Dawn's Herald

They came into your cell in the night. Their grip took you by either arm and pulled you, effortlessly, out of the cot, out the cell. In delirium, your feet seemed to dangle and float a few inches from the hallway floor as they sped you through the chamber.

After what felt only a moment, you stopped spinning. The feeling of the cold floor on your feet made your skin constrict--tiles of a polished obsidian glass. The room held a thick velvet curtain across the far wall and it was unlighted, but for the meager ray of early morning's Venus shining through the skylight. You saw not my body, for it was concealed behind the curtain, but felt my immediacy.

Quietly but forcefully I commanded you to remove your clothes and kneel, sitting on your heels, with your forehead placed on the floor. In the shock and fatigue of early waking, you removed your smock revealing the labyrinth of gypsy ink markings blanketing your skin.

I called out, "Your body is a whithering flower. When you reach for the Morning Star you remind Him only of your putrid mortality. You offend Him in His boundless misery; your very existence is heresy. Will you recant, creature of failing flesh, will you repent before the Light Bringer, or will you simply continue to shiver and whimper?"

I stepped out from the curtain, my face veiled behind cloth of cobwebs. Wrapped in the crook of my arm, hung a massive coil of silk rope. With your forehead pressed to the cold floor, you felt me standing above you, gently gathering your hair. With the chord, I tied it back with a firm knot. The slack draped down your backbone and through your crevasse, reaching your ankles, which I bound together tightly. As I pulled the chord taut, your head lifted slowly from the floor, pulled by the root of your hair. The copper skin of your throat stretched and exposed itself as your head rolled farther back. Soon you sitting erect on your heels, held perfectly by the tension of the chord. Your eyes rolled back and you could see only the skylight and the Dawn's Herald.

My gloved hands grasped your wrist and bound it behind your back to the opposite calf so that your shoulder blades pressed together and shoulders rolled back into a tight contortion. You made no sound. I did not bind your throat, but instead removed my glove and placed my palm softly on the bowed curve of your elongated neck. My fingers wrapped gently around your throat. You feet and thighs were numb and the only sensation that remained was the sight of Venus and my waiting grasp on your windpipe.

My hand rested there, slack on your throat, for what seemed like hours. You knew in that moment I was concentrating on your pulse through my palm. This violation was unbearable: I could feel your heart beating, your warm blood. Naked and frightened, only now did you feel exposed. You fought welling tears and breathed deeply.

Almost imperceptibly, my grip began to constrict. All at once, you could feel your body again--the thick knots digging into your uncovered thigh, the dull tugging at the root of your hair. The tightening grasp thrilled you and I could feel your heart beating irregularly. On your knees with your back arched and eyes directed to heaven, I watched as you pulled in slow and labored breaths.

"Do not forget how fragile you are, tiny one. I hold your soul in the palm of my hand. I can squeeze it like ripe fruit."

Feeling each of your breaths running through my fingers, I clamped your throat shut, silencing your heavy wheezing. Your body was relaxed and your beautiful gypsy face grew to the color of blood in the light of the lone planet. I waited for only a moment, and then a cough, and I released your throat. You gasped, breathing in quickly and deeply, swooning in frightened ecstasy.

"Now, child, are you ready to beg for His forgiveness?"