I wake to a kick to my ribs and the cold kiss of tile on my lips. It takes a moment for the pain to set it, blooming on my skin before sinking into my jaw and ribs. A haze hangs over everything now. I blink, an automatic reaction- I can't see with the leather hood laced tightly over my head, smothering everything but my lower face.

Around me, silence. It wasn't silent a moment ago, was it?

"Your Grace...?" A voice, muffled by the hood but close by.

Above me, my Queen says, "It fell asleep on my leg."

That's right. I’d been kneeling by Her boots as the meeting began- something urgent, all of Her top advisors and generals called to attention. What they discussed was not for me to hear. I knelt, and knelt, and knelt long after my knees begun to throb with pain. I tried to stay upright, to not flag to one side and touch Her. She touches me. Never the reverse. 

And then I fell asleep. And now I lay on the floor, blinking useless eyes against useless pain. I am useless. I couldn't even do this. 

She jerks hard on my leash, dragging me back up to my knees. Ignoring how my head spins, I focus on staying still. Back straight. Hands folded in lap. Sitting pretty for Her. I try not to shiver despite the cold on my bare skin.

Silence again.

"Go on," snaps my Queen.

"Yes, Your Grace." The man clears his throat and continues. "The riots in the Agricultural Sector are worsening. In particular, the brewery is refusing to relinquish their latest batch of ale, instead distributing it to other civilians in the Sector. Last night a guard detachment was sent to try and wrestle it from them." His composure begins to crack here. Nervousness leaking in. "As You know, of course, the guard is stretched thin as is, and the people are emboldened by this, and there was an... altercation."

"There's always an altercation, minister." My Queen’s tone is sharp and clipped. A knife halfway out of its sheathe, ready to flash out and cut in a heartbeat. "What makes this one different?"

"The guard fired on the mob. At least four dead."

"And did they get the ale?"

"No."

I feel my leash tense as Her grip tightens.

"What of the meat shortage?"

The minister hesitates. "Your Grace," he finally says, "the livestock population is projected to keep dwindling. There simply isn't enough land to house or feed them."

"Minister, we have expanded the Reclaimed Zone by twenty miles this year. Why are we not using that land?"

I can practically smell the man sweating, the scent cutting through the ghost of cigarette smoke. Until recently, the assembled did smoke in here. They've since stopped. Still the smell lingers.

"We took that land with the help of the Virtues," he explains. "But there were only ever five of them, and we still needed troops to hold it, and..."

"Your Grace, we're running out of manpower." This is Field Marshall Kabrell. "Even with conscription, and even with the soldier’s stipend. And even then, we're running out of bullets and shells to arm the men we have. There isn't enough to make up for the loss of the Virtues, and there isn't enough to hold the land they've already taken. The Host have begun to take it back."

A heavy quiet falls. My leash quivers in the Queen-Minister's grip.

"The Virtues were a failure, then," She snarls under her breath. "Another waste."

It takes everything I have not to wither. She will notice. 

"They weren't a waste, Your Grace." Kabrell speaks slowly. Choosing her words. "They did just as they were meant to. However, pressed for resources as we are, it’s difficult to take full advantage of the breathing room they gave us.”

My Queen asks, "And the contingency program?" 

"Proceeding with promise," replies Kabrell. "The first group will be ready for your appraisal soon."

"How soon?"

"Within the week, Your Grace."

A wave of fatigue hits me and my posture sags forward. I gag as my Queen jerks my leash back to pull me back up, leather pressing hard into my throat. She rains curses onto me. "Useless creature, all the work I put into you and you can't even be fucking presentable for Me. You can't even manage that."

I weather it, no matter how sharply it stings. This will end soon. She promised me so. 

As my Queen’s tirade ends, that heavy quiet returns. She snaps, "Well? What else?"

Another man says, "Your Grace, we have received reports of civilians fleeing the city. Sneaking out at night."

"Induct them into the program."

"Your Grace?"

"We need more soldiers, don't we? Kabrell, you said the program was proceeding well?"

Kabrell's voice is as flat as a bayonet. "That's correct, Your Grace."

"Then put any deserters you catch to use there. They will serve. This is greater than them." My Queen’s breathing grows heavier as Her fervor flares. "They will serve.”

All will serve Her. They must. I served, until I failed. Now I am where failures belong, awaiting the fate failures deserve.

The meeting concludes and Her Grace tugs my leash up, choking me until I clamber to my feet. Again my head spins, another wave of weakness smothering me. I haven’t fed in weeks. I haven’t needed to- haven’t deserved to. I’m dragged, blind and nude, back through the halls towards Her quarters. Everywhere between the meeting room and there is blank space. I don’t need to know what’s there. It isn’t my role anymore.

I know when we reach Her quarters because the air inside is warm and tinged with cinnamon and alcohol. My Queen leads me a short way before stopping. “Kneel.”

I drop to the icy floor. My knees hurt. That’s okay. I deserve it.

Her boots click away. A drawer opens, glass tinkers, and a bottle is uncorked. Liquid is poured. She drinks, guzzling the glass. She pours another. Then, pace uneven, She returns to me. Her presence looms heavy like a storm cloud.

She orders, “Confess.”

“Queen-Minister,” I begin, voice hoarse from disuse- She seldom orders me to speak anymore. “I am weak. I failed to use my former strength as You required, and so You have taken it. Now I have only what You allow. I would break like rusted iron were it not for Your mercy. But I have failed to show my gratitude for this.”

“You have, pet.” Another long swig. When She speaks again, Her words have started to slur. “You’ve failed Me again and again. Even after all I’ve done to make you strong, and show you the truth. Even with the fate of My city in the balance.”

Her judgment is an avalanche, threatening to crush me alive.

She gives a low, husky chuckle, strained with bitterness. “Of course, that’s to be expected, isn’t it?” Liquid swirls in its glass. A little spills, droplets flecking my chest. “That’s to be expected of something like you.”

I know the boot is coming. Not right away- She circles me first. Looking for a stretch of skin not already bruised or broken by scars. I’m not ready when She finds it on my right thigh. I grit my teeth against the stab of pain, biting back a cry. A cry is speaking, and She seldom wants me to speak. But She kicks me again, again, harder each time, until the force tilts me to the side and I land on the ribs She bruised in the meeting room. I can’t help a strangled whimper. Fire spreads from my thigh and down my leg, up my hip-

She kicks my shoulder, so I roll onto my back. There I splay out for Her. Giving Her access to knead Her bootheel into the nub where my penis had been.

“A transvestite angel,” She snarls. “Who’s ever heard of such a thing? What goddess plays such crass jokes?” Half her words bleed together. I only know what She’s saying because it’s far from the first time She’s punished me like this, since She ordered my womanhood be removed after my return. A script written into my parody of a body. “At least I’ve made you a real woman now. Or as close as you’ll get.” More wine spills across my belly as She grinds down on the sensitive flesh. “Aren’t you thankful, pet?”

“Yes, Queen-Minister,” I yelp. The pain wrings tears from my eyes and breath from my lungs. “Thank you, Queen-Minister.” And I am thankful. Some of the tears trapped in my hood to burn against my skin are of joyful gratitude. She’s right. The goddess above made me improperly. My Goddess here on earth has corrected me. I’m as whole as I can be now. One of Her final gifts to me.

“That’s right,” hisses My Queen. My Merciful, Mending Queen, who gives purpose and form. “You’re thankful. The least you can do is be fucking thankful.” Finally She pulls Her boot away. Her breathing is heavier still. Then She tugs my leash. “Up. Back in your case.”

Shuddering, I roll over and rise on unsteady legs. Muscle memory helps me find my way to the large glass display case in the corner of Her study. She showed it to me, before She put the hood on. It’s nice, with a plush cushion for me to kneel on and holes in the sides so I can breathe. Nicer than I deserve. Hauling myself up the steps, I pause to let Her undo my collar. Then I duck inside, shuffle around so I can be seen, and kneel down to sit prettily. The glass door creaks shut, and a lock turns.

This is one of the few duties I can still perform. I wish I could do more. But it’s okay. This will end soon.

The silences are the worst. The long stretches where I'm left on display, no tasks through which I might earn fleeting moments of Her favor. All She requires of me is that I sit, straight and presentable. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes for days. Time creeping by so slowly I can feel it prickling up my stiffening back. I imagine I've turned to stone- petrified to smooth, beautiful marble. It makes it a little easier. If I'm focusing on that, the feeling of cool white mineral, numb to all but its own splendor, I won't think. She doesn’t want me to think. This is so kind of Her, because I don't want to think, either. If I think, I might remember.

That's okay. This will end soon.

The next morning, I hear Kabrell's voice, speaking with my Queen in hushed, urgent voices. They've no need to be so discrete. I'm not listening. Their words are above me. I focus on my phantom marble body, on remaining as beautiful as my broken form can. 

After some time, a lull in the conversation. Boots tread across the floor towards my case. I tense my spine, assuming it to be my Queen. "Your Grace," asks Kabrell, just outside the glass. "May I ask what your plans are with the last Virtue?"

An icicle pierces my heart.

My Queen takes a long, damp slurp of something. "We need more power for the contingency?"

"We do, Your Grace."

"There it is, then." She moves arrhythmically towards us. "All of my pets, taken from Me- killed, or stolen, or turned traitor. All except this wretched thing."

Wretched thing. I am a wretched thing. Weak and stupid and malformed. I hold these words close. It's easy to accept. Easier than thinking, or remembering.

"What can I do with such a failure?" Another long sip. "Well, I can amuse Myself with it. But it's starting to bore Me." Her stare is hot needles and Her words are a blunt edge. "Soon- very soon, I think- I'll have it put down. Can you imagine? Putting an angel down like a sick dog?"

"I can, Your Grace." The Field Marshall's voice is stone. 

My Queen chuckles darkly. "It'll be something, I expect. Watching that light flicker out for Myself. Giving the goddess something else to mourn, if she cares for her brood at all. She did drop five of them for Me, let Me do as I needed with them for years. She can't care that much."

Another silence, as if She expects Kabrell to have something to add. Kabrell says nothing.

"Soon, I think," mutters My Queen. "I'll have it put down, and we'll remove its implants to use in the program."

"Understood, Your Grace," Kabrell says at last.

It's comforting. Knowing I'll be released soon. Knowing that release will come in the form of one final act of service to Her. I failed to give Her my life in battle. That's okay. I'll give it to Her on a surgeon's table, and She'll make better use of it than I did. She gives by taking, this power of benevolent paradox proof of Her living goddesshood. She took my wings so I’d be bound to Her path, and be led to Her strength, Her understanding. She took my golden halo because its light blinded me to Her truth. Soon, She’ll take my life as well to give me use beyond its feeble limits. Soon.

That evening I’m given a small vial of ambrosia to drink. It’s the second time I’ve fed since my return. It’s a relief physically, feeling the warm amber static flow down my throat, before its power trickles through my body. Deep in my heart, however, it nurtures a seed of impatience. My Queen plans to kill me. Soon, She claims. Why bother wasting such a precious resource on me? Why not let it end now? Why draw this out?

I smother those feelings. I have failed, and so I must be punished. It’s as simple as the sun rising and setting.

The next night, I’m led from my case into another room. It’s not a place I’ve ever been before, I think. At least not before everything went wrong. It’s started to become familiar to me since then. I’m made to settle down on my hands and knees. A short time later, a group of people arrive- men and women, babbling and cackling, my Queen’s voice occasionally surfacing from the mire. They flood in and surround me, a raucous nonsense chorus. Corks are popped, stinks of cooked meat and drink and something more acrid cloud the air, and I let myself drown in it all. I will be used tonight.

A chill touches my left shoulder blade, right over the scar where a wing had once been- someone setting their glass down on my bare skin. Others do the same, on the small of my back, along my ribs, just below the base of my neck. Liquid sloshes. Open mouths chew wetly and loudly, and speak garbled gibberish through their meals. Graceless feet trundle around, vibrating through the smooth floorboards up into my arms and knees. Lukewarm drink dribbles across my shoulders. On habit I lower my head, hoping to keep it out of my hair. Instead, someone grabs my ponytail, hanging out of the back of my hood, and jerks it up.

I catch little of the rumbles of conversation around me, nor am I trying to. Furniture doesn’t eavesdrop. What fragments find their way into my ears do so entirely accidentally. Enjoy it, this is the last... Never reached the coast, we could’ve... Else are they going to do, go out and barter with Harry...? Must be a new piece, how exotic... Shame about the angels... Still have the one, anyway. Someone folds their legs across my back, and I almost buckle. I don’t, though. At the very least, I can hold still.

The night drags on. My limbs stiffen and a throbbing ache grips my spine, tightening more and more by the hour. All around that swamp of sound deepens and fouls, crass laughter and songs filling the cramped air, which stinks more and more of sweat and cheap drink. I even catch a whiff of cigarette smoke, impossible as that should be now. Something nudges past my shoulder, jostling me, but I hold steady and no cups tumble from my back. My Queen’s voice is entirely buried. Is She even still here?

“...fitting end for it...” There She is. Her voice, pushing up through the cacophony. “...just the first disappointment of...” Someone else speaks but it slips pasts my ears, unimportant. She scoffs. “...least it’s pretty, isn’t it...?” More insignificant noise. It takes me a moment to pick Her out again, Her tone disinterested, words slurring together. “...to add the other one...”

My attention is torn from her by another hand grabbing my hair, pulling it back hard. A man mutters, “Why don’t you bless me with that pretty mouth, angel?”

By the time the mob sputters out and ebbs away, I ache all over. My limbs and back are starting to seize. The glasses have been removed from my back. It’s a small comfort as salt lingers in my mouth. The last incoherent voices and unsteady footsteps drift away, and a door groans shut. For the barest moment, I think I’m alone in the suffocating atmosphere.

Heels click across the floorboards, and stop just above me. "Head down," She orders. I tuck my chin against my chest. Delicately, She undoes the back of my hood and pulls it off, then fastens my old mask over the lower half of my face. "Look up."

I do so but can't see Her yet. The hood covers my eyes most of the time now. Even gentle light stings them, a harsh blur I blink and squint stupidly against until they adjust. Her shape looms above me, however. A radiant phantom of white and gold, materializing through the electric haze. Her nose and cheeks are flushed red and Her eyes are dark and bleary, Her golden waves flowing down one shoulder over a green-and-ivory shawl and dress. A nearly empty glass of wine dangles from Her hand. She is the most beautiful sight on this earth, even staring down at me with such cold disdain. 

Her lips shape into a thin smile, wrinkles deepening at the edges. "Aren't you lucky, pet," says my Queen. "Just the luckiest little star ever to fall to earth."

I crane my head up towards Her. Craving Her warmth, however unworthy I am of it.

"And aren't I just the grandest fool to ever live." Her voice hardens. She throws back the last dregs of wine. "Thinking a pretty, stupid little bird like you would win Me a war."

I don’t wither. I’m used to such berating. I deserve it.

She continues. "You were strong, yes. Fast and fearless and vicious, yes, once I showed you the way. And it wasn't enough. You weren't enough." She glares into Her cup, as if the faint purplish residue the wine left there disappoints Her as well. "All the praise I heaped on you, in service of nothing." Every word another cold needle, slipped into my tendons and muscles. "All the fresh blood I fed you, fuelling only letdowns to come." Her eyes drift back towards me. "Well, pet? Anything to say for yourself?"

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," I dutifully mewl. As practiced as breathing. When I first returned, when Her fury was at its freshest, She used to berate me for what felt like hours. Used to slap me to the floor and scream of my failures as She ground Her heels into my thighs and buttocks and gut. Sometimes She'd let me stand as She did it, so She could grope and claw and bite at me, like She meant to tear off the breasts and beautiful face and flowing hair I shouldn't have. Like She meant to rip out my implants then and there. She should still do these things. I deserve it.

"Not enough." My Queen tosses Her glass onto a lavish couch to her right- one of three arranged around me, I realize. Finally I have a moment to take in the room. The chandelier above bristling with electric lights, the fanciful carpet beneath me now stained with wine and semen, the red walls covered in beautiful paintings and display shelves and the mounted heads and horns of various beasts. A show room, in which I must have been the centerpiece tonight.

"Soon, though." Again comes that narrow, joyless smile. "You'll make it up to me, pet. I want to show you how." She turns and staggers away, and I crawl stiffly after her. We don’t go far. Impressive as the room is, it isn't so large. Reaching one end of it, my Queen steps aside.

And there's Getye.

My long lost little sister, with her shaggy blond hair and big curious eyes. Kneeling on a wooden platform, like I do in my display case, with her hands clasped in prayer. But Getye can't be here. She died months ago, at the Ghost Forest. We were fleeing the Host counteroffensive, and she was shot in the back, even though I was right beside her. Even though I could have done something, anything to save her, and she still died there in front of me-

-and I realize this isn’t Getye. Those aren't her eyes. They're glassy, painted a dim yellow, not the vibrant gold they were in life nor the green they became in death. Her skin is pale as it ever was but there's a waxy dullness to it. She wears a shapeless white gown but it reveals enough that I can see that her thaumaturgy scars are absent. Her face is even uncovered. What really forces the realization into me, however, are the wings. A pair of ruffled white wings affixed to her back, splayed out and pitifully small. 

On the platform beneath her knees is a golden placard, reading, "A Monument to Failed Divinity."

"After I put you down," says my Queen, "I'm going to have you cleaned up and stuffed, and I’ll put you in here, as well. Right next to your sister, so the two of you will always be together. Always sitting pretty for me." She smiles down at me, and for the first time in a long time, there's real mirth in it. "Won't that be lovely? Don't you appreciate that?"

The words drift through me. I remember now. There's no choice but to, not with my sister's corpse propped up in front of me. I remember that tune Getye had hummed as she died. A jaunty marching song, something she'd picked up from the troops. It finds its way into my own throat and then I'm humming it too, soft and quavering.

And I remember the rest. The sister I let die. The sister I let be stolen. The sister I murdered myself. All the sisters I abandoned. Memories claw their way up from the deep places of my mind, where I'd tried to cram them away, and they carve their vengeance into me as they do. I remember that I had sisters, and that I betrayed them all.

And I remember that there was a warm, serene home awaiting me. A home where I was loved and sacred. A home I rejected.

For what?

The toe of a boot cracks me across my mask, throwing me onto my side. "Well?" snaps my Queen. "Don't you appreciate it?!"

My eyes sting and I realize that I'm weeping. I keep humming. To let Getye's song die here, before her sightless eyes, feels like another betrayal. I can't betray my sister again. I can't fail her too, not again.

"Everything I've done for you!" The boot finds my ribs. "Everything I've done for every ungrateful swine within these walls!" My gut. "All of you, failures!" She's wailing now, hoarse and venomous. "All of them, turning on me!" My face again. I lose rhythm at each blow, but quickly regain it. "I'm the only thing keeping you all alive and you can't even be fucking thankful!" My face again, I feel my mask shift and loosen, I flail trying to catch Her boot as it comes at me-

-a tangle of leather and fingers, a burst of pain as the boot strikes, I close my eyes in case She comes for them next-

-and then She stops. Then there's just me, humming Getye's song, quivering on the floorboards.

Hesitantly, I open my eyes. My Queen’s boots are before me, spaced oddly apart. One points its toes towards me. The other- the one I judge had been kicking me- is turned out to the side, giving Her a lopsided stance. I look up to find Her staring down at me. Her face is slack as half-melted wax. A line of drool runs from one side of Her mouth down onto her resplendent shawl.

And I realize my mask is on the floor beside me, my thumb hooked under it and the straps broken. Torn off in the struggle.

The sight takes a moment to sink in. Takes a moment to circulate through the battered machinery of my mind. At first I reject it. My Queen is radiant Herself, outshining the heavens. Why should my radiance effect Her? She alone holds the truth, She alone shares it at Her discretion. How could I strike Her dumb?

Her eyes are dark, empty flecks on a leather sack of a face. Seeing nothing. Knowing nothing.

My Queen is gone.

I scream. A ragged, warbling shriek welling up from another dark recess of my being, where I'd hoped to bury it as well. I scream for Her to punish me. She doesn’t. I scream for Getye to hum her pretty song and give that faint measure of comfort. She won't. I scream for my sisters to damn me, to all pull my sins out of me and pour over them as Imeshan had. They don't. I scream for my mother to reach a golden hand down and save me. She doesn't.

I scream for the world to fall back into alignment. It will not. It cannot. Now there's only me, and my endless follies.

First I weep. Wracking sobs as I lay in a heap. Then I pray for forgiveness. First to Getye, then to my Queen. Both stare down at me with hollow eyes, quiet as the grave. Then I claw and slap at myself until I’ve etched tattered webs of rose gold across my skin, meting out the punishment no one else will.

Then... What? I slump down on my knees. What is there left to do? Wait for one of the staff to find us? Wait to waste away from starvation? Wait for the Host to make their way into the Reclaimed Zone and over the city walls, finding the place listless without its Queen-Minister? 

I look up at my Queen. Spittle drips from Her lip onto Her beautiful white boots. All of Her splendor remains except the two hollows where Her eyes had been. Milky glass which once had glinted with cold knowing. She is gone. Every part of Her that matters is gone.

I swallow dryly.

Every part that matters is gone.

All but one.

I lick my lips. (I'm so hungry) There’s one last service I can provide. It may be futile now. But I can do it.

Pushing myself up, I hobble over to Her on aching legs. Her breath reeks of wine and grease. Taking Her by the shoulders, I guide Her to one of the couches and gently settle us both down onto it.

Her body is inert, Her mind is scorched to dust. (She starved me and now there is no one to feed me) She doesn't need them. Her soul still lives. Her power had always been of the soul- how She'd pulled ours down from above and instilled them with new meaning.

Taking one side of Her head to hold Her up, I sweep Her hair away from her neck. (They will kill me if they find this, but they would kill me anyway now) I will guide my Queen, just as She guided me. (Either that or I will starve, and she meant to kill me anyway) What better way could there be to show my appreciation? What better way could there be to worship Her, than to make my body Her cathedral, housing Her essence?

Leaning down, I sink my teeth into Her skin. Blood, hot and copper and effervescent, floods my mouth. She gives a raspy whimper. But (She taught me how to hunger and crave, she made me an addict) my Queen knows better than anyone that pain of the body is good for the soul- She taught me this expertly. 

I drink deep. My Queen allows it. (She is as dead as Getye and the Host and this whole forsaken world) She recognizes my devotion, on some level. Knows in that still-shining soul that this is to serve Her. I feed until my belly is warm and heavy and blood trickles down my chin to stain Her clothes, and then I feel Her shudder.

Pulling back, I watch the gilded light of Her soul travel up Her throat, up into Her gaping mouth. (I snatch it from between her teeth and cram it into my jaws) I shepherd it towards my lips. It crackles against my tongue and, with a tickle of static, passes down my throat as I swallow. (I have destroyed her as she destroyed us) She is free from the husk of Her body. Now I am Her sanctuary. 

Settling against the backrest, I pull my Queen’s spent body up against myself. A sluggishness blankets me, the large meal slowing my mind and body. Gluttony is a sin but (after all she's taken from me it's only fair I take this back) it was in service of a greater purpose here. It was holy work.

Tears sting my eyes. (Someone will find this soon) I am blessed, being able to give my Queen new life within myself.

I blink hard. Hot salt traces down my cheeks. (As soon as Charith tore me from the sky this place was fated to be my grave) Now through me, She may continue Her work. I can feel Her bliss at the prospect, Her sheer joy beginning to spread through my veins. 

One more hiccuping sob escapes me, before I bite my lips together and swallow the rest, and pull my lips into a trembling smile. (I am engorged on revenge and find it unsatisfying, I will never fly again, I will never see my sisters or my mother again) Now I will always serve Her best. Now I will always be Her favorite.