The next three days were much the same- we spent the day sequestered within our tent, sleeping for the most part; the early evening feasting with Holofernes and his men; and the night next to the magicked spring, praying (or in my case, gritting my teeth impatiently). Putting aside the fact that we were surrounded by soldiers who wished to slaughter our town, it was not a wholly unpleasant time. The men of the camp became more friendly towards us, and less suspicious- although they eyed my Slayer with no less lust. I was grateful we had the protection of Holofernes upon us, for I was not certain how well they’d have restrained themselves, otherwise.
But I was not entirely certain how long that protection would last, either. I watched him watching her, and watched his cold eyes slowly warm. Demon he may be, but apparently even he had his mortal appetites. When I tried to warn my Slayer of this on the fourth night beside the spring, she nodded with satisfaction. “Yes,” she said. “It is as I’ve hoped. And I think tomorrow the God of gods will use that to our benefit.”
“Oh excellent,” I muttered to myself as she immersed herself within the wall of water. “I cannot wait to see how we’re to turn rape to salvation.”
When the invitation for that evening’s meal came, there was altogether a different tone to it, on that was more formal, more… expectant. My Slayer smiled and said she would, as always, be honored to sup in the presence of the great Holofernes, and said, shyly, that she had in her possession a bottle of wine- perhaps, if the messanger thought Holofernes would not take offense, she would bring it. The messenger assured her that his master would never take offense at a beautiful woman drinking wine, be it her own or another’s. After the man had gone, my Slayer had me help her with her robes and makeup, preparing herself much as she’d done the night we’d “escaped”. But there was one subtle difference, something that had more to do with her carriage than her adornment; whereas before she had appeared beautiful but distant, like the untouchable stars, there was now an unmistakable invitation about her appearance, one I did not like.
“Stop scowling, Ku-Aya,” she said softly. “You were the one who taught me a Slayer must use every weapon she can lay her hands on.”
I opened my mouth to argue this point, found I could not, and shut it again. And, with great effort, stopped scowling.
I preceded my Slayer into the tent, and found that the wine was already flowing quite freely. It was a smaller gathering than normal, and as I took my accustomed place in the corner I quietly made note of who was in attendance. Only his most favored aides and officers, it seemed, all of whom, when they saw my Slayer, shot Holofernes looks of mingled pleasure and envy.
Once she had seated herself and the servants had poured her wine into a goblet, my Slayer raised it in toast to Holofernes.
“These few cakes and this flask of wine are the last of my provisions, my Lord,” she said, her voice soft and dark as soot. “I trust that by the time I finish them tonight, you will have what is due to you from a servant as humble as I.”
The men cheered at this, and Holofernes did not quite conceal a smirk as he raised his goblet in return. The two of them drank deeply, eyes locked on one another. I saw a small shiver cross my Slayer’s skin, and I wondered at her anticipation. Was it for the kill? Or for another, equally primal urge?
Then again, they say that for a Slayer, the two are intertwined.
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