#babelard

Ophelia von Valancius is used to getting what she wants. Even when she was simply known as Ophelia Stubbs, the third generation ruler of a whole star system of wonderfully corrupted thieves, she still got what she wanted.

That never meant her desires came easily to her, thieves are, after all, opportunists, a finer expression for turncoats and backstabbers, meaning at times goals had to be reached by force, and at other times the price was higher than Ophelia ever could have imagined. 

Nonetheless, that is all in the past now. The newfound knowledge of the blood surging through her veins turned her world on its axis, and with it her desires. It had been difficult to accept at first, the nagging feeling of the whole revelation being a long run con never fully ceased, but with every battle won, with every betrayal shot down, the desire to take her seat on the throne grew stronger. 

It's so close she can taste it. The voices of thousands of her charges gathering to see her assert her right to Theodora's legacy echo from the streets and through her cracked open door to the balcony, and they're all there for her. 

The last obstacle should be an easy one, but judging by the fussing of the maids, it might as well have been as difficult as getting out of Rykad. 

At first glance, the gown might be considered simple compared to the flamboyant creations the other nobles wear. High-collared — as she prefers it — with bare shoulders, but the midnight blue silk hugs her body in all the right places, and when she moves, light catches on the tiny beads embroidered on the skirt, making it look like a galaxy. 

Much to the dismay of the maids, Ophelia has chosen to keep her hair down, though she still lets them fuss about with the make-up, by now they know what she likes. 

Another sweep of blush on her cheek before Ophelia raises her hand. The maid stops immediately.

“Leave me,” she says. 

The maids scramble to vacate the room. 

It's rare for Ophelia to have a moment of peaceful solitude, she cherishes every second of it, quietly observing herself in the mirror. 

Her heart beats like a field drum within her chest, an equal mix of nerves and excitement, but her hand is steady as she reaches for her lipstick. The blood plum red stands in stark contrast to her pale skin, a colour she's used as long as she can remember, as much a safety as the rifle she usually carries on her back. 

As always with her moments of solitude, it gets prematurely interrupted, this time by the sound of the door cracking open. 

Do people not even have the decency to knock anymore? 

“I said I wanted to be left alone,” Ophelia snaps without tearing her eyes from her reflection.

“My apologies, Lord Captain,” Abelard says from the door. “It’s time.”

The scowl immediately drops from Ophelia's face, a soft smile taking its place. 

His presence soothes her nerves, warmth and safety caressing her racing heart. At the same time it overwhelms her, desire surging through her body with a force that has her lose her breath for a moment. 

There's also the uncertainty, between running across galaxies and dealing with the workings of her ship, there hasn't been time to talk through what happened between them. 

There won't be time for that today either, for now she'll just be happy to see him. 

She stands up, twirling once with silk flowing around her before facing him.

“How do I look?” she asks, now grinning from ear to ear. 

Abelard’s face is unreadable, his lips pursing ever so slightly. His natural eye stays put on her face, but the red lens of his ocular implant twitches downward.

“Suitable for the occasion, Lord Captain,” he says, tone short.

It takes all her strength to not show her disappointment, hiding the lump in her throat by taking another look in the mirror, applying another layer of lipstick to already immaculate lips.