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Harriet Potter looks at the creature in front of her. He is a cat, she thinks, of Ancient Egypt, although there are fangs peeking through the corner of his jaw, and the tip of his tail appears to be scaled.
He is slumbering peacefully under the hot sun, as he has been for the last three months.
She contemplates her feline companion, even as her fingers clench around the crystal vial she holds. The experimental potion within is one of her own invention, and she is wary of using it. Brewing in her mindscape is not the same as true brewing, but she had not been given any other choice.
With a sigh, she sits down and gingerly prises open the cat’s jaw with one hand, careful to avoid the dripping fangs. With the other, she slowly administers three drops of the potion.
Burying her fingers in his soft fur, she waits for the potion to take effect.
And in the meantime, she remembers.
Dominion is waiting and ready the moment his Wielder takes hold of the Rod of Zuriel. They are old enemies, he and Zuriel, and he has always before emerged, if not victorious, at least with some measure of dignity.
This time he is both more and less powerful: he has free access—never revoked after the Tower Task—to the most glorious and delicious source of magic he has encountered in several thousand years; he is also forced into restraint by the runic chains that constitute his body. The battleground here is Harriet’s mindscape itself, and he cannot be as heedless of collateral damage as his nature would dictate.
Zuriel takes shape in Harriet’s mind as a gentle wisp of smoke that belies its invasive nature, before solidifying into its familiar preferred form.
Zuriel is pleased to see him. Dominion is...less so, especially given that Harriet has come along for the ride.
“You look different, Dominion,” it says, with a slow, sleepy smile, in a tone that implies a great deal of familiarity with his previous form.
Dominion supposes that tone is not entirely undeserved, but as always he reserves the right to pretend that some incidents have never occurred.
“I’ve moved on,” Dominion says with a sniff. “Egypt is so last millennium.”
He ignores Harriet’s incredulous glance at their distinctive surroundings.
Zuriel does as well, stalking around him with an increasingly wider smirk. A smoldering fire is alight in its eyes. “You have changed,” it says, with great interest. “How has that come to pass?”
Dominion can understand its astonishment. Powers like he and Zuriel are by their nature constant forces. Dominion especially has been known for his resistance to change—to any assertion over his own will or nature. It is not for nothing that he was once called the Dominion Adamant.
“A superior being such as myself subsumes greatness wherever it is found,” Dominion informs Zuriel. If his tone is distinctly catty, well, felines are naturally superior creatures.
“Greatness?” the carefully calculated irony in Zuriel’s voice is not lost on Dominion. “You are bound.” There was open disdain in its expression now, and some unsuspected source of warmth within Dom now grows quite chilly. “You are chained to the will of this pathetic creature, and worse, you enjoy it.”
Dominion does not deny the accusation; not because of its truth, but because he finds he does not wish to.
“Paradoxically,” he says, “it is being chained which has given me the greatest understanding of true Power.”
“Blasphemy,” Zuriel hisses, its features growing distinctly serpentine and its deceptively languid pose resembling nothing so much as a cobra poised to strike. “You have lowered yourself, allowed yourself to be subsumed by this pathetic mortal! How am I to test my Might against Thee? How Shall I Prove My Greatness, When My Nemesis Hath So Debased Himself—”
And here comes the oration, Dominion thinks resignedly, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. This is why, despite their long history, he never can meet Zuriel without it devolving into petty fights, and occasionally climatic battles resulting in the utter wasting of kingdoms and dynasties.
Not this time, he thinks, glancing at his surroundings. Behind Zuriel, unnoticed, Harriet has an intense look of focus on her face as she gathers her magic. He can feel the rising power in the warmth under his feet and the slight tinge of ozone in the air.
As if overhearing his thoughts, Zuriel suddenly stiffens, cocking its head, and a rapt expression spreads across its face. Dominion does not like that look in its eye, not at all.
“Ah,” Zuriel breathes. “I see at least how Thou Hath Been Ensnared.” A hard glint in its eyes. “Thou may have been tricked, but I have not been chained. I shall Seize This Most Wonderous Power, and Thou Shalt Be Freed—”
No. Not on Dominion’s watch, anyway. With a gentle brush against Harriet’s consciousness, he accepts the power she has drawn up, and lashes out at Zuriel’s form in a brutal whip of pure magic. With all the capriciousness of a nightmare Zuriel shifts from languid somnolence into a blur of motion—swiftly enough to avoid immediate defeat, but not the jagged gash that hisses corrosively on its arm.
The true battle begins, then, and Dominion is not too proud to admit that it is a difficult one. If he were unrestricted it would be laughably easy, of course, but he is not. His attention is divided between striking against Zuriel and protecting Harriet’s mindscape—and Harriet herself—from Zuriel’s attacks, a fact which the other Power soon realizes and capitalizes upon.
Damn opportunist, Dominion thinks disgustedly. I at least make my own opportunities.
And that’s what he does. Letting Harriet know his intentions, he feigns greater strain than he truly feels, allowing Zuriel’s attacks to land closer to Harriet each time, even as she shrinks behind him in a manner he knows is utterly foreign to her nature. He even goes so far as to allow a few superficial attacks to scorch the mindscape—nothing that Harriet herself cannot repair, for already he knows how this encounter will end.
As Zuriel drives them into the shadow of Dominion’s favorite pyramid, it grows arrogant, swelling with triumph and malice. Dominion bides his time, waiting for the perfect moment, the lull in Zuriel’s defense as its ego bleeds into complacency—
There. With a yowl of fury, Dominion forges the misty traces of magic he’d left on the ground in the mindscape into steely vines, wrapping them tightly around Zuriel’s limbs and forcing the Power to a hateful, bitter standstill.
“So the Cat has not lost all its tricks,” Zuriel hisses, and Dominion grins back viciously. “Still, you are not victorious. I have been here long enough that you will not be able to cast me out.”
Dominion feels Harriet’s shock and fury as she realizes the truth of Zuriel’s words; how in the midst of their battle its creeping tendrils have rooted themselves deeply into her mindscape. Perhaps this is what lends an extra edge of poison to his voice as he prowls forward, bending to whisper into Zuriel’s ear—entirely unnecessary, of course, but if Zuriel’s weakness is its arrogance, Dominion’s might very well be his love for melodrama—and he thoroughly enjoys the involuntary flinch that runs through Zuriel’s form as he tightens the grip of the magic constraining it.
“That may be so,” he purrs, “but you will find I’ve picked up a few more tricks. I may not be able to cast you out, but I simply cannot allow you to remain here while you can afford Harriet harm. My bindings will not permit it.” He pauses, then lifts Zuriel’s pointed chin with a delicate finger. Its eyes shift to slits in its anger, but there is little it can do. Dominion allows his voice to grow very soft and gentle as he continues, “Fortunately, there’s an easy solution to that, my very old friend.”
Zuriel’s eyes blow wide in sudden understanding, and it begins to struggle furiously, but to no avail. “You risk destroying yourself,” Zuriel spits, its features shifting from the delicate, feminine form it prefers to its more serpentine nature and back, with myriad shapes in between. Dominion holds it fast, regardless.
“Dom,” Harriet says, in a too-familiar tone, and he realizes that he has allowed too much of his intent to pass through to her. He looks up, and shakes his head.
“There’s not another option. Not one my bindings will allow.”
“No,” she whispers. “No.” He can feel her distress echoing through every layer of the mindscape, but she hasn’t given him a command.
“It’s been interesting, Harriet Potter,” Dominion says. “And I don’t say that about just anyone, you know.”
Dominion smiles at her, a wide grin that grows wider, the runes that make up his construct-body shining as he stretches the limits of what should be permissible.
It’s in her best interests, he thinks.
Not mine, a small part of him whispers, and with a soft, slow stretch, the rune chains finally relax. His grin splits open, and open, and open—and then he swallows the struggling Zuriel whole.
There is a silent moment of grace as their essences begin to merge, before the war begins. He is Dominion, and he is long practiced in subduing others to its will. It is Zuriel, and it will not go gently, not against an old enemy, not even an old friend—but in the end there is no true contest. When it comes to a battle of Wills there can be only one Victor, and HE IS DOMINION—
Yet Zuriel knows that even under the superior personality, his submerged nature cannot be wholly denied.
Zuriel—Dominion—Dom—surfaces long enough to give a horrified Harriet a single, flirtatious wink—
and sinks into sleep.