Whump?

Adela hadn't gone to kindergarten, because Errol wanted to keep her home as long as possible. And with enough money, you could do basically anything you want. She would've been homeschooled as well, starting this year, but Sheila managed to shed enough tears and beg him pitifully to let Adela attend a real school. She wasn't equipped to teach her at home, and she wanted Adela to interact with other kids her age instead of hanging around Errol and his 'friends'.

It turned out to be a bad idea.

Adela came home from her first day of school with red, puffy eyes, and she slammed the front door so hard that Sheila jumped. "Adela?" she called, and her daughter walked into the living room and threw her schoolbag on the floor.

"I'm never going back!" she cried. Sheila was by her side in an instant.

"Adela, sweetie, what happened? Did someone say something to you?"

"It's your fault!" she went on. Sheila was taken aback. "Everyone knows you're a whore!"

How Adela even knew that word, Sheila didn't understand. And what… what even was this about? How did people know something like that, when it wasn't true? "Sweetie, let's sit down."

"I don't want to sit with you!"

"Please, let's sit."

Adela huffed and puffed but eventually took a seat on the couch. Sheila sat next to her. "Can you explain what you think a 'whore' is?"

"Someone like you! Who had sex super young and got pregnant! Everyone knows that's what you did, everyone calls you a whore, everyone says I'm gonna become a whore too!"

Rape culture was well and good, Sheila thought distantly. Victim blaming too. She didn't have a choice. Errol had made the decision that as a forty-year-old man he would go after her, a teen, and get her pregnant. She didn't have a choice. She couldn't run. She couldn't fight off someone twice her size. She couldn't abort when Adela was just a little fetus in her womb. She didn't have a choice in any of it.

"A 'whore' is a bad word used to describe sex workers," Sheila said as calmly as she could. "Sex workers are people who offer sexual services for money. Did I do that?"

"I don't know."

"I didn't. Will you do that?"

"No!"

"Then you won't be a 'whore'. But that's a bad word, Adela. Derogatory. Do you know what that means?"

Adela shook her head.

"It means it belittles those it's used against. Do you want to belittle others? Do you want to belittle me?"

Adela looked away. Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks. "It's your fault. All of it is your fault."

Sheila's heart was breaking for her. Errol had ruined both of their lives. Speaking of Errol, she wouldn't have been surprised to learn he had planted the seed in the kids' heads about her, that he somehow played a role in everyone knowing she was a teen mum.

But maybe the most horrible aspect of all of this was seeing how Adela looked at her with less and less love as the days passed. She didn't outright say she wanted to belittle Sheila, but Sheila wasn't sure she would've said no. Her outbursts were becoming more and more frequent as well.

"I can go in and talk to your homeroom teacher about bullying," Sheila offered.

"Yeah, right. And make it worse. I dealt with it."

Sheila froze. There was something about how she said that that made her afraid. "You dealt with it?"

"Yes."

"How, sweetie?"

"I pushed Claudio off the stairs when we were going to recess. Nobody saw it was me, I made it look like he just tripped and fell. Nobody believed him when he said he was pushed."

"Adela, that's… That's not a good thing to do."

Adela reached down and pulled something small out of her sock. It was a Swiss blade. "I could've used this. I will if he says something again."

Sheila snatched the Swiss blade right out of her daughter's hand. "Adela! Are you insane?" She regretted saying that as soon as the words left her mouth. But she was so flabbergasted, she was so— terrified.

"Give that back! Daddy gave that to me!"

"You're not getting it back! I'm putting this away, and you're definitely not bringing it to school, and you're most definitely not hurting others with it!"

"Claudio deserves it!"

"We're going over to Claudio's house right now, and you're going to apologise for pushing him down the stairs!"

"We can't."

"What?"

"Claudio's not home."

"Where— where is he?"

"In the hospital. He broke his arm when he fell."

Sheila closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. There was no remorse in Adela's voice. She didn't even know why she expected it, after all of this. "Okay. I'm going to school with you tomorrow, and we'll see if Claudio comes. If he does, and if he's dropped off by his mother, we'll talk to them."

"I'm not talking to him."

"You are, and you will admit to what you did, and you will apologise."

"Daddy wouldn't make me do this!" Adela snapped. "Daddy would be proud that I dealt with it on my own, without any help from any of you!"

"Well, Daddy isn't home. So unfortunately, you're stuck with the worse parent."

"Yeah, a whore parent."

Adela was too young for discussions of rape, Sheila told herself for the hundredth time. This wasn't the time to explain it. It wasn't. No matter how much she wanted to defend herself, this just wasn't the time. "Grab your bag and go to your room. I'm not taking you out of school just because you had one bad first day. You're going back tomorrow."

"Just wait until Daddy comes home."

"I don't care what Daddy says!" she snapped back, and once again, she regretted it as soon as she'd done it. She took another deep breath. "Daddy and I disagree on most things. I don't doubt he will be excited to hear this story of yours, but that doesn't mean what you did was right."

Just then, the front door opened. Errol walked in.

"Daddy!" Adela jumped off the couch and ran over to him to give him a big hug. She didn't hug Sheila anymore. "Mommy is being really mean to me! But I know you won't be! Can we go out?"

"No," Sheila said from the couch.

"Why does Mommy have your knife?" Errol asked when he saw her holding it.

"She took it away!"

Errol gave her a look. Sheila didn't care. He admired her strong will and personality so much, she would get a piece of it today. "I took it away because she threatened to hurt a classmate with it. Which, I assume you'd agree, is bad."

"Well, what did that classmate do?"

"He called Mommy a whore and said I'd grow up to be a whore as well!" Adela said, filling him in. "But I dealt with it. I pushed him down the stairs and he broke his arm. I made it look like an accident."

Errol ruffled her hair. "That's my girl."

Of course he would do that. Adela was beaming now, tears long forgotten. "Can we go out now?" she repeated, and Sheila wanted to tear her hair out. She hated these outings. She hated the violence Adela was exposed to, ever since she was a baby. She hated that her daughter was growing up to be cruel. "I can chain Mommy up for you."

Sheila's eyes widened. Adela had never said that before. "Adela—"

"I think that's a good idea," Errol cut in. "Bring me the chains and the lock."

Adela ran off. Errol walked over to her, still sitting on the couch, and grabbed her wrist, twisting the knife out of it. "This is Adela's, I believe," he said with a smirk. "So I'm giving it back to her."

"You're raising a monster," she hissed.

"I got it!" Adela yelled as she ran back into the room with the chains and lock.

"Good. To the radiator, just like I do," Errol instructed, and Adela walked over and grabbed Sheila by the hand to lead her to it.

"Come on, Mommy."

Sheila wasn't moving. She wasn't about to be chained to the radiator by her own child. With her dad's approval.

"Mommy!" she repeated, and Sheila recognised it as the beginning of a temper tantrum.

"Mommy doesn't want to be chained," she said calmly. "And Mommy doesn't want you to keep going out with Daddy."

Adela turned to Errol. Errol looked back at her in a sort of 'well, what will you do now?' way. He wanted to test her. Whether she could do what she'd set out to do.

Adela began crying. "Mommy doesn't love me!" she bawled. Sheila knew this was an attempt at emotional manipulation — Adela knew well that she hated so see her cry, and would indulge her when it happened. But not this time.

"Mommy loves you very much, sweetie, but I won't be chained."

Adela kept weeping and tugging on her hand for a few minutes, and while Sheila's heart was breaking, she wasn't budging. The tears stopped almost in an instant when Adela realised they weren't working. It was scary.

"Daddy?" Adela asked.

"Yes, sweetheart."

"Give me my knife."

Sheila's heart was racing as she watched Errol hand her the knife. Adela made the blade pop out, and Sheila was about to get up and literally run out of the room— when Adela placed the blade against her own arm. "If you won't let me chain you up, I'll hurt myself, Mommy."

Sheila just sat there. Bewildered. Reeling. Before she knew it, she stood up and walked with Adela to the radiator. Adela chained her right hand to it, then popped the lock in place. Then, she put the Swiss blade back into her unicorn pattern sock.

"Good job, Adela," Errol praised, and Sheila was too shocked to say a word. "Now, let's go. I'll buy you some ice cream on the way."

"Mommy said I need to apologise to Claudio," Adela said in a tone that was so clearly looking for her dad to completely contradict Sheila and get her out of the obligation.

"The kid who said those awful things? Oh, no, sweetheart. You did what you had to do. Kid had it coming."

"Yay!" she said, bouncing after Errol. "I love you, Daddy."

"I love you too, sweetheart."

~

----

Despite his best efforts, Owynn is no closer to learning what the King wants from Myrie or why she won't give in even under the most brutal torture he has ever seen. Ecker keeps a book, thick and bound in leather, the pages filled with notes and sketches. Owynn has yet to get a proper look, but what he has glimpsed does not bode well for the fairy.

When he finally works up the courage to ask his commander, the answer is so mundane it makes him even more confused.

"The King only wishes to open up old trade routes," Sir Gavyn explains. "It is not in violation of the treaty, and he believes our kingdoms have much to offer each other. He planned to go discuss this with the Fairy Queen, but her willful daughter seems to think we mean to bring them harm. She will not agree to arrange a meeting."

Owynn's brow furrows. He knows little about trade or treaties, but a meeting to discuss such things would not be such a bad thing, would it? Her resistance seems extreme, but then, so does torturing a princess in response. There must be something he is missing, or something he simply doesn't understand.

Do you mean to bring them harm?

The thought comes unbidden and he is immediately appalled at himself for even thinking it. Of course they don't.

"And...why must the torture be so severe?"

"Fairies are not as fragile as they may seem. They are quite powerful, in fact, and as such they require more powerful means of persuasion." He nods towards the door. "Go on, now. Stop asking questions and get to your station."

"Yes, Sir."

-

He intends to ask Myrie about what he learned, hoping it will somehow make sense. But when he arrives, Ecker is already there, standing over the princess. She is on her knees, hunched over and cradling her hands to her chest. Sobbing.

Ecker grabs her by the arms, trying to pry them open. The fairy resists, crying out, "please, no!" and trying to squirm free of his grip. It's useless, and Ecker pulls her up onto her feet again, holding her arms out. Only then can Owynn see what he has done. Every one of Myrie's fingers is broken, as well as both of her wrists. Her swollen hands twitch. Owynn can't help but flinch; he once broke two fingers when training with his sword and it was horrid. He cannot imagine the pain she is in.

"Well, boy, don't just stand there. Get over here. You might learn something."

Owynn moves closer, remaining a few feet behind Ecker. Myrie glances up, her face the picture of misery. Each breath she takes is a hiccupping sob. Her legs tremble like they might give out at any moment. "It-" hic "h-hurts-" hic. One of her hands gives a sharp twitch and a shudder runs through her body. She whimpers, head drooping forward so that her hair conceals her face.

"I prefer to face opponents who can defend themselves," Owynn says, bitterness seeping into his voice. "A knight does not inflict violence on innocents." Even as he says it he knows it to be untrue, for Sir Gavyn has never hesitated to harm Myrie.

Ecker chuckles. "You disapprove of what I do. I have seen it since the beginning. But I fill a vital role. For knights and nobles to hold such lofty ideals, for kings and queens to keep their hands clean, men like me must exist." As he speaks he lifts Myrie's arms out to her sides, pulling them taut past the point of mere discomfort. The princess whines. Her legs finally buckle but she is held aloft by the man's tight grip.

"Do you feel no pity?" Owynn demands. He wouldn't dare speak this way around Sir Gavyn, and knows there is a risk word will get back to his commander.

At that, to his surprise, Ecker stops pulling, momentarily easing the strain on the fairy's arms. She gasps for air, visibly relieved.

"I am not heartless. It may surprise you to know I have family who I love deeply. I feed the birds outside my window and toss coins to children in the streets. You will learn, in time, that you must reserve your pity for those deserving of it."

Then, as if to emphasize that this does not include the princess, Ecker gives both of her arms a sudden, violent yank, dislocating both shoulders in an instant. Myrie's head snaps back and she lets out a scream that makes Owynn's skin crawl. For a moment he forgets to breathe, watching her face twist and her body spasm as she continues to wail, as those wails turn to gasps, as she struggles to breathe. Shuddering, her eyes roll back and she goes completely limp.

Ecker presses cruelly on one of her crushed little hands to try to rouse her, but she only groans.

“Ah, well. Too bad. We will have to resume tomorrow.”

He binds her wrists with string and lifts them above her head, eliciting a string of more broken moans from the unconscious fairy. He attaches the string to a hook hanging from the ceiling. Once he lets go, her arms bear all of her weight, and however slight it may be, it is sure to be excruciating when she wakes.

"Here is how it works," Ecker begins. "When they are new, fresh, you overwhelm them with pain. You show them just how far you're willing to go. Most break then and there. But the stubborn ones...let them heal. Provide them small comforts, some hope, remind them what it feels like, but never let them forget that you can take it away. Then you ask them again. Many more give in here, before they can acquire any more damage. But if they resist, you reintroduce pain..." he pulls down on Myrie's ankles, slowly increasing the strain on her arms until she is stretched as far as possible without breaking or dislocating more of her. She groans loudly, miserably, stirring just enough to feel the pain but too overwhelmed by it to form words or even open her eyes.

"You layer the pain until they reach a breaking point," he continues, so casual, as if he is teaching Owynn how to build a fire. "If they still refuse, try something new." He releases her ankles, but the damage is done, and the fairy continues to make soft sounds of distress.

"Now, my human subjects tend to either cooperate, die, or go mad after just a few rounds," Ecker explains. "I admit I am impressed by the princess's resilience. She may be my greatest challenge yet."

This is the first thing Ecker has said that gives Owynn pause. Things have been done to Myrie that would kill or cripple the strongest human man. Yet the princess recovers every time with barely a scar to show for it. Perhaps he has underestimated her.

Perhaps that is what she wanted.

He turns away from Myrie. His services aren't needed at the moment and despite all his doubts he hates to see her suffer. Without another word he leaves the dungeon and returns upstairs, feeling more conflicted than ever.

–

Every subsequent visit, Owynn finds Myrie a more and more broken.

First go her arms, broken in a dozen places or more and twisted around each other unnaturally before she is strung up by her wrists again, the position infinitely more excruciating.

Next her knees and ankles are crushed and she is strung up again, only this time with her feet touching the table, forcing her to choose between putting pressure on her legs or her arms. It does not take long for her body to decide for her; Myrie's legs give out and once again her poor arms must bear her weight all night. By morning she is delirious with pain and exhaustion.

After this Ecker gives her a couple days of reprieve. Not enough to heal, only to return to her senses.

Then he starts on her ribs.

He breaks them one at a time, starting at the smallest ones low on her sides and working his way up, careful and methodical so as not to accidentally kill her.

He dislocates both legs at the hips, presses on her sternum until it cracks, even fractures her spine in several places, though he stops before he can cause too much damage.

What remains is a trembling, twitching mess, so swollen, bruised and tender that inflicting new pain is no longer necessary. Neither is restraining her. Ecker leaves her out on the table overnight, shivering without any cover while her body throbs all over from countless broken places, simultaneously too hot and too cold.

Owynn is tasked, as always, with the simple tasks of bringing her food and water. Myrie drinks little and eats less. She rarely wakes enough to speak but hurts too much to get proper rest, and so she spends long hours half-conscious, moaning and mumbling faint pleas. All of Owynn's attempts to soothe her are futile, his medicines useless. When he is with her he places her on a cushion and covers her with a cloth, trying to offer at least some comfort and warmth.

Sir Gavyn and Ecker visit, too. They press on her shattered knees or squeeze her bruised sides, ruthless in their interrogation. Myrie writhes and weeps, barely able to breathe through the pain, let alone speak.

It becomes unbearable to see her like this, and so Owynn takes drastic measures.

One night he arrives for a late shift with instructions to give the prisoner water and crumbs, nothing else. And so he does.

But prior to this, he went to the physicians again, telling them he has been beset by terrible nightmares these past weeks. It isn't entirely a lie; his dreams are filled with the same conflict he feels in waking life. Some show Myrie as a helpless victim, tortured to the brink of death, but Owynn cannot reach her, cannot help. In others, though, he frees her, only for the fairy to lay waste to the castle and all who live there, guilty and innocent alike.

And so he is happy to accept a sleeping draught, most of which he uses himself, but saves a few drops to add to Myrie's water.

The princess has little strength left to eat or drink, but she does not need much. Within minutes the draught takes effect. Owynn sees the moment it happens, when her twisted expression softens and her twitching limbs go slack. She falls into a deep sleep and, when he checks on her just before the end of his watch, she is still asleep, and even seems a little improved.

-

Healing is slow and arduous. It is delayed by malnutrition and no care beyond what little Owynn can provide when it is his turn on duty. Whatever human concoction he gives her, she doesn't know, but nor does she care. The hours that follow are the only time Myrie is free of pain. By morning its effects wear off and she wakes to a chorus of throbs and aches, ten times as loud for having been forgotten.

For a while she is too weak to do more than sip sugar water. Unable to sit up on her own, Owynn must support her shattered body with one hand while holding the liquid to her lips with the other. As the days drag on he starts bringing crumbs of bread and bits of dried fruit for her to nibble, in hopes that she will regain her strength.

It feels like an eternity, but she does. First she can speak again, then sit up, then stands. Eventually one day, though sore all over and unsteady on her feet, she manages to walk without holding onto Owynn's finger. That night he finds her collapsed at the far end of the table.

Just when Myrie can truly say she feels better, she wakes abruptly to a searing-hot touch. A steel vise is rapidly closing down on the fairy's slender ankle, the cool metal burning her flesh. Myrie doesn't hear her bones crunch beyond the sound of her screams.

Both ankles, both wrists, and a few small ribs later, the princess is half conscious, delirious with pain and wheezing as she struggles to breathe. Her head lolls from side to side. She can't settle; it's all too much. She opens her eyes.

Through the tears clinging to her lashes, she can just make out Owynn standing against the wall behind Ecker. His eyes won't quite meet hers, but they are damp and his face is red and his fists are clenched and shaking. Just as his body is encased in armor, the gentle young man she trusts is trapped within the role he has chosen for himself, the promises he made. It hits her then in a way it hadn't before:

He won't save her.

He can't save her.

He may want to. He may be the best of them. But he is still one of them.

For a few days now there has been a pressure in Myrie's back, just between her shoulder blades. The fairy knows by some instinct deep within that these are the first signs that her wings are finally beginning to regrow. She has never felt more afraid.

Sheila was standing up to Errol more and more, and it created problems. Problems Sheila didn't have the tools to solve. Like Errol shoving her into the closet and locking her up, or handcuffing her to a radiator.

Worst of all, sometimes he did that in front of Adela, and Sheila had to pretend to be okay, because she didn't want to freak out her baby girl, or— or— or know she was okay with her being treated this way.

"Bye, Mommy!" Adela said one day when she was sitting on the floor of the living room, right wrist chained to the radiator. "Daddy says he'll buy me ice cream after…" She trailed off.

"Adela, sweetie, can you come here before you go?"

Adela bounced over there, and goodness, she was so big now, she was growing so fast, and she was learning too many bad things. "What is it, Mommy?"

"Do you happen to know where Daddy keeps the key to this?" she asked, trying to sound lighthearted, gently shaking her wrist and the chains. Adela's sweet smile disappeared.

"Yes," she said. Because lying was bad — Sheila had taught her that when Errol repeatedly tried to get her to lie about their outings.

"Would you mind bringing it to me?"

Adela stared at her. There was no child-like innocence behind those eyes. Those were the eyes of someone who had seen others chained up like cattle before, had seen them chopped up and tortured. But Adela loved her. She didn't love any of those people. And while it was still wrong not to feel remorse about seeing others hurt, even if one didn't love them, surely, that love would move her to act against Errol's commands. Because Sheila was sure Errol had forbade her from helping.

"Sweetie?" Sheila asked, nerves creeping into her voice.

"I know why Daddy keeps you chained," she said, so coldly that Sheila's blood turned to ice in her veins.

Sheila let out an awkward laugh. "And why is that?" She still tried to keep it lighthearted and nonchalant, but it was more and more difficult.

"Bye, Mommy."

"No, Adela, wait—"

"Stop being difficult," she snapped. It was the first time Sheila had heard Adela snap like that. She sounded so much like Errol. And where did she learn that phrase? No doubt from her father.

Sheila was so taken aback, she stayed quiet. She watched as Adela turned and left, going on whatever trip Errol had planned for that day. While she rotted away, chained to a stupid radiator.

—

When Adela came back, she didn't come into the living room. She ran straight upstairs, and Errol was the one to approach her and finally free her from her bonds.

"What did you tell her?" she hissed. "About why you chain me up like a dog? She said she knows why, but wouldn't tell me."

"It's our little secret," Errol said in that insufferable tone. "Adela is maturing quite fast. Were you also a fast learner?"

"What is she learning, exactly?"

"This and that. Stuff."

"Errol, this is insanity. She is a child."

"A strong one. Strong in body, strong in will. And she loves hanging out with me and my friends."

"You're bringing your friends around my daughter?" she asked, completely appalled.

Heavy steps descended the stairs, and Adela ran into the room. "Mommy, can I go play with Uncle Chet?" There was blood on her cheeks. It looked like she'd tried to wash it off but gave up halfway through.

"Who's Uncle Chet? Daddy doesn't have a brother."

"He told me I can call him that! He's Daddy's friend! He always brings me candy when we play."

"Yes, go play with Uncle Chet," Errol said with a smile. "Be careful around the tools."

"No," Sheila said sternly. "Not unless I go with you."

Adela got that dead-eyed stare on her again. "Mommy, you don't want to play with Uncle Chet."

"And why not?" she pressed.

"Do you know how to gut a fish?"

Sheila was taken aback. Where did she learn this vocabulary? "N-no."

"Uncle Chet does."

And he would gut you like a fish if you came. Adela didn't need to say it. It was easy to read between the lines of a four-year-old.

"Go," Errol encouraged.

"Thanks, Daddy!" she said with a big grin, going back to being the sweet Adela Sheila knew and loved. Well, it wasn't that she didn't love the cold Adela, she was just… different.

It wasn't her fault. She had to remind herself. It wasn't her fault.

"If I find out this Chet did anything to my daughter—"

"I would never let Adela go with anyone I didn't trust fully," Errol cut in, seemingly indignant Sheila would even suggest it.

"And what? Do they gut fish together?"

"She's much too small for that for now. But gutting a fish is a useful life skill."

"Like gutting people."

Errol smiled. "Sheila, darling, you're running circles in your own mind. Working yourself up over nothing."

Sheila huffed. "Sure. I'm imagining things. Like the blood on her face just now."

"There are a million ways she could've gotten blood on herself."

"But always only when she comes back with you."

Errol shrugged. "Coincidences happen."

Sheila knew she wouldn't make it far if she tried to run. She knew that. Errol had connections everywhere, and she was much too young, much too inexperienced, and on top of all that, Adela wouldn't want to come with her.

"I'm done being handcuffed," she said instead, changing the topic.

"Oh?"

"If you ever try again, I will kick and scream. I don't care if she hears."

"So you're the one wanting to traumatise our daughter."

"She's my daughter."

"Well, do what you will," he said, annoyingly confident that it was a bluff. "I'm gonna take a shower."

Sheila rubbed her wrist where the chain had left a mark. "Good." While he was doing that, she would find his phone and go through the messages to find this Chet. She didn't know what she would find, but she had to at least try to look out for Adela.

~

and here's an additional piece that was really just me figuring out the characters in my style