Needful Empires (3/4)interrobamAugust 15 2012, 14:06:04 UTC
“I warned you that Agrabah would not fall easily. I told you it was a waste of your time.”
“I tested your wisdom, you were right.” The blade that formed the Empress' voice was chipped that night, chipped but not dull by any stretch of the imagination. “I have the information I need, and now we can move on.” Shang felt a pull, a fearful voice telling him to retreat, one he had not known on any battlefield in his career.
“What do you plan to do?”
“We will send more troops.” He noticed it then: the lust he had not seen, the creeping eagerness at the edge of her eyes, the lilt of her voice. It made him so dearly afraid. “We will keep fighting until we win.” She pressed her hand affectionately to his bandaged chest “Sleep well tonight, we leave at dawn.”
At dawn her army left, this time with her at its head: resplendent in her armor, glorious on her demon horse. She would rise to the challenge she had been presented with. The journey was hard and long, dry and dull. She received news from troops she had sent behind Li Shang, the scouts she had dispatched ahead of her own party. Agrabah was still strong, but not as strong as it had been. With its people full of bread there was a gap in the viciousness of their fighting. Mulan planned to pry that gap open, cook and eat the empire that dared to defy her's as a turtle in its shell. She would kill the Sultana first, throw her head onto a high pike to crush the spirits of her people. The Empress had heard tales that the Sultana was beyond death. The Empress had heard the same tales of herself. She knew that her defeat of Shan Yu did not give birth to a star, did not make a sound that deafened all the animals and killed all the plants in the camp. She knew her horse was mere flesh and blood, her eyes incapable of murder unassisted by her sword. If her own legends were so thin to her, she imagined the Sultana's would be thinner still. Later, covered in the dirt of the Sultana's garden, blisters marking her skin, she would regret making this assumption.
She had come in mighty, she had come in lonesome and proud. She had breached the border of Agrabah at a full gallop, heading to the high white towers of the palace, leaving her men and women behind her. This was a matter to be settled between the two of them: mask to mask, monster to monster, legend to legend, empire to empire. The walls were an easy climb, her hands detected ledges and cracks with practiced ease, and she found her enemy alone and unarmed by the fountain of her garden.
“Sultana Jasmine.” She did not know if the elder woman spoke Mandarin, but she was certain that the fire in her throat spoke the language of hatred and war, the language every child knew from birth. “I have come to take your land and slave your people.”
The Sultana rose from her perch at the fountain's edge, wizened with the magic of her dead husband, and was not phased. She summoned lightening to her hand, it crackled across her flesh, arcane and bright. She moved it through her body, through her blood, and thrust it at the pretender to her throne, a selfish brat bent on having three titles before her name. The Khan Empress took the blow to her sword: it followed the blade, burst her sleeve open with fire, tanned her skin. Her scream was angry, pained, eager. It hit Jasmine low and hot in her stomach. But half a moment later, the Empress' sword hit her in quite the same way.
Needful Empires (4/4)interrobamAugust 15 2012, 14:07:09 UTC
The Sultana remained unimpressed but by her boldness: immortality had rendered all combat but a small nuisance. She looked coldly at the hilt in her stomach, the red blood staining her robes, the wild white eyes of her enemy. She muttered an old language, brought her electricity back into her hands, and shot the Empress to the far side of the garden.
“Do not be a child.” She spat her words out with a spurt of blood, her stomach open and leaking, blood sticking her pants to her legs. “You pretend to kill me? Khan Mulan wishes to write me into her legend? I shall end it if your impertinence continues.” She knew the Empress could not understand her words, she did not care. The girl came up from the rubble fighting, broken sword in hand, sneer on face. She did not pause but for a second before charging.
“Well, Khan Mulan, terror to her own blood, will you strike a blow to me?” The Suntana's teeth were pink with blood, the lightening embraced her body in full as she hissed out her taunts. “Show me your legacy that I may spit upon it.” The Empress gave out another scream: a warrior's scream, a demon's scream, and delivered a kick to the older woman's stomach. It thrust her back, onto the ground, so that her head cracked. Delicious. The younger woman straddled her, the Sultana could see her fist pull back the second before it connected to her face. She couldn't help it, she laughed. Mulan kept punching, kept screaming, kept fighting, until she too could not resist it. Until she too was overcomes with laughter. Then, defeated and victorious in the same breath, she kissed Jasmine so that her broken jaw ached.
They did not make love to one another. They fucked. They clashed against each other, as their armies had clashed for so many months, rough and unyielding. They made it painful for each other. They made it good for each other. They knew themselves, they know each other, they could never be satisfied by anything less than pain. The consorts who bent like bamboo in a storm, the eunuchs that knew better than to touch without permission, the girls brought up for total obedience, the street rats with familiar bruises, Li Shang, the Genie. The tapestry of their former lovers was threadbare, stitched with the thin cotton threads of love and loyalty, revenge and desire. It lay worthless at their feet. All angles, all bites and fingernails into flesh, all rubbing skin raw and bloody, they hated each other for hours. They hated each other until the sun rose.
In the morning the Sultana's wounds had healed. The Empress', in contrast, were just beginning to ache. Jasmine bathed herself in her fountain, and her nakedness looked so much starker to Mulan's eyes without adrenaline roaring in her ears. She could smell blood in the air, could hear screams beyond the garden walls. Jasmine turned back to the younger woman, unashamed of her skin, and spoke in a slow, broken form of Mandarin.
“Do not return.” Her lips lifted, just a bit, at the edges, and she pressed her hand to the thin scar between Mulan's breasts. “Without stronger army. Promise.” The Empress fit her own hand: calloused, scarred, deadly in its dexterity, over the Sultana's.
Re: Needful Empires (4/4)afterandalasiaSeptember 4 2012, 13:09:40 UTC
Argh. Argh. ARGH. Words, what are words, oh my god. I want this as a film, never mind fanfiction. Your characterisation is spot-on and the story in which you frame it really does have the dark grip of legend.
Re: Needful Empires (4/4)interrobamSeptember 6 2012, 03:24:33 UTC
I'm glad you enjoyed it so much! This fic really took on a life of its own, the source materials gave me a lot to live up to. As for it being anything like a film, I wouldn't hold my breath for that. The most epic thing anyone's offered to do with my work is made a reading of "80% of the People", though they never actually did it. :P
“I tested your wisdom, you were right.” The blade that formed the Empress' voice was chipped that night, chipped but not dull by any stretch of the imagination. “I have the information I need, and now we can move on.” Shang felt a pull, a fearful voice telling him to retreat, one he had not known on any battlefield in his career.
“What do you plan to do?”
“We will send more troops.” He noticed it then: the lust he had not seen, the creeping eagerness at the edge of her eyes, the lilt of her voice. It made him so dearly afraid. “We will keep fighting until we win.” She pressed her hand affectionately to his bandaged chest “Sleep well tonight, we leave at dawn.”
At dawn her army left, this time with her at its head: resplendent in her armor, glorious on her demon horse. She would rise to the challenge she had been presented with. The journey was hard and long, dry and dull. She received news from troops she had sent behind Li Shang, the scouts she had dispatched ahead of her own party. Agrabah was still strong, but not as strong as it had been. With its people full of bread there was a gap in the viciousness of their fighting. Mulan planned to pry that gap open, cook and eat the empire that dared to defy her's as a turtle in its shell. She would kill the Sultana first, throw her head onto a high pike to crush the spirits of her people. The Empress had heard tales that the Sultana was beyond death. The Empress had heard the same tales of herself. She knew that her defeat of Shan Yu did not give birth to a star, did not make a sound that deafened all the animals and killed all the plants in the camp. She knew her horse was mere flesh and blood, her eyes incapable of murder unassisted by her sword. If her own legends were so thin to her, she imagined the Sultana's would be thinner still. Later, covered in the dirt of the Sultana's garden, blisters marking her skin, she would regret making this assumption.
She had come in mighty, she had come in lonesome and proud. She had breached the border of Agrabah at a full gallop, heading to the high white towers of the palace, leaving her men and women behind her. This was a matter to be settled between the two of them: mask to mask, monster to monster, legend to legend, empire to empire. The walls were an easy climb, her hands detected ledges and cracks with practiced ease, and she found her enemy alone and unarmed by the fountain of her garden.
“Sultana Jasmine.” She did not know if the elder woman spoke Mandarin, but she was certain that the fire in her throat spoke the language of hatred and war, the language every child knew from birth. “I have come to take your land and slave your people.”
The Sultana rose from her perch at the fountain's edge, wizened with the magic of her dead husband, and was not phased. She summoned lightening to her hand, it crackled across her flesh, arcane and bright. She moved it through her body, through her blood, and thrust it at the pretender to her throne, a selfish brat bent on having three titles before her name. The Khan Empress took the blow to her sword: it followed the blade, burst her sleeve open with fire, tanned her skin. Her scream was angry, pained, eager. It hit Jasmine low and hot in her stomach. But half a moment later, the Empress' sword hit her in quite the same way.
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“Do not be a child.” She spat her words out with a spurt of blood, her stomach open and leaking, blood sticking her pants to her legs. “You pretend to kill me? Khan Mulan wishes to write me into her legend? I shall end it if your impertinence continues.” She knew the Empress could not understand her words, she did not care. The girl came up from the rubble fighting, broken sword in hand, sneer on face. She did not pause but for a second before charging.
“Well, Khan Mulan, terror to her own blood, will you strike a blow to me?” The Suntana's teeth were pink with blood, the lightening embraced her body in full as she hissed out her taunts. “Show me your legacy that I may spit upon it.” The Empress gave out another scream: a warrior's scream, a demon's scream, and delivered a kick to the older woman's stomach. It thrust her back, onto the ground, so that her head cracked. Delicious. The younger woman straddled her, the Sultana could see her fist pull back the second before it connected to her face. She couldn't help it, she laughed. Mulan kept punching, kept screaming, kept fighting, until she too could not resist it. Until she too was overcomes with laughter. Then, defeated and victorious in the same breath, she kissed Jasmine so that her broken jaw ached.
They did not make love to one another. They fucked. They clashed against each other, as their armies had clashed for so many months, rough and unyielding. They made it painful for each other. They made it good for each other. They knew themselves, they know each other, they could never be satisfied by anything less than pain. The consorts who bent like bamboo in a storm, the eunuchs that knew better than to touch without permission, the girls brought up for total obedience, the street rats with familiar bruises, Li Shang, the Genie. The tapestry of their former lovers was threadbare, stitched with the thin cotton threads of love and loyalty, revenge and desire. It lay worthless at their feet. All angles, all bites and fingernails into flesh, all rubbing skin raw and bloody, they hated each other for hours. They hated each other until the sun rose.
In the morning the Sultana's wounds had healed. The Empress', in contrast, were just beginning to ache. Jasmine bathed herself in her fountain, and her nakedness looked so much starker to Mulan's eyes without adrenaline roaring in her ears. She could smell blood in the air, could hear screams beyond the garden walls. Jasmine turned back to the younger woman, unashamed of her skin, and spoke in a slow, broken form of Mandarin.
“Do not return.” Her lips lifted, just a bit, at the edges, and she pressed her hand to the thin scar between Mulan's breasts. “Without stronger army. Promise.” The Empress fit her own hand: calloused, scarred, deadly in its dexterity, over the Sultana's.
“Promise.”
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WORDS. DAMN. WORDS. BEAUTIFUL. PERFECT.
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