I don't know what to say on this one. If you like flower language, poetry, and pretty women, this is the fic for you! Thank you to my lovely girlfriend javajowgie for betaing for me! 3
Cielle remembered the first time that her lover delicately wove carnations into her cascading hair.
It was a warm afternoon, and the sun had only just begun to set, bathing the gardens in a peaceful golden light. She had finally managed to catch a couple of hours alone, after a series of long lessons at noon, and an even longer morning. She spent her time wisely, curled into the corner of the stone bench at the center of her most treasured flowers, watching the waves crash onto the shore far beneath her courtyard's walls.
Her knees were tucked close to her chest, in a fashion that her aunt would surely scold her for. It is not proper for a lady of noble birth, she would say. Her father had said the same of her poetry, but that never stopped her. If anything, it made her more determined, as most criticism was wont to do.
Perhaps they were right, that it was not proper for the daughter of a patrician to sit with crossed ankles, chiton hitched around her thighs, and papyrus pressed to the edge of the bench she perched upon. It was also not proper to think of her servant at nightfall, with heavy lashes and even heavier breaths, picturing sable tresses late into the midnight hour as her hand guided her first to papyrus, and then betwixt her thighs.
Neither action had ever brought her shame.
The whirr of the summer breeze, the thrum of the calm ocean, and the scratching of Cielle's quill masked the pad of approaching footsteps. It was with a jolt that the young woman realized she was no longer alone, the gentle hand grazing playfully along her nape stirring her from her ink-produced trance.
"My, my, out here again I see."
A swish of linens temporarily obscured Cielle's field of vision, the shift of a long, beige tunic and the flick of a familiar sanguine shawl leaving her eyes to dart eagerly to the smirking face of her muse.
In what she hoped was a discreet fashion, she rolled her poem into a neat scroll, offering a silent prayer to Hera, Zeus-whatever god would heed her wordless plea-that her handmaid would not question the hasty retrieval of her newest poem.
To Cielle's relief, the woman did not ask about the scroll tucked between the bench and her back, but that did not stop her cheeks from glowing a pale rose when their eyes met.
"You say that as if I do not come here every day, Sebastianne," Cielle grumbled, brows raising a small fraction when the woman opposite chuckled.
Short onyx locks swayed softly as Sebastianne knelt before her, twirling a long, slate lock around the tip of her forefinger. Whether the gesture was fond, teasing, or apologetic, Cielle was unsure, but against her better judgement, she leaned into it all the same.
Sebastianne always had the softest hands, their tenderness rivaling those of her mother. But Sebastianne's hands were better than her mother's in a way. For it was not her mother's caring, familial touches that bathed her every night, stroked the fair clothing from her bare flesh, gave rise to goosebumps along the arch of her back…
Instead, it was the hands that danced along her jaw now, separating elegant tresses into threes before beginning to thread each section together, wrapping the long braid around her head like the crown of a goddess.
"I never said I did not expect you to be here, though I do find it a touch strange," Sebastianne mused, rising with a swift brush of her skirt, freeing it of any dust that had the chance to settle at her knees. "You usually return home before the sun begins to set, and return here after your parents fall asleep."
"You knew?" Cielle questioned, shifting aside in silent invitation. There was no one else around. No sandals scraping along stones, no calls from her father, no galloping of a messenger's horse. Only the clement breeze, her tunic's soft ruffle, and Sebastianne's sonorous voice.
Perching beside the poet, Sebastinne said nothing of the fetching way her lady's cheeks coloured a sweet pink-like the delicate petals of a camellia. Instead, she spoke, gathering a handful of tiny, white wildflowers. Some larger blooms would be a nice addition... "How could I not? Do pardon me, my lady, but you do not possess the sharpest senses; you have caught the eye of your father's peers. It is safer for someone to be near, should you require aid."
"I am not helpless, Sebastianne, nor am I a fool. I could only hope to be blind should I wish to avoid the violence in their lustful gazes," the younger woman grumbled, turning her back to her servant when long fingers began to lace the small flowers into her braided crown. "I am sure you're aware that they lay their eyes on you as well. But they shall not have you, just as they shall not have me-no matter what my father intends to promise them."
"Careful, my lady. Someone might think to call you jealous," Sebastianne teased, earning a swat to her caressing palm. She chuckled as her digits retreated, cinnamon eyes regarding her mistress carefully, slyly. There was a heat blazing in her eyes, fanned embers, growing larger with every glint of possessiveness that sparked in Cielle's eyes.
It was all too easy to ruffle her little lady's feathers.
"I have no need, nor time, for jealousy. My family assigned you to me, and that is all there is to it," Cielle stated, though her expression was almost petulant when she faced her handmaid once more.
"Why, of course. I did not mean to offend," Sebastianne assured, leaning nearer, tone uncomfortably close to a purr.
Her mistress' words were as false as the act of purity she put on for the family patriarch. They both knew it.
Cielle shivered when hot breath ghosted her ear, eyes slipping shut to regain her composure. How unfair it all was. Should her servant's baritone be two octaves higher, her mind duller, her hands rougher, her form less tantalizing, she may have just been able to resist her magnetic pull.
But that was not the case, and so she was drawn to Sebastianne like waves to the moon, Achilles to Patroclus, fluttering insects to the tremulous glow of the candlelight she wrote by.
"You never mean to offend, or so you claim, but you often manage to anyway," Cielle droned, expression bored despite the heat blossoming beneath her skin.
"In that case, you have my apologies, my lady."
The young poet could only breathe a sigh. That familiar lilt lingered in her servant's rich timbre, the one that belied her futile claims. She was not sorry, she never was.
Cielle admired that about her, though such words would never part her pouty lips. Sebastianne was as unrepentant as a courtesan, twice as beautiful as Aphrodite herself, and more loyal than that which was promised with a bouquet of violets.
It was appropriate, truly it was. Not only were violets a sign of faithfulness, and therefore appropriate for the woman lit beside her, but for months, she had been imagining how very ethereal her handmaid would look with a crown of violets-a dark, aubergine halo around her obsidian locks.
Sebastianne had always beheld a certain natural darkness, and it simply enthralled her mistress.
"Is there a reason you disturbed me, Sebastianne?" Cielle asked, voice soft despite her words. She watched her servant lean back, the woman's arm curling around her shoulders with a welcome warmth, but the poet was given no chance to press into the half-embrace before it disappeared once more, following a muted series of snaps.
In Sebastianne's hands lay a pile of red carnations.
"Dinner is ready. Your mother told me to come fetch you," Sebastianne remarked distractedly, balancing the plucked flowers atop her lap, in the drape of her chiton across her knees. Picking up one of the ruby blooms, she prodded at the tightly woven strands of her lady's hair, wiggling the flower into place before hiding and securing the remnants of stem with a gentle twist of thick, cinereal locks.
"I am not very hungry tonight," Cielle said, head bumping against her handmaid's shoulder when the older woman returned to gazing at her face, rather than her hair. "It is much more pleasant in the garden than at the table. There are no expectations here. If I wanted to, I could spread myself naked on this very bench to write. At the table, I must sit like a lady, remain silent unless spoken to, a perfect flower. How utterly boring."
Sebastianne chuckled, resting her chin atop that lovely head. "I know, my lady. But surely it is best to humor your father… Who knows how long he has left."
Cielle snorted, legs swinging idly beneath her flowing tunic. "Planning to stick him with a dinner knife next time you pass by?"
"Not unless you ask that of me, mistress. However, he has made many enemies as of late. Not to mention the courtesans. Your mother will certainly have his head if she finds out."
"I suppose you are right," the poet sighed, subtly turning into the soft, alabaster skin against her cheek, pressing her lips into the welcoming flesh before standing.
Just before she managed to rise completely, she swore she felt her muse's smiling mouth graze along her shoulder-blade.
Sebastianne stood beside her, and Cielle could not contain a shiver when those warm fingers danced along the skirt of her dress, straightened the neck of her clothing, and slid ticklishly across her chest. She did not miss the playful squeeze upon her left breast.
Hastily swatting the offending hand away, she gave a flustered huff. "Save that for tonight."
"Very well… Though I suspect you mean in your bedchambers rather than the gardens?"
"I never said that."
Sauntering along the stone path before the other woman could respond, or worse yet-notice the strawberry glow of her cheeks, Cielle made it just two steps past a flourishing fig tree before her wrist was seized and rolled papyrus was pressed into her open palm.
"Forgetting something?" Sebastianne asked with the raise of a single arched brow.
Pursing her lips, the poet quickly tucked her newest creation under her arm and turned without a word. And Sebastianne remained behind her, a faithful shadow, at her heels for the rest of the trekk to the imposing home.
They were so very close to crossing over into the main courtyard when the handmaid spoke once more, her tone seductive, teasing, and lulling all at once.
"And my lady?"
"Yes, Sebastianne?"
"If you choose to share your poem with your family, do be sure to change the part about my chest."