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It was the Condesce’s smile that first struck a fancy in the Handmaid. Her lips, painted the same fuschia as her blood, would curve upwards into a twisted grin, and her eyes would light up with sadistic delight. The tug of her lips was anything but subtle, mouth wide as each jagged tooth became visible. There was a joy about the expression that the rustblood had never -- would never -- experience, and the mystery of it was tantalizing.
They shared the burden of eternal life, and yet, Her Imperious Condescension walked with vigor in each step. She could deliver a death sentence and lose no life of her own. Her macabre orders were brought about with jubilance. It was an outlook the Handmaid envied. Alternian civilization would crumble at her feet, and the Handmaid could muster up nothing but apathy. She had become a grim skeleton of a girl.
It was a rare occasion that Her Condescension would make an appearance on land, and even rarer that the Handmaid would sully herself by blending in with a crowd. The Signless’ execution proved to be an event that neither troll could spare missing. The site chosen for the grisly display of capital punishment had once been a peaceful field. The grass and wildflowers had mostly been trampled down by the crowd, so eager to watch the first true rebellion collapse under their Empress’ iron rule.
Tall and regal, Her Imperious Condescension stood behind the Executor. Her fingers, heavy with rings, wrapped around the base of her double-ended trident, and her bracelets jingled as she shook her wrist and demanded he get on with it. She was there for the show.
All eyes were on the Executor as he drew back his bow -- all eyes but the Handmaid’s who had drifted back further to watch the Empress. It was not hard to see the woman’s bubbling excitement. Her fuschia lips contorted into the smile that the Handmaid had grown so attached to. It beamed brighter than the moonlight that shone down on the scene, highlighting the battered form of a foolish man.
In between the screams of a rebel came a thud as a primitive girl fell forward, crumpling to the ground. Her hair was a tangled mane, eyes large and feral. It was this that drew the Handmaid’s attention from the witch’s smile, and she examined the girl. Her knees were skinned and bloody, flesh stained green from the grass she sat in. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes as she clung to her faith. She was distraught, clawing at the ground, and the Demoness watched with sick amusement as she scraped dirt, barely missing crushing a lone wildflower that had thus far escaped it’s own demise.
To the shock of the crowd, the next arrow didn’t come. The Disciple, realizing the small burst of luck, scrambled from her spot, scurrying away like the animal she was. The Handmaid reached up, hands moving for the wands she kept in her hair as she pondered a rewrite -- skewer the girl, or no? -- only for her to stop. The Condesce’s expression had soured, and the enchanting smile that the Handmaid found so captivating had warped into a sickened snarl. Her hands fell back to her side.
It was not only the Empress’ smile, the Handmaid realized, that spurred her long-since black heart to flutter. The scowl of a woman who had everything that the Demoness could dream of came with its own rewards. It was the first look of despair that the Handmaid truly savored. It was the first semblance of exhilaration she felt.
She would live an eternity of other’s anguish, drowning in her own indifference. Her Imperious Condescension would have the opposite. She could relish in merriment, delight in other’s suffering. She could smile for eternity, and truly, the Handmaid would treasure each smile until the day came that she would be on the receiving end of one.
She knew well the expression that came at the end of the Condesce’s culling fork, and that grin would be the last thing the Handmaid would see. Her fate was etched in stone, undebatable and unchangeable. It was what would come after that the Handmaid wanted. She’d draw her last breath, and the Empress’ magnificent smile would warp into a despondent sneer as she realized the terms of Lord English’s unwritten agreement.
For that, the Handmaid opted not to rewind time to orchestrate the Disciple’s murder. She’d spare the girl from annihilation as a gift of gratitude. The grassy field would remain crushed, but the wildflower could still grow.
The Handmaid would never know what her own smile looked like. It would only occur this once, thin lips spreading slightly, quirked up at the ends. Her eyes would have no true fire behind them, but the shadows that clouded them regularly subsided. Her grin was weak, the only light in a miserable servant’s existence.
One grin was all she needed.