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Lady Une stepped into the large room.  It seemed almost fitting that His Excellency's bath should be monstrous and equally ridiculous.  He was, after all, an aristocrat.  She crossed the tiled, rouge-colored floor to the small pool he bathed in.  The strong scent of roses wafted from where he lay, a look of enormous pleasure gracing his strong Aryan features.  'How handsome,' she thought, 'and what a fitting leader for the new world'.  She immediately felt shame for having such thoughts.   'I am only a servant to the new order', she reminded herself.  'He summons me yet again.  It as if I am Death, at his beckon call, to rid the Earth of those he deems unecessary'

"Lady Une."  He motioned her over to him. "I have a request for you"

"Yes, your Excellency"

"There is a small-time proletariat who is preaching against my revolution.   I will need you to embark on a journey to Paris, to deal with the matter."

"Yes, your Excellency"

"And as for your last voyage, it appears you left some business unfinished."

"I apologize, sir"  There would be no excuses.  She had failed in her duty, and would take the punishment for it.  That had always been the way.

"No need.  I sent another to complete your work.  I must say, I am dissappointed.  It it not like you to make mistakes, and I expect better.  I will also need you to purchase more fine champagne, the kind that I am most accustomed to." Her eyes hardened in anger.  There was always this.  Always something left undone, always a problem.  There was nothing completed perfectly, as whatever action she took, he always deemed it too much, too little, or out of the bounds of Oz's purpose.  Yet again, she scolded herself for such thoughts.  She was his, she reminded herself, created only for his tasks.

"Yes, your Excellency.  Consider it done."  She turned to leave.

"Wait, Lady, I am not yet finished."  She heard the large upheaval of water as he pulled himself out of the basin.

She turned around, and immediately averted her eyes at the sight of his nakedness.  He turned around to wipe his face on a towel, at which point she ventured a brief glance.  In only a moment she discerned his hard, muscular figure, gleaming with moisture in the setting sunlight.

He stepped towards her, his bare feet splashing slightly in the thin layer of water displaced by his exit of the bath. "Your Excellency..."  She said, in a half-embarrassed tone.

He picked her face up in both of his hands, raising her eyes to meet his.   He gazed into hers with passionate, soulful eyes, but was met with the unyielding, harsh glare of a killer.  A dutiful hunter.  He could see that she wrestled with herself, with her loyalty to Mr. Treize, and her equally strong hatred, of being his servant, of being his lapdog.  She averted her eyes, staring past him and at the tapestries beside them.  He reached up and gently pulled her glasses off, setting them on the small table beside them.  Half in shock, she stared back at him.  He pressed up against her, and kissed her gently.

At that moment, she filled with rage.  How could he use her in such a way?!   She could not, would not give in to him, or herself.  Was she not a strong warrior?  A soldier for Mr. Treize's cause?  She was not his whore!  He could use her body, her crafty mind, her love of the kill, but he could not use her heart!   She refused to let him create the false notion of love, only to be thrown away with the rest of the rubbish.  Her love for him?  She did love him.  More that he could ever, would ever know.  More than she could admit to herself.  She was not weak, and would not be weakened by such a thing as love.  Even the word felt bitter to her.  Unworthy of her, and unworthy of him.

She reached up and slapped him across the face, then turned again towards the door.

"Your Excellency, I have a job to do."  She said, as she reached to the table for her glasses.

"Yes, Lady, and it appears so do I"

As he watched her leave, Treize Kushrinada marvelled at her strength, yet was saddened by the thought of what he had done.  'I love her'  he thought, 'yet I have ruined her.'  He dressed himself and reached for a rose to wear on his lapel.   The delicate flower reminded him of Une.  She was so delicate, yet she covers herself in pain, death, torture. Much like the rose, with it's barrage of thorns.   Even the rose does not admit it's vulnerability, though they are a most temperamental flower.  One thing comforted him, however, as he though back on the event.  It was the slight, almost undetectable tremor as she pronounced Excellency.

'She is still human, after all.'  He thought.