Make Whumpee perform - make them recite poetry for Whumper. Not easy poetry, either - Whumpee has pretentious taste and Whumper knows it. Whumper picks the long and difficult and complex poems they know that Whumpee loves and would want to do justice to. Whumper tells Whumpee to read, memorize, practice the poem; tells them they'll be expected to recite for Whumper at some point. Whumper makes Whumpee try and recite the poem while they're being tortured. Obviously, if Whumpee messes up or forgets a line or if Whumper just doesn't like the way Whumpee delivered a certain stanza they'll have to start all over again from the beginning.
"Why are you stressing so much about this? You love John Donne, this should be simple for you, right? Oh, your cry interrupted the delivery just then. Too bad. You were at the last line, too. I guess you'll have to start all over. Don't whine like that. The torture isn't going to stop until you can get that poem out the right way. It should be simple, you love poetry. Oh, listen to yourself - you just stammered a bit there. Start over."
It was the middle of spring when Titania met the girl, and the sweet aroma of apple blossoms and honeysuckle hung like linens in the verdant air. That spring had been a heavy one, tasting like pomegranates and red wine on the tongue, bearing the humid heat of summer and sweeping thick sheets of rain in from the mischievous western winds. Titania had strode through her forests, towering like a willow, her bare feet leaving no imprint in the damp grass, causing morning glory to spring up in her wake. She wore a train of dewdrops and dahlias, and her dress was daisy petals beaded with baby’s breath.
On that afternoon, when the air was thick and sweet like overripe berries, the Western Wind was playing tricks on Titania. It darted in between the trees, caught the trail of her gown and tugged at the wild strands of her loam-coloured curls, and plucked at the tips of her crown of brambles and anemone. She ignored it for the most part, knowing that it would like nothing more than for her to clutch at her dress and tell it to go elsewhere. The wind quieted for a few moments, contemplative, but the next time it picked up, it carried the sound of a child’s voice, and the gentle melody of laughter.
A human girl sat in a clearing ringed by weeping willows that bent their boughs to catch notes of laughter. She was a tiny thing, with hair and eyes as dark as death, clad in the simple furs of a trapper’s child. Titania stiffened as she saw that the girl had a fox kit in her lap, and took a step forward to help the animal. The west wind whispered in her ear, and it was enough to give Titania pause for only a moment—long enough to notice that the mortal child was bandaging the kit’s paw with a strip of cloth, wounded by overeager thorn bushes. Then, she gave the kit a tender pat on the head and let it scramble back into the green depths of the forest.
Titania brushed willow branches aside as she took a step into the clearing.
“Why are you in my forest, little one?”
The girl’s head whipped around and her round eyes widened like saucers at the sight of Titania before her. Now that she was closer, Titania could see a smudge of dirt on the side of the girl’s nose, her hair vaguely matted from hiking through the brush. Her age was vague, young enough to be largely ignorant of the ancient stories of forests and their guardians, but old enough to carry a tiny hunting knife in a belt at her side. After her initial shock had passed, the girl grinned a gap-toothed grin.
“I’m here with my mama. She says I’m old enough to learn from her.”
Titania felt a flush of irritation course hot through her like a flash of lightning. She could afford these things, even in spring, though it faded quickly to make room for the nurturing lushness that dominated her.
But there would be time for repayment. In spring, Titania was still forgiving. She still knew the weight of mercy.
Her silent footfalls brought her before the girl, and she crouched to rest at eye level with the curious little creature, who watched with equal curiosity.
“Are you a fairy?” Said the girl.
“One might call me that,” said Titania. “But how do they call you?”
“I’m Cordellaine,” the girl said, sticking a grimy hand out toward Titania. Her tiny fingers had been pricked by the brambles and thorns, and Titania stared at the hand for a handful of moments, not entirely sure how to proceed. Seeing Titania's hesitation, the girl's confidence wavered. “But my mama calls me Cordella, sometimes, unless she's mad, and calls me Laine more often than that.”
“Cordellaine,” Titania repeated slowly, letting the name drip over her tongue like honey. It was a nice name, as sweet as summer berries bursting in her mouth. This child would not be the first she had spirited away for the transgressions of the parent; blood repaid blood, and all mortals knew that hunting and trapping in the forest was forbidden.
A name had power, and she now held this girl’s name between her fingers like a fine-spun silk thread. That had power, too.
“Do you know what your mother has done, sweet thing?” Asked Titania. Her voice was soft and candied, the stuff of daydreams. The little girl shook her head earnestly, and Titania held up her hand, a tiny flower sprouted between her fingers. She continued to grow flowers in her hands, weaving them together into a crown: monkshood buds, yellow zinnia, bluebell, and fir sprigs. “This forest is my domain,” she said, her voice like butterscotch sunlight, “and no mortal is permitted to hunt or trap within its boundaries. Even if the smallest of flowers is crushed underfoot, I will know. Do you know how, small one?”
The girl shook her head. Titania placed the crown upon her head and brushed the girl’s dark hair behind her ears, tenderly.
“The trees whisper. The wind sings. The grass murmurs, and the earth listens. Even in the quiet of winter, the forest remembers.” Titania cupped the girl’s face in her hands. “I am not kind. I am not merciful. When the winter sweeps in, I will remember, and your mother’s nets will be empty. The hunger will gnaw at your bones, and you will curse the gods. But never let it be said I cannot forgive.”
Perhaps it was the warmth of spring still in her roots, or the gentle reminder of the wind thawing whatever chill remained from winter, but Titania smiled. The girl’s eyes grew heavy with the lull of her voice, and she curled into herself on the fragrant grass, yawning sweetly. “I will give you the chance to earn my forgiveness, because you still have spring in your heart. So long as you keep vigil and show respect for the Fair Folk, you may tread within this forest. But one day…”
Titania brushed her thumb over the girl’s eyelids as sleep overtook her.
“One day, my sweet, you will forget, as mortals do. On that day, you will pay the price of your mortality, and you will learn how truly fearsome the forest can be.”
“Tired... I’m just tired...” Whumpee muttered, trying to convince themself of it. Never mind the scant food Whumper had been providing them, never mind the pain and the stress and the constant anxiety they had been in since being held captive for... shit, how long has it been now? Whumpee shook their head. No, obviously the issue was just the lack of sleep. Obviously.
Whumpee rubbed their eyes. Gotta stay awake.
Once Whumpee finished this task they would be allowed to rest. Most days they were given some kind of long, tedious bit of manual labor to complete while Whumper was away. They were afraid to find out what would happen if they didn’t finish before Whumper came back.
Nothing Whumpee was doing to stay on task was helping. The room spun around them and they couldn’t make their eyes focus any longer.
Maybe I’ll sit for just a minute. Whumpee thought. They allowed themself an anxious moment of rest, but it didn’t make much difference. It felt like being drunk, less like the room was spinning and more like the world was staying nauseatingly stationary while their brain spun around and around inside their skull.
“I gotta get this finished...” Whumpee dragged themself back to the work table and set back to their task. Every few minutes or so they would grip the edge of the table for support, but they were determined to finish their work before Whumper returned.
Their eyes kept sliding out of focus, though, and the need to hold on for support became more and more frequent. Eventually, it was all Whumpee could do to stay conscious, until they were just vaguely aware of toppling over sideways onto the brick floor.
Whumpee stuck an arm out in a half-hearted attempt to catch themself, but only succeeded in opening up old wounds on the arm from an evening with Whumper a week or so ago.
I have to get up... Whumpee thought, but they didn’t have the strength to peel themself off the floor. After struggling for a bit Whumpee managed to lift their torso up slightly, propping themself up on their elbows, but as soon as they lifted their head up more than a foot from ground level again the maddening dizziness consumed their world again.
Whumpee let the vertigo take hold, consciousness slipping away, barely registering when their head hit the brick floor with a thump.
*
Whumpee awoke on the floor in a panic. What time is it? Is Whumper home yet? Oh god, I’m dead.
They struggled to pull themself up off the floor and dragged themself back to their work table. I can finish... I can finish... If I’m quick I can finish... The dizziness still ate away at their cognition and made focusing their eyes nearly impossible, and their head pounded with migraine, but it was more bearable than before they passed out. I can still finish...
Whumpee’s concentration was broken by a voice from behind them.
“So you’ve finally woken up.”
It was Whumper’s voice.
Whumpee turned to look in a panic, but the spin caused them to lose what shaky grasp they had on their balance and they stumbled backwards into their work table.
Whumper was sitting on the basement stairs, watching Whumpee with a malicious glint in their eyes. “Sleeping on the job, are we?”
“Whumper-” Whumpee tried to beg, but the vertigo was growing to a crescendo once more and they crumpled to the floor again.
Whumper stood and pulled something from the stairs behind them - Whumper’s favorite weapon. They examined it lovingly as they descended the stairs toward where Whumpee lay on the floor, once again lacking the strength to do anything but lay there as their world spun maddeningly. Whumpee gave up on trying to focus their vision on Whumper and closed their eyes, resolving themself to whatever was going to come next.
“I’m sorry...” they muttered. “I didn’t finish... I’m sorry...”
“You’re sorry?” Whumper tilted their head in a mock pout. “I don’t know that you are,” Whumpee whimpered and Whumper continued, “not yet, at any rate.”
Whumper grinned, readying their weapon, “but you will be.”
