location : yazid’s personal chambers, palacio da pena timestamp : early evening, after the various events status : closed to @basturkish
A good girl would not lurk in the corridors. A good girl did not seek company once the sun began to fall. But finally, and perhaps most importantly, a girl would not seek to find a man alone in his chambers.
But she had waited, she had tried — with each passing moment Mihrimah had prayed for forgiveness and perhaps it was the passing of Ramadan that coaxed forward the hunger that riddled her blood, but Mihrimah couldn't stay from his door any longer.
With eager steps she made her way, leaving her ladies and closest confidantes behind to stand at his door. She could hear him, the splash of water and footsteps that carried him. Mihrimah did not know what lay behind his mind, or what he thought of her and her strict loyalty to father, brother and mother — but in that instance, that night of utmost need, Mihrimah reached forth and took the handle of the door, pushing slowly to reveal the glow of candles and the smell of fruit.
“Yazid,” she called from plump lips; swollen from wishing and dreaming as her toes curled against the bare floor (she had gone amiss of her slippers in the hope to repel noise). Scratching her nails against the door, she pushed it open further and watched as if she was peeking in on a very intimate and private moment. “Yazid, it’s me — Mihrimah…”
