Picture Skotia, held in the arms of the Praetor. Picture his golden mask, perched on his nose, its eyes flushed hot pink, its fringe drifting down his neck like a pretty silk veil, changed from a confident disguise to something demure and humiliating with one careful talon. Picture the way he holds himself to avoid flashing the flesh of his well-shaped thigh, or worse, the delicate lace, the bow now half undone by a probing thumb, knowing that Bella could nudge him open with careless ease, fingers pressed to his lips. Imagine the adoring, wondering look in his mismatched eyes, how he stares up at Bella as if he had known her all his life, had known her as simply Bella the maid, Bella the pet, and suddenly sees her as Bella the woman, Bella the Praetor, Bella Triumphant.

And even so, Skotia hesitates. He does not blurt out fealty, but considers Bella for longer than she would likely care to be considered. Aphrodite’s eyes, on the pair, are hot coals, hotter than the stub of his cigarette. In a moment like this, words have meaning. Oaths that cannot be broken are made in moments like this.

Imagine being seen for who you are, the song goes. Imagine being accepted anyway. Imagine being chosen, over and over again. Imagine being given a second chance.

“I belonged to you the moment our eyes met,” he concludes, finally. “And if the Rift slipped between our arms, I’d still be yours for as long as it took us to cross. Because I am yours until you release me, my Praetor.” And he does stand on tiptoe, and the fringe of his mask is such a thin thing between the heat of his lips and Bella’s neck, and he mouths her name like a hymn. [i]Bella.[/i]

(And it is not a promise to follow, and it is not a promise to obey, but it is a promise to belong. Let his wife weep, let his dogs howl; he will never be free of Bella. But consider—)

“But I have competition,” he continues, as the Praetor’s hand explores the hidden places of his back. “Or so the rumor goes, from that privateer ship. When the Imperial Princess had word you were dead on some Hermetic wreck, she fell to pieces. She sang to [i]Eleuthereus[/i] and had to be restrained, or she would have made her whole ship your funeral offering. Now that you are here alive, she likely means to kidnap you and keep you on her ship so she does not risk losing you again. Forgive me for waiting to tell you. I… I wanted you to want me, first. No. [i]Needed[/i] you.”

He looks up with a vulnerable lift of his neck, like a submissive little kitten, and waits for his punishment. And there’s more than one kind, isn’t there? Her iron talons pressing against his throat until she has cut off his breath and holds his lungs in thrall. A bitter word, a refusal to ever love the princess who abandoned her again, confirmation that Redana never meant anything to her but a ward to be resented. Or, worse, a longing cry, a boy forgotten, a wailing collapse at the Princess’s feet—

Because that’s your game, isn’t it, Skotia? That’s how you’re playing the Praetor. The terrible clarity of Aphrodite suffuses you. If the Praetor condemns the Princess, then you are damned in turn, born in immaculate conception from her roots; if you seduce her, you carry out a long and cruel betrayal. If the Praetor adores the Princess, who you once were and are no longer, then you will be damned in turn, punished in Tartarus as you deserve, a mirror of Bella’s past as you watch and serve and long for her love.

But if the Praetor is conflicted, if she is torn, if your words roll over her in waves, then maybe, just maybe, you can make everything right. You can perform a miracle tonight. Redana Claudius, perfected, better than she ever was or could have been, will continue her quest to save humanity. Praetor Bella will continue the chase of someone she could have cared for, if things had been different. And with her—

A second chance. No crown to come between you. The dreams you once had, entrusted to someone who deserves them more. The girl who suffered for the person you once were, now soothed, now worshipped, now allowed to be wanted. An apology carried out every morning and every night, a secret plea for forgiveness. A service from a servant who was never destined to rule.

The name you were given tonight will not last forever. You will need a new one. Maybe, if you are lucky, it will be [i]Princess.[/i] A joke and a power play and a gender and a comfort all in one. If you sail between Scylla and Charybdis. If there is a chance she might accept you and your need that Redana Claudius was never allowed to express, most of all by herself.

Picture Skotia, placing his heart in Bella’s talons, frightened by his own plan, but unwilling to step away from it under the eyes and name of Aphrodite. Picture Skotia, ready to be unwrapped, his hidden lace whispering against his skin, his heart shining full of the power of a mean girl. Picture Skotia, throwing his whole being into a desperate plan without thinking about it, again, because his heart won’t fit in his chest and he doesn’t know any other way to live than following it where it pulls on his leash.

Picture the places where Skotia fits perfectly in his Bella’s arms.