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[color=a187be][i]Ashkevron Residence in Askavi[/i][/color]

Her white gold eyes watched Faeril leave as she mentioned confusion at the knock.  The young queen stayed in the kitchen as this was none of her business.  Sipping down the last of her tea she began to feel strange.  Something grew and pulled within her chest.  Maybe she was just tired.  Yes.  Perhaps.  She rubbed her hands over her face before standing and pulling the blanket more closely around her shoulders.  As she stood the feeling became more prominent inside of her.  As the door opened a thing she had denied since her birth filled her.

Fatima’s mother had once warned her of this feeling.  She could remember sitting on the couch before a fire. It was one of those rare times her mother could be affectionate.  The woman had wrapped her tiny, child Queen daughter and held her upon her lap.  Stroking her hair, she began to explain the way the heart and soul would call out to those destined to be a part of her court.  To those that belonged solely to her and no one else.  Men who would do everything she asked.  Gently smoothing the child’s hair she would warn the danger that lay with her creating her own court.  The fear she should feel and potential death which could come from Dorothea’s hands.  She would become competition in stepping up to this call.  She would be ripe for the slaughter.  Tortured.

Run.  Run she had been warned.  When that feeling began she should attempt to get as far away as possible.  Run and live another day.  Never form a court.  Never…

It was gnawing at her and leaned heavily against the table as her legs threatened to go out from beneath her.  Confusion and desperation filled her.  Panic.  She had to get away.  But to where?  She struggled to keep herself upright.  It was not as if she could go anywhere.  The men she had trusted with her life previously were gone.  Fatima had no one she knew and knew her.  She was trapped here within the eyrie.  She moved around the table as her chest seized up.  She couldn’t breathe.  Fatima gasped for air as the voices at the door drifted past her.  She couldn’t make sense of it as fear turned her innards to water.  She crumpled to the floor and attempted to catch her breath while panic gripped her tightly.  This was her end and as she lay on the floor, the warm blanket fell from her, and a cold she had never known clasped her tightly.

What was she so afraid of?  Wasn’t she meant to form a court now?  The things she had been warned away from held no place now.  She didn’t have anyone she could really and truly trust now.  And in her mother’s own words, this feeling and the men who would be drawn to her would keep her safe.  She could trust this.  Her lungs gulped down the air and her shaking subsided.  She needed to do something.  Anything. Her nerves were frayed in this strange home amongst strangers.  She knew no one here and had no true assurance that her life was safe.  Grasping the edge of the table, Fatima pulled herself from her prone position on the ground.  She pulled the blanket around herself again and steadied her balance.

She felt a bit silly, letting the panic control her in the way it did.  She needed something normal to help herself feel less in danger.  To help her feel like she could trust what was happening to her.  She moved across the room the to stove and stirred the stew.  Once satisfied that it was in no danger of burning she removed it from the flame and turned off the stove.

Taking a deep, shuttering breath she stepped out of the kitchen and into the hall.  Closer to that thing which sung inside of her and drew her.  That drew him.  The blanket slipped from her shoulders as she caught sight of him.  There were the Eyrian boys, moving into the house and toward the promise of warmth and food.  However, all she could see was the man that Faeril stared down.  Would make sure that he would never harm those she protected.  And Fatima understood that she was one of those.  And… in those few moments she truly felt safe.  Faeril would allow no one close that was not worthy.  But this man was [i][b]hers[/b][/i].  Worthy without a doubt.  This man was… [i]hers[/i].

[i]Mine.

Mine.[/i]

Fatima glided across the hall to the door.  Her steps were small and measured.  Her energy was that of pure Queen.  The tiny woman slid past Faeril easily and lifted her hands.  They slide up Lucivar’s chest as if attempting to confirm he was real.  And they found he was no apparition.  Slim, bronzed fingers curled around the soaked cloth of his shirt and pulled him closer so that she could more easily see his face.  He was nearly twice her own height.  She did not think about how he moved easily under the command of her hands.  Her pale gold eyes searched amber.  She felt the stubble of a long day on his face and stroked along his cheekbones at the end of her reach.  [b]“Welcome home,”[/b] she breathed – shocked by the way this feeling swept through her.

He was [i][b]hers[/b][/i].
[h2][i]Mine.[/i][/h2]