InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Luna Sangerie ❯ Misgivings ( Chapter 3 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Holding out her hand, ignoring the bitter cold wind that numbed her fingers, bone deep, in a matter of seconds, Jericho watched as the fat flakes of snow lit on her skin, lingered for an instant, a breath, before melting away as though it had never existed at all.

There was a certain level of irony to that thought . . .

Just over two days.

The ritual mating bed was already set up in the great hall, all bedecked in brand new sheets, in yards of handmade lace.  The stark, black wrought iron frame was softened by the beautiful fabrics, the lace trimmings, the netting and the ballooned poofs, tied around the tall posts and secured with white satin ribbons.  The whole thing was a labor of love, a source of pride, from the women.  Even so, it made Jericho feel just a little worse when she considered how much effort it had taken to create that bedding for such a terrible farce . . . Just the sight of that bed was enough to make her feel like vomiting.  The first time she’d laid eyes on it, she’d very nearly broken down in tears, had almost hyperventilated as she’d stared at it in complete and utter horror.  

She sighed softly, letting her chin fall atop her hand, resting on the windowsill, staring at the falling snow without really seeing it at all.

She didn’t remember those first few days—maybe a week?—after that ill-fated night when she’d stabbed Domnul Okeke.  The physician had apparently prescribed some heavy-duty pain meds that invariably kept her sleeping for part of her convalescence.  Later, after she’d finally recovered enough to be taken off the prescriptions, her father had visited her long enough to lecture her for a long while about how she’d brought shame upon their family, that her selfish actions that night had resulted in Domnul Okeke, nearly calling off the mating, as well as his angry insistence that she be given to him to be punished further for daring to attack her betters . . . Grigore had managed to talk him out of it, to smooth it over enough that he had ultimately chosen not to end the planned mating.  Her father had gone on to tell her, in no uncertain terms, that she better never attack her future mate again, that whatever he wanted was fine.  If Domnul Okeke wanted to have her, then that was his choice, not hers.  She had no room to complain.  It was such a good match, after all.  Domnul Okeke would eventually become the leader of his people, and she would be his ordained mate for all time . . .

She would be just like her own mother, trapped in a life of hate and despair until the only way out of it, the only escape, was the oblivion, the apathy, that accompanied, succumbing to the drink . . .

Three broken ribs, a cracked cheekbone, a severely bruised jaw, a broken wrist . . . In a way, those injuries had saved her from being subjected to the normal rules of appearances, and the whispers and talk had blamed her, too.  She hadn’t left her chambers till last week, and maybe it was simply her own imagination, but she thought that everyone, including the womenfolk, had been a little cold to her, and she supposed that it was to be expected.  In their eyes, she was the one who had been wrong.  Possessing the audacity to attack a man, and not just any man, but the one she was promised to?  They’d thought that she had it coming, didn’t they?

Maybe . . . Maybe she did . . . If she had just lay there, let him do what he wanted to do, none of this would have happened.

It didn’t matter to anyone that he’d tried to rape her.  Rape, in and of itself, did not actually exist in the minds of her people.  All women, to one extent or another, were expendable, even her.  If her mate told her to lie down and shut up, then that’s what she was expected to do.  If he wanted to sleep with her or to beat her, then that was his right, too.

It . . . It wasn’t fair, was it . . .?

Just the memory of her fear that night was almost enough to choke her.  Just the thought that, in just over two nights from now, she’d be forced to accept him on that bed in front of everyone she’d ever known . . .

Her eyes felt hot, grainy.  Staring sadly at the moon—just over half of it—glowing in such a cold and sad kind of way—a misshapen blob, the lopsided imperfection that never would attain the same brilliance, the same beauty, as the full moon—she felt tears prick the backs of her eyelids, but those tears refused to fall.  Maybe her melancholy was too deep that simple tears just wouldn’t suffice.

Or maybe some part of her was already resigned to the inevitable fate that awaited her . . .

As if in response to that thought, she sat up, pulled her hand back in the window, but she didn’t close it.  To do so would be way too stifling, and lately, it had become far too difficult to breathe without adding that to it.  Her ribs had healed; it wasn’t a physical thing.  It was more of a pervasive sense of the walls closing in on her—an invisible thing that loomed over everything, all of her thoughts, from the moment she awoke in the morning until the night when she closed her eyes, and even in the confines of her dreams . . .

Gaze shifting to the side as she retreated back into the warmth of her bed, she gasped softly when her eyes lit on the hateful visage of the gorgeous mating gown that hung on the closed doors of her wardrobe.  In the creeping dark, the snowy white lace looked like a ghost, stirring slightly as the fingers of the wind, filtering through the open window, touched it.  A fine lace robe that was so long it would trail on the floor over a simple sheathe dress, held up by the thinnest of straps at the shoulders . . . A plunging ‘v’ neckline that tied closed with a very feminine white bow just between the breasts that would fit her body perfectly to the hips where it flared out full . . .  The front part of the hem stopped just below her crotch but was longer in the back—down to her knees . . . and all of it was fashioned out of that gorgeous lace.  It was meant to enhance, but not to disguise.  Every last bit of her would be fully and prominently on display, and there was nothing she could do to hide a thing . . .

She’d be laid out on that bed after her mother and father removed the robe with the flaring sleeves, as they were the first to inspect her.  They would check her from head to foot, assessing her physical worth, and if she passed their scrutiny, they would help her onto that bed, would arrange her hair and fuss with her gown, trying to make her the most alluring, and during it all, she dared not make a sound, dared not allow her own fear, her own disgust, her own horror to show.

After they stepped away from her, then the others would be encouraged to come forward, to inspect her in much the same way as her parents had done.  They, too, would fuss with her gown, her hair.  They, too, had every right to run their hands over her, to feel her body, to search for imperfections that she might have tried to hide.  It was said that it would also help her to relax, those gentle hands and caresses.  Somehow, she doubted it . . .

And then would come her presentation to her mate, and his inspection would be so much worse than the others.  He would tear the gown from her body, would turn her, lift her, open her.  He was expected to describe her body to those in attendance, whether it was for good or ill.  And if she was deemed good enough . . .

He would then join her on the bed after removing his clothes.  Then he would take her as he would.  If he tried to be gentle, then maybe it would be bearable, and if he wasn’t?  Then it fell upon her to remain completely silent, to hold in her tears and her pain, regardless of how much it may hurt.  A crying woman was simply not strong enough—a crying woman was not suffered to live.  Weakness was not acceptable . . .  Then, he would finally spill his seed into her, as the gathering chanted their hopes for a male child, over and over . . .

A flickering star caught her attention.  It struggled and fought to retain its position in a sky that neither aided its plight nor hindered it.  As though the weight of the entire universe fell upon its shoulders, it stuttered, faltered, as it gained a little speed, as it shifted like it was being carried along on an invisible line . . . It left a trail of glitter behind it as it fell.  It was a wishing star, wasn’t it?  The kind that granted earnest wishes . . .

What was it that she’d heard, once upon a time?  If you wished upon a falling star—a wishing star—if you wished with all your heart and soul . . . if your wish was pure and worthy . . .

And she knew it was hopelessly childish, ridiculously naïve on her part.  After all, there really was nothing that could or would prevent the mating that she didn’t want.

Still . . .

Still . . .

Still, she closed her eyes.

And she made a wish—a lonely, desperate wish.

‘Please, I . . . I wish . . . Someone . . . anyone . . . Save me . . .’


“You look . . . lovely.”

Managing a very weak smile, Jericho stepped out of her chambers and into the hallway. As soon as she did, Sefu Okeke slipped an arm around her waist, holding her close to his side as he escorted her toward the grand staircase.  He sighed.  “I suppose it’s too much to ask of you to say whether or not my appearance pleases you, Jericho?”

“Of course,” she demurred, somehow able to retain the smile despite the lie that she had to force out.

He chuckled.  “Ah, what a pair we are . . . You realize that it took me a good few days to fully recover from that stab wound,” he went on, his tone dropping as he leaned toward her.  “Damn those obsidian blades . . . Where did you get that, I wonder . . .?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him of how long it took her to heal from her side of the incident.  She didn’t.  “I . . . found it,” she lied, hoping that he didn’t see right through it.  If anyone realized where she’d gotten that dagger . . .

He considered her words, nodding slowly, almost as though he were merely humoring her, and she gritted her teeth.  “You just found it, is that right?”  He nodded again.  “That makes sense, doesn’t it?  I mean, surely neither your mighty father or your esteemed brother would arm you with such a thing . . . I wonder . . .” He stopped suddenly, let go of her to turn and face her, his face registering his mock surprise, his wide-eyed show of astonishment.  “Domnita Jericho . . . Was it your . . . mother . . .?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he slipped his arm around her once more, the tips of his claws digging in unnecessarily against her waist.  She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from grimacing.  “Perhaps I ought to have a talk with your father . . .”

It took everything in her to keep moving, to concentrate on putting one foot before the other as they made their way down the stairs.  The problem was, she had no real idea if he was making an idle threat or not.  He was ruthless enough for the threat to carry a hint of foreboding promise . . . But no one would really be able to prove a thing . . . would they?

Even so, she knew, didn’t she?  If her father ever found out that her mother was the one who had given her that dagger?  She flinched inwardly.  There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that, if he found out about it—if he even suspected that it was possible—the reprisals against her mother . . . They’d be swift, and they’d be harsh . . . Maybe, had it been anything other than an obsidian blade . . .

But those blades, forged from the obsidian that lay dormant in the earth, were special, and her kind feared them with good reason.  For those like her—those who weren’t drinkers, the blades were only really as damaging as any other blade would be.  To those like him?  They were much, much worse.  Something about the obsidian reacted to their bodies in a much deeper way, dealing more damage over time—almost like a poison or a toxin.  She didn’t understand why it was, but there must have been some truth to the old legends if it took him that long to recover from the wound she’d dealt him.  He was a drinker, and that usually meant that he’d heal much, much faster than a non-drinker.  But she’d used an obsidian blade, and that made all the difference . . .

“Don’t you think you should be smiling?”

Blinking at the not-so-subtle warning in his tone, she summoned a very small smile that had to look entirely false.

“You don’t really want your family to think that you’re unhappy about our mating, do you?  Besides, by this time next week, this place will be nothing more than a memory to you.  You’ll never see it again, you know.”

She didn’t know if that was a threat or a promise, and even then, she honestly couldn’t say how she felt about that, either.  This place was her home, certainly, but she’s always understood that it would change one day.

The great hall was as loud as ever, full of chatter that settled into a dull hum.  The servants were parading into the room, bearing the great platters of meats and cheeses, of fruits and nuts and pitchers of beer, bottles of wine.  The fragrant food was enough to turn her stomach, and she stifled a sigh as he led her up onto the raised dais where the stapan’s table stood.

He seated her like a perfect gentleman, his smile bright as he sat beside her.  She kept her eyes downcast, concentrating on her empty plate since the last thing—the very last thing—she wanted to see was that appallingly beautiful bed that was still on prominent display.

Neither Grigore nor Stefan were there yet, and Domnul Okeke was preoccupied, directing the servants on what to serve her since he’d taken to strictly monitoring her diet, allotting her only what he felt she needed and little else.  If her appetite hadn’t been conspicuously absent of late, she might have complained—if she’d dared.  Perhaps four bites of meat—the leanest meat heaped on those platters—perhaps a small slice of ?arã pâine, but never a full, crusty slice . . . a dollop of mamaliga, maybe a small bowl of ciorba . . . some vegetables . . . She was not permitted to partake in any of the sweets that were always brought out at the end of the meal, either, and she was only allotted a single glass of wine to last the whole meal, as well . . . She was youkai, of course, which meant that she never was truly overweight, but what should have been an alarming lack of actual food had led to a decent amount of weight loss—weight she hadn’t needed to lose, in the first place . . .

Despite the rationing of her food, she still couldn’t summon the will to eat much of it, and the few bites she did succeed in choking down was only accomplished through sheer will since she didn’t dare disobey her future mate directly.  She could feel his steely gaze on her.  It seemed to her that he had an unnatural preoccupation with watching her like a predator, closing in on its prey . . .

The knot in her stomach tightened after her third bite, enough so that she knew instinctively that if she tried to force down more, she’d likely end up, making herself sick.  Her hands were shaking so badly that she very nearly spilled wine on herself.  Domnul Okeke reached out, snatched the glass out of her hand, uttering an impatient kind of sound that made her flinch.

“Clumsy girl,” he growled under his breath.  “Eat your supper.”

It wasn’t a request.  It was a command, and Jericho forced herself to pick up her fork once more as she fiddled with her blunt knife—she wasn’t allowed the use of anything sharp since the stabbing.  She ate the tiny bite, taking her time while chewing.  It took three tries to actually swallow it, though—three tries and an iron resolve not to throw up instantly . . .

He sighed, letting his fork fall onto his plate with a deafening clatter that drew the attention of most everyone nearby.  “You’re the daughter of the stapan, Jericho.  Are you to tell me that you weren’t taught the proper way to eat your food?”

She said nothing, kept her gaze lowered, even as a hot wash of a painful embarrassment flooded into her cheeks.  How telling was it, that not one person spoke up in her defense, that no one even cleared their throats before the mindless chatter resumed, as they all sought to avoid interfering.

The only thing she could do was to try harder, and, to that end, she managed another few bites until she felt the slight slackening of his critical eye.  She’d managed to choke down about half of her food, but, staring at the rest of it, she had to swallow back the rise of bile as her nerves got the better of her stomach . . .

“Oh, for God’s sake, Jericho!” he hissed, grabbing her arm, dealing her a slight shake as she gasped and flinched and tried not to look afraid.  “Go to your room if you can’t eat properly.  Just go!”

She didn’t wait for him to say it a second time.  He shoved her arm back, as though he were completely disgusted, and she stumbled to her feet, grasping fistfuls of her full skirt as she swung around and hurried as fast as she dared off the dais and around the tables.  On the one hand, she couldn’t help but feel relieved at the reprieve, no matter if he’d chastised her in front of everyone else or not.  On the other?  He’d be coming later, wouldn’t he?  Coming to punish her for her perceived lack of manners . . .

What did that matter as long as she had a few precious seconds to gather herself again?  Eyes still downcast, the click of her heels, rattling through her body, through her head, she wasn’t paying attention as she broke for the archway—and straight into a very solid body.

“Uh . . . Oh . . . Sorry,” he said, his hands closing over her upper arms to steady her.  His touch was gentle, but strong, as he steadied her on her feet and let go.

“I’m sorry!” she blurted, shaking her head, acutely aware that she’d damn near run the poor man down.  She lifted her face as her brain kicked in a second too late, as her eyes flared wide at the outlander she’d never seen before.  Fairly long, wispy, red hair—really red hair—the reddest hair she’d ever seen before . . . even brighter brown eyes . . . His face was lean, just now drawn into a concerned kind of expression, and she gasped, stepped back, her face paling as one bit of information shot to the fore.

He . . . He was a dog, wasn’t he?  A dog . . .

“Then the dogs came in the night, wreaked their vengeance upon all of our kind, cutting them down, every man, woman, and child, until all that was left was the Great Mama, and in her arms, she held the Great Tata . . . The dogs from the east with their tearing claws and their ugly, gaping maws . . .”

“Are you okay?” he asked in English—English with a strange lilt of an accent she hadn’t heard before.  He started to reach out, to touch her arm, and Jericho choked back a small scream, evading his hand as she spun around, the faces of both her brother and her father, nothing more than a blur behind the stranger as she broke for the stairs . . .