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Another conquest a notch in the Imperator’s belt, another night blooming to life with the revelry of victory.
Why turn to the Titans when true divinity is right here? This celebration…laughter and joy ringing out like a siren’s song…this is nothing short of pure bliss.
Dux Gladiorum cannot agree more—oh, wait, she is the one who put forward that thought. Is she talking to herself?
The honeybrew in her glass sloshes, straggling droplets falling to the bright floor.
Like stars.
A wondrous shower of stars in honor of the brightest shining star here. The Imperator looks a vision of divinity up there on the dais, speaking to another one of her vassals. Attentions swept away from her, those brilliant piercing eyes no longer trained on the only woman who truly matters here…please, look here…
Dux Gladiorum’s thoughts are a whirlpool wherein the epicenter is her face, that countenance that cuts through all darkness and rends the very canopy they call their sky.
Except, the whirlpool stops roiling, the sounds of people singing and dancing and dining and drinking grow farther and farther, the brilliant lights and music growing more muted around Dux Gladiorum’s senses. She blinks, stumbles; ah, this must all be a dream. Certainly a dream, she thinks, more confidently—this moment, her happiness, her unwavering loyalty to her Imperator—it’s all too good to be true, isn't it? When the music reaches its crescendo and all chalices are drained of their very last drops of honeybrew, she will open her eyes and find that she’s been slumbering at the ocean’s floor all this time, floating in a bubble of the sweetest dream she’s ever swum in.
How odd, though. If this truly were a dream, she shouldn’t be able to feel the scrape of her heels against solid polished marble (a slight against her ears, but the checkered pattern of the floor makes her heart leap at the thought of her king), the warm breaths of someone right beside her flushed face, gold-tipped nails glinting in the muddled light, or the vivid taste of abundance on her tongue. Oh, that drink was delightful. She ought to return to the drink fountain and get more, more, more.
But her vision swims back again and there is no fountain, only corridors lined by luxury and loneliness. She blinks. Blinks again, and some form of clarity finally gets knocked into her scattered mind.
Ah.
She is supported by Dux Goldweaver, who is ushering her out of the party and back into her chambers, her grip on her firm and unyielding. Or perhaps not firm at all, in the way those slender fingers hold onto her gently enough that there is no dip in Hysilens’s own flesh.
Maybe all the honeybrew has bayed her instincts, her body as fluid as wine sloshing in a cup.
Aglaea’s brow is set in a firm frown, a deep mar on that lovely aureate face of hers. Her lips, glossy with either drink or maquillage, are curled into what is an adorable pout.
Really, Hysilens can’t help but giggle, suddenly aware of the flush in her cheeks.
“Might I ask what’s so funny?” comes Aglaea’s response, a touch too irritated.
“I want to kiss your lips,” Hysilens states simply, blinking up at her. Her cheeks may be warm, but Aglaea’s shoulder is cool, made so by the lovely intricate gold leaf patterns she wears. Oh, she looks almost as heavenly as her king. Almost.
Aglaea looks just about to scoff and tell her off, words of scorn hot upon her tongue, but she falters when a strange gurgling noise bubbles up. Hysilens only then realizes it’s come from her.
The polished corridors seem to spin, going from sleek and narrow to strange blurry spirals. “Stop dragging me like a rag doll, Goldweaver, I feel queasy.”
A click of the tongue, but Aglaea rightens her posture just so. “If you retch, I will not hold your hair back.”
“Are you saying I look like a wretch?” Hysilens giggles, suddenly thoroughly amused.
“Retch!” Aglaea repeats, exasperated. “As in, vomit.”
Hysilens lets out another giggle. She must have lost count of all the laughter bubbling from her lips by this point. “But do I look like a wretch, Dux Goldweaver?”
“Yes, you do.” Aglaea purses her lips as she pauses in front of the door to Hysilens’ room, pulling out a ring of keys. She had been entrusted with the master key, as had Hysilens…but who knows where hers is right now.
“Oh, how disappointing.” Hysilens lets out a sigh that’s far more drawn out than permissible. “I really did wear my very best to this feast. But I suppose even my best is not enough for the hyper-critical Goldweaver.”
Aglaea ushers her into her chambers, and with a cursory glance across the corridor, closes the door. “It is indeed a flattering dress, and it suits you just fine, even despite how sobriety has long fled you.” She murmurs something under her breath, something that sounds like she would rather see Hysilens wear something of her make next time, but her mind is so addled she may as well just have imagined it.
First she sits Hysilens down on the bed and kneels, working her heels off her feet by undoing the complex ribbons threading up and around her ankles. Her touch is gentle, even gentler than before, and Aglaea’s eyes are downcast while she does so. Hysilens wonders if she can count the number of eyelashes, but her head swims again once she gets to eleven on the right eye.
She’s practically shoved down onto the bed once her footwear is wriggled free, but this only earns another fit of giggles from her. With her head on the pillow, a comfort so foreign to her tonight up until now, she is acutely aware of the lovely scent of perfume permeating through the room. It isn’t hers. She peers up at Aglaea’s face and parts her legs in compliance.
“You—what are you doing?!” Aglaea takes hold of her knees and brings them together.
“Are we…” A hiccup interrupts Hysilens. “Are we not about to make love?”
If the lovely golden-haired woman wants to claw at herself in frustration, she certainly does a splendid job of hiding it. Ire dances in her eyes, and she reaches out—and removes the decorative seashell choker from Hysilens’ neck in one swift movement.
This makes Dux Gladiorum very, very happy, and she attempts to spread her legs again. Aglaea immediately shuts that down again, stating that she was merely helping her remove all her elaborate accessories. She plucks a flower from her hair, fingers threading almost tenderly through it.
Hysilens lays, passive, as Aglaea continues to care for her. It’s strange, really, the way she claims not to care a sliver for what Hysilens gets up to. Yet she’s here. She had been the one to lead her away from the festivities, having noted she had had too much to drink. And she could have brought her to her room and stopped there. But no, she’s taken off the accessories, the sharper ones that may hurt her if she sleeps wrong, and she’s now tucking her in bed.
All without even the ghost of a smile on her face, like she dislikes Hysilens.
“Stop it,” Aglaea almost snaps when Hysilens protests the removal of her splendid new conch brooch by encircling her hand round the woman’s wrist, “or would you like to spear yourself in your sleep?”
“A little brooch’s tip is nothing to me,” answers Hysilens, splayed like a starfish now, the fatigue slowly seeping into her. “Especially in comparison with the kind of swordfish I used to spar with.”
With a roll of the eyes, Aglaea pries it from Hysilens’ weakening grip. “You can impale yourself on it another time, then,” she says, placing it on the bedside table. “Just not tonight, when we have afforded ourselves a mirthful reverie.”
Hysilens hums, watching her intently. Or as intently as she can when her vision is somewhat compromised. “I like that brooch very much,” she says in a singsong tone. She makes to prop herself up on her elbow, but Aglaea only pushes her down gently. “Do you know why?”
“Not particularly.” Aglaea maintains focus on keeping her down.
“I shall tell you nonetheless.”
“I do not think I care enough to-”
“Because its golden sheen reminds me of you.”
Hysilens had been all shades of salacious in the short time it had taken to get her from the party to her room. But it is this statement in particular that casts an undeniable reddish tint to Aglaea’s cheeks as she looks down into her eyes hesitantly. “…What?”
Hysilens chooses precisely this moment to dry heave.
Aglaea scrambles for an empty pot and holds it out beside her. Nothing comes out, but Aglaea stays there, holding the pot just in case something does happen.
The wave of nausea recedes, and Hysilens sinks into the soft pillows, breathing a sigh. Oh, has her bed always been this comfortable? “Come, lay with me.” She rolls over, making space for Aglaea.
To her dismay, the woman does not move an inch, does not clamber into bed eagerly with her.
It takes only a pout from Hysilens for Aglaea to let out a long-drawn sigh and kick off her heels, getting into bed beside her—making sure not to touch her, although that is a decidedly difficult endeavour.
This is exacerbated by how Hysilens immediately drapes one arm over her, drawing her even closer. They end up pressed against each other, facing each other—to the pleasure of Hysilens, and to the displeasure of Aglaea.
“Golden trout, how warm you are,” sighs Hysilens, snuggling closer. Dux Goldweaver wields power fine and delicate through those golden threads of hers; yet, she is all softness to the touch, her disposition not yet eroded by the gales of war.
Hysilens hopes that, even a thousand years from now, Aglaea will treat her to this same vexed expression, her lip curled and her brow furrowed so adorably. Mild irritation mixed with something else entirely in her green eyes. Loose strands of golden curls framing her face so perfectly. The scent of the party still clinging to her.
Her fingers, slender and deft, clutching Hysilens’s arm, the tips of her nails only slightly pressing into her flesh. Holding her tight. Not letting go.
They stare into each other’s eyes for a moment that stretches quite long indeed, the only sound passing between them their breathing.
“You are warmer,” says Aglaea softly, voice barely above a whisper. Then she adds hastily, “Because of all the drinks you have downed.”
Hysilens barely bites back a smile. “They were quite lovely drinks. Sweeter and richer than last time.”
“…I must agree. Though I wasn’t as…indulgent as you were, our merriment seemed all the merrier this time.”
“And I thought I’d already told you, you ought to enjoy the drinking more. It’s a mark of everything we strive for and everything we have overcome.”
“And lose myself as much as you tend to do? Then who would escort us back to our chambers?” Aglaea chuckles softly.
It’s Hysilens’s turn to laugh. “We can simply collapse there in the middle of the floor, you and I.”
“Quite the spectacle we would make.” Aglaea’s hold on her tightens, and her knee knocks against Hysilens’s thigh, but she does not seem to care too much about the contact.
The drunk woman’s hand finds its way up Aglaea’s arm, barely ghosting over her skin, over the curve of her shoulder, past the strap of her dress, and then settling in the crook of her neck. She swears the Goldweaver’s breath hitches, but in her addled mind, she cannot be certain. “You are forever a spectacle, golden trout,” she whispers, “and while I can hardly bring myself to articulate what I truly mean—you are a vision. The kind I would dedicate my voice in eternal song to, in hopes you would look at me for more than a moment with mirth in your eyes.”
Whatever warmth had been steadily growing between them these past few moments suddenly dims out like a lamp short of oil, the tension suddenly cloying. It’s almost a minute before she hears an answer.
“Your heart is with the Imperator, Dux Gladiorum,” says Aglaea tartly, all intimacy seeping out of her words as though hoping to put some distance—though, how much distance can she even put when they are pressed together like this? Her knee remains pressed against the siren’s thigh.
“Can I not unravel my heart to more than one person? Is there such a hard and fast law?” Hysilens closes her eyes, feeling the room shift and stir again. She may just retch after all. “If there is, tell me.”
There’s a silence that runs a mile before Aglaea lets out a breath in resignation. “I—I suppose not.”
A hook, even if a feeble one. Hysilens can do nothing but grasp at it, pressing her forehead against Aglaea’s.
“Kiss me?” she says—no, begs. It’s almost pathetic, really, the way the whine in her voice is evident. She gazes at Aglaea through half-lidded eyes. “Just one kiss. A little one.”
The response that comes is firm and final. “No, Dux Gladiorum. You are drunk.”
“Mm.” Ah, how proper. Hysilens loosens her grip, letting her fingers trail down the woman’s arm as she lets go. Well, here’s the answer to the question that had been on her mind. Yet she cannot help but cast another line. “Will you kiss me when I’m sober, then?”
Aglaea eyes her carefully; she must be considering her words. Pondering how best to let Hysilens down gently, how best to tell her she has no interest in this poor little clownfish with dreadful fashion sense and a proclivity to get drunk and make an embarrassing spectacle of herself. And not the good kind of spectacle.
Then she says slowly, “Yes.”
Oh. That hadn’t been an answer Hysilens had been expecting, but it’s one she is glad to hear nonetheless. She smiles—though she’s been smiling this entire time. Her grin has only gotten bigger, brighter, more coquettish.
And then Aglaea stirs, making to leave the bed, and then the room.
Not if Hysilens can help it.
“Stay with me.” It’s a cheeky request, but at this point, they have long since breached the shallows. All that remains is the question of whether Aglaea is willing to sink in with her.
And she is.
Aglaea swallows; shifts closer again and closes her eyes. She’s resigned herself to this, the way her body curls instinctively into Hysilens’s firm embrace. Her own arms snake around the siren’s waist, fingers brushing against the skin against which water bubbles with barely-tempered excitement. She breathes out a gentle, reassuring, “Okay.”