She was luminous by starlight.
The conquering warlord, lazily sprawled in the chair, watched as the woman approached him silently, padding forward on bare feet. She was tall and slender, garbed in a gown of heavy pearlescent silk, which tied in a large bow beneath her breasts. A single creamy rose decorated the bow as anything more would have been too much like unnecessarily gilding a long, elegant lily.
Thick clouds of vibrant russet curls spilled down her back, caught back from her pale face by a veil of sheer white silk voile. Her eyes, green as a cat's, were shuttered, revealing but little of her thoughts. She was, he thought, not beautiful, but striking. Her bearing was regal, but, he reflected, that was only to be expected.
"Good evening, Princess." His husky voice openly mocked her title.
A sudden gust of wind billowed into the room through the open balcony doors. The acrid stench of battle filled the room with the bitterness of burning wood, the copper tang of blood, and the thick, malignant overlay of death and destruction. It mingled oddly with the pure, spicy scent of roses that surrounded her.
"Good? An unusual description, General."
"I suppose," he grunted, sipping his wine, "it would depend on your point of view."
"Quite." She tried to look past the ruin of the formerly peaceful land that his prince's armies had laid waste to. She did not wish to remember it torn and violated as it now was.
Her clipped answer amused him. "You look lovely," he said surprising himself. She did…like an angel, pure and unsullied.
"Think you I care anything for the opinion or regard of…murderers? Barbarians? Savages?" The green cat's eyes gleamed in the dim light, flicking over his blood smeared armor, his burning sapphire gaze, his face with its cruel beauty of a fallen angel.
He wondered what she saw when she looked at him. Her solemn gaze revealed nothing to him.
"If you're trying to insult me…" His voice held a warning note, which she ignored.
"Did you think your kind had a monopoly on handing them out, General?" she inquired, a touch of scorn entering her own voice as she used his title.
The Dragon General tamped down the initial flicker of rage, exercising a hard won self-control. She was, he decided abruptly, no angel, but a damned provoking witch. Interesting, though, a voice inside his head whispered.
"Your name, my lady?"
"You may call me Echo."
"That is not your name."
"It will do for your purposes," she replied coolly. "Names have power, you know. I do not expect you to give me yours either."
He had to acknowledge her point. "Very well, Echo of the East."
"Though if you must refer to my kingdom, I had rather you simply address me as Princess."
"Your kingdom has fallen, my lady Echo. What need for titles now?"
She shrugged then, the simple gesture acquiescing to his will. It somehow soothed the ragged edges in him. "As you will."
"Finally a reasonable attitude, milady. I trust you will maintain it." He locked his gaze to hers, but she said nothing more, retreating into silence. In an effort to force a response, he continued. "The prince has given you to me."
He saw it then, the crackle of suppressed fury flashing for an instant in the liquid green depths of her gaze. It surprised him then to also see her ruthlessly restrain the reaction, schooling her face back into its impassive, ivory mask. He smirked. There was more here than met the eye, and he wanted to know it all.
Thunder rumbled outside the keep, winds swirling as storms gathered.
"How barbaric. I am no battle prize, General. No spoils of war to defile or carry off." Her voice was glacial. "Certainly not for the likes of you."
His eyes narrowed then, his temper sparked, along with other more 'earthy' things within him. He wanted the infuriating, proud woman. "Come here."
She came, standing in front of him where he sat. Her manner had become, if possible, more regal and haughty, queenly. It made him want to pull her down and see if he could un-stiffen her rigid spine with a kiss…or more. His blood heated. Much more.
He caught her chin in his hand, drawing her between his knees, so close that his mahogany locks tumbled against the hand she held over her breast. Off balance, she braced herself with her free hand on the arm of his chair.
"You will be mine, Princess," he informed her cruelly, his voice roughening. "Your continued health and well being depends on my good will. You'd be far better off, milady, seeking to stay on my good side."
"I've seen no evidence yet, sir," she hissed, "that you have one."
That retort got her wrist locked in a steely, bruising grip, and she let out a stifled yelp of pain. He got a certain grim satisfaction from seeing her instinctive jump backward restrained by his hand. His fingers loosened a hairsbreadth, relieving the bone-cracking pressure, but leaving her still quite effectively chained.
Lightning flashed beyond the windows. Thunder rumbled again. A few raindrops spattered into the dust as the storm broke. The fresh smell of the driving rain forced down the smells of war and dying beneath its vital power.
"By the gods, you're stubborn, woman." He could hardly believe that she would keep testing him, in her position. He could kill her or make her life a living hell, and yet she was daring to treat him like less than the lowliest servant who would scrub out the garderobes. "You'll fight me to the last ditch, won't you?"
She smiled then, a tight, wicked smile, and the light flashed again in her eyes. Her lips were inches from his as she murmured, "Of course."
His smile was mocking, twisted and his blue eyes were dark now, almost black, with mingled anger and lust. He almost hated her at that moment for making him feel, for jolting him out of the ennui that had previously only left him in mortal combat. "I'll enjoy breaking you, vixen. You'll scream for me."
"What a charmingly vulgar suggestion, milord. I would have expected nothing less, but I'm afraid I really must decline." The mocking lilt was back in her husky voice.
"Just who the hell do you think you are, witch woman?"
The beguiling scent of roses and spice, the scent of her, enfolded them both. He could practically hear her heart beating and he shifted uncomfortably, feeling himself thicken.
"Who do you think I am, General?" Her haunting, catlike gaze was intent now, not letting him look away, even if he had wanted to do so.
"A Princess," he replied, though his instinctive answer was 'Mine!'
She smiled mysteriously. "I'm more than that…"
Her lips ghosted across his. Light flared on her forehead, blinding him. His blank eyes widened in shock, then in pain as she, quick as a wink, slammed the lethally sharp tip of the rose she'd worn into the top of his sword hand until her own flattened against him. It pierced flesh and dug into the wood of the chair below it, pinning him there. Had he not been wearing his chest plate, it would have been in his heart instead.
Blood, red as wine, spattered on the floor.
As her palm touched the back of his hand, he went rigid as her power hit him in a burst of sparks and white light, brighter than stars. He could feel the jolt knock him back in the chair. His ears rang, his muscles spasmed, and for an instant his vision turned completely black. In the shock of the moment, his lock on her wrist loosened, and she sprang away.
A laughing, teasing note came into her voice as she heard him curse in outrage at her daring. "And now, I must take my leave. Fare thee well, my General," she said blowing him a taunting kiss and giving him a cheeky wink.
In a flash she vaulted over the edge of the balcony, her skirts fanning out as she went. He could hardly believe he'd witnessed it. He waited, heart in his throat, expecting to hear the crash of a body breaking below. To his disbelief, he heard only a soft thump and splash followed by the soft sound of feet running away fast. In outrage he threw back his head and roared, the cry of an animal deprived of its rightful prey. She'd escaped!
Her fleeing aroused every one of his predatory instincts. He would truly beat the witchy-eyed hellcat black and blue for such a violation, he thought, and then he would take her and begin breaking her spirit to his will! How dared she run from him?!
Ripping his hand free, he was heedless of the fact that he spilled more of his blood in the process. In a fury, he crushed the delicate yet dangerous blossom and leapt to his feet. His boots rang on the tiles as he pounded after her, exiting as she had, over the balcony into the driving rain.
He hit the ground with a loud thump and splash. The pouring rain immediately drenched him to the bone. Eyes narrowed, he surveyed the scene through the rain and storm. Where would she have gone to run, to hide? He knew it in an instant…the oaks. But he also knew he would have give chase immediately or she'd disappear into the night entirely. That would be unacceptable.
The warlord plunged into the thick woods after the princess, ignoring the increasing storm. In her white gown she would shine like a beacon, leading him straight to her. However, he did not expect that the very woods would fight against him. Branches dragged at his cape, slowing him. Thick gnarled roots seemed to rise up under his boots to trip him. Brush barred his path at every turn, causing him to lose precious time. Everywhere he could smell the scent of rain and storm and wild roses. He could hear the soft sound of her delighted laughter, taunting him like the echo she'd called herself.
She was glorying in the storm and the woods. Her own elemental powers sang with recognition. She was in her elements, one with them. The rain was a baptism, the thunder a benediction. The thickets seemed to bend and bow before her, allowing her easy passage in her flight. Their goddess held sway over them and blessed them with her joy.
By Jove, the bitch could run like a hart, he thought as, with the next flash of lightning he caught the faintest glimpse of a supple, white clad figure slipping through the woods with the ease of a ghost. She was already close to the far edge of the woods, moving fast, but headed for where?
The Temple of Selene!
She could not be allowed to reach that temple! The priestesses there held power of sanctuary for any maiden who asked, and no man could enter the place. Protected by the goddess, if she entered that sacred space, she would be lost to him forever. He had to stop her before she reached the temple!
Time seemed to stretch out eternally as he pelted after her. The woods began to thin, and he stretched his stride, racing after the fleeing princess. The rain slackened and finally ceased altogether, and he spotted her.
The oak woods ended near a large field, at the end of which sat the marble walls of the Temple of Selene. The princess' feet flew. If she did not reach its succor, she was lost. She could hear him behind her clearly, though she wasted no time in backward glances.
The dark lord smiled grimly as he noted the skies beginning to clear, letting the stars again shine through. His power would be waxing as hers would be waning. She would be his…he could feel it. But it would be a near thing.
It was about fifty yards from the temple that he snared her, catching the flying hem of her skirt and yanking her backward. "You're mine now!"
She screamed as she stumbled backward, then shocked him by whirling about, using his action and her momentum to launch an offensive attack that he'd never have expected. The much abused silk of her skirts shredded, falling away, leaving her free to fight, him to gawk.
Gawk, that is, until the first punch hit him. His head rocked back on his neck as the princess clouted him.
He dropped back into a fighting stance. It shouldn't have been a contest, even though he had no weapons on him, but it was. The fact that he outweighed her and had longer arms and legs seemed to be offset by the sheer unpredictability of her movements and the fact that he didn't particularly want to hurt her, just contain her. She was under no such restrictions. She was everywhere and nowhere, moving all the time, as hard to anticipate as trying to predict when and where lightning would next strike. And she wasn't afraid to fight dirty.
Her only goal was to win; she would not withdraw. She was well and truly furious about the fate of the kingdom, and wanted to take out her temper on someone, anyone responsible for its fall. He was the only one near enough, and he'd do, even if a tiny traitorous part of her found it a shame to damage such a pretty face. The weakness implicit in that fleeting thought only infuriated her more.
The princess didn't speak, but snarled, leaping on him, raking at his eyes with clawed fingers. The act would have been a terrible female cliché, if she hadn't followed it up with a vicious elbow jab to the throat and a knee to his solar plexus.
Warrior. He now realized what she'd meant when she'd said she was more. She was a trained warrior woman. And it was clear that she was loving every moment of the hand-to-hand battle. Her witchy green eyes now glittered like dark emeralds, full of the light of battle. She was actually smiling as she kicked out at him and he danced back and cursed.
He swore again, more viciously as he saw the green light flare on her forehead and heard the crackle between her fingertips. The stench of ozone filled his nostrils and he saw nothing but the burst of white lightning.
"I really must go now," she murmured, as she planted her hands, full of storm, on his chest and kicked out, knocking his legs out from under him as he twitched. He dropped like a stone.
"That was for the kingdom."
She sprinted for the temple, tripping on the stairs as she went. Her run turned into a diving roll as she burst into the antechamber and slid into the white marble wall with a bruising crash. She could feel the tears running down her face as she realized she was finally safe. Sore, scratched, cold, wet and muddy, perhaps, but safe, and victorious in this last small battle. It wasn't enough, but it would have to do. Laughter gurgled out of her in reaction. The man would be furious when he recovered.
He was.
She picked herself up and looked back, seeing him racing toward the temple, skidding to a halt at the top of the marble stairs. "Get out here," he snarled, nearly incoherent with rage. "NOW!"
The walking tempest of a lightning wielding witch, barely covered in the tattered remnants of her gown, was laughing at him. She was entirely beyond his reach now, lost to him, and they both knew it. "You're mine."
Her laughter turned almost into hysterics, drawing from him a glare of outrage at her audacity. She spun around, grinned at him challengingly, scooping up a full, blooming rose the color of a maiden's blush from an offering to the goddess. She tossed it to him as reward for a battle well fought, if not won, and without thinking, he caught it, his hand tightening crushingly on the stem. It was all he would have of her…for he did not even know her true name. The stars laughed at him also, but he saw only the light in her eyes. As Verity disappeared from his sight within the white marble walls of the temple, her voice echoed back to him, insubstantial and haunting.
"Not in this lifetime, General..."
(Note: See Ranma-chan's gown from Nihao My Concubine movie for picture of what the princess' dress and veil are like)
Please note that I own none of the Sailor Moon characters. Please don't sue. Standard disclaimers apply. :)