Abruptly, Lydia came awake as the orc grabbed her arm with the strength of a vice and pulled her roughly out of her bed, her blanket falling to the floor, leaving her naked and cold. His grip hurt, but she did not scream or struggle. This was her life now. He had taken everything from her, the orc. Her home, her clothes, her dignity. She was his possession, his toy. For two weeks she had suffered every degradation, being passed around between slavers like a plaything. For two weeks, fettered and naked, each day was an endless stream of abuse. She had no more fight in her. She let herself cry quietly while the orc Jaraz pulled her out of the room.
She tripped once on her fetters as Jaraz passed through the common room where slavers sat around a table playing cards. They did not even look at her or make jokes about her. She had been a pretty girl once, and would be if given a chance to wash up, with a slim figure and long brown, almost blond hair, with soft blue eyes that drew one in and revealed her gentler spirit. Now she was a wreck. Not even a human, just a toy to fuck a few times a night. Her hair was lank and dirty, her eyes dull, tired and vacant, her body sore and sagging. She was used up. She felt old though she had not yet reached her twentieth year.
Wordlessly, Jaraz tossed her to the floor. She landed on her hands and knees and stayed that way. Better to stay. Better to not fight it. It wouldn't end sooner, but it would hurt less. She stared at the wall and heard the sound of Jaraz's trousers drop. Cold tears dripped down her face and fell off her chin to splash on the floor. She wanted to die. She wanted nothing more than to die. She did not want the Hearafter with her god Seinac. No, Seinac abandoned her. She wanted nothingness. She'd be better off if she had never existed.
He entered her. She choked on a sob and looked at the dirty floor. It didn't hurt so much anymore. She had become numb. His thrusts came in a rhythm now. His heavy breath came in rhythm. He disgusted her, he shamed her. He stank of ale and sweat. She disgusted and shamed herself to permit herself to give in.
Then abruptly he stopped. Something warm and wet sprayed on her back and hit the floor. She looked at it and gasped, horrified. Red drops of blood. The pain between her legs was sore, but it no longer came. She looked behind herself and to her horror, a dark clad woman held Jaraz's head back, his throat slit from ear to ear, his red blood rushing from his ruined neck. The assassin's blade dripped slow thick drops as she tossed Jaraz to the ground, a look of pure hatred and vindication in her hard sapphire eyes.
Suddenly free of the orc, Lydia scrambled into a corner and shrank away from the terrifying woman. Lydia trembled, shaking violently.
“Please no . . . don't kill me!,” she stammered beneath a whisper, before she even realized she was saying anything.
The assassin wiped her blade on Jaraz and then sheathed the weapon with a force that spoke of restrained anger. The woman was young. Very young. A woman yes, but not long past girlhood. Her pale face was framed by straight dark brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Her sharp blue eyes studied Lydia a moment. There was something about this woman that gnawed at Lydia.
“I'm not going to kill you,” the assassin said as if the thought was absurd. Lydia sniffed, taking in emotions that almost overwhelmed her. Who was this woman? She was a Darincedonian, that was a shocking revelation, but it was something else gnawing at her. She glanced down at Jaraz, who lay belly down, his trousers at his ankles and his face in a pool of blood.
The assassin bent down to Lydia's feet and began picking the lock to her fetters. “Do you have any clothes?” she asked.
Jaraz had stripped her in a shack before he bought her, destroyed even the scrap she had been forced to wear on the ship that brought her here. She had been naked since that terrible day, and every terrible day after. “That monster took them away from me.” He had taken everything from her.
The assassin pulled a blanket off the bed in the room and wrapped it around Lydia's shoulders comfortingly. The blanket was musty and smelled but was warm. She welcomed its embrace and held it tight around her body. The assassin, her rescuer, gave her a calming look, her sapphire eyes sympathetic. She held Lydia by the shoulder as she trembled.
Hope. Lydia now knew hope. Her fear diminished and a feeling of peace and serenity filled her soul. It was over. The nightmare was over. She could wake up now. She was going home. She looked at her rescuer and smiled.
This is sort of an excerpt from a book I am working on, except that this scene is being told from Lydia's PoV whereas in the book the assassin, one Suzetta Kernohan, is the PoV. In the book, Suzetta had been sold as a slave, molested by Jaraz and then later escaped. Now she returns to kill Jaraz and happens to rescue Lydia at the same time.
It's a bit of a gruesome story, a woman gets raped and that's never a fun topic to write. I wanted to find a way to describe her pain without going too far into the disgusting details. She is hopeless, basically serving as a sex slave for whatever the rest of her life will be. But I think this was worth writing because when I get to the next draft of the story I'll be able to put more detail into this scene, even though it will be from Suzetta's view point.
