Everything about this place was confusing. Hallways branched off into infinity, some going nowhere. Others ended abruptly in trap doors or strange circular rings. Keeping everything straight was impossible, so she just gave up. The barracks were this way, but tomorrow they might be over there. The suites where the elite warriors were kept were usually upstairs, but today they were down, sunken into the very bowels of the tower. Her head spun, her mind tried to wrap itself around this place and its utter lack of directionality.
Time lost all meaning. Every day was like the next, and there was no setting of the sun to judge the passage of time. There was only waking and sleeping. Who knew what day it was? The others didn't know. They were just as lost and confused as she was. Every time she woke up, someone else was there, telling her what to do and where to go. Sometimes they hit her. Once, when she'd been particularly slow to respond, she was whipped 15 times across the back to teach her a lesson.
At first, she had tried to make some sense of this place. Tried to put everyone into categories and map the tower out. When that failed, she had begun to lose her mind. It came unfettered from her consciousness and wandered free sometimes, leaving her little more than an empty shell pacing the hallways, looking for a room to clean.
Sometimes, they let her outside. That was worse. The lurid colors seemed wrong, and there was a foul smell in the air that just wouldn't go away, no matter how long she endured it. Shadows leapt out from everywhere and nowhere all at once, and the shifting of the light played tricks with her eyes. She came to fear getting assigned midden duty, for it meant spending the cycle outside in the wilds of this place, where no sane person could hope to remain so.
One day, across a particularly large hallway, she had seen him. His name escaped her, like so many other details of her past life. It was all fading to dream. But she recognized him – knew that she knew him, and that he was why she was here. A rush of anger and rage filled her, and then was replaced with sorrow. Who was he, to drive these emotions of hers? What had happened? Everything was fading, even her memories. Soon nothing would be left but a shell of a woman, busily going about doing nothing.
Some time later – days? weeks? - she saw him again. He moved with such purposeful grace: carried himself as a warrior should. His eyes flamed red and she remembered
Hands around her throat, choking the life out of her
Abrupt apologies, blushing and stammering
Dinner cooked for her
A man, coming to the house: questioning her; questioning him.
After that, she began to prowl the place, lying in wait for just a glimpse of the red haired warrior. Tenaciously she held on to what she could remember, fighting the miasma of forgetfulness that came crashing in if she let up her guard for just a moment. Slowly, piece by piece, she began rebuilding herself, one memory at a time.
Anara – her name was Anara.
With the remembrance of her name, other memories came rushing back: other names. Valen, Dayfid, Cara, Rothol – some held meaning, some did not. But she kept them close to her heart, so she would not forget again. Of them all, Valen came most prominently to the surface. Realization blossomed in her mind – he was the red haired warrior that was responsible for bringing her here. This was his fault. But it was also hers.
Mind numbing duties led to mind numbing cycles. The crush of them passed ever quickly, trying to obliterate the small hold she had on herself. Servant, she was called. Cleaning, cooking, repairing armor, forging steel: these were all tasks she was given. Then one day a new task.
The matron was a towering woman. Horns grew from her head, spiraling out in pearlescent glory. Her skin was red, her eyes black as coal. The fingers of her hands ended in claws, dark as night and sharp as knives. There was a lethal beauty to her that could not be ignored. When she spoke, Anara listened, quiet as a mouse.
"You," the matron hissed, her forked tongue flicking in and out of her mouth. "Today you are risen – today you go to one of the warriors suites. You will be his personal slave. He asked for you – so you will go." Large cloven feet began walking away from her, and a gesture indicated she should follow.
The way was long and arduous, twisting as it did through most of the tower. Fatigue crept in, settling a fog over her mind and letting her drift for a while unthinking. Suddenly a black onyx door was before her, the door knob a round piece of jade. The matron turned it, pushed open the door and shoved Anara in. The room beyond was black: sucking up the faint light that came from the lamps spaced around the room.
A low susurrus began, the sound of silk over silk, or the moaning of many small bugs. The lamps flickered: became brighter. The black onyx floor gleamed and looked malevolent, drawing her will out of herself. A figure rose in front of her. It gently took her by the arm and led her to another room – a safer room – and sat her on a small bed. Protected now, Anara looked up to see who had helped her.
The face staring back at her was unfamiliar. The planes of his face were perfect in their terrible beauty. His jet black hair curled away from his face, giving his dark eyes prominence. She looked into them, and felt that she could fall forever and never reach the bottom. His skin looked smooth, and before she could stop herself she reached up and touched his face. A smile from him then, full of promises and happiness. He leaned down, touching his soft lips to hers. A tingle went through her all the way to her toes. Sunshine burst through her mind, and she slept.
When she woke the beautiful man was nowhere to be found. Not knowing what she was supposed to do, she wandered the suite, cleaning and straightening, trying to keep busy so he could find no fault with her. It took very little time, and eventually she wandered back to the safe little room where she'd woken up.
The days passed in mind numbing boredom. Another servant brought food up for her, but when she tried to speak to it, it hissed and backed away, its yellow eyes gleaming in the dark. The beautiful one was still absent.
Tentatively, she wandered out of the suite, trying hard to remember the turns she took so she could return. This part of the keep was much nicer than the others she remembered. But even those memories, only days or weeks old, were fading. She was glad to let them go. Only a few thoughts were worth keeping in this place, and she had to struggle to hang on to them.
The corridor in front of her did not look familiar. Nor did the one she had just left. Panicked and worried, she back tracked, running down corridor after corridor. All of it was strange and foreign, the gleaming marble changing color from white to blue to black and then red. Black… black she remembered. Faster now she ran back to the black corridors, sure her salvation waited for her there.
The knobs on the doors were different – one made of alabaster, one of wood, and then one of jade. Green jade sparked another remembrance, and she turned the knob. This place was where she needed to be. Silently she sank to the floor, her heart pounding and her breath coming fast. It had been a close thing. There was no telling what might have happened to her had she gotten lost in this place. Demons roamed the halls, looking for lost servants.
Crawling, her body exhausted, she found the room. A warm sense of comfort stole over her, and she slept again.
Something was shaking her, trying to wake her up. A name came to her lips, "Dayfid?" she asked, her eyes still shut tight.
"No," came a low mellifluous voice, the harmonics vibrating up and down her spine. The voice was not one she recognized, but she recognized so little these days that it didn't alarm her in the slightest.
"I am Azilinoth," the voice said. "I am your master, come to claim you at last." He scooped her up into his arms, carrying her out of the small, safe bedroom and into a much larger space. A colossal bed stood on a pedestal, the black linens absorbing the lights in the room. There was virtually nothing else in the room, except for a wardrobe on the far wall and several doors leading out.
He placed her carefully on the bed. Anara hadn't had the nerve to look at him yet, but now, as she lay there, she felt compelled to look upon the man who claimed to be her master. It was him – the beautiful one from the first day she'd been brought here. He stood before her, magnificent and terrible, and her heart soared with delight and trembled in fear. "Where have you been?" she asked, her voice small and insignificant in the cavernous room.
"Fighting," he replied as he removed his clothing and lay beside her. One look in his eyes was all it took – she was lost. The night lasted forever in his arms. Over and over he took her, and she was more than willing to let him. She loved him. Part of her wondered how that could be: she didn't know this man. But all night she believed it heart and soul. She felt a deep connection with him and responded in kind. Somewhere deep within the recesses of her mind part of her was screaming.
In the morning, the Matron came. Anara was confused and bewildered. "Where is Azilinoth?" she asked.
"He is gone. He has no more need for you. You go to another," the matron said. She left the black room, Anara trailing after.
The next suite of rooms was made of stone. Jagged shapes erupted from the floor and walls, providing seating and bedding for its occupants. The surfaces were rough and unwelcoming. A large mage stone in the center of the room gave off a glaring, brassy light that hurt her eyes. Again, she was led to a smaller, more comfortable room and left alone.
This time the creature that came to her claiming to be her master was horrifying. Boils erupted from its skin, and it spoke in a sibilant voice that sent chills up and down her spine. The night she had to spend with that thing she banished to a dark corner of her mind, hoping never to stumble across it again.
The next day, the matron was back. This time the demoness healed the bruises and wounds left by the monster in the stone filled room, her touch cool and efficient. Anara was led to yet another suite of rooms. And so her life went, day after day. If the master of the suite was out, she bided her time straightening the rooms or wandering the halls. Nights passed either in horror or forgotten revelry. Her mind was now shattered enough that she frequently forgot the nights, remembering only the long, boring days of solitude.
She had not had a glimpse of the red haired warrior in a long, long time. But fractured as she was, she still remembered him: clung to the memory as though it were a lifeline that might lead her back to sanity.