Chapter Text
Being a nanny is an.. interesting job, to say the least.
Kanaya Maryam, nineteen years of age. Your interests include fashion, gardening, and anything to do with gazing at the sky. You’re one of the few that actually enjoys the sun, and for that you are grateful. It gives you time to yourself, to sew, to think, to keep yourself in your right mind. The twins are a handful enough; It would be even harder to take care of them if their teacher had quit when he threatened to.
Equius Zahhak, twenty-one years old. He’s very akin to a horse, you’ve observed, in the way he presents himself: Calm, collected. If you startle him, he’ll retreat to his corner and brood on what you’ve done for quite awhile. When he’s speaking of something he’s particularly fond of, such as archery, or horse-back riding, his gaze retains a far-off look and a smile crosses his features. Or speaking of his(rather idiotic, if you do say so yourself) views on castes in society, his posture shifts to be even more authoritative. You always thought that was rather endearing.
At the moment, you’re occupying yourself with turning the sheets for the girls. They’re very picky about their sheets; They don’t even let the maids touch them. You hum softly to yourself as you usually do, your small smile an indication of how much you enjoy having something to do besides listening to gossip or attending to the girls’ hands and feet. You subconsciously rub at the back of your neck as you think of the way they make you crane your head to speak to them when you’re brushing through their hair, careful to braid Meenah’s as precisely as possible. For if you do not do it exactly the way you are supposed to, she shan’t be happy with you; Recalling every one of the few times you’ve done so brings a dull ache to your back that you’d rather do without.
You finish with the sheets and leave the blankets to the maids, giving a pillow one last fluff before you leave the room soundlessly.
Of course, that’s when fate decides to throw your worries back at you, seeing as now you’ve smacked straight into a large chest. It takes a moment to pinpoint who exactly you ran into, and when you do, you feel your face burning with embarrassment. You jump back immediately, bowing to the teacher. A disdainful look paints his face from what you can see through your fluffy hair. “My apologies, sir,” you say in the strongest voice you can muster, bracing yourself for a clout to the ear at the most or a lecture at the least, but neither is forthcoming, you find.
"Present yourself properly." His voice is deep, but he doesn’t sound disgruntled. You take this as a good omen, slowly straightening your back and laying your hands delicately in front of your skirt. From where you stand, you can tell he’s sweating again, and you bet he’s happy for the ponytail to keep the salty substance from causing his hair to stick upon his neck. You keep yourself carefully deadpanned, eyes downcast. You expect it to come now, a smack, his voice raised at you for being so insolent. But once again, none of what you expect happens.
You could swear you can feel his gaze lingering on you before he walks past you, stride never breaking, his posture straight, hands locked behind his back. All of this, you notice with a glance from your peripheral vision.
Maybe being here won’t be too bad.