#king edwyn altair

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Kethrys ( @khalwrites ) Timeline: around halfway through Ariadne’s captivity

---

Unprompted

His hand catches her shoulder, and for just a heartbeat an older reflex rises. For just a heartbeat, she somehow doesn’t recognise his touch. Somehow she doesn’t remember her place, and she shrugs irritably out of his grip.

The realisation of what she has done is ice water, drenching her head to toe and stealing her breath. She is already turning, stepping back to see who grabbed her and why. She drops hard to her knees, and barely feels the impact with the flagstones.

She can’t breathe. No. She was trying so hard, how did she forget something so simple. She was trying to obey him, respect him, do everything right. No, not again, not already...

She folds forwards over her knees, pressing her forehead and her palms to the stone as if she could disappear into it. Agony throbs in her skull, and too-recent memory crawls painfully across her skin.

“I’m so, so sorry, Yo-our Majesty,” she stammers. The room, no, the world has shrunk to encompass just her and the King. She couldn’t care less about the many eyes watching. All that matters is her King. “I’m so sorry I-I acted without thinking I di-idn’t mean to disrespect you Your Majesty, I swear!”

She can’t do it, she can’t face the torture again, she can’t. She knows she’s pathetic, but terror has its claws around her lungs and she just can’t.

“Please, Your Majesty.” He hasn’t even said anything and she’s on the verge of crying. He hasn’t told her to beg, but maybe, maybe it will amuse him enough to earn a little mercy. “Please, please forgive me, I-I know better but please, have mercy, please don’t punish me, Your Majesty, I’m sorry!”

Her pleas fall into stony silence. Face down at his feet she cannot see his reaction, cannot search his face for cues.

“I beg you, Your Majesty,” she whines, “please -- have mercy, please?” She can’t continue in the face of his presumed disapproval. She cowers, struggling to breathe.

“Mercy?” he asks at last, voice soft and cold. “Forgiveness? Look at me.”  The order lifts her head as surely as a tug on a chain. She meets his cruel gaze, and feels tears gather in her own eyes. “How long have you been in my service.” “I’ve served here i-in the castle for forty-seven days, Your Majesty.” That answer, at least, she knows, and she is desperately glad of the time spent obsessively counting the days. His Majesty stares her down in silence, then begins to pace. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Ariadne breathes. Just a whisper, but he shoots her a warning look and she quails. She can hold her tongue.

Back and forth in front of her he paces, and she watches. Look at me, he said, so she resists the urge to curl over her knees again and cower. Her breath stutters and catches in her lungs, too fast but she can’t breathe deeper. She barely registers the sniggers of the onlookers. She has eyes only for her King. 

At last he speaks again. “Have I not been merciful in that time? Have I not been forgiving of your multiple failures and shortcomings? Have I not given you every opportunity to improve and better yourself?” She can find no humour in the absurdity. Merciful. Forgiving. He asks the impossible and he hangs her from broken arms when she cannot comply. He whips her until she cannot lift her head and then forgives her for failing to do so.

But the truth is irrelevant. He’s feeding her her lines, and she recites obediently. “You have been merciful, Your Majesty, you've gi-iven me so many o-opportunities, you give me so many kindnesses, I-I'm so very grateful for your generosity Your Majesty.”

“Such a simple thing to forget, wouldn’t you agree Ariadne? It is beyond disrespectful for you to shrug off your king like he is some lowly servant, is it not?” I didn’t know it was you. But she knows better than to give excuses. “I-it is, I-I -- I’m mortified.” He’s not going to let it slide. He’s going to make her ask for pain, and she’s going to get it. Tears slip down her cheeks. “I-it’s u-unacceptable Your Majesty, I’m so, so sorry.” “And for some reason, you believe you deserve forgiveness?” She cringes. She keeps her eyes on his, showing him every ounce of her misery. “No, Your Majesty. I-I don’t deserve your forgiveness, Your Majesty.” Just please, please let me have it anyway. Please, let me appease you, let me amuse you, but please no more torture. She doesn’t dare voice half the thoughts. “I-I I o-only beg you,” she falters, “I know I don’t deserve it...”

“What do you deserve?” A little whimper. “I deserve punishment, Your Majesty, for disrespecting you, Your Majesty.” He’s going to make her beg for it. “Are you sure?” His tone is withering, condemning.

There’s no use fighting it. He will have what he wants from her, be it pleas or screams. Her desperate hope for mercy dies. “I-I deserve to be punished, Your Majesty,” she recites. “I’m so sorry, ple-ease, please punish me, please teach me the, the respect I lack, Your Majesty.”

He crouches down in front of her. His fingers touch her jaw, trace along the bone to her chin, and tilt it up. She is giving him every scrap of willpower she has, just keeping herself from flinching away. Agony will bloom in her skull any second now. -- please -- run her thoughts. -- please please please don’t I’m trying so hard I do everything you say please -- She knows he can hear, but she can’t quiet her desperation. -- please please don’t hurt me please don’t please don’t please--

“Ariadne.” He uses the gentle tone this time, the false concern that fools so many, used to fool her… “You admitted yourself that it was an accident.” Hope is painful in her chest as it flares back to life. “Ye-es Your Majesty.” She’s so scared that he’ll snatch it away again. She knows he’s yanking her chain, she knows he’s playing her emotions for his own twisted entertainment, but all she wants, all she wants -- please please please Majesty please I’m so scared -- is to appease. Here is all her desperation, here is every pathetic scrap laid bare. -- please take it please let it be enough don’t demand agony as well please --

“You’re tired.” His hand brushes down the side of her neck and settles on her shoulder. “I think mercy is what you deserve.” She outright whimpers. Hope and fear are so sharp, razor wire pulled taut between her gut and the back of her throat. -- mercy? for real? please please please say it’s real please Majesty please --! “You need to rest.” His smile is so warm, so well-practiced, not a hint of the terrible power beneath. “You are dismissed, Ariadne. Don’t be late for the council tomorrow.”

Her heartbeat trips over itself. For a moment she doesn’t dare believe she heard him right. Dismissed. No punishment? Mercy? Her head spins. “Oh thank you,” she sobs, “thank you, thank you Your Majesty, you are so kind, thank you so much Majesty, I’m so grateful.” His magic tingles across her skin, the familiar touch of healing. It takes her a second to even realise what he’s healing -- the barely-registered ache in her knees where she hit them hard on the stone. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she repeats earnestly. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome, Ariadne.”

She doesn’t move until he lifts his hand from her shoulder. As he stands, she bows again, touching her head to the stone, feeling her hair brush against his boots. Her legs shake as she gets back to her feet, checking his face all the way to make sure that her permission is not rescinded.

She’s allowed almost all the way to the door before he calls her back.

“Ariadne.”  The sharp undertone sends a fresh rush of terror up her spine. She turns obediently, heart stopped. All eyes are on her. Maliq. Sir Moros. Lady Rielyn. Others. The way they smirk and sneer will haunt her later, but for now they still don’t matter. Only the King matters. His gaze pins her to the floor, and she almost drops to her knees again. “Don’t forget my mercy,” His Majesty smiles. “Have a good night’s rest.” “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she breathes. “I won’t, Your Majesty, thank you.”

She backs out of the door, bowing all the way. And then she turns and she runs, bolting back to her room before anyone can follow her out. 

Not that running can save her, if the King wants to play.

[just-horrible-things]

Have I worked on any of my WIPs and abandoned storylines? Nope. Have I been writing in a completely different ‘verse instead? Why yes, I have.

Cowritten with @khalwrites, whose ‘verse and characters (other than Ariadne) this features.

---

Maliq’s Revenge

“Ariadne,” Maliq smirks, “You’ve been avoiding me. Don’t you want to catch up, after all this time?” “Ah, my least favourite crybaby,” Ariadne acknowledges him. “What do you want, Maliq?” His face darkens. “Who’s the crybaby here? I’ve heard you screaming down there. Forever the little rebel.” That smug smile creeps back into place as he talks. “You know… she screamed too. But he never healed her, just let her suffer. Days and weeks on end…” He lets the thought trail off, grinning. “I see you still don’t have anything better to do with your time than spew bile.”

He’s clearly trying to provoke her, but she doesn’t have the energy to do more than snap tiredly at him. And she knows full well how bad an idea it would be to lash out. Punching his stupid smug face would be… not even slightly worth it. 

“I just wanted to let you know,” he sneers on, false friendliness paper-thin over the barbs, “what happened to your former good friend. You could ask our King, he would agree that Jojo’s screams were musical.” “I’d watch out then,” she retorts, “Yours sound about the same. Better hope he doesn’t start missing them.” “Big talk from the King’s favourite toy.” She snorts derisively. “You used to squeal all the time, I haven’t forgotten.” All she can do is bark at the end of her chain, but she’ll take her satisfaction where she can. For instance, in watching his face twist with upset and humiliation. “I’ll show you squealing,” he growls. And to her surprise, he goes for a knife.

The movement isn’t subtle. She’s shifting her weight before the knife leaves the sheath. It’s not difficult to sidestep the lunge. Her forearm intercepts his to stop him changing angle. She thinks of stepping past him and breaking into a run, but she doesn’t really have room. Her feet move to open up the possibility of tripping him. He pulls back, then slashes sideways at her. She grabs for his knife hand, unafraid of the blade - he hasn’t put enough force into it to do her real harm. She feels it catch in her clothes, feels the sting of a scratch across her shoulder. Irrelevant. Maliq drops the knife in a panic as she spins him and pulls him in close against her body. She didn’t even have to twist his arm. “Guards!” he shouts, struggling, “Unhand me! Guards, guards!” “Still scared of me?” she asks in a low voice, close to his ear. But she lets go of him with a bitter chuckle. “You’re scared of him,” he huffs, straightening his clothes as he backs away in a hurry. 

And then he is turning to the guards as they arrive, with a very familiar expression of wounded indignance that makes him look like a snotty ten year old all over again. “She attacked me!” he proclaims melodramatically, “She tried to kill me! Arrest her at once.” Ariadne sighs. “I did no such thing,” she refutes. But she puts up no resistance as the guards lay firm hands on her shoulders. Dread is heavy in her chest. Fighting won’t do her any good. But she holds her head high, looking down her nose with disdain at Maliq.

His obnoxious smile is back in place. “Have fun,” he sneers.

---

She is merely confined to her room, but fear feels like chains, twisting through her ribcage and wrapped ice-cold round her limbs. She tries to take it out on a pillow, imagining Maliq’s face under her fists. But, surprise surprise, it does nothing to ease the fear. 

The King won’t believe Maliq’s ridiculous accusations, will he? He knows that she wouldn’t dare, doesn’t he? Surely he knows her better than that, sometimes he seems to know everything she thinks...

It’s not a relief when the summons finally comes for her. But at least she’s escorted to the King rather than dragged.

She bows low for her liege, and waits for his signal to approach. Then she kneels at his feet and bows again, all the way to the floor. Shivers crawl across her skin. She doesn’t sit up until he orders it, and then she looks up obediently to meet his eyes. “You are aware,” he begins, “That Maliq is training for command? He is a powerful mage and I am highly disappointed that you have such dislike for someone so important.” Highly disappointed. Anxiety solidifies into bleak certainty.  “I will curb my dislike, Your Majesty,” she is already promising. But - “I didn’t attack him.” I swear. I wouldn’t dare. “Of course you didn’t. I trust that.” Relief floods Ariadne’s body. It’s not as bad as she feared. 

“But what I don’t trust,” the King continues, “is your commitment to proper conduct. You made the decision to show disrespect to someone important to me. Am I next? Will you forget your manners around me, forget to respect me and address me properly?” Ariadne exhales. “I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I did not realise I was to show him deference.” She lets her shoulders slump. There will be punishment. “I would never dare to disrespect you, Your Majesty.” But perhaps it won’t be so bad? “I... failed to understand how I was to act towards Maliq, I am sorry.” She doesn’t know whether the flicker in his eyes is good for her, or bad. “Do you believe a lesson is necessary for you to understand why your actions were incorrect?” “I won't repeat the mistake Your Majesty,” she tries anxiously. Is she supposed to beg, here? Can she get out of punishment altogether? “I - I believe I've learned…” “It shouldn’t have happened the first time.” No, no she cannot.  “Yes, Your Majesty. I u-understand, Your Majesty.”

The guards step forwards with the usual smooth discipline that makes it seem like they start moving almost before the King’s gesture. She’s been dragged enough that she can move with them as they take her by the shoulders and lift. This time they let her take some of her own weight, a small mercy. She lets her head drop, cheeks hot. “Take her to the cells,” the King orders. “Put her in chains. I will be there shortly, Ariadne, to have a discussion about respect.” “Yes Your Majesty,” she agrees, but she is already being marched out.

She knows the dungeons well. Simply descending the stairs shouldn’t have so much power to terrify her. But the first lungful of frigid air saps the strength from her legs and twists her gut into knots. She wants to dig her heels in and fight and try to run. But she’s tried that before. She’s tried pretty much everything. Maybe this time won’t be too bad? 

So she doesn’t need to be thrown into the cell, doesn’t fight the hands that pull her wrists behind her back and cuff them, doesn’t protest when she’s pushed to the ground and shackled to the wall. She is a well-behaved toy, and she hates herself for it. The door closes with a clank that she must have heard a hundred times before, but that still manages to make her stomach drop.

They leave her sitting, but she knows that she should be on her knees. ‘Shortly’ could mean anything, and when the King walks in he will want her on her knees. The chain between her wrists and the wall isn’t so short that she can’t shift her position. They could have been much crueler with the chains. Another reason to hope, perhaps.

But despite everything she tries to tell herself, she is terrified.

To her utter humiliation, tears well up, and she can’t stop them from streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t even hurt Maliq. What was she supposed to do, let him stab her? She holds her tongue for King Edwyn, all the time. Why can’t she have a shred of satisfaction? It’s not like she even threatened the little shit. How stupid of her to think she’d be allowed to speak to him as an equal. He claims that she is an ‘assistant’, a ‘favoured servant’. He pretends she is important in his court. She should know better.

Her tears are hot on her cheeks, and cold where they land on her thighs and soak into the fabric. It’s such a tiny thing to be upset about. She should be used to this by now.

In time her tears dry up, but the suffocating fear persists. She shifts and fidgets, but time drags its heels in the perpetual gloom. She could be here for days, he’s done it before. Or he could stride in at any moment, expecting her alert and contrite and ready to grovel for her worthless skin. Her nerves are taut as bowstrings, and like a bow left strung too long, she can feel her mind cracking under the tension. 

She cries again, and stops, and starts again. How pathetic she is.

When he finally comes for her, his footfalls outside the door are enough to make her heart pound in her chest. The tears redouble as she straightens up her posture. As soon as she sees him, she bows forwards as far as she can, pulling against the cuffs until the metal bites into her wrists.

The King lets her tremble for a few long seconds before telling her “You may sit up.” “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she murmurs reflexively as she straightens. She’s acutely aware of how pitiful she must look, gazing up at him with reddened eyes, shivering from cold and fear. Her cheeks begin to warm again, despite the chill air. “You shouldn’t be in trouble Ariadne. Maliq was incorrect to try and harm you, try to provoke you.”  Hope is unwelcome, almost painful, closing her throat. She knows the ‘but’ is coming.  “Unfortunately it did open my eyes to your inconsistent respect for authority.” He steps forwards, revealing the whip in his hand. “I don’t intend to be cruel to you. I intend for this to be quick. I’m even considering avoiding the whip.” He paces as he talks, letting Ariadne track him with her eyes. She tries to keep her focus on his face, but the coil of leather tugs insistently at her attention. “You are a quick study Ariadne. Talented. You learn. You adapt.”

“Thank you, Majesty.” Ariadne tries to wet her lips, but her tongue is bone dry. “I'm - very sorry I've misunderstood how I should be acting, Your Majesty. Thank you for your kindness. Please, tell me who I should be deferring to, I want to do better.” The words barely take thought. Just empty platitudes. Tribute to his expectations, his control. “Ten lashes?” he asks, still using his disarmingly friendly voice. “Ten burns? Ten breaks? You choose Ariadne, you are learning quickly and I must repeat that I don’t believe this lesson should be dragged out past what is necessary.” “Thank you, Majesty, lashes please, Your Majesty.” The choice is so obvious that she regrets it as soon as the words are out of her mouth. It must be the wrong choice. It’s never that easy. “Very well.”

It’s an effort not to flinch from his approach. She hates how hard she is shaking. Hates how terrified she is even when he is promising her that it will be mild. But there are no surprises, not yet. He unlocks her hands, and she waits for permission before moving an inch. His touch on her shoulders stops her breath and sends shivers across her skin, but all he does is guide her -- into the centre of the cell, turned to face the back wall, and then back onto her knees. “Take your tunic off,” he orders.  She doesn’t hesitate to obey, half-folding the garment before setting it aside with shaking hands. “Hands above your head.” He chains them above her head, but he doesn’t pull them so tight as to hurt her shoulders. She has room to struggle. The thought is almost laughable. “Look ahead, and count.” “Yes, Your Majesty.” She expects him to get straight to it. But he isn’t done making her wait. So she listens to him pace behind her. The air seems to fight her, catching constantly in her throat. 

“You are very respectful,” the King praises her, “very good at your job. This will only help you improve, do you understand?” “Yes, Your Majesty.” More empty words. Please, get on with it. “And I promise, ten lashes. And I will not inflict any more pain on you.” “Thank you, Your Majesty. I-I’m grateful for the-the lesson, Your Majesty.”

He keeps pacing. More tears well up in Ariadne’s eyes. She doesn’t understand. Why is she so fucking scared? Ten lashes is nothing. The pain won’t even be that bad. She hates it, she didn’t used to be so afraid. He has broken her. A sob catches in her throat. “Ariadne,” the King chides mildly, “it's a promise to keep the pain as low as possible. Control your trembling.” She takes a deep breath in, humiliation only fuelling the tears. “Ten lashes of the scourge.” Wait - scourge? “And don’t lose count.”

Ariadne yelps with the pain - white-sharp at first and far worse than the simple whip he showed her - right across the centre of her back and up to curl around her shoulder.  “One,” she gasps, breathless. The pain is still building, heat flaring along the line of torn skin. She knows the scourge he must be using, with the shards of glass woven into the leather. 

But the bait-and-switch is almost a relief. If this is the catch… it’s still - she can cope. If this is all. Is that enough?

She thinks she’s ready for the second blow, but she cries out just as loud if not louder as the scourge comes down directly along the same line, redoubling the pain. “Two!”

Her hands catch the chains that hold the shackles up, and her fingers find a firm grip. Pulling hard to distract from the pain. The third strike snaps across her lower back and she doesn’t scream. But before she can count ‘three’, she’s cut off by a fourth -- no, that’s not fair, how is she meant to -- and again and now she’s missed two counts and her back is criss-crossed with fire and she can’t breathe--

“Don’t forget to breathe and count.”  Ariadne’s lungs unlock and she manages a gasp, then a deeper breath. “Thre-ee -” her voice wobbles “--nnh--hhh?” She can’t find the words to ask what she desperately needs to know. “Do you not want the other two to count?” She opens her mouth to answer, but only ends up yelping under the next blow. ���--four--” she gasps. Oh, she’s getting it wrong but now it must be too late to backtrack-- “I told you not to lose count.” “-- sorry --!” Another stripe of burning pain - was that six, or seven? - oh dead gods, she really has lost count and it’s only been six - or seven? - why is she panicking? “Well?” “Please--!” she stammers frantically, “Please -- may I try again, Yo-our Majesty?”

He pauses. Ariadne gives up on trying not to whimper. Why bother withholding the satisfaction he’s looking for? He’ll take it one way or another.

“Back to the beginning, it seems. Do try to stay on top of things this time.”  Ariadne cringes, expecting the next lash. “Yes Ma-ajesty,” she agrees.  He’s kind enough to let her take a few more deep breaths before he brings the scourge down again. “One,” she counts through gritted teeth. She’s depending on the chains for support now, unable to keep upright on her own. “Remember to breathe.” The reminders are so condescending. But what’s worse is she does need them.

Another lash, and she cries out again, voice cracked with stress.. “Two.” “And breathe.”  She gets three deep breaths, then he makes her yell again. “Th-three.” Breathing deep without prompting, this time. 

One deep breath. Two. Three. Another lash. He hits so hard, his strength is unbelievable. Each impact slams her forwards against the shackles and drives the air out of her. “Fo-our -” “Don’t forget to breathe.”

Thank you Your Majesty, she thinks, and she hates that it’s ingrained even in her thoughts now. Each breath is shuddering. The sound she makes under the next lash is breathless and broken. “Five.”

Tears are streaming down her face. She forces herself to keep taking those deep breaths. There’s a tiny measure of calm in it. At least he’s not pushing her too fast now.

On the sixth stroke she screams. It lands right across the worst of the pain, tearing deeper into the existing wounds. She wonders sickly if the bone is exposed yet. She can’t speak instantly and the panic starts to rise again. “Si- six-!” she chokes out desperately. “Breathe,” he tells her. Her hesitation is forgiven. She’s doing well enough. She breathes.  Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold.  Inhale - shuddering - and hold. Exhale. Hold. Inhale - and the lash falls - she knows it will - while her lungs are full so that she can cry out loud and clear for him. “Seven.” Inhale. Hold.

“I hope that you appreciate the time I spend on you.” “Yes, Your Majesty,” she agrees tearfully, “Thank you for -- teaching me, Your Ma-AAAHH!!-aaahhnnn -- E-eight, tha-ank you, Majesty.”

Inhale, exhale. Sob, hold. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. Shudder. Inhale. Pain to make her cry out again. “Nine.” Whimper. “Thank you, Majesty.”

Inhale - ragged, shuddering - no, inhale deeper. And hold. Exhale. Hold. Inhale again. Can’t hold, loses the breath to another fit of shuddering - her bloodied back ripples with pain every time -- and no, breathe. Inhale. 

She whimpers, expecting the next blow, but it doesn’t come. “Control yourself, Ariadne,” he chides. Hate stirs in her chest, but it’s dim and distant. The pain is bright and real and now. She inhales. Controls the urge to sob. Holds and exhales.

The King starts pacing again, footsteps loud in the bare cell. Slow, unhurried. “Keep your eyes forward,” he reminds her. “Yes Majesty,” she agrees miserably, clinging to the chains, trying to focus on her breath and not on the sound of the scourge dragging, the distinctive scrape of glass on stone.

“Have you learned the necessity of respect?” Still pacing. “Have you learned why it is important to trust me, to trust my lessons?” “Ye-es Your Majesty,” she answers hesitantly. Can she say she’s learned, when she’s still due another lash? “I, I trust your wisdom Your Ma-ajesty,” she hedges, “Thank you for te-eaching me…” Can’t go wrong with ‘thank you’ and with flattery, she’s learned that much at least. “Only one more, you’re handling this well Ariadne. Do you trust me? Trust what you can accomplish under my command?” “Thank you Majesty - yes, yes Your Majesty, I tru-ust you.” “Good.” But he still doesn’t give her the last lash.

Back and forth, his measured, steady footsteps go. Back and forth the tip of the scourge drags. Ariadne looks only at the wall, as ordered. She trembles, and breathes, and tries not to cry. Her britches are soaked with her blood and cling stickily to her skin. Her fingers are freezing, she can barely feel her death grip on the chains. Back and forth the King paces, and Ariadne waits at his pleasure.

Lightning-quick the scourge moves at last, startling another loud, high wail from her throat. “Ten,” she is finally able to say, and the relief is a heady wave that sweeps through her from the whitened tips of her fingers right to the soles of her feet. “Tha-ank you for teaching me, Your Majesty, I-I won’t fo-orget, thank you for your mercy.”

His hands at her wrists cue her to try and take her own weight again. She pitches forwards, moaning in agony as the movement curves her shredded back. The King doesn’t help her, which is a small mercy. Every twitch of the torn muscles in her back is pain, but she’d still prefer it to his hands on her shoulders, possessive, moving her like a ragdoll.

While she’s panting and whimpering, the King picks up her now-blood-spattered tunic, and tosses it into her lap. “Return to your room, Ariadne.” His tone is cold. “I will heal you in the morning.” “Thank you, Your Majesty, you a-are generous.”

She staggers to her feet with difficulty, clutching the tunic against her chest. The world swims and her ears fill up with hot, wet noise. Her knees hit the stone again and she almost collapses. But she’s trying again even before her vision clears. And on the second try she manages to stay up.

She doesn’t want to put the tunic back on. But there’s an implicit order in giving it to her. And even if there weren’t… the choice is between that, and letting the whole castle see her like this. So she stumbles to the doorway, where she can brace a hand against the wall, and she struggles painfully back into the garment, sobbing as the fabric pulls across the raw swathe of pain that is her back. And with a quick glance back to make sure she isn’t doing the wrong thing, she steps out of the cell and into the corridor.

Her head is spinning. Just putting one foot in front of another is an effort. The King follows her, pace leisurely as she stumbles on. She looks back again, eyes pleading. Did she miss an instruction? But he’s just smirking and watching her struggle. Just entertaining himself with her suffering. Leaning heavily against the wall, she makes her shaky way to the stairs.

She’s made it up a few steps when he clears his throat, and she freezes. Has she done something else wrong already?  “I expect you to get some rest,” he tells her, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Yes Your Majesty,” she agrees uncertainly. Begging internally -- please, please just let her go, isn’t she doing everything she’s told? “I will see you in the morning to heal those wounds,” he smiles. “Don’t want them getting infected.”  “Thank you Your Majesty,” she repeats, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He lets the silence stretch for a few more uncomfortable seconds.

Then he simply dismisses her. “Go get rest now.” “Yes Your Majesty,” she agrees breathlessly, “Yes, I-I will, thank you.”

What was the point of that?? Just to enjoy one more look at her fear? She hates him. She hates him so much. But she turns away as bid, and forces herself up the next step, then the next.

It’s a long way back to her room, and she knows she won’t sleep. But at least she gets to rest. 

Small mercies.

[just-horrible-things]

Escape Attempt 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Cowritten with @khalwrites, King Edwyn and the ‘verse are hers.

‘Verse: Kethrys Timeline: a couple of weeks into Ariadne’s captivity

---

When Ariadne next knows what is happening, she is on the floor and His Majesty is looking down at her. Under his hand, her ruined shoulder crawls with the prickling, painful itch she recognises as healing. “Tha-ank --” she stammers through the sobs that wrack her body “-- thank -- Ma-ajesty thank you…” His hand moves across her collarbones, and the magic moves with it, knitting together muscle and bone. Ariadne thanks him diligently, terrified of slipping up now and inviting a return to anger. He said -- did he say this was the end? She doesn’t remember his exact words, maybe it -- “I’m done, Ariadne, I promise.” “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she sobs earnestly, “thank you.”

It’s over. It’s over for today. 

If only she could pretend that she won’t be screaming again soon. If not tomorrow, the next day. And again after that, and after that, and there’s no end in sight. He won’t let her leave and she hates him -- but she fears him more. His hand rests warm on her healed shoulder, and she shivers and weeps, limp and helpless on the floor.

It’s over for now.

If only she’d got away. If only she hadn’t tried. Why can’t she make up her mind and just do as she’s told, stop inviting further punishment. She hates that thought, hates how ready she is to give up. But hating herself doesn’t stop her from grovelling and crying at the slightest pressure. That's how beaten and wretched and weak she is.

“Water? Or more healing?” Ariadne whimpers softly. “Water please, Your Majesty.” She can’t fight this. She’ll be whatever he wants if he just stops hurting her, just for a little while. That’s how pathetic she is. But she can’t fight it. He sends a guard for water, and returns to healing her. She lies still and murmurs helpless gratitude for every wound that he closes. She’s grateful for the mercy. She hates that she’s grateful. Soon only the stripes across her back remain, and the inescapable chisel-on-bone agony in her head.

His hands are gentle helping her to sit up, supporting her head so that it only throbs a little worse with the movement. She is shaking like a leaf, so weak from exhaustion that she couldn’t take the water from his hands if she tried. He holds it directly to her lips instead. She half expects to drown. But he only helps her drink. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” She means it. She hates it. “Thank you.” “I can heal you completely.”  What does she have to do? What’s the game, what’s the catch? She doesn’t want to ask for too much. The gashes from the whip are not so bad, she doesn’t need more healing like she needed the torture to stop. But she doesn’t want to turn it down either. “Will you, Your Majesty, please?” Her voice wobbles pitifully. She only hopes he appreciates that.

“I’ll heal you,” he agrees, already running his hand down between her shoulder blades to do so. “I think you need to be at your best to follow through on your promises. I don’t want to hurt you any more, Ariadne. Do you understand?” She shudders. She can’t do it, she knows she can’t. “I understand, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Majesty, thank you for your mercy.”

[just-horrible-things]

World and a certain character belong to @khalwrites

Part two here

---

It’s over so fast.

The pain is blinding. She doesn’t understand what has happened until seconds - maybe - after the arrow punches through her chest. For a handful of moments she is still running. And then her face hits the dirt, and the sword is no longer in her hand, and when she tries to push up to her knees her limbs have no strength.

Pain fills her ribcage, hot and molten and overspilling - salty and red - up her throat and into her mouth. It’s hard to think of anything else.

If she cannot stand, then she must crawl. She doesn’t know where she is trying to go.

Someone puts a boot on her back and it feels like shattering in her core. She tries to scream but instead of sound there is blood, she is drowning in blood. She tries to roll, but she can’t. A sword is raised above her. 

She sees death, and her fury is no shield from it.

But the world lurches and all at once she is falling. She - no - the enemy is toppling sideways like a tree falling and the weight lifts from her ribs and she gets air with the blood. She didn’t see the first arrow but she sees the second one take him in the throat as he falls.

Ariadne does not understand.

But she doesn’t expect to. The world is dark-edged. Pain eats her thoughts. Is this rescue? She wouldn’t know.

She gets a few more seconds to live. But what use is rescue? She is dying. She should - she should try not to die. Stop the bleeding, she should stop the bleeding. She tries to apply pressure to the wound but her hands just twitch uselessly in the dirt. 

The taste of blood fills her mouth, her throat, her nose, her ears. There is no more light.

The sword didn’t fall, but she is dying anyway.

In scraps of existence she is aware of the sounds of death. The mud between her fingers. The warmth of her blood on her skin.

And then she is aware of the weight of hands on her back. She hears her name, muted and distant. The voice is familiar. Fear stirs inside her. No!

The pain surges but her body is dead weight, immobile.

“Everything is going to be alright.” The voice is warm and caring. 

Ariadne struggles against the darkness, drowning in dread. No, no, no, no. It does no good. She can’t move, can’t fight, can’t get away. She is losing consciousness, and his voice fills her world.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you die, Ariadne. You’re in my care now.”

Continue

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Kethrys (belongs to @khalwrites) Timeline: Fairly early into her stay with Edwyn

---

Lucky.

Ariadne slams her fist into the pillow she’s strapped to the bedpost.

He keeps telling her how lucky she is. It’s a joke to him, clearly, but she doesn’t understand what he finds so fucking funny about it.

Each punch makes the bed shake. She feels the impact in the bones of her hands and wrists, sharp and satisfying.

Grateful.

A fast enough rhythm to make her pulse pick up and her skin start to warm. Her head throbs, but her head always hurts now. There’s no challenge in it. But it’s something. He won’t let her spar with any of his guards.

She’s supposed to pretend to be grateful. 

She strikes the pillow with her elbows, with the heels of her hands, with her fists over and over. Sidestepping lightly as if it were an opponent. Closing and stepping back and closing again.

She’s supposed to be grateful so she thanks him for the abuse and she lies on command and she uses hollow compliments to try and dampen his anger.

He’s so fucking shallow. He knows she doesn’t mean it.

She’s so fucking shallow. A coward, when it comes down to the bone.

She steps back and kicks the pillow as hard as she can. Something in the bed frame makes an alarming creaking crack. Ariadne’s heart stops. Destroying the furniture would definitely be enough excuse for the King to show off another inventive way to hurt her.

She wiggles the bedpost tentatively. There’s no more give than before. Nothing seems to have broken. 

No kicking, perhaps. Hands and elbows only.

She punches the pillow again, but finds she hasn’t thrown her full weight into it. She’s worried now that the bedpost will give under the force. And then she’d be in for it.

Another couple of half-hearted blows.

She could move the pillow to a different post.

But the satisfaction is gone anyway. Stupid, why did she think she’d get anything out of fighting a fucking pillow. 

Her eyes are hot. He’s not even interfered with her today, and he’s still in her head, crowding her thoughts, sapping the enjoyment out of everything. The headache beats time with her pulse, never letting her forget his cruelty.

Why me? she wonders childishly. There’s nothing special about her. He’s said that himself. Why waste so much of his time toying with her? There must be dozens of people in the castle alone who would grovel nicely for him if he cared to make them. 

Self-pity won’t get her anywhere. But why does it have to be me?

Isn’t she just so fucking lucky to have his attention.

She punches the pillow again hard. It causes another alarming creak. She grimaces and takes a step back. Her fingers dig into her palms. She can’t even have this.

She kicks the rug out of the way instead, and throws herself into doing press-ups. If she goes until her arms turn to jelly and her lungs ache and her throat is dry from panting, maybe she will be able to bury a little of the frustration beneath exhaustion.

It’s not like she has anything else to do.

---

“Ariadne.” The King stops her in the hallway. “Your Majesty.” She bows low again. “Walk with me.” “Of course, Your Majesty.”

His hand rests like lead on her shoulder. Ariadne focuses on matching her stride to his, and on watching for any cue. She tries not to wonder what he wants with her this time. “Are you lacking amenities? Have I not provided everything you need to keep yourself in good condition here in my home?” This is about fighting the bed. For a moment she questions how he could know -- before she remembers that her memories are not private here. Her skin crawls.

“You’ve provided everything I need, Your Majesty,” she lies. “Your generosity is unrivaled.” “I notice that you seem a little frustrated.” Ariadne swallows back a flash of anger. “I suppose I’m… a restless person,” she hedges carefully. “I apologise, Your Majesty. I’m… frustrated by my failures, Your Majesty.” “I’d prefer you to save that aggression for the dragon, rather than taking it out on my furniture.” His tone is mild, but Ariadne’s breath catches anyway. The queasy mix of fear and humiliation is familiar, but her cheeks still colour. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty. It was a foolish thing to do and it won’t happen again.”

A dozen steps in silence before he deigns to let her know whether he’s going to let that slide or not. Ariadne can’t help but wonder where he is taking her. “Would you like to practice on a training dummy instead?” “If you would permit it, Your Majesty, I would be very grateful.” The manners need no thought, but internally she is wary. Will there be a cost? It’s the best offer he’s made her since he gave her permission to run in the courtyard, but she’s reluctant to hope. “Of course,” His Majesty smiles magnanimously. “I want you to be happy in my service, Ariadne.” Happy. She clenches her jaw to keep herself from reacting to the blatant lie. Grateful. Be grateful. “Thank you, Your Majesty, I’m so glad. You are so very kind to me.”

They have reached the door to what she’s pretty sure is one of his council rooms. Not a typical place to punish her. Anxiety and hope twist in her chest. Her pulse races. Her head throbs. “That will be all,” he tells her, lifting his hand from her shoulder. She holds her breath to stop herself sighing in relief. Never safe until she’s out of his sight. Never really safe even then. “You may go. I have important things to do.” “Yes, Your Majesty, thank you, Your Majesty.”

She bows deep, and backs away.

[just-horrible-things]

Escape Attempt 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Cowritten with @khalwrites, King Edwyn and the ‘verse are hers.

‘Verse: Kethrys Timeline: a couple of weeks into Ariadne’s captivity

---

Ariadne can’t hope to track the passing of time. She can guess maybe, from the progress of thirst. Many hours, well into the night, but not so many as multiple days… probably. Every time she thinks of it, she is not certain. Pain makes it hard to be certain. Her whole body hurts. The dislocated joints she hangs from are sheer agony. She needs it to end. She needs it so badly, badly she has no control.

Time drags painfully past. Maybe hours, maybe only distorted minutes. She hangs limp in the chains, and despairs.

When His Majesty finally comes back for her, terror is stronger than hope. She wants to be let down but she doesn’t want to be let down if it means more torture. She might wonder why he hurts her so much but she knows why -- just for that shivering, gratifying thrill. The King is like her but worse -- and much, much more powerful in every regard.

Not so long ago she would have tried to stifle the sounds of pain and fear. But fuck dignity, she’d rather give the King what he wants sooner rather than later. She doesn’t fight the whimpers that rise in her throat. “Majesty --” she greets him “-- please please -- I’m sorry -- I -- I’m sorry please --” her lungs won’t expand, she has to drag in frequent breaths between the pleas“-- please I won’t -- do it again -- please mercy --” He steps close, drinking in her misery. His hand cups the side of her face. “-- please --” she whispers “-- Majesty -- please --”

His fingers trace across her cheek. He brushes her hair back gently and tucks it behind her ear. Perhaps it’s a good thing she can barely lift her head, or she’d flinch away from him. Flinching is punished, she's learned that. “I was merciful.” His tone is soft. Ariadne’s stomach turns, thinking of the brutality that he calls merciful. “And you betrayed my trust. Why should I be merciful again?”

Ariadne sobs breathlessly. She knew, when she tried to run. She knew that if she was caught it would be -- beyond nightmare. And she was caught. “I’ll -- I’ll be better --” she promises “”-- I’m so -- so sorry -- ple-ease--!” The King smiles. His fingers brush across her cheek again and linger at her temple, tracing half-circles, dancing across the skin. The memory of agony is just beneath the surface, starting to stab behind her eyes. She whines. She hurts so much but it can be so much worse, will be so much worse. “Have you learned?” “I have learned I -- won’t ever again --” she gasps “-- please --” She won’t, she means it. She doesn’t know why she ever thought it would work. Of course he is always watching. Somehow. There’s no escape. She can’t imagine --

His magic floods into her skull and the thought is gone.

Nothing else he does to her can compete for sheer pain. Her head shatters into a hundred glass-edged shards of agony. Her body burns as if alight, as if tearing itself apart, as if dunked into molten iron. She doesn’t feel herself convulse. Doesn’t feel her body arch and her feet come off the floor, doesn’t even feel the ligaments tearing in her arms. She doesn’t feel her breath stop in her lungs, or hear the wild, mindless shriek that tears out of her a few seconds later. She feels only the pain.

He stops, and her body goes limp. “Apologise.” The sound is distant and muddy. Her vision is dark and swimming. Her mouth moves, but she knows no words to give to him. He doesn't give her time to find them.

Agony slams down and whites out her world.

When it eases, her scream slides into a wavering, drawn-out whine.  “Apologise,” the King orders, somewhere far away. She can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t see. The sounds she makes aren’t sentences, aren't even words. Just fragmented syllables. “Breathe first.” A quiet command. “A few deep breaths for me.” That she can obey and she does. Her air-starved body is eager to suck in gasp after desperate gasp. 

His magic crashes through her mind again.

She can’t hear herself scream, but the sound is piercing and drawn-out and raw with suffering. She wails until her air runs out, keeps trying to scream as her throat closes around a strangled hiss. A convulsion, an involuntary breath, and she screams again. Over and over until her voice cracks and breaks.

When he breaks it off, thought does not return instantly. Sensations other than pain creep in piecemeal. The roughness in her throat as she whimpers and gasps. The terrible weight of her body. Her torturer’s voice. The words are noise to her first. Rough-edged fragments of syllable turn slowly in her scattered mind before coming clumsily together to convey meaning. He said apologies -- a word she understands -- and waiting. “I’m sorry --” she forces out weakly. “I’m -- so -- sorry -- Ma-ajesty.” She's still struggling to breathe when his fingers return to her temple, brushing feather-light across the stinging skin. She keens in fear, but can muster no more fight than a few weak twitches. “Do you think those few measly words are acceptable apologies?” Apologies -- acceptable? “No -- Majesty.” Never good enough, she is never good enough. “I -- sorry -- was so -- ungrateful -- I -- I’ve learned…" 

Reason starts to return as she falters her way through the pleas. She remembers who she is, and who he is -- the King she thought she idolised -- who owns her and breaks her and knows everything she thinks. "I won’t ever -- again." Whatever it is she did. "I’m so sorry -- please --" She tried to run, that's what she did, and failed. "-- please, please forgive me…”

As she stammers and shudders, the King walks behind her, leaving her swimming field of vision. She feels touch at her torn shoulder, and doesn’t recognise it until the full length of the braided leather trails across her back. The whip. To drive home her failure. How lowly she is. Oh dead gods, not like this...

“You’re going to offer me ways to be better,” the King informs her. “To show you’re truly grateful for what you’ve been given. That you’re grateful for the honor to work with such a high profile prisoner. That you’re grateful for my luxuries and my protection.” The whip cracks behind her and makes her twitch -- once, twice. “I’ll stop when I’m satisfied you’ve learned your lesson and then I promise to heal you.”

He promises. An end in sight -- more agony first but an end.

“Yes Your Majesty.” Her head is crowded with splitting, blinding pain. She falls back on phrases that are rarely wrong. “Thank you Your Majesty.” Another crack, another flinch to wrack her with pain and flood her with dreadful anticipation. “You have the chance to speak after each lash.”

The whip slams into her back with terrible force. The impact hurts, and the jolt of being thrown forwards against the chains is worse. A cracking scream, and then she is scrambling to guess what he wants her to say.  “I - I-I - won’t -- won’t e-ever defy you again--!” “No, Ariadne. You’re offering ways to be better, remember?” Sickening, false concern threads through his tone. “I want to heal you, not hurt you more. So tell me how you plan to improve.”

A second lash, just as hard. The tip curls round her dislocated shoulder and cuts into the swollen flesh. Ariadne screams and sobs. “I’ll --” sob “-- work better -- harder --” sob “-- ge-et results.”

The third lash lands across the back of her legs. The weal burns badly, but the jerk on her arms is a little less. “How can you prove you’re grateful?” “I -- I -- tha-ank you and --” a high, scared whine slips out “-- every time -- enthusiasm --?” 

Across her back again. Less force than the first. She still screams. “Breathe before you answer.” Permission not to answer at once. She breathes desperately. “I’ll -- I’ll kneel and -- kiss your boots -- I’ll -- I’m very grateful please--!” “Kneeling, yes, but that’s a given.” She can hear the irritation in his voice and she wants to cower. “Why did I bring you back here? What is your purpose and how can you serve it?”

The whip crashes across her shoulders again and she howls loud and long. What does he want her to say? “Hh-- h-here to -- nnhh --” whine, gasp “-- here to i-interrogate your prisoners -- Majesty--! I’ll -- I’m -- grateful to serve I --” Her voice climbs in pitch as she fumbles, anticipating the next lash.

But the King walks round in front of her, starting to roll up the whip, and she feels a surge of desperate hope. “Keep going.” “I’ll hurt anyone you say and not ask questions and thank you for the --” gasp “-- opportunity and --” gasp “-- do my work with enthusiasm and say thank you and -- and -- never disobey -- and --” Words come harder as her lungs empty of air. Anger flashes in the King’s eyes. She panics as he puts his hands on her shoulders. A sharp push down and she convulses, trying to scream, suffocating.  “I’m practically giving you the answer Ariadne,” he snarls. “What have you been doing this whole time? What is the task you’ve been set to do? Enthusiasm is the gratitude but I need to know that you will do better with your goals.”

Her body spasms as he releases the pressure. Her eyes roll in their sockets. “Breathe before you answer,” he orders coldly, “don’t make me pull the whip out again.” Those breaths come as frantic, high, strained whines at first, but her throat does loosen. “I’ll -- get results --” she promises as soon as she can, “I swear -- she’ll scream she’ll -- tell you a-anything you want -- I -- I’ll break he-er--!”

He pauses. Smiles. Fractional pressure on her ruined shoulder and she sobs harder. “Her?” he asks, voice low and dangerous. For several seconds, she doesn’t understand. Then: “It!” she squeaks, “-- i-it I meant it I sorry I no ple-ease please--!” He pushes down hard and she thrashes wildly. Bones crack beneath his hands - collarbone, rib, shoulder joint on the side that wasn’t destroyed. She wails and wails, feeling the promise of mercy slipping away. “Once more,” he demands. “And choose your words more carefully.” “C-c--” she chokes out “-- c -- mh -- p-ple-e -- nnh --” “Take a deep breath,” he orders, letting up very slowly on her shoulders. Her whole body shudders as she obeys. “Again. Now, tell me what you are going to achieve for me.” The answer is just out of reach. “... please ...” she whimpers. The pressure increases. “I -- I -- I --”  “Breathe.” Deep breath. “I -- the, the dragon.” Desperate, sharp-edged hope. “The -- I’ll -- I’ll break h-hhn -- it, it -- I’ll -- I’ll break i-it for you Majesty -- I-I will... ” He takes his hands off her, and she can only sob.

Seconds later, the chains release and drop her body to the floor.  She crumples, boneless, as pain consumes her world yet again.

Continue

[just-horrible-things]

Escape Attempt 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Cowritten with @khalwrites, King Edwyn and the ‘verse are hers.

‘Verse: Kethrys  Timeline: a couple of weeks into Ariadne’s captivity 

---

At least, Ariadne reflects grimly, it doesn’t really matter how badly she is shaking. It isn’t going to make a difference to the outcome. She’d be kicking herself if she lost a fight just because she’s fucking terrified and she can’t hold her sword steady. But she’s going to lose this one regardless. She’s a passable swordswoman, but by reputation King Edwyn is one of the best, maybe the best there is.

He clearly expects her to come to him. So she closes the distance carefully, keeping her sword central, watching his eyes. She expects the strike to come at any second. But he just watches her, smiling with cruel humour at her nervousness.

Even after everything he’s done to her, there is something sacrilegious about the notion of raising a hand against her King, let alone a sword. Still, it’s not as though Ariadne is actually going to injure him. 

She starts with a few simple cuts, testing his defences. He voids easily. Once or twice he blocks. Every time he moves he steps backwards, letting her find a rhythm in pursuit. It takes him little enough effort to defend that she is learning nothing. So she abandons caution. 

Between one forward step and the next, she is suddenly throwing all her weight and strength into the lunge. The King, of course, is too good to be thrown off. But he answers by engaging her in earnest. It takes everything Ariadne has to keep up. She presses the assault -- aggression, aggression, aggression -- acutely aware that he is allowing her to keep the offense. He’s barely working, countering with an enviable economy of motion, as she wears herself out trying to outpace him. She feels like a horse being put through her paces. Under any other circumstance she’d be grateful to learn from such a master. But she knows full well all she’s going to learn is more pain to reinforce the fear of stepping out of line.

The first time His Majesty decides to strike her, Ariadne’s heart stops in her chest. But instead of a disabling wound, his sword delivers only the shallowest cut, so that she barely feels the sting past the adrenaline rush. 

The second time she manages not to panic. She sees her mistake as she makes it, restrains the instinct to drag her sword across for a block that will get there too late, and turns that energy into a slash at the King’s shoulder instead. He turns away from it without disrupting his momentum, and scores another line up the inside of her sword arm from elbow to shoulder. He could have run her through if he’d wanted. But he’s not fighting her. He’s just playing.

The third time, she can’t even follow his movements. An aggressive lunge has her practically diving sideways, then in an instant he is inside her guard, almost behind her back, striking and stepping back again before she knows what is happening. A flare of pain from the nape of her neck to her hip tells her that she is cut again. She’s too slow to retaliate, and entirely fails to defend against the derisive swipe that lays her thigh open. By the time she has recovered her footing, His Majesty has returned to his defensive stance, inviting her to come at him again.

Something in the quality of the pain tells Ariadne that the last cut is worse than the others, even before the pain reaches its searing peak. She falters, trying to favour that leg, but she doesn’t know a better stance to reduce the pain. The King quirks an eyebrow at her hesitation. Obedient to his expectations, she forces herself forwards again.

For a couple of exchanges, he lets her get close to cutting him. He stumbles back from a block, though she knows he’s far stronger than that. He allows her blade within an inch of his skin, once, twice in a row. But no closer. He has the measure of her reach perfectly. The precision is breathtaking. Perhaps he means to give her false hope, but Ariadne is just awed by his obvious skill.

He takes her supposed advantage away again with a straightforward slash, simply too fast and too forceful for her to do anything but jump back. Her injured leg threatens to buckle even as the King steps in, using his advantage in height and reach to close easily. His blade slices across her forearm, and Ariadne is a child again, backpedalling and flailing with no idea of how to defend. A brutal cut catches her across the abdomen. She tries to step back, he stabs deep into her leg, and she goes down hard on one knee, clutching at her gut. Hot blood wells between her fingers.

For a few panicked seconds, she thinks that he might have killed her.

But the moment passes, and she is not dying. Not fast, anyway. King Edwyn has returned to his ready stance, leaving her the space she needs to try and gather her wits. There’s an implicit order in his withdrawal. Ariadne considers refusing. She could yield and accept the consequences of disappointing him. Or she could try grovelling for mercy. But maybe it’s better to take the pain like this than helpless and in chains. Groaning through gritted teeth, she struggles back to her feet. Torn muscles struggle with the weight of her sword, and she has to put both hands on the hilt to keep the blade from dropping.

She wants to keep up the aggression - trying to defend herself is a waste of effort - but fear undermines her intent. She flinches from his movements, even as he merely sidesteps. Her sword keeps twitching up to block counters that don’t come.

“You want to leave,” His Majesty asks coldly as he steps around another clumsy lunge, “is that correct? I expected a better fight.” “M’sorry -” Ariadne pants - “Your - Majesty.” She feints low, then wrenches the blade up to swing at his sword arm. He steps in, catching her arm with one hand. A savage twist, and her sword falls from spasming fingers. Her wounded leg buckles. A strangled yelp of pain and fear turns into a whole sequence of frantic noises as he spins her, holding her up by the arm, and pushes her back until she hits the wall. Her legs scrabble uselessly for purchase on the floor. He lays his sword across her throat, leaning in close. “I yield,” she gasps, squirming to try and alleviate the torsion in her arm.

“Still want to leave?” he hisses, face close up against hers. His fingers dig into the fresh cut and he twists harder, and harder, pinning her bodily against the wall. Ariadne yelps, then half-screams as something pops in her elbow and gives way in a flash of agony. “No --” she gasps frantically, hoping that it’s the right answer “-- no -- Majesty--!” The sword presses harder against her throat, starting to choke her. It must be cutting into the skin but she can’t feel it past the pain in her arm. “Looks like your intelligence has returned,” His Majesty smirks.

He lets go of her arm, and there’s nothing Ariadne can do to keep herself from sliding down the wall. Her head tips back until she is looking directly up to meet the King’s eyes. A faint, cold smile plays across his lips as he brushes the hair back from her face. “Do you think you deserve to be disciplined for trying to leave?” he asks. “Did you believe I wouldn’t notice? Were my hospitalities not enough of a kindness to satisfy you?” “I’m sorry -” Ariadne apologises, breathless. Scrambling to sift through the questions. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty -- I’m -- ungrateful and a coward, Your Majesty -- I’m, I’m sorry I deserve to be punished, Your Majesty.”

King Edwyn stands, withdrawing the sword and letting Ariadne slump further against the base of the wall. He looks down at her with utter contempt, and she feels pathetic. All she wants is to be anywhere but here. “Ask me,” he orders. Ariadne feels her cheeks try to flush, even through the pain and the fear. Sure, humiliate herself further, why not. “Please punish me, Your Majesty,” she begs in despondent tones. “Please -- discipline me.”

Next

[just-horrible-things]

Escape Attempt 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Cowritten with @khalwrites, King Edwyn and the ‘verse are hers.

‘Verse: Kethrys  Timeline: a couple of weeks into Ariadne’s captivity 

---

Foolish woman.

Does she not realize how incredibly lucky she is, getting the opportunity to work by his side? Is she blind to the opportunities that he’s providing, blind to the many luxuries? He has done nothing but show kindness when deserved, combined with the occasional lesson doled out for her failures. 

And still, still, she’s rejecting it all. Walking around his castle like some pathetic storm cloud, acting like it’s such an injustice to her to stay here a minute longer. And as he suspected, she’s taking the first opportunity to try and sneak away right under his nose.

She’s nothing but a coward and a fool. Ungrateful for what she’s been given. This is but a game for him, and if she wishes to show him this magnitude of disrespect then his kindness is at an end. It seems like the time has come to remind the woman how incredibly unpleasant he can make her life if she desires to rebel against him. 

“Rielyn?” He doesn’t bother hiding the anticipation in his voice, already running through ideas in his mind of what sort of punishment will be suitable for this disgraceful disobedience. “Go and fetch my interrogator, if you will. I don’t recall giving her permission to leave the castle.” 

A cold smile to match his own, and she sweeps out of the room, accompanied by two guards. Edwyn settles down to watch the show, fingers tapping lightly on the table. He can feel his magic bubbling right beneath the surface of his fingertips, eager to be put to use, and he already hears the musical echoes of the screams that it will soon be causing. 

Ariadne has just made it outside the castle walls when his sister catches up. A blast of energy sends his interrogator flying backwards, slamming hard into the stone, any semblance of hope in her eyes gone in an instant when she hits the ground. It’s so cute how quickly she surrenders, palms lifted, not getting up but just letting the guards drag her to her feet. She’s shaking already, practically panicking, and Edwyn can feel his smile grow now that his day is about to become quite a bit more fun than initially planned.

“Follow me.” He can hear Rielyn’s voice, icy-cold, coming in softly through the vision he created. “My brother should hear about this.” 

His guards guide Ariadne along by her shoulders, the fool trembling and wide-eyed. At least she has the sense to know how big a mistake she just made. 

Did she really think he wouldn’t find out?

He swipes his hand through the mist, the image vanishing, and then nods to one of his guards to accompany him to a large room. Completely empty, except for the bolts along the ceiling. Then he waits, letting his amusement and eager anticipation fade away to be replaced by a rising anger as the guards lead his former interrogator into the room. 

With a wave of his hand, and a whisper to one, the guards are dismissed, leaving him alone with the idiot that tried to run.

She drops to her knees the instant that her shoulders are released -- manners come easy, so it seems -- head bowed like she’s expecting him to lash out at once. Not quite yet: Ariadne should know by now that she’s just a toy and games come first.

His voice is calm and steady as he looks down at her, keeping that cold look on his face, anger and anticipation stirring inside. “Do you want to leave?” 

She cowers, still shaking, and it gets harder to hide his clear amusement at the situation as she admits "Yes, Your Majesty.”

A soft gesture with his hand. “The door is right there.”

She is wise enough to stay put, not even the slightest twitch or a scramble to hide it. Ariadne just asks, almost hesitantly, already knowing the answer, "May I leave, Your Majesty?"

“I’m glad you still have some wits about you, wise enough to at least ask for permission.” His voice comes out almost as a soft whisper as he walks a circle around her. He’s waiting for his guard to come back with the tools he requested to teach Ariadne what happens to disobedient servants. The silence stretches as her apprehension builds, and Edwyn finally stops in front of her, voice not changing from the steady and relaxed tone. 

“It’s a shame you didn’t trust me enough to ask in the first place.”

Ariadne’s voice is shaky, unable to hide her fear. "I should have Your Majesty, I'm sorry Your Majesty."

“Unfortunately, this is not something I can allow to go unpunished.” He tries to put pity into his voice, acting like it’s a burden to hurt her. Of course, Ariadne might just be a toy, but she’s smart enough to know how much he enjoys every second of causing her pain. “Do you know who else has tried to escape from me before?”

She hesitates before responding, probably scared of the implications of the correct answer. 

"... prisoners, Your Majesty?"

“Exactly.” Footsteps and the clanking of chains draw his attention from the woman for a split second, in time to see his guard return. The chains are dropped in the corner, and the guard pauses with two swords in hand, awaiting orders.

Edwyn lets his voice get colder, the stony expression getting darker and angrier by the second. “You don’t want to be treated like that, do you?”

She cringes, looking more terrified than ever. "No, Your Majesty, I'm sorry, Your Majesty."

With a snap of his fingers, his guard moves into place. A sword is dropped at Ariadne’s feet, and the other is handed to him as he takes a few steps away. The door closes behind the guard as he’s dismissed, until it’s just the two of them, alone in a room with two swords and one exit.

“Stand up. Grab the sword.”

She can’t hide the fear, but his interrogator does as she’s told -- probably desperately trying to avoid pain, yet knowing that it’s inevitable. 

“I believe you wanted someone to spar with, correct?” He walks slowly back and forth in front of her, studying her fragile attempts at composure, enjoying the feel of the familiar weapon in his hands. “How about... if you win, you get to leave?”

He smiles, letting it spread to his eyes, that warm and approachable look that has his entire kingdom fooled. “Ariadne, you have my word that it will be fair. No magic, just a friendly duel.”

No hesitation, but she already looks defeated. "Yes Your Majesty, thank you Your Majesty." 

He takes another step back, any last remnants of his anger fading away now that he’s about to play a game that only has one outcome. His body language is defensive, inviting the woman to make the first move. 

She takes an equally guarded stance at first, mirroring him, and hesitates. Everything about her body language reflects what they both already know: that she doesn’t stand a chance. Her voice is resigned and completely miserable when she speaks again.  "May I have the honour of sparring with you Majesty?" 

His smile grows. “Who am I to deny such a polite request?”

He swings his sword in the air, a couple practiced strokes, imagining the steel stained in blood.  “Whenever you’re ready.”

Continue

[just-horrible-things]

Escape Attempt 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Cowritten with @khalwrites, King Edwyn and the ‘verse are hers.

‘Verse: Kethrys Timeline: a couple of weeks into Ariadne’s captivity

---

 "Please punish me, Your Majesty," Ariadne begs in despondent tones. Refusing the order would only get her more pain. "Please -- discipline me."

He moves fast, grabbing her uninjured arm and slamming it against the wall above her head. A quick twist and wrench and she cries out as her shoulder comes out of joint. She scrabbles instinctively to get her feet under her, and the King keeps lifting, spinning her away from the wall faster than she can find her balance. Before she really knows what is happening, he's passed her into the arms of a waiting guard.

Manacles are locked around her wrists with practised efficiency while the other guard feeds a chain through a bolt in the ceiling above. Ariadne twists against the hands that hold her, half-panicked, but she achieves nothing. All too soon her hands are yanked up and up. A scream tears out of her throat as her weight is loaded onto the dislocated joints. Every wound the King has given her seems to rip wide open as her body is pulled taut. Hot blood floods down her skin.

They leave her with her feet just barely brushing the floor, twisting frantically to try and take some weight on her outstretched toes.

"Look at me, Ariadne," the King orders. Ariadne obeys. She fights to stifle her moaning so that she can gasp "-- please --" but she knows that he is far from done with her. His Majesty smiles at her - his real smile, not the false one he uses to reassure - and she lets out a sob. "You are losing rather a lot of blood," he comments calmly. "Would you like me to do something about those wounds?" Ariadne doesn't understand. It's too early to hope for mercy... isn't it? She doesn't dare hope. "Ma-ajesty?" she stammers. "I asked you a question." He pushes firmly on her dislocated shoulder, destroying her fragile balance and making her wail again. "Yes Your Majesty -" she gasps "- please Yo-our Majesty?" "Very well."

She was right not to hope. He lays his hand over the crossed wounds in her thigh, and the pain multiplies tenfold. The muted smell of blood is smothered by the stench of burning flesh. Ariadne screams and throws her head back. She doesn't know if she struggles or not. "-- grateful?" the King is asking. What is she supposed to be grateful for this time? "Tha-ank you," she gasps anyway, "Ma-ajesty. Thank you." "Keep your eyes on me," he chides. But she can't. Not when the fire flares again across her stomach. She howls and jerks against the chains. Her shoulder is agony, her elbow is agony. She howls, and howls, and he burns the deep gash in her forearm closed as well, and eventually the heat ebbs enough that her screams break apart into sobs.

"Look at me, Ariadne," her King orders. She lifts her gaze with difficulty, whimpering through tears. He looks satisfied now, and she hopes briefly that maybe he is done with her -- before she remembers what, exactly, she did. "We'll have a talk about your disobedience when I return," he smiles. Ariadne whines in desperate despair. She watches him leave. The door closes and locks, and the guards take up positions between it and Ariadne. As if she could possibly escape.

Still sobbing breathlessly, she resumes her struggle to take her weight on her toes. Dread is tight in her chest, almost as pressing as the pain. How long will he leave her like this? She hurts so much and it's only going to get worse.

She lets her eyes close. She doesn't want to look at the guards. They might be watching her, entertained by her suffering. They might just not care. There's no point begging them for mercy, they won't disobey their King. And who could have sympathy for a torturer tortured? Better to pretend they aren't there.

For a little while, she can more or less keep her balance. Her injured leg burns as badly as the damaged joints she hangs from. But she can spread the load. Soon though, her legs are shaking badly and her feet are cramping, and every time she slips, her weight jolts on her shoulder and elbow, and she starts to wonder if it's worth trying. Whenever she stops, it’s not long before the sheer pain of hanging from those joints drives her back to struggling.

Time crawls past, on and on and on.

The ache of tension infiltrates every part of her body, creeping out from the injuries. Every joint in her arms sings with pain. Every muscle burns and cramps. Shudders crawl slowly across her blood-sticky skin. It grows hard to breathe with her chest under tension. She whimpers and moans and squirms, and movement makes the pain worse, but so does staying still. A sluggish thought amidst the thick fog of pain tells her that probably the guards are not here to stop her escaping, but to make sure she doesn't drop dead.

A little while later she wonders if she could fake unconsciousness well enough to be let down. But she moans and writhes and whimpers and she can't figure out how to stop. Time drags on and on and on and she only wants it to be over.

Slowly, something is giving in the chains or - more likely - in her strained and damaged body. Eventually the balls of her feet touch the floor. The realisation spurs her to fresh energy, and renews her efforts to take some weight off her arms. It works for a little while before she succumbs to the cramps again.

Time crawls past and past and she hangs limp and whimpers quietly to herself and struggles to get enough air.

The sound of the door jolts Ariadne from a daze that is nothing like sleep. She sees her King, her tormentor, and she is desperate. He could bring more pain, so much more pain. Or he could show her mercy. She knows what he wants from her. "-- please --" she whimpers, lungs burning with the effort of breathing deeper. "--please Your Majesty -- please have mercy -- I'm so sorry for, for disobeying -- please have mercy please --" He pays no attention to her crying. He doesn't answer her pleas. She keeps trying, tripping over her tongue, as he stops in front of her to study her quivering body. Does she please? Is his cruelty sated? Can she appease him with her misery and submission, instead of with more agony?

His Majesty puts his hands on her shoulders, and pushes down hard.

Ariadne screams. But she runs out of breath fast and is left convulsing and gasping weakly for air. He's already walking out again by the time she recovers any semblance of wits. "-- no --" she sobs bitterly "-- no, please, no -- I can't, please -- I can't..." Only the guards can hear her, and they don't care. She falls limp in her chains again, and weeps.

Continue

[just-horrible-things]

Cowritten with @khalwrites, world and Edwyn are hers.

Part one here, part three here

---

Warm light filters through high windows and falls across Ariadne’s face, painting her world behind closed eyelids red. The bed beneath her is fantastically soft. The covers are heavy. She drifts in warmth and comfort and she doesn’t have the faintest idea where she might be. Not in her childhood bed, that’s certain. Not in a tent, on the road, or the familiar bunkroom… It doesn’t seem urgent. Sleep clings, and she is reluctant to wake.

“Ariadne?” The concerned voice is warm and gentle, but it makes something cold and sickly stir in Ariadne’s gut. “Are you awake?” King Edwyn. Memory floods back like stepping under a waterfall. No wonder she doesn’t know where she is, Ariadne didn’t expect to ever wake again. She remembers drowning in blood. Her lungs suck in air in a shuddering gasp, her muscles tense for combat, jerking her body upright. She should be dead --

The King is sitting beside the bed, handsome as ever in the sunlight, a perfect picture of dignified concern. Ariadne’s heart hammers in her ribcage. “Are you alright?” he is asking, “You were out for a long time.” No, Ariadne wants to plead. No, he let her go, she was safe. She hasn’t done anything wrong since, she never meant to disobey her monarch. She’s a loyal subject, she’s remained loyal, even after he -- after he -- “Ariadne?” “Your Majesty,” she acknowledges, voice shaky with fright. She is loyal, and he is the King, and if he wants to hurt her…

His smile is kind, and calm. A far cry from the nightmare that turned her life upside down. Why is she here? The bed is luxurious, the chamber is bright and airy and pleasant. If he wanted to hurt her, she could easily be in a freezing dungeon cell. She takes a deep breath, and then another. There’s no pain.

She remembers the arrows that saved her life. Remembers hands pulling the bandit’s arrow from her chest, and the painful, pins-and-needles rush of healing magic. She remembers his voice, distant through the fog of impending death.

“You... saved me,” she says dumbly, almost asking. Why? She disobeyed him, she tried to free the dragon -- he was so furious with her. He leans forwards, and she is too dazed to flinch away. His hand merely settles on her shoulder. Weighty, reassuring, warm. “I saw what was happening,” he explains softly. Speaking slowly, making it easy to follow even with her head spinning like it is. “I couldn’t simply stand by and let a friend get hurt.” A… friend? Ariadne starts to ease hesitantly back into the pillows, guided by his gentle hand. Confusion is hot behind her eyes. Is she forgiven? “Thank you, Your Majesty…” Bewilderment saps some of the sincerity from her voice. But she is very glad not to be dead, truly she is. “You’re.. very kind.”

He seems so genuine, smiling down at her, but she can’t shake the memory of screaming under his hands. Could this be some elaborate trick? Or could he really regret what he did to her? He was so brutal... but she gave him every reason to be angry with her. She’s more than familiar with losing her own temper.

“Do you need anything? Food? Water?” “Water would be lovely please, Your Majesty,” she tries falteringly. Fear has masked thirst, but her mouth is very dry. “Of course. I’ll have it brought for you right away. You should eat something too, to regain your strength.” Ariadne nods, still lost. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

She is not entirely comfortable with the way his hand lingers on her shoulder. Or with how much of his attention she seems to have. Was he waiting here the whole time she was unconscious? He’s the King, and she is… nobody.

“Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything else.” “Thank you, Your Majesty. I… don’t want to impose on your time, Your Majesty, you’ve been so kind already…” She isn’t sure if she imagines the flicker of amusement in the King’s eyes. Maybe she’s just paranoid. It’s gone in an instant, if it was ever there. “I really think you should rest here until you are recovered.” “Of course, Your Majesty.” Nothing hurts, but she doesn’t know if her legs would take her weight if she tried to get out of the bed. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” “That was a nasty injury. I almost didn’t get to you in time.” She shivers, remembering. “I’m very grateful, Your Majesty.”

He leaves her in the end, once a servant has been and gone. Ariadne is left with cool, clean water, warm bread and fresh fruit. She wasn’t sure if she was going to be able to stomach anything after that fright, but once it is in front of her she is famished. She’d forgotten how good the castle food is. She eats everything she was given, and licks her fingers clean before wiping them on the pristine linen napkin.

Then she lies back again in the mountain of pillows, and wonders what is to become of her. Surrounded by opulence and wealth, she should be glad beyond measure that the King is showing her favour once again. And she certainly is glad that he saw fit to save her life. 

But anxiety sits heavy in her chest, and somehow the sunlight fails to warm her skin.

[Next]

[just-horrible-things]

Masterpost - Kethrys

IMPORTANT: This collab is discontinued. I believe the co-author has taken down her pieces

Summary: Yet another alternate story for Ariadne, this time in @khalwrites​‘ medieval fantasy ‘verse. When Ariadne’s dream of working with the famously kind and noble King Edwyn comes true, it is not long before her expectations are shattered. Alone in the world and chasing her sole remaining goal - vengeance - she ends up throwing herself on the mercy of the monsters that she once helped persecute and torture.

Caution for: war, gore, fantasy racism and genocide, conditioning, torturer as a sympathetic character.

Writing: There are huge chunks of story missing between the written pieces, but here they are in chronological order:

In Edwyn’s Service: Debriefing --- “Rescue” - 1, 2 Escape Attempt - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 Grateful Maliq’s Revenge Unprompted --- Flight

Alone: Arson Murder Hollow Looting - 1, 2, 3

In Kaelyx’s Service: Sparring: 1, 2 

Tags: For the ‘verse: #verse: kethrys For characters: #kethrys!ariadne, #king edwyn altair, kaelyx

Current Status: Discontinued

Masterpost updated 01/01/2022 - removed broken links