Celen

My name is Celen, and my heart is homesick.

I am not a princess, though that is a common misconception. It is a lie that my head tells when I hold it high on a long, straight neck, in spite of the jewels weighing it down. The silks and satins tell this lie when they drape over sumptuous swells and cinch in ways that flatter and compel the eye. But my hands are honest, kissed by an intense Sun nearer the equator and darkened by those kisses. They are calloused where needles have pricked and poked a learner’s experiments. They are strong and skilled and splendid like my mother’s hands. She taught me everything I know, and she closed her heart to tears when I left. She opened it instead to joy for my better life, and the promise of being raised toward greatness by marrying true royalty.

It has been a year since she kissed me. A year since I arrived, and inflamed the sultan’s passion as we lay belly-to-belly on our marriage bed. But I live in a harem. I am one of so many, and the sly glances and lover’s whispers are not so frequent as once they were. When I stepped from the boat and into his arms, I was his goddess, his beauty, his queen, and now I am but one voice in a menagerie of exotic and lovely pets, swirling into a cloud of possession but not standing free and distinct. I take solace in my silks and satins, my dress form crafted to my precise measurements, because these were not things my mother had. She would sew with anything she could find, and now, I can request everything and within a fortnight I can run it through my fingers, feeling the slide and pull and stretch of the bias, appreciating the fineness of the dyer and the weaver, and before this, the sheep, the cotton, the flax.

As the seamstress, they have come to me because it is their destiny, and they are so lucky to be in the hands my mother passed down to me. Just as I remind myself that I am lucky to be but one dress of many in the sultan’s closet, their fortune is to feel the pierce of my needle and the smoothing of my palms as they take shape and movement when they cling to my breasts and hips.

They were wild once, as I was young. They were free once, as I was without title and expectation. They had like companions; so did I.

This evening, I sit straight though the small of my back aches and burns. I have a corset spread over my lap, and it has been hundreds of stitches, or thousands. I have been engaged this way for hours, joining beauty to beauty, when I hear a knock upon the door of my chamber.

“Lady,” he says, “are you decent, and if so may I enter?”

“I am,” I respond, biting my tongue on a joke about being far more than decent. The sultan has not come to pay me a visit; rather it is one of his viziers, Kane. I look forward to his drop-ins, if only because he is the one to fetch the materials I request on his travels, but his company is nevertheless pleasant enough. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the crest of his waves of dark hair that fall to his shoulders, framing his foxlike, clever face. The royal blue of his uniform suits him; he has a regal air about him. I smile and my warm, brown eyes catch his; they’re dark, like mine.

“You’ve returned from the Orient, my lord. It gladdens my heart to see that you have returned safely,” I say.

“My lady is kind to inform me of this,” Kane laughs, and those eyes glint. “Although, you must forgive me for believing that you are glad for the safety of your silks, rather than the safety of your vizier.”

“You fox,” I chide, though it is difficult to conceal some level of familiarity and even affection for this man. “I appreciate your gentle humor, for it brightens my day and the doldrums that can set in when I am left to my needles and measurements." I exhale, lashes brushing my dusky cheek. “But surely some gestures and overtures could be considered just forward enough.” I expect an answering laugh, acknowledging the jest… but instead, I feel a hand upon my bare shoulder. I glance up at him, eyes wide and startled.

“I would hope that I am being the precise right amount of forward, just now.” Kane takes advantage of my speechlessness to speak his mind, and I pull away, setting aside the unfinished corset so that I may rise and place distance between us.

“I would call it too forward,” I respond, my heart quickening in my chest. “The sultan does not appreciate when others touch his things.”

“But my lady is not a thing,” Kane says, keeping a respectful distance but holding my gaze. “Please, accept my apology and my promise that it shall not happen again. What can I do, to apologize properly for my trespass? Surely we do not need to involve the sultan in these negotiations.”

“Certainly not,” I say, because we both know that the sultan would have Kane’s head for his boldness. Time and distance amplify the power of even such gestures when they are innocent, and I have my doubts that it is the case this time. Perhaps these doubts only flatter me, because I have been alone so long, and there might be a reason for it beyond the sheer number of the sultan’s consorts. “I have enough affection for you that I would not tell my husband… just see that it does not happen again.”

Why is it so difficult to say, to the point where the words nearly stick in my throat like treacle?

“Please, at least allow me to do you a favor. It is the least I can offer when you have been alone all these days, but for contact with your maids,” Kane says, surveying the edges of my chambers. “Perhaps there is something out of order, or to which I can apply a helping hand. My father was a carpenter, and he taught me well.”

Against my better judgment, I do not send him away, but my eyes stray toward the large wardrobe that holds my finished frocks. Most have not been worn before an audience, but are merely my costumes for solitude. “If you mean what you say, Kane… there is a nail in my wardrobe that sticks out to an alarming extent. When I pass in and out, reaching for my dresses… there are times when the material catches, and I must repair it before it tears or frays further. It pains me greatly to pass over stitches I have sewn already, following such traumatic incidents.”

“I am grieved that my lady and her garments have experienced such trauma,” Kane replies, heading straightaway toward the offending wardrobe. While my motives might be ulterior, my words are true; there is, indeed a nail that snags at my knits and weaves, and it has caused me no small amount of distress. I trail after him as he investigates, poking his head through the door to examine what I have reported.

There is a pause. “Lady Celen, I fear that I am not finding the nail of which you speak.”

“Is my lord perhaps nearsighted?” I inquire, teasing him while being surprised that he has not seen such an impudent and protruding nail, when it is in fact all I can see when I step inside.

“I cannot,” Kane answers, though he is standing right beside it. A little closer, and it would snag the blue of his uniform, and then he would see exactly what I mean and experience my precise woes. Impatient, I approach, and brush beside him so that the fabric of our garments glide against one another with a gentle and whispering sound. Our bodies are too close, and this is a mistake for the way it makes my hairs stand and my blood quicken, but it is too late, and another sound catches my breath with a sound like the rustle of taffeta.

The door to the wardrobe closes, and Kane’s arm impedes mine when I reach for it. Fingers are winding through the black coils of my braids, and at first, I’m galled by the man’s nerve and nearly bite his lips when they search for mine in the darkness. But some scandal and shiver gentles the vicious impulse, and instead, I am returning and deepening the kiss. Has it been weeks since I’ve felt the sultan’s skin against mine? Months? How many times have I put on a dress only to remove it alone? I surprise myself with my own audacity when I whisper, “Can you help me loosen these straps?”

I can see nothing in the completely lightless wardrobe, but I hear his breathing grow deeper and heavier, and his hand is pressing against my shoulders as his fingers unfasten the clasps and ties of my ornate garment. I acquiesce, scarcely daring to breathe myself as I take one knee, and then the other, and he presses my hand against the firm swell of his trousers. Now, I am shocked at his audacity, but not enough to turn my cheek to his member as he rests a hand atop my head and frees himself with the other, sliding his pants down his thighs and nudging and sliding against my throat with a lusty moan.

I reach for him, clasping him securely, squeezing along the vellum-soft skin as an iron core gives it form, before taking it in my mouth. I reach behind him to dig my nails into more cushioned flesh, and he startles and trembles; clearly, it is an effort for him to remain silent, and I hum my approval, feeling the vibrations play through his body only to travel to his trunk and make their home nestling somewhere behind his navel.

His hands grasp the sides of my face, because already, he is having difficulty restraining himself from a thrusting rhythm. The tips of my teeth prick into the hardened flesh in warning, and he behaves, leaning against the opposite wall of the wardrobe as I attend to him at my leisure. In my experience, men may take command on a battlefield, expecting it and reveling in the way nations clash and crumble under their banner, but in the boudoir, they wish to be led and attended to, as much as they may insist otherwise.

My tongue slides along the underside of Kane’s member, tracing the thrumming blood in its swollen lust, and I can feel his pulsing urge to overflow. I pull at the back of his shirt, staying his motions, and he quells a sound of protest, but he will not disobey, for it is my turn.

I rise, stepping out of my shoes, taking a perching seat on the rack that holds my hats and shawls. In a show of unusual irreverence and disrespect toward my garments, I shove them to the floor, where they slump and clatter hollowly against the wood, and I gather Kane toward my warmth with crossed, insistent ankles. He obliges all too gladly, plunging against me, already slickened by my tongue as I tilt my hips upward to receive him. This time, I must stifle a cry, because though he is not as large as the sultan, it has been long enough since I felt the touch of a man that the confines of my body clutch him tightly and greedily. It only encourages him, and he thrusts with abandon into my heated appetite. He reaches to clutch at one of my dresses where it hangs to support him, and I am not even thinking of sweat stains, or potential tears as he rides me and devours as the wardrobe groans and creaks beneath the power of his body’s desire.

I am spread open like the seams in the corset that is draped over the back of my chair outside. I would tear myself in half if I could, if it would open me more to both our pleasure. My thighs press into his well-muscled sides, and with a mighty sound of exertion, he slides his hands around them and hitches me against him so that he wears me like a breastplate. He lifts and presses and ravishes me against the wardrobe’s door, and I grind into him as well as I can when he has me pinned like this. He pulls my braids, this time, and I stifle a cry as he places hungry kisses along my jaw. His thrusts quicken, harsh into my yearning, wanton chasm, and my body shudders around his, no longer within my ability to control as instinct overwhelms the demure wont of my title. I cling to him as he thrusts, and I come down hard on a lance that is already spilling pinpricks of ecstasy, raindrops before the deluge. I come first by seconds, my bare back sticking against the polished wood as I pant and plead my ecstasy, and then he is burying himself and giving me cascades of finality, stuttering, sublime.

He withdraws, reaching for the nearest cloth to wipe away the remnants of our lovemaking. I will not see that it is my prized yellow skirt with ruching that took hours until the door opens again and I have to squint against the sudden light.

“Only my loins are aflame, not the wardrobe,” I say, pulling at him as he hastily fastens his trousers, making himself presentable before leaving me undone. I frown, my hold tightening.

“Be that as it may, my lady…”

I find his hand, squeezing it, not caring this time if it is enough force and pressure to pain him. “Say my name,” I urge, setting my jaw. “My name is Celen, not ‘my lady.’”

“Celen,” he replies, surprised, and I wince as I feel a sudden, familiar jab. The nail against my shoulder; he never did fix it. I am about to tell him so, but he is already mumbling that he will see me the next time he brings me my silks and satins, and I know in my heart that the days will turn into weeks, and then months.

I see him again in the gardens as I stroll, feeling a weakened anemic sun against deep, rich skin that craves more warmth than this climate has to offer. He is smiling at another consort, offering her a flower, touching her shoulder in a way that could be considered just forward enough.

My name is Celen. I am home, and my heart is sick.