Chapter Text
Queen Azahara was now four and twenty. Her husband five and twenty. Both healthy. And yet Azahara had writhed in agony three days ago – just before locking herself in the north tower. Basíle couldn’t be trusted with this. She hadn’t known what to do. So, grief-stricken and slightly contemptuous, she had locked herself in their Arcimago’s tower. Shifting between moments of entirely blaming him for his want for her, the way her father had wanted her mother and blaming herself for ever comparing her kind and respectful husband to that monster. Blaming him for his way of making her lose herself and entirely blaming herself for her willingness to lose herself to him.
She had given up the tower after two days – or rather Basíle had been let in after two days. Azahara III had decided that a lesser queen would’ve needed to punish their Captain General and Arcimago for their insubordination – Sahra knew that even if she slightly wanted revenge, her husband would never allow it. She had cried as he had entered. Not out of betrayal, but because she realised there was no one else she wanted to see. And that terrified her. He could be her undoing, her death, he could leave her behind and she would have no defence. And yet she could not help herself as she cried but to draw him closer and share her sorrow. “I lost it… I lost our child.” Basíle had slightly stiffened – she had not even had the chance to tell him she was with child yet, they had both been too busy. She withdrew, ready for his anger.
Instead, he had cradled her face in his hands. “I am so sorry mon fleur, that you felt you must go through that alone.” He kissed her cheeks where her tears fell. Sahra had dissolved into tears at that point. He had picked her up, cradling her face in the crook of his neck. “I am sorry Basíle, I am so sorry.” He had only shushed her and carried her down the winding steps. She had kept crying all the way back to their room, as he carried her, only pressing soft kisses to her face every now and then.
As they arrived in their room she tried to calm herself – and failed. She only managed to feel her gown come off before her belly reminded her that something was now missing. God why was he staying here? Couldn’t he just leave, go to his own chambers? Was he truly that intentioned to have her pregnant? She sunk to the floor with a small whine. Why did she allow him to do this to her? He had needed to pick her up a second time and carry her to bed. As she cried even more, she stopped being able to differentiate between whether she was crying because he was holding her for good or bad reasons. She had a glass of water while she was held. And then she fell asleep, Basíle slowly stroking her back and holding her as she cried – secure in his kindness, at last.
Now she had stirred awake besides her sleeping husband. He was cradling her body. She could feel his breath on her neck. One arm restricting her legs, his hand holding onto her thigh. One arm placed under her, the hand placed over her chest, palming her heart. Sahra appreciated the size difference between them often, but none so much as when he was holding her like this. She stirred and he gripped tighter, as if scared she might disappear again, scared to let her go. Unable to stop herself, Sahra smiled wickedly.
And then faltered. This was surely why she had ended up losing it. She caressed her stomach. She had been so excited. One more. And now…
Basíle’s hand moved from her chest to her stomach, grabbing her hand and holding it. “Do not ponder it, mon fleur. It will do us no good. And the healers say it is quite normal when it is in so quick succession.” He mumbled into her shoulder, kissing her back. “Wouldn’t it do us well enough to wait then, mi alma?” Sahra suggested. Basíle chuckled as his wife cruelly ground her hips near his morning excitement. He removed his hand from her thighs, slowly dragging it from between them and grinned as she whined in protest, her hips bucking downwards. “That’s not fair Basíle.” She scolded. “Well then, make up your mind, mi reina.” He teased, pulling her body closer.
Early in their marriage he had been worried she, with her but 158 cm, would break. Now, after she had given birth to 3 children, he had no such worries. She had left him for two days, while he was left to worry whether she had gone mad. Feeling as though he would go mad. She had almost broken him. Especially after last night when she had confessed that she didn’t know if he would respect her or not. He had her back in his arms now – he would be damned if he let her go before she even asked for it. He dragged her hair from her neck, slowly, before he saw her shiver. He could not help himself…
Sahra heard the deep growl as Basíle dug his mouth to her neck, right where her pulse met her skin. He was intending to bruise her. Queen Azahara III wanted to protest, her logic wanting to kick into override. But Basíle’s hands started exploring again and Sahra wanted nothing but to become undone with him, because of him, for him, once again. “Por…” Sahra stopped to moan as his hand reached right above where she wanted – nay, needed – it to be. “favor”. She turned over, using her thigh to force his hand closer. His eyes met hers. This was all he had been waiting for. His finger met her spot.
Sahras head flipped backwards “oh.” It wasn’t until his dry finger met her wetness that she realised how excited she had already become. Basíle stopped. Sahra was sure he was trying to only kill her, until he asked her: “Are you sure? You want to?” And with that, Sahra silenced the last of Azahara III, the Queen she was outside, leaving only Sahra, the 24-year-old woman who deeply loved and was loved by her husband, as she moaned “yes”. Basíle started gently – even though that still made her buck upwards. As he kissed her neck, he slowly trailed his kisses and free hand downwards. A second finger joined the first to make her come undone, as his lips found a crook of breast. Sahra grabbed hold of his free hand, needing something steady her – instead he grabbed hold of her chin, forcing two fingers in her mouth. He did not even need ask this time – she allowed her mouth to be forced open, glad to have a husband who wanted nothing but to hear her breathing get heavier and her moans get louder.
And during that morning she, many times over, realised that she, irrevocably, irresistibly, and most irritatingly, loved her husband, possibly more than she loved herself. And that this was a curse she would probably never escape from. But also that he seemed to suffer the same curse towards her.