Dance of the Phoenix
“I’ve grown tired of these matters,” the Queen Tyrant says, waving her fawning ministers away. “You, dancing girl. Entertain me.”
Mai’s breath catches in her throat. Finally. Finally, the time has come.
She rises from within the shadow of a column and spins into the center of the room. Her red scarves trail behind her like wings. The delicate scent of peonies lingers in the air around her from the special perfume her clothes are soaked in. Her skin is oiled to silken perfection, for dancing girls should always look soft and smell nice.
She dances. Her body is a thing of beauty to behold, and the Queen Tyrant beholds it ravenously, beckoning her closer. Mai dances to her, bare feet pounding on the red carpet leading to the throne. Up the steps to the dais, body bending and swaying in supplication before her Queen Tyrant.
The Queen Tyrant demands her closer still, dragging Mai in by one of her errant scarves. Dragging Mai, still dancing, back to her royal chambers. Mai doesn't—can’t—stop dancing. Her Queen Tyrant has not given her permission.
That is alright. It’s part of her plan.
The candlelight makes her red dress glow like flames. Her scarves move like wildfire. She casts them across the room, mesmerizing her Queen Tyrant. It’s easy to slip close to her. Wrap a scarf around her shoulder, dip it down to brush against her breasts. Cast another across the room, floating in the air until the very end grazes the nearest candle's flame. And like a fuse being lit, fire tears through it.
Perfume and oil burn so quickly, and so hot. Mai embraces her Queen Tyrant as the flame engulfs them, knowing that in the ashes of her sacrifice, a new day will finally dawn for her people.
Mai’s breath catches in her throat. Finally. Finally, the time has come.
She rises from within the shadow of a column and spins into the center of the room. Her red scarves trail behind her like wings. The delicate scent of peonies lingers in the air around her from the special perfume her clothes are soaked in. Her skin is oiled to silken perfection, for dancing girls should always look soft and smell nice.
She dances. Her body is a thing of beauty to behold, and the Queen Tyrant beholds it ravenously, beckoning her closer. Mai dances to her, bare feet pounding on the red carpet leading to the throne. Up the steps to the dais, body bending and swaying in supplication before her Queen Tyrant.
The Queen Tyrant demands her closer still, dragging Mai in by one of her errant scarves. Dragging Mai, still dancing, back to her royal chambers. Mai doesn't—can’t—stop dancing. Her Queen Tyrant has not given her permission.
That is alright. It’s part of her plan.
The candlelight makes her red dress glow like flames. Her scarves move like wildfire. She casts them across the room, mesmerizing her Queen Tyrant. It’s easy to slip close to her. Wrap a scarf around her shoulder, dip it down to brush against her breasts. Cast another across the room, floating in the air until the very end grazes the nearest candle's flame. And like a fuse being lit, fire tears through it.
Perfume and oil burn so quickly, and so hot. Mai embraces her Queen Tyrant as the flame engulfs them, knowing that in the ashes of her sacrifice, a new day will finally dawn for her people.
Originally Published in Rise: Queer Sci Fi's Tenth Annual Flash Fiction Contest