A/N: Set anytime during the series. Just some dynamic between Diva and her least-ficced Chevalier.
You watch her out of the corner of your eye, headphones on but music dulled, as if her slow terrorizing of the rose bushes deserves a certain degree of background music. How strange, you think, that the future of the human race is more interested in things like flowers and dolls than world domination. It would be rather cute if the matter weren't actually so serious, because this isa war after all, no matter how lightly you all speak of it.
She finds a doll discarded some minutes ago amongst the roses, and starts to embrace it. You smile, remembering how you bought the vintage, plushy thing because you thought she would like its hair, or dressing it up, at least. The music in your ears goes on a slow crescendo as she starts to cradle the thing, purring softly – you can hear the sweet sound even from a distance, because her melody is like no other: it is magic.
And she is your queen, but her coronet is made of blood and bile and fire, and all she's ever had in lieu of a scepter is her rapier. And she is your goddess, because the ground she walks is sacred, and every word she says is the law, and without her, you would perish – skin into bones into sand into nothing. And she is your sometime lover, but you're both mutually uninterested that way, and it's all for the best, really. It makes it easier to embrace her, without lust or malice. Now all you need to worry about is that she might be thirsty.
She is your mother, too, in the same way she'll give birth to her own flesh and blood soon; but she's only a child herself, pricking her precious skin thoughtlessly among the thorns, pools of sky for eyes shining with delight as she undresses the doll and slowly, methodically, starts to rip it along its stitches. She's scary sometimes, but you've grown accustomed to it – and the way she smiles as if happiness consumes her being is rather charming sometimes.
Still, today she is your muse, as she always will be – your angel of music, your prima donna, your inspiration. You stand and pull off your music device, then walk over to where she has started to giggle; you pull her upright before she can molest the doll any further. "Diva," you say, all tenderness and truth, not like someof her other children, "Won't you sing for me?"
She pauses for a moment to smile at you, then she bites you fondly on the ear. "Of course, Nathan." And then she complies, almost as if she really were just the singer to you, her stage manager; the mother to you, her child, hankering for a lullaby, for her sweet and unequivocally beautiful voice.
And she is your whole reason.
A/N: Thanks for reading. For some reason I really like Nathan, despite his questionable, er, preferences. Comments would be greatly appreciated. :D