Pale moonlight bathed the lavish room, illuminating the still figure of Zaerindar sprawled out on the finely-made sheets. I glanced at him, mouth pursed before slipping from the bed, my bare feet ghosting across the cool floor. After a few minutes of meandering about, I happened upon a mirror - and it was there that I turned, glancing over my shoulder.
Staring at the nude, ghost-like figure in the reflecting glass, my gaze slowly wandered down the bare, slender back and focused on the silvery line that ran from the pale, delicate-looking shoulder to the thin hip.
So clean, so precise…
A tremor rippled through my entire essence, cold and unforgiving; goose bumps rising on my ashen flesh…
"You're just like your father," the crimson-haired woman spat, voice a serpentine hiss. The painstakingly filed nails dug into my scalp, rough fingers seizing the jagged, red-ochre strands before jerking my head back savagely. Pain blossomed in a familiar red dance but I dared not let out the whimper that bubbled up in the back of my throat.
Over the years that I had matured, I knew better than to make such sounds. They infuriated her, made her gaze grow hot with rage and her touch ever harsher… but oh, so tempted was I. Even though the emotionless mask was a second nature, I could not suppress my emotions as easily as I thought I could. I ached to be heard - ached to speak freely and not fear of a pale hand embellished with sparkling jewels swooping down to crack across my face… but that would never happen.
"Gilmore," the woman permitted a throaty purr, the noise disturbing my foolish thoughts and causing me to immediately grit my teeth. "Fetch that dagger from the fire place, won't you?"
My heart ceased to beat for but a moment, Fel green gaze ripping away from the ruby-painted lips to silently plead with the hulking, blond-haired man. They promptly widened in fear as I laid my eyes upon the roaring heat and words drifted past my lips – unbidden, like a phantom. "Please," I begged, voice a subdued whisper. "Please, Gilmore, you don't have to do this!"
Disregarding me, he gave a noncommittal grunt and bent down, meaty hand enveloping the small, leather-covered handle and pulling it away from the dying flames. The metal hissed like an enraged feline, smooth iron shimmering a deadly red-orange.
"Gilmore," I choked out.
"Gilmore,please."
The leather-swathed handle was carefully pressed into the expectant, outstretched palm, calloused hands lingering a moment longer than need be. "All yours," he rumbled, eyes riveted to my face.
Dread coiled in my abdomen unpleasantly before my face was shoved into the coarse sheets, Gilmore's bulky hands holding me down firmly. The cloth covering my back was crudely cut away … and pain. So much pain.
Inky black danced across my vision, and it was then that I heard the gasping sobs and the pleading screams. For a brief moment, I wondered who it was before gratefully surrendering to unconsciousness.
The memories died away to a soft murmur, slinking back to where they belonged – locked behind doors that shouldn't be disturbed as often as they were.
Shakily, I turned my head back – away from the mirror - and proceeded to dazedly trail back to the room; freezing yet covered in a thin sheen of sweat. I hesitated at the door, tucking stray red-ochre strands from my face and peered back into the bedroom, gaze watching the mage's form intently for but a moment before I scampered to where he laid like a frightened deer.
He stirred once, twice but didn't wake and for that I was grateful.
