A/N: Started this yonks ago and finally finished. My first attempt at Azkadellia/Zero, set pre-mini-series.

(Have Fun) Storming the Castle

The Princess— no no no, the Queen, the Queen— Azkadellia. Queen Azkadellia is examining her nails. How many years now, and would she ever get used to that Q in front of her name? She's going to have to mind her Ps and Qs. She giggles to herself a little bit, just a little bit, and brings up a finger to gnaw on her knuckle.

She is feeling lightheaded in the aftermath— the aftermath of what, now, there's a question— did somebody die? Somebody probably died. Let's think. It's not her mother, and her sister is dead, has been dead, was practically stillborn. It's not her father, if she ever had one— did she ever have one? She's running out of people to be dead, so she thinks she should probably get some new friends.

The thought makes her laugh, and she slides sideways in the throne, a little more, a little more, resting her aching heavy head on the arm of the regal chair. She will perhaps just close her eyes a moment, and ignore the antsy feeling under her skin, the urge to action while the witch is quiescent.

It takes her longer than it should to realize that the man is standing there, hand on the hilt of his sword, leaning forward to see that she is alright. Alright, alright, of course she's alright; she simply doesn't feel like moving just at the moment. She squints up at him, lifts a hand to her forehead. The way the light is falling, he's little more than a dark shadow.

"I'm fine," she says irritably, before he can ask.

He straightens his shoulders. "Just checking, milady."

His voice, slung forward from the back of his throat, makes it clear that he's the blond one, the one so recently promoted in the ranks. Her new general. Eager, vicious, callous, determined. The witch knows his name. What is it? It is also clear by the sound of his voice and what she can see of the expression on his face that he's not positive who he has the honor of addressing— she's sure he would put it that way, Whom do I have the honor of addressing? in a faux-gentry tone that fits him as ill as his uniform.

This is the game they all play, the risk they all take. They are used to dealing with the witch, with clear orders rapped out without a moment of hesitation, with no second guesses. But every once in a while, after great effort, the witch sleeps, or seems to sleep, and the Sorceress changes; turns into someone else. No one in her personal army quite knows who, but someone else, undoubtedly.

None of them are quite sure what to do about this.

She says, regally, speaking from somewhere near her nose, "Did I send for you?"

He pauses a moment, straightens his shoulders. "You called out, my lady."

She hadn't been aware of any such thing. It is on the tip of her pointed tongue to tell him so, but she keeps the words from reaching air and sound, holds it back behind the row of neat white teeth. She lifts her hand before her face again and makes a great show of examining the half moons of white that are her nails.

"Did I call for you?" she inquires, frostily, not looking at him.

He's not what she would term intelligent, but he's not stupid either. He's heard that tone of voice before, knows how that deceptive calm can turn out. He has made his way through the ranks by standing behind pillars, knowing when to duck, and encouraging his superiors to make mistakes.

"No, my lady," he says. "Beg pardon." And there's the bow, the bow and scrape, which doubles neatly as a way to avoid a blast of magic, should there be one. But Azkadellia is not in a magicky mood, at the moment. She enjoys his submerged panic, but feels no need to chase him around the room, hasten his heartbeat. Not just yet.

"Did I tell you to go?" she says, and he halts abruptly and stands back up.

"No, my lady."

She pushes herself back into a sitting position, pondering, and grasps finally at his name.

"Zero, isn't it?" She gets a slightly dumbfounded nod. "Now, is that a label or an assessment?"

Now, a slightly dumbfounded blink. "What's that, my lady?"

"An assessment," she emphasizes. "A description. A truth. No, you wouldn't know about that, would you? You're not so subtle." The Queen crosses one leg over the other and dips her chin, looking down at her servant, her soldier, her slave. There's nothing quite like the sight of enforced devotion. This man would do anything for her, die for her, from fear of what she would do to him otherwise. Such veneration, such idolatry, such fun. "What is it that you want from this, Zero?"

She says his name as though it's a spell. As though he is being enchanted with every breath and syllable.

"Beg pardon?"

He certainly does. His eyes, a pale washed blue, are curiously beseeching. She supposes she's never really had occasion to speak with him, before, and he truly does not know how to react. He's looking for a clue, for a hint. For a way to turn this to his advantage.

"From this." Both hands spread wide, she smiled on him gently, indicating the room around them. It was large, nearly empty, containing the throne, the two of them. Once upon a time her mother had sat in judgement here. But that was long ago.

He can't find the proper possible answer to this. It unnerves him, she is sure. How delightful.

Finally, though, he lands on, "I want to serve you, Sorceress. My lady. For as long as I'm able."

Which is an outright lie, but at least he's diplomatic. She puts out her hand, palm up, holding it against his presence to block him out.

"I grow tired of this," she announces. "Tired of people trying to tell me what I want to hear. Tell me the truth, Zero."

His lips twitch. His eyebrows dip down and his eyes flare.

"When we tell you the truth, or things you don't want to hear," he says slowly, "we generally end up dead."

"Your superiors generally end up dead," she corrects him. "You generally end up a general. Let's not beat around the bush." She slides down from her throne and advances on him, coolly, her shoulders held level, stepping carefully. He waits.

She's barely a foot away when she lifts her hand and trails it along his chest, down to feel his beating heart.

"Do you like power, Zero?"

He's honest, for once.

"I love it," he says, and if it's a grin or whether he's just baring his teeth, she's not sure. There's an itch under her skin, and is it from boredom? Is it from something missing? Is it from the witch, dormant, sleeping, sending her tendrils of consciousness out to stain Azkadellia's skin with halting desire?

She lifts her other hand and scratches slowly at the nape of her neck, under her loosened hair.

"It tastes wonderful, you know," she says. "It feels fantastic. I can't even tell you."

She's being honest too. It doesn't help, though. The feeling is still there. Words can't change it, can't take it away. She closes her eyes, just for a second, and reaches deep in him to find where his breath begins. She can suppress it, can make him gasp, can make him wonder if he was unwise to respond to her call— he was. But that doesn't help either.

She opens her eyes.

"I've half a mind to promote you again," she says, her voice low.

"I've half a mind to let you," says Zero, getting into the spirit of this whole "truth" thing.

"You've half a mind, period." She draws back a bit, tilts her head to one side. The corner of her mouth quirks in something that is probably not a smile. He's not soft. He's not stupid. He is bullheaded, like most men, but easily manipulated— also like most men. He loves power, and if he loves power, he must love her.

That makes him easy to despise. She feels nothing but contempt for those who love her. She's made a life-long practice of it.

But still—

She's tired of his heartbeat. She reaches out instead to his face, to the dry and dusty skin, to the lined and weatherbeaten features, to the cruel mouth and the quick eyes and the angry, firm set of his chin.

"Were you born like this?" she asks, wondering. "Power hungry?"

"Born and bred for it," he says, and nods. She believes him. His father had been in the army, as well, if she recalls correctly. He'd been one of the notable few that Azkadellia's mother had deemed worthy of execution, when he tried to take over years back. Execution in a humane and acceptable manner, of course— and where was the fun in that?

Azkadellia shakes her head, sharply, to rid it of the memory. Zero just looks at her. She holds her hands steady, hovering just over his skin.

"Heritage is everything, isn't it," he says, and just for a moment she thinks that he might be better at this than she is. But he isn't. He can't be. He's nothing.

"Heritage is nothing," she spits at him. "It means nothing. We make ourselves. Our blood has nothing to do with it."

She waits to see if he will back down.

It's because he wants power, needs it, craves it, loves it, that he nods, and veils his eyes with his pale lashes.

"Yeah," he says. "That's what I meant."

This, though, only makes her angry. But she only tilts her head, as though she is sad. As though she is sorry.

"Oh," she says, softly, petulantly, "you're never going to get anywhere with an attitude like that, Zero. I don't keep cowards around, not even for the amusement."

He loves something better than power, after all. His head snaps up and his eyes snap up and his voice leaps at her throat with a daggered edge, with outstretched claws.

"I am not a coward."

He comes by his dishonesty honestly, she thinks, amused. Passed down from father to son— well. Maybe heritage does have something to do with it. In the case of weaker commoners, that is.

"Prove it," she says, taunting.

He's not faced with a plethora of options, at the moment. So he leans forward, the last few inches all he needs, and when his mouth touches hers she bites. Not hard, or not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough that he recoils, a hand coming up to his face, his eyes soft in their surprise. Azkadellia laughs, puts a hand on the back of his neck and draws him forward again.

"Thought you weren't a coward," she says.

So he comes back again. She lets him, this time, kisses him slowly, and thinks about it all the while. Is this what I wanted? How am I supposed to know, if nobody tells me what I want?

The witch is stirring, muttering in her sleep. Azkadellia finds the spot in Zero's throat where his pulse jumps, and presses down with her delicate fingertips. It's a hollow.

"What do you know," she says rhetorically, smiling wryly not at him but at herself. "Turns out you do love power after all."

He'd said he did, in the first place. But she can't keep herself from being amused. There's just something about Zero that makes her want to laugh at him. Probably that hair. He stiffens, anyway, and lifts his chin, jerking it to one side. His collar is too tight. She slides a finger in between it and his throat, pondering the warmth.

"Question is," she asks, ruminatively, "how much?"

They'll have to be quick. The witch is waking up. But quick is good, sometimes. Quick is fine, in this case. Quick is—

She stifles another laugh. Reaches for his hands, slides off his gloves, finger by finger.

"Tell me," she says. "How do you feel about flying?"

He grits his teeth, and doesn't answer.

"Oh, well," says Azkadellia in a sort of sing-song, stroking his hands. "There's always next time."

She makes him fall, instead.

The witch, oddly enough, approves.