SERIES TITLE  : Twelve Days of Christmas ;
CHAPTER/TITLE : Two turtle doves
AUTHOR        : Black Widow
EMAIL         : bw@l...
SUMMARY       : Can anyone stay sane in Sunnydale?
SPOILERS      : None. 
RATING        : NC-17
PAIRING       : Gen Fic
DISCLAIMER    : The characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant
                Enemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, and Greenwolf Productions, 20th
                Century Fox, the WB Network, and whoever else may have a
                hold on them. The situation is wholly mine, and I do
                not mean to infringe upon any copyrights.
ARCHIVE/DIST  : List archives. Anyone else, please ask.

*

The high chair dominates the room, its occupant sprawled lazily across
it surveying her entertainment for the evening.

Two wretched animals lay prone in front of the dais, cowering and
shivering, avoiding her gaze, bemoaning their fate. They'd once been
proud and strong and now they were reduced to performing for their
mistress, groveling and begging, held in thrall.

Once they'd been lovers and enemies; of her and of each other. Then,
later, they'd become her consorts; and now they were just playthings.
And how their mistress loved to play.

She loved her drama and history. And her art. She'd taken the old
mansion for her own and turned it into a thing of extreme, brutal
poetry.

The main hall had been stripped bare; the bones of her human enemies
hung from chains; the dust of her immortal victims rested in their
upturned skulls. Braziers burned and torches flared. The flesh of the
dead, rendered down, filled their stomachs and lit the hall; the acrid
stench filled their heads with fear and hers with power.

Carelessly she runs her fingers through the red hair of her pet
chained naked beside her throne. Twisting and pulling she inflicts her
pain, waiting for the slightest noise to allow her rage to be let
loose.

And as her pet sits still the animals fidget, for they know that the
longer she lasts the greater their mistresses rage will be. The
greater her rage the more they will suffer. And they can see that she
is just teasing her pet; that she too is smiling as she looks down
upon them.

This, as ever, is their hope; that one day her rage will be so great,
their punishment so severe, that she will lose control and their
torment would be over.

She surveys the room. Her eyes are cold and cruel and quite mad. She
takes in the spluttering torches; the red glow of the braziers; the
alter; her animals lying before her, the whips cracking down on their
backs; their tongues, ripped out and shriveled, hanging on chains
about their necks.

Everything she's seen, everything that has happened to her has driven
her quite mad. And she plays.

The animals can sense her excitement. The smaller, blonde one dares to
look at her as the larger, dark one groans knowing that now, once
again they won't be let free of their torment, that the sacrifice will
not be theirs to suck dry.

Her little turtle doves will have to be content with what is left of
their own blood tonight.

And what of me, you wonder? I am the sacrifice. Stretched out on the
stone slab, my own body is clean and whole. I am kept well tended and
well fed. I have everything except my freedom. I am the Slayer's
mother and I, too, pray that one day she will lose control.

Continued in Three French Hens