Just one kiss on my lips
Was all it took to seal the future
Just one look from your eyes
Was like a certain kind of torture
-Madonna, "Forbidden Love"

The blonde didn't appear in person on the second day.

For that matter, neither did she appear physically on the third.

Why they were heading this way she really wasn't sure, but neither would she stop to admit that perhaps it was a mistake. That is what it truly was after all, a mistake. Perhaps she should have just submitted to the Warlords, the first band that ever showed up. Then she wouldn't have to worry about all of this. There'd be no doubts, no questions, no visions of madness, and certainly, no missing blonde. She'd never need to come here to Mars, she'd never need to swear an oath that was pointless and useless, and she wouldn't be dead.

She felt in a fashion she was. Even if she wasn't dead physically, emotionally she could be. Should, for some reason, she ever cross paths with her again she doubted the other would treat her with any degree of kindness. She couldn't fault her for that; she certainly wouldn't be any degree of civility to someone that tried to kill her. That was if the blonde even remembered who she was; head injuries could result in lost memories after all. Wouldn't that be something? Meeting up with her again and the blonde having absolutely no idea who she was.

The irony wasn't lost on her. It was a sick and disgusting joke, one that she wasn't sure how she could make yet make it she did. Maybe it was her way of seeking absolution for her crimes. If the blonde didn't remember her then she shouldn't feel guilt over the fact of what exactly she did.

But as the horse continued to prod along its predetermined destination, she knew it wasn't the guilt of striking her that ate away at her conscious. It wasn't the guilt of the callous words that unsettled her so. Something like that, despite it being so dire, one could apologize for. One could also find countless excuses about why they did it, and there were just as many countless ways as to make the situation right again. Obviously it took a considerable amount of tenacity, but it was completely doable.

That wasn't what ate away at her thoughts. It wasn't the visions, the nightmares. It wasn't the voices inside of her head, tormenting and clouding her thoughts. It wasn't like she was used to them but to some twisted degree she was used to them now. It was how she liked to fool herself, something to believe in. They bothered her but she could handle that. They could strike at any time, they could and did grow worse and worse, but she was accepting of that.

What ate at her thoughts was what she thought of the blonde. When her mind was not reliving scenes of torture, pain and suffering striking repeatedly, desolation and despair, the sense that even death would not be a release from the slavery imposed so thoroughly and utterly… when her mind wasn't doing that with picturesque perfection, she thought of the blonde.

A two pronged attack if there ever was one. One way would certainly wear her down, it was just a matter of which one it would be and how long it would take. They worked together, they worked separately. They worked, and worked, and it worked.

Death, destruction… that she could handle. That she could deal with. She was a Priestess of Mars, Mars was known for its combat, its fighters and warriors. She didn't enter combat and truly didn't know how to fight until the blonde arrived to show her, but she was still a Priestess. She held abilities that she could put up a long, drawn out fight with the visions. Purely through a battle of attrition, the visions would win yes, her mental defenses couldn't last forever, but by the Gods she would put up one fucking hell of a fight.

The blonde though… that was another question. Her mind flipped much like a coin did between decay and the vibrancy that she just knew the blonde had to posses. Her mind was more than willing and happy to expand on what she had seen, just as it was more than willing and happy to expand on what were the missing pieces. The nature of her breasts; perfection she imagined, given she had only see the side of one and towel given cleavage. She had never seen them full on, uncovered, but it didn't stop her mind in the least for picturing it all rather ravenously. Her mind took it farther, imagining what it would be like to touch her. To cup her breasts, to weigh them with reverence in her palms. To brush her thumbs against her nipples. For her lips to follow, the sounds she could elicit from the blonde with each stroke of her tongue.

The suppleness of her ass, young and firm. How it would feel in her hands, squeezing with purpose. Her hands would be perfect to grasp it, to knead it, while she lifted the blonde for the other to wrap her legs around her waist. To press her against a wall. Or set her on a table. Then her hands could trail along her legs, then her fingertips. Then her nails. She bet the blonde was something of a masochist, anticipating she could exploit such a weakness and need within her with just the right kind of raking trail up the inside of her thigh.

How soft her hair was, a banner of living summer. It would be as soft and cool as silk was against her own body. Envisioning it spread out around her like a golden nimbus, an exploding star as she laid under her, withering and bucking with pleasure. Pleasure she instigated. Pleasure she controlled. Her hair falling around her like a waterfall or rays of sunlight as she laid back, looking up at her as the blonde's body rose, moved, pressed against her own.

Her hand rose, pressing to the side of her face. Fuck, she did not need this.

She did not need this. She did not need to think of the blonde in such a manner. She may … MAY … have felt … may still feel … an attraction to her just because she was so different, so lively, so beautiful, so… fuck no! Stop! Please just fucking stop! She wanted to scream, she did scream, loudly and repeatedly in her mind, never ending as visions assaulted her.

The blonde standing before her, stunning her and taking her breath away, dressed in a gown. Then in her arms, laughing and dancing with her slowly at some ball. The blonde lying out on a soft pelt of some animal before a fire in the dark, the flames highlighting off of her nude body to give it a golden glow. The blonde kneeling at her feet, her face between her thighs, bringing her to heights she never knew could exist and certainly not heralded by a hot tongue. The blonde at her beck and want. Secretive meetings in alcoves. Storage rooms. Baths. An empty field full of nothing but flowers. A training yard. Always the blonde, laying next to her. Sleeping next to her. Everything … next to her.

Fingers tightened in her hair, clawing, gathering a hold as her palm pressed to her temple. Her teeth grit themselves, eyes tightly shut as she tried every trick she ever knew of, had been taught, or fancied. Every notion she could have about how to drown out the outside world. How to effectively ignore it. How to retain her focus when all about her was complete and utter chaos. She tried, fuck how did she ever try. For a moment the blonde's form wavered, distorting, the flash of eyes so utterly fucking blue faded. Her form shifted, undulating like a snake, like a dancer, before she was suddenly gone like a wisp of smoke. Peace… blessed peace at last.

She blinked her eyes open, warily looking about but the scenery had not changed. Her horse continued its soft pace towards the northeast, blissfully unaware of the nature of his rider and her plights. A slow breath was taken in, released shakily as she felt somehow better, moving to sit up straight instead of the slouch she had taken once the thoughts had started. Relief, how fucking wonderful it felt to experience freedom…

...I am the lucid dream… the monster in your nightmares…

Her voice cried out, slumping over her saddle once more. In the background she was dimly aware of Phobos and Deimos, likely trying to calm her or relate that they were there for her. It was as far as she could grasp, the visions of before pounded within her skull. They weren't of the blonde; Gods knew that would be fucking merciful at this point.

The silent, sleeping, staring houses in the backwoods always dream. It would be merciful to tear them down.

The visions were of a broken palace of white. It littered the ground, strewn about without cause or care. White rock against a dark background, stark and vivid. Grass; she knew what grass was even if it was rare on Martian soil, green and rich was stained red and black. Burnt and torn up by signs of obvious fighting. Fields of flowers, triggering a thought of the blonde for a split second, were trampled and ruined, body parts equally strewn about like the white rocks were.

Blood. So very much blood. It was all she could taste, all she could smell. It was everywhere, staining her hands, staining her clothes. These were not her clothes. The realization was the most shocking; she felt her eyes go wide looking down at her feet. Her legs were bare, feet in some sort of red shoe. A ridiculously short red skirt fell not even to mid thigh. It felt like a white body suit; a stupidly pointless purple bow at her breast. Some flappy collar and white gloves. Gloves that went to just her elbow, trimmed in red.

But it bore signs of a fight. Blood stained it. It was torn in places, marked with soot and dirt. Her hands, despite the gloves, were covered in blood. It was hard to distinguish which was was far more red; the blood or the coloring to whatever absurdity she was wearing.

You will all be alone in the end.

She looked up, off of her hands, away from them. Suddenly and without reason or notice, the movement was jerky. There were bodies around her, she knew that already. Humans for the most part, dressed alike and different at the same time. Corpses one and all, at odds with themselves yet they still found the same fate. Twisted apparitions of monsters that haunted her thoughts lay equally as defeated. They could be defeated; for a moment it brought her hope.

For a moment, until her eyes took in everything else. Somehow, someway she had moved. She had walked away from where she found herself, towards the center of where the white rocks seemed to originate from. She hadn't made it far however before her body instantly drew to a shuddering halt.

A girl … no… a woman, the same age as herself or close to it, with blue hair, dressed similarly to herself, laid sprawled out on what looked to be steps.

A woman with brown hair not even a foot away. Both of their bodies sustained injuries that spoke for how they died. It wasn't a clean death. It wasn't a merciful one. They had died to buy time. A line of defense that wasn't meant to be broken had been shattered. A battered spear was clutched in one hand of the brown haired one, her other held the hand of the one with blue hair. They might have put up a struggle, but ultimately they had died for absolutely nothing.

It didn't change anything.

Not even five feet from them she could see the reason why.

The blonde bore the worst of it. The enemy, likely enraged that it must deal with defenders, had levied their frustration on her once they killed the other two. Her body had been torn nearly asunder. Out of mockery a sword; not the falchion she was used to, had been driven through her stomach to pin her to the stairs. Her eyes hadn't closed in death; instead they were wide and staring. Right at her, telling her the tale in case she had missed it for some reason or another. She had died alone without anyone to defend her in turn or watch her back. She had died and it didn't do or mean a damn thing.

Her eyes widened.

The rest of the scene didn't matter.

Her voice was gathering for a scream.

There is no escape... not in this life... not in the next...

Her world went black with a scream to resonate her departure.