Vachlan began whistling a tune, and Visola turned to observe his actions. She paled considerably when she saw what he was holding: very large nails. Her eyes widened when she saw that he was disinfecting them. It was never a good sign when he began disinfecting an item. It usually meant the item was about to end up inside her body. No. No way. He’s not really going to… As she tried to block out the annoyingly jolly tune he was humming, she could not help remembering a recurring nightmare she used to have. She would always wake up writhing in pain, and moaning out loud. It used to be her husband who offered a comforting embrace.
“Shhh, Viso. What’s wrong?” Vachlan had asked, shaking her gently. “Seizure, bedbug, cramp, or nightmare?”
“I’m sorry,” she told him, as she jolted out of her dream. “It’s the same stupid dream. We’re in New Holland, and King Kyrosed brings out a massive carved wooden trident. He smiles, and he orders me crucified.”
“Crucified?” Vachlan asked in surprise. “Don’t you need a cross for that?”
“I don’t know.”
“If there’s a trident, we should make up a new name for it. How about Tridentified? Trixified?”
“Vachlan! It doesn’t matter. The worst part is that he orders you to nail me to the wood. Then I scream and beg for you not to do it, but you go ahead and nail me down anyway. Isn’t that weird?”
“Sounds kind of kinky. You have the wildest imagination,” Vachlan told her. “Hang on; I’m going to write this down. Maybe I can use it in a play later.”
Why did he have to write everything down? She mentally cursed herself. If only she had known the dangers of telling her husband her nightmares. Why did he have to be the kind of artist that delighted in bringing fiction to life? Well, he could try to break her down in this way, but one element of her nightmare would be very different. Visola would not scream and cry for him to stop. She would be silent and take it like a man.
When he pulled out the expertly carved wooden trident, Visola nearly opened her mouth to say something acerbic. Vachlan was insane. There was no getting around that simple fact any longer. He was completely insane. As he set up the trident-cross, while whistling, she began to fidget in her shackles. She liked shackles. They were comfortable—she did not treasure the idea of being nailed upright for long periods of time. It did not seem like it would be relaxing.
“You know the interesting thing about crucifixion?” Vachlan asked her, as he tested the sturdiness of the trident. “They’re not quite sure how exactly it kills you. There are lots of different ways you can die, and it depends on the person, their health, and the way it’s performed.” He moved over to her and undid her shackles. He grasped her upper arm roughly as he pulled her upright. It was the first time she had stood on her smashed kneecap, and she wanted to lie down again very much. She had no choice in the matter. Vachlan dragged her over to his wooden piece of art. “How would you like to be my very own garden ornament, Visola?”
She looked at where his hand gripped her arm, and felt nauseated at the sight of her emaciated biceps. His hand fully circled her upper arm. This was normally the point at which she would fight, but this sight alone dissuaded her from doing something foolish. She cast her eyes on the ground—she could only wait and endure. If it ever became too much to handle, she had her safety blanket incased in rubber in her mouth. There were moments she felt so hungry that her body almost instinctively yearned to chew down on that capsule, but she maintained enough discipline not to.
Torture often turned a person into an animal fighting for survival, and Visola was determined not to let this happen to her. She had seen it too many times in her victims, and it simply was not attractive. Not that she cared about appearing attractive before her captor. She just cared about her dignity.
Vachlan seemed to notice her arm too, but he still forced her against the trident. He disinfected her right hand thoroughly before lifting it to the wood. He retrieved one of the cleaned nails and a mallet. “One of the ways they say you can die from crucifixion is through suffocating. They say that when your arms are stretched out for too long, your lungs become weak and unable to breathe. Interesting, no?” He saw that Visola’s eyes were fixed on the ground, and he forced her chin up with his free hand. “Viso, all you have to do is speak to me, and I’ll stop treating you like this. Just tell me what I want to know. Can you do that for me? For old times’ sake?”
She fought the urge to spit in his face. She fought the urge to demonstrate any kind of hatred or anger, and she just stared back at him blankly. His grey eyes were still too difficult to behold, and she would much prefer to have the nails driven through her hands. She could not reconcile the man who was mistreating her now with the man who she had experienced such happiness with. She could not try. His eyes bewildered her.
“Just answer the question, Viso. You know the one.” He moved his face very close to hers, and for a moment she greatly feared that he might kiss her. It terrified her that somehow, her body still seemed to yearn for his. She remained very still as he examined her face. He frowned. “Are you shaking?”
She had hoped that he would not notice, but yes, she was shaking. It was more of a physiological reaction than a psychological one. At least this is what she intended to believe.
“Why were you unfaithful, Visola?”
She felt the cold sharp edge of the nail against her palm.
“I’m going to ask one more time, and then I’m going to nail you to the trident. Just like in your nightmare. So save yourself a whole lot of pain, and tell me a little story. You were always really good at that,” he said. He positioned the mallet on top of the nail. “Why did you have an affair with Kyrosed Vellamo? He told me, you know. He told me himself. Why did you choose him? Why did you go to him? Answer me, Visola! Answer me now!”
She turned to look at her hand, and stared at the nail. She imagined Kyrosed’s face, and felt a rush of anger. He had ruined her love. He was the one who had done this to them. How dare he? How dare that man haunt her from beyond the grave? She imagined Kyrosed’s forehead where the palm of her hand was.
Vachlan yelled, an unusual sound of pure madness, before slamming the mallet down onto the nail. Visola sucked in a huge gasp of air, but still did not cry out. Imagining Kyrosed’s face taking the blow had helped—it had even given her a small amount of pleasure. She was becoming numb to the pain. Many of her fingers were already broken in several places, so what more was a nail through her palm going to accomplish?
“I’m going to get you to speak today, Viso,” Vachlan told her. He moved across her body to grab her other arm. “Do you really want to be nailed to this trident? I promise I will free you and let you lie down if you just speak to me. Just tell me what I want to know, and I will be merciful. Otherwise, you’re going to be very uncomfortable for a very long time.”
Visola closed her eyes. She could not look at him. Strange words floated across her fuzzy mind again, and she struggled to keep it clear. Submerge yourself until you find fortitude. Swim deep enough to taste prudence in the salt. She saw a strange woman’s face, and remembered a beach in what was now called Australia.
“Why did you do it, Viso? I loved you.”
She could not listen to this. Those words being in past tense killed her more than anything he could have done. He could have crushed her body with a steamroller, and it would not have stung quite so fiercely. She fought back tears, and silently prayed for him to nail her hand to the trident and be done with it. She needed him to leave so that she could have a good cry. One hand was already nailed. It would be silly not to do the other.
“Visola, you have three seconds. Tell me now, or you’re going to be crucified.”
She counted them in her mind. She actually made it to five seconds before she felt the nail go through her hand. Mind over matter, she thought to herself. They’re just tiny puncture wounds. The nails were even disinfected, and that was very sweet of him. The fact that she had had many nightmares about this very act di
d not make it any easier on her. It was a fear of hers—being held in this vulnerable position and having nails through her palms. It was her ultimate horror enacted in the flesh.
He was still so painfully theatrical. She was surprised when she felt his hand rest on her cheek for a moment. Without really intending to, she leaned against it, drawing all possible tenderness out of the touch to refresh her spirit. She was becoming dependent on her captor. She was far too attached to him. He was the only human being she had seen for weeks, and she could not help it. Even nailed to a trident, reliving a scene from her very worst nightmares, she still wished that he would make love to her. It would somehow all be better if he would only embrace her with warmth again. His hand lifted from her cheek, and left only coldness in its wake. She could hear him toying with his metal tools, and selecting a new instrument to torture her with.
She sighed, feeling very angry with herself. This man had chopped Corallyn into little bits. How could she still appreciate a moment of tenderness from him?
“Visola,” he said angrily. “If you want to keep your eyes closed so much, let me help by blindfolding you.” She felt him fastening a piece of fabric around her head. Somehow, she had liked it better when having her eyes closed had been by choice. Vachlan enjoyed screwing with her mind far too much.
“Now let’s see. Are there any parts of you which aren’t in pain?” Vachlan asked. He placed a hand on her lower abdomen. “Your stomach is probably still sore from when you slashed it open.” He slid his hand higher. “You stabbed yourself in the chest too. Then of course, there’s my abundant handiwork: the highlights of which include your smashed kneecap, broken fingers and nailed palms. What should come next?” She felt his hands encircle her throat. “How about this? If you won’t speak to me, I’ll squeeze your voice out of you.”
The horror of the nightmare intensified as he strangled her. She felt like she was drowning in darkness, blindfolded and nailed upright. It was the most dreadful experience she had…
“Excuse me, sir?” came a young male voice, interrupting them. “Prince Zalcan has returned.”
“Shit,” Vachlan swore, releasing Visola’s neck. “Watch her, I’ll be back.” He moved to leave the room. Visola could hear the young guard moving closer.
“Hey, pretty lady,” said the guard as he approached. Visola immediately began calculating whether she could stand on her good leg and kick with her damaged leg. No—the kneecap was too weak to bend. She considered tearing her hands away from the trident. Would the wider part of the nails rip at her hands too much? If she needed her hands, she would rip through the nails. Her head was free. She could still use it to head-butt, and that would… Visola wondered why she was strategizing for a fight all of a sudden. She had given very little serious thought to fighting off Vachlan, and in the beginning she might have stood a meager chance. Was it because she could tell from the sound of the young guard’s voice that he was inexperienced, and that she could defeat him even in her current state? Or was it because she somehow felt safe with Vachlan, and would not allow anyone else to torture her?
If a victim could afford to exercise favoritism between captors, should that person really be a victim at all? All of this thinking was giving Visola a headache, and that was one thing she could not afford to have, considering all of the other parts that were aching. She just needed a little bit of relaxing action—a little bit of an ego boost, and a little spurt of fighting juice. This young man who was approaching her, and reaching out to touch her with his fingertips, was almost close enough for her to…
“Hey!” Vachlan yelled at the guard. “I changed my mind. I’ll see Zalcan later. You—go get my cot and bring it into this room.”
Visola felt a bit of relief that the boy would not have a chance to harm her, laced with the disappointment that she would not have the chance to harm him. Torture was becoming an intimate activity shared between Vachlan and Visola, and she would feel uncomfortable if someone else participated in causing her pain. It was like inviting someone into their bedroom.
“Yes, sir. You’ll be sleeping in this room from now on?”
“Who the hell are you to question me?” Vachlan sneered.
“Sorry, sir.” When the boy scurried toward the room’s exit to carry out his task, he found Vachlan standing in his way and grabbing his shoulder.
“Are you an idiot, boy?” Vachlan asked, roughly shaking the guard. “Why did you go near the prisoner?”
“What do you mean?” he asked. “I wasn’t going to hurt her…”
“Hurt her? If you had stepped one inch closer to her, she would have killed you!”
“I don’t see how that’s possible,” the boy said.
“You fool! She could smell your weakness. She could smell your stupidity as you underestimated her. Did you not see that muscle in her jaw twitching? She was already prepared to smile as you died.”
Visola was surprised at this analysis. It was true—her cheeks had been anticipating pulling the corners of her first smile in weeks. Did Vachlan really know her so well? Did he remember her so well?
The boy frowned, although he did take a step away from Visola. “She’s all skin and bones, not to mention crucified.”
“Her skin and bones are worth more than you would be on steroids. A real warrior knows how to use their body regardless of its condition. Real power is in the mind, and I haven’t been able to make a scratch on her mind. You’re worthless. Get out of here and bring my cot.”
Chapter 22: Playing Dead
It had been three days since he had nailed her to the trident. He kept her well-hydrated and adequately-fed while he had continued to torture her. He experimented with new techniques now that she was forced to stand on her one good leg. She shifted on the leg uncomfortably as her body grew tired, sometimes allowing her weight to transfer to the injured bones for brief periods just so she could rest. For some unknown reason, Vachlan had begun sleeping on the cot in her room. He had not removed her blindfold, and she relied on her hearing to gauge her surroundings. She could hear his breathing become rhythmic and slow when he slept. She drifted in and out of sleep fretfully, waking up with a start whenever she heard the slightest noise, or drip of water.
Visola had discovered that the more moribund she looked, the less of a beating she got. Vachlan seemed extremely sensitive to her health, so she began playing dead as much as possible. When he believed she was unconscious, or deeply asleep, he paid careful attention to her wounds and kept them clean. He monitored her blood loss, making sure that although she was kept in constant pain there was no danger of actually killing her. He even bathed her and washed her hair. She sometimes imagined that his touch was gentle, and that he was whispering kind words softly when he believed that she was unconscious.
She could not be sure of this. The problem was that she was becoming such an excellent actress that she was not entirely sure whether or not she was really unconscious, half the time. Visola was in so much pain that she could not really tell the difference between drama and reality—she only knew that pretending things were a few notches worse than they really were could save her life in the event that he went too far. She did not know whether any of the kind words she remembered him saying had actually been said. It did not matter, because she needed their comforting effect to remain internally unscathed. She would clutch to fantasies if they kept her strong. Reality blurred with imagination, and she was so often blinking blood out of her eyes with her swollen, sluggish eyelids that she wondered if her vision would permanently be tinted with a ruby film once she could see again. Would it make her more optimistic to see the world through built-in dyed rose-colored glasses? These were the kinds of thoughts which swam through her mind, disturbing her and making her wonder about her own lucidity.
Among those, were the strange phrases she attributed to some old poem or song. Breach the murky waters of valor. She could not remember where the words were from, or what they meant, but they came into her mind as they pleased.
Torturing anyone was based on a few simple principles. The ultimate fear that one tried to instill in a victim was the fear of dying. Usually, everyone had a fear of dying. The second element to play with was the victim’s attachment to the world. Most people had love for someone, or someone to live for—someone to take care of. Although Visola had plenty of love in her life, she did not feel like her connection with anyone was so strong that it would crush them if she died. Her daughter had lived a whole lifetime without her, and Alcyone had her sons. Aazuria would probably be the most affected, but Trevain would keep her in check and prevent her from going berserk. Trevain seemed like the kind of person who was very down to earth, and could ground those around him. Sionna never felt strong emotions; she thought about things too much, and she probably already expected her sister’s death. Sionna had even given her the means. She would understand.
Visola’s ability to completely let go of her fear of dying, and completely let go of her attachment to the world, helped to keep her as sane as possible. Many might have made a case for her sanity being questionable to begin with, and she was sure that this also helped. She had experience with torture, and she knew what to expect.
That is why it startled her, when she was playing dead as usual, and she heard an unfamiliar footstep. She did not move or indicate that she had heard it, and she reminded herself that it could just be another fragment of her imagination. That was until she heard the voice.
“Vachlan, my good man!” said the new voice. Visola was surprised at how feminine it sounded, and for a moment she was not sure whether it was a male or a female. She was preparing to become jealous, and preparing to scratch out some eyes before Vachlan even responded.
“Welcome back, Prince Zalcan. How was your campaign?”
This was Zalcan? Visola wondered in disbelief. Surely not the Zalcan Oris who was the leader of the Clan? She was overwhelmed with curiosity to see his face, but as much as she strained, she could not see through the opaque fabric. Was he as small and feminine as he sounded?
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