Circle of 12, Book 2, Opening scene

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She ran.

She almost wondered if this wasn’t some illusion he’d created to tease her. To punish her for even wanting to escape.

Wanting. She wanted. God, she wanted to escape. She hadn’t wanted anything but him in so long. But, now she wanted to eat. She was starving. She wanted a soft pair of nearly worn-out jeans. She wanted to lounge around on a Saturday afternoon in them. She wanted a Saturday afternoon. And a Sunday afternoon. And one on Monday, too. She wanted. And not him. Not the magically induced drunken wanting of him in which she’d found herself since they’d bonded.

She even wanted the pain of her bloodied feet.

Her feet bled, and she loved it. She embraced the sharp spikes of pain which intensified with each foot strike. It meant this wasn’t an illusion. His snares had nothing to do with pain -- unless it was pleasure. But this pain in her lacerated, bleeding feet was a different kind of pleasure all together. It was freedom, not his erotic gluttony.

The pain helped her focus and overcome the lazy lull of his power still clinging to her. However, the pain was increasingly hindering her speed. Fleeing as far from him as possible was the most important -- no -- the only thing in her life now. She wouldn’t have a life if she didn’t get away.

She cut into the corn field. The rich, dark dirt was damp and cool and soothing to the hot aching burn from running barefoot on a roughly-paved farm road for hours. At least it seemed like hours.

She plodded as fast as she could. Her body was in tip, top shape so she kept going through the pain, through the impending sense of loss that whispered to her.

She could use her magic and end up in a thriving throng of people, but he’d be able to track her, and as long as she didn’t give him anything to track, she had a chance.

The corn fields went on forever. The last remnents of the magic she’d used to temporarily bind him were fading. It meant he’d be able to look for her. It meant he wouldn’t be able to find her as long as she used neither her own magic -- the possession of which had surprised her -- nor his. Their magics were bonded and he’d be on her in an instant.

She crossed a narrow stretch of country road and continued her marathon pace through the next field.

As the magic evaporated, her muscles shook. Her dry tongue occuppied to much space in her parched mouth. The overwhelming need to sleep hit her with a vengence. She hadn’t slept in decades. In that magical palace of pleasure-pain -- of erotic torture -- no one slept. There was no need. There were no clocks. No time. Everything was as it had always been.

The pull of everyday magic, of sleep, seduced her now. How many decades of that glorious natural healing time had she missed?

She slowed to a walk, the pain in her feet unbelievable. She glanced down to see warm, fresh blood caressing the caked dried blood.

She needed to rest. She was safe. Her heart fluttered with the fear that she’d never be safe, not really. But for this afternoon, with the sun mercifully hidden behind heavy clouds, she was safe. And she would sleep.

Nestling herself into the cool restorative dirt of the corn field, she settled the airy layers of her sheer black dress around her. She pushed her mangled feet under the soothing rich soil and tucked her head into the crook of her arm and slept.