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Marosa slumps at the edge of her bed, fruitlessly rubbing at the back of her neck. Wearing the Draconic helmet fashioned for her day in and day out has sapped her strength, and she craves the end of the day when her head can finally fall.
Priessa bustles around behind her, unclasping her veil and unbuttoning her bodice. Normally, Marosa would have all her Ladies of the Bedchamber with her, but in this Draconic kingdom, Priessa is the only one she can trust.
Marosa has not slept since the fall of her kingdom from Virtudom. She cannot sleep, truly, without her Lady of the Bedchamber sleeping beside her. Her mind whirls with fear when she is alone; how long will it be until she is discovered, until Fýredel burns her alive? And when she does manage to doze off, it is always into horrifying, bloody nightmares that leave her gasping awake at night.
But when Lady Priessa Yelarigas is with her, and it is just the two of them alone in her bedchamber, her fears ease. Her mind quiets. Marosa does not know why, or how, but Priessa’s presence always soothes her.
Now Priessa lies with her, deep eyes thoughtful as she gazes at Marosa, her pale cheeks set in stark relief in the low light of the bedchamber.
“What are you thinking of?” Marosa asks, careful to keep her voice low. This is the Donmata’s Bedchamber, deep in the heart of the palace, but she fears even her most simple of conversations may be overheard, and she will allow herself to be paranoid if it means she will survive the night.
“You, Radiance,” Priessa confesses, always honest when it is just the two of them. “I do not desire to worry you unduly-”
“Tell me, please,” Marosa asks, reaching for Priessa’s hand. “I wish to know, whatever it may be.”
Priessa, typically so confident, bites her lip. “I fear,” she begins, and squeezes Marosa’s fingers tightly. “I fear that one day something will happen. Perhaps Fýredel will grow tired of you, or your true heart will be discovered, but when it happens, you will . . . disappear.”
Her voice breaks on the last word, eyes glimmering, and Marosa moves even closer, allowing her to draw comfort from her presence just as Marosa draws comfort from hers.
“And then you will be gone,” Priessa continues, “And as selfish as it sounds, then I will be alone in Yscalin. I know you think me brave, but without you, I fear I will simply . . . wither away, the last child of Virtudom under Draconic rule.”
“Oh, Priessa,” Marosa whispers, and when she leans forward, hand cupping Priessa’s cheek with all the tenderness she possesses in her body, all propriety between them falls away. She is the Donmata of Yscalin, and Priessa the First Lady of the Bedchamber, true. But they have been more than that since they were teenagers falling asleep together and sneaking kisses away from the watchful gaze of Marosa’s father. “I believe it is Yscalin that will wither under your sharp tongue, not the other way around.”
Priessa huffs a quiet laugh, leaning into Marosa’s touch. “Thank you for your confidence, Radiance.”
Marosa smiles, as gently as she can. “And I believe we will not be alone for much longer, once the Inysh ambassador arrives.”
“That is what you said when Prince Wilstan came to us,” Priessa says, but without any of her usual heat. Marosa understands that-it is difficult to joke, in the face of such things.
“I know,” she says unnecessarily, shifting closer to Priessa. “But perhaps Lord Beck can do what Prince Wilstan could not.”
Priessa nods, but there is a tightness about her Marosa understands. She doesn’t want to hope, to believe that anyone else may be able to help, if it will only be stolen away from her. But Marosa cannot help but to hope, for fear that she will lose herself if she cannot believe that one day her torments will end.
“Sleep now, Radiance,” Priessa says, and Marosa cannot help but go along when she pinches out the few candles illuminating the room. Even though it is not how she feels, she understands Priessa’s need to forget, to get by and survive, to find warmth in each other in the cover of darkness.
Marosa wakes with a start, the last dregs of her nightmare already fading away, shivering despite the sweat beading on her skin. Priessa sits up beside her, grasping her wrist with a fierce tenderness.
“Radiance?” she whispers. Her pale face looks like the moon in the dim light, Marosa thinks almost feverishly.
“I’m alright, Priessa,” Marosa says, and tries not to flinch when Priessa’s cool hand moves to her forehead.
“I know, Radiance,” Priessa says, and Marosa understands her true meaning. The plague has seen fit to pass her by, at least for now. Who can see what time will tell?
Marosa leans forward, and presses a kiss to Priessa’s cheek, moving across to her lips, tangling her fingers in her hair. Priessa murmurs something against her mouth, pressing closer, and Marosa reluctantly breaks their kiss.
“Priessa?” she asks.
“I love you,” Priessa says, and Marosa’s heart thuds behind her ribs.
They’ve said they love each other before, but somehow, though, this occasion feels different. More real. They are not companions, and likely never will be, but Priessa’s words feel like a promise. An unbreakable bond between them.
“Priessa,” Marosa says, blinking past the tears that threaten to spill over her lashes. “I love you.”
Marosa embraces her, pulling her close and squeezing her tightly. At that moment, they are not the Donmata of Yscalin and her First Lady of the Bedchamber. They are simply Marosa and Priessa, two women clutching each other in the dark. She knows they are not safe, that any moment together could be their last, but in Priessa’s arms, she feels shielded from any danger that may befall her.
That is dangerous thinking, Marosa knows, but she cannot help herself. She never has been able to, not with Priessa. But somehow, alone together as they are, she does not seem to mind.