#ameg

She feels its skull break under her boot, before the blood bubbles out, sticky and dark. Amaranth grimaces and scuffs the heel of her boot on the stone floors, kicking the rat’s carcass aside with her toe and regrets that she will have to clean them before bed. Though their company hasn’t done much of anything today, she is tired. They will travel again tomorrow, to yet another town, so that the people may gaze upon their future Queen and adore her as they might a Saint. Amaranth refrains from spitting, just barely. 

It is a good thing she did though, the barest rustle of fabric from behind forewarns her Lady’s presence. A lesser guard might not have noticed the sound, but Amaranth seems to have developed an extra sense just for her Lady. Where she is, what she feels, what she desires... but then, Lady Meg is not a person who hides what she feels. She has never needed to.

“Aren’t you turning in soon?” Her Lady’s voice is laced with concern. 

“Just checking the perimeter,” Amaranth says. They stare at each other, illuminated only by the small candle flames they’re holding up. Meg’s face is, as always, open and vulnerable. Her expression is naturally sweet, as it should be. She is a woman born into honey. Amaranth has had to work to make her own expression bland, neutral instead of the frankly suspicious look she unconsciously wears. Meg’s shift is hanging off her shoulder, and the orange glow of the flame barely reveals the breath of skin that’s exposed to the cold castle air. Amaranth feels a prick of irritation. It is ludicrous she should be out of her rooms without a cloak.

“Surely you don’t think anyone wishes us harm here?”

Amaranth steps closer. She’s taller by half a head, which isn’t much, but Meg has a way of shrinking around her, making herself smaller and unthreatening. She raises the flame towards her Lady’s face, close to her grey eyes and leans forward. Closer than is appropriate, maybe, but then, it is dark, and there is no one around. There is something in Meg’s instinctual fear towards Amaranth that she finds intoxicating. 

If you only knew, Amaranth thinks to herself.

“Better to be safe,” She says instead, “If something were to happen to you…” She dares to raise a hand to her Lady’s throat, and draw a soft line across it with her fingertip. She hears her breath catch. Amaranth huffs a quiet laugh.

“It’s––“ Meg begins, and hesitates, “It’s cold in my rooms.” 

Whatever expression Amaranth is wearing flattens out again, “I will call the maids to build up the fire.” 

As she turns to go, her Lady’s hand catches her wrist.

“No wait, I didn’t mean––“ But Meg stops again. Amaranth doesn’t turn back towards her, lets her disappear in the void behind her right eye. It is comforting, not to have to see her. She waits. Eventually, her Lady lets go.