Lucy tried to forget the past, to repress her painful memories and go on with the present. It had worked excellently before: she had found a sort of contentment in oblivion, a graceful ghost haunting the Dark Towers, a shadow-shape dancing in the Chainned Inn. But her visit with Travanix to the Red Dragon Inn could not be forgotten. Whatever strange accord had been between them, it was changed.
She had served him as best she could. She had brought him ale and pure water, listened closely for his demands even when she grew sleepy from inaction. She had kept her sensitive ears trained for any conversations that might interest him to hear repeated. She had stayed by his side through the abuse of his enemies, through a tense situation that threatened to erupt into violence around her. She had kneeled for hours, ignoring her own discomfort and striving for perfection of posture. She had tried, damn it!
Then the Lord had grown bored himself, and requested that she dance. She repressed her feelings on the matter and threw herself into an erotic dance, a drum-dance of the style favored by nomads and desert mystics. Her dance had not been for her own glory, or the eyes of the spectators. She had danced for him, an expression of the overwhelming love that had been trapped inside her by the shock of captivity and the cautious diplomacy required of the inferior.
Glowing from exertion, warm in her heart for the man who allowed her to dance for him, she had knelt again before him. She had asked if he desired to see a different style of dancing, and in her giddy triumph glanced coyly at his eyes through her lashes. For a feline, the greatest respect possible - the trust of letting another see full into her eyes. For a woman, a gesture of seduction and submission.
He forced her first to maintain her gaze as his eyes became red and hard, cold embers. She was frightened but exhilarated, trapped by her own nature into craving all that was mysterious and different. For a breathless moment, she thought that her ability to meet his red stare brought them closer. It showed that she could accept even the darkest parts of his nature, proved that so long as she belonged to him, she could not help but long for him.
And then he had invaded her mind, tortured her mercilessly with visions of being roasted alive over a fire, her eyelashes and the fur of her tail crisping black as she wept through scalded eyelids. It only lasted perhaps a minute, but her suffering seemed endless. Before, she had been frightened of his power; after this brutal punishment, she felt empty and cold, a stone statue of a woman. She would despise the Lord if there were any point to it, but his rules were cold, unchanging, and did not involve justice or even sense.
How could she look at him the same way? She dreamed still of his red eyes, his strong hands, and these dreams were troubled and uncertain. Her only remaining fear was that the Lord would take her to his bed only after he had reduced her to a weeping shell - that his only erotic fascination was with women who were maimed, hateful, unwilling.
If he deflowered her under these circumstances, Lucy decided, she would have no choice but to try to kill him. She was not a suicidal sort, but she did not fear death; the thought that she would certainly die in the attempt was a comfort. If this feeling counted as being "broken", she had at last snapped.
She had served him as best she could. She had brought him ale and pure water, listened closely for his demands even when she grew sleepy from inaction. She had kept her sensitive ears trained for any conversations that might interest him to hear repeated. She had stayed by his side through the abuse of his enemies, through a tense situation that threatened to erupt into violence around her. She had kneeled for hours, ignoring her own discomfort and striving for perfection of posture. She had tried, damn it!
Then the Lord had grown bored himself, and requested that she dance. She repressed her feelings on the matter and threw herself into an erotic dance, a drum-dance of the style favored by nomads and desert mystics. Her dance had not been for her own glory, or the eyes of the spectators. She had danced for him, an expression of the overwhelming love that had been trapped inside her by the shock of captivity and the cautious diplomacy required of the inferior.
Glowing from exertion, warm in her heart for the man who allowed her to dance for him, she had knelt again before him. She had asked if he desired to see a different style of dancing, and in her giddy triumph glanced coyly at his eyes through her lashes. For a feline, the greatest respect possible - the trust of letting another see full into her eyes. For a woman, a gesture of seduction and submission.
He forced her first to maintain her gaze as his eyes became red and hard, cold embers. She was frightened but exhilarated, trapped by her own nature into craving all that was mysterious and different. For a breathless moment, she thought that her ability to meet his red stare brought them closer. It showed that she could accept even the darkest parts of his nature, proved that so long as she belonged to him, she could not help but long for him.
And then he had invaded her mind, tortured her mercilessly with visions of being roasted alive over a fire, her eyelashes and the fur of her tail crisping black as she wept through scalded eyelids. It only lasted perhaps a minute, but her suffering seemed endless. Before, she had been frightened of his power; after this brutal punishment, she felt empty and cold, a stone statue of a woman. She would despise the Lord if there were any point to it, but his rules were cold, unchanging, and did not involve justice or even sense.
How could she look at him the same way? She dreamed still of his red eyes, his strong hands, and these dreams were troubled and uncertain. Her only remaining fear was that the Lord would take her to his bed only after he had reduced her to a weeping shell - that his only erotic fascination was with women who were maimed, hateful, unwilling.
If he deflowered her under these circumstances, Lucy decided, she would have no choice but to try to kill him. She was not a suicidal sort, but she did not fear death; the thought that she would certainly die in the attempt was a comfort. If this feeling counted as being "broken", she had at last snapped.