#verse: kethrys

[sparklecryptid]

aniseandspearmint replied to your post: “Here's a sad thought for your new the sun is also a warrior verse;...”:

The previous chosen acting something like the previous sword-sworn do throughout the Tarma and Kethry series, maybe? *hums Snow Beast*

And hmmmm, maybe 'failed chosen' is the wrong way to look at it? Their body didn't survive the trip or the biological changes necessary, but like you said, whose to say they haven't been hanging around gathering information?

Might be a while before they actually approach Helios tho. Like, if a ghosty person showed up and tried to tell him all this Chosen Oof Eos stuff right after he arrived, would he listen, or just like, scream curses and throw things at them?

Yeah, I was thinking something along the line of ‘just because they dont have a body doesn’t mean that they’re not still one of Eos’ Chosen’ so they wouldn’t be failed at all

And yes! I would say that it’d be a while before  any of them approached Helios because first, he has to get used to everything and then depending on how he copes with Shit they might start revealing themselves one at a time.

[firecoloredwater]

Where would Tarma fit in in a HP/Valdemar crossover?

Oh wow I have no idea.  So uh… I’ll ramble through my logic until I have an idea, I guess?

(This got... longer than planned.  So, under the cut.)

I’m assuming this is a Valdemar characters in the Harry Potter setting crossover, which I’m honestly not that great for because I stopped reading Harry Potter after about the fifth book.  I do however know that everything JK Rowling said about magic outside of Europe is best ignored, and I should not be making up headcanons about Native American magic any more than JK Rowling should, so… I guess we’ll assume that Tarma is in England for whatever reason because that’s the best I can do.

If we’re paralleling her Valdemar backstory, I guess Tarma was the only survivor of a massacre by the Death Eaters?  She and her family (at minimum; extended family?  Tribe?  I really don’t know what would be the best equivalent of Shin’a’in clans, especially when including the ‘literally everyone was traveling together’ part in necessary, but certainly everyone Tarma knows well) were visiting Britain, Death Eaters found them, massacre happens.  I’m not sure how she survived exactly, but it probably was not because the Death Eaters wanted her to.

To fit into the Harry Potter verse, I’d say she’s 9 or 10 when this happens, and… I have no idea what magical Britain does with orphaned magical kids with no known family.  She… probably isn’t sent to a muggle orphanage?  If nothing else she can’t be, because then she’d probably be sent back to the US and also the wizards would have to explain why she’s in Britain to begin with to the muggles, so I guess I’m going to assume there’s a magical orphanage that she goes to.

(Probably she should go back to the US and… I don’t know any more specifically than that.  But there’s at least five different levels on which I don’t know what would happen and definitely should not try to guess.  So for whatever probably bad reason, she stays in Britain.)

And… well, the thing is, she doesn’t go to Hogwarts.  I’ve seen stuff about a Quill and a Book and I think the point of that post was actually about wands somehow but the relevant bit that I remember is: you have to have a certain amount of magical power to go to Hogwarts, but you also have to be born in Britain.  The decision about whether a kid goes to Hogwarts is made when that kid is born, and only kids in Britain are considered.  Tarma was not born in Britain, so while she may well have the power for it, she’s not going to Hogwarts.

The other thing is, Tarma in the Harry Potter verse doesn’t have quite as obvious a path and goal as she did in Valdemar verse.  If there’s an equivalent to Swordsworn (again: things I don’t have the knowledge to guess at), she’s physically separated from it.  (The same applies for whatever would be equivalent to reviving Clan Tale’sedrin, if there is one.)  Her target for revenge would be Voldemort and the Death Eaters, but before Tarma can grow up enough to do anything about them Harry Potter happens, Voldemort is presumed dead, some Death Eaters are sent to Azkaban and the rest vanish quietly back into society.  No target.

So Tarma has a whole lot of rage and nowhere to really direct it, is what I’m saying.

I think she eventually settles on being an auror, largely for lack of a better option.  And she doesn’t get a Hogwarts education, but, well, the impression I get of Tarma is that she has never precisely been the sort to let reality tell her no.  She takes whatever education witches who don’t go to Hogwarts get (another school?  Tutoring?  Doesn’t matter), learns everything she can, and is a bit… intense.  She has at least a few casual friends, I’m sure.  But her studies are the priority and honestly she probably freaks people out a bit, especially when it comes to dueling.

Tarma is absolutely the witch who will A: punch you in the face in a wizard’s duel if that’s the most efficient way to win, and B: always know if that’s the most efficient way to win.  The other kids are… not interested in dueling Tarma, as a general rule.

Does this wizarding orphanage have access to martial arts training?  I suspect not, which is a shame.  If it does, Tarma is definitely studying that too.

“Tarma and Hermione would get along great” is not what I planned to say, but it’s apparently what I am saying, so if or when they meet there’s that.

Anyway, Tarma grows up and graduates and… well, once again I’m limited to Tarma in magical Britain, so we’re going to handwave the whole citizenship thing.  Maybe magical Britain is much more willing to give citizenship to kids who grew up there, or maybe Tarma had multiple citizenships to begin with, or maybe wizards don’t even bother with legal citizenship and passports to begin with.  Handwave, handwave.

Point is: Tarma grows up and goes into the auror training program.  This is probably not easy if you did not attend Hogwarts, but that is not going to stop Tarma.  Moody loves her.  She’s probably not as cautious as he’d like, though.  If she did not have access to martial arts training growing up, she starts seeking it out now.

It’s also somewhere around this time that Harry Potter enters his first year at Hogwarts.

And, well, Tarma doesn’t really have a connection to Hogwarts.  She probably doesn’t hear about the Quirrel thing, unless it’s through vague third-hand rumors.  She probably does hear a bit about the Chamber of Secrets, but that’s still second hand rumors.

She pays attention when Sirius Black escapes Azkaban.  She probably tries to hunt him down, although of course she doesn’t succeed.

She’s furious about the Death Eaters at the quidditch world cup, but probably wasn’t present on account of she would’ve killed a Death Eater and that might’ve derailed some things.  She is one of the people who believes Harry Potter when he claims that Voldemort is back after the Triwizard Tournament, although it’s about 50% based on evidence and 50% because she really wants to kill some Death Eaters.

All that undirected rage is… uh.  Well.  She’s better at handling it now.  She’s not constantly angry or anything.  If a Death Eater chooses to put himself in front of Tarma’s wand and/or fist, though, there is not going to be a lot left, I think.  Letting vengeance stew for a decade or so and then giving it a righteous target that’s threatening children will do that.

I have a fuzzier idea of exactly what happened in the next few books, but: Voldemort becomes more active.  The Ministry tries to deny and/or hide this, while also becoming… well, we all know about Umbridge.  Tarma’s not happy with any of this.  She was always a dedicated-by-which-we-mean-obsessive worker anyway, Tarma tracking everything the aurors do and looking for patterns and things being hidden isn’t new.

I’m not sure at what point exactly she starts sabotaging the Ministry, but that’s a thing.  It’s not a thing that lasts long, because Tarma was never going to be on the Voldemort Ministry’s list of favorite people.  But there is some sabotage for a short time.

There is also a witch named Kethry who might be an Unspeakable, and also a rather explosive escape from the Ministry.  Explosions… probably count as sabotage.  Tarma and Kethry certainly disrupt some things on the way out.

And then there’s a war to fight, and then the war ends.  Tarma and Hermione meet at some point, after the war if not during.

And from there, who knows.  Tarma’s I think in her late 20s now; she probably goes back to being an auror.  She’s good at it, and aurors are needed, and even if protecting people wouldn’t have been her life dream in another life it’s important to her in this one.  She stays friends with Kethry.  Eventually she starts teaching auror trainees; one of these is eventually Kerowyn, although in this world Tarma probably helped raise Kerowyn and taught her self defense as a toddler.

(Kerowyn will also punch you in the face in a wizard’s duel.  To be honest by the time Kero gets there it probably counts as a family tradition.  There’s no way Tarma didn’t at least try to teach Kethry to punch.)

I’m not sure what happens exactly.  Maybe Tarma has her own family, since there’s no Swordsworn magical ace celibacy thing going on in this verse, but if so her family and Kethry’s family are basically the same extended family anyway, because you can’t pry my implied badass women with polyamorous relationships out of my cold dead hands.  Possibly Tarma goes back to the orphanage she grew up in and adopts kids.  Possibly both.  Possibly she takes over the orphanage.  Possibly she talks eventual Minister of Magic Hermione Granger into reexamining and improving the laws surrounding magical orphans (assuming of course that Harry didn’t do that first… or Hermione didn’t decide on her own to fix those laws on Harry’s behalf first, which is probably the most likely of the three).

And, well, I don’t know how it happens, but life goes on, and it’s not perfect but it’s still pretty good, whatever it turns out to be.

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Kethrys ( @khalwrites​ ) Timeline: Ariadne alone

Caution for: death, war, massacre, mercy killing, cold-blooded murder

---

Looting 1, 2, 3

It’s the smoke that catches her eye. She’s drawn to fire these days, like a suicidal moth. Where there’s fire on this scale, there’s chaos. And where there’s chaos, there is the opportunity for theft and destruction.

She lives by theft, but she lives for destruction.

She heads for the growing column of smoke at a jog.

Whatever defences the village managed to mount, the soldiers have overrun them by the time Ariadne arrives on the scene. Now they hunt through the streets, and the screams of their prey split the chill air. The bodies of the fallen lie here and there across the winter fields.

A fierce glee rises in Ariadne’s throat. It hammers in her ribcage and shivers across her skin. She welcomes it back. It’s the only thing worth feeling any more.

The body of a soldier is her first target. Half a foot of arrow protrudes from his back, the arrowhead soaked in gore. The archer was very close, to punch through maille front and back. 

The dead man groans as Ariadne rolls him over, so she cuts his throat. She takes his sword and its scabbard. Getting him out of his maille would take too long -- she is terribly exposed here crouched over his body. But she takes his colours and his helmet, to pass herself off as one of them.

Maybe it will get her shot. But the King’s soldiers outnumber any surviving locals, so she’ll take her chances. 

She sprints for the cover of the buildings.

Noise closes around her, entirely different to the bustle of a living town. Soldiers shout to one another constantly. Wood breaks, fists bang on doors and shutters, boots ring out on cobbles. Now and then a scream sounds and is cut short. And under it all the roar and crackle of the fires that fill the air with smoke.

The haze makes the narrow streets claustrophobic. Ariadne spots soldiers at the end of the street, and hurries round a corner. Her stolen colours will only protect her at a distance. She’s not looking for a fight, she’s looking for stragglers she can surprise. They’ll peel off to loot the houses or to entertain themselves with the survivors.

She’s not so different herself. Just hunting different prey.

Doors stand open, or kicked fully off their hinges. Bodies litter the street -- mostly elves and human sympathisers. Ariadne ducks in and out of the houses, filling her bags and pockets. She grabs mostly food. Spices where she sees them. The odd trinket that might sell for enough to justify the space in a bag. There isn’t time to search beneath floorboards and behind furnishings for rainy-day caches. 

There’s an irony to it really.  Entire lives’ worth of possessions free for the taking, and Ariadne’s priority is eating tonight. She can only have what she can carry, and carry easily at that. The fire will consume so much. But better the fire than the soldiers.

There are bodies inside the houses too, sprawled where they fell defending their doorways, or curled against walls where they cowered when cornered. Ariadne searches them roughly, shoving her hands into pockets and checking bloodied throats for jewelry. 

Not everything has already been taken. She finds the odd purse, a handful of rings. The soldiers must have been too busy chasing the living to search all of the dead.

Some of them are not quite done dying. Some still draw breath, a few make incoherent sounds as she rolls them over. She puts them out of their misery. She could leave them and it’d probably make little difference. But there’s a chance they’d live long enough to feel the fire. To spare them that, Ariadne opens their throats.

Then one catches weakly at her arm. “Sorry,” Ariadne murmurs as she cuts the purse off their belt. “Don’t kill me,” they breathe. “Shit-!” Ariadne startles. She wasn’t expecting enough consciousness to talk. But the elf’s eyes are clear, staring up at her with stark terror. One hand clutches at the wound in their gut. Dark blood wells continuously between their fingers. The other hand paws pitifully at Ariadne’s sleeve. “Don’t - kill me, please …”

“How deep is that?” Ariadne asks. She tries to prise their hand off their abdomen to look, but more blood spills up and she has all the answer she needs. “That’s going to kill you. If I were you I’d rather someone slit my throat than lie here ‘til the building catches light. That’s a bad way to go.” “I don’t want to die,” they whisper, voice a teary thread. “No one does,” Ariadne scoffs.

She sits back on her heels. If she dressed the wound, they might live long enough to die of blood poisoning instead of blood loss. If the fire didn’t get them first. She’d have to carry them out of the town. There’s no way they can walk with that much of their blood already coating the floorboards. If the soldiers don’t catch them -- which seems unlikely -- the strain of being carried overland probably will. If they somehow survive until nightfall, exposure will kill them. If they survived that… they still have an open gut wound, and no access to a healer.

Ariadne draws her knife and leans forward, resting a hand gently on their throat. “Please,” they beg weakly, “I don’t want to die!” “You’re already dead,” Ariadne shakes her head. “This won’t hurt much.” She pushes the blade in beside her hand, avoiding the windpipe. Blood sprays as she cuts the deep artery. She opens it wide. It takes only a second for the elf’s face to go slack.

The cleanest death she could give them. She pockets their purse, adding it to her growing collection.

As she leaves the house behind, another scream sounds somewhere amongst the houses. Not a human scream, something wilder, but wracked with agony. Ariadne’s skin crawls as it goes on, and on, and on.

[Next]

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Kethrys (@khalwrites) Timeline: Between Ariadne’s service to Edwyn and to Kaelyx

—

Hollow

Ariadne wears a hollow smile to talk to people. The King gave her that -- a smile that doesn’t falter under snide comments about her disreputable appearance, and a quick answer to suspicious questions about where she is travelling and why.

A peddler buys her stolen pocketfuls of tools and trinkets without asking questions, and sells her a new tinderbox at a very reasonable price. At the market she buys jerky and hardtack, prunes and apples, and dense, wax-wrapped cheese. And half a loaf of good, light bread which she takes up the hill to eat while it’s fresh.

She has enough coins left over to buy herself the use of a bath. The opportunity to scrub off the grime of the road is too good to pass up. She can’t afford clean linens to re-wrap her cuts, but she can wash what she has and perhaps it will make a difference.

The tub is generously large, and they don’t even expect her to fill it herself. She swaps hollow words with the woman who tends the big kettle and pours the water, telling little lies and listening to meaningless anecdotes about the day-to-day of the inn.

She’s told to take all the time she wants, but she doesn’t luxuriate in the water. She feels vulnerable naked, even with a knife within easy reach balanced on the edge of the tub. If she had to run from here, she would have to leave most of what she owns behind. So she wastes no time, and climbs out of the water as soon as she is done with scrubbing.

She feels better with all her pockets strapped securely against her body.

The fee for the bath also covers a spot by the hearth for the night, and she means to make good use of it. A clean floor, a warm fire and a roof over her head -- these things are luxury. She wastes the last of her money drinking into the night, flashing her hollow smile when the locals bother her, and soaking up heat for the long road ahead. 

When the bar closes, she settles by the hearth. She cannot sleep until everyone else is abed. She listens to the footfalls and the closing of doors, the murmur of voices and the turning of locks. She listens for a long time after it is silent, just to be certain that she is alone.

But even then she dozes only fitfully, and startles awake at every shift of the fire, every creak of settling timbers. When footsteps traipse across the boards overhead, she sits up, and her heart hammers until long after the silence returns.

It’s unlikely that soldiers will come for her here. Unlikely that anyone will recognise her face, unlikely that word would spread fast enough to cause her trouble tonight. Unlikely, but not impossible. She feels safer out in the wilderness than locked in this building at the uncertain mercy of strangers.

When the fire dies down to embers, Ariadne gives up on sleep. The innkeepers are likely to be up before dawn, and it’s always better to be on her way before anyone is awake to see which way she goes.

She unlatches one of the shuttered windows and lets herself out onto the pitch-dark street. The wind finds its way between the layers of her clothes, a familiar companion. She pulls the shutters closed behind her, and traipses uphill with exhaustion heavy in her hollow chest.

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Kethrys Timeline: A month or two after Ariadne escapes from Edwyn

---

Arson

Hay for the horses, grain for the soldiers. Stacked sacks of flour -- perfect -- crates and jars and hanging herbs. The granary is a tinderbox. And Ariadne is a spark.

She strikes real sparks from flint in the darkness, admiring their perfect brightness. A handful settle in the hay, and take hold. Orange-yellow glow spreads along the first stalks, hypnotic. Tiny candle-flames spring to life, dancing, crawling, spreading.

Can it be this easy?

She should leave. But what if the flames die out instead of spreading? She should stay.

Brighter than a candle now. Her hands are yellow-limned and trembling. Ariadne takes a handful of the burning stalks and tucks them into the bottom of the stack. She can see the inferno in her mind’s eye already.

The flames grow larger. They start to lick and dance. Ariadne expects the pop and crackle of burning wood, but it is eerily silent. Heat caresses her hands as she grabs another handful. Her blood races, her skin prickles. She feels alive.

She should leave. She can’t be here when the people come running to the light and the smoke.

Instead she seeds flame in half a dozen places. In the crates, in the stacked hay, in the dust and the drying grains that coat the floor. 

The first fire grows faster now. Brighter than a campfire, hotter than a hearthfire, fierce and wild and hungry. The granary is filled with light to the walls. Ariadne’s shadow is long and mad and leaping. The heat is too fierce to grab another handful, but she won’t need to.

She should leave. She should run before the inferno consumes her. Terror races across her skin -- she has burned before.

But the fire is hypnotic.

The flames leap higher than her head and she gazes upwards, fascinated, thrilled. A breeze stirs her hair, drawing in towards the blaze. Ariadne is drawn in towards the blaze. The smoke smells clean, not quite the same as woodsmoke. Her heart rises with the fire, leaping, climbing, burning. Brighter than sunlight, hotter than a forge-fire.

She must leave.

The heat stings her eyes, prickles across her skin. Ariadne is terrified, and she is delighted. Her feet are rooted to the ground. She does not want to burn, but she cannot tear her gaze from the fire. It makes a sound now, not a wood-popping crackle but a rush of breath, ever inwards. It is alive, it is hungry, there is no stopping it now. She could scream, she could laugh in exultation. She is mad and she is going to burn.

A portion of the hay collapses, sending a whirl of bright sparks higher, reaching for the dry herbs above. Like a kick in the chest, it starts Ariadne stumbling, and suddenly she is running, heart thundering, squinting through the glare and the growing haze.

Cold air hits her like water, like ice against her sweat-drenched skin as she breaks the threshold. The black is absolute, her sight still dances with the memory of flames.

There are voices in the night, raised in alarm and confusion. She should have left earlier, she should be long gone. But instead of fear she feels glee. Let them shout. Let them cry and rail and weep. They’re too late to stop the flames.

[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]

‘Verse: Kethrys (@khalwrites) Timeline: Shortly after King Edwyn first hurts Ariadne, many months before her captivity proper

---

Debriefing

The summons comes promptly after she gets home to the compound. Ariadne appears before Madam Bright in clean, neat clothes. She holds herself proudly, back straight, head up. But she feels like she is reporting to be judged and punished.

“Start at the beginning,” Bright orders. “Yes ma’am.”

Ariadne has been taught to give reports clearly and succinctly. She’s relived the last week’s events a hundred times, sorting the facts from her emotions, filtering the narrative from the jumble of her memories.

So she starts at the beginning, and she does not hesitate.

She describes the task she was given, the dragon. She calmly summarises her disloyal misgivings. She doesn’t stammer over her failure. She ignores the heat in her cheeks as she recounts the King’s disappointment and anger. If her voice wavers as she describes the way she was punished, she doesn’t let that stop her.

Bright listens impassively, taking occasional notes.

Ariadne’s face burns with shame as she describes her attempted treason. Her voice cracks. The temptation to omit details is stronger than it has ever been. She does not want to admit to panicking in the face of surprise and pain. She does not want to admit to the decisions she made in that panic. 

But she has already betrayed her King, she cannot betray Madam Bright’s trust as well. She tells the truth, and the truth is stark and damning when stripped of the extraneous noise of her personal feelings.

“I see,” Bright acknowledges, when Ariadne has finally finished her tale. “Did the King give you any further instructions when he dismissed you?” “No ma’am.” Ariadne’s hands are clasped tightly behind her back to stop them from shaking. “I see.”

The silence is long and painful, broken only by the scratch of pen on page. Ariadne reminds herself to flex her calf muscles while she waits.

“What is your assessment of your actions?” Bright asks at last. “Unacceptable, ma’am,” Ariadne breathes. “I… let fear and anger overrule my judgement, ma’am.” “I agree,” Bright nods. “The punishments you describe are very severe,” she continues. “This is interesting information. Were you ever punished in this manner before now?” “No, ma’am.” “Would you say, in your professional opinion, that it is typical for the King to punish his servants in this way?” “I… don’t know, ma’am,” Ariadne flounders. “I didn’t see anyone else get hurt like that, but I… I don’t know?” Bright’s level stare conveys her disappointment at the answer. Ariadne breathes in, drops her gaze, and tries to put her thoughts in order. “I don’t think so, ma’am. No one else working at the castle seems to be hurt or afraid. Besides the prisoners. There were no rumours. But, the… King admitted to enjoying it, ma’am. I would guess… that when people fail him, sometimes they... disappear, ma’am.” “And how confident are you in your conclusions?” “Not very, ma’am, I’m guessing.” A note is made. Ariadne stares at her own feet.

“You will return to your former duties,” Bright concludes eventually. “This development is disappointing, but I am not surprised that you became emotional under the circumstances. You have never shown exemplary control over your emotions. But you are a valuable agent despite your flaws. You will do better in a less demanding environment.” “Yes, ma’am,” Ariadne agrees, fighting the childish desire to cry. “Thank you, ma’am.” “Be sure to see a physician, Ariadne. You are dismissed.” “Yes, ma’am.” But she hesitates to leave. “May I ask a question, ma’am?” “Of course.” “Do you… think that it was… unreasonable, the way I was punished?” “I do. But it is a king’s prerogative to be unreasonable. The wellbeing of the kingdom should still be your first priority, Ariadne. Setting loose a dangerous monster is not an acceptable response to getting hurt.” “I know that, ma’am, I am sorry.” “Is that everything?” “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for your time.”

[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]

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

[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]

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]

‘Verse: Kethrys   Timeline: A couple of weeks after Ariadne pledges her service to Kaelyx Co-written with @khalwrites, Kaelyx and ‘verse are hers

---

[Part one]

Ariadne lunges. She has no plan of attack. She won’t need one. Kaelyx is better than her. Fear deadens her senses and slows her thoughts. The flat of Kaelyx’s blade slams into bruised and tender ribs again. Ariadne expects to be knocked back with the force of it. She is not. Stumbling with surprise, she is vulnerable. But this time Kaelyx doesn’t press the attack. She steps back.

Ariadne understands the invitation. Obediently, she lunges again. The same sidestep, the same counter, and Ariadne is still too slow to avoid the blow to her ribs. Kaelyx pauses just a heartbeat, just long enough for Ariadne’s back foot to find earth, then comes at her with another simple swipe. Ariadne takes it on the arm. Pain flares up and down the bone, fiercer than the impact really warrants.

“You might want to defend yourself.” Kaelyx steps back again. Her voice is mocking, but not furious. Ariadne jerks her head in a nod. “Yes Kaelyx,” she says. A derisive snort from the dragon queen. Ariadne chides herself. No grovelling. She’s not him.

But she does a little better, as they come together again. Kaelyx is toying with her, slowing her strikes enough for Ariadne to keep up with, signalling half her moves with her eyes before she makes them. Letting Ariadne take the offensive sometimes. Pulling her blows.

Ariadne feels baited, but what choice does she have but to swallow, and to wait for the hook to catch in her throat.

Still, the panic -- you know I despise it when you panic -- eases slowly, and her feet find the rhythm. The suffocating, blinding fog in her head starts to lift. She begins to sense Kaelyx’s intentions, and to think more than a single motion in advance. The pace increases slowly. If Kaelyx is hoping to get some genuine practice from this, perhaps Ariadne will not entirely disappoint.

The dragon queen is still better than her. She ‘kills’ Ariadne dozens of times over. But the victories are not driven home with so much force. Ariadne is smacked with the sword, not clubbed with it. She’s shoved back rather than tackled to the ground. She falls for a feint, and the subsequent stab is stopped short of even touching her. “Keep your arm up,” Kaelyx tells her. “Don’t fall for the trick move, I’d have left myself open if I’d followed through.”

Something tugs in Ariadne’s chest and behind her eyes, something not fear but equally vulnerable. It’s gone a moment later, leaving behind only the familiar faint pang of fake gratitude, and the ever-present anxiety.

She follows the instruction. They play out the same exchange again, with Ariadne forewarned, so that she can see how it should have gone. Kaelyx moves on immediately, and Ariadne’s verbal thoughts fall quiet again to let her body think. Forwards, block high, forwards again, mistake, evade, struck again, breathe, push forwards.

The kick that drops her is not delivered full strength, but it connects with the knee that buckled earlier, and Ariadne goes down hard. No sword at her throat this time, so she rolls back to her feet immediately -- if something’s really damaged she’ll find out when it doesn’t take her weight -- but she stumbles as vertigo spins in her skull. 

The knee is fine. Ariadne can ignore the pain. But all the will in the world won’t stop her limbs shaking with exhaustion. She can’t train as long as she used to. She feels the first edge of frustration, before it’s written over with fear again. How long will Kaelyx push her? What will happen when she can’t keep getting up?

She hides the tremor as best as she can, and throws herself at the dragon queen again.

Kaelyx continues to grant generous amounts of leeway. Ariadne gives her her absolute focus, grateful for the opportunities to learn. But her fatigue shows. Focus can’t compensate for the loss of strength and speed and coordination. She makes many, many mistakes. And it’s not long before she trips over her own feet and falls again.

No sword at her throat, no bared fangs. Her muscles burn, but they obey as Ariadne forces herself back to her feet. “You’re exhausted,” Kaelyx says. “Yes,” Ariadne agrees. “I’m sorry. I can keep going.” Those silver eyes are unreadable, alien, as they stare Ariadne down. “You’re done,” Kaelyx declares. “And I have things to do.” Ariadne nods gratefully, apprehensively. Is she dismissed? “Go rest.” She is dismissed.

She limps to her designated tent, heavily favouring the hurt knee now. She burrows into the bedroll and lies flat, letting the waves of tremor roll through her body and slowly cease. The world spins gently, and the floor pushes up against her aching limbs. It feels fantastic just to be still, and she lets herself luxuriate in it. A small pleasure.

On some level, she’s still waiting for the catch.

Kaelyx was furious. Kaelyx despises her. Their history in the castle cells taints every breath Ariadne takes. Ariadne wasn’t afraid of dying, when she thought Kaelyx was going to kill her. It doesn’t matter if Ariadne dies. She’s already got what she wanted -- she’s given the monsters every scrap of information she can think of. She’s given the King her fuck you.

She wasn’t afraid of dying. She was afraid of being kept alive.

She was afraid, when they sparred with live steel, that Kaelyx would cut her muscles and ligaments one by one and make her keep fighting. She was afraid, pinned under her claws, that Kaelyx would rip her to ribbons. She was afraid when she hit the floor over and over, that the blows would get harder and harder until they shattered bones.

She was afraid that Kaelyx might ruin her, drag her to a healer, and expect her to spar again next time the dragon queen had frustration to burn off.

But here she still is, not broken, not crying with agony.

She quailed under the force of the dragon’s righteous anger, and she walked away with nothing worse than bruises.

For a little while, Ariadne wonders if she is going to cry. The tears come at the strangest of times. She drowns in the emotions sometimes, self-control in tatters. But this time she doesn’t sob. The ache in her chest passes and leaves her with the relief of emptiness again.

For a little longer, she lies still and she thinks nothing at all.

Eventually, she no longer feels the pain of fatigue in her limbs, and her breathing is easy. She rolls over, and is merely uncomfortable. She has rested, as ordered, and her body rewards her by obeying her intentions without trembling.

She gets up, and goes looking for work that she can do.

[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.

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