If you’re still willing to take WIP asks: Emperor. :)
There is what might have been a wriggling, oddly-shaped bush hunched on the ground in the shadow of the castle wall. But Shirayuki, rasping her breath through a raw throat, sees it, and the several sets of writhing limbs, it looks like six men at least, hears the harsh grunts, words spit in some foreign language, shoes and knees and elbows scuffling in the grass, and she knows who must be at the bottom of the dogpile for -
She’d always thought it was a, well, figure of speech. But she really, truly, sees red.
She might have spoken, but fury has choked off her voice. She kicks away her slippers before she knows what she’s going to do, cool grass under her sore feet, and she’s fisting bunches of her skirts in one hand and she’s stepping forward, reaching out to seize one belly-down man by the shoulder -
“My Lady Shirayuki? Best get away from that mess.” The crisp, thickly accented voice is unmistakable. As unmistakable as the rage in Shirayuki’s breast is blade-keen.
“Lady Kiyomi.” She turns, trembling - she’s glad it’s too dark to see the furious tears already welling in her eyes. “Let him go at once -”
Lady Kiyomi is stepping swiftly across the grass, uncaring for what it must be doing to her wide silk hem - her steps are incredibly brisk, constrained by the long robe pulling tight at her legs with each stride, and that is what seems to annoy her most, not the stains. Flanking her are half a dozen men and women in looser garb, faces set.
“I can’t do that,” Lady Kiyomi says, and moves to step aside, breeze past her -
The surge of protectiveness that crashes through Shirayuki’s veins is dizzying, makes her gasp, a hiccup of breath, and then her hand is on Lady Kiyomi’s shoulder as if that could do any good, just one push - but the woman stills anyway, a flash of gold eyes glaring down at her -
“Shirayuki!”
She and Lady Kiyomi stare at one another, fused together for a moment.
Zen.
“Shirayuki, what in the name of all the gods are you doing -”
