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Kyrie Eleison
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Subject: STORY: Kyrie Eleison
This story is a joint effort between two very different people who
have co-existed -- on one level or another -- for a very long time.
Because of their special relationship, they have chosen to write
this story from one point of view. That point of view is Lorendil's,
but a good deal of the perception and imagery belongs to Lothie.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real persons, living
or dead, is a paranoid delusion on the part of the reader.
Thank you, Leigha, for your help.
KYRIE ELEISON -- by Lorendil and Lothiriel. Please reproduce this
file intact, with foreword. Copyright 1993.
Kyrie Eleison: where I'm going, will you follow?
It seemed as if I had been standing there a long time, chained upright,
my hands over my head, my legs spread. My arms were tired but not
numb, and my ankles felt chafed. My body hurt as if it were on fire.
I swam to consciousness from the evil dreams that had brought me
there, and I looked my enemy squarely in the face. What I saw looking
back at me was more frightening than the most savage visage. I felt
my knees buckle as I stared hopelessly.
My enemy was a beautiful woman, in the prime of her strength and
beauty, a vision of rose and gold. Her eyes were clear as pure
ice water; her mouth was stretched in a cruel smile; in her hands
she held a braided whip. I stood, knowing that even if I were not
chained I would be utterly immobile, and I saw her lips move.
"Your safe word, Prince."
As if from far away I heard my own voice. "Kyrie eleison."
She threw back her head and laughed. "You have doomed yourself, Prince.
You will never use that word until you are beyond the gates of death.
And I will have no mercy on you."
I bowed my head. "So be it."
The lash of her whip struck my face, a little under my eye. I did not
dare even flinch as she rained blows all over my face and upper chest.
Blood streamed from the cuts on my face, and blood ran from my nipples
where the stiff lash cut them again and again. When the blows stopped,
I permitted myself t shudder violently once. My enemy stepped close to
me.
"I will destroy you, Prince," she whispered. I looked into her ice-clear
eyes again, and I knew that she had not even begun. She moved closer to
me and kissed my lips, tasting my blood. I had expected her lips to be as
cold as her eyes, but they were warm and soft, and her tongue was sweet.
I gave myself to her mouth, but she stopped just short of sucking my
soul through my lips. Her mouth moved down, licking up the blood from
all my various cuts. When she came to my nipples, she sucked at them,
nursing the blood from their wounds, alternately biting and lapping.
I was aware my penis was stiff, but it didn't seem to matter. Raping the
body is a small thing. Raping the spirit is what counts. This woman
intended to take everything I was and destroy it, and I knew that I
could not stop her. All I had to offer was the resistance of my spirit;
but I also knew that by bringing me to this in the first place she had
won half the battle. I remembered, irrelevantly, the saying that
possession is nine-tenths of the law.
Her nails raked my face, bringing me out of my reverie. I looked at her,
trying to keep the despair out of my eyes. It didn't matter; she knew
she had me. I wondered how long it would be before I started begging,
and then something inside me turned to steel.
I would not beg.
My enemy picked up a knife, a small but wicked blade, and stood very close
to me. Still looking into my eyes, she pressed the edge of the blade
against my breast, cutting into me over my heart. I stared back at her,
refusing to look down, refusing to see how deep she was cutting and how
much of my blood she was shedding. After a bit she took her hand away
and bent her face to the fresh cut, pressing her lips to the torn skin.
"We belong to one another, Prince," she murmured against my flesh. I
groaned softly and whispered, "Yes."
She brought a stool and stood on it, the deadly little knife still in
her hand. She gripped me by the wrist and smiled her cruel smile. I
couldn't imagine what she intended. To rip my wrists open? I would
die slowly, but not slowly enough. She turned my arm over and cut
my wrist indeed, but not deeply, merely a pinpoint. Over and over
again she cut me, little tiny lines of red with perhaps a drop of
blood running from each one. When she had cut one arm from wrist to
elbow, she treated the other one the same way. Then she snapped her
fingers and one of her servants came running from the corner of the
room with a jug, which he handed her. She poured some of the contents
over the cuts in my arms: cheap red wine. I opened my mouth and tipped
back my head, trying to catch some of the wine on my tongue. I did, but
it was mixed with my blood.
She held out her hand, and her servant handed her a lit candle. She smiled
into my eyes and held the candle above her head. She tilted it just a
little, and the wax spilled out of the taper and splashed onto my arm.
I would not beg.
Again and again she splashed the wax onto first one arm and then the
other, dripping it down over the wine-soaked cuts she had made. Little
fingers of pain caressed my lacerated arms from wrist to elbow, and I
squeezed my eyes shut at last and let the tears come. It did me no
good to shut my eyes, though; I could still see her smile.
I opened my eyes in time to see her receive another item from her servant:
a piece of porous rock this time, a pumice stone. She brandished the stone
a little and stretched her lips wider. I knew she was waiting for me to
beg her not to rub it over the waxed cuts, but I would not. I looked back
at her, my eyes flashing and my jaw jutting determinedly. She gave a tiny
shrug and applied the puice to my arms.
I gritted my teeth. The pain was too much. I tried to imagine who would
endure this willingly, and knew that it was an empty question. I tried
to cling to memories of having survived worse and failed. I concentrated
on staring at her, absorbing what she was doing to me, living it, being it.
Already I wanted to die.
She scrubbed methodically at my arms with the stone, rubbing off the wax
clinging to my arms -- and the skin underneath it. Blood welled up in
the abrasions and ran down my arms and sides, and I whimpered a little
as my arms began to sting. She flung a jug of hot water over me to clear
the blood from my arms, and then she kept on rubbing, until every bit
of wax was gone. By that time I was gulping in air to keep from crying
out.
Her servant handed her another jug of wine, which she poured out over my
arms again. I bit my tongue as the cheap wine made my cuts burn and
sting, and I began to feel a little dizzy with the pain. She saw and poured
some of the wine into my mouth. I managed to steady myself then. However,
I lost all sense of myself when she held up a new object in front of
my face: a metal file.
KYRIE! my mind screamed. But I was dimly aware even so that if I decided
to use my safe word, the torture would not stop. So I shook myself and
tried to stand up straighter in my bonds. My enemy began to apply the
file.
She sawed away at my arms, and every stroke was agony. I bit my lips
until they ran with blood as freely as did my arms, and still she continued,
cutting deep into me, back and forth. I felt my whole body begin to go
numb in protest, and I called it back, again and again, forcing myself
to stay conscious while she further lacerated me. And at the end, when
she tossed the file aside, I still stood by my own power.
She poured wine over me one last time, and I fainted.
I revived when she slapped me over and over and dashed water in my face. I
felt sick inside, and I was trembling, and I knew that I couldn't take
any more. I looked into her eyes and there was nothing at all there, no
mercy, no caring, not even evil joy at the results of her torture. There
was nothing there but ice.
"Goddess," I whispered. "You must cut me down!"
Her eyes came alive, little points of fire dancing in them. "There is more
than one way to cut you down, Prince," she said. She made sure I was
standing on my feet, and then she moved away. I sighed, trying not to feel
the pain in my arms. I had lacerated my wrists more when I had fainted, and
the air felt sticky against my skin. I swept my gaze around the room and
saw the bright eyes of rats peering from the corners. When I was finally
let down, I was sure that it was to them I would go -- preferably still
alive. My enemy always liked a good show.
Her servant approached, holding a box. She reached into the box and with-
drew from it a dart of some sort, made of metal. She held it up for my
perusal. I saw immediately that the dart was barbed; while it would pierce
its target easily, it would be much more difficult to remove. It was very
small and light and on going in would make only a little wound, but coming
out it would be extremely painful.
She smiled and plunged it into my shoulder.
In the next few minutes she plunged perhaps fifty more darts into my
flesh, tiny little wounds with the shafts sticking out. I felt very
uncomfortable, but I knew what was coming, or I thought I did. I followed
my enemy's every move with my eyes, until she went to stand directly
behind me. Then I steeled myself and waited.
I heard the crack of a whip, and then a moment later I felt the same whip
striking my flesh. I had been beaten often enough to know what was hitting
me: a medium length light whip with a very long and flexible lash. The
whip itself didn't hurt much. But on the next stroke I felt the lash curl
around one of the shafts protruding from my skin. I had time to scream
before the dart was ripped away, blood spurting after it.
I kept on screaming, howling really. I struggled in the upright frame,
I shook my head, I howled until I was hoarse. After I subsided, she walked
around to face me, and I saw her smile.
"The darts will come out, my Prince," she said. I shook my head, coughing,
desperate. She smiled, stepped closer, and caressed my cheek with her
fingers.
"The darts will come out," she repeated, and stepped to the side again.
I threw my head back in protest, but she was already swinging the whip
again.
I tried to count the darts, but the pain was too distracting. I knew that
I wasn't going to die; my enemy's desire was to make me endure more pain
than I thought I could, with no recourse, but she would not kill me. I
tried to send my spirit outside of my body, but the whip, alternately
stroking and pulling, kept me a prisoner inside the pain. I began to
keen, my voice rising higher and higher with every dart, and then to
babble. When I lost my voice again, I whispered one word over and over,
my name for the Master of my soul.
She stopped finally. I was bleeding, not a lot, but the wounds were
painful, and I knew there was more damage under the surface of the
skin than above it. My head hung on my chest, and I continued to murmur
softly. She stepped close to hear me.
"Kyrie....." I whispered over and over.
She grabbed my hair and pulled my head up, forcing me to look in her eyes.
"He can't help you now, Prince," she said slowly and deliberately. I tried
to focus on her, to hear what she was saying. She slapped my face again
and again, and I moaned softly.
"Kyrie...." I tried again.
All I wanted to do was conjure up in my mind his image, hear his voice, feel
his hands. All I desired was to taste him by saying his name over and over
again. I continued to whisper in defiance of my enemy, and I could feel her
rage. I hoped that she would become careless and kill me in error, and I
would be free to say those words that I had vowed never to say while I
still lived.
I saw her pick up the wicked little knife, still stained with my blood,
and turn it over in her hand. I saw her consider me silently, her icy
eyes sweeping dispassionately over my bleeding body, and I saw her
frown. I wondered if she realized how close I was to death, and I prayed
silently that she would end it now, and send me back to my Kyrie.
Her mouth pursed in concentration as she began to apply the knife to my
skin, very slowly. It wasn't a proper flaying knife, but she meant to
remve my skin, I realized. I knew I'd be dead by the time she
finished, and I knew that she knew it too, but it didn't matter to her
as long as I died in agony. It was impossible to save me now at any
rate, even if she had wanted to.
She was cutting at my throat, carefully, taking her time, making it
last. Such was her power over me that I did not even try to cry out or
move. Somehow she must have known she had me, because she was making no
effort to further immobilize me. There was nothing for me but her and
her knife, forever, into eternity, killing me, taking me, on and on and
on. It was all I would ever know.
Then he called my name.
Some small spark flared deep within me, but it never made it to my eyes.
I turned my head to catch the sound of my name, only a little, just a
fraction, but it was enough. Blood spurted from my throat, running over
her hands though she tried to stop it up, running over her face and her
breasts, the last of my life's blood. And I died there.
I knelt in front of him, my forehead pressed against his feet,
whispering his name over and over again. He reached down and lifted me
up by my hair, bending to stare down into my face.
"No one owns you but me, Lorendil," he said, and I saw the flash of a
knife. When he dropped me again, I saw that he was holding a lock of my
hair, long and black, curling slightly at the ends. He wrapped the lock
around the hilt of his blade and put it away, and then he pulled me to
my feet gently.
I was standing on top of a mountain so tall that there was snow all
around me, gleaming in the sunlight. My enemy stood beside me; down
below, in the valley, I could see the ones I love. I was as cold as the
ice and snow surrounding me, and no wonder, for she was holding my
hands.
"We belong to one another, Prince," she said again. But this time I
shook my head.
"Never again," I replied. And then I pulled away from her, turned, and
headed down, into the warmth and the light.
FINIS
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