Her heart actually skips a beat when Iman bends to kiss her hand, and she tells herself it's only because it's rare to see such gallantry from a woman. Iman has it in spades, or so it would seem. A flush creeps down the Queen's neck and spreads across her chest as she watches Iman approach the man and draw her sword. It's all terribly dramatic, isn't it?
But it's all wrong, too. She can't hear the conversation clearly, but it's obvious that the man is treating Iman as callously as he did herself, if not more so. This wasn't supposed to happen; he was only meant to leave, not dare Iman to slaughter him. She can see how little appetite Iman has for such drastic measures, and the Queen can't hold that against her. She doesn't know why, when he's behaved so poorly, but the sight of them so close to blows makes her feel sick at heart.
Her hands are shaking. She ordered this.
Iman turns her back on the man, who mercifully chooses that moment to make a swift exit. The Queen releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The urge to pull Iman into her arms rises within her: stupid and wholly irrational. She hardly knows the woman and she has to maintain some semblance of order and--and propriety.
She makes an effort to school her expression into something appropriately neutral as Iman reaches her, but she can't quite banish the apology from her eyes, and she doesn't really want to. "The task is done," she says briskly, with a glance towards the now-deserted table. "You have my thanks." She extends a hand, wishing she could offer more than this, more than polite, bland favor. Being a Queen can be uncomfortably stifling at times like these.
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But it's all wrong, too. She can't hear the conversation clearly, but it's obvious that the man is treating Iman as callously as he did herself, if not more so. This wasn't supposed to happen; he was only meant to leave, not dare Iman to slaughter him. She can see how little appetite Iman has for such drastic measures, and the Queen can't hold that against her. She doesn't know why, when he's behaved so poorly, but the sight of them so close to blows makes her feel sick at heart.
Her hands are shaking. She ordered this.
Iman turns her back on the man, who mercifully chooses that moment to make a swift exit. The Queen releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The urge to pull Iman into her arms rises within her: stupid and wholly irrational. She hardly knows the woman and she has to maintain some semblance of order and--and propriety.
She makes an effort to school her expression into something appropriately neutral as Iman reaches her, but she can't quite banish the apology from her eyes, and she doesn't really want to. "The task is done," she says briskly, with a glance towards the now-deserted table. "You have my thanks." She extends a hand, wishing she could offer more than this, more than polite, bland favor. Being a Queen can be uncomfortably stifling at times like these.