(AN: This scene takes place in a bedroom. You are warned. grin)

3. Passions Enacted

When Radames gave in to the inevitable temptation and proceeded to his hastily proclaimed bedchamber, he was remarkably drunk. As he stumbled toward his prize the red mud brick walls squeezed toward and away from him in a most friendly manner. He laughed uproariously as the left wall raced forward to smack into his side. He gave it a kind pat as it slid away.

The guards standing at intervals along the very solid walls watched their commander's progress with wary apprehension and made no move to help him. Everything seemed a right good old joke to him now, but Radames' inebriated mind was notoriously quick to change between extremes of emotion. It was safest to all to remain passive and allow the commander his embarrassing feats of excess. The collective mind feared for the well being of his chosen bedmate.

When Radames burst his way through the heavy woven tapestry that hid the entrance to the overthrown queen's chambers, the hilarity had been replaced with an astonishing drive of passion. His domination of this beautiful dark woman would be an ample symbol of his dominance over her land. Such a thought made his skin crawl with anticipation.

Radames found his prize standing in the farthest corner of the room, figure appearing especially dark in contrast with the feeble light that dribbled in from the nearby window. She did not start at his entrance but remained still as stone. Only her dark eyes followed him. He approached her, sparing no time for his conquest. Her nostrils flared, her eyes widened, but she made no other move. As he drew close, she seemed more a spooked horse than the previously seen fearless woman. This dehumanizing thought gave Radames a burst of confidence and he reached out a hand, stroking her dark cheek. From his touch she shied away, a dangerous flame in her eyes that went thoroughly unnoticed by the passion and drink infused young general. He smirked at her reaction.

"Hush, little bird," he cooed, words slurred by wine. He spoke in Greek, the language of his ancestors and the nobility of Egypt. "Tell me your name, dream spirit. What shall I call you?"

"Aida," she whispered, head bowed, long wooly hair fallen over her face. Radames quirked an eyebrow, intrigued.

"What is that you say, dream spirit?" he asked, slidinga finger beneath the cloak of her hair and brushing it aside. Her eyes flew up to meet his and this time, Radames was incapable of missing the banked fire in her piercing regard.

"My name is Aida," she said. Her Greek was flawless, accented by the soft tones of her native Nubian. Radames was momentarily startled. He'd not expected his prize to speak any sophisticated language. He narrowed his eyes for a moment, acknowledging the slight shift in power. 'What humble Nubian slave girl can speak in Greek?' he thought, for his loss of dominance in that respect damaged his confidence.

"Aida," he said brusquely, withdrawing his touch from her cheek and pacing to a low, sumptuous dark-wood table. He lifted the sweating jug of chilled wine placed there and, without bothering with a mug, drank several large gulps. He turned to face the dark woman. "I will bed you," he said.

A low groan was hardly audible, but it rumbled from Aida's throat; a challenge and a warning.

The oblivious Radames took several large steps back toward Aida. His two broad hands nearly encircled her small waist as he plucked her from her feet and carried her to the great bed.

It took Aida only moments to react. "No!" she yelled in a rich, clarion voice, and whether she spoke in Nubian or in Greek, she did not know. Either way, the violent thrashing that accompanied her outraged squawk made her meaning clear. Radames gave a sinister grin and tightened his hold on Aida's hips, grinding himself against her with a lusty vigor. Aida beat at him with balled fists and snapped her wide teeth with menace, but to Radames, this was a requisite part in the game of her conquest. And he was an expert at this game, having played many times.

Somehow in all of the flailing and the yelling Radames managed to get a hold on one of Aida's wrists. With a little more maneuvering he added her second wrist to his grasp. His other hand went to freeing himself from his clothing. When at least the most restrictive of his garments were removed, he set to lifting Aida's skirts. Against this she fought all the harder, screaming now, legs churning within the sea of skirt, shift, and sheets.

The banked fire of rage within her finally releast from its bindings, Aida accepted her situation at last and, playing the part of a conquered slave girl to perfection, she slumped in feigned dejection against Radames. Having grown increasingly frustrated, he took to the abrupt victory heartily, bunching Aida's skirts up around her waist. He placed a finger, the selfsame that had recently stroked her cheek, against the soft skin of Aida's inner thigh and began to trace a path ever upward.

Meanwhile, her attacker's attention focused elsewhere on her body, Aida began to wrestle the small blade from its makeshift cotton sheath in her left palm. She could see the vein she meant to cut, blue and pulsing, snaking its way down the side of his throat.

Radames' head lowered, his lips brushing the low part of her abdomen. His tongue, wet and warm, slid down the right side of her hips. The blade at last came free. With a sudden wrenching she freed a hand from his lax grip. The point, honed to absolute sharpness, glinted in the dull light of the distant bonfires. Radames jerked his head away, eyes flying to hers and then to the weapon she wielded. She held it to his throat with obvious efficiency.

He did not move. She drew the dagger to the point where she had been taught it would do the most and swiftest damage. But she did not strike.

"Are you going to kill me?" Radames asked in a rough voice. Aida felt his wine sweetened breath on her skin. She found his eyes with hers, prying her gaze away from the point at which her dagger met his skin.

They were green, she realized quite suddenly. The thought had nothing to do with anything. She had seen very few eyes of that hue, and none that held such arrogant beauty. Aida tried to focus again on her weapon, but Radames held tight to her eyes. All sobriety seemed to have returned to him. Aida could read his emotions very easily. She saw passion still, burning perhaps more fiercely than before. But she saw fear as well, and a certain longing. His eyes were pleading to her. What bothered her the most was that silent plea. Was he asking that she draw the dagger away, or was he asking her to bring it closer?

They remained that way for some time, Radames poised above Aida, she holding the slightly unsteady knife to his throat. One of his hands held her left wrist near her head, and the other was spread against the warm skin of her hips. Either could have moved away from the other, breaking the poignant vignette, but neither did. They remained locked and utterly weak, the powerful gaze between their beautiful eyes holding them fast.

It was Radames who broke the spell, leaning in toward the dagger's edge. She tensed immediately and held the dagger firmly. Its wickedly sharp point dug into his soft flesh, a thin red rivulet gathering on the blade. He continued to move, inching ever closer to her. Frightened suddenly at seeing the blood, Aida relaxed her arm. He made no reaction to the wound he had given himself and leaned no harder toward her when she pulled the blade away.

The kiss, when it came, was one like neither had ever shared. Passionate, yes, put cautious. Deep, so deep, yet very short. Like mountain ice in summer or a warm breath in winter's cool. In short, it rocked both to their soul cores and, having been done, could never be forgotten.

Radames broke away hastily and stood from the bed. He refastened his clothing and touched thoughtlessly at his throat. "Not tonight, then," he whispered, his voice hoarse with unidentifiable emotion. He gathered a selection of large floor pillows and richly embroidered coverlets, fashioning a bed for himself in a corner far removed from the bed. There Aida still lay, dagger held in a purposeless grasp. "Please sleep. It will be your last night in this land."

And indeed it was.

Aida spent it awake, reliving the torrent of horrors that had befallen her in such a short time. That the captor of her people and general of Pharaoh's army, heir by right of his intended marriage to Pharaoh's only daughter, had left her the bed, opting for a far less prestigious sleeping place on the floor was an honor she did not recognize until many months had passed.

And always, through all her ruminations, through the loss of her future and the destruction of her past, her thoughts led her invariably back to the kiss.