Between Two Evils - Chapter 15
Nov. 1st, 2009 09:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
botiasSee if you can spot Buffy and Faith. :P Warnings: Fairly explicit Girl on Girl, Domestic Violence, Shower Scene. Please do comment. I appreciate it so.
Previous Chapters Here
He was so much bigger than she was. At some level he was aware that he was going too fast, too hard, but it did nothing to check him; he thrust forward.
Allura jerked under him and yelped in surprise and pain.
Her cry had an effect on him that reason had not. Panting, he shuddered to a stop, poised over her for one breath, then two, caught between absolute imperatives. He had to keep going, needed to show her, but the sound of her pain had checked him in some way. The hold on him was strong, but he sensed it was not unbreakable. And then he was staring at the far wall and his cheek was numb.
Her blow snapped him out his disconnected place of pure reaction; the sound of her breathing was suddenly harsh in his ears, and he could feel the tension in her body. Shaking with the force of his emotions, he turned his head and looked down at her.
Allura's face was fierce, her jewel-bright gaze full of anger. She was up on one elbow, and the offending hand cradled between her breasts. “You said I could slap you if you hurt me—as hard as I wanted!”
It took him a moment to understand her words. Then he bared his teeth. “Clever. Me.”
The side of his face was no longer numb. It was beginning to smart very nicely in fact. The cast on her hand had added a certain something to the blow. He was still arched over her, poised, unblinking. She might have injured herself in hitting him. The thought flashed into his mind and was gone. She stared up at him, seemed to be waiting for what he might do next.
He saw it in her face: the instant she decided that he was going to stop. How she had found comfort in his words or expression he didn't know. Her breath came out in a sigh, and she uncurled a little as the tension left her body. This display of trust managed to ease him and anger him at once.
“You are mine. Say it!”
Instead of looking threatened by his bared teeth and snarled words, she simply stared up at him.
“I am yours,” she said. To his surprise, she reached out with the hand she had struck him with, laying it on the taut muscle of his forearm. The cast was hard and smooth, but he could feel each of her soft fingertips against his skin.
He scowled, suspicious of this sudden docility. He was still in her a little. Watching her all the while, he began to move, tiny, testing motions of his hips. Her eyes widened, but she didn't pull away.
She was his. She had just admitted it. He lowered his head, still watching her, let his eyes drift closed as he brushed his lips across her jaw, then her mouth. She parted her lips. He felt her breath on his face, pulled its warmth and scent into his body with his own breath. If he wished to, he could taste her fully, fit his mouth to hers, press deep with his tongue. He brushed her lips with his, back and forth. He could press deeply into her body as well. His sex was hard, and eager to do just that—he had all the power here.
This knowledge should have been satisfying; it should have soothed him. It didn't.
His anger and frustration returned, searing and sudden. With a snarl, he shoved himself away.
Rumpled and fuming, Lotor strode onto the observation balcony reserved for his father and himself and flung himself into his seat. He scowled at the battle in the arena below him. It too failed to improve his mood. Nor did it please him to realize that he hadn't been here since he'd acquired his wife.
He'd been watching the battle for only a short time when a bare, beautifully curved hip leaned against the arm of his chair.
He looked at it out of the corner of his eye, his jaw resting on his fist.
His gaze followed the sleek curves all the way up to her knowing smile. She wore a spectacular headpiece in her elaborately curled blond hair, a jeweled belt that fell just above the cleft of her ass, and nothing more.
A second courtesan eased in behind the first, the pale tips of her breasts catching in the golden curls. Her dark hair curved around her heavy-lidded eyes, a brown so clear they seemed to shine with their own light. She wore a smirk not unlike his own. Her splayed hand stroked down, down, over her companion's smooth skin, following the path his gaze had already taken; the dark gemstones in her many rings flashed multi-colored fire.
The golden one leaned back into the dark one's embrace. Her pink pout was truly a thing to behold. Green-gold eyes gleamed at him from beneath long, long lashes. Her tiny sigh and the faint click of her adornments made the mayhem below seem faint and far away. The dark one's hands stroked a sparkling path up the golden belly, one for each perfect breast.
Lotor felt the corner of his mouth curl up. Poor things—how bored they must be pouring his father's wine, and for some time not even that. His mouth curled a little more—at least they had one another...
Small, bejeweled fingers closed on pretty nipples, plucking and rolling until they became tight and dark. The golden one arched into the caresses with a sound that was part arousal—and part theatrics.
Lotor watched a few moments more, and then, frowning, turned his attention back to the battle. His eyes followed the changing fortunes of the fight, registering it more than seeing it. He was not interrupted. Bored or not, the women knew better than to touch or speak to him without his express invitation.
What did it matter if he had Allura's admiration, her affections? It didn't. Even if he did lo— Lotor shifted in his seat. In the arena below, five were standing, then four, then two.
Even if he had meant what he'd said in the heat of the moment, it still didn't matter if she cared for him. Everything that Allura's affections would have brought him, he already possessed.
Lotor abruptly felt disgusted with himself, disgusted with the whole situation. This was just the sort of wretched confusion that resulted when one kept to one woman for too long. He looked back to the courtesans. They looked back at him, preening under his attention, so unlike his wife— He reached out and pulled one of them onto his lap, pulled her close—the brunette, it was past time he tried a little more variety.
Her mouth tasted—it tasted wrong. His whole body tensed in rejection. The shape of her hip under his hand was too— She twisted in his hold, trying to return his caress, but it only made him angry. He wrenched his mouth away, cursing inwardly. For a moment he considered admitting defeat, pushing her aside. No, kissing her had been a mistake, that was all. This would get better. All he had to do was—
“LOTOR! Why am I not surprised?”
Lotor jerked back from the woman, adrenaline coursing through him like an electric shock. He wouldn't have started more if his father had caught him pouring poison into his drink. The projected image of Zarkon glowered down at him like a huge and malevolent blue god.
“Uh, hello, Father. I'm sorry you--” His first awkward words were trampled under his father's diatribe.
“That wife of yours not only brought no wealth to the empire, she can't even keep you in line! Some men's sons damage their hotel rooms, or gamble too much at the arena, but not you. No, you had to wreck EVERY BROTHEL IN NEPHALEM. In a single evening. Do you have any idea how much that has cost me!?”
Lotor had begun to hope that his dealings with the Regent would go no further, but it seemed she had just been waiting until she could present his father with an accurate bill. Excruciatingly aware of his rumpled appearance and the nude woman cowering on his lap, he bowed his head and did his best to look meek as he endured a lecture about how such behavior signaled weakness, squandered the empire's wealth, and encouraged their enemies.
He felt shame, hot and searing. He wanted to defend himself, to tell his father that the events on Nephalem were not what they appeared, that he had been pursuing his enemies, pursuing vengeance--just as his father would wish. The words did not pass his clenched teeth. He could already hear what his father's response would be. If you wanted vengeance, then I should see some sign of it. What have you done that will set them weeping for generations to come? Instead I am a laughing stock!
The truth was, he had wanted his wife back. There had come a time that night when he had been blind to anything else. His grip tightened on the courtesan's hip with painful force. He felt her tense, but she made no sound, at least none that could be heard above his father's angry voice. It was difficult to remember the last time his father had been so openly and loudly displeased. All this, for a wife who apparently would have preferred anyone else to him. Any man to him.
Allura should pay. Perhaps if he abandoned her for a few weeks, or months—perhaps then his wife would be more appreciative of his company. He spent the rest of his father's lecture imagining her pining for him, and bitterly regretting her rejection of him.
An imaginary Allura was rushing to his arms in tearful gratitude and remorse when his father finally wound down. “Well, Lotor? Have you anything to say for yourself?”
“If our enemies are foolish enough to think us weak, then I will take great pleasure in showing them differently, Father.”
This much was the truth, and it was one that seemed to mollify Zarkon somewhat; when he went on he sounded less angry. “Your little honeymoon is over, Lotor. I want you back in charge of the fleet. You will have to work very hard to make up for this foolishness.”
“Yes, Father. I will not fail you.” he said.
The projection vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving a charged silence.
All signs of repentance and humility vanished along with his father's image. With a growl, Lotor got to his feet; the woman in his lap tumbled to the floor with a cry of surprise. Pushing herself up on her arms she stared at him wide-eyed through her tumbled hair. Teeth bared, he drew his sword and watched with satisfaction as her eyes widened in fear. Her companion had long since departed for safer territory.
A piercing shriek rose from the arena below. He looked down to see a huge alien crush its opponent's torso into a bloody pulp with one clawed foot. It raised its four arms. Two curved swords, marbled with gore, formed an arc of victory over its head. A call issued from its fanged maw, a ringing, echoing challenge that rose over the chanting crowd. Lotor turned, took two long swift strides and vaulted over the edge of the box.
The alien spotted him as soon as he landed in the arena. He felt a cold satisfaction when its roar of fury was drowned out by the crowd's ecstatic response. It fixed its small red eyes on him and snorted its disdain. Pop—crunch. It planted a foot on the fallen opponent's skull, a graphic statement of its intentions. This was a particularly large one of its kind.
Lotor smiled. The roar of the crowd redoubled when he signaled the games master to release two more.
Lotor came to a halt before the door of his quarters. After a moment, drops of dark fluid began to fall, making a soft patter on the polished floor. The fight had not gone as well as he might have liked, but at least the rage and frustration he'd felt were gone, leaving a wary calm.
As he hesitated there before the door, he remembered his plan to leave Allura alone for a while.
It was an excellent plan, really. As he turned it over in his mind, it occurred to him that he might have no choice in the matter. He could hardly take Allura with him on his next campaign. The realization brought a mix of emotions he had no intention of examining too closely. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and grimaced. Whatever happened in the future, he needed to bathe right now, and had little interest in doing so in the barracks or in being an object of curiosity to one of his officers.
He could hear nothing through the thick metal door of what was going on within. The silence would be the same whether she were smashing everything—or lying hurt. That, and the realization that he was nervous about facing her, spurred him to action.
As he keyed in the pass code he was surprised by a wave of dizziness. His fingers slid off of the keys causing a drawn out beep. Frowning he tried again. His pass code varied each time it was entered, subsequent words in a lengthy catechism, and each time his fingers failed him, it became more difficult to remember the next word. Sweating a little, he felt a wave of relief when he successfully keyed in a three-letter word.
He watched the door slide upward and then stepped inside. He had been ignoring the wound on his back—he scarcely remembered it happening at all in the thick of battle. Now, awareness of it built with every step he took. Pushing the pain aside, he looked around. The room was shadowed and unoccupied as far as he could tell, only a few small lights here and there. There was a faint light coming from the bedchamber.
As he moved in that direction, her familiar silhouette appeared to one side of the archway. He found himself staring, feeling an unexpected mix of relief and trepidation. He was suddenly very aware of his own appearance. It was a point of pride with him to walk out of the arena without getting a drop of the blood he had spilled upon himself, but everything else had gone poorly this evening. Why should the fight be an exception?
Allura gasped when he moved into the pool of light. Her face and form was in shadow, but he saw her step back, her hand coming up to touch the food taster perched on her shoulder as though seeking comfort from its small presence. She seemed to be making a pet of the thing.
That was sure to end well.
Lotor stopped, waiting.
Allura said nothing. Perhaps she was recalling his treatment of her earlier, and now he had returned to her blood-soaked and spattered with gore. The memory of her scornful expression was suddenly, painfully clear.
His plan to punish her by separating from her was ridiculous. His lips twisted in a small bitter smile as he watched her. No doubt she would be thrilled to hear he was soon to depart on a long campaign, and the longer he was away the happier she would be. He suddenly felt every bruise and strain from the fight, a faint line of pain along his cheekbone where she had struck him, their discomfort all fed by the one in his lower back which was now sharp and insistent even though he was not moving.
Coming back here had been a mistake. Starting forward again, he put on his most threatening scowl—the mess was some help with that perhaps—and pointed a finger at her. The movement caused a flare of agony in his back that surprised him. His words came out through clenched teeth. “Do not start with me again, Allura. I won't be staying long enough to—”
His knees chose that moment to buckle.
He caught himself against the back of one of the divans and held there, panting with pain and wondering why he was no longer upright. Forcing himself to his feet, he focused instead on the bedchamber, the bathing room beyond. How pathetic he must seem to Allura who still watched silently from the doorway. He brushed past her without looking at her. “Get out of my way,” he said, “And stay out of my sight.”
It was when he reached the bathing room that he realized that he couldn't feel the floor beneath his feet any longer. He closed his eyes and slumped against a wall, the smooth surface faintly cool against his forehead. Even if he needed medical attention, which he didn't, he was hardly going to let news of such an injury get back to his father after a scathing lecture on weakness and incompetence.
The creatures he'd been fighting were not venomous—not once the barbs had been clipped off of their tails. This was done for arena fighting otherwise their fights ended too quickly and the deaths were boring, but it would be no great surprise if one of the barbs had been missed. Fortunately, it was only a scratch. Lotor made a mental note to kill the games master later.
He stood there, waiting to feel a little bit better for holding still. He was still waiting when he heard the soft sounds of her footfalls, sensed her gaze on him.
He cracked an eye and focused in the ungrateful little harpy's direction. Or tried to focus. She was blur of shining gold and soft rose framed by the golden-bronze of the arch far above her head and the darkness behind her.
“If you can not be obedient, then you can be useful. Come, Wife. Assist me.”
Allura didn't move. He thought she crossed her arms over her chest, but it was hard to tell. Her tart voice came through loud and clear, however.
“That doesn't seem fair. I didn't help you get in that state to begin with.”
He squinted at her in confusion, before her meaning finally penetrated that bright cottony haze. She thought he was drunk. He began to laugh, and then stopped because it hurt too much. He rested his head against the wall again. “I wouldn't be the first husband driven to drink by his wife's sharp tongue,” he said.
The tug at his ankle surprised him. He hadn't heard her come closer, wasn't really sure how much time had passed since he'd asked for her help. “Help me get your boots off,” she said. “Not that they couldn't use a shower too.”
“Don't do me any favors. The galaxy's most beautiful women v-vie for the chance to serve me."
“Shall I show them in when they arrive?”
He felt a tug on his ankle again. This time he lifted his foot. By the time she wrestled off the second boot, he was feeling quite euphoric with pain. He felt the hem of his tunic lifted; the brush of the fabric against his skin was electric.
“You're hurt,” she said.
He giggled.
“It's so swollen,” she murmured. She sounded concerned; it was really quite pathetic how much he relished it. Nevertheless, he flinched away from the touch of her fingers. “There's something black in the wound...”
Lotor's eyes snapped open.
Her words were like a douse of ice water, cutting through the haze, leaving him more lucid than he'd been for some time. And afraid. Lotor was no stranger to fear. He felt it whenever he thought he might be about to die. He turned to look at her, or at least her general direction. He had to make her understand.
“Allura you must cut it out. Now.” Already his adrenaline-fueled awareness was fading.
“What?! How--”
“Dagger. In my boot.”
“Which boot?”
“Both, you fool! Hurry!”
But Allura was already in motion. He saw a flash of silver. As he bowed his head, bracing himself for the cut, a thought occurred to him, “Allura, do NOT touch it. Do not--” The pain that came then was more intense than he would have thought possible. It was like a shining wave that washed away everything in its path. He heard himself cry out, had the sense he had fallen to his knees. His last thought was to keep from falling any further.
On to Chapter 16
Previous Chapters Here
Chapter 15
He was so much bigger than she was. At some level he was aware that he was going too fast, too hard, but it did nothing to check him; he thrust forward.
Allura jerked under him and yelped in surprise and pain.
Her cry had an effect on him that reason had not. Panting, he shuddered to a stop, poised over her for one breath, then two, caught between absolute imperatives. He had to keep going, needed to show her, but the sound of her pain had checked him in some way. The hold on him was strong, but he sensed it was not unbreakable. And then he was staring at the far wall and his cheek was numb.
Her blow snapped him out his disconnected place of pure reaction; the sound of her breathing was suddenly harsh in his ears, and he could feel the tension in her body. Shaking with the force of his emotions, he turned his head and looked down at her.
Allura's face was fierce, her jewel-bright gaze full of anger. She was up on one elbow, and the offending hand cradled between her breasts. “You said I could slap you if you hurt me—as hard as I wanted!”
It took him a moment to understand her words. Then he bared his teeth. “Clever. Me.”
The side of his face was no longer numb. It was beginning to smart very nicely in fact. The cast on her hand had added a certain something to the blow. He was still arched over her, poised, unblinking. She might have injured herself in hitting him. The thought flashed into his mind and was gone. She stared up at him, seemed to be waiting for what he might do next.
He saw it in her face: the instant she decided that he was going to stop. How she had found comfort in his words or expression he didn't know. Her breath came out in a sigh, and she uncurled a little as the tension left her body. This display of trust managed to ease him and anger him at once.
“You are mine. Say it!”
Instead of looking threatened by his bared teeth and snarled words, she simply stared up at him.
“I am yours,” she said. To his surprise, she reached out with the hand she had struck him with, laying it on the taut muscle of his forearm. The cast was hard and smooth, but he could feel each of her soft fingertips against his skin.
He scowled, suspicious of this sudden docility. He was still in her a little. Watching her all the while, he began to move, tiny, testing motions of his hips. Her eyes widened, but she didn't pull away.
She was his. She had just admitted it. He lowered his head, still watching her, let his eyes drift closed as he brushed his lips across her jaw, then her mouth. She parted her lips. He felt her breath on his face, pulled its warmth and scent into his body with his own breath. If he wished to, he could taste her fully, fit his mouth to hers, press deep with his tongue. He brushed her lips with his, back and forth. He could press deeply into her body as well. His sex was hard, and eager to do just that—he had all the power here.
This knowledge should have been satisfying; it should have soothed him. It didn't.
His anger and frustration returned, searing and sudden. With a snarl, he shoved himself away.
***
Rumpled and fuming, Lotor strode onto the observation balcony reserved for his father and himself and flung himself into his seat. He scowled at the battle in the arena below him. It too failed to improve his mood. Nor did it please him to realize that he hadn't been here since he'd acquired his wife.
He'd been watching the battle for only a short time when a bare, beautifully curved hip leaned against the arm of his chair.
He looked at it out of the corner of his eye, his jaw resting on his fist.
His gaze followed the sleek curves all the way up to her knowing smile. She wore a spectacular headpiece in her elaborately curled blond hair, a jeweled belt that fell just above the cleft of her ass, and nothing more.
A second courtesan eased in behind the first, the pale tips of her breasts catching in the golden curls. Her dark hair curved around her heavy-lidded eyes, a brown so clear they seemed to shine with their own light. She wore a smirk not unlike his own. Her splayed hand stroked down, down, over her companion's smooth skin, following the path his gaze had already taken; the dark gemstones in her many rings flashed multi-colored fire.
The golden one leaned back into the dark one's embrace. Her pink pout was truly a thing to behold. Green-gold eyes gleamed at him from beneath long, long lashes. Her tiny sigh and the faint click of her adornments made the mayhem below seem faint and far away. The dark one's hands stroked a sparkling path up the golden belly, one for each perfect breast.
Lotor felt the corner of his mouth curl up. Poor things—how bored they must be pouring his father's wine, and for some time not even that. His mouth curled a little more—at least they had one another...
Small, bejeweled fingers closed on pretty nipples, plucking and rolling until they became tight and dark. The golden one arched into the caresses with a sound that was part arousal—and part theatrics.
Lotor watched a few moments more, and then, frowning, turned his attention back to the battle. His eyes followed the changing fortunes of the fight, registering it more than seeing it. He was not interrupted. Bored or not, the women knew better than to touch or speak to him without his express invitation.
What did it matter if he had Allura's admiration, her affections? It didn't. Even if he did lo— Lotor shifted in his seat. In the arena below, five were standing, then four, then two.
Even if he had meant what he'd said in the heat of the moment, it still didn't matter if she cared for him. Everything that Allura's affections would have brought him, he already possessed.
Lotor abruptly felt disgusted with himself, disgusted with the whole situation. This was just the sort of wretched confusion that resulted when one kept to one woman for too long. He looked back to the courtesans. They looked back at him, preening under his attention, so unlike his wife— He reached out and pulled one of them onto his lap, pulled her close—the brunette, it was past time he tried a little more variety.
Her mouth tasted—it tasted wrong. His whole body tensed in rejection. The shape of her hip under his hand was too— She twisted in his hold, trying to return his caress, but it only made him angry. He wrenched his mouth away, cursing inwardly. For a moment he considered admitting defeat, pushing her aside. No, kissing her had been a mistake, that was all. This would get better. All he had to do was—
“LOTOR! Why am I not surprised?”
Lotor jerked back from the woman, adrenaline coursing through him like an electric shock. He wouldn't have started more if his father had caught him pouring poison into his drink. The projected image of Zarkon glowered down at him like a huge and malevolent blue god.
“Uh, hello, Father. I'm sorry you--” His first awkward words were trampled under his father's diatribe.
“That wife of yours not only brought no wealth to the empire, she can't even keep you in line! Some men's sons damage their hotel rooms, or gamble too much at the arena, but not you. No, you had to wreck EVERY BROTHEL IN NEPHALEM. In a single evening. Do you have any idea how much that has cost me!?”
Lotor had begun to hope that his dealings with the Regent would go no further, but it seemed she had just been waiting until she could present his father with an accurate bill. Excruciatingly aware of his rumpled appearance and the nude woman cowering on his lap, he bowed his head and did his best to look meek as he endured a lecture about how such behavior signaled weakness, squandered the empire's wealth, and encouraged their enemies.
He felt shame, hot and searing. He wanted to defend himself, to tell his father that the events on Nephalem were not what they appeared, that he had been pursuing his enemies, pursuing vengeance--just as his father would wish. The words did not pass his clenched teeth. He could already hear what his father's response would be. If you wanted vengeance, then I should see some sign of it. What have you done that will set them weeping for generations to come? Instead I am a laughing stock!
The truth was, he had wanted his wife back. There had come a time that night when he had been blind to anything else. His grip tightened on the courtesan's hip with painful force. He felt her tense, but she made no sound, at least none that could be heard above his father's angry voice. It was difficult to remember the last time his father had been so openly and loudly displeased. All this, for a wife who apparently would have preferred anyone else to him. Any man to him.
Allura should pay. Perhaps if he abandoned her for a few weeks, or months—perhaps then his wife would be more appreciative of his company. He spent the rest of his father's lecture imagining her pining for him, and bitterly regretting her rejection of him.
An imaginary Allura was rushing to his arms in tearful gratitude and remorse when his father finally wound down. “Well, Lotor? Have you anything to say for yourself?”
“If our enemies are foolish enough to think us weak, then I will take great pleasure in showing them differently, Father.”
This much was the truth, and it was one that seemed to mollify Zarkon somewhat; when he went on he sounded less angry. “Your little honeymoon is over, Lotor. I want you back in charge of the fleet. You will have to work very hard to make up for this foolishness.”
“Yes, Father. I will not fail you.” he said.
The projection vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving a charged silence.
All signs of repentance and humility vanished along with his father's image. With a growl, Lotor got to his feet; the woman in his lap tumbled to the floor with a cry of surprise. Pushing herself up on her arms she stared at him wide-eyed through her tumbled hair. Teeth bared, he drew his sword and watched with satisfaction as her eyes widened in fear. Her companion had long since departed for safer territory.
A piercing shriek rose from the arena below. He looked down to see a huge alien crush its opponent's torso into a bloody pulp with one clawed foot. It raised its four arms. Two curved swords, marbled with gore, formed an arc of victory over its head. A call issued from its fanged maw, a ringing, echoing challenge that rose over the chanting crowd. Lotor turned, took two long swift strides and vaulted over the edge of the box.
The alien spotted him as soon as he landed in the arena. He felt a cold satisfaction when its roar of fury was drowned out by the crowd's ecstatic response. It fixed its small red eyes on him and snorted its disdain. Pop—crunch. It planted a foot on the fallen opponent's skull, a graphic statement of its intentions. This was a particularly large one of its kind.
Lotor smiled. The roar of the crowd redoubled when he signaled the games master to release two more.
***
Lotor came to a halt before the door of his quarters. After a moment, drops of dark fluid began to fall, making a soft patter on the polished floor. The fight had not gone as well as he might have liked, but at least the rage and frustration he'd felt were gone, leaving a wary calm.
As he hesitated there before the door, he remembered his plan to leave Allura alone for a while.
It was an excellent plan, really. As he turned it over in his mind, it occurred to him that he might have no choice in the matter. He could hardly take Allura with him on his next campaign. The realization brought a mix of emotions he had no intention of examining too closely. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, and grimaced. Whatever happened in the future, he needed to bathe right now, and had little interest in doing so in the barracks or in being an object of curiosity to one of his officers.
He could hear nothing through the thick metal door of what was going on within. The silence would be the same whether she were smashing everything—or lying hurt. That, and the realization that he was nervous about facing her, spurred him to action.
As he keyed in the pass code he was surprised by a wave of dizziness. His fingers slid off of the keys causing a drawn out beep. Frowning he tried again. His pass code varied each time it was entered, subsequent words in a lengthy catechism, and each time his fingers failed him, it became more difficult to remember the next word. Sweating a little, he felt a wave of relief when he successfully keyed in a three-letter word.
He watched the door slide upward and then stepped inside. He had been ignoring the wound on his back—he scarcely remembered it happening at all in the thick of battle. Now, awareness of it built with every step he took. Pushing the pain aside, he looked around. The room was shadowed and unoccupied as far as he could tell, only a few small lights here and there. There was a faint light coming from the bedchamber.
As he moved in that direction, her familiar silhouette appeared to one side of the archway. He found himself staring, feeling an unexpected mix of relief and trepidation. He was suddenly very aware of his own appearance. It was a point of pride with him to walk out of the arena without getting a drop of the blood he had spilled upon himself, but everything else had gone poorly this evening. Why should the fight be an exception?
Allura gasped when he moved into the pool of light. Her face and form was in shadow, but he saw her step back, her hand coming up to touch the food taster perched on her shoulder as though seeking comfort from its small presence. She seemed to be making a pet of the thing.
That was sure to end well.
Lotor stopped, waiting.
Allura said nothing. Perhaps she was recalling his treatment of her earlier, and now he had returned to her blood-soaked and spattered with gore. The memory of her scornful expression was suddenly, painfully clear.
His plan to punish her by separating from her was ridiculous. His lips twisted in a small bitter smile as he watched her. No doubt she would be thrilled to hear he was soon to depart on a long campaign, and the longer he was away the happier she would be. He suddenly felt every bruise and strain from the fight, a faint line of pain along his cheekbone where she had struck him, their discomfort all fed by the one in his lower back which was now sharp and insistent even though he was not moving.
Coming back here had been a mistake. Starting forward again, he put on his most threatening scowl—the mess was some help with that perhaps—and pointed a finger at her. The movement caused a flare of agony in his back that surprised him. His words came out through clenched teeth. “Do not start with me again, Allura. I won't be staying long enough to—”
His knees chose that moment to buckle.
He caught himself against the back of one of the divans and held there, panting with pain and wondering why he was no longer upright. Forcing himself to his feet, he focused instead on the bedchamber, the bathing room beyond. How pathetic he must seem to Allura who still watched silently from the doorway. He brushed past her without looking at her. “Get out of my way,” he said, “And stay out of my sight.”
It was when he reached the bathing room that he realized that he couldn't feel the floor beneath his feet any longer. He closed his eyes and slumped against a wall, the smooth surface faintly cool against his forehead. Even if he needed medical attention, which he didn't, he was hardly going to let news of such an injury get back to his father after a scathing lecture on weakness and incompetence.
The creatures he'd been fighting were not venomous—not once the barbs had been clipped off of their tails. This was done for arena fighting otherwise their fights ended too quickly and the deaths were boring, but it would be no great surprise if one of the barbs had been missed. Fortunately, it was only a scratch. Lotor made a mental note to kill the games master later.
He stood there, waiting to feel a little bit better for holding still. He was still waiting when he heard the soft sounds of her footfalls, sensed her gaze on him.
He cracked an eye and focused in the ungrateful little harpy's direction. Or tried to focus. She was blur of shining gold and soft rose framed by the golden-bronze of the arch far above her head and the darkness behind her.
“If you can not be obedient, then you can be useful. Come, Wife. Assist me.”
Allura didn't move. He thought she crossed her arms over her chest, but it was hard to tell. Her tart voice came through loud and clear, however.
“That doesn't seem fair. I didn't help you get in that state to begin with.”
He squinted at her in confusion, before her meaning finally penetrated that bright cottony haze. She thought he was drunk. He began to laugh, and then stopped because it hurt too much. He rested his head against the wall again. “I wouldn't be the first husband driven to drink by his wife's sharp tongue,” he said.
The tug at his ankle surprised him. He hadn't heard her come closer, wasn't really sure how much time had passed since he'd asked for her help. “Help me get your boots off,” she said. “Not that they couldn't use a shower too.”
“Don't do me any favors. The galaxy's most beautiful women v-vie for the chance to serve me."
“Shall I show them in when they arrive?”
He felt a tug on his ankle again. This time he lifted his foot. By the time she wrestled off the second boot, he was feeling quite euphoric with pain. He felt the hem of his tunic lifted; the brush of the fabric against his skin was electric.
“You're hurt,” she said.
He giggled.
“It's so swollen,” she murmured. She sounded concerned; it was really quite pathetic how much he relished it. Nevertheless, he flinched away from the touch of her fingers. “There's something black in the wound...”
Lotor's eyes snapped open.
Her words were like a douse of ice water, cutting through the haze, leaving him more lucid than he'd been for some time. And afraid. Lotor was no stranger to fear. He felt it whenever he thought he might be about to die. He turned to look at her, or at least her general direction. He had to make her understand.
“Allura you must cut it out. Now.” Already his adrenaline-fueled awareness was fading.
“What?! How--”
“Dagger. In my boot.”
“Which boot?”
“Both, you fool! Hurry!”
But Allura was already in motion. He saw a flash of silver. As he bowed his head, bracing himself for the cut, a thought occurred to him, “Allura, do NOT touch it. Do not--” The pain that came then was more intense than he would have thought possible. It was like a shining wave that washed away everything in its path. He heard himself cry out, had the sense he had fallen to his knees. His last thought was to keep from falling any further.
On to Chapter 16
