| .Faux Prologue. ~~~~~~~~~~~~ He spoke her name. She could not see him. Her hands, dampened with soap suds and withered by water, continued their rhythmic motion against the floorstones, pushing the rag to and fro. The feathery tip of her white-gold braid tapped against her forearm as she scrubbed. She did not answer him. He sat in his chair before the fire, a book in his hand. This she knew without looking up; he always sat in such a manner. She swiped the rag over the hearthstones. The heat from the fire had warmed the lifeless rock, and the water vanished on the hot surface. She tentatively dampened her finger and put it to the stone; it came away dry. She smiled a bit and dipped her cloth back into the pail. She sensed rather than heard him speak this time. His voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. She obeyed him, leaving her work and moving to sit near his feet, alert and tense. All was silent, save the crackling of the fire. Every so often, he would turn over a leaf in his book, causing the muscles in her back to leap in anxiety, afraid he was reaching out to touch her. She sat near him, shoulders straight, her feet tucked under her. Her hands were still damp, folded in her lap. His fingers touched her hair. She froze, her throat closing. Treacherously gentle, he trailed his hand to the nape of her neck, where her braid began. He took the plait between forefinger and thumb, letting his thumb slip across the smooth strands as if they were the spider-silk strings of a faerie's harp. His hand trailed the length of her hair, slipping away the bit of frayed ribbon that held it fast. Languid fingers combed through the fair strands, trailing along her spine. The bile rose to her throat, and she sprang to her feet. His hand closed around her icy wrist, swift as a darting snake, and he brought her around to face him as he stood. His eyes sought her face; her mouth; her neck; the two blue orbs that stared into his face, so filled with fear. His own dark eyes, fixed on her, were burning with an undisguised hunger, an all-consuming desperation. She quailed, straining against his grip, trying to make herself small. She had never seen him so utterly without discipline, without method, without reason. She tried to utter a word, to threaten him, to release herself, but her throat failed her. His hand came up to curl at the soft curve where her neck and shoulder met. She felt faint, weak, immobile. She began to breathe more quickly, trying to calm the storm in her stomach. His mouth claimed hers in a fierce, cruel kiss. Pain seared through her face. His free hand ensnared itself in her unbound hair, and she pushed against his chest, nails tearing at his face, his neck. The unholy ferocity of his actions blazed up within her, and the adrenaline of terror pushed at her veins. The woven hearth rug was rough under her when he pressed her to the floor, kneeling over her. His hand caressed her face as she began to cry, but he did not dry her tears. |