Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it.
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1 Chapter 3
1.1 Five Weeks Later
Resting one hand on her stomach, Tersa d'Azraelle – that ungrateful bitch who Dorothea had hoped never to see again, much less be forced to host for nine months – affectionately touched the frame of the tangled web that she had just finished weaving. Dorothea felt her face slipping into a glower at the sight of the bitch doing what no one but Hayll's Black Widows should be allowed to do, but caught herself in time. Calm. Calm. She couldn't allow her desire to tear out the bitch's throat to get in the way of her plans.
And she didn't dare deny Tersa the right to weave tangled webs. Not with the way that bastard at SaDiablo Hall had insisted. She cursed the need to not arouse any suspicions – Hekatah had been all too clear on that score – but otherwise bided her time, counting down the days until the High Lord's brat was due and she would finally have her dark-Jeweled pet. Calm. Calm.
"Priestess," Tersa called, looking up.
Dorothea smiled painfully. "Yes?" Now why would the woman want to talk to her? Usually they avoided each other as much as possible, hardly bothering to keep up the pretense that they didn't loathe each other.
"Is the High Lord here?"
Dorothea's eyes blazed in spite of herself. To think that the bitch dared relegate her – the High Priestess and most influential witch in Hayll – to the role of a messenger! Remembering the fate of the messenger who had first told her of the High Lord's choice, however, and knowing what the High Lord was capable of, she smiled sweetly and said, "I'm not sure, Sister." She paused. "Perhaps you could try and find him yourself – oh, I'm so sorry. I forgot about your… condition."
Tersa returned the smile with equal venom. "Thank you, Priestess. I'll do just that."
Still seething, Dorothea turned on her heel, intending to do some therapeutic pottery-smashing – in the months since she had received news of the High Lord's choice, a new industry had sprung up in Draega to support the High Priestess' new stress-relieving habit – but stopped as a new thought struck her. She forced herself to continue walking when she noticed Tersa's gaze on her.
Recently, Prythian had been sending her increasingly distressed messages about a rebellious young journeymaid Black Widow with too much strength for her own good. Normally, Dorothea would have told her to simply break the bitch and have done, but this witch interested her. Prythian had said that the girl wore an Opal Jewel, with the potential to wear the Red. Dorothea knew that it was foolish to be superstitious about a witch with her exact Jewel strength, but –
She knew, however long-lived a race Hayllians were, and even if she became demon-dead like Hekatah, that she wouldn't live forever. She had always known that. But if this girl, a young, strong witch – a young, strong, impressionable witch – could be molded into a fitting successor…
Quickening her step, she hurried toward her rooms to give a few orders. Prythian was sending the girl – Luthvian, she thought the name was – to Hayll today, as per Dorothea's instructions. If the girl could be taught, all well and good, but if she couldn't… well, there were other ways to relieve stress than to smash dinnerware against the wall. Besides, her guards were getting surly from lack of activity. This girl, if she proved recalcitrant, would undoubtedly be a fitting entertainment for them.
Among other things.
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Tersa briefly watched Dorothea hurry away, but soon turned back to her tangled web. She had neither the patience nor the stomach to consider Dorothea's perversions for an extended period of time, nor was she particularly interested in them right now.
Particularly not now.
Softer than a breath, she gently tapped one of the strands of the web, wincing at the sudden onrush of impressions. A young witch, holding a set of scales, trying to decide which side she would give the extra weight of the feather that she held in one hand. Dorothea, holding the young witch's hand, squeezing it so hard that blood dripped from the tips of her delicate fingers.
Two paths.
One was Dorothea's path, the tainted one. Sitting at the foot of Dorothea's throne, the High Priestess' pet and successor. The second was the route that Tersa had taken – the path of a broken witch. Red-Jeweled strength oozing between her fingers as the body and mind were violated, body mutilated, mind gently easing itself into the sweet light/darkness of the Twisted Kingdom, blood, blood, blood, too much blood, so much blood, violated, violated, I am violated, I am –
No.
Tersa raised a shaking hand to her brow, extricating her mind from the tangled web. She couldn't afford to go mad, to slip into the Twisted Kingdom. Not yet. She had to see clearly, or Dorothea would triumph. It was as simple as that.
Steeling herself, she looked once more into the tangled web.
Ah. How could she have been so foolish as to think that there were only two paths? There were more, so many more.
Following any of the options that Dorothea allowed would only lead to the first two options. But if the witch's Virgin Night was given to a male who was not under Dorothea's control – the High Lord, say – the possibilities began to bloom like flowers.
Her eyes widened when she saw what that would lead to, and she began to laugh softly. Not triumphant laughter, but the breathless, giddy laughter of one who has climbed an insurmountable obstacle and has no breath to do anything but laugh.
Oh, yes, she would take Dorothea's advice.
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1 Chapter 3
1.1 Five Weeks Later
Resting one hand on her stomach, Tersa d'Azraelle – that ungrateful bitch who Dorothea had hoped never to see again, much less be forced to host for nine months – affectionately touched the frame of the tangled web that she had just finished weaving. Dorothea felt her face slipping into a glower at the sight of the bitch doing what no one but Hayll's Black Widows should be allowed to do, but caught herself in time. Calm. Calm. She couldn't allow her desire to tear out the bitch's throat to get in the way of her plans.
And she didn't dare deny Tersa the right to weave tangled webs. Not with the way that bastard at SaDiablo Hall had insisted. She cursed the need to not arouse any suspicions – Hekatah had been all too clear on that score – but otherwise bided her time, counting down the days until the High Lord's brat was due and she would finally have her dark-Jeweled pet. Calm. Calm.
"Priestess," Tersa called, looking up.
Dorothea smiled painfully. "Yes?" Now why would the woman want to talk to her? Usually they avoided each other as much as possible, hardly bothering to keep up the pretense that they didn't loathe each other.
"Is the High Lord here?"
Dorothea's eyes blazed in spite of herself. To think that the bitch dared relegate her – the High Priestess and most influential witch in Hayll – to the role of a messenger! Remembering the fate of the messenger who had first told her of the High Lord's choice, however, and knowing what the High Lord was capable of, she smiled sweetly and said, "I'm not sure, Sister." She paused. "Perhaps you could try and find him yourself – oh, I'm so sorry. I forgot about your… condition."
Tersa returned the smile with equal venom. "Thank you, Priestess. I'll do just that."
Still seething, Dorothea turned on her heel, intending to do some therapeutic pottery-smashing – in the months since she had received news of the High Lord's choice, a new industry had sprung up in Draega to support the High Priestess' new stress-relieving habit – but stopped as a new thought struck her. She forced herself to continue walking when she noticed Tersa's gaze on her.
Recently, Prythian had been sending her increasingly distressed messages about a rebellious young journeymaid Black Widow with too much strength for her own good. Normally, Dorothea would have told her to simply break the bitch and have done, but this witch interested her. Prythian had said that the girl wore an Opal Jewel, with the potential to wear the Red. Dorothea knew that it was foolish to be superstitious about a witch with her exact Jewel strength, but –
She knew, however long-lived a race Hayllians were, and even if she became demon-dead like Hekatah, that she wouldn't live forever. She had always known that. But if this girl, a young, strong witch – a young, strong, impressionable witch – could be molded into a fitting successor…
Quickening her step, she hurried toward her rooms to give a few orders. Prythian was sending the girl – Luthvian, she thought the name was – to Hayll today, as per Dorothea's instructions. If the girl could be taught, all well and good, but if she couldn't… well, there were other ways to relieve stress than to smash dinnerware against the wall. Besides, her guards were getting surly from lack of activity. This girl, if she proved recalcitrant, would undoubtedly be a fitting entertainment for them.
Among other things.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Tersa briefly watched Dorothea hurry away, but soon turned back to her tangled web. She had neither the patience nor the stomach to consider Dorothea's perversions for an extended period of time, nor was she particularly interested in them right now.
Particularly not now.
Softer than a breath, she gently tapped one of the strands of the web, wincing at the sudden onrush of impressions. A young witch, holding a set of scales, trying to decide which side she would give the extra weight of the feather that she held in one hand. Dorothea, holding the young witch's hand, squeezing it so hard that blood dripped from the tips of her delicate fingers.
Two paths.
One was Dorothea's path, the tainted one. Sitting at the foot of Dorothea's throne, the High Priestess' pet and successor. The second was the route that Tersa had taken – the path of a broken witch. Red-Jeweled strength oozing between her fingers as the body and mind were violated, body mutilated, mind gently easing itself into the sweet light/darkness of the Twisted Kingdom, blood, blood, blood, too much blood, so much blood, violated, violated, I am violated, I am –
No.
Tersa raised a shaking hand to her brow, extricating her mind from the tangled web. She couldn't afford to go mad, to slip into the Twisted Kingdom. Not yet. She had to see clearly, or Dorothea would triumph. It was as simple as that.
Steeling herself, she looked once more into the tangled web.
Ah. How could she have been so foolish as to think that there were only two paths? There were more, so many more.
Following any of the options that Dorothea allowed would only lead to the first two options. But if the witch's Virgin Night was given to a male who was not under Dorothea's control – the High Lord, say – the possibilities began to bloom like flowers.
Her eyes widened when she saw what that would lead to, and she began to laugh softly. Not triumphant laughter, but the breathless, giddy laughter of one who has climbed an insurmountable obstacle and has no breath to do anything but laugh.
Oh, yes, she would take Dorothea's advice.