She doesn't consider herself a woman of many constraints, but there's one special pleasure she saves for herself one night every year. Ever since she and her brother brought new meaning to the word "harvest," her subjects' celebrations of their own harvests have seemed like a charade, like a dog dressed in a suit, trying to walk upright. On the night of the celebrations she walks through the streets, bathed in the orange light of the lampposts. She can hear toasting and singing from inside houses, drunken coquettish whispers from couples behind bushes and wagons, and music and whooping from the tavern up ahead.
Her entrance into the tavern is inconspicuous; these people all know who their ruler is, but they won't recognize her tonight. People are dancing, others drinking and flirting, as she sits at an empty table and begins her hunt. She surveys the partiers. Someone hands her some ale. She spots a man near the bar, standing alone. Married? she wonders, Family? Clean clothes, well kempt, he looks like a virtuous man. I knew one had to exist somewhere in this city.
She chose a modest dress for tonight, yet it doesn't completely hide her figure. She notices men all around stealing looks at her. She's aware that they aren't panicking--which is what happens in most circumstances when anyone from the city finds themselves in her presence. Whereas most nights she dresses to come across as intensely threatening, tonight she feels, and looks, comely. She is disguised, as she put it to her attendants, "not like those miniature trollops from which my brother is always smacking his lips."
She's caught the eye of her kind, honest prey. She smiles softly but devilishly, and peers at him through her eyelashes. Her cheeks are feeling increasingly warm. It feels, she understands, like blushing, but she knows she's sensing the body heat from others around her. The man looks into his mug and turns away, pretending to ignore her. Guilt. You are the right man for me. Not wanting this one to get away, she leaves the table and approaches him. He continues to ignore her and she leans in close to his ear. She can hear the cacophonous pounding of his heart. "You seem like a kind soul," she speaks. He faces her, failing at nonchalance, and she continues. "The inn is full and I have nowhere to stay. I'm desperate for a bed."
He blinks many many times. "Well," he says. "Not right for a lady to be out alone on such a special night. Not sure I can help you though..."
"Oh? Would your wife frown upon you taking in a stranger like me?"
The man swallows hard. "Yeah, well, my kids do all fill one bed, and my wife and I are in the other." His eyes darted around the tavern, then he leans in to speak. "There may be a barn nearby where I can make you comfortable." He raises his mug to her as if it were a more subtle way of winking and nodding slowly.
"Pity I won't get to meet your family... But you really are a kind soul," she smiles. "Do you believe that kindness exists in all human souls?"
"I think that if you look for it you'll always find it. Wanna get out of this stuffy place?"
They walk outside, the moon low, milky, and fat. "What's your name? What brings you to this town?" he asks her.
"I want to learn things," she replies. "You said there's kindness in the souls of humans. Does that mean there is malice too?"
"I guess so... Why else would souls exist if not to determine someone's character? We're going that way by the way."
"We're going this way." She turns and walks into a dim alley; the orange light slips from her, letting her figure melt into the darkness. "It's not enough for me to just wonder whether humans have moral souls, assuming for a moment that they are vessels for more than just blood and filth." She stops, keeping her back turned to the confused man. "Morals... they're the corruption. Your 'soul' is an insidious taint on human nature. Let it go and submit to Aeron's blessing. You can feel your blood burn in your head, can't you? Feel it seer away what you call your 'self.'"
She listens, hears his feet shifting, sliding toward her. His footfalls become loud stamps as he rushes to her and grabs her around the waist and by the hair. He forces her to the wall, face first, and puts his forearm against her neck. He positions a worn hunting knife at her throat and she feels his weight shift downward and press harder. "Struggle and I'll gut you!" he rasps hotly in her ear.
"Oh good," she coughs, "you brought a knife."
He pulls her backward and throws her to the alley floor. He straddles her and presses the flat edge of his knife against her neck. "Don'tcha move."
"Don't hold back!" she spits. She swings at him and claws his face; blood wells in the gashes. He punches her, letting all his weight and leverage fall with his fist. The hard ground offers no recoil for her head and she falls into a dazed euphoria. She lets out sputtering giggles as he turns his knife to her dress.
She and her brother have always had their own favorite pastimes when it comes to decadence and depravity. Some they talk about, others not--I hope he's got things he doesn't tell me about. It would be sad if playing with his dollies is the best he can come up with... His ridiculous tea parties are what ruined that experience for me. How boring that must get, with each girl looking more and more like the last. "I am a man of refined taste," he says. "You lack imagination. Is it the boredom of immortality that drives you? Are we all capable of this?" "I'm just glad I have an entire eternity in which to develop my palette."
When she comes to she finds herself fully exposed to the night air, her chest and belly sliced by his sloppy undressing. The man has fully committed himself to destroying her and she releases a howl of masochistic delight.
"Shut'cher mouth!" the man growls, nearly incomprehensibly. He punches her again, then braces his hand against her throat, locking his elbow and leaning his weight forward. Her broken face is shining with ecstasy. She struggles against his arm and her choking turns into cackles, her maniac eyes fixed on the fires within his. A single lucid heartbeat quells those flames, and she sees in his eyes shadows of fear. She howls again into the night, high-pitched and excited. The man picks up his knife and plunges it into her chest. He lifts it high and stabs her repeatedly. Her howling is interrupted as her lungs are pierced, her satisfaction expressed in hoarse gasps. She fixates closely on the fear and rage in his eyes, and then the spell over him is broken.
He stumbles off her, his face frozen in pure terror. She's still laughing, choking and gurgling on ichor. Now comes the fun part,; she would speak if she could, but she's sure he can understand her anyway. What will you do now? Go home to your family and forget? Can you even try to live with this? Will you desire more, the animal awoken, the illusion of soul dispelled? Or will you kill yourself? I bet that's what you'll do. The severance of one's "soul" is not something you people recover from easily, despite it being just a comforting lie you tell yourselves to deny your true desires. I'm kidding myself when I think I can learn from you animals; the more I learn the more I realize I've always known the truth.
The man staggers to his feet and runs away, holding his trousers around his waist. He stumbles past a couple walking hand in hand down the street. Confused, they look around and see her lying in the moonlight. "Oh god!" one of them yells and rushes toward her. "Are you all right? Can you talk? Honey, go get help!" Wiping fluid from her mouth, the woman slowly stands up. The passersby shudder at her naked, lacerated body. The woman sneers at them, turns, and walks off into the darkness.
