get at least close enough to fool the casual observer. After all, it's not like the King of Irquis was receiving volumes of correspondence from Tobin to compare a forged note to.
Celia picked up the quill and inkwell in the corner of the large desk. After a few more moments of hesitation, she grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write.