Author's Morally and Physically Ill Note: Hello Fanny, good to see you again. Did you finally buy the goldfish? (Did I write that? No::horrified gasp: pretend you never read, right?)

Hi every one! Read on, Reader, but be careful: I won't be updating for a good little week, the time to write the next chapters and post them—so you'd better make this last. Never mind—please Review. I know it's been too long since I threatened you, so here you go, for good morals: Will you review, you scumbag! You churlish knave! You fish-face of a boor! Or I'll curse you to the seven hells, curse you to the eternal abysses were thee shalt burn infinitely till you write a review—niark niark niark. :Machiavellian snigger:

Chapter Eighteen

The Prince

'This is stupid,' snarled Arach with fury, 'It is so unnecessary! You should be the only one going! I don't care one bit about the Prince! If I'm going to kill him!'

'Arach,' said Eeliria wearily, struggling to keep reasonable, 'you must see the Prince, so as to behold the foe you are facing. He is no ordinary man. He has power, and a lot of it. You must see him and feel the ground.'

'I ain't feeling no ground,' said Arach under her breath, and remained mutinously silent.

The coach, which was tall, and of rich perfumed wood, was ridden by a cheerful young man in blue and white livery. The horses were as white as snow in the morning of the winter solstice, and people made passage for it in the roads. Inside sat Arach the Assassin, Eeliria of the Golden Sands of the South, and Lord Sylfaere.

Eeliria was so beautiful this day, so perfect, it dazzled the eye just to look at her, and Sylfaere was very nearly entranced. She was dressed with a long white gown which made the golden of her skin stand out breathtakingly; and in her hair were mixed a tight net of white roses and ribbons; and a single, long, wild golden lock was falling down the right side of her perfect face. The gown had a low neck that gracefully bent to reveal the beginning of a maddening bosom, and the bodice was cut tight and elegant, rimmed with a pale gold satin ribbon; from it cascaded the long lace white skirt, which trailed on the floor, and opened to reveal now and then a leg as slender as a young sapling, long and golden, ended with divine sandaled feet.

Sylfaere, tall and all in glorious pale blue, was at a high level of handsomeness too, even if he didn't seem aware of it. His eyes, light hazel, rested heavily upon Eeliria's chest, were they seemed to lay dreams that would have made a maiden blush.

Arach had dressed all in black, red and silver—unconsciously bringing out the glorious colors of her house: her crimson satin corset was lightly tight, bound at the back with flowing ribbons of black satin: a high necked black bodice, covering up to her shin, and long sleeves that reached her knuckles ended the effect of pride and secrecy: a long black silken skirt, plain and perfect like a river of night, fell down to trail on the floor, and light dust-silver satin brodekins clad her feet. A delicate beltelet of black leather was tied loosely around her waist, dangling the two, long straps form the silver buckle down her hip. She hadn't fought against it, as she had against an opened skirt like Eeliria's. Her hair, finally, had been drawn up high behind her head, and clipped with a silver and ruby brooch, letting the locks fell wild and savage in a cascade of raven that fell to her thighs. Arach longed for her brown coat, breeches and tunic. But she remained sulkily silent.

When the coach finally pulled to a stop in front of the prince's magnificent castle, Arach had nearly fallen asleep. Now, she started up, as the coachman came to open the door. Sylfaere, splendidly svelte, jumped down, and held a hand for Eeliria, who lightly, infinitely gracefully, came down after him, and stepped away. Finally, Arach took his hand to stumble angrily on the floor. They all faced the stairs leading to the wide opened door of the palace, from which three persons had just come.

A guard, silent and unfathomable, dressed in the golden armor of the Empire, stood opposite a tall, malicious looking High-Councilor, framing the Emperor: he whom they called the Prince; himself, this figure of impossible hate—and love.

He was tall, and slim, but with the taut, muscled air of a born dancer-warrior. His hair was like a sweep of ink, long and silky, down his long, pale gaunt face. He was young, but the many pleasures and cruelty had brought both their imprints in his eyes, which were green like the darkest, murkiest emeralds. He looked impossibly dangerous, and indeed, incredibly powerful. He was dressed in slight black armor, with a black velvet cloak draped around him like a black mist, and from his boots to the neck of his tunic, he was clad uniquely in glorious black. Only a single, tiny ruby gleamed at the top of his right temple, incrusted in the tight circle of black steel that bound his lofty marble forehead. His lips, under a fine white nose, were straight and set in an unfathomable line. Only the look of rapt avidity and amused cruelty lit his face, with the dark green of his frightening eyes.

'Welcome back among us, Lord Sylfaere,' said the High-Councilor, 'your celerity to answer the invitation was delighting, and pleased the Prince.'

'I am honored, my Lord,' said Sylfaere, addressing the Prince as if it had been him that had talked.

Arach, at such ridiculousness, sniggered under her breath.

The Prince's eyes, like arrows of sharp emerald, slashed upon her, and pierced through to her soul. She paled, and silenced.

'Who are those two young Ladies you bring with you, Sylfaere?' inquired dignifiedly the High-Councilor.

'Countess Eeliria of the Golden Sands of the South, and Lady Arachna of the Tenebries: may the knowledge please your Majesty,' said Sylfaere, bowing.

'It does,' said the Prince in a dangerous way. His voice, for the first time Arach heard him talk, was surprisingly young, yet filled with a clear, lethal melody: a voice dangerous and subtle. Then, 'My lady, will you make me the pleasure to take my arm.'

It was ravaging, it was ugly, it was ironical—with a simple snigger, Arach had brought upon herself his attention. She screamed at her own self for having laughed: hated this tong of hers that couldn't hold itself.

Sylfaere, throwing a warning look at Arach, took thunderstruck-Eeliria's arm, and the assassin found herself with no choice but to go. Walking briskly and moodily, she went and stuck her hand unceremoniously over the Prince's. He took it in his gloved fingers, and deposed it lightly upon his elbow. Then they all turned and went in.

The palace was of rare richness: walls entirely of black marble were carved with hundred of images more beautiful and perfect one than another. Black carpets of elegant velvet lay upon the floor, among the valueless ornaments, vases and furniture. Servants, in emerald greens, and immensely rich guests filled the place, yet the large windows that were present everywhere let in velvety light and soft freshness. So much elegance and wealth, after having lived for so long at StonePort, disgusted Arach, and her face, as they walked through corridors after corridors to the room were the prince would entertain them, was a mask of white disdain and haughtiness. She now understood why Thunderion couldn't bear the situation longer: such beauty and luxury when so many people ate their scrap of bread from the blood on their hands was sickening. Arach decided that she hated the Emperor.

When they finally settled down, it was in a room high up in the splendid castle: windows, rising up, panel-less, at north, south, east and west let in the warm sunlight upon the white rushes on the smooth shining floor. Couches, scattered with thick cushions of rich velvets, lay around the room, among several small tables supporting ribboned baskets of fruits, and piles of thick volumes. A dog, with long, luxuriant white and black fur, dozed majestically in a large cushion on the floor.

'I bid you to sit down,' said the High-Councilor.

'As you wish, we may,' replied smoothly Sylfaere.

He sat, and then Eeliria, smiling shyly at the prince, sat next to him, and then the High-Councilor, reverently. The guard had remained outside the door. Still standing were Arach and the prince. He let go of her hand, and without looking at her: 'I wish you would sit down.'

She went to a couch farther from the group, and closer to the window, so that she plunged in comfortable shadows, and briskly plonked down upon it. The Prince, ignoring her, gracefully sat, and as Arach observed him reproachfully, she saw the way he sat: taut, slightly on edge: he was a man expecting an attack at every second, no rest for him, no peace. Only scraps of pleasure he tore from his victims and his cruel passion for life were left for him. Wretched man.

'Well then,' said the Prince, 'What will you tell us about your companion, Sylfaere?'

'Which one?' said Sylfaere.

'Your charming friend of the Golden Sands,' said the Prince in a self-satisfied way.

'Ah, Eeliria!' said Sylfaere, masking his air of relief under an affectionate tone, 'I met her last time I visited the Southern isles: I proposed her to come and visit our White City, which she had never seen.'

'I had, of course, heard about it,' said Eeliria sweetly, 'I said this, my Lord, so that you may be satisfied so as the renown your city has.'

'You do solace us, Countess,' said the High Councilor.

The conversation, to Arach's eyes, was senseless, dull, lacking any possible interest. The words fell empty and lusterless from the lips; replies mostly done by Sylfaere, Eeliria and the High-Councilor were trite to weep. Arach slowly, sank into dark daydream: ah, if she still had those two ships! She would by now have been richer than the richest pirate: she wouldn't be here, running after one thousand Imperials, listening to the boring discussion of a seductress, her sheep, and a councilor that took himself from someone else's tong. As she sank deeper back in her cushions, Arach's thoughts became more and more fantastic and grudging, until finally, what had to happen happened; and she heavily fell asleep among her dreams.

'All the time we were dining, Lady Arachna slept. My, she must be overly tired. Send for a servant to see the guests to their apartments.'

Arach started up, blinking at the dazzling light. The windows at each sides of the room light in the fresh breeze of the night, as form outside glittered the thousands of tiny splinters of diamonds that were the stars. A bright white lamp, falling heavily from the ceiling, filled the room with the blinding clarity. And at the door, the High-Councilor next to Sylfaere and Eeliria, stared at her with wide eyes.

'Stop staring!' she spat at them, standing up, and feeling rusty.

The two servants arrived as she stepped staggeringly out of the room. They were two young women dressed in green, and looking like war-prisoners. The High-Councilor, after a cold glance at Arach, bid them farewell for the night from the Prince, and withdrew. The five of them, Eeliria, Arach, Sylfaere and the two servant women that guided them through the corridors to their chamber, walked silently. Finally, however, Sylfaere said: 'You can retire, we know our apartments.'

The two women withdrew quickly, without a word, and Sylfaere immediately turned towards his two companions:

'Listen, Arach. Eeliria needs more time to take the Prince in her bed to your dagger. We need to push the date back, for one day. Tomorrow evening may do. By Ylvea-Nae and her Battalion of Blue Angels, he is resistant. Not to fall under your charm…'

He bent down to kiss Eeliria fondly on the forehead.

'Your chamber is located at the end of this corridor, up a flight of stairs at the right next to a green dragon-vase, and through the last door of the last corridor. Do you think you can go by yourself?'

'Say it that you want to be far from me to attend to your dirty business,' said spitefully Arach, walking away as Eeliria shifted uneasily next to Sylfaere.

She walked briskly, down the long corridor then up the stairs, and just as she emerged from their gloomy darkness, she felt a hand, gloved in silk, grab her arm and pull her in a dark corner. The corridor was silent, empty, plunged in darkness. Still she did not cry out.

'Did you think you could act this way without paying the consequences?' asked a cold, exultant voice in her ear.

'Only a laugh,' she whispered.

'A disdainful, insulting snigger. Then the spit of your unveiled boredom, then your carelessness. You are new at court, to act this way.'

'I wouldn't be here if I had the choice, you can believe this,' she said with barely stifled wrath.

'But you are nonetheless.'

'I am. And so what?'

'And so—'

Hard like a blade falling down upon its victim's neck, he crushed his lips to hers. Yet it wasn't a kiss. It was something biting, something cruel, something cold and hard. He did it to prove her he was stronger, to impose his will to hers. He did this to punish and dominate her.

She harshly pulled back, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

'Touch me again and I'll kill you.'

'Will you?'

He laughed a clear, young laugh full of innate power and smugness. Then he grasped her arm, and pulling her hard to him, he clasped a hand behind her neck, took her face to his, and again hit her of his lips. The kiss was bruising, crushing her lips; without hesitating, she brought up an arm and slapped him across the face with all her might.

'How foolhardy that was,' he idly snickered against her lips.

And his mouth went back upon hers, bruising harder, full of hate, full of disdain. She raised her hand a second time, and hit him a second time. This time, he wrenched her away from him by the hair, and himself slapped her, the blow sending her against a wall, against which she slipped, falling down on the floor. He came, and kicked her hard. She remained on the floor, looking up at him, keeping her breath steady, and not even bothering to take away the hair form her face.

'Now, I will have to teach you obedience, and docility.'

He came up, bowed to her in a court, gallant way, and offered her his hand. She slammed her hand in it, and pulling it, she stood up heavily. He smiled, took out from a pocket a black silken handkerchief, and wiped the dust form her hand, then bent, his silky black hair brushing her cheek, and kissed her fingers.

'You have fire. It is well. But your flame will have to be lowered. You hurt.'

He gently took her fingers to his cheek, which was, even in the near-total darkness, red with the trace of her hand, and then he started walking, taking her with him, ignoring her furious struggle. Through a door hidden under a tapestry, up a narrow flight of stairs, down a small corridor. Up several other staircases and corridors, until they reached a heavy ebony door. He pulled it brusquely open, and stepped in, pushing her before him, and a wolf's smile stretching over his thin straight lips.

The room was vast, and black. The curtains, screening all light form the windows, were black; the bed-covers and blankets were black, the rushes were black, the ebony of the bed was black, the furniture was black. And the elaborate lamp in wish a bright, frightening fire shone, was of black metal. The bed, in the middle of the black room, lay massif and powerfully attractive and comfortable in its darkness.

Arach, horrified, sharply took her hand away form the Prince's.

'You are so sly.'

'I am a prince.'

He took back her hand in his, but as quick as silver, she stepped away from his hold. He grinned a dangerous twisted grin, and stepped after her, and she stepped farther back. Around the bed he chased her, until finally she reached the door again. She dashed briskly for it, wrenched it open, and threw herself outside, shutting it behind her. Then she tore in a run, away form the chamber.

His footsteps were quick behind her—quicker than hers, and she abruptly stopped. He crashed into her, and both fell, but as she was lighter, she shot up again, and ran for it. He, malicious, sly, grabbed a knee. Violently, she tripped forward and fell down hardly on her knees and hands, the breath knocked brutally out of her.

'You run away from my bed, don't you, pale one?'

He leapt upon her, pinning her down, and bringing up her arms over her head. His face, so beautiful in its feline thinness, was so close from her that she could feel his soft, fresh breath over her skin, tickling her cheek sweetly.

'Why me? Why not Eeliria?' she whispered, her body shuddering without she could stop it at the feeling of his own so close, so overpowering.

'She is empty. You, with your disdain, your impoliteness and coarseness, you have a pure pale skin. You have honor; you protect yourself against spots of dirt. She, she is filthy. She gives away her body. Do not ask me why. You know I am worth better.'

'You are worth nothing.'

The punishment came as a kiss. Hard and cold, bruising and demanding, his lips hit hers. Maintaining her arms over her head with one hand, he brought down the second one, and brushed it across the velvet of her dress's neck.

'I wonder what you hide under such high a neck…'

'Don't even think about it!'

Savagely, with all the force she could muster, she freed her hands, and pulled him away. Then she scrambled to her feet, trembling, and took up her feet to run; but as before, he grabbed a knee, and back she fell on the floor. Like a tiger, he leapt upon her, and then, crushing her hands with his to the hard stone ground, he growled in a savagely furious way:

'You weary me. Now chose: my bed, or the dungeons?'

'The dungeons! Anything, as long as far from your hideous person!'

The slap came hard, so hard it made her ears ring. He jumped on his feet, and when she did the same, grabbing his arm for support then releasing it as if it had burned her, he slapped her again, the blow sending her hard back on the floor. There, he roughly, cruelly kicked her, then kicked her again, then punched her. She, without a sound, stood up again, bruised all over her small thin body, aching as she had never done before.

He slapped her again, but she stood her ground. Quickly, he took her back against his strong, carven chest, and pressing her to his heart, he murmured in the inky waves of her hair. 'My bed, or the dungeons?'

'The dungeons.'

She flinched as she said so, waiting for the blow to come, but it did not. He merely sighed, and kissing her fingers, he said:

'You will come into my bed, willing or not. In the dungeons, you shall not long last. It will be you who shall take me to your heart. Now, to the dungeons.'

He led her down, away from the cursed chamber, and she sighed with relief, nearly lying over him.

'Do not think you have victory. After less than a month in my dungeons, you will crave for my arms.'

'Dream on,' she said under her breath.

He heard her. His hearing was keen, and he was a piercing man, with a spirit as quick as his ear. But he said nothing. They went on walking down the corridors, and finally they reached a stage when at each staircase they climbed down it grew colder. And then, a pitch-black corridor, with small traps of iron on the floor, with handles to pull them up and dark walls surrounding them.

The Prince smiled, and went to pull up a trap, pushing Arach before him.

'Look down,' he said.

She didn't. Without a word, he pushed her hard on her knees, and taking a handful of raven hair at the back of her head, he bent her to look. And she looked, as she had no choice. The room below was extremely small, the size of a big cupboard. No bench, not even one scrap of cloth furnished it, a simple window, square and the size of a large book, was barred with iron and let in the night's cold air. The Prince, looking down, smiled, and pulled Arach away, by her hair, then up on her feet.

'Now: my bed, or the dungeon?'

'The dungeon. The hell with you.'

He violently pushed her in the hole, and shut the trap behind her. She heard him slipping a metal bar through the two arches at each side of the panel, preventing the trap form being lifted from the inside. She sat down heavily, laying her back against the icy wall. The cell was silent, and there at least she could think in peace. In peace wasn't the word: she was tormented, she ached, she felt hate and sorrow course through her body like charges of devastating, burning power. Thinking about all she hated and loved, thinking about Snakehiss, and her father, about Hawkke and the Alchematoria, thinking about Thunderion, and the Prince, and her own wretchedness, Arach finally fell asleep, her body snuggled against the wall, which was as hard and cold as her heart felt.

Author's Weeping and Whipping After-Note: Dear reader. So, after the Charming Prince, the Half-Blood Prince, and other various types of princes, what do you think about my Prince? I, personally, love him. Otherwise, I hope you aren't too choked by so much violence—sorry, but it is how it ought to be and :wise finger raised and old, sage voice: know that the world is indeed filled with misery and violence, my child (well, at least I didn't tell you as my mother once told me: "we don't want you to watch violence either at the TV, on internet or by the window"…)

Never mind. This chapter is ab-so-lu-te-ly su-pre-me, and I think it is my Very Best so far. However, my opinion counts for onions (opinion, onion—get it? Oh, never mind.) So review. Please Review, and tell what you think about this all. Please do review. Do. Do. Or e-mail me if you prefer or else…