The Killing Hymn: Wield
by RoxyNychus
Quick note, this is a side story for my main project, Angels of the Killing Hymn! It's set immediately after Ch 1, so you only need to have read that to check this out. Or you can jump right into this if you'd really like, but it might not make as much sense lol
The Proxy strides through the darkened halls of Vandett Tower, a bundle of papers under her arm and a thin smile on her lips. Her white uniform and fair hair, up in its tidy bun, almost glow in the candlelight as the night sky fills the tall windows lining the corridor. She and the choir returned to the Tower yesterday. Darsimal Salient, a long and tiresome deployment. Breaking the stalemate there to retake another five miles of ruin for humanity. Someone less faithful might think it pointless, spending almost two weeks in that stew of rot and filth for land that won’t be usable for years.
The Virtues did well. By now the angels kill as easily as they breathe, visions of radiance even with their armor dripping with oily blood. They hang on the Proxy’s every word, fight over every scrap of her approval. If asked, she’d admit there is a charm to it. Watching divinity kneel before her. Watching it gaze up at her with eyes like polished gold, full of simple trust. Craning its flawless head up into the palm of her hand to relish in her praise. But the Virtues are only weapons, and she their wielder. Their success is her success. Just as they are rewarded, she will be as well.
Her smile fills out, like a girl going on a first date, as she reaches the door to the Queen-Minister’s quarters and knocks.
“You may enter,” calls her Queen.
The Proxy steps inside to find Queen-Minister Charith standing over Her dining table, pouring a glass of dark wine. One of the good merlot, from just before the Fall, when the Host overtook the world outside Cratavn’s walls. Excitement pulses in the Proxy’s stomach. Her Grace must truly be pleased. The fireplace is lit and crackling, its light glistening in the Queen-Minister’s long waves of golden hair. She’s changed out of Her usual flowing overcoat for a no-less extravagant emerald-and-gold dress. She beckons the Proxy over, a smile on her wizened face. A wave of anticipation running through her, the Proxy approaches and presents the papers to her Queen.
“The full report, Your Grace,” she says. “As requested.”
“Very good, Officer.” The Queen-Minister sets the bundle aside on the polished oak tabletop. It’s a necessary document, but it contains nothing of immediate importance. Analyses of how each Virtue performed, any noted variation in how the Hymn effected them, an overview of the conditions they fought in and opposition they faced, so on. Her Grace’s sapphire eyes are fixed only on Her Proxy.
Standing together, one might take them for daughter and mother. The same blue eyes, the same sun kissed complexion and blond hair. Similar heart-shaped faces with high cheeks tapering down to softly rounded chins. Graceful builds held straight and high, though the Queen-Minister is taller. They aren’t related, of course. Not in that way. Queen-Minister Charith takes a sip of her wine. Then, She cups her servant’s chin and runs a thumb over her lips. The Proxy opens her mouth. Her Queen tips a little in. It’s sweet and smoky with a tinge of blueberry- one of many fruits the Proxy has only ever tasted hints of in drink.
Light crow’s feet crinkle at the edges of the Queen-Minister’s eyes. “Quite the impressive showing at Darsimal,” She asks. “Wasn’t it, pet?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the Proxy says in a small, soft purr, her Queen’s approval cycling through her head.
“Such a fine job you’ve done with our angels.” Her Grace’s eyes twinkle in the firelight as She strokes Her finger along the Proxy’s jaw. Then Her grip tightens around Her servant’s chin. Only a little. Just enough to pull the Proxy out of her bliss. “Although,” the Queen-Minister continues, still smiling with such fondness. “Lakera mentioned she’d found a note, hidden among the ruins.”
A note. The Proxy reviews her memory of the battlefield, the walk she’d taken along the choir’s trail of destruction afterwards as the troops secured the Salient. “Yes,” she replies, “there was a note by the enemy artillery. It was illegible, however. Ground into the mud.”
“That’s quite bold of them.” Her Grace swishes the wine about in its glass. “Leaving a message along Host lines. Bold, or desperate.”
The Proxy scrapes through her mind, trying to find something useful to offer her Queen. “They might still be trying to re-establish contact.”
“Ah.” A glint of approval in the Queen-Minister’s eyes, igniting a spark of elation in the Proxy’s chest. “They might be, yes.” Her Grace watches the firelight dance across the wine’s dark surface. “Desperate, then. Be mindful of that in future deployments.”
Relief. She’s been of use to her Queen again. The Proxy replies, “Yes, Your G—”
The Queen-Minister tips her head back and pours the rest of the wine down her throat. She guzzles it as best she can, only sputtering a little. It goes down so directly she tastes only the edge of its sweetness, mostly just feels the alcohol burn her esophagus.
As the Proxy swallows and then gasps for breath, Her Grace wipes away the stray flecks dribbled down her chin with Her thumb. “Still,” says Her Grace, the fondness gone from her eyes. “We can’t ignore that Lakera became distracted in the field, and that this endangered the choir.”
The Proxy says nothing in her defense. There is nothing to say. The Queen-Minister will have disciplined Lakera Herself, as She always does. The Virtues are the blade. The Proxy is the arm that blade is affixed to. Queen-Minister Charith is the body, of which an arm is only an extension. There is nothing for the Proxy to do here. Nothing, beyond accept her own discipline.
Her Queen watches, expectant.
The Proxy removes her outermost layers first- her white gloves and jacket, setting them over the back of a nearby chair. Then she unbuttons her white waistcoat. Her belt and green undershirt go next. Her Grace releases her chin, leaning back against the table to watch her strip. Adding the belt and undershirt to the pile, the Proxy unlaces her boots and pulls them off, then tugs down her ivory trousers. Finally she removes her undergarments, leaving herself nude before her Queen.
The Queen-Minister gives a hum of approval, eyes drinking in the Proxy’s naked body. “Such a pretty thing, aren’t you, pet?”
The Proxy almost smiles, the words filling her with a warm bloom of joy. She stops herself. She can’t let them take root in her mind, not now. It will only make her discipline more severe.
“Another of my pretty, stupid things.” Setting the empty glass down, Her Grace produces a small vial from the folds of her dress. Inside is a dense amber liquid. At a glance one might take it for honey. The Proxy recognizes it as ambrosia. Her Grace pulls out the cork, and the Proxy opens her mouth for Her to pour it in. The liquid sparks on her tongue, not tasting but only feeling, like eating electricity. The Proxy has learned not to flinch. Still it pops and snaps as it oozes down her throat and clumps hot in her stomach, as if she’s swallowed a live coal.
The ambrosia hits at once. A scalding tingle spreads through her body, lightning popping in her veins, too hot for comfort. It jars her focus loose, her mind softening and breaking apart, even as she struggles to hold it together.
“Focus, pet.” Her Queen’s voice reaches her like a bullet through steam, tinged with amusement. “Satisfy me now, at least.”
Yes, the Proxy must remain present with her Queen. Thoughts come slow, however, like she’s having to pull them through the thick fetid mud of the front. Specks of gold begin to dance in her eyes, beautiful and disorienting. Her head lightens as she tries not to follow their will-o-wisp light.
Because now Her Grace is touching her. A fingertip pressed against her throat. It makes her flinch. Once she starts twitching, she can’t stop. Not as Her Grace runs Her finger down the Proxy’s neck. It’s like a line of static drawn along her skin. Down towards her breasts, then tracing along the swell of one, circling up until it brushes past the nipple. The most violent shudder yet bolts through the Proxy. She doesn’t protest. She can’t stop herself from whimpering, however. A small animal sound. She clenches her jaw to try and contain it, but she only has so much control over her own body. Only has so much power.
“What was that?” Points of yellowish light glimmer along her Queen’s face and clothing, as if She were made of gold Herself. Her smile is cold and mirthless. “Have you a complaint, pet?”
“N-No, Yo-Your Grace.” It takes all the Proxy’s focus to say those three words. Speaking them drains her further. She sinks deeper into the disorienting electric heat of the ambrosia.
Deeper she goes as the Queen-Minister runs Her long pearlescent nail down the Proxy’s ribs, drawing it back and forth across her torso as it descends. Making sure to pass over all the half-faded bruises and dim pink bite marks left in her flesh, pressing into each one just a little as She does so. Not all of these marks were punishments. Many were rewards. Others were simply Her Grace reasserting Her claim over Her faithful servant, reminding the Proxy of her place in their hierarchy. Despite her best efforts not to, the Proxy whines and shudders at every application of pressure. Just as the Virtues have laid whimpering and trembling before her, she must accept this.
Even when it is punishment, however, it doesn’t always feel like it. Logically the Proxy knows it is one tonight, and so will take whatever lesson it’s meant to impart to heart. But Heavens, if there isn’t something sublime about this suffering. Heavens, if there isn’t something about being a raw nerve beneath Her touch that feels good. Not physically, necessarily, but in her mind. Her Queen cares for her. Cares enough to want her to be better, cares enough to take this time to drag her in the right direction. Her Grace has always cared. This is a reminder of that, just as much as it is discipline.
Especially when Her Grace feels Her way down to the Proxy’s cock and takes it in Her hand. Squeezes it, just enough that the Proxy can’t help but gasp.
The Queen-Minister asks, “Do you remember why I made you keep this?”
Details are blurry in the Proxy’s memory. Everything is blurry now, melting into a roiling stew of pain and pleasure that gleams like clean steel. But the Proxy remembers this. “Y-Yes, Your Gr-Grace.”
“Why?”
The Proxy swallows hard- even her own spit feels like the lick of candleflame. “S-So I remember what...” Her breath catches as Her Grace tightens Her grip. “So I remember what you’ve given me.”
“Right.” Her Grace runs her thumb along the base of her servant’s penis, just below the finely trimmed diamond of pubic hair. “I gave you all of this, pet. Your breasts, your pretty face and hair, your lovely voice, your new life here, all of it, gifts from me. I only asked that you keep this...” She squeezes a little, the shock of ecstasy it sends through the Proxy makes her knees buckle. “So you remember what I’ve done for you, and what you must repay me for.”
The memories are vague now. Partly because the Proxy has tried to let them fade from her mind. Partly because things like this- the ambrosia overpowering her, her devotion to Her Grace and the disorienting bliss it brings- have helped her forget. But bits of it still cling to her brain like parasites. That distant other reality in the outer city, toiling in a factory, feeling her body harden around her like a prison of muscle. Feeling herself withering as she was forced to live another’s life. Doing everything she could to make herself numb to the ever-present wrongness until she couldn’t stand it anymore, until she did what little she could to escape that prison. Then came the mockery. The beatings. The years spent discarded in the gutter.
That’s where Her Grace found her.
“Well?” Her Grace’s voice reverberates in her ears. The ambrosia seems to crave its weathered, husky music as much as the Proxy. “Aren’t you thankful?”
“Ye-Yes, Your Grace.” The Proxy finds grounding in that thought. I am Her Proxy now. Wielder of Her Virtues. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“That’s better.” Her Grace angles the Proxy’s head to one side, exposing her neck. The Proxy floats along with Her guidance. She has been given such gifts. For them, she must make herself a worthy investment.
There is no bracing for what comes next, and so the Proxy doesn’t try. The Queen-Minister leans into the crook of her neck, breath warm and sharp-sweet with wine. Lips pressing against her skin, tongue lapping up her neck, dampness tingling. Then, teeth.
The Proxy gasps as her Queen bites hard. Fiery pain exploding and radiating out. Her hands spasm at her sides but she does everything she can to keep her body still for Her. The ambrosia only amplifies it. Her eyes water with agony as her head swims with elation. She’s getting hard.
Teeth withdrawn. Then, tongue again. Licking hard, lapping up the blood. Her Grace’s breath has quickened, roughened, it’s almost animal. She must have noticed the Proxy’s arousal, because She squeezes her cock and begins to stroke, fast and rough. The Proxy doesn’t even try to follow what ensues. The waves of bliss flattening her mind like the drum of artillery at the killing fields. The waves of agony sparking over her like hot needles, as if she’s entangled in barbed wire.
This is her place. Her Queen’s servant and plaything. She was always meant to be here, suffering this, indulging in this. Her Queen’s hand stroking faster, tightening around her, Her Grace’s hungry tongue rubbing her neck raw, eager for every last drop of her essence. The Proxy would let her Queen devour her whole if she could. Anything to serve Her.
It hits then- climax. A bolt of lightning through the Proxy’s brain, lancing deep into her as she cums. Her focus collapses completely and for a moment she’s floating in a static void. Colors swirl in a sparkling golden void in her eyes. Then she crashes hard, her back hitting the cold marble floor. For some time she can only heave for breath and twitch, slicked with sweat, still gripped by the ambrosia. She will remain impaired at least until morning.
Then, floating again. Her back meeting something soft- one of the sofas? The fire’s warm glow washing over her. Still uncomfortable with the ambrosia’s heat prickling in her muscles, but the gentle dance of its light is soothing.
Her Queen whispers into her ear, “Are you not thankful, pet?”
“I aaaa...” The Proxy tries to pull the fragments of her mind back together. She fails. Her Queen’s face is only a silhouette the color of sunrise beside her. “I am, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace...”
“Then you will watch Lakera closely, and not let her stray again, correct?”
Eye fluttering, the Proxy tries to focus but she is spent in mind and body. It takes all she has to reply, “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Good girl.” Long nails run over her forehead, brushing away hair that has fallen loose across her face. “You may stay until dawn.”
The Proxy’s lips find their way into a weak smile, and she lets her eyes close. She doesn’t fall into the abyss of sleep immediately, however. She needs her grounding thought first. The one last thread needed to tie this lesson to her porous mind. I am Her Proxy. Wielder of Her Virtues.
I am Hers.
I am part of Her. Nothing more.
Thanks so much for reading! If you'd like to see more from me, you can follow me on BlueSky at @roxynychus.bsky.social!