Don't speak. Don't speak. [i]Don't[/i] speak. Kaeri roll their eyes and ask for condescending favors. Imperials wave their hands as if to pat her head and name a person they want dead or humiliated, and then assume the work is done from there. Menials and slaves throw themselves at her feet and twist themselves into knots to pleasure her. But the Master is the Master. She alone makes demands. She built the cage of pampering and sweets that holds Beljani prisoner, and when she opens it to demand tricks, she doesn't worry that her pet will run off or refuse. She does not fear her children's teeth. After all, the only thing worse than living in her cage is leaving it. 

Don't speak. Don't speak. Don't complain. Don't whine. Her armor feels flimsy as she stares across the sands at the horrifying and huge army lined up against her-- against the Master. Against her. She plucks at the black fabric stretched over plates of quadranix alloy laid across her stomach. One of those spears is going straight through this flimsy piece of crap, she just knows it. Don't say it, don't speak. It pinches and chafes too, especially around the bust and butt. She's going to need an expert and very intimate massage at the end of all of this, and that if she's lucky enough to live. She wishes she had a helmet. It's silly, but she'd feel safer with something covering her face. No good; she can't spread herself if she's sealed inside some battle suit like Odysseus of old. And then they'd make her be a warrior instead, and that was three, no, four times worse than being exposed. But still, she wants it. Don't speak. 

She wishes it could be more fashionable, too. More comfortable to boot. To say nothing about the pinching, who the frig does a suit like this in full black on a sun-blasted ball of desert? It's hot and miserable and it's functional before it's pretty, which is the worst crime of all. Heavy thug boots and thick pants with plated knees do nothing for her hips. The belts and vest were baggy and obscuring and bulky, it felt like she was wearing an extra person. The billowing cloak was a nice touch, if nothing else, but she couldn't help worrying it made her look too much like a commander and she wasn't looking forward to being focus fired, not one bit. She didn't care that the sweat made it easier to spread her virus, she'd had a taste of descending into war zones wearing slinky, beautiful dresses and she wanted more of it. But don't speak, Beljani. You'll die if you do. Or even worse, you won't.

Her eyes fall on Bella for the umpteenth time today. Her fingers dance nervously across Scribe's spine. Even through these thick gloves, the stimming sensation is wonderful. Her little dragon chirps, and falls asleep. Little b-- jerk. Back to Bella. Her heart sinks. Don't speak.

"Look, they sent the Lanterns. Can you believe that?" 

She wills herself to sound haughty and dismissive. Inside she feels smaller than the smallest of their lot. But, she's speaking, and if she's going to break her only rule the last thing she needs is for it to come out sounding soft. 

"It's pathetic. Don't you think? Their whole army looks like a ratty old quilt already, and then they go and shove a bunch of maids and cooks at our front? Oh, no offense B-- T-Tredecima. But you're a bit... beyond that now, and they're barely fit to be bait. Almost seems cruel, don't you think?"

She laughs. It's better than letting anybody see how badly she's shivering, despite all this heat. Gods, what did she do to deserve this? What was the Master thinking?! She didn't have any business on a field like this! A thousand ways to kill a person, even a whole ship of people, and here she is using the least, the, she can't be serious! Beljani's left hand drops and digs into the fabric around her thighs. Her head turns toward her own side now, up to the Master with her terrible, invincible-seeming visage, and back down to the other side of her and whatever in Olympus' name was there in the shape of Molech. [i]Molech.[/i] This time, she doesn't bother to hide her shudder. She's allowed to be repulsed by the giant, nobody can blame her for it. She slides a half step away from him, as the platform allows without sending her plummeting into a swarm of owls down below, and hides behind Bella. 

"Sister..." she breathes, less almost than a whisper.

Not quiet enough. Scribe perks up eagerly and spreads its wings with a wave of practiced glyphs in a dazzling, beautiful apology and outpouring of all her deepest feelings. Beljani hisses and stuffs the dragon behind her back before it can get to the "I told you so"s and, vastly worse, the bit where she thought "you deserve better than this" would be a good thing to say to anyone, at all, ever. But especially to Bella. 

Her jaw clenches. Her back straightens. Her puts her free hand on the invincible, armored shoulder of the sister she'd never wanted to know. The one that was ruining her life just by standing there. Bella sighs in response, her helmet converting the gesture into a hiss of blistering steam. Beljani's hand jerks away before it can burn, sliding roughly down the armor's ridged and spiny back. Her fingers brush by ceremonial seals and prayer slips, clenching not quite tight enough to ruin the delicate lines of power that make a Diodekoi invincible. 

She's thought about this a lot, Master. It's your fault for not giving her any other choices. She clears her throat and starts again, louder this time. As she speaks, she gathers up the wild tangles of Bella's hair spilling out of her helmet and starts tying them into the kind of clumsy braid that happens when a person who's watched a lot of hairstyling happen to and around her but never lifted a finger to try it herself goes and does it anyway. It's ugly and amateur, but she wills herself not to blush and works until it's finished anyway.

"Sister. I wanted... I tried my best to save you on Salib. It. We had a plan. I stuck to it, when nobody else would. It should have worked. But instead, you're the reason I'm here now. And I'm the reason you're awake at last. Precious sister, child of Artemis, I swear by our Mother of the Hunt that I will not fail you today.

"May my tongue be plucked from my mouth if I do not speak truths to you. May my eyes be gouged from my head if I do not guide you well. This battle will run its course, Zeus will declare what victors she sees fit, but I swear by Moon and by Empire and by my own beating heart, I will see you through to the other side. I will take you to the... I'll bring you to the place that you were always meant to be. The place you yearned for, all this time. Even if you didn't know it. I promise, sister."

Her heart jackhammers against her ribcage, as Scribe clamors up her arm and perches on her shoulder, flashing all kinds of writing with every beat of its glimmering, lasery wings. If you're watching, Artemis, if you care at all you'll send poor Beljani enough sweeties that she'll sink into bliss on the spot just for the raw will and nerve she shows you now in not turning her head back to glance nervously up at the Master. Which of course would have ruined everything.

Not for the last time, she steels herself for what's coming. Not for the last time, she wishes she was braver. Or anywhere else in the entire universe. But she's been thinking about this a lot, lately. There's been nothing else [i]to[/i] think about, you see. Beautiful had a plan. She'd bet on Bella. And all Beljani had to do was see that bet through to the end. 

Win or lose, it's the only way she'd ever feel happy again.