[broadcast mind]
It's welled up in you like the most tempting perfume, like a cloud you hold in your chest. And for years, you've kept it in, lest you become like him. It's lightning in your stomach, like all the butterflies a group of teenagers has ever felt in their bellies, like pure anticipation, distilled. And the more you hold it in, the less you can control it-- like a cup, near to full, will spill at the slightest provocation.
Usually, you spend it on something that can't do anything-- aim it at the flowers growing in the Chateau, charming them into growing huge and fragrant and beautiful and freeing yourself of that lightning.
But the flowers are all sated, and you're beginning to hold onto the control with your fingertips. And it seeps into you, too-- the Charm is a force all its own, and coupled with pure power it's maddening. Orlouge taught you that lesson, before he was taken away and Facinaturu became yours. You just never knew you'd learned it.
So when the leaders of the latest rebellion are brought before you in chains and shackles, you slide from the thorned throne, the organic seat of power, and your robes-- gauzy things that move in the slightest breeze-- catch on it, tearing easily. It doesn't matter, not really, because Gina can always make you more-- does, actually, despite your own protests that you'll never be able to wear so many dresses. It makes her feel useful, since she's not Mystic and doesn't have the power of your companions. So you let her create, and you let her dress you. In White Rose's absence, it's nice to have someone willing to listen, even if you know the wide-pupiled thrall she's held in isn't just because of your force of personality.
The gauze settles around your feet, purposely too long by a foot as you approach the kneeling men, held at spearpoint. You can feel the magic taking hold the closer you get, almost beyond your control now. You've gone too long.
"We wait your orders for execution," the head of guard genuflects, and you raise a hand. Lately there has been a veritable river of rebellious blue blood flowing down the base of the Chateau, and though the Mystics, the full-blooded Lords who serve you, are fine with that, you are not yet free of the Human constraints of morality. As you stand in front of the young leader, he looks up at you, and you breathe out, the power pooling in the air like humidity, circling him like the bud of a rose. You watch it bloom around him, and his eyes are locked on you like you're the only thing in the universe.
Which you are, in his. The Charm has taken hold-- you can see it in the intake of breath, the widening pupils, the way he follows you with his eyes and tries to crane his neck as you circle him.
This is the right path, isn't it? You're not using it to make him love you, or to possess him. You're trying to stop the flow of blood, after all. So it's not wrong. You're in control-- he's under your control. He won't rise up against you anymore. He won't leave your presence if you don't tell him to.
He won't do anything to harm you now.
You've spared his life, after all. And though the Lords-- Ildon, Rastaban, Zozma-- look on with no visible change in expression, you can feel their approval. You use the tools you've been given. The power you have is innate; it's in your blood, it's who you are.
You're not like Orlouge, when you use his power like this.
But somewhere in you is that voice, that horrible little whisper. How do you think he began using it?
You ignore it, and later that evening you ignore the fact that while the former leader is pouring your wine and gazing at you with an adoration that borders on eerie, the guards' axes are still stained with the blue blood of his followers. After all, the hydras live, even after you've cut off one of their heads.