Rating: R
Summary: for the Poetry Lyric Wheel -- a crucial moment in one woman's history.
Disclaimers: standard disclaimers apply
Archiving: Archive freely.
Notes: Thanks to Carin for the inspirational poem! I truly hope that nothing in here contradicts canon -- there are still some eps of HL: TS that I haven't seen. But soon, I will have cable again...
Invictus
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The women had been snatched from their homes or from their fields
without warning, with just a few silver bits thrown at their families'
feet for payment. But they weren't confused -- Hammur was carrying out
his father's tradition of tribute.
They huddled in the scant shade of the mud-brick wall, in the dusty
courtyard. One woman among them was different. She looked a bit older,
and there was nothing she could do to disguise that. But all the other
differences, she hid as well as she could.
Cassandra had put herself in the way of Hammur's warriors, hoping to be
taken here to his palace. When they swept through the village looking
for fresh playthings for their leader, she had used all the little
tricks of the flesh she could muster, every subtle gesture she could
command, to look like a ripe young thing who just might turn wanton
under the right man's hands. They fell for it.
Hammur's majordomo emerged with a few guards. They ushered the women
into the servants' quarters, where their poor rags were stripped from
them. Cassandra didn't have to pretend to flinch from the leers and the
fondling; her revulsion was real. The young women around her might be
more fearful, but none could be more sickened then she. None of them
could recall years and years of such treatment, decades of filthy,
intruding hands, centuries of casual rape and brutality. Bile rose in
her throat, and she almost spit it at the greasy guard who held her
wrists and dragged her through the corridor.
Tonight, or perhaps tomorrow, would be the last time she would ever
endure this.
The women were taken, unwashed, to Hammur's audience chamber. Hammur
sat in a leather chair on a low dias, surrounded by his advisors and his
honored guests: the neighboring lord, Artarabi, and his party.
She studied Hammur, looking for signs of his heritage. Like his father,
he would run to fat in middle-age... if he lived that long. He had the
same wide nose, but his jaw was different... And his eyes --
He was staring at her! She slowly lowered her head and let her hair
drape over her face. There was no way he could recognize her. He had
been but a young boy when his father had kept and killed Cassandra. She
pretended to try to hide herself, as the other women did, but she made
sure that her faint-hearted struggles showed off her attractions to
their best effect. She *had* to be chosen by one of the two lords.
Indeed, she was chosen by Hammur himself. Laughing, the men concluded
their statecraft, and retired to their chambers with their new women.
**************************
Hammur was impatient. No bathing. No eating or drinking. No talk.
Before the guard had even left the room, he grabbed her breast and
squeezed.
He pushed her back on the pile of furs that was his bed. "Pretty girl,
so round here," another deep pinch to her bosom, "but so thin. You will
fatten up now." Keeping her held in place with a hairy leg, he stripped
off his ceremonial armor and his light robes. "Damn it, that buckle...
unhook me, wench."
Her hands were shaking with rage as she reached out to his clothes. The
words, the words were buzzing in her mouth like wild bees. She could
use them now! She could tell him to drive his dagger into his own eye,
or have him castrate himself and throw his balls out the window to the
garden of his wives. But she bit back the words, no matter how much
they stung her. Now was not the time. If it happened now, she would be
blamed.
And so she touched his sweaty robes. She let him press her back to the
furs, and mount her. She let him thrust and spend in her.
When he left her, he said, "Asanna will come with water and new
clothes. She'll show you how to put them on."
But she wasn't to be left alone. The guard came in. He sat and stared
at her. His eyes were more probing than Hammur's unimpressive flesh had
been. She pulled a fur over herself and turned to the wall.
****************************
Maybe she was the fool. Maybe the words wouldn't work.
When she had come down from the hills, she had been strangely unwilling
to test her new gift on some trivial purpose. She could have told a
merchant in the market to give her a flask of oil for free. She could
have told a passing shepherd to stand on his head. But she couldn't
bring herself to do it. She feared that the words would somehow escape,
fly away, and she would be left without her revenge.
But if they didn't work... she would be trapped in this palace, with
these men, for another "lifetime".
No one could imagine what she had sacrificed for those words, for that
voice. The old hag had seen her come back to life after another murder,
out on a desolate track through the hills. She told Cassandra that she
had a weapon for her, a weapon better than any sword of bronze. She
proved it. She told Cassandra to touch herself, and laughed wickedly at
the horror in Cassandra's eyes as her limbs fought to do the old crone's
bidding.
"I can teach you this weapon. All I need is some blood."
"How much?"
"All of it!"
Cassandra tried to bargain, but the old woman just chanted, "All of it!
All of it!" and capered around.
And so Cassandra found herself strung upside-down in the woman's cave.
She brought a filthy knife to Cassandra's throat, and Cassandra
shrieked. "Not the throat! My arms, use my arms!" The woman cackled
-- she seemed to know what Cassandra's reaction would be.
She slashed long gashes down the length of each arm. Cassandra bled and
bled. Red gouts splashed up against her face. As each cut healed, the hag would slash it open again, until so much blood was gone that Cassandra died once again.
When she awoke, there were no potions. No ointments, no charms. The old
woman simply massaged Cassandra's throat, and then began to train her.
Day after day, endless hours, Cassandra would grunt, hoot, scream, moan,
shriek... some noises the woman liked better than others, but Cassandra could not tell what made the difference.
The dry canyons would ring with the fierce, horrible noises. Any passerby would think it a haunt of ghosts, djinns, or demons. Sometimes her throat grew so sore that she could make no noise at all. She would sulk in the cave for days as the old woman charmed rabbits and gazelles up to the very door of the cave, and then slew them for dinner.
But one day, she made a sound. It was a scream that set off strange shivers in all her bones. Her ribs, her collarbones, her skull, her teeth -- all felt as if a great drum were being beaten inside her chest, as if she herself was the instrument. The hag yelled in encouragement. Cassandra did not dare stop making noise, lest she lose the trick, and lose the power coursing through her.
The hag grabbed her wrist and led her away over the hills in the arid twilight, searching for a living thing on which Cassandra could test her new gift. They found a jackal and a family of little foxes, with wide eyes shining pale like the new-risen moon. Cassandra charmed them. They all came to her, and they bowed and leapt before her as she bade them.
Cassandra stayed some days with the woman, until she was sure she could summon the power whenever she wished. But she was eager to begin her plans for revenge, and left soon after.
Hammur's father owed her a lesser debt than some other men, mortal and immortal, but Hammur was closest, and thus he would pay first.
********************************
Asanna came with a ewer of water for washing up and with robes of thin, fine-woven linen. She draped these artfully around Cassandra, covering almost none of her, and then held the arrangement in place with a wide belt of gold-embossed leather. Heavy gold jewelry followed.
"You'll be waiting on the king at the feast. Fill his cup and his bowl when they run low, and stay out of his way unless he wants you."
The banquet hall was opulent. A wide, low table was surrounded by bright rugs and cushions, and silken hangings covered the walls. As soon as the serving women were in place, the men arrived. Hammur groped her absently a few times as she poured the dark wine and served the fragrant lamb stew, but he was occupied with his noble guests.
So was Cassandra. She listened carefully for her opening.
"Keshmut is a fine oasis," Artarabi was saying. "The date palms there grow fruit that is as plump and sweet as any I have ever tasted. You are lucky to have it in your posession."
Cassandra summoned the buzzing, drumming power inside, and whispered in Hammur's ear as she leaned over with the pitcher of wine, "He wants to take it from you. You must kill him before he steals your land."
Hammur half-turned with a puzzled look. She whispered again, her hair veiling her face from the rest of the guests, "You must listen to me. You must kill him before it is too late."
He turned back to the table. "Yes, it is fine, and I am lucky. And you, you betraying son of a whore, are not!" He hurtled across the table, drawing his dagger from his hip as he sent all the dishes flying. Artarabi's men had no time to react before Hammur had slit their lord's throat as if he were butchering a sheep.
But they had plenty of time for vengeance. Their gleaming knives were drawn, and Hammur died. Hammur's guards were on top of them only a moment later. Before Cassandra could slip out of the room, a freshly killed corpse was shoved against her and she tumbled down under its weight. Blood spattered on her face, across her lips. But she was grinning nevertheless. She crawled out from under the body and left the scene of her triumph.
In the hall, she could hear men approaching, drawn by the sounds of combat. For a moment she cringed and stooped, drawing herself into the innocuous guise of a frightened servant. But then she recollected her new power. As the guards skidded around the corner, she stood straight and smiled her blood-spattered smile. "I shall pass."
They let her go without a word or gesture against her. Her head was bloody but unbowed, and finally, for the first time since immortality had been thrust upon her, she was master of her own fate.
*******************************
"Invictus"
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as a Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud,
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years Finds,
and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how straight the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
- William Ernest Henley 1875