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"spangled is
the earth with her crowns"
Mae's had a pet theory about Celica for a while now: that she sometimes does mysterious-looking things just to look, well, mysterious. Is there some kind of code of conduct for being a secret princess? One where you've got to stare wistfully across the horizon at least once a week, or make a cryptic remark in every conversation that leaves the other person wondering what you're really talking about?
Celica's mysterious act for today seems to be peering into a series of waist-high jugs in the foyer of this desert stronghold. She goes down the line, lifting the lids to peek at the contents of each, considering whatever she finds with a pensive sort of expression. Curious, Mae saunters on over to join Celica in her inspection.
"Find anything worth yoinkin'?" she asks.
"What? I--no," Celica starts, hurriedly jamming the lid of her current jug shut. "At least, I'm not planning on pilfering anything for myself, even if I could somehow carry one of these off."
Mae wonders aloud, "Would that even be stealing? Like, if we're taking back stuff that was taken to begin with, does the whole double-theft thing cancel out? What's the word on that from Mila?"
Celica braces her hands against the jug like a general at a war table, looking way too solemn and poised for the situation. Mae knows she's genuinely chewing on this choice piece of theological jerky, so the answer's likely to be good, at least.
"The Mother has no set stipulations for such a situation," Celica admits, "Though nor would I say it's in her nature to leave us with no room to make our own judgments. No one divine mandate can fit every little human circumstance, after all."
Every little circumstance, sure, but the big ones--those are the ones Mae knows Celica prays for guidance about until her legs fall asleep.
"Then we're good, right? We can just, uh, 're-appropriate' the stuff we need in order to keep on meting out some sweet holy justice," Mae declares, framing the word "re-appropriate" with a conspiratory wiggle of her fingers. A smile tweaks at Celica's lips, and sweet Mila's scaly tail is she pretty when it reaches her eyes.
"Honestly, my motive here was pretty selfish--I was wondering if I could sneak a moment to wash my hair with some of the water in one of these jugs. I don't want to seem fussy about something so trivial in front of the others, but..." Celica gives some of her curls a dismayed little push to illustrate her point. Ah, Mae thinks. Not so mysterious a motive after all (for once). If she looks closely, she does have to admit that Celica's always-immaculate hair is maybe a smidge less immaculate than usual. Only a smidge, though.
"Go for it," Mae offers. "It's not selfish to want to look good! I mean, you always look good, but, like, gooder than usual. More good. Besides," she hurries to add, "If any of Grieth's bozos come back here after we're gone, you can leave some nice sand in their drinking water for 'em." Not that Mae wouldn't have laughed at the thought anyhow, but Celica laughing with her makes it that much better. At least, assuming Celica's laughing at the sand in the water thing, rather than the painfully obvious crush thing. Mae's really banking on the former, here.
Even if Celica's picked up on Mae's interest in her good looks that goes a bit beyond the realm of maidenly friendship, all she asks is, "Would you mind keeping an eye out for any of the men--well, anyone else in general, really? I'm sure it'd look more than a little weird if someone walked in to see a priestess dunking her head in a jug of water."
"Sure thing!" Mae chirps.
She savors the giddiness at Celica's trust--what's more intimate than admitting you can do weird things around someone? The foyer itself isn't exactly intimate, coated with sand as arid walls of wind occasionally blast in from the wide-open entryway.
"Some 'stronghold' this is," Mae remarks a little too loudly. She whips around to stare real intently at said entryway the second Celica begins to remove her neckpiece. Celica's bare neck and shoulders, Mae thinks, could end wars.
"Hmm? Oh, the doorway? There should be a way to close it if need be. ...At least, I hope so, if we end up having to defend this place ourselves."
Mae stands arms akimbo, shifting her weight from one tapping foot to the other, trying not to listen too closely to the soft chime of Celica's earrings as she (presumably) unhooks them and lays them on the ground beside her neckpiece and headband. There's an unceremonious splash, and Mae realizes that Celica really has gone and just dunked her whole head into the jug. She peeks over her shoulder just in time to see Celica reemerge, now-wet hair hanging over her face in a rather ghoulish curtain.
Yet, there's something beautiful about it, even with Celica stooped over and looking like a swamp monster. Mae's long since stopped even trying to pretend that her feelings towards Celica are envy, rather than attraction, so she indulges in the sight of Celica wringing out her hair. The water spills at first in staccato lashes across the sandy floor, before slowing to trickles of droplets that spangle the area around where Celica stands.
Celica catches her gawking (not that Mae's ever been good at hiding it), and the fingers in her hair curl with self-consciousness.
"Mae," she begins. Her voice is so warm that the desert suddenly feels frigid in comparison. "Do you...want a go? Washing your hair, I mean." In an impressive feat of athleticism Mae hadn't realized any part of herself was capable of, her heart's taken a running leap right up her throat. Is she kidding herself, thinking that maybe Celica was going to ask her something else for a moment there? "Uh, not in the jug I just swilled my dirty hair around in, that is."
Mae considers her own hair, flyaway and full of tufts like the fairy floss an indulgent merchant once let her and Boey sample at the greatport. She'd brought some back for Celica, who'd eaten her portion with evident delight, despite how sticky and shapeless the stuff had become in the summer heat. Though she knows she hasn't been such a fool for Celica forever, it sure feels like it, sometimes.
"I'm good," Mae says instead. "D'you want me to go get Boey so he can dry your hair with his wimpy fire magic? It'd make him feel useful for once, I bet."
Celica can't hide her smile at Boey's expense, for all that she tries to stay impartial in the neverending volley of one-upsmanship--but nor can Mae hide the way her eyes follow the last traces of water that leave faint trails along the skin of Celica's collarbone. She'll let this be her own mystery for Celica to ponder, she tells herself.