[b]Maid![/b]

You hit the mud again hard. Your stupid mortal weakling head rings, and your lungs burn. Everything here is heavy and hard and slipping away from your small, delicate fingers.

Nearby, the cat roars her defiance against this agent of the usurping, false heavens. If she begins speaking the oldest tongue, your head might explode, having all that meaning packed inside of the useless cotton fluff of your head, like your old dolls, like the coats of your soldiers.

It is very tempting to give up. It’s not your fault. It’s just this body. It can’t be trusted. It’s a bad blade. Shoddy. Broken. Worthless. But you lift your head for a moment, anyway, blinking the rain-sodden dirt out of your eyes (only two, how inconvenient, what were you all thinking when you made these pathetic creatures)—

And she’s watching you. She’s still watching you. The witch. The priestess. The servant of Heaven. Your tormentor. Your jailer. Your challenge. The one you will overcome. The one you must overcome. Your pathetic hands ball into fists, and shake, and hot tears spring to your eyes.

How dare she? How dare she sit there, looking at you, so calm, so placid, so superior? How dare she look at you when you are like this? How dare she enchant you, bewitch you, wrap you up in blue chains? How dare she? How could she? How can you let her?

You don’t have a name for what’s burning inside you. The only thing close is bloodlust. Shamelust? You have to see her lose. You [i]have[/i] to see her lose.

You force yourself up, and it’s the end of the field battles of the War all over again. Back when the gods and the dragons launched their final assault in the name of pathetic humanity. You still stood. It’s not your fault. Everyone else fled, or let their courage fail them, and the lines of command collapsed, and you, you, [i]you[/i] had to continue fighting the next stage of the war in exile.

(In your mind’s eye, for a moment, you confuse which one of you stood there. You could not have been as small as this, not then; they could not have picked you up and thrown you like a centipede, flailing black sleeves and white lace.)

You roar. Your tiny, squeaky voice breaks halfway through. Your ears are hot and your heart hammers and you glance furiously at the priestess, who is mocking you, you know it, you [i]know[/i] it, if she smiles at the sound that came out of you you will fall over and die, and yet you look just in case she does.

Then you launch yourself at the back of the other slave of Heaven— you wrap your legs around her massive hips, digging in with your heels— you reach up and claw at her face and you hiss and spit and what little there is left of you lets you pry the mask free. The connection between goddess and mortal snaps like a thin wire, and then it is yours. You stop to gaze at this power.

This power that you will devour.

You will metastasize within Heaven. You will be beautiful. You will turn all their schemes into disasters. They will never know that their greatest enemy has infiltrated them. You will become a queen, as beautiful and terrible as the light that was before the creation of the world. You will reign in Heaven, and make of it a new Hell for the unjust, the unruly, the ungrateful [i]brats.[/i]

And then you are tackled and the mask is crushed underneath furry tits, pressing the breath out of you, fingers trapped under the body of a grinning, sharp-toothed, tuft-eared, hot-breathed, moon-kissed, wet-faced, beautiful, terrifying, triumphant warrior

and the heat coursing through you

the images flashing through your head

are things that the General cannot feel, but you, you aren’t him, you’re the Maid, and the Maid is blushing and stammering and feels [i]arousal[/i] and [i]desire[/i] and blue chains wrapped tighter and tighter about her (your) heart, as you stare at her lolling tongue and remember the awful, humiliating, aching trip back, and find yourself clenching your legs together tighter and tighter as more and more unfolds in front of your eyes, and the worst part of it all

the [i]worst[/i] part of it all

is how much you want [i]her[/i] to suffer it, too

[hr]

[b]Lotus![/b]

“You cAN—“

You swallow, and strain against the ropes (which are. very well placed. just like you’d expect from a Dominion agent) and try again, shutting your eyes, as if that will save you from the embarrassment.

“You can do it!” Your voice is drowned out by the roar, by the clash, by the, the [i]fwumph,[/i] but you’ve got to try.

Because she can! Han [i]can[/i] do this! She saved you from Hell! She’s the strongest, most amazing dragon you’ve ever had the chance to meet!

(And. Hypothetically. If you keep cheering for her. The dragon’s paw of the Dominion might. Maybe. Just possibly. Make you. Stop doing that. Thoroughly. Which is a most unworthy thing to be secretly hoping for, Lotus of Tranquil Waters.)

[hr]

[b]Kalaya![/b]

“We need to find the General,” she admits, under her voice. The wind chills slightly; the rain outside spatters more heavily. “Or the thing that your… [i]friend[/i] turned him into. It’s their politics. But I’m playing them, Kal.” The strain of her voice. The flint in her eyes. The way she leans in closer, as if hoping you’ll hold her. “They just want a couple of, you know. Captives. And then they’ll help us throw out the Dominion. He’ll help us. The… up there, back there.”

“[i]Ligier,[/i]” the witch says, savoring the syllables. Savoring the power.

“This is how I help you. This is how we win. And I’m trusting you, okay?” Ven suddenly takes your hand. Draws it to her breastbone. Is close enough to kiss. “You. I want you. With me. My queen. You’re the only person I can… you’re the only person I want beside me. We can do this. [i]Together.[/i]” Her brass fingers tighten on yours, almost painfully, pinching.

Her brass fingers.

“And we’ll have what we deserve, Kal, [i]please.[/i]” Her voice is raw. Hoping. [i]Yearning.[/i] She wants you, Kalaya Na.

The waitress at the stand makes to serve you your food, then sees Ven’s intensity and pretends that she forgot to fetch a plate from the kitchen.