Anya's Raven

Her eyes tracked a fragile pink petal as it fluttered to the ground, and her mind allowed a memory from the years of her life that had been fresh with naivete. The innocent splash of pink on the dusty charcoal earth called forth the thousands of other such discarded petals decorating this avenue all those years ago. Back then, those bright, brief expressions of life had been quickly trampled underfoot in the bustle of the slave market, the meager effect of their presence blithely consumed and forgotten with the business of trading bodies. Today, it stood deserted, only the seasonal falling petals to lay beauty over the market's former ugliness.

She was nine the first time her father brought her here. They had been allowed to walk the pens early, and she had been startled by the loveliness of the pink strewn walkways, which had contrasted so sharply with the misery and despair of the beings in the pens. Even then, her mind had been sensitive to the minute vibrations projected unconsciously from the emotions of others, and that day she had been stunned by the strength of feeling battering at her child's mind.

Her father was looking for someone that day, and she never knew until years later that he had been counting on her to find him. He always acted with purpose, her father, though she wasn't aware of it when he had used her to find Raven. But in hindsight, she remembered his focused attention on her, even as he carried on discourse with the slaver, and her subconscious mind stored away his sudden silence when her own attention had become fixated on the amber eyes that stared so intently from Raven's young face.

Raven was beautiful to her, though that wasn't what drew her to him. In fact he frightened her a little with his wildness, his face set in an expression of menace, his eyes sparkling with hatred. But for all that, when she steered toward Raven, she felt a vacuum open up, a corridor through the sea of negative emotions; the closer she moved toward him, the more she felt like a key fitting into a lock.

She had moved quickly, closing the distance between them in seconds, and stupidly had reached for him, her fixation erasing any reality other than touching him. Her last memory of that day had been Raven's triumphant smirk as he had grabbed her outstretched arm, and then her head had exploded with chaos and pain.

Shaking loose the memories, she brought her thoughts back in order. Anya Har'Boken, only daughter of her House, was a girl from the past. The woman who had emerged from that girl had ties to no one. Anya crushed the lone petal into the ground with her boot heel before she turned and left.

*****

Anya navigated through the crowd of the market, sellers squawking their wares at either side of her. She paid them only so much attention as to recognize danger, but otherwise her goal lay ahead of her. When she saw the stall she was looking for, Anya slowed enough to take in her surroundings more precisely. She knew she could not be too careful.

After all she had done in the years since she left her House, Anya knew her father hunted for her. So far, she had been successful in evading those who searched. But Syril Har'Boken knew her weaknesses, if so far he had underestimated her strengths, and Anya expected by this time, Raven had already been sent to hunt her as well.

It was a curse of fate, whatever caused the attraction to him. She had only the smallest abilities as an empath when compared with her mother, and yet, her mother was never affected by Raven, took little notice of him whatsoever. Anya had learned to avoid Raven, because not to do so always brought the yawning corridor of stillness, and before she knew what she was doing, she was within his reach.

She thought maybe it was a game to him. He never again brought the roiling chaos to her mind, perhaps he had been punished for doing so in the slavers pens, but he always took the opportunity to do other things. When they were younger it was innocent, pulling up grass and raining it on her head, putting beetles or lizards in her hands, getting her to walk into the fish ponds while wearing her dinner dresses.

Anya's father kept Raven under tight control when it came to his dealings, however anything that Anya got herself into, Syril considered fair game. Raven was too much of a prize to be reprimanded for Anya's misadventures with him. Consequently, as time passed, Raven's games with her began to evolve.

Anya never knew Raven's exact age, nor did she think that even he knew it, but she was aware that there were some years between them. When he suddenly sprouted up, his body changing to resemble a man more than a boy, his eyes had begun to look at her differently. Suddenly she found that her hair had been mussed up, hairclips littering the ground around her, or her feet were bare with her leggings rolled up around her knees, and once she had floated back to awareness while Raven just held both her hands in his, looking at her face. Anya remembered snatching her hands back and angrily kicking him in the shins, hearing him laugh as she ran away.

She shivered with those memories, those first stolen touches, which she had enjoyed despite her conscious wariness of Raven. She could see how her father was changing Raven, creating the killer he knew Raven could be. Anya would watch sometimes, when Raven was alone, and she could see his eyes shut tight against what he had been doing that day. She had begun hating her father in those days, setting her on the path she had chosen in the years since.

In the year before she had left Har'Boken House, Raven's studies had reached their pinnacle, and he was outwardly emotionless whenever she saw him. He was frightening, noticeable when he wanted to be, invisible more often than not. His eyes were always chips of amber, and the intensity that emanated from him drew her now, even from a distance. Anya worked to steer clear of him, because what happened when they came together scared her most of all.

Looking back now, she was sure Raven had used his games with her as an outlet, holding to a last vestige of his humanity. Anya had been at the end of sixteen that last year at the House, and she hadn't seen trace of Raven for weeks when she suddenly felt the pull of him. She had moved towards him, though she knew she shouldn't, but he had never been absent from the House for so long, and she couldn't resist the tug to see him. When she caught sight of him, she found that he was waiting for her.

Her mind had opened to the force of his attraction, and her eyes had consumed his face, his body, to see if there were any changes in him since he had been to the House last. He waited silently as she walked toward him, his beautiful eyes as unreadable and hard as ever. But perhaps there had been something in her face, because when she was a step away, his expression shifted, his brow furrowing slightly.

She had reached of her own accord to smooth his brow, and at the touch of her fingers, the gaping connection between them changed, and heat flooded her mind. Anya gasped at the beauty of his face, tears springing to her eyes at the intensity of his emotions, need, conflict, desire, now visible to her as they had never been before. His eyes burned into hers, before traveling a heated path down her body.

Anya had stood still, caught by him just as sure as she had ever been, her heart beating a staccato in her chest. Her nipples tightened under her shirt, and her middle flooded with warmth that spread to the sudden dampness between her legs.

She had watched his face, transfixed as Raven raised his hand to her left breast, lightly tracing the shape from the top down to her nipple, which he pinched lightly through her shirt. Her breath had hitched at the small pain of it, a flood of pleasure following in its aftermath, pulsing in her vulva as it rolled back up her body. His palm had opened, tracing circles with her nipple onto the openness of his hand, and when she swayed into him, he had brought up the other hand to pinch both nipples at the same time, hardening them further, and then soothing them both with his open palms.

Raven's gaze was fixed on her pebbled nipples, desire etched sharply on his features, while his hands continued their caresses of her breasts, every so often pulling lightly on her nipples, until Anya was sure the pulsing wetness between her legs would drown her.

"Please," she had moaned, needing Raven to satisfy the ache he had started in her. "Raven, please..."

He had looked at her face then, and his hands had stopped, a curtain of control closing over his face. Confusion clouded Anya's mind, and then she felt him forcibly sever the connection between them, so that all she felt was coldness, where once his presence had blazed through her mind.

Anya remembered it had taken her several moments to realize he had shut himself off, leaving her to pull herself out of the depths of desire. Heat had flooded her face as anger surged hotly through her veins. Shame that she would have surrendered all boundaries to him rose just as quickly.

"You're despicable!" she had hissed at him, hating him, even as she deplored the feeling of his hands falling away from her body. "I wish you all the unhappiness you deserve!"

Raven had stilled at that, and then she had run away towards the gardens, the heat of his gaze burning a hole in her back. She remembered he had never said a word.