Bastille Day Ch. 1

The fervor rises as a third prisoner is ceremoniously hoisted over the
square. Drawn to this
spectacle, Monica reacts as one of the throng, hooting and jeering as
the ragged, emancipated men
hang above them. The huge Master of Ceremonies bellows over the din,
"Perhaps our Lord and king
will save this child murderer from the sharp end of the guillotine".
He pauses, gauging the
response of the gathered thousands... "Perhaps Not" he laughs.

She is one with them, her voice and blood rising with theirs, a sheen
upon her skin as bodies press
about her. Conscious, as she is shouldered and tussled about, that
some hands move over her with
intent. Outwardly ignoring the fleeting grasps at her skirts. But
privately, growing more and more
aware of her body's reaction to the excitement, as it instinctively
moves back or presses forward
against open hands and errant fingers. She continues to make her way
closer to the platform.

A reed caught in the swell of fast rising water, she pushes herself
onward. Wanting, needing to be
closer. To see the anguish in these men's eyes; to watch as their look
shifts to a brief, yet
brilliant flash of hope as the moment looms ever closer; to witness
the final, dry, distant look as
all faith is crushed. Replaced by an overwhelming realization of doom.

Finally slipping softly between two large men, smiling up at one as
she achieves her destination at
the edge of the podium. Her timing is perfect. All eyes turn and
voices erupt as the fourth and
final candidate rises up behind the stage... his body lurching and
tossing about as the crude
pulleys propel him forward.

"or will our gracious lord have mercy upon this soul-less one? One
known to the church as a
proponent and master of the black arts?" The crowd stills as thousands
of minds take in the meaning
of these few words... then erupts again as the speaker chortles "would
you?"

She laughs and rejoins her voice to the crescendo as she looks up at
the new one...

Her voice falters... she looks away, wincing as if struck a blow.
Breathing deep, she stares into
the wooden floorboards before her. Then, recomposed, her eyes move
slowly upward and back to his.

These are not the eyes of the damned. Nor are they the eyes of one
with false hopes. They are
bright and pure, life flowing from them: true and unbridled life. Her
head spins slightly, the
ground tilting upward toward her. Her cheeks flush, hotly. A
hollowness consuming her as she
reaches out, steadying herself. Her world shaken at the thought that
this man is slated for death.
Her body slumps forward against the platform. Head resting on folded
arms. She looks wholly into
his grey-green eyes as they gaze back at her...through her...

Hope springs within her... she stands up. Strength flows through her.
Her young body taut. Her back
arcs like a bow. She lifts her hands. Cups them about her mouth and,
with all of her lungs, all of
her heart, cries out ...

"Free him. Oh God, free him!"

a ripple of awe flows away from her in an outward wave. Seconds later,
reciprocating waves resound off of her as the awe turns to
indignation, indignation to spite. The crowd turns all attention to
the source of this cruel interruption. They spit explicatives at her,
"Pagan!"… "Whore!" Rough hands grab at her, everyone about her
reaching out, working as one to silence her heresy. Realizing her
gaffe, she tries to run, to flee their wrath. In one brief moment, she
has managed to steal their animal frenzy… broken their blood high,
today’s pleasure lost. She is caught and roughhoused back.

Women scratching her flesh, men squeezing her hard. A hand crashes
into the side of her face and she stumbles… falls. As a mass of feet
and circle about her body, her soul dives inward: a fragile bird
retreating to the safety within. Darkness overcomes her…

Sore eyes flutter… she is aware of cool silk lying over her, under
her. A soft embroidered pillow cradles her head. She stirs slightly,
turning onto her back, and immediately cries out as a searing pain
stabs through her arm. Her memories flood back at once… and she begins
to cry.

A deep, soft voice enters her, "It hurts?" "Of course it hurts" he
scolds himself as fingers move along her neck.

She tries to pull away, wincing as lightening erupts in her head.

"No girl. Stay still now. I only want to help you." His voice flows
into her like cool water. She slowly turns her head in his direction,
eyes seeking him out.

His fingers arrest her movement as they close over the fleshy muscle
where her shoulder and arm meet, fingers suddenly applying firm
pressure along the joint. Another hand grasps her elbow and, without
warning, rips it outward. She screams out as her shoulder flares, her
arm being torn from her. Somewhere within her mind, the tiny bird
screams with her and cowers within its shrinking sanctuary.

She floats between worlds… aware of a soft "cooing". Cold water flows
over her shoulder, the pain a memory. The refreshing coolness washes
over her chest along her ribs. Her skin rippling with gooseflesh as
the welcome rush flows across her hips, over her thighs and rivulets
between her legs, down to her sex.

Her eyes open much slower this time. She drinks in the night air as
she listens to his soft voice again. Aware now that her body is
uncovered, unclothed. She shivers as his hand runs the soft sponge
along her calves, icy cold water dripping behind her knee.

"Ah, you will live after all" he chuckles as he gently places her leg
down. Moving to her side, he drops his hand into a bucket, squeezes
the sponge once, then strokes it up her stomach…. He leans closer as
the sponge squishes along between her breasts… over her chest. Once
there, moving to stroke at her hot neck and throat. "Feeling a bit
better my love?". He lifts the sponge over her as long fingers gently
milk cold droplets into her mouth. She opens her lips, welcomes the
gift.

"Who are you?". A light flares beside her. Hands cupping flame as a
candle is lit. She is not shocked when his face turns to her. His eyes
alighting upon her. "You".. then "thank you".

"No. thank you. Another today heard your words. The king spared us
all. Though we will never be freed." He shrugs as his hands guide the
sponge over her shoulder again. The pain is much less.

"I’m sorry I had to hurt you earlier," his words melt into her, "but
without it, your shoulder would never have healed."

"Why am I here. Why are you here?"

"Shhh… rest now", he whispers. "I asked the king to allow me to thank
you for your bravery. He complied graciously. I have two days to treat
your bruises".

She glances about the room, the candlelight dancing off teak and
silver. Painted bodies dancing on a tapestry. Their forms moving
together in the candlelight. For the first time today, she closes her
eyes from comfort as he "coos" lightly. Her comfort kindling pleasure
as cool, light fingers trail icy liquid along the curve of her breast.
Circling about taut nipples...