The Silver Protector And Me

Eyes

Seven Days Earlier

Thursday 19th May

First Quarter

A pair of dichroic eyes studied the young queen with keen interest, watching her as she danced and sang as part of a quartet.

Like two pools of flaming fire, they sparkled with aqua and gold, his slitted pupils dilating in the dim glow as they momentarily collided with her empyrean gaze, while the words she lamented stirred his emotions as though she were an angel wailing on a lost mountain.

"Et dès que je l'aperçois... Alors je sens en moi, mon coeur qui bat... La vie..."

He couldn't understand their meaning, but her wistful voice made up for his lack of comprehension, tugging at his steadfast heart like nothing he'd ever heard before.

Her backing performers were equally divine, but they could not divert his attention, for there was no doubt in his mind that this belle was a vision to admire all on her own.

Judging by her velvety fur, which was clearly visible beneath the frills of lace and strips of glittering satin that she and all the other dancers were wearing, she was of Siamese descent, bearing a mixture of the usual cream and light chestnut, darkening to a sable that extended all the way down her elfin arms and legs. But what was unusual was the striking contrast of her white paws and feet, which made her look as though she was wearing a set of fetching gloves and boots. Her chest was pure white too, as was her muzzle, but with a hood of brown that accentuated her Arctic eyes, making them shine more brightly than a clear sky, as they held his deep marine ones captive... and then looked passed him as though he were invisible.

Clearly unaffected, the singer moved on, delivering her doleful message to all who would listen.

*

With her seraphic mezzo soprano, the Snowshoe queen was well aware of the spell she could cast on attentive ears, and how she could thrill their watchful eyes with sultry feats performed upon a vertical pole. It was one of the reasons why she was there, in the seedy club known as Dirty Harry's. One of the reasons why she had been 'specially chosen'. At least, those were the twisted words her captor had used when he had wrenched her so violently from the ones she loved. With the memory as fresh in her mind as an open sore, she worked her magic on the audience with a smile, swaying her hips to the long instrumental flourish of La Vie En Rose.

Her number. Her secret Shangri-la, where she could temporarily lose herself in a world that was filled with roses and pink carnations and gently soothe the empty pain of loss, a gnawing ache that never truly went away.

Of course, she had no idea what the colour pink actually looked like, for the colours red and green were unknown to most of her species. But the song, for her, was a gateway into the arms of happier times, where life was simple and she was free from the tortures of living.

Not like now. Where her entire existence was presided over by a demonic shadow that controlled the very air she breathed, where her only worth was the pleasure that others could reap from her and the terror that He could embed within the very fibres of her soul.

None of the observers below her had any knowledge into this. They were merely clientele, who were expending good money in order to be gratified, and so her face was the picture of winsome charm as she hitched her slender legs around the smooth metal and twirled herself around.