To The Victor Go The Spoils
She is bored.
Beatrice registers the sensation of nothing to do and nowhere to go, and she grits her teeth. The tea slips down her throat and burns her tongue, but it is numbed by nothingness. She reclines in her throne, gazing at her second game reflecting across her room. She watches Rosa accuse Battler of being a wolf, which is subsequently followed by Battler's own refutation and Maria's wailing.
A sigh slips past Beatrice's lips, garnering the attention of her guest. Lambdadelta lifts her head up and uncurls her fingers. The filer she had been using on her nails raises as well, levitating in the air before vanishing in a puff of pink smoke.
"What's wrong?" Lambdadelta asks, crossing her legs.
"I suppose I'm afflicted with that curse a noble witch like yourself despises," Beatrice says, and Lambdadelta sucks down a breath.
"Oh, you're bored? Yeah, it's really awful, isn't it?" Standing up, Lambdadelta sets her hands to her hips. "If your game had lasted even a bit longer, like if you had just one more game or even two, you'd be set for at least another five hundred years minimum."
Beatrice offers a tired smirk. "You're right. It's really a shame my opponent was nothing more than a stupid human."
She directs her attention to her prized furniture. The chain around her free fist dangles, and she follows its length to a black collar. Tethered is the naked form of the man who dared to challenge her. He is nothing more than a blank-eyed corpse. His mouth is drawn into a thin line. Light no longer exists in his eyes, and his pupils are pinpricks. He remains on his hands and knees, head bowed before his master.
Beatrice cocks her head, another sigh escaping her. She tugs on her chain, prompting her toy to stand up. She glances at Lambdadelta, asking, "And what about your pet?"
A wry smirk splits into Lambdadelta's cheek as she says, "Mine is doing just fine. She's clawing at her cat carrier and bloodying her nails on the impenetrable, certainly unbreakable metal bars as we speak."
Beatrice returns Lambdadelta's amusement with a frigid snicker. She waves her hand and summons Ronove, who quickly bows before the witches. As he pours them new cups of tea, she says, "I hope you don't mind me insulting Lady Bernkastel, but she was a fool to go against me."
"It's fine, it's fine! The winner has the right to besmirch and belittle the loser," Lambdadelta replies, dismissing Beatrice's concerns and sitting down. She leans forward in her seat, cupping her hands together, and for a moment, Beatrice believes her hands are like claws. "In fact, maybe I should bring her here so you can have some fun with her. After all, you delivered to me the best victory I could have had against that stupid and beautiful cat."
"No, no, that's quite all right. I owe part of my victory to you. It wouldn't be right for me to take a swing at your toy."
Lambdadelta laughs and hugs herself, her nails digging into her flesh. Beatrice watches bloody rivulets form in Lambdadelta's skin, and her gulp is so subtle that Lambdadelta fails to notice it in her euphoria. Lambdadelta leaps up from her seat, kicking her feet out and laughing.
"That kitty couldn't dream that she'd be stuck on the losing side after working so hard to find the winning side during her human life," Lambdadelta sneers, and she leers at Beatrice's furniture. Floating over to him, she edges closer to him, inspecting his numbed expression. "Ah, I can't wait for Bernkastel to make this kind of face. It'll take her at least two thousand years to break, but I'm hoping she can last for much longer unlike your furniture."
Her comments make Beatrice's skin crawl. Beatrice peers at Ronove, who politely straightens his back and offers a few sugar cookies to Lambdadelta. Like a kid in a candy store, Lambdadelta takes the bait and flounces over to Ronove. As Ronove explains his variety of sugar cookies, Beatrice gazes at her furniture.
He is hollow. If she could scoop out his guts with a spoon, she then wonders if he would feel the agony. If she nicks his earlobe and nibbles on it, then she's certain he would not react. Beatrice presses her index finger over his heart, but it does not beat. It stilled long ago, frozen in place for all eternity.
A muffled sound from Lambdadelta causes Beatrice to snap her head over to her. Lambdadelta's cheeks are full, and Beatrice snorts, covering her mouth as Lambdadelta struggles to swallow her sugary load. Beating her chest, the Witch of Certainty snatches a cup of ice water from Ronove and chugs it, saliva slipping down the corners of her mouth. Lambdadelta gulps down her helping of pumpkin sugar cookies and water, breaking out with a deep gasp.
"You really looked like a chipmunk!" Beatrice jeers, and scarlet crosses Lambdadelta's cheeks.
"I-I did not! Don't talk back to your sponsor like that!" Lambdadelta cries, and Beatrice chuckles, offering a mocking curtsey.
"Oh, forgive me, my squirrel-cheeked lady," she sneers, and Lambdadelta pouts, crossing her arms childishly.
Blowing a raspberry, Lambdadelta shouts, "I'm leaving! I'll see you in a few hundred years!"
Beatrice laughs and waves as Lambdadelta vanishes in a mist of bubblegum fog, leaving behind the scent of apple cinnamon and freshly baked cakes. She shakes her head and collapses back into her seat, holding her stomach as her giggles spill out over her teeth. Wiping an amused tear from her eye, Beatrice smiles.
"Lady Lambdadelta is truly a character," Ronove says, grinning down at Beatrice.
"She's really like a silly kid. She could star as the protagonist of a magical girl anime," Beatrice quips, her hysterics dying down. Resting her cheek against her palm, she accepts her teacup from Ronove and takes a ginger sip, savoring the faint hint of mint.
Ronove waves his hand, banishing Lambdadelta's leftovers and teacup into his realm to clean. He steps to the side, his gaze focusing on her favorite furniture. His lips move to ask a question, but Beatrice raises her hand.
After taking another sip, Beatrice sets her cup down on the gold coaster. She stands, waving and dismissing her majestic game. The lingering echo of Maria comforting Battler and crooning for him to believe in the witch hits her ears, and she clenches her fists.
"How is the Golden Land?" Beatrice asks, looking at Ronove.
"Virgilia has reported no problems to me. They are all happy and equal," Ronove replies, resting his arms behind his back.
"The lovers?"
He nods. "In bliss."
She closes her eyes. Her chin reaches her chest, tickled by the lace material of her choker. Thanking Ronove for his report, Beatrice asks to be alone. She catches the subtle quirking of his lips, but he bows his head, reminding her that if she needs anything that he will always serve her.
Beatrice smiles. His words had always been a source of comfort. She watches him vanish in a fluttering of golden butterflies, presumably to join everyone in the Golden Land.
She is left alone with her prize. Beatrice cups his cheeks, gazing deeply into what should have been his eyes. They are nothing more than fogged marbles. Raising her index finger, she carves a thin line into his cheek and marvels as his blood bubbles. It dribbles out in long lines, the ichor spreading and meshing together like streaks of paint.
"Battler," she croons, pinching his earlobes, "don't you want to try to refute me? Come on, come on, say that foolish catchphrase only a foolish man would say." She swings away like a ballroom dancer and thrusts her hand out, proclaiming, "It's useless! It's all useless!"
Her shrieking laughter booms in her private world. It bounces off the walls and assaults her ears, but she keeps howling. She hits her knee and doubles over, cheeks reddening as she screams out her hysteria. Beatrice crushes air in her palm, carving crescent moons into her skin. Her laughter mingles with madness as only her voice bounces back at her. With only her laughter reverberating in her chamber, she is struck once again.
Boredom hits her followed by silence. She sucks on the insides of her mouth, her molars chewing until it hurt. A faint taste of copper taints her tongue, and she sucks down a shuddery breath. Beatrice spits out a light pink glob of saliva and blood, the bubbles reflecting her morbid expression.
She smashes her heel on the spittle, cracking off a piece of the checkerboard floor. Snapping her fingers, the tile immediately fixes itself, and the spit is gone. Beatrice smirks.
"See? That was magic. I used magic to fix my tile and wipe away my saliva. What do you have to say about that, Battler?" Beatrice jeers, hitching her thumb at the clean floor.
He looks at nothing. His eyes can no longer see, but his ears function well. Yet, he does not say anything. His master has not given him permission to speak.
Scowling, Beatrice snarls, "Well? What is your answer, furniture?"
"It is magic."
His automatic replies electrifies her. Goosebumps prick her skin, but her blood boils. Heat flows from her heart, but her blood is ice cold. Her composure is shaken, but she does not waver. Beatrice's lips struggle to remain in a smirk, and she lifts her dress as she stomps over to him.
"Well, what a perfect-o answer, furniture! It's good that you've learned your place and have fully accepted me. Magic is really wonderful, isn't it?" Beatrice asks, and she takes hold of his chain, lifting it up and down to make him nod. "Glad you agree!"
She sits, taking another sip of her tea. It has a milder taste now that it has cooled, but it is good. The tea soothes her throat, and even if it stings the cuts inside her mouth, she appreciates the discomfort. Beatrice raises her teacup, inspecting the porcelain exterior and the gold rim.
Carelessly, Beatrice tosses her cup and watches it shatter into several tiny pieces. It spreads, crossing over her furniture's feet with fragments and light brown liquid. Standing up, Beatrice heaves his chain and watches him collapse onto his side.
"Clean it up with your tongue," she orders, and without protest, he does.
She watches his tongue work the tiled floor. He laps up the shards and tea, swallowing with mundane obedience. She squats, her knees pressing against her dress as she watches blood begin to trickle down the sides of his mouth. He keeps licking the floor, occasionally grazing his tongue with the fragments, and Beatrice scoffs.
"Disgusting. Inelegant. You're really lower than filth, aren't you?" Beatrice sneers, flicking her thumb against his bloodied mouth.
He does not protest and only knows how to accept her. Swallowing the tea and shattered porcelain is all he can do to appease her. Just as she proclaimed, he is nothing, and yet to her, he is everything she wants.
"I should have you lick my feet once more. I should have you spit shine my shoes with the blood and tea in your mouth, but that might be sticky," she says, shrugging. "I suppose I'll have to ask Lambdadelta for some advice on that matter. She knows how to really adhere to this evil persona, but she has a lively subject while I have…"
She trails off. Beatrice gazes at her furniture licking the floor, and her expression writhes. Her brow knits, and her sharp teeth gnash down to the point where she hears something crack. Raising her heel, she kicks him hard in his forehead, propelling him away from the tea, and she gasps, watching him roll away.
He is motionless on the ground, and she drops. Beatrice covers her mouth, her dress becoming soiled in the bloodied tea. Pressing her palms to her eyes, she sucks down wet gasps and her own hatred.
She does not have him. He is furniture, lower than even someone as vile as her. Gone is his humanity and will, replaced with loyalty and lovelessness. Beatrice pounds her fists into the ground, her knuckles burning a hot white with each strike.
He does not comfort her. Furniture can only obey what their master orders them to do. Unless she wills it, he will not move to her even if that is exactly what she wants.
Beatrice throws her head back without a sound. She has won an eternity of suffering, stripping away the soul of the man she loves. While the others may be cherished, she has only known loss.
Beatrice is the victor in their game of mutual torture, but in the end, she is still the loser. She only has herself to blame for subjecting them both to an endless torment. She is a full witch who has finally given others happiness in her Golden Land, but there is nobody to love her.
"Rest in peace," she whispers, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks, "my most beloved man, Ushiromiya Battler."