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Was it so wrong of him to think that a woman’s place is not and will never be on the field of battle? They undoubtedly had the mental acuity for stratagem – the entire Hermean race was testament of that – and ruthless female sovereigns had long since redefined what a ‘proper feminine disposition’ entailed. But to serve as common foot soldiers, whose sole job was to be cannon fodder and advance the melee?
It was a taboo subject, obviously, in the company of extra-terrestrial female soldiers to whom banal rules like gravity did not apply. But Jadeite never had a talent for diplomacy; his not-so-subtle snigger had been enough to convey his exact thoughts on the matter, and shit the bed completely.
The little Hermean princess seemed happy enough put aside her irritation to weigh both sides of the argument – between herself and Zoisite, numerous examples could be dredged up from the annals of history to affirm or refute the topic at hand. And as usual, the Arien and Zeun princesses bristled and declared challenges (to which, much to his horror, his second and third command both smiled dubiously). He imagined that Mars and Jupiter had not hesitated to let their great pride and indignation be known as violently as possible, if the numerous craters on the training grounds were anything to go by. Well. He’d always impressed upon Nephrite the consequences of underestimating one’s opponent. A lesson well learned then. He had his doubts that Jadeite could ever be taught.
As for himself, well, he spoke seldom and rarely voiced his opinions, and even more rarely would he press his full strength when his opponent was a woman. It was a point of principle, and until they started breeding for the battlefield magical girl-children blessed with planetary powers upon his hallowed Terran soil, he would be sticking to this principle, thank you very much. And as his eyes followed the Magellan princess dragging her Lunarian counterpart across the ballroom for a discussion on the “oh-so-amazing eyes of that Ranien officer from three-something nights ago—“ (pardon the paraphrasing), he considered himself safe from having to engage in something so pointless. Even if she was capable of besting him in heels and a skirt.
That self-reassurance lasted about half a moon.
It was with wariness and a sense of impending dread that he watched her approach now, his peace under the great Zeun oaks broken. Forget about combat. Unarmed, she could easily bring a lesser man to his knees, and he was not entirely immune. But that look in her eyes did not bode well for him. With a sinking feeling, he knew that despite his ‘no fighting with the fairer sex’ policy, he was about to experience it for himself, with every muscle of his body.
But small talk first; wasn’t that what politics were all about?
“Milady.”
She sashayed the last two metres to come within arms’ length of him, all smiles. “Why, General, fancy seeing you in the gardens at this hour.”
Of course, it was no secret that it was his custom to read under the Zeun oaks at mid-morning. But he returned the nicety with his dry tenor. “Yes, milady. Our forests on Earth are all haunted, so I must take this rare opportunity to enjoy the great outdoors.”
She pealed bell-like laughter, and he looked down to find her gloved hand on his uniform-clad arm. “How delightful! However—” she leaned in close, “I must warn that white garments don’t do so well on green grass. It leaves a rather permanent stain.”
He knew she was talking about the fake green of the lawn, a trick of dye to colour the barren Lunar landscape. But he was also inclined to agree that white uniforms in his profession were a stupid idea.
“Thank you for the warning,” he changed position subtly to move away from her touch. “I’ll be sure to keep to the benches.”
He hoped that this would be the extent of their interaction, but alas.
Her nearness was beginning to unsettle him. On Good Terra, this proximity was tantamount to scandal. She stood so close that he realised that she really was quite small, the top of her head barely levelling with his shoulders, and that her blonde her was truly flaxen, like the wheat fields of his beloved land. She was saturated with – not the sweet, flowery, powdery smells that were popular with the court ladies – but the green, cold brightness of a brisk winter, like she had just run through the snow and wind, and he couldn’t help himself inhaling deeply in surprise. Yes, he’d let himself be surprised by this slip of a girl, he, a man who was described by his lessers as an impassive stick in the mud, and by all accounts beyond surprises. Her expressive lapis eyes were hooded, and by the time she’d upturned her face to gaze at him, it was too late.
He didn’t even see it coming. With a well-placed jab, a flip of a deceptively strong arm paired with a well-placed ankle, he was sprawled on the grass on his back, the wind knocked out of him. She was strong, and he had been caught. What was worse, he watched wide-eyed as she hitched up the flowing chiffon of her dress and dropped down to bracket him at the waist with her slender legs. For a split second, he saw that she was bare under her finery, except for a thick strap bracing a dagger sheath tight to her thigh. Her weight and heat pressed over his belly, and he was suddenly breathless, which had nothing to do with the fact that he had just been struck.
He watched as she leaned forward, her golden hair slipping over her shoulder. Her calloused thumbs brushed the throbbing of his carotid pulse, then smoothed feather light down the expanse of his torso, his abdomen… and she stopped with a mischievous smile. He had been caught, and now he had given himself away like a boy of fifteen. There was a glint in her eye, a glimpse of her stoicism and cunning that belied her effervescence. He wondered what she was thinking.
And then she was gone without a word.
As he sat up, bright green stains surely marking the length of his back, he pushed the thought of her supple legs to the back of his mind to address the other little problem. His skin still tingled from the path of her touch, his body was not quite ready to forget her yet, but he tamped it down like a grown man and unceremoniously pulled the lace glove from his waistband where her deft fingers had tucked it.
A common foot soldier she most definitely was not.