by Jayden Woods
*
He awoke to a cold, wet rag wiping over his skin.
He blinked and saw the white glow of moonlight. Was there actually a window in this room? When he inhaled, he only smelled the usual stink of the dungeons. But he tried to imagine a fresh breeze in there somewhere. The cool rag felt so good on his burning skin. He sensed that he wore new linens, only because they did not cling to his body like the clothes he’d worn for the last few weeks, and despite the scorched stench of the volcano, he no longer smelled his own body’s malodor.
“Hello?” he said weakly, in response to the god-like hand stroking his feet with the rag. If he lifted his head, perhaps he would be able to see his savior. But he did not yet possess the strength. His head felt like a bag of rocks. “Are you the answer to my prayers?”
“That depends on what you prayed for.” The voice was soft, feminine. “How do you feel?”
“I feel ...” He wanted so much to look at her, but when he tried to lift his head again, a spell of dizziness forced it back down. The joints of his right arm twitched. “Like a bowl of roses. How the fuck do you think I feel?”
“I thought you might feel a little better now, at least. Better enough to feel a small bit of joy again. Perhaps a little bit of hope?”
“Hope …” His voice rasped upon the word. “I suppose I dare to feel hope, at the present. But who …?”
“Drink this.” Something smooth touched his lips. She tilted the goblet and precious liquid poured into Picard’s throat.
Then he gagged, lurched up, and spewed the liquid from his mouth, gasping for breath. Only then did his startled eyes settle upon his new captor.
“What’s wrong, Picard?” The woman’s plump red lips spread with a smile. “Don’t you like vinegar?”
“Mina!” Surely it was a dream. Surely it wasn’t possible. But there before stood him the beautiful maid of Dearen. Freckles sprinkled her rosy cheeks. Her red hair fell haphazardly about her face; she appeared to have cut it, for no stray lock fell much further than her ears, but there was no mistaking that crimson color and wild texture. The cut on her arm he remembered giving her still wrinkled with a scab. There was something quite different about her than the Mina he knew—or tried to know—in Dearen. Mischief sparked in her green eyes. There was a brightness—and cruelty—to her gaze which had certainly not been there before. “Can it be?”
“Of course it can.” She reached out, grabbed his golden curls, and wrenched his head forward. “Now drink some more.”
He surrendered at first, letting her slosh more of the foul stuff past his lips. Then he kicked and thrashed to fight the terrible taste. She held him firmly, then clamped her hand over his mouth until he swallowed. His eyes bulged with terror as he saw the satisfaction on her face.
He remembered doing something similar to her while in Dearen. While he held her captive in his room, which he tried his best to drain of the Haze, he often brought her food and drink. But all she wanted was safra. He would toy with her and tell her that the drink he brought for her had safra in it. She would drink all of it, even if it was old juice or sour milk, in hope of tasting some safra. But he lied to her every time, and gave her none.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She twisted his hair in her grip, making him yelp. “Perhaps you wanted safra? That’s too bad. I won’t lie to you, Picard, as you did to me. No, I won’t even give you the leisure of hope. I will tell you right now that you’ll never taste safra again.”
“Mina …!” The reminder sent unbidden tears to his eyes. This was all too much. “You may be wrong about that, Mina. There might still be a way. Perhaps if you free me—”
“Never, ever, ever!” She struck him suddenly across the face. The blow was not very hard—it did not need to be. He was already so bruised and battered that his skull nearly exploded from the impact. “You fucking son of a bitch. I will never help you. I am going to make sure you stay here until the day that you die, which I hope is far, far away from now. I am going to—”
In a burst of panic, Picard pushed against her and rolled off the table on which she had washed and dressed him. Though the table had appeared clean, for she covered it with a blanket, he quickly understood its usual purpose. He saw chains hanging from the walls next to hooks, lashes, and knives. Blood stained the rocks forming pools of black in the torchlight. She had brought him to a torture chamber.
He lunged for the door, but she fell upon him from behind. She pushed him to the ground and he fell in a heap.
“You bastard!”
For a moment he couldn’t breathe. Jolts of pain jerked up his gloved arm. His head spun. Mina climbed on top of him and pummeled his back with her fists.
“You ruined me. You introduced me to a life without safra, and you made it more horrible than I ever could have dreamed. You have taken more joy from me than a life without safra could have ever done. You son of a bitch ...”
She kept hitting him, slapping him hysterically with her bare hands. The contact left hot stinging spots along his back, tingling with her touch, sending ripples through his entire body. And all the while she sat on top of him, rocking, grinding his groin into the floor.
“Bastard …”
And now she was crying. One hot, boiling tear hit the back of his neck, then slid down onto the floor.
Picard took a deep breath.
She grabbed his shoulder with her hand, digging in her long, prickling nails. She flipped him over, and he did not fight her. He could not say why, at first. The most obvious explanation was that he was in pain. But there was more to it than that. In truth, he felt something new right now. His heart thundered in his chest. His blood churned with warmth, but despite that, his body shivered. The shiver was a pleasant one.
“What the … ?” She stared at his crotch. Then she cried out and pulled back from him.
He noticed the truth about the same time she did. He did not have time to hide it, and at first, he did not want to. Pride mingled with shame. Because suddenly, for the first time in many years, he sported an erection.
His pride did not last very long. As soon as he recovered, he pulled in his knees and shuffled backward. He moved back against the wall and remained there, hiding himself with his knees. He breathed deeply and raggedly.
“I … I don’t understand,” gasped Mina at last. “All that time, while you held me captive, you never ...”
He could not help himself. His eyes roved her body as if he had never seen it before. She dressed very simply, in plain trousers and a threadbare tunic. Most would probably say she looked uglier now than she did when he captured her, plain and dirty, her hair sawed off around her neck, her eyes blazing with hatred. And yet to Picard, she now looked as beautiful as a goddess.
“Stop looking at me like that. Stop!”
A burst of pain spread suddenly from his torso. As he reeled, slipping sideways and curling even deeper into himself, he realized she had kicked him. Thump; her boot struck him again, this time near the ribs. He groaned with pain. But pain was not the only emotion in his voice. There was also satisfaction.
“Stop that!”
She grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him up. She dragged him to the table and flung him back over it, face-down. Then she took his bad arm and twisted it upwards.
He screamed with agony.
She leaned closer to him, increasing pressure on the intertwined rods of flesh and metal. He moaned through gritted teeth and tears poured from his eyes. Mina leaned even further, hissing in his ear. “You don’t like that, do you?”
She reached around his body with her free hand, searching his trousers. Her fingers found the bulge and twisted cruelly. Picard groaned again, a wave of pleasure riding his pain.
She let go of him and drew back again, her face pale with shock. “You … you pervert! I don’t understand!”
Picard sighed and fell back on the table, supporting himself with his good hand. He looked up through his frizzy curls at the maid, watching her
breasts heave with breath. Her lungs pumped as violently as his did. He wondered if she felt any of the same excitement. He didn’t know how to explain this. It was terrible. And it was wonderful.
“I suppose we both failed to understand each other,” he said at last. Then he pushed off the table and swaggered closer. His body ached everywhere, his head swam, his arm was on fire; and yet somehow his gut took all the pain, all the displeasure, and turned it into something … else. His loins stirred and his skin itched to touch her, even if he hurt himself doing so.
She shrank away from him until she was up against the wall, unable to retreat further. She watched in horror as he approached. Only when he stood inches away did she pull a knife from her belt and flash it before her. “Don’t come any closer, or I’ll—”
“Yes?” He pushed himself against her, even though the point of her blade dug into his stomach. “What will you do to me?” He leaned so close he could feel her panting breath against his face. He could smell her, and once he did, he wanted to smell more. Compared to the stench of the dungeons, her scent was like a bundle of flowers—even the tartness of her body odor. She trembled against him as he leaned closer and closer, close enough for his breath to hit the skin of her collarbone, for the crimson edges of her hair to tickle his nose. His lips brushed her neck.
She jerked, her blade slicing his side.
He drew back, wincing. A trickle of blood wet his white clothes. He looked down at it in awe.
She lunged forward and grabbed him again, pushing him down against the stone floor. He fell on his back as she straddled him. He did not fight as she grabbed his bad arm and twisted.
He did not know what came over him. The pain was excruciating. He wanted to faint from it. For so many years, he had gorged himself on safra so he did not have to feel it. And yet with Mina doing this to him, her green eyes blazing with fury, the agony transformed. It was as if total pain and total pleasure existed side by side with a faint line between them, and his pain was so great it transformed into bliss.
He cried out as his pleasure poured out from him, for he could contain it no longer.
Mina remained holding him for awhile, her eyes glazed over with a satisfaction not unlike his own. Then she realized what had happened and recoiled. She stared at him in shock, then got up and ran from the room.
The guards came to collect him a few moments later. They found him limp and compliant in their grasp, even as they led him back to his cell. Even when they locked him in, Picard still wore a strange smile on his face.
For a long while he stared into the shadows, remembering, marveling at it all. Pain continued to course through his body, but for the first time, he felt as if he could endure it without safra.
“Thank you, gods,” he said. Then he burst out with laughter. “Thank you! I know it was one of you. I asked you to set me free, or else give me safra to help me survive here. You did not give me either of those things, but you gave me something … something new. Which one of you was it, I wonder? I hope you’ll let me know, soon enough. I imagine you’ll want something in return. Is that how it works? I don’t even know. Right now I don’t even care. I just thank you!”
He cackled into the darkness. Then, when he fell asleep, he saw an owl flying through the night. As it flapped its great wings, feathers scattered across the stars. Silver hair flowed in the moonlight. Then two black eyes, like gaping holes, fixed him with their stare.
Nothing is free, Picard, someone told him. And when the time comes, I will collect my side of the bargain.
You do that, Picard replied. Then he fell into a dreamless slumber.
21
Wedding Day
