An ebony hand laid to rest on the royal blue ruffled of the queen regent.
"Will you be needing any assistance in these trying times, my queen?" warbled a dusky warmth from behind her. In reply, the queen reached up and wrapped her own dainty set of digits around the knobbled sausage-thick fingers comforting her.
"No. I have a kingdom to run now; my people will need me at my strongest. I cannot afford not to show my emotions - even the ones I bear most burdensome," spoke the yet-unsworn ruler in her most practiced impression of confidence. It was, however, an exercise in image. Those within earshot of what her majesty had to say in that moment would feel comforted by her resolve. It would be later that night, in the comfort and relative privacy of her chambers, that she would come to find out from her dark-skinned advisor and partner in political theatrics if their performance paid off.
"As you wish, my liege," intoned the dulcet voice from Gael. An award-winning performance capped off in true form. She would make a mental note to properly thank him for his exemplary measure of politicking.
The veritable stage for the careful application of political salve was as the queen, flanked by her barrel-chested, broad-shouldered advisors, stood amongst her subjects on day of melancholy. The trio were situated around the casket of the queen's recently deceased husband as a tinny mechanical whirring from the assortment of winches aided the descent of the coffin into the ground. A whirling cacophony of clouds overtop the sprawling expanse of interred royal corpses in the cemetery formed the setting. A bubbling rumble of threatening downpour from those slate-gray mammoths overhead set the soundtrack. Members of the common folk and the clergy alike would approach with their best somber expression, silently pay their respects to the former monarch, and pause to give their words to the widowed Queen Noémie. Political movers and shakers would linger longer than the commoners, speaking in the particular cadence of condolence that they so chose; some would opt for a sober, apologetic tone. Others, an uplifting and empowering choice of diction. Regardless of the approach, the posturing was all done in the name of getting in the good graces of the new grace to the country.
"I wish to leave as soon as we can, Beau," Noémie murmured into the ear of one of the towering pillars of men at her side. A nod, coupled with an affirming grunt, formulated Beau's response. Noémie wished to no longer serve as a political image-keeper. She had barely any time to properly pay her own respects to her departed lover, as his last drawn breath also drew back the smooth, velvet curtains on the grandest political stage play in the aftermath of the upheaval of the unseated king. From the moment the sun rays burst over the horizon and brought a new day to the land all the way until that same light faded back down on the other side of the world, Noémie had only a semblance of privacy and calm. At this moment, the last thing she wanted to be doing was sitting beside her husband's corpse being committed to the soil. All she truly desired was to get out of the garter crushing her enormously well-endowed chest - and her lungs along with them.
It wasn't another half-dozen 'Merci' later that brought the sitting ruler to her breaking point. The country had taken enough of her time, and more than enough of her headspace, and the time had come for her to unwind. Perhaps a hot bath was in order, she mused to herself.
"Come, Gael, Beau, we are leaving. J'en ai ral le cul, and I need to relax," spoke Noémie in between a prescribed visitation of political posers. With a synchronicity of acknowledgments and a militant adherence to carrying out their commander's direct instructions, both of the muscle-bound Africans lowered themselves onto their haunches and grasped the bewelled handles of the open-air sedan chair. It never ceased to amaze the queen regent when both of her burly advisors lifted her litter. It seemed to give them no pause whether or not she was seated inside of it. Considering that, Noémie decided that if they so chose to, the pair of them could probably tear her in half. She felt fortunate to be on the power-holding end of the relationship.
With their charge in tow, both Beau and Gael began their methodical procession towards the looming, distant castle in which the new queen would conduct her reign. In the gold-flaked ceremonial litter, Noémie couldn't even allow herself the pleasure of relaxing her head back and enjoying the hypnotic jostling of Beau and Gael's footfalls threatening to lure her to sleep. Any sign of weakness would no doubt be noticed by someone, somewhere in the kingdom. She couldn't afford that, so her posture remained firm and resolute all the way up the cobbled path. She waved down the gate guards from several yards away; there would be no impedances to getting her back to her royal bed chambers.
"Oh, God. Get me out of this putain de corset," pleaded the disrobing Noémie upon arriving in her quarters with a sticky coating of French epithet dribbling off of her words moments after arriving in her bed chambers. After spilling out of the manpowered sedan, she dispensed of her shoes and pulled her dress down from around her shoulders. On cue, her escorts sprung into action and, taking either bowed endline knot on the back of her tit-restricting garment, pulled the lacing away. Noémie heaved her first full-bodied breath for the first time since she laced up this morning.
"Mon dieu, merci beaucoup," breathed the queen as she was freed from the incarcerating chest guard. She didn't even bother reaching for it as the frilled, white, and hateful accessory clattered to the plush carpeting of her chambers. Had she not been wearing a light, unstructured bra beneath the pile of misery on the ground, she would've shown off her royal knockers to both of her upright manservants when she turned around to wrap either arm around their necks. Noémie sighed, then all but melted into the strong grasp of the two men. Maintaining the stoic, stone-faced and stalwart expressions they wore in a similar mask throughout the day alongside their ruler, Beau and Gael gingerly returned the gesture with a delicate tandem embrace of their own.
"Merci, both of you. Truly. I don't know what I would've done had you not been at my side today. I swear, if I had one more court duke approach me and give their condolences through gritted teeth before asking for - ah, I just don't know," blabbed an exasperated widow. It was plain to either of the queen's advisors that she was looking for an outlet for her frustrations. Noémie would have to search the countryside to find tighter-lipped, more able-bodied confidants than either of them, that much she was certain of.
"Come, come," Noémie broke away from them, turning tail towards the bay windows set into the far wall of her bed chambers. "I owe you both a drink. Consider imbibing with your new queen to be a token of my favor for getting me through this most loathsome day."
Beau turned and looked at his partner, who was already looking quizzically at him by the time their eyes met. Throughout the reign of Noémie's husband, Alistair, not once were the pair of them invited to uncork a bottle alongside the ruler of all the lands. Before they had a chance to consider this particular turn of events in the grander spectrum of politics within the kingdom, Noémie was beckoning for them once again.
