TW: death, sexual imagery
“To whom shall your favour go, my lady?”
Amélie glanced idly over the two armoured men before her, tall and proud atop their restless mounts. Theo on one side, helmet tucked under his arm, his face a practiced expression of boredom. On the other, a challenger whose name she could scarcely remember. He was handsome, to be sure, though but a green knight far too eager to prove himself.
A smile with little warmth spread across her face, and with a dramatic flourish she held out the lilac sash and declared:
“To our charming newcomer, I grant my favour!” The crowd cheered as the young man approached, and their hollering grew louder still as she elegantly tied the sash about his arm and planted a soft kiss upon his blushing cheek, perhaps lingering for a moment or two longer than necessary. Only then did her eyes flicker over to Theo, her face the picture of innocence. Her performance had had the desired effect, it would seem. His expression was neutral, save for that muscle clenching in his jaw she was so very fond of.
She remained fixed on the other man for the joust, not once looking to Theo. Not as both knights took their places at each end of the listed field, not when they charged with their lowered lances, and not even when Theo unhorsed the poor boy with alarming ease. It was only when Theo dismounted and stalked over to his now-wounded opponent, writhing on the floor with wooden shards of lance puncturing his belly, did she deign to rest her gaze upon him once more. His helmet obscured his face, but there was no doubt he was watching her back. He roughly hauled the boy to his knees and yanked his head back, ignoring his pleas of mercy, knife unsheathed, waiting.
A long, dreadful moment passed.
She smiled once more, for him this time, and Theo unceremoniously drew his blade across the young knight’s throat.
But he did not stop there. As his opponent lay there, gurgling and dying, he bent down and tore the lilac sash from his arm. Helmet now discarded, blonde hair sticking to his skin, he used the sash to wipe the sweat and mud and blood from his face, dark eyes focused on a delighted Amélie all throughout. He strode over to the dais, mud squelching underfoot, and threw the sash at her feet with a bitter “you can keep your favour” before storming away.
That night, as the rest of the castle slept, Amélie cradled the bloodied and dirtied sash against her face with one hand, letting all its scents embrace her, while her other hand slid down. Those same fingers that had tied the sash now entered her, and as her pleasure heightened, so did her whimpers and whispers of his name, chanted like a prayer, over and over and over again.
