Title: Diplomacy Part 14
Author: Arisma
Rating: R Disclaimer: To the tune of Leslie Gore, "You don't own me"- I don't own it, don't try to claim it in any way. I don't own it, don't hunt me down cause I'll never pay! . Feedback: chalice_nazarene@hotmail.com
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Time passed slowly for him, the endless days of drudgery, the long nights alone in his small room. Often he had thought of going to her, of flitting through the shadows and holding her in his arms. His door remained unlocked and the allure of it was intoxicating. Something made him hold back, told him the time was not right.
Occasionally he would catch glimpses of her, walking with others, always quietly walking at the rear of the group, her eyes downcast. Sheer will kept him from running to her when their eyes met, from calling her name. Instead they stole seconds, silently pledging love across the sun scorched, unnatural expanse of lawn.
And so he waited, long years of tactical training holding his heart and desire in check. The days blurred, each the same as the last, waking early and laboring senselessly until the cruel sun fled the strange landscape.
Every morning she would come, the mistress, and guide him to his days labor. Occasionally she would surprise him, use him as she had that first time, nearly forgotten in the march of days. She never asked for anything from him, no late night visitations to his room, no demands for his attentions.
In time he became used to this, no longer felt odd under her gaze, no longer feared her touch. He accepted the release she offered, anything that varied the numbing sameness of his day welcome. The strange irony of the situation was not lost on him, him using her as surely as she used him. At times he felt his mind strain at the absurdity of the situation and would spend some days lost in a fugue state, pushing away thought in favor of oblivion and memory.
The past days had been of this sort, blending into a wash of nothing, not remembering what, if anything he'd eaten, or how many days since his last conscious thought. Lying on his small cot, the cool night air swirling from beneath the door he awoke, his eyes clear for the first time in a long while.
He vaguely remembered the servant bringing his tray, setting it carefully on the small table with a pointed glance at him. Shrugging, he crossed to it and began to pick at the food, realizing how empty his stomach had become. A glint of white caught his eye, something barely showing beneath the china of the plate. He snatched it and to his amazement saw it was parchment, neatly folded.
With fingers that shook he opened it, his heart leaping as he saw the flowing elvish script, knowing somehow that it belonged to her. Moving backwards he sat upon the bed and read the note, his stomach roiling madly as he did.
I A'maelamin,
Time grows short. I dared not risk my plans. Come to me at midnight.
I am yours. /I
He re-read the note, time and again, until the words were engraved in his mind. With a small smile he folded the note, slipping it into the band of his leggings, patting it lightly with his palm. He scanned the room, and then cracked the door, spying the moon high in it. It was midnight, he'd barely woken in time. He waited a few seconds, scanning the shadows for guards, though they had long since assumed he'd lost the will to flee.
Seeing nothing, he started out, footsteps silent in the night, his body blending seamlessly in the night, eyes fixed on the looming shape of the palace ahead. He never saw the shapes emerge from the darkness behind him, was unaware as they stalked him, footsteps as silent as his own, the moonlight glinting off the bared steel in their hands.
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Okay, short and cliff-hangery, I know.
Are you angry at me? Hit the little button in the lower left corner and let me know.
Who is following him?? Did Rhya really send the note??? Are you twitching yet????
Review me, people. Please?
~Arisma~
~Life is like licking honey from a thorn.~
Author: Arisma
Rating: R Disclaimer: To the tune of Leslie Gore, "You don't own me"- I don't own it, don't try to claim it in any way. I don't own it, don't hunt me down cause I'll never pay! . Feedback: chalice_nazarene@hotmail.com
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- *-*-*-*-*
Time passed slowly for him, the endless days of drudgery, the long nights alone in his small room. Often he had thought of going to her, of flitting through the shadows and holding her in his arms. His door remained unlocked and the allure of it was intoxicating. Something made him hold back, told him the time was not right.
Occasionally he would catch glimpses of her, walking with others, always quietly walking at the rear of the group, her eyes downcast. Sheer will kept him from running to her when their eyes met, from calling her name. Instead they stole seconds, silently pledging love across the sun scorched, unnatural expanse of lawn.
And so he waited, long years of tactical training holding his heart and desire in check. The days blurred, each the same as the last, waking early and laboring senselessly until the cruel sun fled the strange landscape.
Every morning she would come, the mistress, and guide him to his days labor. Occasionally she would surprise him, use him as she had that first time, nearly forgotten in the march of days. She never asked for anything from him, no late night visitations to his room, no demands for his attentions.
In time he became used to this, no longer felt odd under her gaze, no longer feared her touch. He accepted the release she offered, anything that varied the numbing sameness of his day welcome. The strange irony of the situation was not lost on him, him using her as surely as she used him. At times he felt his mind strain at the absurdity of the situation and would spend some days lost in a fugue state, pushing away thought in favor of oblivion and memory.
The past days had been of this sort, blending into a wash of nothing, not remembering what, if anything he'd eaten, or how many days since his last conscious thought. Lying on his small cot, the cool night air swirling from beneath the door he awoke, his eyes clear for the first time in a long while.
He vaguely remembered the servant bringing his tray, setting it carefully on the small table with a pointed glance at him. Shrugging, he crossed to it and began to pick at the food, realizing how empty his stomach had become. A glint of white caught his eye, something barely showing beneath the china of the plate. He snatched it and to his amazement saw it was parchment, neatly folded.
With fingers that shook he opened it, his heart leaping as he saw the flowing elvish script, knowing somehow that it belonged to her. Moving backwards he sat upon the bed and read the note, his stomach roiling madly as he did.
I A'maelamin,
Time grows short. I dared not risk my plans. Come to me at midnight.
I am yours. /I
He re-read the note, time and again, until the words were engraved in his mind. With a small smile he folded the note, slipping it into the band of his leggings, patting it lightly with his palm. He scanned the room, and then cracked the door, spying the moon high in it. It was midnight, he'd barely woken in time. He waited a few seconds, scanning the shadows for guards, though they had long since assumed he'd lost the will to flee.
Seeing nothing, he started out, footsteps silent in the night, his body blending seamlessly in the night, eyes fixed on the looming shape of the palace ahead. He never saw the shapes emerge from the darkness behind him, was unaware as they stalked him, footsteps as silent as his own, the moonlight glinting off the bared steel in their hands.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*- *-*-*-*-*
Okay, short and cliff-hangery, I know.
Are you angry at me? Hit the little button in the lower left corner and let me know.
Who is following him?? Did Rhya really send the note??? Are you twitching yet????
Review me, people. Please?
~Arisma~
~Life is like licking honey from a thorn.~