Between Two Evils - Chapter 16
Jan. 3rd, 2010 02:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
botiasI was going to have this chapter be longer, but... I wanted to give some new year's cheer.
Previous Chapters Here
There was no time to think, to be afraid. Bracing a hand on his back, she pulled the silver blade across the purple swelling, the black shadow under his skin. An eye blink, an image of his blue skin parting, two perfect edges, welling red where the cut started, then darker... Then everything was rushing before her eyes. Falling! She lunged forward, her arms going around him, her face pressed to his back. It was like trying to stop an avalanche, but then, just as suddenly, everything stopped. She staggered, her strength suddenly enough to keep him upright. He'd fallen to his knees, she realized--just as he began to fall backward, bearing her with him. Her bottom hit the floor with bump, but she made no sound; the impact of his upper body had driven out her breath. For a moment, she was still, dazed, staring at the ceiling with his head heavy against her breastbone. Then, gasping, she scrambled from under his weight. Must cut it out. Must... Dropping the dagger, she locked her hands under his shoulder and lifted. It did no more than raise him a little. Falling to her knees, she braced one of her shoulders against his and pushed. Slowly, feeling as though she were using every muscle in her body, she succeeded in rolling him onto his front.
Panting, she picked up the dagger again and crawled over him, clawing his soiled clothes away. Her eyes searched for the black shadow in the mess of blood, dark ichor, and broken flesh on his back. There was nothing. She hesitated and then pressed down firmly above and below the wound, wincing as it gaped wide.
It was a clean cut the length of her hand, longer and deeper perhaps than it had needed to be. She had cut into healthy flesh as well as into the swelling around the original wound. The swelling itself was gone, drained by her cut. Maybe her quarry had come out as well? She whipped her head around to look and then sagged with relief. There was a sizable blotch of that nasty dark stuff where his wound had pressed against the floor, and in the center, a shiny black object, glistening in the light. She'd succeeded.
She almost didn't feel them at first, the fine tremors in his body. Her fingers clenched. “Lotor?” Panic made her limbs stiff and her voice a croak when she said his name. A moment ago she'd had a mission, had known what to do next; now there was only the fact that he was unconscious, perhaps dying.
It was not easy to leave, but the desire to stay by his side was self-serving. Her presence was hardly an insurance against death. Pushing away from his prone body, she ran into the main room. The first thing she saw was his gizmo on a table. She swept it up. The screen went black at the first touch of her fingers. A few seconds of pressing and prodding accomplished nothing. With a cry of frustration, she flung it down. Stifling a sob she made her way to what looked like a situation table. The moment she had turned her back on her husband there had come the gnawing anxiety. Was he already dead? Was it already too late? With every second it grew stronger.
The surface of the table lit up at the touch of her fingers. She took a deep, shaky breath, eyes wide, as she searched for something useful. Some of the things she could read, some she couldn't, but— There. She reached out and grabbed the plat that had images of some of his commanders.
A red box flashed. Passcode. She slapped her hands hard on the smooth surface and spun around. Her anxious gaze lit on the entryway, and then she was in motion again, bare feet making a swift patter on the smooth floor. Whenever they left his quarters, Lotor pressed a series of buttons to make the door open. The order always varied; she would never open it that way. She ran away from the door, back toward the bathing room; it was time to see how the door responded to a determined person with a laser sword.
She rounded the corner and skidded to a stop, her skin prickling with reaction.
As she watched, frozen, Lotor braced a hand against the wall and pushed himself upright. His movements were slow, a little unsure, but not without his familiar muscular grace as he unfurled from a crouch to his full height. He stood before her for a moment in his stocking feet; his face was hidden by his long, pale hair, still streaked with filth. Then he lifted his head. She saw the slits of his pupils narrow when they fixed on her. He blinked, his tip-tilted amber eyes wide and oddly guileless in a face spattered with dried blood. The stains were stark against the pale azure of his skin; they lent a barbarous cast to his angelic features. He stood there, looking at her for a moment, during which she couldn't breathe, couldn't move, and then his expression shifted. He tipped his head back and laughed.
The next thing she knew she was hitting him, really pounding at his chest with her fists just as hard as she could. He staggered back from her assault, still laughing. After a little while his arms came around her, pinning her against him.
She struggled against his hold. Had this been some sort of cruel joke? She had been silent when she was hitting him, now she burst into speech. “I hate you. How dare you frighten me that way? I will never forgive you, you worthless--.”
He was looking down at her with a very warm expression—a familiar expression. Allura resolved then and there to bite him if he tried to kiss her. “This can't be heaven,” he said. “You're wearing clothes.”
Allura made a disgusted sound and yanked backward against his hold.
Pressed against him this way—now that she was no longer beating on him—she could still feel faint tremors running through his body. He was upright, conscious, obnoxious... but she was beginning to suspect it was as much pig-headedness as miraculous recovery that had him on his feet. She relaxed a little. Disaster had been averted. She had been enough.
“Were you frightened, Allura? I don't believe it.”
She looked up at him in silent reproach. It was nonetheless true. The memory was so fresh; she felt a fierce echo of the anxiety, the helplessness; it was strong enough to make her skin roughen with goose bumps and her eyes sting with tears. Dismayed, she saw his gaze move over her, tracking every betraying response.
“Would you have missed me so much then?” His tone was light enough, but he was no longer laughing and his voice had lost its hard edge; it had become velvet soft the way it sometimes did when they were in bed. Allura felt hunted suddenly.
“Like a cat misses a dog,” she said. Why had she been so frightened? Casting back she could not find any rational reason. Probably, she had gotten caught up in his own urgency. “It's my nature to help those in need...”
“Mmmm,” the deep sound was his only reply. Was he even listening to her? His gaze was fixed on her mouth, but she doubted he'd been reading her lips.
“Well...” Allura cast about desperately for something to say. “Well, and what would happen to me! What would happen to me, to...” Allura's face clouded as she remembered her earlier suspicions. What if there were a babe? There was real concern in her voice when she went on. “Lotor, what would happen if you had died? If you had never come back?”
Lotor looked down into his wife's troubled face. Allura's questions had taken him completely by surprise. These were questions he hadn't considered before, and he was not pleased to consider them now. He hurt, everywhere, and wanted nothing more than to savor the triumph that was being alive, to wash away the day's trials and troubles, and then to find his bed, ably warmed by his wife. He frowned.
She certainly had a knack for ruining the mood.
Releasing her from his arms, he stood up from where he had been letting the wall take most of their weight. Moving hurt. He let the pain wash over him and away. Fighting the lingering weakness in his muscles, he turned away from her and turned on the water, setting it nice and hot. “I believe you were assisting me, before we were so regrettably interrupted?”
Her voice came to him over the rush of the water. “But, Lotor, I need to know. What--”
She would choose this moment to rediscover her former tenacity. Lotor turned his head to look at her, making no attempt to hide his irritation. Repressed emotions from their earlier combat stirred anew, threatening to create an even more potent brew of displeasure.
Allura's mouth shut with a snap when she saw his expression. She didn't look pleased, but this time, to his relief, she took the hint. After a moment she bent to retrieve the dagger. “We should probably just cut these off,” she said.
Lotor turned away, and after a moment he felt a tug at the hem of his ruined uniform. He closed his eyes, relaxing as it became clear she did not intend to bring her unhappiness with him into her work. He stood very still as she carefully cut the cloth up the back. As he stood there, more weary than patient, he found his thoughts returning reluctantly to Allura's concerns. He hadn't considered them before, but it was not because the answers were hard to come by.
If he died under mysterious circumstances, Allura would be among the first to be interrogated—and then to die, along with all of his personal slaves. Only when this was done would his father turn his attention to more dangerous and politically volatile suspects.
If someone had asked him a few moments ago, he would have considered the practice very sensible. He still did. He was also aware of a very strong desire to see that Allura was an exception to the rule. Lotor braced a hand against the wall.
Why should it matter if she lived when he did not? It made no sense.
Perhaps it was his affection for her. He silently moved his arms to help Allura slip the ruined cloth down and away, keeping one hand on the wall at all times. Now that he knew his emotional weakness where she was concerned, it should be easy to keep it from affecting his decisions.
When Allura tugged at his waistband, he undid his belt one-handed, worked free the fastenings of his trousers. Even as tired as he was, he felt his body respond when she slipped her hands inside, her palms sliding along his hips.
“Don't get under the water yet,” she said, once he was bare. After a moment, he felt her bathe the area around his wound with a cloth she had made wet under the falling water. “Here, hold this.” He pressed the towel he was given to the wound, and then she guided him under the hot spray. What happened then, her hands on him, working soap through his hair, rubbing a wash cloth over his face, his shoulders, his chest... he knew he had experienced greater bliss, he must have, but at that moment, buffeted by steam, stroked by her hands and the water, he could not recall it. He felt both amusement and disappointment when she studiously avoided his sex, gave his legs a cursory rub, and declared him finished.
“You didn't apply conditioner.”
For a moment there was only the rush and patter of the water. “You had a brush with death, and now you're worried about fly-away hair?”
Her tone almost made him laugh out loud. “A man with my enemies should never look like he has bigger worries than the state of his hair.” It was true actually, but even if it weren't, he wanted her to fuss over him a little more.
Once it was done, he stood under the warm air and pretended to dry himself, and she pretended not to notice as he watched her bathe. She finished quickly, shut off the water and wrapped a towel around herself, departing the bathing room without looking his way or speaking to him.
It wasn't until he saw her step carefully around it that he noticed the shiny black object on the floor of the open shower area.
Stepping away from the warm air, he walked to it, moving carefully to avoid pulling on his wound. It was a Malus spine, just as he had suspected. As he watched, it seemed to blur faintly for a few seconds before falling still. If Allura hadn't been here, if she had been squeamish or foolish, cowardly or wicked, it would be doing that in his flesh right now, thwarting his body's ability to wall off toxins by working its way ever deeper. He went to fetch a drinking glass and a cloth. When he turned back, he saw the food taster inching closer to the spine, the ruby feathers on its head and back standing at half-mast and all of its whiskers on full alert. Frowning, Lotor stepped forward quickly and waved at the thing, making it spring silently away. Sitting down on his heels, he picked up the spine using the cloth and dropped it into the glass. After a moment he heard the glass sing when the spine vibrated again.
Allura might be difficult; she might inspire a depth of feeling he did not like, but there could be no doubt that he had been very fortunate in his choice of wife.
When he walked into their bed chamber, Allura was not in bed as he had expected. She was standing with her back to him. She had donned both a nightdress and a robe, but her arms were wrapped around herself as though she were cold.
He was surprised when he felt her jump a little when he laid a hand on her shoulder. It was obvious she was still sulking, but did she expect him to hurt her? Perhaps she did. He had done so not long before. He found he didn't like recalling it. It made his voice sharper than he intended when he spoke.
“Allura, come to bed now.”
Turning away before he could see her response, he got into bed, taking care not to ask too much of his recently-applied bandage; it had been awkward, but he'd managed.
He'd been looking forward to laying down again ever since he'd peeled himself off the floor--no, ever since he'd come in the door. But now, as he lowered his aching body to the mattress he found surprisingly little comfort in it. While he made a show of arranging the cover, she hovered by her side of the bed. For a moment, Lotor thought he might have to order her to sleep at his side. It was a relief when she pulled the cover back and got in. But his relief was short lived. She curled away from him, clearly not wishing contact with his body.
That was just too bad. He reached out and pulled her against him. She was stiff and unwilling in his arms, but he stubbornly held her there and willed himself to fall asleep. The wound would trouble him for a little while, but he should be almost recovered from the venom when he woke again.
He was exhausted, but sleep did not immediately come. He lay there in the familiar darkness, and made himself breathe deep and slow. It was impossible not to notice that Allura took two breaths for his every one. Imaginings of her at his father's tender mercies began to sneak into his thoughts, blossoming in the silence. As soon as he cut one down, another arose. They were not conducive to rest. The Princess of Arus had been one of his father's more recent and despised enemies, and he doubted Zarkon had forgotten that fact.
And just when he had those nightmares vanquished, he began to remember the way she had stiffened in pain under him only a few hours ago, her hands pushing him away. Allura was not asleep anymore than he was, and her clear unwillingness to be touched by him now was a potent reminder. Memories of warm nights on Nephalem came to torment him: of her sweet body moving over his with growing confidence, of her hands and lips soft against his skin, of her arms pulling him close...
Allura had always wanted him. He had seen it in her, even back in the days when she would do her utmost to drop him where he stood—perhaps especially then. Her response to him was everything he'd awaited, stronger even than her fierce will. There was no artifice to it, nothing practiced; it was as true as Allura herself, and all for him, only for him...
Now he found himself wondering if his rough handling had cost him that: one more priceless treasure smashed in a fit of temper. Perhaps forgiveness was not one of Allura's many sterling qualities. He found his mind shying away from the ramifications of this if it were true. The notion of forcing her into his bed was much less palatable than it had once been.
And what if he died in battle instead of being assassinated? Allura would hardly fare any better. She had no powerful family to demand her safe return. He held her closer, ignoring her squeak of protest. She was so vulnerable.
But she was far from helpless.
Abandoning his failed attempts at mental discipline, he released Allura and rolled out of bed. His body felt too heavy, but he was filled with purpose. He grabbed some pants out of a drawer.
It took only a few moments to figure out that there was no way to get into them without bending. He came around to Allura's side of the bed. She was sitting up in the darkness, wary, watching him. He handed the garment to her, pleased to see that she looked utterly bewildered—she also looked tired. No matter, this would not take long. Perhaps then both of them could rest. “Help me with these. There's something I need to show you.”
When it was finally done, and he lay down again, he finally felt the relief he'd been looking forward to. Relaxation spread through him like a balm; within moments he was on the brink of oblivion. This time, when he pulled Allura close, she was not stiff in his arms though she made no move to hold him in return. He wanted her to touch him... it was his last conscious thought before sleep claimed him.
Allura lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand what he had just done, trying to decide what she should think or do, but her eyes would not stay open, and she soon drifted into a troubled sleep.
Lotor woke to a state of alertness. He registered the pain of the wound, of the venom. It was better than he remembered, not much so as he would like. Perhaps he hadn't been asleep for very long.
He lay still, listening for whatever had woken him. Everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
Allura was no longer at his side. He slid his hand across the sheet; the place she had been was only a little warm. There came a faint scrabbling sound from the main room.
He sat up. She wasn't just gone from the bed. She was gone.
He knew it, but he didn't know why he was so certain. Then, in a moment of dream-like clarity, a pattern that had eluded him before became starkly obvious. Last night, he had thought it impossible that she would run away, and a week ago—even a few days ago—he would have been right. Not any longer.
Leaping out of bed—just as well he'd not bothered to get out of his pants again—he stepped into his boots and exited the bed chamber with long, rapid strides. If he hadn't already known where Allura had gone, the food taster's pitiful scratching at the hidden door made a mockery of its careful concealment. He didn't bother to close the narrow door behind himself, nor with the stairs, leaping from one landing to the next, aware of a building anger, with both himself and his troublesome wife.
He had made a miscalculation.
All of this time he thought she'd been accepting, even content in her life with him. A voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his father's said, Fool! Idiot!
For a brief, entrancing time, she'd even seemed happy. She'd never expressed curiosity about the future, anger about the past, or worry for her own safety, but last night all of that had changed like the flipping of a switch, taking him completely by surprise. A surprised man was often a dead one.
His little warrior wife hadn't been accepting or content all of this time. Oh, no. She'd surrendered. It seemed so obvious now. In her bizarre little mind, she'd probably laid down her life in accepting his offer of marriage. Hardly flattering, but there it was. And now something had caused Allura to renege on that surrender. Something had brought his fierce lioness back from the dead.
First she had hit him, then she had told him she hated him—wasn't that exactly how it always used to go? In hindsight, an escape attempt had been inevitable. He should have seen it. Instead, he'd handed her the means on a silver platter. Lotor quickened his pace.
Allura primed the engines and watched the pre-flight check flash by on the console, resenting the time it took. She was not as certain about what she was doing as she would have liked, but she did know that she didn't want to be caught in the attempt.
She was going home.
The thought should have brought her joy, or—or something. Instead she felt a strange emptiness, a waiting.
Arus, her family, her people, she loved them as much as ever; it was a part of her that would never alter or diminish. Lotor would call it weakness, but it was the source of all her strength.
It was true that they were no longer what was familiar, and she was no longer the same. It had been 48 standard days—it felt like a lifetime—since she had tried to win anyone's approval; she found she liked that very well. During that same time, she'd had her fill of biting her tongue and doing as she was told. There would be clashes with Coran, and with Nanny, and likely Keith as well. After facing down a few of Lotor's little tantrums, that idea did not bother her. That was not the problem.
She had promised to be Lotor's wife, but that was not really the problem either. She had always reserved the right to cancel their devil's bargain—just as she had always assumed Lotor would do whenever it suited him.
Because I love you.
His words from the previous evening came back to her as they had done a number of times since.
Allura bit her lip. Lies came as easily as breathing to Lotor, and as she had opened the hidden door and traversed the passageway he'd shown her, every moment she had expected the trap to spring. She had been sure it was some sort of test or trick. But she had arrived at the private bay where he kept his ship without incident. There had been no alarms, no pursuit. The ship was fueled and ready to go, as always.
And as she had come to accept that escape route he had shown her was genuine, the ramifications of that began to present themselves. Her situation might be unbearable, but resolving it in this way was betraying an act of trust, maybe even an act of love. She wanted to rail against it, wanted to deny it, but she could not. The proof was all around her, in the healthy hum of the engines, affirmed as each system verified that it was ready to carry her wherever she wished to go.
Because it was Lotor, the consequences of her dishonor would be particularly great. He wielded a great deal of power, and if she betrayed him, some part of his cruelty would always be because of her. The thought was unbearable, but so was the thought of staying here—powerless.
It didn't help that she might be selling her soul and his to gain nothing more than a bloodbath. The night before, Lotor had claimed that his previous efforts at conquest had been little more than a show.
The lights began to blink, indicating that it was time to light the engines. She reached for the button.
She couldn't seem to make herself push it.
A little disgusted with herself, Allura sighed and flipped the switches back into the shutdown position with a chopping motion. She flung herself back in the seat; the cockpit was practically roomy without him in it.
For some minutes she sat there, staring at the console, chin on her hand. Her decision was made, but it had not brought her peace of mind.
Finally she sighed and stirred herself. The sooner she returned the better, though she had no great hopes that her attempt would go unnoticed.
She turned to see Lotor staring in at her from the other side of the glass, an unreadable expression on his face.
On to Chapter 17
Previous Chapters Here
Chapter 16
There was no time to think, to be afraid. Bracing a hand on his back, she pulled the silver blade across the purple swelling, the black shadow under his skin. An eye blink, an image of his blue skin parting, two perfect edges, welling red where the cut started, then darker... Then everything was rushing before her eyes. Falling! She lunged forward, her arms going around him, her face pressed to his back. It was like trying to stop an avalanche, but then, just as suddenly, everything stopped. She staggered, her strength suddenly enough to keep him upright. He'd fallen to his knees, she realized--just as he began to fall backward, bearing her with him. Her bottom hit the floor with bump, but she made no sound; the impact of his upper body had driven out her breath. For a moment, she was still, dazed, staring at the ceiling with his head heavy against her breastbone. Then, gasping, she scrambled from under his weight. Must cut it out. Must... Dropping the dagger, she locked her hands under his shoulder and lifted. It did no more than raise him a little. Falling to her knees, she braced one of her shoulders against his and pushed. Slowly, feeling as though she were using every muscle in her body, she succeeded in rolling him onto his front.
Panting, she picked up the dagger again and crawled over him, clawing his soiled clothes away. Her eyes searched for the black shadow in the mess of blood, dark ichor, and broken flesh on his back. There was nothing. She hesitated and then pressed down firmly above and below the wound, wincing as it gaped wide.
It was a clean cut the length of her hand, longer and deeper perhaps than it had needed to be. She had cut into healthy flesh as well as into the swelling around the original wound. The swelling itself was gone, drained by her cut. Maybe her quarry had come out as well? She whipped her head around to look and then sagged with relief. There was a sizable blotch of that nasty dark stuff where his wound had pressed against the floor, and in the center, a shiny black object, glistening in the light. She'd succeeded.
She almost didn't feel them at first, the fine tremors in his body. Her fingers clenched. “Lotor?” Panic made her limbs stiff and her voice a croak when she said his name. A moment ago she'd had a mission, had known what to do next; now there was only the fact that he was unconscious, perhaps dying.
It was not easy to leave, but the desire to stay by his side was self-serving. Her presence was hardly an insurance against death. Pushing away from his prone body, she ran into the main room. The first thing she saw was his gizmo on a table. She swept it up. The screen went black at the first touch of her fingers. A few seconds of pressing and prodding accomplished nothing. With a cry of frustration, she flung it down. Stifling a sob she made her way to what looked like a situation table. The moment she had turned her back on her husband there had come the gnawing anxiety. Was he already dead? Was it already too late? With every second it grew stronger.
The surface of the table lit up at the touch of her fingers. She took a deep, shaky breath, eyes wide, as she searched for something useful. Some of the things she could read, some she couldn't, but— There. She reached out and grabbed the plat that had images of some of his commanders.
A red box flashed. Passcode. She slapped her hands hard on the smooth surface and spun around. Her anxious gaze lit on the entryway, and then she was in motion again, bare feet making a swift patter on the smooth floor. Whenever they left his quarters, Lotor pressed a series of buttons to make the door open. The order always varied; she would never open it that way. She ran away from the door, back toward the bathing room; it was time to see how the door responded to a determined person with a laser sword.
She rounded the corner and skidded to a stop, her skin prickling with reaction.
As she watched, frozen, Lotor braced a hand against the wall and pushed himself upright. His movements were slow, a little unsure, but not without his familiar muscular grace as he unfurled from a crouch to his full height. He stood before her for a moment in his stocking feet; his face was hidden by his long, pale hair, still streaked with filth. Then he lifted his head. She saw the slits of his pupils narrow when they fixed on her. He blinked, his tip-tilted amber eyes wide and oddly guileless in a face spattered with dried blood. The stains were stark against the pale azure of his skin; they lent a barbarous cast to his angelic features. He stood there, looking at her for a moment, during which she couldn't breathe, couldn't move, and then his expression shifted. He tipped his head back and laughed.
The next thing she knew she was hitting him, really pounding at his chest with her fists just as hard as she could. He staggered back from her assault, still laughing. After a little while his arms came around her, pinning her against him.
She struggled against his hold. Had this been some sort of cruel joke? She had been silent when she was hitting him, now she burst into speech. “I hate you. How dare you frighten me that way? I will never forgive you, you worthless--.”
He was looking down at her with a very warm expression—a familiar expression. Allura resolved then and there to bite him if he tried to kiss her. “This can't be heaven,” he said. “You're wearing clothes.”
Allura made a disgusted sound and yanked backward against his hold.
Pressed against him this way—now that she was no longer beating on him—she could still feel faint tremors running through his body. He was upright, conscious, obnoxious... but she was beginning to suspect it was as much pig-headedness as miraculous recovery that had him on his feet. She relaxed a little. Disaster had been averted. She had been enough.
“Were you frightened, Allura? I don't believe it.”
She looked up at him in silent reproach. It was nonetheless true. The memory was so fresh; she felt a fierce echo of the anxiety, the helplessness; it was strong enough to make her skin roughen with goose bumps and her eyes sting with tears. Dismayed, she saw his gaze move over her, tracking every betraying response.
“Would you have missed me so much then?” His tone was light enough, but he was no longer laughing and his voice had lost its hard edge; it had become velvet soft the way it sometimes did when they were in bed. Allura felt hunted suddenly.
“Like a cat misses a dog,” she said. Why had she been so frightened? Casting back she could not find any rational reason. Probably, she had gotten caught up in his own urgency. “It's my nature to help those in need...”
“Mmmm,” the deep sound was his only reply. Was he even listening to her? His gaze was fixed on her mouth, but she doubted he'd been reading her lips.
“Well...” Allura cast about desperately for something to say. “Well, and what would happen to me! What would happen to me, to...” Allura's face clouded as she remembered her earlier suspicions. What if there were a babe? There was real concern in her voice when she went on. “Lotor, what would happen if you had died? If you had never come back?”
Lotor looked down into his wife's troubled face. Allura's questions had taken him completely by surprise. These were questions he hadn't considered before, and he was not pleased to consider them now. He hurt, everywhere, and wanted nothing more than to savor the triumph that was being alive, to wash away the day's trials and troubles, and then to find his bed, ably warmed by his wife. He frowned.
She certainly had a knack for ruining the mood.
Releasing her from his arms, he stood up from where he had been letting the wall take most of their weight. Moving hurt. He let the pain wash over him and away. Fighting the lingering weakness in his muscles, he turned away from her and turned on the water, setting it nice and hot. “I believe you were assisting me, before we were so regrettably interrupted?”
Her voice came to him over the rush of the water. “But, Lotor, I need to know. What--”
She would choose this moment to rediscover her former tenacity. Lotor turned his head to look at her, making no attempt to hide his irritation. Repressed emotions from their earlier combat stirred anew, threatening to create an even more potent brew of displeasure.
Allura's mouth shut with a snap when she saw his expression. She didn't look pleased, but this time, to his relief, she took the hint. After a moment she bent to retrieve the dagger. “We should probably just cut these off,” she said.
Lotor turned away, and after a moment he felt a tug at the hem of his ruined uniform. He closed his eyes, relaxing as it became clear she did not intend to bring her unhappiness with him into her work. He stood very still as she carefully cut the cloth up the back. As he stood there, more weary than patient, he found his thoughts returning reluctantly to Allura's concerns. He hadn't considered them before, but it was not because the answers were hard to come by.
If he died under mysterious circumstances, Allura would be among the first to be interrogated—and then to die, along with all of his personal slaves. Only when this was done would his father turn his attention to more dangerous and politically volatile suspects.
If someone had asked him a few moments ago, he would have considered the practice very sensible. He still did. He was also aware of a very strong desire to see that Allura was an exception to the rule. Lotor braced a hand against the wall.
Why should it matter if she lived when he did not? It made no sense.
Perhaps it was his affection for her. He silently moved his arms to help Allura slip the ruined cloth down and away, keeping one hand on the wall at all times. Now that he knew his emotional weakness where she was concerned, it should be easy to keep it from affecting his decisions.
When Allura tugged at his waistband, he undid his belt one-handed, worked free the fastenings of his trousers. Even as tired as he was, he felt his body respond when she slipped her hands inside, her palms sliding along his hips.
“Don't get under the water yet,” she said, once he was bare. After a moment, he felt her bathe the area around his wound with a cloth she had made wet under the falling water. “Here, hold this.” He pressed the towel he was given to the wound, and then she guided him under the hot spray. What happened then, her hands on him, working soap through his hair, rubbing a wash cloth over his face, his shoulders, his chest... he knew he had experienced greater bliss, he must have, but at that moment, buffeted by steam, stroked by her hands and the water, he could not recall it. He felt both amusement and disappointment when she studiously avoided his sex, gave his legs a cursory rub, and declared him finished.
“You didn't apply conditioner.”
For a moment there was only the rush and patter of the water. “You had a brush with death, and now you're worried about fly-away hair?”
Her tone almost made him laugh out loud. “A man with my enemies should never look like he has bigger worries than the state of his hair.” It was true actually, but even if it weren't, he wanted her to fuss over him a little more.
Once it was done, he stood under the warm air and pretended to dry himself, and she pretended not to notice as he watched her bathe. She finished quickly, shut off the water and wrapped a towel around herself, departing the bathing room without looking his way or speaking to him.
It wasn't until he saw her step carefully around it that he noticed the shiny black object on the floor of the open shower area.
Stepping away from the warm air, he walked to it, moving carefully to avoid pulling on his wound. It was a Malus spine, just as he had suspected. As he watched, it seemed to blur faintly for a few seconds before falling still. If Allura hadn't been here, if she had been squeamish or foolish, cowardly or wicked, it would be doing that in his flesh right now, thwarting his body's ability to wall off toxins by working its way ever deeper. He went to fetch a drinking glass and a cloth. When he turned back, he saw the food taster inching closer to the spine, the ruby feathers on its head and back standing at half-mast and all of its whiskers on full alert. Frowning, Lotor stepped forward quickly and waved at the thing, making it spring silently away. Sitting down on his heels, he picked up the spine using the cloth and dropped it into the glass. After a moment he heard the glass sing when the spine vibrated again.
Allura might be difficult; she might inspire a depth of feeling he did not like, but there could be no doubt that he had been very fortunate in his choice of wife.
When he walked into their bed chamber, Allura was not in bed as he had expected. She was standing with her back to him. She had donned both a nightdress and a robe, but her arms were wrapped around herself as though she were cold.
He was surprised when he felt her jump a little when he laid a hand on her shoulder. It was obvious she was still sulking, but did she expect him to hurt her? Perhaps she did. He had done so not long before. He found he didn't like recalling it. It made his voice sharper than he intended when he spoke.
“Allura, come to bed now.”
Turning away before he could see her response, he got into bed, taking care not to ask too much of his recently-applied bandage; it had been awkward, but he'd managed.
He'd been looking forward to laying down again ever since he'd peeled himself off the floor--no, ever since he'd come in the door. But now, as he lowered his aching body to the mattress he found surprisingly little comfort in it. While he made a show of arranging the cover, she hovered by her side of the bed. For a moment, Lotor thought he might have to order her to sleep at his side. It was a relief when she pulled the cover back and got in. But his relief was short lived. She curled away from him, clearly not wishing contact with his body.
That was just too bad. He reached out and pulled her against him. She was stiff and unwilling in his arms, but he stubbornly held her there and willed himself to fall asleep. The wound would trouble him for a little while, but he should be almost recovered from the venom when he woke again.
He was exhausted, but sleep did not immediately come. He lay there in the familiar darkness, and made himself breathe deep and slow. It was impossible not to notice that Allura took two breaths for his every one. Imaginings of her at his father's tender mercies began to sneak into his thoughts, blossoming in the silence. As soon as he cut one down, another arose. They were not conducive to rest. The Princess of Arus had been one of his father's more recent and despised enemies, and he doubted Zarkon had forgotten that fact.
And just when he had those nightmares vanquished, he began to remember the way she had stiffened in pain under him only a few hours ago, her hands pushing him away. Allura was not asleep anymore than he was, and her clear unwillingness to be touched by him now was a potent reminder. Memories of warm nights on Nephalem came to torment him: of her sweet body moving over his with growing confidence, of her hands and lips soft against his skin, of her arms pulling him close...
Allura had always wanted him. He had seen it in her, even back in the days when she would do her utmost to drop him where he stood—perhaps especially then. Her response to him was everything he'd awaited, stronger even than her fierce will. There was no artifice to it, nothing practiced; it was as true as Allura herself, and all for him, only for him...
Now he found himself wondering if his rough handling had cost him that: one more priceless treasure smashed in a fit of temper. Perhaps forgiveness was not one of Allura's many sterling qualities. He found his mind shying away from the ramifications of this if it were true. The notion of forcing her into his bed was much less palatable than it had once been.
And what if he died in battle instead of being assassinated? Allura would hardly fare any better. She had no powerful family to demand her safe return. He held her closer, ignoring her squeak of protest. She was so vulnerable.
But she was far from helpless.
Abandoning his failed attempts at mental discipline, he released Allura and rolled out of bed. His body felt too heavy, but he was filled with purpose. He grabbed some pants out of a drawer.
It took only a few moments to figure out that there was no way to get into them without bending. He came around to Allura's side of the bed. She was sitting up in the darkness, wary, watching him. He handed the garment to her, pleased to see that she looked utterly bewildered—she also looked tired. No matter, this would not take long. Perhaps then both of them could rest. “Help me with these. There's something I need to show you.”
When it was finally done, and he lay down again, he finally felt the relief he'd been looking forward to. Relaxation spread through him like a balm; within moments he was on the brink of oblivion. This time, when he pulled Allura close, she was not stiff in his arms though she made no move to hold him in return. He wanted her to touch him... it was his last conscious thought before sleep claimed him.
Allura lay awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand what he had just done, trying to decide what she should think or do, but her eyes would not stay open, and she soon drifted into a troubled sleep.
***
Lotor woke to a state of alertness. He registered the pain of the wound, of the venom. It was better than he remembered, not much so as he would like. Perhaps he hadn't been asleep for very long.
He lay still, listening for whatever had woken him. Everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
Allura was no longer at his side. He slid his hand across the sheet; the place she had been was only a little warm. There came a faint scrabbling sound from the main room.
He sat up. She wasn't just gone from the bed. She was gone.
He knew it, but he didn't know why he was so certain. Then, in a moment of dream-like clarity, a pattern that had eluded him before became starkly obvious. Last night, he had thought it impossible that she would run away, and a week ago—even a few days ago—he would have been right. Not any longer.
Leaping out of bed—just as well he'd not bothered to get out of his pants again—he stepped into his boots and exited the bed chamber with long, rapid strides. If he hadn't already known where Allura had gone, the food taster's pitiful scratching at the hidden door made a mockery of its careful concealment. He didn't bother to close the narrow door behind himself, nor with the stairs, leaping from one landing to the next, aware of a building anger, with both himself and his troublesome wife.
He had made a miscalculation.
All of this time he thought she'd been accepting, even content in her life with him. A voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like his father's said, Fool! Idiot!
For a brief, entrancing time, she'd even seemed happy. She'd never expressed curiosity about the future, anger about the past, or worry for her own safety, but last night all of that had changed like the flipping of a switch, taking him completely by surprise. A surprised man was often a dead one.
His little warrior wife hadn't been accepting or content all of this time. Oh, no. She'd surrendered. It seemed so obvious now. In her bizarre little mind, she'd probably laid down her life in accepting his offer of marriage. Hardly flattering, but there it was. And now something had caused Allura to renege on that surrender. Something had brought his fierce lioness back from the dead.
First she had hit him, then she had told him she hated him—wasn't that exactly how it always used to go? In hindsight, an escape attempt had been inevitable. He should have seen it. Instead, he'd handed her the means on a silver platter. Lotor quickened his pace.
***
Allura primed the engines and watched the pre-flight check flash by on the console, resenting the time it took. She was not as certain about what she was doing as she would have liked, but she did know that she didn't want to be caught in the attempt.
She was going home.
The thought should have brought her joy, or—or something. Instead she felt a strange emptiness, a waiting.
Arus, her family, her people, she loved them as much as ever; it was a part of her that would never alter or diminish. Lotor would call it weakness, but it was the source of all her strength.
It was true that they were no longer what was familiar, and she was no longer the same. It had been 48 standard days—it felt like a lifetime—since she had tried to win anyone's approval; she found she liked that very well. During that same time, she'd had her fill of biting her tongue and doing as she was told. There would be clashes with Coran, and with Nanny, and likely Keith as well. After facing down a few of Lotor's little tantrums, that idea did not bother her. That was not the problem.
She had promised to be Lotor's wife, but that was not really the problem either. She had always reserved the right to cancel their devil's bargain—just as she had always assumed Lotor would do whenever it suited him.
Because I love you.
His words from the previous evening came back to her as they had done a number of times since.
Allura bit her lip. Lies came as easily as breathing to Lotor, and as she had opened the hidden door and traversed the passageway he'd shown her, every moment she had expected the trap to spring. She had been sure it was some sort of test or trick. But she had arrived at the private bay where he kept his ship without incident. There had been no alarms, no pursuit. The ship was fueled and ready to go, as always.
And as she had come to accept that escape route he had shown her was genuine, the ramifications of that began to present themselves. Her situation might be unbearable, but resolving it in this way was betraying an act of trust, maybe even an act of love. She wanted to rail against it, wanted to deny it, but she could not. The proof was all around her, in the healthy hum of the engines, affirmed as each system verified that it was ready to carry her wherever she wished to go.
Because it was Lotor, the consequences of her dishonor would be particularly great. He wielded a great deal of power, and if she betrayed him, some part of his cruelty would always be because of her. The thought was unbearable, but so was the thought of staying here—powerless.
It didn't help that she might be selling her soul and his to gain nothing more than a bloodbath. The night before, Lotor had claimed that his previous efforts at conquest had been little more than a show.
The lights began to blink, indicating that it was time to light the engines. She reached for the button.
She couldn't seem to make herself push it.
A little disgusted with herself, Allura sighed and flipped the switches back into the shutdown position with a chopping motion. She flung herself back in the seat; the cockpit was practically roomy without him in it.
For some minutes she sat there, staring at the console, chin on her hand. Her decision was made, but it had not brought her peace of mind.
Finally she sighed and stirred herself. The sooner she returned the better, though she had no great hopes that her attempt would go unnoticed.
She turned to see Lotor staring in at her from the other side of the glass, an unreadable expression on his face.
On to Chapter 17
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Date: 2010-01-04 06:50 am (UTC)Keep up the great work!
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Date: 2010-01-10 03:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-04 03:54 pm (UTC)Oh, the trials of being Lotor the strong.
The escape route was genuine. Her situation might be untenable, but resolving it in this way was betraying an act of trust, maybe even an act of love.
Allura made a choice not to leave but how will Lotor react - to her almost leaving?
She saved his life with her quick and forceful actions. And he worries about her future. Love the strong wills that both of them have.
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Date: 2010-01-11 04:16 am (UTC)In some ways it seems like they are a rare match for one another, but in other ways... wow, not so much. Thanks for reading. :)
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Date: 2010-01-04 07:15 pm (UTC)You already know I enjoyed this chapter! <3
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Date: 2010-01-11 04:18 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2010-01-11 04:59 am (UTC)You'll have to brace yourself cause ALlrua and Keith (ugh!) will have a sexual relationship, though nauhgty Lotor gets to her first! XD
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Date: 2010-01-05 11:20 pm (UTC)C.H.
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Date: 2010-01-11 04:20 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2010-02-09 04:56 am (UTC)This is also Completely Awesome
Date: 2010-03-29 02:08 pm (UTC)Oh, joy! Chapter 16. There is more--I'm so happy now.
Loved this. So this takes me back to all the "beginnings" I've ever read with Lotor and Allura where he claims to love her and she retorts with something along the lines of 'it's not love. If you loved me, you'd let me go.' And I always think that's sort of a cheap shot. I mean, from Lotor's point of view, that would be like saying, "if you had any regard for the air, then you'd stop breathing it in; it doesn't belong to you." And we all know that, so early in the game, if he let her go, she'd be gone. So what's an obsessed, warlord, demon Prince to do? Damned if you do; damned if you don't--it's all so unfair.
But now... with all their emotions all tangled into these delicious knots, he actually does 'let her go' by giving her this unthwarted escape route (and so innocently and trusting, worried about the whatif's of him dying without her--the line about what did it matter if she lived while he did not reminded me of Egyptian pharoah's taking it all with them)... And she stays! Which means she's his. (That's how the saying goes. You can't screw with the saying.)
But she HAD to try to leave... she had to get right to that point, right on the cusp of realizing her freedom so that she knew remaining was by her choosing. She can make excuses to herself about why she's staying, sure... but in the end, it all comes down to the fact that, in his own way, he gave her the freedom to stay. I wonder if he'll change the locks now... I just hope Lotor doesn't let his Lotorness blind him to the implications of her flipping that switch off (this chapter had all kinds of switches in it) and focus only on the attempt at leaving. Chapters ended with 'unreadable' expressions make me nervous.
Another brilliant, vicious yank on all my raw emotions, darling. Congrats.
~H
Re: This is also Completely Awesome
Date: 2010-03-31 11:17 pm (UTC)no subject
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