A grand ball. The reception hall is bright and well lit, the hundreds of chandeliers casting a golden glow over the festivities. Light music plays, and the sound of laughter and light conversation blanket the elegantly dressed guests. The wine flows freely, warm and soft and comforting.

She stands regal, her golden hair brushed up and back, and a gown of pale silk clinging to her form. Her eyes are blue and wide, and her hands rests hesitantly on the arm of a handsome young lord. He is tall and proud, with a quick wit and sharp tongue. A sword rests at his hip, and a twinkle in his eye.

“Let us leave this place.” He whispers to her, taking her arm firmly. She only nods, dumbly. She is hesitant, but he is kind and treats her well. He has courted her long and sweetly, lavishing her with gifts and praise. She is his princess, and he loves her well. She should not fear him, should not be wary. But a part of her cannot help it, cannot help but remember. She pushes that part away. She remembers instead her lord’s pretty words and vows of love. They are a balm to her, soothing her still burning soul.

“Here.” He says, drawing her gently into an empty bed-chamber. Again, she hesitates. But only for an instant. She has healed enough to know that not all will hurt her so. And she is drawn to the light in his eyes, to his hands gentle yet firm on her hips, her breasts, her thighs. She allows him to caress her body, never speaking as he makes free of her with his hands. She clings to him, and he guides her hand to his manhood as his sword falls away.

He is unarmed. He cannot harm her. He has allowed himself to be vulnerable before her. But his fingers graze the scar on her breast, invoking shots of pain through her.

“What's this?” He asks, his fingers tracing the half healed scar.

“An old hurt.” She says, pushing his hand away. She does not want him to know of her pain and humiliation. He seems to understand, letting his hand drop from the wound. His lips touch her shoulder, her breasts, her belly...all of her body but never draw near her lips. Fear rises, and is pushed down He is her lord, gentle and kind. He is no false knight, to promise her pleasure and strike her with pain.

When it is done, he pushes her roughly away. His hand is rough on her scar, his nails digging in and it breaks open-bleeding a new. He fastens his belt, sneering down at her now. Her eyes open wide, as she comprehends. He too is false, a knave, a liar. He loves her not, only cares for the pleasure he can take of her body. He has what he wanted, and has no use for her now. He laughs as he leaves her there, naked and bleeding on the floor.

Again. Again the pain courses through her. How much pain can she take? How much before she dies inside? She lies there, in her blood, not able to cry. She used up all of her tears on her false knight, when his dagger entered her flesh. But her pain is raw and cold, numbing inside with it’s icy heat. A different pain then before. Worse, in many ways. She cannot move. She can only lie there, eyes open and staring, their soft innocence turning colder and harder. She has changed in some way, for good or bad she does not know.

Eventually, she picks herself up. She gathers her gown around her, covering herself. She is dirty, and used. She is no more then a whore, a whore who asks for nothing more then a silver tongue. But she is still proud, and she holds her head up high. Her gown was not stained, there is no mark on her to betray what has happened here tonight. The blood has ceased it’s flow, and she tossed her head. One day she will rise above it, rise above them. They will not stain her soul.

Her eyes colder then before, she fastens her gown and runs her fingers through her hair. No one must know what has happened here tonight. She will keep her silence, though she is certain he will not keep his. But let him talk. She knows the truth of it. Head high and shoulders stiff, she returns to the ball.