To her shame, he is right in his faith: she has neither the strength nor the will to rise from where she lies, bloody and ragged, against the table. All that she can do is breathe, gulping down huge unsteady draughts of air that rattle against her bruised throat and howl into her lungs, her body juddering with the force of her panting, desperate gasps. The pain has settled now into a dull and roaring thing, curled into its den in the pit of her belly, save when it prowls between her labouring ribs.
She sees, through the blurring of tears, the way he looks upon her; the way she had thought he would look on her so many times before now. She sees, with sick horror, that he is handsome when he smiles that way; that in this moment, he looks closer to the lordly warrior she had hoped for. He is sharper and stronger than she had given him credit for, and he is a king, and he smiles, and he praises her beauty; and is this not all what she asked for, in the darkness of her long nights? Is this not the measure of her hopes?
In the back of her throat, beneath the metallic tang, is a sharper bite of bile. Her stomach heaves vainly. She lets her aching head fall back against the tabletop, feeling from a distance how her scalp still stings where he has torn at her hair. The torn remains of her gown are hardly a cushion against the cold press of the wood. She can smell blood, and she wonders, when the sun rises on this familiar chamber, how much there will be to show for it. Will the ladies weaving wonder at the scratches on the wood, at new and unfamiliar stains? Will they know?
"And now?" It is all she can think to ask, and her voice is a rasping hiss, her throat too sore to force anything louder.
Now, she supposes, he must find the bed he did not have the patience to seek, for the night still passes, and the morning must come. And she must, at some point, return to this place to clean what he has done; to hide what he has made of her, and bury what he has slain. And now she must rise, and face towards the future that she has wrought for herself; and now she must wash the blood and sweat and sticky seed from her skin, and crawl into bed herself, and lie in those sleepless shadows between the hours wondering whether she can kill him as he sleeps. There is still work to do. There is always work to do.
She does not move, not even to close her legs. She cannot find it in herself. And now, now grinds onwards into another now, and the darkness deepens, and why should she move, when there is no escaping it?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2022-02-03 01:51 am (UTC)She sees, through the blurring of tears, the way he looks upon her; the way she had thought he would look on her so many times before now. She sees, with sick horror, that he is handsome when he smiles that way; that in this moment, he looks closer to the lordly warrior she had hoped for. He is sharper and stronger than she had given him credit for, and he is a king, and he smiles, and he praises her beauty; and is this not all what she asked for, in the darkness of her long nights? Is this not the measure of her hopes?
In the back of her throat, beneath the metallic tang, is a sharper bite of bile. Her stomach heaves vainly. She lets her aching head fall back against the tabletop, feeling from a distance how her scalp still stings where he has torn at her hair. The torn remains of her gown are hardly a cushion against the cold press of the wood. She can smell blood, and she wonders, when the sun rises on this familiar chamber, how much there will be to show for it. Will the ladies weaving wonder at the scratches on the wood, at new and unfamiliar stains? Will they know?
"And now?" It is all she can think to ask, and her voice is a rasping hiss, her throat too sore to force anything louder.
Now, she supposes, he must find the bed he did not have the patience to seek, for the night still passes, and the morning must come. And she must, at some point, return to this place to clean what he has done; to hide what he has made of her, and bury what he has slain. And now she must rise, and face towards the future that she has wrought for herself; and now she must wash the blood and sweat and sticky seed from her skin, and crawl into bed herself, and lie in those sleepless shadows between the hours wondering whether she can kill him as he sleeps. There is still work to do. There is always work to do.
She does not move, not even to close her legs. She cannot find it in herself. And now, now grinds onwards into another now, and the darkness deepens, and why should she move, when there is no escaping it?