Chapter 54
From the tender age of seventeen to the rather unfortunate milestone of eighteen, I found myself in a most thrilling itinerary across Ivoryspire. A third of it was spent at the esteemed Vaneeri estate in the capital of Valmoria. Another third was enjoyed in the far less agreeable accommodations of two prison cells. How splendid! And the last third, in a military hospital, perhaps near the prison, perhaps not, who could say? I was in no position to demand a map.
Millicent, in her ever-gracious wisdom, had seen fit to explain how we had been separated upon our arrest. The soldiers under Captain Goneshit, pardon me, Gonestone, had taken us in separate carriages. Hers, rather unfortunately, met with an accident, resulting in a head injury that left her mind unsettled and erratically fearing men. A fine mess. A truly spectacular disaster. I had, in that moment, entertained the notion of wrapping my feeble hands around Millicent's throat, but alas, I lacked the strength to strangle her properly. Pity.
So apparently, my misdeeds did not end at slave trading. No, no, that would be too simple. When Cecilia failed to recognize me, I was also accused of illegal Zar stone trading and, with the efficiency of a dukedom so deeply devoted to justice, was promptly returned to prison. This time, they gifted me a new cell - how very thoughtful - and a fresh interrogator by the name of Captain Albastard. I mean, Albingal, ah, but truly, was there a difference? And, most tragically, another insufferable chapter of my life.
That fateful day, Millicent had departed for some matter I neither knew nor cared to know, leaving me at the mercy of a new set of soldiers, all under the fine and distinguished command of Captain Albastard.
Cecilia lay beside me, breathing softly in sleep, blissfully unaware of the impending doom that loomed over my head. I pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, knowing not if I would return alive. At the very least, they were not taking her. That was all that mattered. Whatever ludicrous crime they chose to pin upon me was of little consequence. And so, with an air of resignation befitting a tragic heroine, I limped forth to meet my fate.
Upon stepping outside the military hospital, I could do little else but sneer. How ironic. Millicent's desperate words still echoed in my mind, "I will not let you return there. Please, believe me."
I had not believed her. I had been correct in not believing her.
As I was unceremoniously shoved into the carriage, I caught sight of Millicent sprinting out of the hospital after it, her face an absolute masterpiece of horror and despair. She looked as though she had been personally condemned to the gallows. Oh, how tragic. Her pale countenance, her wide, stricken eyes… why, it was almost moving. Almost.
She stumbled, she fell to her knees, utterly defeated. It was, without question, the most ridiculous display I had ever seen.
Perhaps, Duchess, if one wishes to engage in dramatic pursuits of fleeing carriages, one ought not to wear heels.
I had half a mind to extend my middle finger in parting sentiment, but just as I made the attempt, some wretched creature of a soldier seized my wrists and bound them together, before blindfolding me for good measure.
How very charming.
For a fortnight, I was subjected to a symphony of torment meticulously composed. My body bore the artistry of Captain Albastard's depraved handiwork. Whip marks etched across my lower back and legs, my tattered garments fused to raw, broken skin by the mingling of blood and sweat. Amusing, truly, how they refrained from so much as marring my face. Vanity, it seemed, was their peculiar mercy.
The good captain, ever the imaginative sadist, took great pleasure in his craft. My head was plunged into icy water repeatedly, the sensation of drowning an ever-looming companion until, just before oblivion, he would wrench me back into the realm of the living. My body had been strung upside down for hours, the world twisting in nauseating revolutions until I could no longer distinguish ceiling from floor. And then, there was the brand, a glowing mark of their ingenuity, pressed with cruel deliberation upon my thigh, the flesh searing, melting, writhing beneath it. The scent of my own burning skin was not one I would soon forget.
I lay bound to a metal table, my limbs rendered useless beneath the weight of agony. My breath came in shallow whispers, my body slick with the filth of suffering. The flickering torchlight cast grotesque shadows upon the stone walls, elongating the already nightmarish figure of Albastard as he loomed above me, a specter of depravity.
He smiled, a slow, curling thing, his breath warm as he leaned close. "You know," he mused, his tone sickeningly indulgent, "even now, you remain exquisite. Such beauty should not be wasted, should it? Perhaps a thorough ravishing might loosen that sharp tongue of yours."
A flicker of fear jolted through me. My mind screamed commands my flesh could not obey. His hands moved, tearing away what little remained of my modesty. He sneered at the filth between my legs, the evidence of suffering too crude even for his depraved tastes.
With a muttered curse, he seized a bucket of water, the icy contents sloshing ominously as he wrenched my legs apart. With all the grace of a butcher cleansing his table, he doused me. The frigid shock sent a violent jolt through my failing body, my raw flesh recoiling under the merciless assault. Again and again, he poured, his disgust curling into something far more insidious as his breathing quickened, his gaze darkening with intent.
The room was cold. The pain was unrelenting. And I, Florence Lorynthall, Lady of nothing, prisoner of monsters, lay before him like carrion upon a silver platter.
He peered down with a twisted smirk. "No pussy hair? How very rare," he murmured, his voice dripping with vile satisfaction as his gaze lingered.
His hand moved with a sickening worship, fingers pressing my clitoris with a perverse eagerness that made my very soul recoil. Like the wretched beast he was, he descended.