Part 1 | Part 2 |
Author's Notes: more Owynn and Myrie!
Content Warnings: tiny whump, fairy whump, lady whump, royal whump, captivity, torture, interrogation, impaled, severe pain, attempted comfort/caretaking (he's doing his best)
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Owynn arrives to his shift that afternoon feeling hopeful. Over the last few days, his superiors have allowed the prisoner to recover from injuries sustained during her capture. While she is still heavily guarded and contained, he understands that if fairies are as powerful and unpredictable as he read, it is the safe thing to do. Maybe, if the princess builds a good rapport with Sir Gavyn, she will even be moved to a more comfortable room.
He hopes so. Owynn feels compelled to protect the princess, not out of duty, for she isn't even of his ruling family, but out of something deeper and more primal. Maybe it is the same quality that drove him to become a knight in the first place. He hopes she will no longer be hurt. He hopes she will soon go free.
When he arrives at the door to her cell all his hopes are dashed.
As the previous guard strides away and Owynn takes his place, he picks up horrid sounds coming from inside the room. It is muffled by the thick metal door, but there is a grate above the door for air to pass through, carrying the sounds out into the hallway.
It is the princess. She is screaming. Sobbing. Begging.
Owynn's reflexes kick in and his hand goes to the hilt of his sword, heart pounding, ready for a fight. But there is no enemy, no threat. He hears Sir Gavyn's voice again and is filled with sickening certainty that his commander is the cause of those sounds.
There must...there must be an explanation.
He forces his hands down to his sides, balling them into fists and standing stiffly with his back to the wall beside the door. Every so often a scream will send a shiver down his spine, but as the moments drag on they become weaker, less frequent, until all he can hear is the occasional feeble cry. And then, for quite a long time, he hears nothing at all. No one emerges from the room and he thinks he might go mad not knowing what happened or why.
Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, the door creaks open. A tall, thin man steps out first, carrying a roll of leather. Owynn did not recognize his voice but his face is instantly familiar - he works mostly in the dungeons, and has a reputation for being able to elicit a confession from even the most hardened criminals and spies. If he is here, it can't possibly be for a good reason.
Sir Gavyn follows right behind. When he sees Owynn he stops to speak with him.
"Sir." Owynn stands at attention, eyes searching his commander's face for some shred of explanation.
"See to the prisoner," Sir Gavyn orders. "Do not move her. We intend to keep her where she is 'til the morrow. But give her some water, clean up any mess."
"Yes, Sir."
Owynn enters the room and shuts the door. He listens until he can no longer hear footsteps before turning to see -
- what they have done.
What have they done?
A plank of wood sits atop the table, propped upright against the wall, like a frame to display a portrait. What it displays instead is the mutilated body of the princess. She is pinned to the wood, skewered through by a series of fine, sharp needles which catch the light as Owynn slowly approaches. Their placement is not haphazard but precise, calculated. Owynn recalls his lessons - where to strike to kill versus where to strike to simply wound. These have been placed to wound - to hurt immensely. It is torture, plain and simple.
'We intend to keep her where she is.'
Owynn comes to stand before her on unsteady legs. He has a strong stomach, as one must to be a soldier, but this sight nearly makes him ill. He takes in each and every needle. Each must have caused excruciating pain. And, he realizes belatedly, they are likely to be steel, or iron.
There are needles through both of her hands and both slender ankles, one through each thigh, one through each shoulder, and three more running horizontally through her chest, stomach and hips. To his surprise, there is little blood. At each puncture the skin is red and swollen and slightly charred, the burn of iron having cauterized the wounds.
And somehow she still lives.
No, not somehow. By design.
She struggles to take in breaths. Each one is uneven and shallow, her abused body shaking with the effort. Tears gleam on her cheeks and neck. Owynn removes his glove and smooths a strand of hair back from her face with a finger.
The fairy stirs at the touch. Her damp eyelashes flutter and her lips part with a moan. Head lolling forward, she whispers broken little pleas, seemingly unaware that her torturers have left.
"N...no...m-more...I - ah - c-can't...m-my body ca - a-ah - can't. Can't take...any...more..."
"Princess?" Owynn speaks as softly as he possibly can, as if too harsh a word would be another needle piercing through her. He touches her cheek, finding it overly warm.
After a moment her slowly blinking eyes open. They are bloodshot and clouded with pain, but they focus on Owynn's face enough to recognize him. A shiver runs through her body while fear briefly crosses her expression then gives way to resignation. She leans her head into his thumb, not to seek comfort, but because she can't find the strength to lift it.
"Is it over?" She asks in the smallest voice he has ever heard.
It takes him a moment to answer. First it is because he isn't sure what she means. But there is only one thing she could mean - if he is here, does that mean her torture is over, and he will clean her and feed her and return her to the box just as before? And then, once he realizes this, he can't find his voice. Not when the answer is no. No, it isn't over. No, he must leave her like this, gored like one of the straw dummies used in sword training.
In the end he does not need to answer; his silence says it all. The princess lets out a sob.
"If you just...do as they say, I am sure they will spare you..."
She gives a bitter, breathless laugh. "Y...you do not even..." She has to pause, shuddering at a fresh throb of pain, though where, Owynn could not say. At the slightest movement, more pain follows, until she is shaking from it, whining softly, pressing her face into his thumb while more tears spill.
Owynn brings his other hand up to pet her hair, overwhelmed by the need to comfort her and fearful of what it means. This was not among his orders. He owes no allegiance to her, has no reason to fret over her wellbeing, and yet here he stands, soothing her through wave after wave of pain until it finally subsides, leaving her spent.
With considerable effort, the princess still manages to finish her thought.
"You don't...even know...what they want," she whispers.
"...no. I don't." He is embarrassed to admit it, but it is the truth. "I was only just knighted. Important matters are for my commander."
She opens her eyes to look at him, and though they are weary, there is clarity in them. "And yet, you are the better man."
Owynn opens and shuts his mouth, speechless, and surely red in the face. Her eyes have not left him. They are pale green, framed by lashes in the same shade of gold as her hair.
"I - I am, um. Supposed to give you water."
He fumbles for the flask on his belt and finds a thimble to pour a little into. The princess's head is sagging forward, her eyelids drooping, so he gently tips her head back up with a fingertip under her chin and holds the water to her lips. She drinks it all, gasping when she's finished. Owynn then fills the thimble with some sugar water, though he was not instructed to do so. She will need all the strength she can get. He helps her drink this, too.
"Try to rest," he says, though it feels foolish.
"Don't go," the princess replies, weak and half-conscious.
"I must."
Despite this he stays a few moments longer, stroking her cheek until she falls asleep.
