[b]Canada![/b]

“You never do stop, do you? Idiot.” Her voice drips painful contempt; it is possible she means it. (It is possible she does not.) For a moment, you worry that her nails will draw blood, will trace strange glyphs in red on your skin. Then her hand retracts.

“Count to ten, then run to your room and do not stop. Do not let me find you sneaking around after curfew again.” Okay, look at the positive side: she probably just told you how to avoid the guard patrol, and she also told you not to get [i]caught[/i] sneaking around, which she probably totally knows isn’t the same thing as telling you not to sneak around. Think positive!

Tirzah ab-Marduk of the House of Blue Stone (but not for much longer, not with her Inquisitorial trials fast approaching) melts into the shadows, leaving you alone in the low light of night in the House. Alone.

Mark Insecure, as she takes Influence over you and tries to shift your Savior/Superior, which cannot be done. You cannot be more of a senseless martyr.

***

[b]Étoile![/b]

The Inqusitor is handed a small square of white linen by her Lynx, which she unfolds in front of you. The simple veil is completely unadorned, completely opaque and unflattering, about as fashionable as a tighty-whitey, and try very hard not to think about that connection any more than you already have as she loops it over your head, lets it hide your face, acting with silent dignity.

“Janissaries. Escort this innocent home.” Yes! She’s letting you go! “It is no sin to be assaulted by the wicked, as long as you refuse their lies.” She steps behind you, and you hear the sizzling of live-wire lashes. (No, your shoulders and spine say, instantly tensing up, please, not one of [i]those,[/i] you asked for anything else, you’ll pass [i]out[/i]—) The links of your shackles fall to the ground, hissing, and you slump forward onto your, well, your front, sobbing in relief as the lashes of her scourge retract into her gauntlet.

The Lynxes help you up as the Inquisitor steps out of the circle of dim light around you. “I promise,” she says, and she means it, “You need not fear. I will protect you from chaos.” Then, silence and night and her absence, and you can barely stand out of the aftershocks of terror and the dread of her voice. (She meant it. You could have had cotton stuffed in your ears and you’d be able to tell. She [i]believes.[/i])

Then you are squeezed. Between the thong and the trousers’ waistline.

“Don’t worry, little pet,” the male says, still squeezing and kneading. “We’ll take you home safe and sound, and our little jokes will stay between us, yes?” He’s deliberately trying to keep you flustered and off-balance and meek so that you’ll agree to whatever he wants, and luckily, what he wants is for you to keep your mouth shut, play along with their harassment all the way home, and absolutely [i]under no circumstances[/i] to tell your Lady.

He very much wants you to stay off-balance and terrorized and squeaking so that you do not realize that there is a very high chance that if Tamytha decides to take insult to the treatment of her dear, sweet handmaiden, his ass will be in the [i]deepest[/i] shit, and you in fact have [i]him[/i] over a barrel.

***

[b]Anathet![/b]

It’s difficult, but you manage to figure out why as she slaps you in the face with a feeling of [[i]gratitude; the feeling of unwarranted grace, like being forgiven for knocking someone down[/i]] (At least it’s not hammering into you any more. Baby steps!) She’s not like you. You are centered and present; you are vast and certain as an iceberg. Or at the very least an ice cube. But a big one. She is water, moving wherever her own consciousness drifts; if you are an iceberg, she is the salt-sea. She needs to be anchored. She needs something to cling to, so that she can give voice.

Maybe a name. Or a talisman special to her. Or meditation lessons. Being her anchor, offering to be a stable point for her, would be dangerous (and risk changing both of you, like water changes the shape of the ice and is displaced in turn) but you can do it right here and now. Or you can do things slow and safe.

As for the danger? She is the salt sea all around. She is being very careful and considerate. If she wanted to crush you like a bug, you have the definite feeling she could. She might lose coherence doing it, in fact, she probably would, but she could. As easily as you could close your fist.

If your sensei were here, he would tell you that no compassionate act is ever truly wasted; that kindness, when given, enriches the cosmos. That some may act out of deliberate cruelty, but that we should first always find where someone is hurting and try to help them mend.

Reach out. Connect. Help her understand you so that she can understand herself.