Filthy

A sanctuary of books and notes and numbers and theories. Héra relished every moment she had alone with her studies; if purely to find herself in a most comfortable state of nakedness. While still covered with plain unders and an equally plain brassiere, the skin not covered was free from the stuffy warmth of her robes. Her solitude made the tiny, faint scars on her arms perfectly alright to reveal. Years of self-punishment were now meaningless without eyes to capture them.

Now finished with her reviews, the young mage left the couch in the room Jakobus had supplied for her and wandered slowly to her ashwood vanity. Nimble fingers plucked her hairbrush from its place and soothed her wild curls of bedhead with slow, thoughtful strokes. Tired, dusky-lidded eyelids drooped over her vibrant yellow eyes, although they appeared so Sin'dorei green in this light, she thought.

She sighed, finally lifting her gaze to the stage mirror at the back of the table. Her focus was stubborn to stay on her chest, to the eager development there and the taboo they brought to mind. Every stroke of the brush went slower than the one before it. How could she, in all of her tininess, be an object of such a wanton nature?

The more she stared the less she could see the legs moving slowly behind her, blurred in her perspective against the mirror. "Look at you," he said with his voice filled with disdain. "Look. At you."

A sickening twist gripped at her stomach, hearing his words. She didn't dare move yet, but continued her contemplation of her own form.

"You're disgusting. And you like it that way. It's all over your face, your lust." His hand moved in a sluggish circle over his blurred face. "How could you let him try touch you? How could you smear your filthy scent all over his hands?"

Her heart churned, beating quick and painful. The brush was carefully set back onto the vanity, and although she tried to hide her chest with her hair, pulling it down over her skin, she could still feel his touch.

"Absolutely improper. You, for everything I've done for you and your mother... How dare you defile my work with his eyes; standing there in barely anything at all, letting him appraise you like a comfortable piece of furniture!"

By now the tears had begun to well up in her eyes, making the world a glossy, rippling mess. Héra left her vanity to head for the dresser, pulling open the drawers to look down at her full-length robes. She needed something cover herself with, and to find a suitable shroud for how she felt would mean a full hooded robe. She had none.

His cold, bitter spite pulled all the warmth from the room and left her feeling chilled. Her arms crossed her chest to hold in any warmth she could. Looking down at her choices, she selected the woolen robes, with their design so ugly and awful. "That's right. Hide it. Hide it all. No more of your skin or your breasts."

Wrapped up in the gray robe, shame slicked against her skin. He was still there, standing behind her. As a Quel'dorei, he was mighty and broad shouldered. "You pine for all of them. Sssick. Your heavy breathing for any man in scholarly robes is no better than you mother's. Would you open your legs for them, too? Hm? Let them take from you your only useful essence, Ahmalia? Sweat against them and writhe like a mucus-covered worm?"

They were like fire against her skin, those painful words. The excess of her sleeves bundled over his ears as she shielded from them. Anger, frustration, guilt... Her pain fell to blind eyes. She could think of friendly faces and imagine the sounds of pleasant places. But no matter her efforts, his voice was always there.

"You're just a filthy little whore!" To think the man she called 'father', in all of his supposed wisdom and knowledge, couldn't see her as what she was; just a girl, was terrible in her mind. She, like her fellow siblings, were stains on the fabric of their family tree; the illegitimate children of the men who dared to love an unloved woman.

Frantic, with her face flooded with tears, Héra fled the room. In her fury, she turned and slammed the door in the face of her tormentor. Quietly sobbing, the mage did her best to clear her face of her sorrow. The room beyond the door lay dark and empty and cold.

She turned, breathing in a deep, shaking breath to clear her mind of his harsh words. With her gaze ahead of her, she ignored his cold figure beside her. Before she could carry on, before she could vacate the noise and the dread and the hate of her own thoughts, he leaned in close to her. His skin was cold as ice and a haunting gray pallor. Dead lips moved slowly, whispering poison.

"Filthy."