Weak. Fragile. Useless.

My girlfriend.

Weak. Fragile. Useless.

[i]My girlfriend.[/i]

Rose is used to mantras. Because... because it is expected of a priestess? Yes. That must be it. Long hours spent in meditation over the miracles of the goddess, her ten thousand transcendent titles, her eight million fluffy tails. She lets the words step into the spotlight of her mind, declare themselves into the resounding dark, and step back into shadow, one at a time, over and over.

Weak. Fragile. Useless.

[i]My girlfriend.[/i]

She is weak. She is not strong. Her restraints are hopeless; she shouldn’t even bother to struggle against them. She could never lift the sword that— what sword? Was she thinking of the bronze rod the Countess was holding? That surely must be it. As she is walked through the castle, her arms become slimmer with a slow and gradual diminishing, until the ropes (inescapable, adamantine, heavy) are dangling on the cock of her wrists.

Weak. Fragile. Useless.

[i]My girlfriend.[/i]

She is fragile. She is not a mountain, not a serpent with invulnerable scales, not Equal To... well, anyone. She is a flower. She is a rose. She needs to be held and kept safe. She dwindles like a candle in the arms of her guards until she is no longer towering over them, but dainty, delicate, very holdable, just begging to be swept up into someone’s arms or over their shoulder. A white cloth slides down her chin and rests like a scarf around her collarbone.

Weak. Fragile. Useless.

[i]My girlfriend.[/i]

She is useless, not skilled or useful or competent. Her chest is... awkward, compared to the rest of her, just a little too big, made for getting in the way of holding swords or fitting in tight spaces. Her hind end, the same, made for bumping into things and being smacked. Her footfall is not a sure, confident thing, but now stumbles and is hesitant, the body being made to forget... forget something. Why had she been so sure and capable before? No, she wasn’t, she must have been misremembering. She’s a silly little thing, all blushing and muffledly squeaking as she remembers her betters saying:

Weak. Fragile. Useless.

[i]My girlfriend.[/i]

She is pushed into a small, warmly-lit room full of mirrors, where she is given the opportunity to look at herself, and she sees: [i]the girlfriend of Princess Chen.[/i] Weak and fragile and useless and so, so lucky. She is told to sit; her bonds are removed, the sodden gag pulled from between her teeth; she is told to wait. Then the door is closed.

Rose, Princess Chen’s girlfriend, waits. Not just because she’s been told, but because she knows that Chen will come and save her, and that she is supposed to be in need of saving. She’s weak and fragile and useless and loved, after all, and—

Her fingers find something hidden away underneath her outfit, which is starting to fall away from her, leaving her very exposed. She runs her fingers over it reverently, over the pink leather, over the studs, and she remembers where she got it. Of course she does. How could she forget?

She lifts the collar that has her name on it and buckles it around her throat, just snug enough that she’ll remember, no matter what, Chen fitting it around her neck for the first time at the Flying Market of Princess Jessic; and their soft, gentle kiss; and how Rose felt safer and happier then than she had felt in, in mil— in years. Because she’s just a silly little priestess who has the cutest artist princess girlfriend in the world. And no matter what happens while she waits for Chen to escape and come save her, she can hold onto that truth.