Work Text:
"Adaab, shehzada. (Greetings, my prince.) Welcome back,” greeted one of her mother’s advisors.
Caitlyn dismounted her horse with a half-hearted grunt, immediately shucking off her bright blue cloak and handing it off to a nearby servant. It wasn’t much of a welcome party, but honestly, she preferred this to the fanfare that seemed to plague every mildly successful expedition.
Although ‘successful’ was certainly a choice for the bloodshed she had just commanded.
Since childhood, she had been regaled with stories of the glory and grace she had inherited from her ancestors. She has been told that if she were to be a monarch worthy of the Empire, she would have to defend her kingdom from the insidious powers that sought to empower themselves.
Still, Caitlyn was no fan of violence. Her actions were more out of the duty she felt towards the people her family had adopted as their own. If possible, she would’ve ended the matter without any casualties.
“Your Abbujaan (Father) missed you dearly. And the Maharaani (Queen) is expecting a full report once you have… freshened up, as it were,” the advisor continued following Caitlyn through the courtyard.
“Did she not receive my message? I sent it before we left Hyderabad,” Caitlyn asked, coolly ignoring the sly implication behind the impertinent subordinate’s words.
“Ah, indeed, shehzada (my prince). However, there are always elements that don’t feel quite right to put in writing.”
Caitlyn hummed in acknowledgement. She wasn’t always this aloof in her answers. No, she had been trained to speak to everyone with the effortless charm and clever poetry that had been impressed upon her by the court’s greatest scholars at a tender age. But the expedition had been long and irritating, which resulted in a short temper and a lack of her usual patience.
Once she reached the threshold of her destination, she dismissed the advisor. The smell of sweet jasmine and burning incense filled the air. The lilting notes of the sitar carried through the sheer curtain separating her from the lady playing.
As much as Caitlyn wanted to barge in, she was a gentleman. Usually. She knelt for a moment to dispose of her boots, nudging them to the side with her foot before straightening up with her hands behind her back. She cleared her throat.
"Ijazat? (Permission?)"
The rich melody stopped, and Caitlyn nearly regretted her intrusion, but all thoughts of music were forgotten as soon as she heard the patterned tinkle of anklets racing across the floor. The curtain was pulled back by its ropes, allowing her to peer inside and catch sight of that brilliant grin.
“You know you don’t need to ask,” Vi murmured, reaching out to hook her hand into the front of Caitlyn’s armour. The prince let out an undignified squeak as she was pulled into the room.
It was always so easy with Vi. She laughed, and danced, and sang, and stole flowers from the gardens as if Caitlyn wouldn’t lay all the flora of the Empire at her feet just to see her heart-wrenching smile.
Caitlyn felt the tension drain from her shoulders as she let Vi guide her over to the bed and push her down by the shoulders. She wanted to say something. Some witty words about honouring the courtesan’s privacy and sanctity, but then Vi started tugging her arm plate loose, and Caitlyn’s mind went dry as it so often did around her.
“That one’s new,” Vi remarked with a frown as she set Caitlyn’s breastplate to the side, her callused thumb brushing over the gnarly scar just under the collar of the prince’s wrinkled kurta. Caitlyn’s breath hitched in her throat, her sapphire eyes dreamily mapping out the freckles on Vi’s cheeks, the specks of silver in her grey eyes, made richer by the dark lines of kajal (kohl). “And too close to your neck for my comfort.”
Caitlyn smiled, her hand coming up to curl around Vi’s, pressing a light kiss to her palm. “Just trying to catch up with you, meri jaan (my life),” Caitlyn teased, mercifully regaining control over her tongue.
Vi huffed and pulled away, causing Caitlyn to chuckle as she settled back on the downy mattress, propping herself up by the elbows.
Ever since Vi and her family had been sent to Delhi as part of a tribute offering, the pink-haired girl had caught Caitlyn’s attention. The young prince was only seven and endlessly fascinated by the servant girl who was always climbing trees and then falling out of them. Caitlyn had attempted to impress her once, after Vi had a particularly bad fall, by trying to scale the same mango trees that had given Vi her first broken arm. After that, both of them were banned from entering the gardens without supervision. At eleven years old, that had been Caitlyn’s idea of romance and courting, though it did get her the affections of the brawny beauty, so all things considered, she saw it as a win.
“Don’t be like that. I’m injured.” Caitlyn pouted as Vi picked up her pooja thali (prayer plate), presumably thanking her deities for Caitlyn’s safe return. While Caitlyn never put much stock in religion, her own or the locals’, it always seemed to soothe Vi to pray every time there was another war to fight. It was the only reason why Caitlyn still wore the consecrated cat’s eye ring Vi had gifted to her before her first battle.
Vi ignored her protests, the impetuous siren, whispering words of gratitude before pressing a laddoo (sweet) against Caitlyn’s lips. Caitlyn smirked, her hand slowly wrapping around Vi’s wrist, her pinky brushing against the thick gold bangle as she bit into the prasad (holy offering). Caitlyn maintained eye contact with the courtesan, delighting in the way her face turned the same shade as her hair.
“Mm, you always make the best laddoos (sweets),” Caitlyn purred, pushing the thali (plate) to the side, her other hand travelling from Vi’s wrist down to her waist. “I pity the poor soul who hasn’t had a taste.”
“You know very well that I only make these for you,” Vi pointed out with an amused snicker, the sound cut short by a sharp gasp as Caitlyn flipped their positions.
“Doesn’t hurt to hear the confirmation from your lips.” Caitlyn shrugged, fingering the embroidery that lined Vi’s silken jama (robe). “But I think I need a little more than treats right now…”
“Like a bath?” Vi supplied cheekily.
“Minx.”
“You smell like your horse.”
“Are you saying you have a problem with Layla now? She’ll be heartbroken.”
Vi giggled, full and bright, and just for Caitlyn.
"Maafi, huzoor (Apologies, my lord)," she cooed, planting her hand on Caitlyn’s uninjured shoulder before rising. “I merely wish to see you at your full beauty.”
Well, if that was the case.
Caitlyn stood up immediately, dragging a still amused Vi to the bathing pool in the courtesan’s quarters. It didn’t take long for both of them to shed their clothes and sink into the cool water, Caitlyn’s toned back pressed against Vi’s front. A comfortable silence enveloped them as Vi carefully washed the grime off Caitlyn’s skin.
“I missed you,” Caitlyn confessed, her fingers tracing the swirling patterns of mehendi (stained henna tattoo) that started at Vi’s fingers and covered her whole back. Caitlyn always appreciated the effort Vi put into it; as soon as the colour would fade, the servants were asked to reapply it. While it complemented Vi’s arms, it made the courtesan’s muscular back look like a veritable masterpiece, rivalling the likes of Bishandas.
Caitlyn sighed when she felt Vi tense, almost imperceptibly. The topic was a tense one. Being an offering meant that Vi was allowed to do little more than serve and entertain. While that didn’t stop Caitlyn from demanding that Vi be allowed to train in combat by her side, apparently, permitting her to join the soldiers’ ranks was too far, even if Vi could easily take down most of the warriors in their armies. Caitlyn wanted to fight—had fought for the rule to be revoked, but she quickly learnt that the close-minded, myopic courtiers were more crafty than she had initially estimated.
“I’m sorry,” she corrected herself, adjusting herself in Vi’s lap so she could cup Vi’s cheek. “I shouldn’t rub salt.”
“It’s okay,” Vi murmured wryly, caressing Caitlyn’s back absent-mindedly. “It’s not your fault.”
Caitlyn pursed her lips, not quite satisfied by the lacklustre reassurance. She didn’t draw out the subject further, lest she ruin the carefully built quiet between them.
“Just wait until I ascend the throne. Then I’ll forcefully carry you off the battlefield. To keep my spirits up, of course.” Caitlyn nodded imperiously, as if she were giving a royal decree. “My soul does get so terribly morose when I go too long without seeing your face bathed in the moonlight.”
“Oh, well, we can’t have that. How would our shehzada (prince) lay waste to her enemies with a morose soul?” Vi shifted to mirth effortlessly, manoeuvring Caitlyn until she had the prince pinned against the tiled walls of the pool. “No, you’ll just have to take me.”
The fire that Vi sparked in Caitlyn never failed to leave her breathless. It was a fugue state, where all she knew were pretty eyes, a warm touch, and the music that followed Vi’s every movement.
“I’m afraid I will,” Caitlyn whispered back, finally melting into her lover’s hold.