"Shadow-Dancing, Part 1: Rowan" by Rachel E. Armstrong

An appreciative murmur rose from the crowd, along with the laughing, jeering voices of men.

"Item number forty-eight," the slaver announced. He was a short, round man, bald as an egg, with a red, shiny face. Humans would probably consider him fatherly, which somehow made him even more repulsive to her. "Elf stock. Goes by the name of Rowan. Five foot three, a hundred and twenty-two pounds, every bit of it muscle. Very pretty, even for one of their breed. Fifty-four years of age--young, for them. Good health. Fine constitution. NO diseases." With a casual motion, he ripped the scanty linen shift from her body so the crowd could see all of what they were investing in. The jeers rose to a near-deafening roar.

Rowan refused to let her cheeks warm, not for them. She forced down the blood flow from her face. No shame. No humiliation. No fear. These curs fed on that like vultures on rotted meat.

The slaver reached up a hand and turned her around, allowing the crowd to see her from all angles. Whoops of delight rose from the men. Rowan allowed herself to be turned. Putting up a struggle would be futile, a needless waste of dignity and energy. Still, her face was an expressionless mask, her back straight, shoulders strong. She would not let them think her docile, submissive, broken. Most of the men in the throng were warriors--they recognized a fighting stance when they saw it. A few of the jeers died away.

As she turned back to face them, the silence spread a little further as some of the mob saw the cold hatred in her eyes. They were the eyes of a woman ready to kill, and fully capable of killing. They were not the eyes of a slave. However, the majority of the crowd continued their catcalls, nearly maddened with lust at the sight of small but perfect breasts, fine, delicate hips, firm thighs and buttocks. They did not see the hate-filled eyes. They only saw the body beneath them.

Rowan passed her icy eyes over the mob of bestial men, focusing briefly on each of them to show that she hated them as individuals, rather than simply the crowd as a whole. Brutes, humans were. Animals--less than animals. Animals didn't butcher populations of other animals and take the survivors as slaves. Male animals didn't take female animals unwilling.

As she reached the back of the crowd, she felt her breath nearly catch. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to bite down the roar of fury in her throat. It was Helkath. Manly Helkath, with the strength of a lion and the soul of a jackal. He saw her look at him, gave her a leer and a salacious wink. His brown eyes drifted lazily along her body.

Angrily, Rowan pulled her gaze from him and continued to scan the crowd. She would not look at him any longer than she looked at the others--he did not merit the attention. She wanted him to think his little "conquest" did not matter to her, that it was forgotten. It gave him less room to gloat. She felt the heat rise to her face, angrily forced it back. She would not flush with shame. She would not!

Despite the fact that her eyes wandered, her mind remained fixed on Helkath. Questions she wanted to snap at him in cold, aloof scorn flashed through her mind. Are you enjoying the view, Helkath? Are you liking what you're seeing, for the second time? How does it feel to look and not be able to touch? How does it feel to stare at the legs you forced apart, the breasts you bruised and mutilated with your brutish, clutching hands?

How does it feel to be the only living human who has ever heard me scream?