Posted by Amarissa on December 14, 2004 at 17:02:14:
As dusk settles and the great emperor's day-long funeral rites draw to a close, his body is carried into the burial chamber of his vast stone tomb, completed years before at unimaginable expense. The procession is led by the young queen, Lady Mohara, beautiful and dignified in her mourning. Behind her, her husband's body is carried by six of his trusted advisors; military commanders who have served him faithfully for years. Two dozen of the emperor's most highly treasured concubines march behind the body, singing a slow and beautiful song of farewell.
The body is laid on a bed of white rushes at one end of the chamber, between two torches burning on stone pedestals. The bearers then file out of the chamber, the last of them laying a short ceremonial sword across the emperor's body before he leaves. The queen remains standing in silent contemplation before her husband's lifeless form as the concubines take their places, lining up shoulder to shoulder along the two sides of the chamber in order of rank. The massive stone door at the far end of the room slides slowly closed and seals with the soft, muffled sound of a locking mechanism. They are alone together with their dead master.
Queen Mohara kneels before her husband's body and lifts in both hands the sword lain across his chest. "Accept our offering, oh my Lord," she whispers, then stands and turns to face the double row of young women standing like statues in the gloomy silence. "Sisters," she says softly.
As one, the concubines pull their white mourning robes over their heads and let them fall at their feet. They are naked underneath, and breathtakingly beautiful, their golden jewelry glowing in the dim light against their soft, dark skin. With the sword in her hands, the young queen moves to the first girl on her left, a lithe teenage beauty named Sara. Sara kneels obediently before her, looking up with soft eyes. Sara and the queen gaze into each others’ eyes, sharing a long moment of profound tenderness and affection. The queen remembers countless times she and her husband shared this girl between them during long nights of love. She kneels beside Sara, savoring her beauty once more, and kisses her moist lips as her free hand cups the perfect young breast, squeezing just ever so slightly.
Sara, kneeling, whispers: “I am Yours, my Lady. I am His.” The kneeling girl arches her back and crosses her arms over the top of her head, raising her young breasts higher. Closing her eyes, she murmurs: "Accept our offering, oh my Lord."
The queen pauses for a still moment, admiring the girl's slender body, then thrusts quickly, driving the point of the sword into the girl's left breast, just below the nipple. It slices into her heart and she dies instantly, her body sliding smoothly sideways to the floor with a soft rustle and a muffled bump as her head strikes the stone. She lies twisted onto her back with one leg crossed beneath the other and her arms flung out to the sides, a trickle of blood oozing from her breast. Her eyes stare up at the ceiling, a look of startled wonderment frozen in her expression. The queen gazes at her briefly, then moves one step to the left and stands before the next girl, Tara, a plump, radiant picture of ripe young womanhood. The girl kneels, assumes the position, repeats the prayer and, after a parting kiss and caress, takes the swordthrust in her breast in turn.
The queen performs her task quickly and efficiently, and soon all the girls are lying dead. The room is littered with naked corpses, piled wantonly against each other or sprawled in abandon across the cold stone floor. The queen stands alone in the middle of the room and surveys her bloody salad of girls' bodies with satisfaction. Then she picks her way across the tangled corpses of her victims to where her husband lies impassively. She removes her own robe, cutting it off her body with the bloody sword. She is trembling with anticipation. She kneels before him, naked, and parts his funeral cloak, admiring his muscular body, strong and hard even in death. Still grasping the sword in one hand, she places the other between her legs and moves it back and forth slowly, saying, "Feel me, my Lord. I am wet. I am ready for you." She bends over to kiss his still mouth and whispers, "You cannot leave me, my Lord. I will follow you. We are all coming with you."
Then she straightens her body, still kneeling, and turns the sword toward herself, carefully placing the point just below her navel. She screws her eyes shut, throws her head back, and grunts as she drives the blade into herself. She withdraws it slightly, then moans as she stabs herself a second time, and a third; her body rocks back and forth to the rhythm of the thrusting steel cutting through her soft flesh. She pulls the sword out of her belly with a great effort, and stares down at it with heavy-lidded eyes. Blood pours out of the huge gash in her body. She sees her own blood mingling on the steel blade with that of the slain concubines and thinks of wild nights of passion she has known when her other juices mingled with those of many girls, all of them impaled on her husband’s sword of love. Thinking of this, she experiences an overwhelming feeling of peace and completeness.
She feels her hot blood running down between her thighs and pooling on the cold floor beneath her. Sleepily, she reaches down and coats her hand with the rich, thick fluid, then arches her back and rubs it on to her full, round breasts. She feels her nipples soft and full in the palm of her hand. As her head begins to nod and the sword slips from her grasp, she gathers her remaining strength and cries out, "Accept our offering, oh my Lord!" This final effort expended, she allows her body to fall forward onto that of her dead husband, and lies slumped across him as she quietly dies.