one
800 BC ~ Romania
“One more night,” the pitiless royal guard snickered, puffing out his barrel chest in an unnecessary display of power. “Are you ready to die with the sunrise, female ?” He spoke the last word with derision.
Jessenia closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath for courage, ignoring the annoying smirk on the simpleton’s face, shutting out the sound of his obnoxious baritone voice—yet, it echoed still, ricocheting around the barren room like thunder in a violent storm, refusing to be silenced, refusing to give her a moment’s peace.
In an act of contrition, she shrank into a submissive posture and shuffled to the back of the chamber on her knees, hoping to avoid inciting the guard’s unpredictable wrath or provoking his violent temper. As she pressed her narrow back against the damp, craggy wall and bowed her head even lower, she tried to ignore yet another garish reminder of her circumstances: the piteous sight of Timaos Silivasi, hanging from the ceiling like a prized slab of meat. He was still unconscious from an earlier lashing, and he appeared as nothing more than a freshly slung carcass, hung out to dry…waiting to be butchered.
Timaos wasn’t dead.
But perhaps if the gods were merciful, he would pass in his sleep.
It would be a much kinder fate than dying at the hands of Prince Jaegar’s men.
As it stood, his broken wrists were anchored to a rusty hook; his bloodied back was beginning to show signs of infection; and the weight of his dangling torso acted like a cruel, cadaverous anchor, spinning its helpless vessel around and around in slow, macabre circles, the hideous display illuminated by the dungeon’s torchlight.
Try as she might, Jessenia could not avoid the heart-wrenching visage of her lover, nor could she avoid the guard’s still-echoing question: Was she ready to die?
At seventeen summers?
In the prime of her life?
And for what crime—being born a female?
No, Jessenia was not ready to die .
She was not content to go to her grave with the knowledge that Timaos would die as well, simply because he had loved her, simply because he had refused to hand her over to Jaegar’s savage henchmen. She was not ready to accept her fate—or her lover’s. And if, in this barren moment, she allowed herself to think about either consequence any further, especially the horrendous manner in which Jaegar’s loyalists intended to slay her, she would surely go insane. For what was still to come— in the morning —was far too horrific to contemplate, let alone imagine.
Jessenia bit her lip and grasped her head between her hands, rocking back and forth in a soothing, primal motion, desperate to interrupt the momentum of her thoughts. Stop it , Jessenia, she admonished herself. Do not think about it! Just…don’t.
Despite her best intentions, a ghoulish image flashed through her mind: the way she would be forced to kneel at the sacrificial stone like a conquered slave, broken and humbled, before her bloodthirsty conquerors…
I mean it, Jessenia! Stop this at once!
The way Prince Jaegar’s soldiers would stretch her slender arms around the stone’s wide edges and then bind her wrists to the slab. The intricate cultic knots they would tie—would they actually bite into her flesh?—as they made a barbaric mockery of the original celestial religion…
It doesn’t matter. It will be over quickly .
The way the prince’s minions would press her head flat against the rock so they could cleanly slice her throat and collect her innocent blood in a once-sacred vessel…
Damnit, Jessenia ! Don’ t do this to yourself!
The way the males would chant and watch— and cheer —as her young, innocent blood flowed in crimson rivers, pooling into the urn. The fact that they would grow drunk on the aberrant power of her sacrifice—
Stop this !
Please …
Stop it, now!
All of it was beyond imagining. All of it was beyond comprehension. And she had no doubt, whatsoever, that all
800 BC ~ Romania
“One more night,” the pitiless royal guard snickered, puffing out his barrel chest in an unnecessary display of power. “Are you ready to die with the sunrise, female ?” He spoke the last word with derision.
Jessenia closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath for courage, ignoring the annoying smirk on the simpleton’s face, shutting out the sound of his obnoxious baritone voice—yet, it echoed still, ricocheting around the barren room like thunder in a violent storm, refusing to be silenced, refusing to give her a moment’s peace.
In an act of contrition, she shrank into a submissive posture and shuffled to the back of the chamber on her knees, hoping to avoid inciting the guard’s unpredictable wrath or provoking his violent temper. As she pressed her narrow back against the damp, craggy wall and bowed her head even lower, she tried to ignore yet another garish reminder of her circumstances: the piteous sight of Timaos Silivasi, hanging from the ceiling like a prized slab of meat. He was still unconscious from an earlier lashing, and he appeared as nothing more than a freshly slung carcass, hung out to dry…waiting to be butchered.
Timaos wasn’t dead.
But perhaps if the gods were merciful, he would pass in his sleep.
It would be a much kinder fate than dying at the hands of Prince Jaegar’s men.
As it stood, his broken wrists were anchored to a rusty hook; his bloodied back was beginning to show signs of infection; and the weight of his dangling torso acted like a cruel, cadaverous anchor, spinning its helpless vessel around and around in slow, macabre circles, the hideous display illuminated by the dungeon’s torchlight.
Try as she might, Jessenia could not avoid the heart-wrenching visage of her lover, nor could she avoid the guard’s still-echoing question: Was she ready to die?
At seventeen summers?
In the prime of her life?
And for what crime—being born a female?
No, Jessenia was not ready to die .
She was not content to go to her grave with the knowledge that Timaos would die as well, simply because he had loved her, simply because he had refused to hand her over to Jaegar’s savage henchmen. She was not ready to accept her fate—or her lover’s. And if, in this barren moment, she allowed herself to think about either consequence any further, especially the horrendous manner in which Jaegar’s loyalists intended to slay her, she would surely go insane. For what was still to come— in the morning —was far too horrific to contemplate, let alone imagine.
Jessenia bit her lip and grasped her head between her hands, rocking back and forth in a soothing, primal motion, desperate to interrupt the momentum of her thoughts. Stop it , Jessenia, she admonished herself. Do not think about it! Just…don’t.
Despite her best intentions, a ghoulish image flashed through her mind: the way she would be forced to kneel at the sacrificial stone like a conquered slave, broken and humbled, before her bloodthirsty conquerors…
I mean it, Jessenia! Stop this at once!
The way Prince Jaegar’s soldiers would stretch her slender arms around the stone’s wide edges and then bind her wrists to the slab. The intricate cultic knots they would tie—would they actually bite into her flesh?—as they made a barbaric mockery of the original celestial religion…
It doesn’t matter. It will be over quickly .
The way the prince’s minions would press her head flat against the rock so they could cleanly slice her throat and collect her innocent blood in a once-sacred vessel…
Damnit, Jessenia ! Don’ t do this to yourself!
The way the males would chant and watch— and cheer —as her young, innocent blood flowed in crimson rivers, pooling into the urn. The fact that they would grow drunk on the aberrant power of her sacrifice—
Stop this !
Please …
Stop it, now!
All of it was beyond imagining. All of it was beyond comprehension. And she had no doubt, whatsoever, that all
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