#azimae

Maeve makes her own rouge. She mixes expensive essences, crushed flowers and mysterious dark beans imported from across the western seas. She’d spend a long time blending the ingredients together, until the concoction turns into a smooth carmine tint.

Aziliz is lounging in a cushioned armchair, watching her. She doesn’t understand why Maeve insists on making her own products, when maids would be more than happy to prepare the fancy powders and pigments for her.

“It calms me down,” Maeve replies, her attention never leaving the continuous circular gesture of her hand. “If I have to wear a mask, then at the very least I want to be the one crafting it.”

Aziliz only shrugs. She keeps watching the dark red coiled braids undulate with each movement, and she lets her mind wander. When Maeve is done, she turns around and leans back against her desk, satisfied. A dark finger dips in the crimson ointment, and rises to her generous lips. Her eyes are dark, smouldering, and they are entirely focused on Aziliz. She applies the rouge languidly, her expression taunting. Aziliz wills every bone in her body to remain immobile. Analyse the situation first. Act later. Maeve’s newly painted lips curve up in an amused, enticing smile.

“Would you like some as well? You could do with some colour.”

She turns to put the vial back on the table behind her, her neck twisting and her eyes cast down in feigned innocence. Aziliz raises a controlled eyebrow. She hops off the chair and closes the distance between them. Her hand finds the vial on the desk, caging Maeve in. The smiling girl is towering over her. Aziliz doesn’t care. She rises on the tip of her toes, her left hand securing Maeve’s waist. Almond and something else, something exotic. Something addicting. So intoxicating, Aziliz thinks she might get drunk off Maeve’s lips. It is impossible to resist.

“I’ll help myself,” her whisper caresses the rouged lips.

The kiss is intense, their eyes locked in the passionate duel that accompanies each of their embraces. Aziliz closes her eyes, and lets herself be consumed by the fire, by the inebriating sweetness of Maeve. Maeve’s hands sink into Aziliz’ messy hair, as Aziliz’ fingers instinctively wrap around her nape. Maeve deepens the kiss and bites her bottom lip. The lip paint is smearing across their mouths, but they’re too lost in each other to care.

It’s only when they break away, panting and short of breath, that they finally get a proper look at each other. They drink in the other’s appearance, the ridiculous smudged lips, and it takes all the control Aziliz has left not to kiss it all away. She lets her head fall on Maeve’s collarbone as the other girl’ chin finds the top of her head. They lay in the comfortable embrace, and one last chuckle escapes Maeve’s not-so-red-anymore lips.

“That, Lady Kervran, was not your wisest decision, I believe.”

Aziliz’ eyes twinkle deviously.

Soft, pinched notes echo in the bright salon. The tune is soothing, almost hypnotic. Elegant fingers pluck at the metallic strings, as a low hum accompany the melancholic tune. Maeve is lounging in a chair behind the musician, the tension in her body unknotting with each melodic chord. Her head lulls, and she feels her thoughts fade away as sleepiness slowly seeps into her bones.

The song suddenly picks up, the chords growing tumultuous as the music drastically changes into a stormy clash of harmonious notes. Maeve opens her eyes, lazily. She sees Aziliz’ slender figure, her graceful nape leaning towards the gilded harp, body tensed in focus. Maeve stays in the padded armchair for a moment, enjoying the increasingly hectic rhythm, and the way each note animates Aziliz’ body. She jumps out of the chair and positions herself behind the other woman.

Maeve’s finger hovers over the harpist’s neck, itching to touch. A raised eyebrow over gold pupils glance back at her. Almost… playful. No smile graces Aziliz’ lips, but Maeve can see it anyway. Aziliz’ attention is back on the heavy instrument in her arms, and Maeve uses the permission she was just granted. The pad of her index meets smooth skin, following veins strained with focus. Careful not to hinder Aziliz’ movements, she drops her chin in the fluffy cloud of undone, black hair, and pauses.

“Is that… A new product you used on your hair?”

Aziliz’ shoulders tremble slightly at the bothered tone in Maeve’s voice.

“Didn’t you gift me some of your very own brew?”

“I didn’t expect you to use it.” 

Maeve buries her face deep into the short dark waves, and breathes in. She’d offered the girl hair cosmetic she’d done herself because she’d wanted Aziliz to smell like her. The greedy part of her had wanted to see how it was to brand the other girl with her own scent.

“I don’t like it,” she concludes. “Maybe I should try something else…”

Aziliz only hums in response. She is still playing, but the tempo has slowed back to a sensuous cadence. Maeve shakes her head, still playing with Aziliz’ hair.

“I like your usual scent better.” Maeve drops a kiss on her temple, and whispers. “Maybe I should try yours, instead.”

Aziliz steals a quick, biting kiss.

“Careful, you are giving me ideas.”

The wickedness in her tone is exhilarating and Maeve melts into laughter. She loops her arms around Aziliz’ shoulders.

“Dance with me, and I’ll do anything you please,” she murmurs in Aziliz’ ear.

Rain is hammering down the wide glass windows of the library, in the familiar, frenetic cadence of the notorious An’Arvor turbulent weather. Aziliz’ eyes are fixed on the horizon, far beyond the window.

She loves the tempest. Something about the display of sheer natural abandon, its complete disregard for everything else in the world, made her soul yearn. Her gaze sweeps over the rocky shore, to the stormy skies raging over the tumultuous sea outside the mansion.

She had never liked the stuffy Kervran library. She instinctually associate the grand room, filled with obnoxious, dusty books and expensive family portraits with the Duke. With a vortex of bad memories she is desperate to erase. Aziliz detaches her gaze from the window, and glances at the small desk in the corner, where she used to hide out the storms of her childhood. Where fear had shaken her tiny frame, now only contempt rose, like bile to her throat.

She used to loathe the library.

A soft cough draws her attention to the centre of the circular room. A heavy mahogany bureau thrones in the middle of tall shelves full of various tomes and treatises. Maeve is hunched over a hefty volume, her eyebrows furrowed in an absorbed frown.

Aziliz leans back and follows Maeve’s fingers distractedly tap the page in rhythm with the impact of the raindrops on the glass. She watches the girl gnaw on her lips and hum under her breath, pushing up her reading glasses as she dissects the opus in front of her.

Aziliz does not need to ask to know it is a dissertation on a deadly boring topic. Still, the flash of excitement in Maeve’s eyes as she turns a new page, betrays the girl’s fascination for the probably overly-serious subject.

Aziliz is surprised by the sudden surge of satisfaction she feels at seeing Maeve, who always insisted on acting the part of the perfect Lady, fall into such comfortable habits behind shut doors. She should not be surprised - and she isn’t, really.

Still, she is fascinated. It is like being invited to peek into Maeve’s private self, and Aziliz is more than fine being an observer. She catches herself hold her breath, as if to see if she can suspend this moment in time. She does not want to get closer, she does not want to ruin the moment.

Maybe it’s the storm, or maybe it’s a secret desire tucked deep behind the layers of the fortress she had built to keep a distance between them. Aziliz is not sure why her legs decide to quietly carry her over to stand behind the other girl. Maeve is so focused on her reading, that she does not seem to notice. Her head fit right under Aziliz’ chin, and Aziliz toys with the idea of getting even closer. Just a step.

“Bored of the rain already?”

Aziliz’ heart shouldn’t have skipped a beat. Maeve’s face is hidden by the cascade of dark tresses that escaped her messy chignon, but Aziliz knows her eyes have not left the book. Aziliz’ eyes caress the bare expanse of Maeve’s neck, and Maeve’s finger hover over Aziliz’ wrist in a silent question. They don’t touch, but Aziliz is satisfied to see a tiny shiver run down Maeve’s spine anyway.

Wordlessly, Aziliz gathers the braids that fell in front of Maeve’s binoculars, and tucks them back behind her ear, careful not to brush her cheekbones. The hair is smooth, its weight comforting in Aziliz’ hand, and she can’t help but run her thumb over the gold cuffs before letting go.

Maeve looks up with a scowl, and shoos her away. Aziliz shrugs and strolls nonchalantly to the massive double door of the study, before turning back. Her eyes meet intensely dark irises.

“Kicking me out of my own library, you just cannot help yourself, can you, Rohan?”

Cassandra had always been in control. She had always plotted and manipulated events so they would turn in her favour.

Aliénor had been the same. A pretty, naive Lady, who had never seen the world. Someone easy to charm. Someone easy to use.

Cassandra had been livid when she’d realised that the very same Lady had been fooling her all along. She had been her secret informant. And now, she was gone. Jailed and ready to be made an example in front of a nation. 

Cassandra would not allow it. She had tried to get into contact with the few rebellion fighter she could contact, in vain. She had tried to appeal to Aliénor’s family, but their hands were tied. She had but one last resort.

The sun shyly peeked through the early morning clouds, as she presented herself on the Kervran city house’s doorstep. A smart butler looked her over and guided her to a drawing room.

Cassandra had to do this. Cassandra would hand the crown over to Maeve Rohan. Aliénor’s freedom against an in in Cassandra’s most secret, most powerful secret: her spying network, especially her elements in Valbion. In other words, a safe and discreet communication channel to Titania, the Dowager Empress of Valbion and Maeve’s so-called aunt. She'd risk everything she's ever built, everything she'd ever achieved.

Black robes slide hurriedly against the maze of cobbled stones, desperate to reach their destination quickly. She must warn them, before it’s too late.

She must warn her, so she can be safe.

Pants escape her mouth, forming desperate white clouds in the freezing air. She hears the shouts, and a sob catches in her throat. She swallows it down. She must not fail. She cannot fail. She keeps her attention on her feet, careful not to trip on the tricky road. Her body knows the way, and her finger instinctively go to the wall to guide her to the entrance of the hidden concave. She blocks out the sound of the hounds and of the soldiers. She can still make it.

When her finger catch on the unstable rock, she presses herself against the wall and recalls the knock. 

This time, though, she is not seeking entrance. She is signalling for an emergency. The sequence is different, and the moment her hand pushes the last brick, a low ringing shakes the wall as the guard on the other side scrambles for composure.

She cusses. They’re not going to make it. Almost instantly, the door on the other side of the street opens and other robed figures scurry out in distress. 

The dogs are close. The masked figures seem to realise it too because their panic increases. She points them to the other direction and they melt into the shadows.

Some of them will be caught, she thinks. It’s fine. As long as she can get away.

She pushes against the flow of people coming out, desperate to find the girl she is looking for.

It’s too late when she realises she can, for the first time since she’s found her way to this place, see her shadow dance on the stones. A strong hand closes around her throat and her hood is shoved away, as she stumbles backward. Air leaves her lungs as terror swamps her body.

“Do not move! Under royal decree, you are under arrest!”

Arthur is on the verge of death, and it was her fault. He might not live out the night, the doctor had said. Aziliz had spent the entire time on his bedside, as he laid unconscious, in the throes of the poison-induced fever. Still, when she’d felt the tears come, she’d escaped to a hidden corner of the Kervran Castle to shatter.

As much as she hated the Kervran’s legacy, their foolish, boundless pride still flowed abundantly through Aziliz’ veins. She’d never show her little brother, even unconscious, any weakness. She wouldn’t show him her guilt, her shame, her sorrow.

Aziliz wouldn’t show anyone. Maeve knows that but still, she tiptoes into the round office, the sound of her steps muffled by the heavy carpet. Faint light filters through the sheer curtains, reflecting off a glass full of amber liquor. Little poodles of liquid around the bottle indicate that it had been poured in a careless manner, and worry grows in her. Aziliz is not careless. Maeve finally sees her. Aziliz has already noticed her presence, but she looks too numb to react. She is simply sitting by the window, slumped against the transparent surface, as her entire body is turned away from Maeve.

There is something agonising in the defeat carved into the slant of Aziliz’ shoulders. Her tears are silent, but they echo loudly in the quietness of the room. There is something heartbreaking in the absence of anger in her eyes. The sharpness Maeve is used to is twisted into pain and immeasurable sadness. It slices her like broken glass.

Maeve is compelled to touch, to cut herself on the barbed pieces, to share Aziliz’ wounds. She came because she’d wanted Aziliz to scream at her, to blame her too. Anything but the dull, absent pain in the dim and distant gaze.

Maeve has no right to be here. She has no right to see this, when it’s her fault, too. But she can’t help it, she is desperate to make it a little less worse. She’d do anything to ease the misery on the beautiful girl’s face. But she is powerless. She is nothing. Nothing but ashes. So Maeve stops in front of the chair, and lets her hands reach down. Her palms find cold, icy skin. The contact is electrifying, shaking her to her very core. She lets the pads of her fingers slide along Aziliz’s cheeks, as if to drink away her tears, her agony and her regrets. Any of it, all of it. She’ll take it all. Aziliz doesn’t budge.

Maeve steps even closer, making sure to leave the familiar sliver of a distance between their bodies. Her hands cup Aziliz’ jaw and angles it upwards to make their eyes meet.

Recognition barely registers in her eyes, as Maeve peers down at her. Amber is shimmering, drowning in tears and moonlight. The fear is plain to read, with the same destabilising honesty stained by bleeding anguish. It’s excruciating, and something in Maeve grows greedy. Aziliz’ eyes close, but the unshed tears are now running freely, soaking her cheeks. It was the first time Maeve had seen her cry. Captivated by the tears, she traces their trail with her eyes.

Her mouth ghosts over the corner of Aziliz’ left eye, tasting the salt and the despair. Her heart is thundering, and her fingers wipe at the wet skin of her face, hoping to dispel it all. To make Aziliz come back.

When Aziliz finds her, Maeve is sitting in an armchair in her room, her face empty and a glass in her hand.

“That’s my drink,” Aziliz deadpans, and grabs the cup to swallow some of the amber liquor, before putting it back on a small reading table by the window. “Why is the princess sulking, now?”

Maeve responds with a scathing look.

“Don’t,” her voice is choked by raw, venomous anger. “Don’t call me that again or I swear I will kill you in cold blood.”

“I’d love to see you try,” Aziliz shoots back, dead-serious.

Maeve does not move from her position, but she shakes her head. “Are you here to play with me, Kervran?”

No answer.

“You can hate me-”

“And I do,” Aziliz pipes in.

“But don’t you think that’s a little low, even for you?” The unveiled jab at Aziliz’ birth status is crude, but Maeve just wants to strike back. To hurt back.

The other girl shrugs, unaffected and Maeve’s fury tugs at her fiercely.

“You still look like a princess to me.”

Bewildered, Maeve motion to her messy night gown, her half-drunk glass of spirits and her worn-out complexion. “I’m nothing, and surely not a princess any more.” She scoffs, “Actually, I was never one.”

“Bratty, commanding and proud.” Aziliz’ smooth voice explains without any hint of mockery. “You fit the part so damn perfectly, though.”

“Stop it.”

“I don’t remember you being so fucking fragile, Rohan.”

“I said stop it,” Maeve is slowly spiralling out of control.

Aziliz is propped against the window, watching her with cold interest.

“Ah, yes.” she says, a hint of savage satisfaction tainting her words. “Here she is.”

“What do you want from me?” Maeve answers hotly. “I can’t give you anything. Not power, not money, not even a pretty little accessory you can show off.” Her tone turns wry. “Our deal is off.”

“I don’t care for pretty,” Aziliz’ expression does not change, but her gaze grows impossibly more intense. “I want real.”

“I can’t do that either.” A resentful, broken whisper. “I don’t even know if I am real.”

Aziliz drops a knee next to Maeve’s hip and leans in, her eyes holding Maeve’s. Maeve stares back, eyebrow raised in defiance.

“Then I’ll just have to make sure.”

And then, burning hot lips are seizing hers. Maeve has been kissed before, but never like this. Nothing about the kiss is gentle. Aziliz kisses the same way she breathes: demanding, merciless, and vicious. It’s all bites and fight, and Maeve feels herself responding with the same desperate violence.

She is aware of how close Aziliz’ body is from hers, but she wants more and she makes to grab the girl’s hip, to keep her there. It’s only when Aziliz freezes that Maeve’s hand changes its trajectory, landing on the soft fabric of her sleeve before slightly tugging at it. Their mouth separate in an instant, as a loud gasp escapes Aziliz, or maybe it’s hers. She doesn’t know. 

Maeve hears wood crackling in the fireplace, can smell the ashes on Aziliz’ skin, can taste the smoke on her tongue. Bare fingers close around her nape and Aziliz pulls her head higher, deepening the kiss. Maeve hums in the girl’s mouth and the moan that answers her sends irrepressible shivers throughout her entire body.

As if shaken awake from a daydream, Aziliz pulls away and takes a step back. Her lips are red and swollen and her pupils are blown out. Maeve is breathing heavily, her hooded gaze trailing over Aziliz’ sloppy appearance in delight - she had never seen the girl looking anything close to bothered, but now she was positively dishevelled.

Aziliz’ face returns to its cold impassivity, and she storms off. Before crossing the door, she turns and her golden eyes crash into hers. 

“You don’t get to cut off our deal on a whim, Rohan. We will be talking about this later.”