The razors on your seducing skin.
In the meadow of sinful thoughts
Every flower`s perfect to paradise… (- Nightwish)
15th century, England
He eyed the golden mane of her matted hair, streaked bronze with crusted dried blood; it was flowing past her shoulders, covering her breasts in soft curls. Her skin was pale white, her body mere skin and bones, causing her clothes hanging from her form like on a scarecrow in the midst of a barren field. She was shivering, he clearly saw the goose bumps spreading all over her exposed skin; the dungeon was cold and dank, even he felt slight tremors from the chill, while better dressed than she.
He lifted his gaze from her body to her face. Her eyes… though sunk and wearied… were the most beautiful moss green he ever saw in his entire life. They shone in the darkness, glittering with unshed tears that refused to fall, marking her as proud and defiant, not at all meek and obedient girl she should have been in these circumstances… or in life outside these bars before she was brought here. Her chin was held high as well… and to his utter enraged disappointment, she refused to look his way.
Lord William was mightily pissed by her dismissive behavior.
A witch and heretic; that’s what she was, he could tell. Even though she was in such a terrible state, his body responded to the vision of her, admiring the moonlight she wore beside her poor clothes and unwavering courage. Only a daughter of a devil himself could do that to him, could have such an impact on his senses, when he long ago discouraged himself from being attracted to any woman; they were all sinful creatures, bound to betray his trust one way or another.
And yet here he was, battling with himself and his inner demon that wanted a mate for committing sinful deeds. It was raging inside him, wanting to claim her, demanding it from him. That she was a witch he hadn’t doubted for a second. How on earth could he even remotely feel the pull toward this outcast of society, was beyond him. She was poor, the lowest of working class; an orphan with a shady past, condemning present and soon non existing future.
Also, not to forget, he was the one condemning her. Her and her damned nice lips, though thinned to a line drawn from displeasure, were created for kissing…
He was truly buggered.
His jaw clenched when she kept refusing to acknowledge his presence. He’d been standing there for at least five minutes and he was growing impatient, livid by the minute. He was not used to being ignored; usually his presence was right away reacted upon, if not by the looks of fear casting his way then by the knowledge of his higher ranks, his associations and his glaring title of a lord. Usually both.
He growled in displeasure. She will acknowledge him all right, sooner than she thinks.
Results wouldn’t be pretty, no doubt, but he was already used to gruesome sights of mangled bodies… perhaps bodies that looked even more beautiful than she… and he was going to get accustomed in seeing hers in that manner soon enough. William the Bloody is going to show the world how she was from inside: black and bruised, corrupted and for once truthful. No more the lying bitch of a witch he was sure that she was currently. Never again the pretty girl she was now still.
He schooled his features and hardened his jaw into a firm mask of indifference. He shook away the thoughts that would have described her as desirable, beautiful even, with a rare golden hair that fitted to royalty no less, and set his eyes to see what she really was: A sinner, an outcast, a condemned witch to be burned or drowned, she was.
But first, he needed a confession. And by God he would get it out of her no matter what. No matter how. Even if he’d have to wring it out of her by breaking bone after bone on her delectable body…
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She knew he was there even when she ignored his presence. The shock of white blonde hair - the color of the full moon - and his summer-sky eyes that were boring into her unpleasantly right now, would not discourage her from her more important thoughts.
Oh, she knew what she was accused of. Buffy Anne Summers was not in the least as witless as most of the town thought. She was only genuinely curious about who did it and why. Who was the person that lied about her so severely, that she was sitting here on the cold floor of the dungeon now, being accused of witchcraft and heresy?
She felt the stinging hot gaze of the Devil himself on the other side of her cell, and cursed her body for erupting in goose bumps in answer. Was he there to mock her, to persuade her that she is at fault here? Was he trying to seduce her and then prove everybody what a harlot she is, deserving of the punishment that was coming to her way undoubtedly?
She held her chin high, not letting him see the tears forming in her eyes. She knew she was innocent in all this and that would lend her enough strength to face with whatever is to come her way, even death.
The pain itself, as she expected they would inflict on her sooner or later, she was used to. Her body was even now shuddering from painful shivers she was trying her hardest to suppress, from the dank coldness of this place; dirty moisture was seeping into her clothes that were ripped so badly on some places, she was almost nude. Buffy clutched at the front of her blouse, holding ripped halves closed, not letting the Devil to see any more of her skin that he already had so far. He would not be her downfall.
She was even used to the pain she felt in her empty stomach for she hadn’t ate much in days. Winter was coming with a great pace and her stock of food was already too low.
She caught a glimpse of the blonde Devil and saw the hungry look in his eyes that were pasturing on her broken form. She hadn’t expected to survive this winter anyway.
But still, she hadn’t thought she would die like this. Being accused of something she had no knowledge of and then sent to burn on the pyre for the amusement of them all. She had no hope to be saved at all. She had no friends in this world; distancing herself from the rest of the towns-people all her life was the reason enough for that.
She meant nobody harm and yet harm came her way without side-stepping, leaving her with nothing but dull ache on the back of her head, blood on her thighs and dark cold cell, where she was to await the end of her time.
She saw the Devil finally leave, and, bowing her head, she let the tears fall on her lap.
TBC...