I giggle quietly to myself as The King is slammed into the walls of the throne by yet another blow from the truck. Automatically, the wounds from negligible at his level to increasing to potentially fatal proportions. His crown topples off his head and he lays askew on the ground, a broken colossus of epic proportions.

I gasp dramatically to give the injuries the appropriate emphasis they deserve. I need to make sure he feels loved and cared for, since I am the Princess and he is The King. To do otherwise would be to ruin my role.

Miasma poured out of him like arterial blood, dousing the area around him in his corruption. Giggling, shrieking taskmasters pulled themselves out of the purple ooze. They appeared as indistinct purple shadows, each and everyone wielding whips, leaping toward the Magical Guardians Spider-Man style.

Magical Guardian Sunshine gives me a scathing look, unrecognizing of the person she had met, seeing only the monster.

I just quirk my head to the side quizzically, heaping volumes of fake innocence upon my expression.

She points her sword at me threateningly.

The message is clear ‘You’re next, monster.’

Tears fall down my cheeks completely unbidden.

The Magical Guardian sees me as a monster.

She sees me as I am.

I didn’t trick her.

She doesn’t think I am a nice person. She agrees with my parents.

I am a MONSTER.

I... I don’t want to die though.

Death... it fascinates me... but I don’t want to die.

I’m a hypocrite like that.

The King stands up shakily out of the edge of my vision and walks slowly to the center of the room.

Symbolically, he is protecting me from them.

Uhm... thank you?

I feel rather touched.

Instead of pressing their advantage, the Magical Guardians decide to stage a fighting retreat and regroup, allowing the creatures of The King’s blood to freely attack with abandon against M.G. Mourning Diamond’s bulwark while M.G.s Sunshine and Fire-Fighter regenerated the peculiar resource which powers Will so they could reattach the Pink noob’s arm.

By now, The King has already devoured consumed every single last Anathema to heal himself. It isn’t enough. The damage during the battles is just too much.

He is standing on his last legs. Half of The King‘s red ribbed chest is caved in, part of his forehead and warped fused crown is missing, and his “fingers” have been turned into white paste. I can tell he is flagging. I’ve been with him long enough to know what approximates fatigue for him.

All he can do is rest and wait for his Vitality to try to heal him in a meaningful way to prepare for a final fight.

I look over to the outpost that the elite team of Magical Guardians are setting up.

Their outfits, the representation of their protection, don’t look much better. They have rips in their flamboyant neon shirt-part of their dresses or rent parts in their armor, tears in their poofy and flouncy skirts or broken links in their chainmail, and they look exhausted. However, they are only stopping to ensure everyone makes it out. They could probably take him out without stopping at the cost of safety. Instead, they’re working cautiously. Magical Girl Sunshine holds up an enchanted shield that prevents attacks on both sides apparently, as neither side is making an offensive move. Doesn’t really match with any of the Magical Guardians here. While she does that, a soft blue light is emitted from M.G. Mourning Diamond onto the newbie MG, the girl’s pink outfit knitting together, and her lost hand magically re-attaching.

There seems to be a cease-fire at the moment, which does fuck-all for me. I’m still sitting in my awkward, but not painful (go Pain Resistance for the win!), position next to the towering, gnarled throne. I desperately want to go over to their side and escape, maybe I could be able to get treatment for my rotting affliction besides... But I know that my spot in the shadow of the throne is the only practical spot. The weird warping redirects any of the errant attacks that can easily demolish a non-Builder backed room, I would just get killed by accident. Besides, I highly doubt I look or could act human enough to save myself. My face is practically stuck in the joyous smile that stands out in the terrible darkness, my numb purple lips bleeding scarlet. The acting that has saved my life will kill me. They’ve already all-but-admitted they think I am a Torment from their body language. Amidst one of the interludes between fighting as they stood off waiting or building up a move, I even overheard their Familiars saying that they thought I am a Torment. I would die...

I don’t want to die.

My mind races. A hard glint appears in my eyes, crinkled as they are with merriment. The King has already used the rest of the Anathema as cannon fodder. I’m not sure why he has not ordered me to take a blow for him like the rest.

But... I’ve already committed to my role for survival. Eating Magical Girl flesh, following The King like his pet... this idea I have would simply be a logical extension of my role on the stage.

Besides, it’s not like I can do anything. If I can just heal The King... I won’t die.

I want to enjoy everything the world has to offer. I can’t die here.

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Time to call upon all of the rapport I have built with The King, time to use all of the understandings we have of each other, time to use HIM.

Mom always said I was a manipulative little bastard.

My grin widens.

I imitate a sparkling laugh that rings out through the deafening silence of the cease-fire.

I can see the Magical Girls involuntarily shuddering all the way from their resting spot. Through my curtain of royal-blue hair, my faceless King looks at me, nodding that I have his attention.

My arms supporting me want to shudder and my eyes want to twitch. My throat wants to choke, and my mind wants to gibber at the sheer insanity of my plan.

But I know it will work. I slowly unfurl into my full, still rather short, height. And kneel upright, my back screaming in pain at this “unnatural” position.

I flourish my arms out in a gesture any royal knows.

That of a gift, an offering.

Everyone looks at my outstretched hand. It is empty. The tension, the confusion, is palpable.

I move my hanging head to indicate just what my gift is.

Only he understands. With his loping gait he closes the distance between us in the blink of an eye, a twitch of a muscle.

Our gazes lock onto each other, eyes and sockets staring into the other.

I raise one of my hands up for him to kiss.

He is the prince, and I am his dance partner.

He leans down to grab my hand with inhuman, unfairly tender grace. And brings it up to his lips to kiss. So soft.

The Magical Girls cannot move for they have yet to recuperate. They can only look on in naked horror at this scene I have created, my piece de resistance. The culmination of this tragedy, MY TRAGEDY, that took place behind the story of these main characters.

This is the true culmination of the insanity, of the fever dream, that has been my wild ride through the Rift, the Tormented Zone, the Miasmic Corruption.

His kiss deepens, his mouth engulfing my limb up to my elbow, his teeth raking along this journey. The most intimate action I have ever had, it is simultaneously disgustingly erotic and pleasurably terrifying.

I whisper for his ears alone.

“Hail to The King. May you accept this pittance, your Majesty.” My throat constricts in preparation.

His distorted mouth is all the way up to my shoulder.

It is gone.

There is a flawless stump next to my collarbone, as if it had always been so. All the weight, all the flesh and muscle.

My arm.

Gone.

The newly-healed newbie vomits.

I certainly want to join her, but I smile on, like nothing has happened to me. I can’t break character now. I can barely be sure where I start and the act ends.

All the magic humans naturally have; a compatibility with Torments formed by the taint of miasma in my body; being a Torment myself; it heals him.

My torture on Earth, I healed it. Practically my slave master, a nightmare made real, I healed him with my sacrifice. Not only that, it strengthens him. His chest swirls around, a concave immaterial tornado of flesh that settles into a whole and hale shape. His fingers lengthen into massive white tentacles extending to the ground, ready to move with incredible strength. His forehead heals and his crown transforms from a mockery of England’s royal crown to a crown of thorny, gnarled horns. He stands in a regal pose that no king could match, somehow staring into the distance behind me despite his sockets being empty.

The Magical Guardians’ reactions are as varied as they are. Sunshine firms up, her posture set in fierce opposition to The King. A radiant aura of yellow light emitted from her skin scalds the ground, making a truly angelic-looking figure. I am unsure why the aura does not hurt the other MGs.

Mourning Diamond grimaces, and sharp 2-D panes of blue crystal form a full-on reaper’s scythe. A power armor version of the Grim Reaper’s trailing cloak, but crying blue, overlays the dress he wears.

Fire-Fighter’s face widens into a manic, battle-hungry smile. Starving-red fire literally crawls out of her back. It shuffles and leaps onto the ground like elemental caterpillars. She resummons her ax.

The unnamed Magical Girl looks nervous, but she summons her outfit again and nocks an arrow with a pink heart-shaped head on her violin strings.

But I noticed. They can’t hide it. That brief look of desperation. The tinge of despair that colors their auras.

I return to my inhuman crouching gait, sans my ARM, and start to head back to the shadows, but he grabs me by my left arm. My eyes widen, will he take more?, but I school my face and turn back.

To my complete and utter shock, he speaks for the first time. His voice rumbles with power.

“My COURT JESTER. My pet. I will not survive this battle despite your magnificent gift.

However, I have enough power to ensure one of us escapes the fall of my mighty Kingdom.

I WILL leave a legacy.

They will not prevent this.

This is my boon to you.”

Miasma coalesces in his hand to form a gilded-gold collar that glimmers like skin and scales under a spot light. From it hangs a large medallion which somehow exudes a powerful gravitas, an irresistible charm. In it, it has a deep three-dimensional relief of a jester’s hat, which morphs into one of a tiara, then into one of a stylized castle, and finally a lyre.

Written around the relief, repeated over and over, is the word “Charisma.”

He connects it around my neck. The situation evokes for all the world the feeling of a soldier receiving accolades for their valiant service.

I boggle in confusion. I just cannot understand this. Why would he do this? He does not care for nor about me. I was certain.

He still won’t survive? Why?

I just sacrificed my arm.

And why do I feel disappointment?

I still survive.

Goddamnit what the fuck are you on about you piece of shit!?! Tears start running down my face. You can’t just speak after so long in prison with you. You’re practically my jailor. You can’t just save me! You tortured me!!! Where the fuck do you get off with a redeeming arc?!

Why are you leaving me like everyone else?

“Goodbye, my princess.” he says emotionlessly but for a brief moment, where intense possessiveness inflects his words.

For a brief second, he whips out a circular black case that opens, rubs a tentacle in it, and then applies it expertly to my face. Did he jus-just put makeup on my face?

I sputter in surprise, trying to find my words.

“Don’t let that Torment get away!” shouted Sunshine. The protector dispelled the shield and launched from their resting spot, a yellow blur hurtling towards us.

Velvet-red miasma warps around me, the last image I see of the Rift is My King lumbering around to face her, defiantly standing against the living solar beam. I remember how the kings of France used the sun in their divine right mythos. I wonder how this fits in with that.