burning bush

Bowing down to Brighid is the easiest thing Mòrag's ever done - and she's bested many a challenge. Challenges made for men, for monarchs, for only those with the most infinite of patience and tolerance for bullshit goddamn orders and games.

The stiffness is natural, by this point, but to say that it comes naturally is a bit more of a stretch.

Mòrag has trained herself into being the perfect, model soldier, devoid of and even wholly above gender. She couldn't relax if she tried; she'd fall to pieces.

So being here, before Brighid, is not relaxation, is hardly even play.

Brighid is a challenge for neither men nor monarchs, for Brighid only entertains women, and Brighid is a queen.

Mòrag's thighs are ropey, corded. Brighid's are toned, abundant. Mòrag's muscles are for using. Brighid's physique is almost purely for show.

How Brighid can be on fire, forever, and not be consumed is an enigma to Mòrag. It shouldn't be, though - Mòrag herself has survived the flames many a time.

The room is unlit, the bedspread pristine. All is silent and still, because Brighid's flames do not crackle. The clicking of Mòrag's joints outlines a path of sound to the bed, from where a blue cast emanates.

And Mòrag's instinct, less and less every time but yet persistent, is to freeze up, to ask permission, to indulge in the headiness of all that worshipping Brighid brings. Over years, her wife has calmed it out of her - the Jewel is to be admired, yes, but not from afar; not when the admirer is Brighid.

"Lady Mòrag."

This reminder, almost a ritual, that Mòrag still commands Brighid's infinite respect.

A smile blooms at the corners of Mòrag's mouth, and she bends, willing her knees silent, laying a single hand on the jagged, rippling contour of Brighid's calf. Trepidation is unnecessary, but gingerness, solemnity, is a must. Another form of light comes from the headboard: violet eyes are open, observing, absorbing. Keen brown eyes catch the twitch of fingers pinching at a line of stitching in the sheets. So quickly, the Jewel's perfect composure is betrayed.

Mòrag declines to comment on her wife's apparent anticipation, knowing how the both of them hate pretense. With a second hand, she guides Brighid by the hips to lay back, moved closer to one side of the bed at a diagonal. She lets herself be guided but never roughed about. Each touch is a question: by your leave, here? perhaps here? And the questions, piled upon themselves, soon give way to attractive bursts of confidence: Perhaps here, my love. I have faith you will enjoy it. You do trust me, yes?

Once there's room for Mòrag to climb onto the bed alongside Brighid, she repositions her hands atop smooth, supple thighs. She can still feel Brighid's eyes on her. Of course - their mutual awarenesses of that rarest feature are practically equivalent, even across throne rooms.

"May I?"

Brighid quivers. Mòrag descends.

The flames, blue curling licks, do not flirt with Mòrag's face so much as caress it, and she times her ministrations in kind.

An odd euphemism, isn't it? Ministrations. The provisions of a minister, or of anyone tending to a wound, a soul, a situation.

But Mòrag is methodical, and she is religious about it. She's not confident that she could render pleasure for any other woman than Brighid quite so well, but this, with the rhythm of gasps and thrusts and tugs at the loose curtain of raven hair, is only second nature if one calls the duties of the Special Inquisitor her first.

And that would be foolish, wouldn't it? For no one is ever quite as pleased with the motions and machinations of the Ardainian military (even the senators) as Brighid is blissfully content to be here, attended to by her wife and partner, Driver.

They do not consider Blades otherwordly so much as superhuman, although not all Blades are actually afforded that distinction. It is only the Aegis, the Paragon...and the Jewel.

"You are more than even any of us have ever told you, Brighid."

"I- Lady Mòrag--"

She can't help feeling a little smug as she reaches out and up to grasp Brighid's trembling hand. Security engenders smugness, after all, which is why empires quest for it and pretend they have it and cast illusions of impregnabiity above all.

There is no more secure position than this. No more soothing scent than this. No more all-encompassing warmth than this.

And only Mòrag, of all people on Alrest, past and present and future, is permitted to hold it, breathe it, believe it.