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The gardens were quiet as Romelle found herself drawn, once again, to their meandering pathways. She always reveled in the peaceful respite provided by the blooming trellises and calming waters. The way the New Altean sun turned the flora into a vibrant rainbow display would forever entice her, and she could never grow tired of the happy buzzing of the flanblan diploe.
She had once enjoyed getting lost in the maze of flowers and streams and trees, but she had visited so many times that she could no longer lose her way. It was a more devastating development than she let on.
Soft petals pressed against her fingertips as she passed, the click of her flats against the stone walkway heralding her passage. The scent of life surrounded her—sweet and crisp and kind—and she paused to let it soothe her skin. The burble of water from a grand white fountain just to her left tickled her ears. Wind toyed with her honeyed hair and kissed the apples of her cheeks as she settled on a bench beneath a flower-laden tree.
Romelle let her gaze linger on the arching branches and pale pink petals above. Through them, the sunlight dripped down into a dappled pelt that lay gently upon her figure, casting her in both gold and shadow.
She recognized these flowers, she realized after a moment. They were not Altean, but rather had been given to the kingdom by one of the human nations that Romelle could never keep memorized. Magnolias, Lance had told her. Known for their sturdiness and ability to adapt to new environments, they were the perfect choice for a gift to a foreign planet.
These ones had not quite bloomed. They were still securing their roots.
Romelle watched for a moment, admiring the way the flushed petals perched on their little emerald stems, ready to burst into pleated porcelain. A tightness coiled around her sternum; settled behind it; pressed out, out, out into the gardens around her. She could burst, too, if she tried. Perhaps even if she didn’t.
Adjusting to life on New Altea had been easy, at first. She had spent phoebs wrapped up in exploration and development alongside Allura. And then she had spent phoebs wrapped up in—
Well, in Allura.
It had all felt quite natural. Romelle was no brilliant strategist, but she was intuitive, and she knew how to help Allura make the people happy. Late evenings turned to late nights turned to all nights, and none of it ever felt rushed or prolonged.
Romelle had never been more content with her life than the moment she had first been able to call Allura wife. Her whole world slid into place with a great resounding sigh.
And then she was—Queen Romelle. And that was something else entirely.
Titles, and balls, and diplomacy, and napkins and pincurls and crinolines and—Romelle had not felt quite so overwhelmed and underprepared since the Colony. Since Bandor. That sensation of walking a tightrope, where one wrong step might send her tumbling to certain death, was a constant companion most quintants. She was trying to take lessons, trying to fit in, but no matter how many times she practiced her curtsey or powdered her face, she always felt like an outsider in the castle walls. She was far too emotional, far too ill-mannered and ridiculous, to ever be the queen her people needed her to be.
The queen Allura needed her to be.
Footsteps sounded to her right, pulling her from her reverie. She straightened her back and folded her hands in her lap, as she had learned to do. A young Altean man appeared from behind the furled azure leaves of a nearby gerriguluum bush.
“Your majesty,” he said, bowing at the waist. He was dressed in the royal servants’ livery, and Romelle felt a pang of guilt for being the reason he had to endure the afternoon heat in such a stuffy outfit. “Her majesty Queen Allura would like you to know that the ball will be starting in three vargas, and she sends her recommendation that you begin preparing accordingly, if you have not already.”
Romelle only scarcely avoided wincing at the mention of the ball. “Thank you,” she replied. “Please tell my handmaidens I will be in my quarters shortly.”
As soon as the man vanished behind the gerriguluum, Romelle’s shoulders sank, and her eyes shuttered. She let her hands fall to the bench surface on either side of her; braced them there, her arms two frail pillars under the weight of a monarchy.
Above her, the magnolias held their breath.
⧫⧫⧫
The sun was fast approaching the horizon by the time Romelle hurried past the great floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the residential wing’s western hallway. The walk to the ballroom was perhaps three doboshes, but she did not have that time.
She caught glimpses of herself in the mirrors that ran along the other side of the hall, reflecting the landscape of New Altea back at her, as if she were flying through the open skies. Her dress, tight and overlaid with floral lace applique along its cap sleeve bodice, flared at the waist into a broad skirt of chiffon. Its pastel blue color blended into the periwinkle of lingering daytime, and if she did not look too closely, she could imagine she had simply evaporated into the air. Had become a cloud, high up and far away from the night ahead.
Romelle had always found the mirrors horrendously ostentatious and at times disconcerting, but right now she supposed she was grateful that they gave her the chance to stuff her flyaways back into her low bun as she jogged by.
She skidded to a halt just before turning the final corner, pausing a tick to inhale deeply, bracingly. Once she felt composed enough—or at least as much as was possible—she rounded into the last hallway, where she saw her wife, back turned, standing before a set of enormous white doors. A giddy tingle hummed down her throat and into her collarbone as she approached.
Allura was stunning. Stars, she was always so stunning. Her gorgeous gown was the faintest, most delicate of pinks, made of countless layers of sparkling fabric that looked thinner and lighter than the silk of an Arethian quintler. Her ethereal, opalescent hair was pulled into a singular thick braid that fell over one shoulder, exposing the nape of her neck and the defined sculpture of her back. Romelle could trace the toned lines of that beautiful expanse for vargas—she had, in fact, many times. It almost pained her to see it go as Allura turned at the sound of her arrival, but her brief flash of disappointment was immediately replaced by newfound awe at the sight of her wife from the front.
The smile that spread across her face, a smile of relief and love, pierced Romelle’s veins and lit her from within. Allura stood there, hand outstretched, dazzling golden crown set upon her head, warm brown cheeks glowing with happiness, and it was all Romelle could do to blush and reach outward in return. The pads of their fingers touched first, and then their palms; and then their hands were intertwined, locked together in an embrace so humbly intimate that Romelle felt naked in the fragile privacy of this empty, palatial hallway.
“I worried I might have to send a search party out,” Allura said, her eyes alight with mirth. Romelle felt a small squeeze on her hand. “Are you ready now?” When Romelle wordlessly nodded, she reached up with her free hand and adjusted the silvery crown on Romelle’s head, then moved to cup her cheek. “You are so gorgeous, my love.”
Romelle balked and finally broke her silence. “Have you seen yourself?” She tentatively laid a hand on Allura’s waist, once again taking in the elegant, draping folds of her shimmering gown.
“I have.” She could hear the smile in Allura’s voice.
“You’re—divine,” Romelle breathed.
Allura laughed. “If I am divine,” she said, “then it is because you have awoken divinity within me.”
Romelle groaned and leaned into Allura’s space, nudging their noses together. “You’re so sappy,” she complained, her dimples betraying her delight, “and so good with words. Nobody warned me what a dangerous combination that would be.”
“Nobody warned you about a lot of things that come with me.” Allura’s tone was joking, but Romelle faltered briefly. She was grappling for a response when a page entered the room, giving them cause to lean back out of each other’s space.
“Your majesties.” She bowed. “They are ready for you.”
Allura turned to Romelle again and leaned over, placing a chaste kiss on her lips. When she pulled back, she bore an encouraging smile, and Romelle felt some of the tension melt from her spine. Their fingers disentangled finally, and Allura offered her elbow, upon which Romelle laid a reverent hand. Together, as the doors began to open, they stepped forward; two queens entering the ballroom, two gladiators entering the arena.
⧫⧫⧫
“… dreadful for the intergalactic trade market, which so many planets are still refusing to partake in.”
Romelle dragged her gaze away from the desert on her plate—a spongy Kriknog cake that was sickly sweet and had a bit too much eflor extract in its bright orange drizzle for her taste—and fixed her attention back on the Kks’o’klo diplomat seated to her right. He was slender and angular, with a light green complexion for which the castle’s cyan lighting did no favors. His wide, watery red eyes were trained on her. She could not remember having once seen him blink. In fact, she could not even remember his name.
“Quite right,” she replied after a brief delay spent processing his words. “Though I can’t say I blame them. Shouldn’t they look inward first? They have to …” She tapped the prongs of her utensil on the sticky top of her cake. “… secure their roots, before they can even think about engaging in an extraplanetary economy.”
Score, she thought to herself. That sounded so smart.
The diplomat evidently did not share the same assessment. He wrinkled his tiny oblong nose and launched into a tirade on the subject.
Romelle flicked her ears against his incessant, grating voice, but otherwise gave no sign of displeasure. At the very least, his propensity for long rants gave her the opportunity to let her mind drift elsewhere. She had spent the entire night chatting with foreign dignitaries, talking and smiling and dancing. Social butterfly she may be, but even she had her limits.
In truth, she had felt off kilter the whole night. When she swung her arms too wide during a Myrolian four-step with the heir presumptive of Xat-lor VII, when she laughed too loud at an Inviru ambassador’s joke, when she rambled too long about the Paladins and dominated a conversation that had originally been about spaceship fuel—she could sense the bubbles of a warm pain within her ribcage, simmering just there below the bone and sinew, a terrible soupy humiliation marinating her insides.
She felt, on nights such as this, more like a jester than a queen.
Her only solace was the calming presence of her wife. Allura always seemed to appear just when Romelle needed her most, extracting her from her discomfort and touching the soft inner cradle of her elbow, nestling pinpricks of warmth into that most vulnerable juncture. Perhaps an apology, perhaps a promise. Most likely both.
Each time, gratitude swelled in Romelle’s chest, followed invariably and fiercely by shame. She hated having to be rescued.
“Those Earthians, though—they really have no excuse,” the Kks’o’klo diplomat said, his mention of Earth managing to catch Romelle’s ear. “The galra had only occupied their system for—what? A few decaphoebs? Hardly a blip. No, the galra barely had time to lay a scratch on a few Earthian settlements.”
“They’re called humans.”
He waved a dismissive hand and wiped a smear of eflor drizzle from his chin. “And yet,” he continued, as if she had not spoken, “they have been practically stagnant in their engagement with the rest of the universe ever since. A few diplomatic visits, some dabbling in our advanced technology—next to nothing.”
“That’s actually quite a lot for them.”
“Yes, I do suppose it’s to be expected.” His long-suffering sigh jostled the thin, fleshy tendrils that drooped down from his upper lip. “They are, after all, a primitive species. They so closely resemble you Alteans that it can be easy to forget how vastly underdeveloped they are.” His insufferable little nose flared as he sniffed disdainfully. “Though at the very least, I usually expect primitive species to make up in resilience what they lack in sophistication and intelligence. But it seems these Earthians’ ability to bounce back from hardship has proven disappointing.”
“You’re wrong,” Romelle said. The diplomat seemed poised to ignore her and carry on, so she interrupted again, more forcefully, “You’re wrong.”
He stilled. His crimson eyes glistened as he observed her.
“Humans are remarkably resilient,” she said. “The galran reign on Earth was their most brutal display of power in hectophoebs, perhaps even kilophoebs. Sendak’s army funneled everything it had into complete domination of the planet, knowing that its total subjugation was the key to defeating the Paladins of Voltron.” She could taste poison gathering on her tongue. “Earth’s suffering may not have lasted for as long as other planets’, but that is because its suffering was condensed and amplified within that short occupation.
“Other planets were besieged with the intent to extract resources and maintain power across the cosmos. Earth was besieged with the intent to demoralize and destroy.” Romelle saw a gelatinous substance starting to secrete from the diplomat’s skin along his oval nose. He was frozen. “Assuming that both of those methods of war have the same impact on a society and don’t require distinctly different recovery paths is not only ignorant, but also dangerous when you are a high-ranking foreign diplomat whose words have weight in the interplanetary political sphere.
“In the wake of overwhelming devastation,” she continued, raising her hand to count on her fingers, “humans have managed to defeat a several-millennia-old intergalactic warlord, rebuild their homes and lives, and begin the process of exploring an entire universe full of life and technology that until now they had no idea even existed, while still recognizing that the focus of their efforts must remain interior as they grapple with information overload and the traumatic aftereffects of the near-extermination of their species.
“Humans are not weak, sir. They have persevered against more upheaval in the past few decaphoebs than you likely have in your whole life.” The table had grown quiet around her. “You simply resent them for not adapting in a way which suits your privilege and your pockets.”
A yawning silence followed.
The Kks’o’klo diplomat’s facial tendrils twitched, and he reached up with his napkin to dab at the slimy secretions along the side of his ovate nose, which was flushed a dark green.
Romelle’s skin prickled as the reality of the situation settled upon her like a web of bimbleblim thistles at the end of the harvest season. It was the most unnerved, the most exposed, she had ever felt at any of the formal events she had attended as Queen of New Altea. In the frigid absence of her sweeping anger, guilt and regret and embarrassment coiled around her throat and pressed deep until the air turned noxious in her lungs.
“Honorable Representative Ik’ik’a, I hope you won’t mind if I steal my wife for a dance.”
At the sound of Allura’s voice over her shoulder, Romelle jolted and banged her knee on the table. Her hands went to steady her glass of nunvill. She exhaled slightly once it was stable again, then braved a look behind her, where Allura was standing with her palm upturned in invitation. There was an odd look in her eye, an unblinking focus that set the pointed tips of Romelle’s twitchy ears ablaze with shame.
“May I?” Allura asked.
Romelle struggled with the shape of her tongue for a moment. “Of course,” she replied, the noise thin and strangled. She rose from her seat, taking special care not to knock into anything else, then remembered to spare the cowering diplomat—Ik’ik’a, right, that was it—a polite nod. “If you will excuse me, sir.” She placed a quaking hand in Allura’s grasp.
Neither of them said anything as they made for the dance floor. The tension was suffocating, and Romelle knew her grip was growing sweaty. She cast a wary glance around the room, internally cursing as the crowd parted to give the queens space in the center. The last thing she wanted right now was further scrutiny.
Finally, they reached the middle of the marbled floor. Guests gathered on all sides; great white-and-cyan crystalline chandeliers twinkled down on them; impossibly tall windows let in a diluted silver moonlight that strained to soothe Romelle’s flushed features.
On another night, she might have found herself relaxing into Allura’s hold, grateful for a respite from the posturing and politicking. Tonight, as Allura turned and pulled her in close, laying a firm hand on her waist and fixing her with that piercing, unreadable blue gaze, Romelle only wished for the burn of her cheeks to consume her being and turn her to ash.
Their movements started off measured, dainty. They glided more than stepped. Between the surreal tingling that had haunted her since her moment of impropriety and the featherlight manner in which they drifted across the gleaming surface below, Romelle felt as though she was floating in the air alongside the music. The pressure of Allura’s fingers at the small of her back was all that grounded her in the moment. She simply watched, caught between awe and dread, as Allura guided her around the room, picking up momentum as they spun, her pink tulle kissing Romelle’s blue chiffon. The line where their bodies met grew ever slimmer, a sun setting upon the ocean, until sky and wave became indistinguishable from one another.
As the music faded, Allura pulled them both to a halt and simply held Romelle there, their corseted figures heaving for breath against each other. That look, the one that had eclipsed her eyes from the moment she had asked to dance, remained steadfast, even now. Romelle felt pinned beneath the weight of their intensity.
“Wait for me in my chambers after the guests leave,” Allura said, barely a whisper. “I want to talk to you.”
The anxiety in Romelle’s veins boiled over, leaving the hairs of her arms bristling. She could only nod. Something inside her withered.
⧫⧫⧫
Allura’s quarters were empty when Romelle entered them. Ordinarily, one might consider them enormous, and especially so when they were without their resident. But as Romelle paced from one end to the other, the space seemed to shrink with every step, trapping her there, doomed to manufacture countless predictions of the conversation about to take place, each more embarrassing than the last.
Romelle’s spiraling thoughts crashed into a jumbled heap as she heard the sound of a door opening behind her. She froze, her foot mid-step, then whirled around, the broad skirt of her gown following with slight delay.
Allura had her back turned. She was closing the door, slowly, until it gave a soft click. She locked it, then, and paused, hovering over the doorknob for a tick before at last turning around.
Her eyes were still clouded as she stepped forward. Her pace was casual at first, but only for a moment before she was digging her fists into her pink skirt and lifting it, the tap of her heels growing increasingly rapid against the grey stone floor.
Lit by the fireplace at her left as much as she was by the fire in her purpose, Allura was a vision. A vision of a warrior, the armor of her golden crown glinting with her charge, the sword of her parted lips descending upon her quarry, the battle cry of her lover’s name whispered with such veneration that it may well be a prayer:
“Romelle,” she said, and their swords clashed.
In but an instant, Romelle’s worries were replaced with the heat of her lover’s mouth, pressed so desperately and fervently against her own that she could know nothing else. The soft slide of Allura’s lips contrasted with her firm hands crowding Romelle out onto the balcony and against the banister, slipping behind her figure to tug at the blue ribbons of her corset. It was overwhelming in the only way Romelle wanted to be overwhelmed, and she responded in kind, looping her hands around her wife’s neck and pulling her ever closer.
“I do so hate being crude,” Allura murmured in between kisses, then pressed their foreheads together and simply inhaled their mingled breaths. “But for the past four painstaking vargas since you flayed that awful man, I have thought of nothing but the taste of you.
“Your mouth.” She captured Romelle’s lips once more, long and languid and wet, then pulled back and gently guided her wife to turn around, thighs against the balustrade, the plane of her shoulder blades exposed. “Your neck.” She leaned forward, peppering Romelle’s back with kisses. She paid special attention to the curve of her neck, leaving there a brand that Romelle knew would turn dark and tender by morning. “Your pleasure.” Her nimble fingers resumed their ministrations, pulling ribbon through eyelet, and her hot breath fell upon her lover’s back like a benediction. The sensation was otherworldly, and Romelle trembled under her touch.
Allura paused, then. “Is this alright?” she hummed, pulling back a step and giving Romelle the space to inhale. “Are you—alright?” Her hand, hesitant now, came down to caress Romelle’s shoulder.
Romelle felt her heart flutter so sharply at Allura’s concern that she wondered if it might draw all the creatures of the night to the balcony. “Stars, yes, sorry,” she breathed, closing her eyes a moment before peering over her shoulder and offering an apologetic smile. “It’s just been a stressful night. But you’re not—unwelcome.” She reached behind herself and pulled Allura’s arms around her waist, pure comfort filling her as she felt her wife’s chin coming to rest upon her shoulder. “I thought you were disappointed with me.”
Allura’s head jerked up, and Romelle missed the warmth. “Disappointed? Why?” Her voice was breathless and incredulous. “You verbally annihilated a pompous arse who was insulting our family and their entire planet. He looked ready to cry by the end. I almost wish he had.” After a brief pause, she added, “I was serious, by the way. That was sexy. Our guests are lucky I had the willpower to restrain myself until after the ball.”
Romelle felt a grin overtake her face, and she turned her head to knock her temple against Allura’s. “Probably would have been the most action Ickykick has ever seen in his life.”
“Ik’ik’a,” Allura corrected with a giggle, nuzzling Romelle’s cheek. After a few ticks, she tilted her head back and frowned. “Seriously, Rom,” she said, squeezing her tight around the waist. “Why did you think that?”
There was a moment where Romelle debated saying nothing, or brushing it off, or lying. But in the end, she looked back out over the castle gardens below, dropped her hands to the banister, and said, in a volume that she tried to raise but could not, “I just feel like I’m always an embarrassment to you.”
Allura stiffened, then leaned back and silently began pulling the hair pins out of Romelle’s updo. “My darling,” she murmured, placing the pins on a nearby glass side table. “You know you could never—”
“No, I don’t know,” Romelle interrupted, then bit her lip for it. She could feel the way Allura’s hands had paused in her hair. “I just—I don’t know anything about any of this. No matter how hard I try to learn, I can’t ever get all the rules right, and I get so emotional about everything, and I’m terrible at hiding my feelings.” She had not noticed when Allura’s hands had started moving again, untying the elastic ribbon at the back of her head, but it soothed her. She took a deep breath. “I feel so foolish and— unqueenly. All the time. I’m not a noble, ‘Lu; I wasn’t born for this kind of thing. I’m a commoner.”
Allura placed the hair tie on the table. “You are anything but common, Romelle,” she said, running her fingers through Romelle’s blonde tresses, shaking them out at the roots. Romelle relaxed at the touch. “And you may not be a noble, but you are noble. Blood does not determine the nobility in here.” She slid a slender hand over Romelle’s shoulder and down past her collarbone to rest over her heart. Left it there, for a moment. Then returned it to Romelle’s hair and continued gently working out the snarls with her fingers. “You know, I think I understand a little where these feelings are coming from.”
“Mm?”
“Mm.” Allura’s fingers, finished with their grooming for now, snaked down Romelle’s arms and came to rest atop her hands, which were still set upon the balustrade. “When I became the Blue Paladin,” she said, her voice soft, vulnerable to be carried off by the wind at any moment, “I struggled to adapt to the change. I wanted so badly to make it work, to bond with the Blue Lion. But I was so frustrated with my mistakes, with how new I was at piloting compared to everyone else, that I couldn’t trust myself.” Her fingers slipped in between Romelle’s, pale hand under brown palm. Romelle could feel herself shaking. “So she couldn’t trust me either.”
Allura’s thumb rubbed an invisible pattern along Romelle’s own. “Once I learned to trust myself,” she said, “all the rest followed. I was able to adapt and grow and find pride in accomplishments.”
She paused a moment, then pried Romelle’s hands from the banister and turned them over on their backs, so that her palms lay facing up to the night sky. Romelle let her.
“In order to trust myself,” Allura whispered, touching her palms to Romelle’s and leaning in to press a kiss to the nape of her neck, “I had to trust the people I loved. The people I wanted to protect. I had to trust that they loved me, too. That they also wanted to protect me. I had to trust that they would support me, not judge me, while I adapted, and that they would always be there for me when I stumbled. And I had to trust that they trusted me. ”
Romelle sniffed, fighting back the moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes.
“This is a big change for you, Romelle. New Altea may resemble my old way of life in many ways, but it’s nothing like the life you come from. It’s alright to take your time in adapting. I’m here with you every step of the way. And I’m sorry I didn’t have this conversation with you sooner.
“I want you to know that I trust you,” Allura said. Her head leaned against Romelle’s. “And not just because I love you, but because I know you are meant to lead, especially with me.” The tears were flowing now, from both of them. Romelle did not look, but she could feel a drip on her bare shoulder. “Your compassion, your burning heart, is so vital to our people. You see your emotions as a shortcoming, but they’re not. They are a gift. And I beg you to treasure them. Because I certainly do.”
Romelle closed her eyes and leaned back further into Allura’s warmth. Her teartracks turned cold in the wind.
Allura pressed another kiss into Romelle’s hair. “Did you not see the smiles you put on so many faces, just tonight? Did you not see how many guests were enraptured and persuaded by your fiery words?” Her questions drew Romelle’s attention away from the night and back to her face. “You are a beacon of hope and compassion, Romelle. Not just to the foreign dignitaries, and not just to the people of New Altea. But to me. You keep me sensitive. You keep me vibrant. You keep me kind.
“You are the part of my soul that reminds me to be mortal, Romelle.”
Romelle felt her chest constrict; felt the tears return. She tightened her grip desperately on her wife’s hands, then pulled them back around her waist, binding them together, back to front. “Again with the sappiness and the words,” she choked out, a feeble attempt at a tease.
Allura simply laughed, a celestial chime, then quieted. “It’s important to me that you don’t base your self worth around my opinions,” she said after a moment. Romelle shifted with discomfort. “We may not always agree, but it will never be my place to dole out approval or disappointment. I am not your monarch; I am your wife. We are equals.”
Romelle cast her gaze down below the balcony, watching a pithtrot scurry across one of the stone pathways. She breathed. “I suppose I just—I’m still used to—” She broke off and glowered at the animal’s striped tail, poking out from beneath a bush.
She did not need to say his name. Allura knew. She knew, and she understood. Romelle could tell as much by the reassuring squeeze of her embrace.
They stood in silence for a time. Romelle could see the magnolia tree swaying in the wind below, its velvet buds turned white by the swollen moon. The air had started to grow chilly by the time Allura spoke again.
“Every moment, I am awed by the passion and empathy you carry in you,” she said. Her nose pressed against the shell of Romelle’s ear, a plea for her to listen. “You are the strongest person I know.
“I love you,” she whispered. There were feathers in her breath. “I love you.”
Romelle watched the pithtrot prowl around the base of the magnolia. She stared at the soil, imagined the roots below spreading, venous and unapologetic, until they were long enough to ferry comets to the beating center. The pithtrot climbed the trunk of the magnolia and lept between its limbs. They jostled, but remained sturdy.
Romelle wondered, absently, how many royal jewels she could balance upon its branches before they broke. She reckoned there was strength enough, perhaps, for the whole lot.
⧫⧫⧫
Ripples followed the path of Romelle’s fingertips as they glided through the lavender bathwater in which she sat. The mixture, an oddly thoughtful gift from Pidge, left an almost smoky aroma in the air and colored the water purple. She watched the liquid bob around her hands, little mountains and valleys shifting just at the turn of her wrist.
Across from her, still soaking in the afterglow of their love, Allura sat, blissfully nude, her hair freed from its braid and left to frame her tranquil face. Her head was tilted back, exposing the slim trail of her throat, sprinkled with bites and bruises. The sight alone turned Romelle’s lower stomach to bubbles.
“‘Lu,” she mumbled, lifting her hands from the water and stretching them out to the other end of the bath. Allura opened one eye, waited. “C’mere. Let me give you a wash.” Allura closed the eye. “Hey!”
Allura’s eyes were still shut, but Romelle could sense she was rolling them beneath the lids. “And put my hair in your face? So you can sneeze in it?” She hunkered down in the tub. “I take great pride in my hair and would like to keep it safe from your ticklish nose, thank you.”
“That was one time!”
“Twice.”
Romelle pouted. “The second time didn’t count—I had a bad case of the piddly scrumps! You know how I am when I get the piddly scrumps.”
“And how do I know I can trust you?” Allura countered. Her lips were straining to suppress a smile. “Maybe you have the piddly scrumps right now.”
“In that case I might not be long for this world, so you should grant me my dying wish.”
“And your dying wish is to bathe me and infect me with your piddly scrumps?”
“Either that or to own one of those Earth pillows with the weird sticky black straps—” She mimed pulling apart the straps and sticking them back together. “—that turn them into stuffed animals. I haven’t decided yet.”
Allura laughed aloud and finally sat up, pastel water spilling from her figure with the movement. She disentangled their limbs and crawled across the tub, then turned and slid back in between Romelle’s legs. “Happy?” she snarked, reaching into the water to grab Romelle’s shins and pull them up into her lap.
Romelle gladly allowed herself to be resituated, then leaned in and pressed an audible smooch into the back of Allura’s head. “Quite,” she said, and selected a pale pink soap bar from a nearby seashell dish. It smelled of fresh juniberries.
“… Is that the juniberry one? I like that one.”
“I know you do,” Romelle replied, parting Allura’s hair and draping it over both shoulders to expose her back. She dipped the soap underwater, then brought it up to Allura’s skin and rubbed it gently across the smooth surface, lathering her until a delicate lace cape clung to every inch.
“You’re an attentive caregiver,” Allura said. Her voice was light and humorous, but there was a softness in it. “Should my handmaidens be worried for their employment?”
Romelle set the soap aside, trading it for a pristine white washcloth. “I want to care for you,” she admitted, finding no room in her lungs for anything but blunt honesty. She wiped slowly, up and down, caressing each bit of exposed skin. “You care for me so well.” She remained silent for half a dobosh, rinsing the cloth in the tub and using it to wash the suds off of Allura’s body. She could tell her wife was holding her breath.
“The person you are for me,” Romelle said, putting the cloth down and lifting an admiring hand to trace the water droplets that made lazy little meandering rivulets down Allura’s back. “That is the person I want to be for you.”
Allura did not move for a few ticks, and neither did Romelle. They stayed like that, wrapped up in one another, shrouded in a lavender steam that glistened in the early morning sun just now peaking through the bathroom’s tinted windows. Finally, Allura turned around and sat on her calves, facing Romelle.
“You already are, my love,” she said, bending forward and placing a single, lingering kiss on Romelle’s lips. “I don’t care for you out of pity.” When she pulled away, Romelle tried to chase after her, but she stood and stepped out of the bath, out of reach. “I care for you because you deserve it.”
Romelle watched with wonder as she exited the room, her body radiant in the rising light of dawn. She returned a moment later, bearing their two crowns: silver and pink, gold and blue. The gemstones glittered in the palm of each hand as she stepped gracefully into the tub and sank back down, her legs on both sides of Romelle’s, facing her. Pressing into her space until Romelle could not help but place her hands upon the offered blessing of Allura’s hips.
“Many think these crowns are a birthright,” Allura said. Despite the jewels between them, their gazes never left one another. “But they are not.” She lifted one to her head—her own, the gold and blue—and fixed it upon the white halo of her hair. “They are a privilege that must be earned.”
Romelle watched, transfixed. Her mind was heavy.
“Everything we have done—everything we continue to do—earns us these.” Allura cupped Romelle’s cheek with her free hand, and Romelle angled her head just slightly to leave an open-mouthed kiss on her palm. “We will never stop having to earn them. Most of the time it will be a struggle. One that we will tackle together, inseparable.
“It will not be easy.” She released Romelle’s cheek and held the remaining crown in both hands. “But that is how we know that we are worthy.”
She lifted the crown, set it on Romelle’s head.
“We are worthy,” Allura said.
Romelle settled there in the bracket of her lover’s knees. A wreath of silver and pink sat nestled in her golden hair: a laurel bestowed upon a champion who had at long last returned home from the war.
“You are worthy,” Allura said. The crown on her head winked its approval.
Romelle smiled back.
“My queen,” Allura said.
Romelle kissed her. Outside, in the misty hush of morning, the magnolias bloomed.