#maliq

“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.