out of curiosity, out of any of my fics, are there any lines that stuck out to you? if you send an ask quoting it, ill tell you about my thought process writing it :3
Note: This can be read as an x reader, no description of main character aside from being intersex and his name is never used past chapter one!
Summary: Daeron manages to provide you with medical intervention. Too bad it’s too little, too late.
Tags: Torture, broken bones, suicidal ideation, general despair, Aerion is a warning in of itself, isolation, and that is all I got right now.
Word Count: 6.3k words
Read on AO3
Masterlist
Time passed a little differently in the closet than it did in the box. In there, at least you could differentiate between morning and night through the carelessly placed airholes that let in sunlight. The closet was completely dark, your only hope being the crack under the door, but it was blocked by some sort of blanket or cloth. Purposeful in a way that should have infuriated you. In the corner was a chamberpot that Aerion provided, though he barely emptied it. A stronger man would have beaten down the door, screamed profanities at his captor. You were not that man.
Though the closet was small, at least you could stretch out, and Aerion’s old clothing was available to craft a makeshift nest. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it was better than the cold floor. A chill seeped from the stone during the night, enough to make your teeth chatter. Every so often, you sat up and did a few motions to keep your blood flowing, you didn’t want to experience the same agony that you felt after being folded up for weeks. These movements had to be small so as not to not exacerbate your broken leg, not that there was much hope of that. You had received no medical treatment, no splint to help your leg heal. In order to lessen the damage, you kept your leg as straight as possible. You had even tried to push the bone back into place, only to discover just how low your pain tolerance was.
If you were lucky, you would be able to walk without a cane after this. You had to focus on whatever small mercy you could hold, not the fact that you would never dance again— likely to walk with a limp for the rest of your life. Pushing those thoughts as deep as they could go, you reminded yourself that you would still be alive. If you didn’t keep your mind straight, there would be no surviving.
Despite the lack of light, that wasn’t to say that you were entirely devoid of a schedule. By the time Aerion began to prepare for the day, more often than not, you were still awake. He was dressed by servants, as any prince should be, your only indication that it was morning being the bustle of maids as they hurried to tend to your captor’s every need. Even from behind a door, you could almost smell the sour tang of their fear, each woman waiting for that damned dragon to strike.
Nothing ever came. His appetites were satiated.
By you.
Shame choked you whenever you wished for him to turn his cruelty onto someone else, almost as thick as the truth. So long as he had you to take his impulses out on, others would be soared. Noble daughters would be free from scandal, smallfolk women would be safe to perform their duties, no one would want to break this tumultuous peace. You served a purpose, one that no one else wanted to take.
It would be hard, if not impossible, to find help within the staff of the Red Keep. The knowledge that, once you were gone, they could be next, would stay anyone’s hand.
Eventually, Aerion would leave his chambers and abandon you to your waiting. In the beginning, you would spend the lonely hours prepping for the moon to rise, when he would return and his torture would become physical.
You didn’t know how much time passed when there was a change in your routine.
One morning, as you tried to sleep in whatever warmth the sun could bring to the stones of the Red Keep, the door to Aerion’s quarters creaked open. Your eyes slowly opened as an unsteady gait made its way into the room, Daeron’s feet sliding against the floor rather than lifting entirely.
Daeron was not subtle in his explorations, whether it was because he didn’t care or because he had been drinking, you were unsure. Honestly, you didn’t particularly care. He only made your life harder. In the end, Aerion was aware of his brother’s presence, his nightly interrogations leaving you more sore than before.
When Daeron first began his snooping, he would remove the cloth from the door and try to peer under the crack. It was too dark for him to make out much of anything, but you saw him attempt to shove the tips of his fingers inside to widen it. After, he tested the knob, as he did every morning, in hopes that, one day, he would find it unlocked.
You had always assumed princes would be a bit stupid, as mean as that was. Much to your continued misfortune, you came to the realization that you were wrong. Aerion was far more careful than to abandon you in plain view, let alone leave your cage unlocked— life would have been much easier if he had. One particular day, Daeron had knocked. Even called your name. Instinct made you open your mouth to reply, but you quickly snapped it shut. You would not make that mistake again.
Once, you had tried to cry out, the sound coming as no more than a squeak, your throat raw from screaming. Daeron had left after that, the idiot off to confront Aerion. Accuse him, threaten him, you didn’t know. All you knew was that you were the one who paid for his interference. That particular beating had left every breath no more than a sharp wheeze.
This did not stop Daeron, maybe even spurred him on more. You tried your hardest to forgive him, he wasn’t the one hurting you, but the more that he snooped, the more you were the one who suffered. Every day, you would listen to the sounds of Daeron’s clumsy investigations. It lasted for no more than fifteen minutes — you didn’t have much else to do except count the seconds — until he must have decided that was enough effort that you deserved. With a sigh, there was always a sigh, Daeron left, allowing your body to fall slack from the tension that you didn’t realize you were holding.
If Daeron found you, you didn’t know what would happen. Past experience taught you not to hope for much. He had already proven himself rather… useless. It was a cruel way to consider him — you hated how angry you were becoming — no matter the truth tied to the observation. All that would happen when Daeron found you was nothing. He wouldn’t even be the one to pay the price! That would all fall on the broken, pitiful you. Even with a drunk prince’s help, there was no way that you could run with your injuries.
Even if you did, you wouldn’t be able to get very far.
The more time that passed — aching, endless, agonizing — the more you came to one simple conclusion: you would never be free again. There was nothing to be done about it. No use crying, no use fighting, all you could hope for was to still be alive when you were inevitably discarded, not that there was any real chance of that. Aerion was getting rougher, less coordinated. The longer that he had you, the more boring beating you seemed to become.
With a thick sniffle, you curled up as much as you could while keeping your broken leg extended. The bones in your hand had begun to fuse together all wrong, an unfortunate stiffness accompanying every flex. It would only be a matter of time until your leg was the same, the lump in your calf from where your snapped femur prodded against your flesh more evident now than ever. Almost like it was making fun of you. There was no use in a clown that couldn’t perform. What once brought you joy would never belong to you again. You were broken beyond repair. No purpose except for this.
Familiar movements, far too shaky to be Aerion’s, jolted you from your doze. For once, it seemed that you had missed Aerion’s morning routine. You really didn’t care. Maybe if you fell asleep, you would not wake back up. Distantly, you wondered if this was a new day, or if Daeron had returned for a second helping of failure.
Above you, the knob jiggled, this time with a bit more force than usual. You watched while laying on your back, one arm draped over your stomach. It was followed by a stronger one where you assumed that Daeron put the entirety of his weight into the task. Unsurprisingly, given his penchant for letting you down, it didn’t work. You blinked lamely at the slab of wood that separated you from the drunken prince.
There was a frustrated groan this time rather than a sigh. Followed by a thud. Images of Daeron banging his head against the door appeared in your mind, and where you would have once smiled, you felt nothing at all. Rather than allow yourself to dwell, you listened to his loud and certifiably not sneaky attempts at investigating. You heard furniture being moved, followed by drawers opening, then the ruffle of pillows being shaken out.
A new noise made you flinch. The clatter of metal against stone, small enough for you to realize what it was. It took all of your effort to push yourself into a sitting position with that sickening chill deadening the pins and needles in your limbs. Daeron’s clothes rustled as he crawled in search of what had fallen.
His noise of triumph made your pupils flicker to the knob. Great, he had found the key. What awaited you when that damned door opened and your savior was him? No matter Daeron’s intent, there was nothing good, nothing kind, at the end of this particular tunnel. He would open the door, find you inside, and after that, you would be at the mercy of Aerion’s rage. Maybe you would eke out an inkling of joy in the coming hours, feel the sun on your skin, but it would all be eclipsed by the punishment waiting on the horizon. You had to consider this logically, this was not the freedom that you wished for.
It had already been proven that Aerion had been tamed with a little clown in his pocket, you doubted anyone would risk losing that. Not the servants, not the staff, and certainly not the Targaryen royals who cared more about their image than the life of some performer.
You hadn’t had water in about a day, Aerion had forgotten to give you some last night. There was a small puddle in the corner of the closet that you lapped at in times of desperation, when your body acted without the will of your mind. You could not entirely attribute your dry mouth to dehydration.
Above your head, the lock clicked and the knob was pushed down.
Light flooded in— scorched your retinas. Whenever Aerion let you out, it was always well into the night, only dim torches available to highlight your torture. An implication that you were undeserving of even feeling warmth on your skin. Your tongue ran over your gums where one of your molars had been removed. It was somewhere else now, likely with the two fingernails that had been peeled from your broken hand.
Daeron was big enough to cast a shadow over you, his expression hard to decipher through your squinting. He stared at you for a moment, splayed at his feet and shaking, only to run a hand down his face.
“Seven hells, what now?” He mumbled.
Leave, you wanted to say. Nothing came out, so you turned away. Unable to look at the prince who had failed you twice before, sure to do so for a third — and final — time.
As you eyes adjusted, you saw that it wasn’t determination that split his face, there was too much sadness and defeat for it to be pure. It was more of an awkward pinch, his features unused to morphing into such a heroic shape. Daeron shook out his hands and bounced in place, blinking hard several times as if that would leak the wine from his blood. He took a deep breath before he fell into a squat, nearly losing his balance in the process. With more of a gentle touch than you had felt in some time, he slid his palms under you. A wince made you inhale sharply through your teeth. Daeron to flinched back.
“Right then, sorry about this.” That was all the warning you got before he replaced his grip against your back and under your knees to lift you into his arms.
“Ah—” The pain made you cry out, a broken gasp, as your body tensed. Daeron looked awkwardly apologetic, attempting to keep from jostling your broken leg with his clumsy hold. His palms pressed into the bruises on your back, your breathing sharp and body shaking.
Still, you kept quiet. As you had been trained to do.
It became quickly apparent that, despite his size, Daeron was not a particularly strong man. Even after losing a significant portion of your body weight, he struggled to carry you, teetering from side to side as he carried you forward. You realized that he was drunk from the stench of wine on his breath.
“Go away,” you managed to say as he stumbled into the hall. Every few steps, he would hoist you higher in order to get a better grip. Pain made you shiver against his chest. “Aerion will—” A sharp breath of air sucked between your teeth cut you off “—not be happy.”
Daeron snorted, dry despite the circumstances. “No one will be happy if you end up dead, not when my brother turns his sights elsewhere.”
So that was what this was. An intervention to make sure his brother’s plaything didn’t keel over. He looked down to see your face twisted in disdain, and observed your thought with a keenness you thought him incapable of.
“Stop making that face. Nothing can be done if your injuries overwhelm you, so I’m taking you to a Maester.”
“And when Aerion discovers what you have done?” The rawness in your throat sent you into a coughing fit, nearly making Daeron topple over. He appeared to be a little pale in the face, sweat shining against his skin. Swallowing down whatever you believed was coming up, whether it be guilt or his breakfast, he continued his journey. “Who do you think will take the brunt of his wrath?”
Daeron grimaced, unable to look at you, too busy with catching himself on the wall. “At least it won’t kill you after this.”
You didn’t tell him that you wished it would.
After about ten minutes of Daeron’s pathetic struggling, and innumerable eyes boring into the two of you, he entered a small room and dropped you into a chair with a panting huff. The rough treatment, albeit accidental, made you grit your teeth. It did not seem Daeron was much of a knight, let alone a savior.
“Do you think…” You started, your voice soft in spite of the hardness in your expression when you stared at him. Daeron turned his attention from searching the room for the missing Maester to you. Aerion never injured your face, all of your wounds hidden by your rotten clothing. Still, you knew that you looked awful from the stress that tightened his jaw. That, or he saw the blame in your eyes. “Prince Valarr would be of assistance in my… predicament.”
Daeron moved his hands in an awkward, unsure way. “My cousin has a strong sense of justice, the issue arises is him believing my plea to be another drunken rambling.”
You remembered Valarr’s admittance that he paid attention to Daeron’s dreams and doubted that would be true. “Then show him where I am being kept.”
The silence that fell made you slump. Daeron slid his teeth together as he searched for the words that made you want to puke. “… For all of the power that Valarr has, my brother is just as underhanded. You will be set free for a short time before the hounds bring you to your death, away from the prying eyes of nobility.”
“I will just be another dead body in the woods,” you breathed, understanding, though no less hating the truth.
“If you… remain here,” It seemed to be a struggle for Daeron to articulate himself coherently. He spoke slowly, a slight slur curling each syllable around the other. “Then there will be witnesses. Aerion is not foolish enough to drag your corpse in full view of our father, nor the king.”
“Your solution is for the torture to continue?” Defeat tempered whatever anger that built in the space behind your ribs.
Daeron nodded, though it was clear from his hesitation that he didn’t particularly like this solution. Neither did you, not that you could deny that your options were limited. He saw a shadow pass over your face, a bit of realization making him rush to assure you, “Until my brother grows bored. He will grow bored. Then you will be able to leave without a fight.” As a distraction, he began to sort through some of the herbs and potions on the table in the middle of the room. You watched recognition flicker and Daeron slip one of the bottles into the folds of his tunic. He caught your judgment, returning it with a shrug. “Until then, endurance is key.”
“I will succumb to my wounds,” you couldn’t help but counter. There was no real heat, but grief strangling your tongue.
That broken determination twisted his expression once more. “I will see to that. You need medical attention after each… uh. A— Aerion will see reason, my interference is necessary to keep you alive.”
“Forgive me if I see no joy in your ‘solution,’ my prince.”
Daeron looked away, his tone flat. “It is not like you have much else falling at your feet.”
You felt your eyebrow twitch. It was hard to accept whatever kindness that Daeron was giving you, it was hard to care about his apparent guilt. Forgiveness was supposed to come easily to you. The realization that your body was not all that had been twisted hollowed your bones of their very marrow. Eyes burning, you forced yourself not to cry.
“I’m trying so hard not to hate you—”
Whatever you were trying to say was cut short when the Maester entered, much to Daeron’s relief. His shoulders slumped when he met the Master’s surprise to see a prince in his clinic, only to grow in strength when he saw you. The Maester was a middle aged man, maybe five years the senior of Daeron’s father, his body tall and spindly like a willow. Upon meeting your gaze, his eyes trailing to your askew leg, he seemed to understand what was happening.
“Thank you for bringing him here, Prince Daeron.” Carefully, he nudged past Daeron to kneel in front of you. His hands massaged up your calf to find the break as he spoke. It was hard to hear through your own stifled groan. “What happened?”
Daeron burped with his mouth closed, his cheeks puffing, and turned to stare at the adjacent wall. “He fell down a flight of stairs. Fix him up well, Maester Wynn.”
Maester Wynn glanced at you after absorbing Daeron’s cover story, then his pupils flickered to the empty nailbeds on your broken hand. Whether he believed it or not didn’t seem to matter as he did not speak again. Rather, he began to unbutton your filthy shirt to take in the extent of your injuries. The fabric fell away to reveal a kaleidoscope of colors marring your abdomen. Black, purple, green, some merging into a new and horrible hue. You caught Daeron staring, his skin taking on a greenish tinge. Without a word, he left the room, abandoning you to the Maester’s treatment.
For all of Maester Wynn’s gentleness, there was nothing that could be done about the pain that followed— even the few drops of milk of the poppy he provided did little to dull it, or even your mind. Your leg and hand were beyond salvaging without breaking them again, and you weren’t sure you could handle the pain again. Not without Aerion taking advantage of your weakness. No matter what part of your future it would save, it wasn’t worth it. The bones had already begun to heal. He tried to keep you thankful, informing you that his intervention now would only result in limited flexibility and a limp rather than needing a cane. It was hard to manage the smile that you gave him, but you did it anyway.
Your missing fingernails were met with a practiced blankness. He stared at your nail beds, bloody and raw, then dressed them without a word. That was something that you were truly grateful for. As was the fact that your missing molar went unnoticed. If he did, he must have chalked it up to having been knocked out from your fall. There was a cut on the back of your head that should have been stitched, a mercy that it had scabbed over on its own. If not, you likely would have bled to death. You tried not to be disappointed. You were informed that your ribs were not broken, but cracked, little to be done aside from binding them.
He could do little to help you aside from a diagnosis and remedies for the pain. It was hard not to wilt.
Daeron’s footsteps padded down the hall toward the little clinic, recognizable in a way that the other two weren’t. Your hair stood on end, fearing who he could have brought with him. What other poor soul would bear witness to the evidence of your humiliation. Inside of you, relief to not only have a drunk as your protector warred with a healthy dose of shame.
Upon seeing his companions, you nearly drowned in your own mortification.
“Ah. Bruiser, Tiny. Fancy seeing you here.” Whatever humor you tried to push into your tone was drowned out by the pathetic warble it gave.
In the doorway, Dunk seemed dumbfounded at the sight of you, settled in your underwear and visibly battered. That was a better way to put it— battered, not tortured. The irritation he had directed at Daeron melted away into nothingness. His own injuries were less prevalent than last you saw, though there was still slight swelling around his eye. Egg was only at his side for his moment before he scampered over to you, anger etched across his young face.
“I knew it! I told ser that you were here and he didn’t believe me!”
“I believed you enough to come,” Dunk argued weakly, unable to take his eyes off of you. Uncomfortable, you sat up to pull your shirt around your chest.
Maester Wynn looked between those who had gathered, let out a hearty sigh, “I have done all that I can. I will give you and your companions privacy.”
Your assumption was that he did not want to get too involved with the nonsense occurring. Not that you could blame him. What you wouldn’t give to be able to walk away.
The way you were being stared at made you squirm. There were assurances stuck on the tip of your tongue, an I’m fine,bdrawn into a tight little ball against your tonsils, making it hard to swallow. It was a lie, an obvious one that everyone could see the proof of, from the lump in your calf to the watercolors across your chest. Unsure of what else to do, you began to guzzle the water that the Maester had left behind.
Despite the fact that Egg looked just about incandescent — it would have been adorable if not for the righteousness of it — Dunk was the first to break the silence. He couldn’t keep his pupils from flickering over your broken body. “What… happened? You were smiling the last I saw you.”
“Aerion happened,” Egg interrupted. “It’s like I told you, my brother was following him.”
“Yes, but—” Almost at a loss for words, Dunk’s jaw worked, his hands clenching and unclenching. “Why didn’t he tell me?” Turning to address you, he repeated the question, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I— It isn’t right to push all of my problems onto you. There was already so much that you have done to help me despite n— not knowing me well, I wouldn’t have dared to burden you.” Your justification sounded childish to you now, high-pitched and desperate for acceptance.
“It wouldn’t’ve been a burden,” Dunk fell into a disbelieving huff. “It wouldn’t have.”
Daeron watched the exchange with a feigned sense of disinterest, pointedly ignoring Egg’s questioning glare. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him for too long, resentment sour on your tongue. “I should have. No one else helped me.”
At that, Daeron ducked his head and clenched his jaw tight enough for his cheek to jump. Damn his guilt, you deserved to be angry with him. More than that, you deserved to hate him. Of course, you couldn’t bring yourself to — not yet — he was finally stepping up.
It was simply… too little, too late.
“How long has he been here?” Egg asked Daeron, who raised his gaze to the ceiling as if to ask for divine intervention.
Whatever. You would save him this time. “Prince Daeron said that I won’t be… interesting for long. Then I can leave.”
Egg frowned and shook his head. “Aerion does not get bored.”
It took everything in your power to not burst into tears. Your voice became strangled. “That is my only hope.”
“What of Valarr? Father? The king?” Egg spouted names like an open faucet.
Daeron quieted him by placing what you assumed was a comforting hand on Egg’s head, though his frustration made him sound short. “It is not that easy. Aerion will move on. Until he does, we will keep the clown alive.”
A scoff ripped from your lungs. “The clown has a name.”
Daeron merely grunted in response.
The atmosphere became almost as oppressive as the silence that descended, encompassing the air like a fog. Your head started to buzz, overwhelmed from everything that had happened — the shame, the grief, the anger — it made it hard to hear Daeron and Dunk’s exchange. Something about taking you back to your closet before Aerion noticed your absence. Daeron insisted that he had done enough for the day, while Dunk wanted to help, he did not know where Aerion’s bedroom was. Let alone what he would do if he saw him near it. Finally, Egg volunteered, a fact that seemed to put Daeron on edge. He thought for a moment, pursed his lips, and muttered some excuse about needing a drink. Dunk told Egg that if he was not back for training in an hour, he would go looking for him.
With an awkward pat on your head from Dunk — the gentle touch nearly bringing you to tears — and one last guilt-ridden stare from Daeron, you were left with only a little boy as your protector.
You really needed to knock some sense into these fools, but given that you could barely stand, you would have to survive long enough until it was possible. That was a good goal. Live long enough to punch Daeron in the face.
Egg was small enough that you were worried that you would crush him if you leaned your entire weight against him. With each slow step, you realized that Egg would make a real knight, his resolve to carry you ahead more than a little admirable. It was slow going considering your leg, but Egg was stubborn, so you would be too.
“I’m sorry.” Whatever you expected from the boy, it was not an apology.
Careful not to hurt yourself, you gave him a small squeeze where your arm was wrapped around him. It was the best hug that you could manage. “There is not a single reason that you should be apologizing to me. There is no anger or blame in my heart directed at you.”
“… I could have stopped him from—”
Harsher than you intended, you cut him off. There was a strained smile on your face in an attempt to temper your unintentional sharpness. “I don’t care. The day I blame a child for the cruelty of a man is the day that I am no longer myself.” Taking a deep breath to force your voice to be softer, you tried your best to calm whatever misplaced guilt Egg felt. “You’re okay, squire-prince. I promise.”
“But you’re not.”
You remained quiet. That was not a fact with which you could argue.
Halfway back to Aerion’s room, a confused call of your name made you, and subsequently Egg, freeze. It was followed by an even more questioning, “Aegon? What are you doing? Is everything alright?”
Slowly, Egg trying to school his grimace as fast as possible, the two of you turned to see Valarr and a woman beside him watching you with curiosity. Her light colored hair, almost pink, contrasted with her dark skin, giving her a sweet look about her. She gave Egg a soft smile of acknowledgement, though met you with a slight furrow of her brow. It wasn’t unkind, instead colored by a bit of concern and a hint of confusion.
“I am helping this clown back to his quarters,” Egg stated and you realized that this boy was dangerously good at lying. It was to your benefit right now, but you would file away for future reference.
Valarr stood a little straighter and set Egg with a look of disapproval. “His quarters should be in the lower levels. If that is the case, why are you all the way up here?”
Egg did not even flinch at being called out. He glanced at you, then at Valarr, his hesitation making you feel cold. “He stays near Aerion’s room in case he needs him. I have been told that he is Aerion’s personal entertainment.”
“I was unaware that you were hired as such,” Valarr was looking at you now. You could almost see behind his eyes to witness the cogs of his mind turning, processing this information in a slow digest. “Tell me, was this before or after the Trial of Seven?”
You did not speak. With wide eyes and a tongue far too thick for accurate articulation. All you managed was a choppy, “Um— I—”
“Before!” Egg interrupted with an annoyed glance in your direction. “It was already too late to go back on the contract by the time of the Trial.”
“How odd,” Valarr hummed. His gaze trailed over your body, the limp that you carried yourself with, the dullness of your skin, how much skinnier that you had become, before ending on the single bruise that peeked from under your collar. The woman behind him followed his stare until she saw it too, her hand flying to her lips. “You did not inform me of this during my time as your guard.”
“I— I did not consider it pertinent, my prince.”
“Is my cousin treating you well?” He was probing, almost urging you to step through the door that he had opened. Your heart felt as though it would pound up your throat.
If there was ever a time to scream for help, it was now. All that had been done to you bubbled in your chest and you had to clamp your teeth to keep it down. Valarr was next in line for the Iron Throne, he had the ear of his grandfather, the king. He could help you. Save you.
The question was for how long.
“Well enough,” was all that you could manage without puking.
Valarr appeared to be a mix of frustrated and disappointed, turning to share a glance with the woman, then to fix Egg with a stern raise of his eyebrows. “I will speak with you later, Aegon.” A puff of air made his nostrils flare as he faced you. “Come visit me when you have the chance. I will be waiting.”
He waited for you to nod before he left, the woman attaching herself onto his arm to whisper in his ear. She gave you one last look, more sad than you had expected. It made your stomach lurch.
“That was close,” Egg breathed as he led you away, in a bit more of a hurry than you were prepared for. You struggled to keep pace. “My brother would lose his mind if Valarr were to intervene. He hates him.”
Great. Wonderful. All on you, if you had to wager a guess. Swallowing down your annoyance, you smiled at Egg. “Thank you for helping me, I am not a good liar.”
“I could tell,” Egg commented.
That made you chuckle, and relief made you sag a little. At least you could still laugh. Aerion hadn’t taken everything from you quite yet.
Upon arriving back in Aerion’s bedroom, Egg stared at the closet with a wrinkle of his nose. “This… is where you’ve been?”
“And where I will remain,” you joked with a small shrug.
Egg did not laugh. He looked more uncomfortable than amused. “I guess I’ll… lock you in then.”
“It’s for the best, I won’t be mad. Promise.” In order to take the responsibility from him, you released Egg and hobbled inside of your cage to sit. Even like this, he was barely taller than you, staring at you so miserably that you wondered if he had you beat. “Don’t forget to lock it behind you, okay? Thank you for coming, Egg. I didn’t— I didn’t know that you and Dunk cared that much.”
He opened his mouth, likely to insist that you were dumb for believing that, only to snap it shut. There was no preamble when the door shut tight, nor when the lock clicked, barely a goodbye before he scampered away. You didn’t know why until, not even two minutes later, Aerion returned to his room. Fear made your joints lock up.
The feeling did not abate, but strengthened when he headed straight for the closet to inspect the lock. Chest heaving, you listened for the sound of his examination to die down— not that it would ever be that easy. You barely had time to whimper when you were grabbed by your hair and yanked at Aerion’s feet.
“You left my room,” He said, stating a fact and not asking a question. Crouched to meet your gaze, his finger was inches from your face and you realized that if you had any pride, you would bite it off. A single snap of your jaws would permanently maim him. There was no reattaching a limb, no matter how superficial. Whatever passed over your face must have betrayed this thought because he cocked his head to the side. Aerion waited, and when you did not strike, he brushed a knuckle over your cheek. “Why did you leave my room?”
“I did not want to,” it left you before you even had time to think. This was pathetic, your lack of a fight— how easily you moved to submit. For the first time in your life, you hated yourself.
Aerion slowly raised to stand and narrowed his eyes, falsely questioning. “Then why did you?”
“Bec— Because, he— And I—”
“Someone let you out.” Pursing his lips in feigned sympathy, he reached to run his thumb under your eye. “And you listened.”
There was nothing that you could do but cry. Your body shook, a short exhale making snot drip onto your upper lip. Even as your head shook to deny it, you knew that there was no point.
“You did not run away. I think that should be rewarded.” That made your chest jump. Upon your watery confusion, Aerion hummed and raised his eyebrows. “I am not entirely cruel. You look surprised by that.”
“I’m n— not. I’m not, I— I swear.” Furiously, you shook your head until your vision spun.
For a moment, he was quiet, absorbing your terror with blown pupils. Aerion reached down to push his fingers past your lips, his nails sharp against the soft insides. He let out a shuddering breath. “You may think me foolish, but I know enough that the longevity of our game is at risk the more that I keep you hidden. Hm?”
It was hard to respond with him pressing against your tongue, so it came out as a strangled moan. Aerion’s breathing hitched. He stroked the roof of your mouth and it made your shiver.
“That is why,” With a tone softer than you have ever heard it, he delved deep enough for you to gag, “I am presenting you to my father as my personal entertainer. You will be on your best behavior and inform him how happy you are to serve me. Do you understand what happens if you betray me?”
An affirmative nod made him smile, indulgent in a way that made your stomach churn.
“If you run, I will find you, but not until you think that you are safe. I’ll wait for you to find your little circus, and that is when you will be punished.” Removing his fingers from your mouth, he wiped them dry on your collarbone. “The dragon does not like to lose what belongs to him.”
When you smiled, Aerion patted your head in a way that made you want to lean into his touch.
That night, you did not sleep in the closet.
That night, you slept at the foot of his bed like a well trained dog.
A/N: I was supposed to post this yesterday but work absolutely demolished me. With a hammer. First day blues I suppose. I don’t have much to say about this one? I kind of feel like everyone’s ooc, but we ball.
If you are enjoying this, let me know in the comments! Shakes you a little. Please. It’s kind of hard to tell if anyone’s really enjoying this save for me and my boyfriend. Thank you for readinggg, byyyyeeee.
Tag List: @mys0cksrwet @misoxramen @1-rayray-1 @quillary @girxwrp
Hey diva! In honor of my birthday tomorrow, how would the DNBTS crazy ginger twinks be on Alga's birthday? Been on my re-read and they're occupying all of my thoughts <3
OMG HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! i hope its a good one :3
caracalla, honestly, would be the one to forget. he can barely remember things about himself, i doubt he will be able to remember their birthday even if he tries so hard something in his skull pops.
meanwhile geta likes to think that hes has this day marked since aga told him, but im gonna be so real with you, he also forgets. hes too self centered to not. about two hours after waking up, he will remember, literally just freeze in place. then he starts scrambling.
geta’s hurried attempts at preparing a celebration is what gets caracalla’s attention, and as soon as he knows that geta is doing something for their birthday, you know damn well he mooches off of it. more than likely, he will take advantage of geta being distracted to find alga and give them their first happy birthday— not actually that was from aelius. he will probably try to take full credit for geta’s preparations too.
i think geta would greet alga by patting them on the cheek and saying “for you, carissimus.” and its some bare bones bullshit roman party. the scary kind where he brings out lions or some shit lmfao. hes also going to put in the motion to make their birthday some kind of holiday like his and caracallas.
neither has a really thought out birthday gift so they just kind of start dumping really expensive stuff on alga’s head to make up for it. genuinely i kind od think caracalla would give them head for their birthday and then act like he just handed them the moon from the sky.
this happens almost every birthday, except to geta’s credit, he starts to remember and prepare a bit more. alga tries to incorporate modern parties into his planning which geta romanizes into being 10 times more intense. no matter how many years pass, caracalla only remembers because of geta and his gift is always head. love flops.
"He flirted flirtatiously and flexed his bulging bicep for you to gaze upon." really stuck with me ngl
i forgot i wrote this as a bit and was like oh my fucking god how did that get through my edits and then i was like. oh yeah johnny storm yaoi seme dom
out of curiosity, out of any of my fics, are there any lines that stuck out to you? if you send an ask quoting it, ill tell you about my thought process writing it :3
out of curiosity, out of any of my fics, are there any lines that stuck out to you? if you send an ask quoting it, ill tell you about my thought process writing it :3
Shear the Lion, Fear the Lamb: Chapter 3; “You chewed on the past and breathed in the present.”
It’s kind of a random line but the way you write is very elegant, you have a way with words that makes it almost effortless to visualise the world you’ve crafted and understand the emotional subtext being portrayed. 🙏 idk you’re incredibly eloquent and it serves your writing really well; I’d love to pick your brain on your phrasing and impressive vocabulary.
- a random who only started reading ur stuff like last week
OKAY I AM SO GLAD YOU NOTICED THIS LINE. i really liked it when i wrote it and i felt that it did what i wanted it to do really well, while also not being too over the top. im not a huge fan of purple prose personally, i stick to the belief that when youre writing, you should make things count. i dont usually get all fancy with it, but when i do, there is a reason behind it.
yn in this fic, and particularly in the first three chapters, has a really wonky way of thinking and viewing the world. even without the other factors of fever cooking their brain and the dissociated/blurred way they take in the world, yn is just… kind of a poetic windbag i guess? 😭 so its much easier to get all fun and fancy with their inner monologue than it is with other pov characters.
as for my reasoning for the word choice, ‘chewing’ on the past, grinding it up in your jaw is one way you can imagine it, like rocks to gravel. however you can also chew food, and candy, and sweets. particularly taffys and caramels that get stuck to the roof of your mouth. those are two of the most common ways a reader can interpret ‘chew’ being used, and both are correct! yn is struggling to break rocks into gravel with their teeth when they think of their past, but its also getting balled up in their mouth into a thick gooey mess. both are particularly hard to swallow. also yn is being specifically coded as ‘goat-like’ and goats love to fucking chew.
‘breathing’ in the present, its a much sweeter sounding word. (ohhhh connotations i love you) there is nothing more satisfying than taking a breath when you need it. of being underwater and surfacing to fill yourself with sweet, sweet oxygen. i wrote it with the visualization of when spring first hits. you can feel this warmth in your throat, not sticky with summer yet. you can taste blooming flowers. maybe even notice that a rain shower is on the way. its not particularly overt yet considering that yns home has only been described in dream sequences, but that was the year round climate: a perpetual spring. despite the abuse that occurred back there, it is yns home, and they are fond of it. for the first time in a very long time, they can breathe easy, absorb the present as something good. just like they did when they greeted their brothers and sisters for the first time in the morning on the way to church. the relief of community.
me calling yn a windbag when i, too, am the biggest yapper. like father like son ig. but hey, thank you for reading my fics and thank you for the ask, i looooooove to ramble and talk. :] please feel free ro send an ask whenever!!
out of curiosity, out of any of my fics, are there any lines that stuck out to you? if you send an ask quoting it, ill tell you about my thought process writing it :3
out of curiosity, out of any of my fics, are there any lines that stuck out to you? if you send an ask quoting it, ill tell you about my thought process writing it :3
writing update! ive spent all day planning the three fics i’m currently writing for the next few chapters! while i always have a general overview of the major beats i want each fic to hit, i usually play it pretty fast and loose with the details. its more fun that way and allows for me to be fluid with the pacing.
of course i have a separate document for scenes i want to happen, but have no place for yet too. idk i just have a lot of fun stuff planned. ummm under cut are some funny things that will happen in each fic. warning for spoilers
the things inside: first smut scene is in chapter seven where yn doms from the cuck chair
the palace becomes a circus: unsure of what chapter this happens but daeron is going to take marley out drinking to make him feel better, only to realize that he’s a social butterfly drunk. and now daeron is trapped in a hell of his own making
shear the lion, fear the lamb: this happens wayyyyyy later in the fic, but i like imagining the scene while maul and marrok start beating the shit out of each other, yn is fujoing the fuck out ans praying that their shirts magically come off
👋 hello I just wanted to let you know that I ove your writing . And i look foward to writing all the time and I hope you have a great writing journey 😊
AAAGGHHSHSIWKSJAIS [joyous sound of me shriveling with joy] thank you so much, i hope to always provide fanfiction for your enjoyment.
Summary: Today, you are pushed too far, a memory buried under bedrock, unearthed. An injustice that no one cared to save you from, not even your Goddess. After all this time, you finally find it— your rage.
CW: HEAVILY IMPLIED PAST CSA, flashbacks, repressed memories, Maul’s incredibly shitty makeshift therapy. This chapter is skippable in the grand scheme of things, take care of yourself. I was told it’s not too bad, but it would get to particularly sensitive readers.
Word Count: 4.7k words
Read on AO3
First Chapter
A thud echoed through the small room as your body slammed against the mat, causing a bit of drool to spray from between your clenched teeth. The impact was louder than it hurt, though it was still enough to stun you. Over the past few weeks, that horrid weakness that afflicted your body had begun to wane. Slink off into the darkened corners of your flesh to hide. All that would aid you in this journey to vitality was hard work and determination. Steadying yourself, you heaved yourself back onto your feet, relieved that no one had offered you a hand— not that they would. You would rather do it yourself.
Two pairs of eyes burned into you as you found your footing yet again, easier than you had yesterday and the day before to that. Maul, your teacher, and Casimir, your medic. Both men hovered in your periphery during your rather intense physical therapy. Maul kept himself at a distance, his arms crossed over his chest, with Casimir much closer so that he could guide you through the stretches. Your entire body burned from exertion, not that you intended to give in. Only Casimir could make that decision for you, his expertise more precise than your own. He was somewhat influenced by Maul, but ultimately, he was the one with the power here. It was not a fact that he allowed to go to his head, deferently looking to Maul when he made his decisions. Sometimes, you could see him preen, his chin lifting higher as he watched you and Casimir’s progress.
A month had passed since you had been pried from the gutters and into a brand new world. This happiness that had begun to build in your chest was foreign, far more intense than you could have ever hoped for. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. Better than anything you had in a very long time.
You would be a dummy to wish for more.
Maul’s subordinates, save for Ailyn, and subsequently, Casimir, gave you a wide berth as you passed from the infirmary, to train, and to Maul’s quarters for daily cups of tea. You could hear the whispers, the blatant belief that you were no more than dead weight to carry than any real equal. As you continued your rehabilitation, they grew quieter. Healing was a long journey, both for your body and your mind— the Goddess made Her children complex for a reason. Easy to unravel, near impossible to tie back into knots. She had a reason for all of Her decisions, you knew that, but this was one you could not help questioning. Why were you so easy to break, and such a burden to put back together?
Under your bandages, the wound on your hand stung. Questioning Her was a sin of the highest order. It must be repented for through pain.
Casimir had frowned when he saw your clumsy attempts at bandaging the fresh burn on your palm. He unwound the fabric, awkward, yet gentle, dabbed the wound with bacta, and then refixed the dressing without a word. You did not apologize despite the strange sense of shame that built in the back of your throat. This was what all of your flock did when forgiveness was necessary, you didn’t understand why Casimir had looked so frustrated.
Nor did you understand why it felt so necessary to hide your injuries from your savior, even if the first part of your body that his eyes landed upon was your hand. You supposed that he was far too perceptive for you to be keeping secrets. The realization had sunk deep into your stomach, finally settling as dread.
“We will go through two more exercises,” Casimir stated as soon as you were steady again. “Then we will be done for the day.”
Instinctively, you looked at your savior for confirmation. The twitch of Casimir’s eyebrow went unnoticed in your search for approval, more important expressions from more important people at the forefront of your mind. Maul gave you a short nod and you beamed as you got into position for the next stretch.
By the time you were done, your limbs were shaking, thankfully nowhere near as weak as the first day of stretches had left you. None of it upset you anymore. You felt proud to have bent your body into submission— having it come back stronger than it ever was. This was good. Perfect, even. The Goddess smiled upon you, so you turned that unfathomable light to the men who watched you struggle day after day. Fighting to use your broken body, watching it transform into the butterfly that it was always meant to be.
Maul raised his eyebrows in response to your smile and closed the gap between you with purposeful strides. His hand hovered between your shoulder blades, not quite touching, to guide you to his quarters for tea. Meanwhile, Casimir returned it, albeit strained.
“You are recovering quicker than most would,” He said, looking mostly at your savior despite you being the one that he was addressing. You decided not to take offense. “I doubt anyone else would be able to achieve what she has in this short amount of time. Tomorrow you can begin training. Just take it easy on her.”
Maul hummed, a brief acknowledgment, though not an agreement. “Thank you, Casimir. Your services will no longer be needed.”
“Thank you, my lord.” His shoulders sagged, barely contained relief, tempered by the awkward smile he gave you. “You, uh, should be proud.”
“Pride, though sinful and should never be relished, can be a feeling slightened by innocence. Be proud of your journey, of your strength in the face of adversity.” A soft, joyous glow filled the creases of your face with warmth. Tenderly, you pressed your palm flat against Casimir’s chest, directly over where his heart beat in a steady rhythm. He did not flinch, understanding you to be harmless to your core, if not a bit strange. “Be proud of your patience, your ability to heal, your assistance in my broken life. The Goddess has birthed you invaluable, I pray that you never forget that.”
Casimir shifted from foot to foot, briefly looking to Maul for guidance. It seemed that he got none when he finally shifted to you, who had never wavered from him, no matter if curiosity burned in your gut— a wonder of if your savior was proud of you. All of this unfailing kindness that you had been granted, you doubted that you would never be able to show how grateful you were even if you were cut open to reveal your inner workings. You did not see the pursing of Maul’s lips, nor the stifled roll of his eyes.
“Um… I’ll try not to?” That was all Casimir managed before he sidled past you and disappeared down the hall. Finally leaving you and your savior alone. A prayer answered again. You could feed from his presence alone if you tried.
Giddiness made your clasp your hands in front of your chest and your eyes to sparkle, staring wide and innocent at Maul. Awaiting his instruction. He never seemed quite prepared for the way in which you revered him with such unabashed glee, caught between an instinctive suspicion and a pleased lift of his chin.
“It is time for today’s discussion.”
Despite your excitement to bask in Maul’s presence, a bit of dread leadened in your gut. These conversations started about two weeks ago, and they confused you, to say the least. It was becoming more and more apparent with each passing day that your savior did not believe the Goddess to be real. Odd due to the fact that She had touched him, just as she had you. Surely, he understood that she was there, just as you had said. Deep down, you weren’t particularly surprised, only disappointed to find that the Father’s teachings had been correct.
The wider galaxy could not be saved because they did not believe. Her light could not touch them. A frown pulled at your lips as you stared at the back of Maul’s head. What a sad existence to not know that She made you with a purpose and held adoration for your every shambling step.
As he always did, Maul opened the door to his quarters and invited you to step inside first. His arm was outstretched through the threshold, equatable to holding the door open, making sure it would not shut on you and crush you in between the machinery. You tried to do the same for him and accidentally stepped in his path, your body positioned in a strange twisted fashion. Maul paused to study you, the way that you were folded in an awkward recreation of himself.
Though his eyebrows furrowed, he did not comment, but he did speak, “Today we will discuss your fathers. The men who led your flock.” The pot of tea was already on his desk, steeped with care and ready for consumption. You hoped it was that sweet mixture from the last time. It bordered on creamy, rich despite the lack of milk.
Maul poured your cup first, then his own, watching you limp over to the chair across from him. Yellow irises studied your expression, the duck of your head and the pinch of your fingers. “You do not want to speak ill of your religion’s leaders.”
Pursing your lips, you managed to shake your head. As much as you disliked denying your savior, you didn’t want to think of the Fathers more than you needed to.
“Love is strange, it is a sickness and it is the breath of life. The Fathers always did what the Goddess spoke, they only acted with the best interests of Her children in mind.” Your thoughts stuttered, the next words you spoke no more than a breath, “Their touch was gentle.”
A ball formed deep in your throat, impossible to keep down. Thinking about the innumerable men who you followed without question made you feel unbalanced. You tried your best to ignore it as you padded over to the chair across from Maul. Though both your body and your mind were healing, it appeared that you could not keep your thoughts secret. What ran across your mind fell from your mouth in a clump. “My savior disapproves of our practices. I fear that… you will not understand the necessity of some of the actions of my Fathers. There were… I apologize, I cannot remember clearly, it is lost in the fog, colored by… revulsion…?”
Maul parsed your words slowly, his own chosen carefully, “The necessity of baptisms in blood. Remind me of why your goddess needs children to be soaked in the blood of livestock.”
His tone was probing, gripping at threads in your mouth and pulling forth confessions. Emotion warred inside of you: one part basking in your savior’s undivided attention, followed by the ever present nausea that accompanied thoughts of your childhood.
“Written in our scripture is Her word and Her guidance, gifted only to the Fathers’ discerning eyes. Must there be more of a reason than the will of the Mother?” Unable to meet Maul’s eyes, you picked at a loose thread at the hem of your shirt.
Maul steepled his fingers, pondering. “And what of your will?”
“It matters not. Only She does.”
There was a hum, falsely considering in a way that made your jaw tighten. “If your goddess loves you, your desires would matter to her.”
“I— No!” This was different from the other conversations you had with Maul. Before, he has asked you about practices and traditions, occasionally your belief of what was sin and what was virtue. What he was saying now bordered on blasphemous.
“You care for Casimir and Ailyn. Would their desire for water in a desert mean nothing to you? Of food in the midst of starvation?” Unable to speak through the dryness in your mouth, you shook your head. Your eyes were shaky and unfocused, unable to stick to anything save for your hands. Mercilessly, cruelly, Maul continued, “Then, ask yourself, does your goddess truly love you?”
“We are Her chosen. The difference between me and them catches my breath,” The argument was rehearsed, repeated from sermons that you had heard for as long as you could remember. “It is inherent, I was born to it, they were not. You were not. A duty, a task, a learned obedience.”
“Learned?” A weakness latched onto with the legs of a tick, the teeth of a leech. “So it is not inherent as you said.”
“No, no, I did not mean that. I did not say that. We— We are merely taught how to be good. Followers, children, sheep, shepherds.” You were stumbling now. Even to your own ears, you sounded untethered. Wrong. “Her beloved children must learn to fear Her wrath, for how can you tremble from what you do not know?”
“The fathers were in charge of punishment.” Maul came to the conclusion himself, confirmation arriving when you began to shake. Slowly, he reached to take your hand in his, the gentleness a great contrast to his verbal flaying. He flipped it over to look at your palm, thumb brushing against the bandaged burn. “The first time that you hurt yourself, was it your choice?”
“Stop, please. I do not wish to speak of this any longer.” Tears had begun to fall, scorching your skin.
A taste of Hell.
Maul let out a sigh and released you, his disappointment cutting into you more than any knife. “Each time we begin to make progress, you shut down entirely. When it comes to your body, your determination is… admirable. You do not share that same tenacity when it comes to your mind.”
“I— I’m sorry, my savior. Forgive me.” Even when it was all you could manage, you could not stay succinct— stem the flow.
“My former master taught me through pain, just as your fathers did. With each failure, I was punished swiftly and severely.” Maul leveled you with the full intensity of his stare, alight with hate. Not at you, but for the man who hurt him. Deep down, notched against your spine, something inside of you opened its eyes. “I will never forgive him for what he has done.”
“I— I— There is no point in— What was done was approved of by our Mother, to despise that would be… It would be—!”
“I want you to think about it,” He urged. “The worst of what was done to you.” You could feel it, just out of reach. A fluttering petal drifting along a warm spring breeze. Rather than tickle where it touched, it melted into a viscous acid, seeping into your skin. Into your bones, your marrow, your cells, your atoms. Squeezing your eyes shut, you began to hyperventilate. Maul continued despite this, “Bring it to the forefront of your mind. Sit with it. Feel the betrayal and the suffering that you were forced to endure.”
You thought of your eighteenth birthday. The screams, the stench, and overzealous cries of joy as they descended into broken gurgles. There was a girl, far younger than you had been, clinging to your arm. Her lips moved, and though you could not hear her, you knew that she was begging for you to stop this. She was wrenched away from you, by flat, calloused, familiar, hands as she shrieked in terror. Pleading for your help. She was nine when she died. Blood everywhere. All while you remained frozen in a kneel, despite the horror.
Unable to move. At the mercy of men.
Then, you remembered something else. Deep, deep down, in the recesses of your mind, there was a memory that you tried to kill. Your hands wrapped around its throat to hold it down, bring it to heel. An attempt at forgetting and pretending that it never occurred.
There were hands and soft words. None of it intelligible, none of it with meaning, save for a body so young that it could barely process what was being done. You remembered the ceiling above you. Plain, save for the waterstains. One had looked like the Goddess’ face, an uncaring voyeur smiling down at you. What remained unclear was the Father. Many, or one, you didn’t know— it didn’t matter. Even if you knew, it wouldn’t change what had happened: the blankets that were pulled from your body and your nightgown hiked up to your neck.
Though it should have been winter, your bedroom was muggy.
Your breathing was ragged, your body’s attempt at hyperventilation, though unable to truly heave air from your lungs. The warble of a small animal filled the darkened corners of the room, your head clutched tightly as you tried to remember where you were. With Maul, with your savior, millions of miles away from the dead men who you called Fathers, protected for once in your miserable life, and you could still feel it.
Maul said your name and you snapped your gaze to face him.
“Why?” With bared teeth and wild eyes, you slammed your hands down on his desk. The cups of tea clattered, the noise drawing your stare. Small and fragile, the ease it would take to break one made your head hurt. “Why would you make me remember? Why, why, why? How dare you, how could you!”
Surprise, however minute, made him draw back, even if his tone remained as smooth as ever. “What did you remember?”
“Filthy fucking animals! Disgusting creatures! I had forgotten, but you made me remember!” You were screaming so loudly that you could feel the inside of your throat peel. “Those nights, those hot and humid nights. When I would pray for a lock upon my door. How could you?”
There was the barest flicker of regret when he saw you drop, curled and writhing— almost convulsing at the foot of his desk. It wasn’t enough to stop him, though. “Tell me. How much do you hate?”
“I hate you! I hate you! You, you, you!” With each word, you slammed your head against the floor.
For the first time since you had met him, Maul looked to be truly unsure. His eyes were narrowed as you thrashed and cried, whatever he was looking for not there. Upon seeing his approaching hand, fingers curled, you let out a keening wail and tried to crawl away. You felt him brush against your temple and the world went dark.
When you woke up again, you were calm.
Calm, but you could still remember. Unearthed, both old and new, every time you closed your eyes, you saw it. Felt it. Such an unspeakable violation. Was that why you had been so good for those men who found you during your time on the streets? Limp and prime for picking. Trained from childhood to—
You couldn’t think about it any more. Swallowing passed the lump in your throat felt like choking on a small ball of needles. Unsure of what to do with the shame that welled inside of you, you curled in on yourself to pray.
For…
Answers.
Ones that you doubted that you would receive. Maybe She would have given you some a very long time ago, back when you weren’t so sinful. Questioning the will of your superiors, that of the teachings which had buried their roots into you, it was no wonder that—
She remained silent.
Alone, until the door to the infirmary slid open and in walked your savior who you had spoken to so brazenly. You could not look at him despite the fact that his eyes were on you from the moment that he realized you were awake. He was searching for something that you couldn’t begin to fathom. At the base of your skull was an emotion that did not belong to you, limp and stifled. Crushed in a metaphorical fist. Remorse, concern, and far more intense, a sense of brutal triumph.
Your breath caught in your throat as your face crumpled.
“I do not hate you.” Maul had opened his mouth to speak only for you to cut him off. His nose wrinkled ever so slightly, irritated in a way that betrayed that he did not get interrupted often. He allowed you to continue speaking rather than reprimand you. To say that you were thankful would be an understatement. “I hated how I felt. I hated remembering. I hate that I can no longer forget. I hate what was done to me. I hate that no one stopped it. I hate that it was not a mere man. I hate that I cannot see their faces. I hate that I cannot remember who. I hate that I— I hate that any of the hugs, the comfort, the confessions, the love— I hate that it has all been tainted. I hate that it could have been anyone.”
The victory at the back of your neck swelled until it eclipsed all other feeling. Hate. You hated. Maul folded his arms behind his back and sat at the foot of your bed, his expression morphed into an awkward amalgamation of softness. It appeared that he did not make this face often, seemingly reserved for you alone. You felt sweetened to know this. Careful so that he did not touch your legs, you curled your knees to your chest. Maul did not deserve to be associated with those who had violated you— he was your savior.
For a moment, you could feel his curiosity tickle against your skin, before he took in the pinch of your features and thought better of it. “The difficult part is over. Repressing the injustices done to you, deep enough so that they are forgotten, is a shield for the perpetrators. You have overcome that. The next step is to use that hatred and sharpen it into a blade.”
“And…” You looked away. “What if I were to turn that blade upon myself?”
Evidently, that was not what Maul wanted to hear. His lips peeled back in anger, his voice a low hiss, the strain to keep himself from yelling strangling his vocal chords. “You would be more foolish that I had believed you to be. Death would not be a mercy, but a failure. All who betrayed you will have won.”
While you weren’t entirely convinced, you relented with a small nod. Gave him what he wanted.
More than a little haughty, Maul stood and offered you his hand, warm despite the leather gloves that he wore. You gripped him with both of yours, almost entirely wrapped around his thumb as you squeezed him tight in some odd facsimile of a hug. It was not often that he allowed you to touch him. You could not help but take advantage of it. His limb jerked, as if to pull away, but with a small huff, he must have decided to allow you this one indulgence.
For about five seconds before he pulled away, his expression strange. “Your real training begins today.”
And that it did, opening the door for a realization that made you breathe a little easier.
What you found, alone in a room with your savior, sweaty and panting, was that when you were engaged in combat, you could not think about anything but Maul. Your mind was focused on your footing, sternly corrected whenever you stepped out of line. Followed by the sweep of your limbs when you brought the training blade against Maul’s, then the dance of your body to avoid his brutal strikes. Though you were still healing, Maul did not hold back, knocking you down with enough force to make spots appear in the edges of your vision.
“Again!” He barked. “Back on your feet!”
Focused solely on this blessed distraction, you stumbled to stand and threw yourself at Maul again. The longer this went on, the more frustrated that he became. Your performance was lackluster, a fact that you couldn’t begin to care about. Not when everytime you faltered, you felt prying fingers against your inner thighs. You were angry at Her. The Goddess and her assumed decision that you were not worth being saved. Not until now, when the damage was already done. It only served to ignite a flame in your gut that you did not know you could put out.
That seemed to be what Maul wanted. To watch you burn.
“Your rage, I can feel it. Use it!”
Obediently — because it seemed that no matter how hard you tried, you would always obey, damned by your Goddess — you closed your eyes. There was no room for care right now.
When you were a child, you would let out your frustration by slamming doors. It was no more than a quick flick of your wrist and the sound had boomed through the entire church. That was how you reached down inside of yourself, a furious plunge.
Lifting your head, rather than see your savior standing at the ready across from you, it was him. A Father from your flock, towering over you as he had when you were so small. So helpless. His face was a blur, but his body was entirely clear, falling down the abyss in your retinas with a sick sort of greed. At his sides were a pair of hands. Gnarled, with knobby knuckles and spindly fingers, snaking appendages for which to shuck out your insides. Your breath came in short bursts, your grip on your fake blade shaking from how hard you were clutching it.
Goddess forgive you.
Please, Mother, grant you Light.
For all you wanted to do was kill him.
You wanted to bury the tips of your fingers in the spaces between his skin and flesh, pull back until sheets unraveled to reveal muscle. Bare handed. The urge to mutilate him grew into a mighty blaze, a desire to reach deep inside of him and pull out whatever had made him so vile. What had rotted him from the inside out, only for him to spread that rot to you. The ghost of filthiness long passed felt like skittering insects and innumerable legs over every inch of skin. Not even your clothing could protect you.
When you realized that you could no longer breathe, you finally noticed that there was something caught between your teeth. Meat. Flesh, hate, and poison. A growl rumbled from deep in your chest.
You were flung from what you had gripped onto with enough force to make the room spin. With nails like talons sunk into the body of a particular feisty feline, you skidded on all fours, more like a feral animal than anything with reason. Awareness came back slowly. You saw the floor, then your hands through your blurry vision. As you ran your tongue over your lips, you could taste the salt of sweat, but no blood. Relief made your shoulders slump, only to hike back up when you heard your savior coughing. Regret and horror chilled you to your very core as you lifted your head to see him holding his hand over what could only be teeth marks on his throat.
Apologies spilled from you like a broken faucet, unable to meet Maul’s gaze. “I saw him and not you, a wolf, a monster, one deserving! If I had k— known it was you, I would have never— I was so angry—!”
He said your name. Slow, steady. Enough to terrify you of the retribution that was sure to follow.
“I see,” Maul was out of breath, “That I was not wrong about you. Training, direction will make a warrior of you yet.”
“Forgive me,” You whimpered, “Punish me, I lost control—”
He cut you off with a wave of the hand that wasn’t prodding on the bitemark that you had left behind. “Upon arriving at our destination, you will join me planetside. More experience in the field will do you well.”
Revulsion dissipated when you finally met his gaze. There it was, you saw it, you couldn’t be mistaken. It was written over every inch of his face.
Maul was proud of you.
A/N: Okay. So those tags have come into play now and I desperately hope that I was able to cover this topic with seriousness and care that it deserves. It’s hard to make it clear what happened, while also maintaining the… shroud that these memories exist in. I didn’t want it to be gratuitous or too triggering to read — basically psychological warfare to read — while also treating the subject with seriousness. I’m gonna bare my soul here a little bit, I may regret it and delete this portion of the author’s note, but whatever guys.
There are things from my childhood that I can’t quite remember— and to be quite honest, I don’t want to remember them. Writing has always been… sort of a way to process my thoughts and feelings. Exploring a character who is a victim of CSA is something that I’ve wanted to write about for quite some time, though I’ve held back. The worry that I didn’t have the skills to articulate what I wanted held me back— not to mention that the topic is just fucking heavy. Well, this is it. I’m finally getting in there. While I know that experiencing a similar event is not mandatory to write/explore it, I wanted to be candid just to like… assure people, I guess. That this isn’t just some fumbling attempt to include drama or conflict by someone who doesn’t care.
Okay, showing my ass and farting is over. Let’s move on to Maul completely missing the fact that he isn’t winning gold in the trauma olympics this time. To be so clear, he did not pick up on what exactly caused Y/N to react like that, nor what they remembered. While he would not regret pulling it to the surface, I do think he’d feel that his eyes snap open with a glass shattering noise two weeks from now and he’s like “ohhhhhhh.” It’s subtle, but by the point, Maul’s getting kind of impatient. [Pokes Y/N with a stick] Come on. Do something.
Logically, he realizes that training Y/N will take time and patience, but he needs them evil NOW. Also. I know the Force probably doesn’t work like that, but trust that he definitely influenced the repressed memory coming to light. That and also the fact that when you’re finally somewhere you feel safe, it all comes bubbling up. Boooooo.
Okay. That’s really it! If you read, thank you so much! I hope you enjoyed despite the hellish topics involved. Please let me know what you thought, if you thought anything at all :D
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