Private Tales Where Even the Stones Scream

[Keres]

Keres’ whole body sagged like a marionette with its strings cut, the aftershock of being torn from that nightmare leaving her hollowed out and shaking. Her skull still burned, a low white fire gnawing at the back of her eyes, and her chest rattled with every desperate gulp of air she could force into her lungs.

His shadows coiled around her again, muffling the echoes, and for the first time she didn’t fight them. They were cold, yes, a sickly violation, but compared to the voices, compared to the tearing claws in her mind, they were a fucking blessing. Relief broke from her throat in a broken sob that slipped free before she could choke it back.

Her body pitched forward, catching herself on her hands before she collapsed completely, but bile and blood surged up her throat all the same. It splattered dark across the marble floor as she coughed and heaved, her trembling limbs barely holding her weight.

When she finally lifted her head, her lips were still smeared red, her skin ghost-pale against the dark, damp tangles of her hair. Her black eyes glistened as they fixed on him, on the sight of his tongue dragging across his fingers, tasting her blood.

The scowl cut deep across her features, and though she bit her tongue, the words etched themselves clear in the fury of her expression.. fuck you.

But she did not speak them. Not here. Not now. Not when she could still feel the grip of that circle, that blood, dragging at the edges of her mind, waiting to claw her back under.

Her throat worked as she swallowed down copper and bile, and when she finally rasped words, they came hoarse and low.

“…You got what you wanted.” she drew in a ragged breath.. “Now what?”

 

[Shrike]

“Now…”

A carmine gaze roved across her trembling form as she lay on hands and knees before him, glaring up with that defiant onyx stare despite her body and psyche being pushed to the limit - deathly pale skin glistening with sweat, lips smeared red with blood. The pirate lord tilted his head, alabaster locks of hair swaying with the motion.

No. He could not deny it. Her rebel strife awoke something in him. Most would be shattered bags of meat and bone and cartilage by now. Not her. She possessed strength of will in abundance. And she had a gift he lacked.

Shrike tilted his chin up with cruel regard, then his eyes flashed with light.

Her clothes burst into flame, burning an unnatural pale jade that felt as cold as ice. They seared away only the stained rags she wore, leaving flesh unblemished by fire.

In the light of the ghostly flames, once more the shadows obeyed his command, pooling beneath her as oil on water, grasping at her legs, curling around her ankles and brushing higher, moving everywhere around her body. Mere mist. A hundred grasping fingers, wrapping about her throat and her wrists and chest.

They flowed to trace the hollows of her hips before surging inevitably down the tautness of naked flesh, kneading, coiling, and oozing ethereal touches across the white of her thighs before rushing between and around and through.

“… your reward.”

Keres

 

[Keres]

Keres startled violently when the icy fire licked up her tattered clothes, her hands flying instinctively to slap at the pale flame. The unnatural cold burned straight through her palms and left nothing but the smell of scorched cloth behind.

She scrambled backward until the closest stone bit into her spine, curling herself into its rough curve, arms folded tight over her knees to shield what little she could from his eyes. The chill of the chamber raised a tremor over her bare skin.

Her gaze snapped up at him, dark eyes glinting with a furious glimmer that her trembling voice couldn’t quite match.

“What the fuck am I supposed to wear n—”

She cut off when she saw the shadows pooling like ink at her feet, rising in coils that brushed her calves and knees, reaching higher. Her arms dropped automatically as she pressed harder against the stone, her breath catching.

“What are you—”

The words broke into a gasp when a band of cool shadow circled her throat, not choking but holding. Others slid across her ribs and belly, tracing the ridges of her hips.

Her head fell back against the stone with a dull sound. A shudder went through her, not the sharp flinch of panic this time but something else, her taut muscles softening under the spectral touch. For the first time in gods only knew how long, the relentless ache of her body eased. The shadows kneaded at her, massaging life back into limbs that had lain on cold, damp stone for too long.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as the tension bled from her. Her dark eyes fluttered closed, lashes trembling against her cheeks. The magic was twisted, she knew that, but it held back the voices. It muffled the scratching claws on the inside of her skull. It soothed and caressed and.. Fuck.

A sound escaped her throat, half sigh, half sob as she let herself sink into the cold, alien embrace of it. Disgust and relief tangled together, and she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

 

[Shrike]

The Shrike watched with a contemptuous sneer. Every arch of that pale, disgusting flesh. Every tremble. Every needy whimper and half-terrified sob. A hunger to taste ran through him, strong as the riptide of the ocean. And just as cold and terrible. Urging him to act. To take. To claim.

No.

With a snort, he slashed his hand dismissively. The shadows dissipated in an instant, leaving her starkly alone on the stone.

“No cunning barb?” He asked dryly, then motioned for her to rise, making no mystery of the way his red stare lingered on her limbs. “We are done for the day.”

His lips twisted in derision, then he glanced down the hallway and pulled with his mind to summon one of the thralled.

A vacant eyed slave soon appeared in the archway to the chamber - an Anirian man, with beautiful locks of bronze hair, clad in a simple white tunic and skirt. But his green eyes stared out almost sightlessly and he wore a collar fashioned in the shape of a curled centipede.

“Go. You will be bathed and clothed as a reward. Then you will join me for dinner.”

He made no mention that he could see and hear through the eyes and ears of all thralled. Control them even, if he wished.

The Shrike remained in the center of the chamber, staring at the ground where the chained demon had been, lost in thought.

***

The remainder of the day was Keres’, to explore the fortress as she saw fit.

That evening, one of the thralls found her and brought her to a room inside the keep that served as a study, a slitted window overlooking the ocean below. A writing desk sat in the corner, which the Shrike sat at.

A small table filled with two chairs sat on the opposite wall, beneath a huge tapestry from Amol-Kalit. Berries and meats and cheeses and a wine flagon and glass lay on the table. Far fare from prison gruel.

On the ground, the black fur of a large bear served as a rug.

The Shrike did not look up as she entered, busy scribbling some note with a quill.

Keres

 

[Keres]

Keres had almost leaned into them, those shadows, when they vanished with a snap of his will. She sat there for a heartbeat, chilled and suddenly aware of her own flushed skin, the starkness of her breath. Her stomach clenched as shame surged hot in her cheeks. They were his, she reminded herself. His hands, his touch, his gift to give or rip away.

She kept her head down, staring hard at the stone floor until the scrape of a door made her eyes dart upward to the man, or what was once a man, who stood there awaiting instruction. Her gaze snagged on the grotesque collar biting into his throat. The sight hollowed her chest. She couldn’t look away. A thrall. A slave stripped of self. Was that to be what became of her, too?

Her jaw clenched, the bone creaking, when Shrike dismissed her with a lazy cruelty that made her bare skin prickle. He didn’t even need to say more, the degradation of being paraded out unclothed was enough.

But she would not let him have the satisfaction of seeing her squirm. She rose, defiant in her nudity, standing tall even though her ribs jutted sharply beneath the pallor of her flesh and the coppery stain of her blood still glistened from her lips to her chest. The bitterness of iron pooled on her tongue, but she swallowed it down and walked forward with a trembling body and a lifted chin, her stare fixed on the corridor ahead, not on him.

A bath. Clothes. Dinner. She hated the way the words coiled in her mind like promises. She hated more how much she wanted them. Could she afford to spit in his face now, when her skin still burned from the phantom kneading of shadow and her stomach gnawed at itself hollow? No. Not yet.

The thrall led her wordlessly. The water in the bathing chamber was warmer than she expected. Almost scalding, but she sank into it anyway. She scoured herself raw, fingernails raking across her skin as though she could scrape away the blood, the grime, the humiliation, the memory of cold shadows kneading at her bones. She stayed until her skin reddened and her knuckles burned, until the water lapped red and cloudy.

When Shrike had said she'd be clothed, she soon realised that had been a very loose term.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she growled under her breath as she held the garment against her.

It was a sleeveless slip of black, soft and gauzy, spider silk by the look of it. Almost beautiful. Almost. Except it was so sheer she might as well have remained naked. A single silver brooch in the shape of a spider held it all together, an afterthought of modesty.

Her fist clenched the fabric. She wanted to shred it into ribbons, to leave it on the floor in defiance. But her stomach turned, hollow and insistent, and she muttered to herself, voice bitter as ash.

“Food… food… food…”

She stepped into it, tugging the gossamer thing over her raw skin, jaw grinding as it clung to her frame. Her dark hair, still damp, she pulled over her shoulders in some small attempt at coverage.

At least she was clean.

The corridors blurred together as she wandered later, half aimless, half straining to map the keep in her mind. But it was a labyrinth of the same dark stone, stair upon stair, door upon door. It was hopeless. Still, she tried.

When she was finally found and brought to him again, her scowl was set deep. The thrall escorted her inside the chamber and left her with the scrape of the closing door. Alone, with him.

She didn’t move at first, only stood there in silence, her eyes raking across the study, the desk, the tapestry, the glinting wine and plates stacked with food. Her stomach betrayed her before her pride could catch it. The growl was so loud she startled at it, her lips pressing into a hard line as she covered the noise with a sharp little clear of her throat, as though that might erase the shame of it.

Her eyes cut to him, still bent over his desk, the scratching of quill on parchment unbothered. And so she huffed quietly, keeping her words locked tight behind her teeth lest she risk being left to starve..

"Evening." she muttered dryly.

 

[Shrike]

The rumble of her stomach filled the room, followed by her terse greeting. He did not look up, his only response for a moment in the form of the final scratch of quilltip on parchment paper, signing his name to a death warrant. He stared at the name for a moment. Alarak. Captain. His gaze drifted to the slitted window, to the sea beyond, with longing.

To be free once again...

"I count brevity a virtue," he said in a low tone, still not turning to meet her gaze, "But on you it reeks of defiance."

His eyes slid to the walls and their strange, black stone. No. He'd never be free again. At last, he set aside the bit of parchment containing the death warrant and looked at her, ruby gaze drifting across locks of raven hair, lines of sheer black silk, and pale white flesh.

"You are clean," he remarked simply, noting that she still awaited his command to eat. Well, perhaps she could be trained after all.

The rumbling of her stomach grated on his nerves.

"Eat," he ordered, with another of his dismissive waves, taking up another death warrant to examine. Some fool who'd failed to meet his tribute this month to the Wardens. He took up the quill, dipping it in ink.

"Remember our first conversation, witch. You are an outcast. Do not pretend this is not the nicest garment you have ever worn, nor this meal the best you've ever supped. Say the words. Admit it."

Keres

 

[Keres]

Her eyes rolled at his barb about brevity, though she wisely kept her tongue still. No shit, at least he's observant.. The steady scraping of quill against parchment felt like needles on her nerves, but at least when his order came, it was the one she’d been waiting for.

She didn’t hesitate. The moment he bade her to eat, she slid into the chair and reached for the food, hands moving with a desperate efficiency. There was no attempt at grace, no pause to savour, only the instinctive fear that he might change his mind and snatch it all away before she could fill her stomach.

Sweet fruit burst across her tongue, cheese so soft it practically melted, meat so rich and tender she almost forgot to chew. She’d never tasted anything like it. Her eyes stung, treacherous with the threat of tears, but she blinked them away and stuffed another mouthful between her lips.

When he demanded his little confession, she slowed only long enough to mutter the words, muffled around food..

“Nicest garment I’ve worn… best meal I’ve supped…” Her dark gaze flicked toward him, flat with sarcasm, before dropping back to the plate.

“Thank you, oh great and glorious host,” she droned, biting down on a hunk of roast meat as though it were his throat.

 

[Shrike]

The quill's tip snapped against the parchment, ink spilling from the shattered length and out across the place meant for his signature, black seeping into the off-white of the paper like blood.

"Did I not warn you to mind your tongue?" he hissed, venom in every syllable.

His lips twisted in disgust. Not even a moment's reflection from her, this woman who had no doubt been hunted down the length of Arethil, for the mercies he afforded her. Not even as she gorged herself on food he provided. He'd had others flayed for less. Her infraction he filed away for later, his anger burned coldly, but it burned long.

"Your impudence," he mused, "Perhaps it is contagious, from your werewolf companion."

As it happened, the ruined bit of parchment before him held the death warrant for the self-same.

"He has been making himself quite comfortable in the Lady Elide's tower, in your absence," his words carried no affectation, a flat delivery in his high tone, "Did you know him well?"

Keres

 

[Keres]

The sharp snap of the quill made her flinch before she could stop herself, shoulders jerking at the sound. She stared at her plate, swallowing hard and mentally scolding herself. Just make it to the end of the meal. Full stomach. Soft bed. Then she could crawl into oblivion for a few blessed hours.

Then he mentioned Roul.

The hand that had been holding a grape halfway to her lips stalled, fingers tightening on it until the skin burst and purple juice leaked over her knuckles. She blinked once, slow, before forcing her expression back into something neutral.

“Not really,” she said, the words flat but careful, “We were on the same ship, that’s about it. Wouldn’t call him a companion.”

Her eyes flicked to him and then away, shoving the ache down, pushing food into her mouth with a little more deliberate decorum now, if only to keep herself from stopping altogether.

When she spoke again her tone had changed, the brittle humour creeping back in like a shield.

“So, what is this exactly? I repulse you, and yet you give me a bed, food, and…” her gaze dropped to the spider-silk clinging to her skin, “…clothes.” she said with a dry little huff.

“If you can call it clothing,” she muttered.

“Am I a prisoner? A slave…?” she tilted her head, “…or your new best friend?” she whispered, lifting a hand and letting it fall against her chest in a little mock flourish as though hoping for the latter.

"If you want to talk boys, i'm here for you."

 

[Shrike]

"What a foolish question."

Once more he ticked off her insolence in a mental note. She would pay the balance in due time.

Alarak held up the piece of paper with the ink smear, then crumpled it into his hand. It seemed the werewolf would be useful, despite Ravenna's wishes: a pressure point and a nerve on which to play with razor's tip.

"You're my slave. Bought and paid."

He met her eyes, pausing a heartbeat at depths so dark and haunted, then tossed the wadded-up parchment into a corner. So too could he discard her, if annoyance exceeded worth. Another body staked out in the sand to drown with the incoming tide as a message.

"But what kind of master would I be if I did not reward a task well done," The king of Cerak glanced at the burst grape skin and juice on her fingers, then his features hardened, "Or punish disobedience?"

Keres

 

[Keres]

Her eyes rolled at his answer before she could stop them, a sharp flick of black at his pompous declaration. Gods, he had to lighten up. Every word out of his mouth sounded like it was carved into stone.

She watched him crumple the parchment and toss it aside, lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line at the answer he gave her. Slave. Master. Like it was that simple. Like she hadn’t just happened to wash up here and been plucked off the beach like a shell to add to his collection.

She opened her mouth, the beginning of a sharp retort rising up..You’re not my anything.. But then he spoke of rewards and punishments and she bit it back, jaw tightening until it ached.

Her gaze dropped to the table, to her fingers stained purple from the grape she’d crushed, and when she spoke her voice was quieter, rougher, stripped of the usual barb.

“…Please don’t make me go back to the chamber,” she said at last. The words tasted like ash. She hated the plea, hated the smallness of it, hated that her fear was true.

She could still taste her own blood on her tongue no matter how sweet the fruit, could still feel the chant clawing at the edges of her skull. It would take more than cheese and wine to scrub that clean. And she doubted anything would scrub away the memory of what it felt like to have a soul that strong trying to scrape its way inside her mind, trying to take hold of her entire body.

Her fingers curled in her lap, nails biting crescents into her palms as she forced herself to look at him again, dark eyes steady but dull with exhaustion.

“I did what you asked,” she added, voice low. “You got the answer you sought.."

 

[Shrike]

White brows knit in a frown amid his ash complexion.

"You think that was the answer?"

His chin tilted up and he regarded her, this insect whose defiance bled away to plaintiveness before the terror of the builders, as he knew she would. Slowly, he shook his head, just twice.

"No. That was just a taste of what is to come."

Alarak rose from his seat, looming taller than most men and many orcs, his figure less gaunt than lean. He stood over her, cupping one cheek in his hand and met the dark depths of her eyes with a vivisecting stare.

"You are afraid," a statement, not a question, "but as I said, you belong to me. Even your mind. I will not let them have it." The words came whispered and edged as the rasp of sword steel. "We will make you stronger before you try again."

Unlike those fools in Elbion who studied for decades to achieve some middling power, Alarak knew far shorter pathways, so long as one was strong enough to trod them.

Keres

 

[Keres]

Her stomach churned, a sick heaviness settling there that had nothing to do with how quickly she'd devoured her food. Just a taste.. The words clanged around in her head like iron striking iron. If that had been a taste, what was the meal? Would she even live through it?

Her eyes tracked him as he rose, every inch of him radiating control. Her jaw set hard, a muscle twitching in her cheek when his palm cupped her face. She glared up at him, dark eyes glistening, but she forced it to read as rage rather than fear, a silent determination not to let herself cry.

She bit her tongue until she tasted copper as he spoke of her like a thing, a possession. The word belong hit her like a slap, but she stayed still, breathing through the spike of fury.

Then, he spoke of making her stronger, and at once, fear and ambition warred against one another in her mind, hot and cold all at once. Curiosity was her cavalry. If she was to be dragged through hell, she wanted to know what weapons she’d come out with. Her head tilted slightly against his hand, a predator’s motion caged in her.

“…How?” she asked at last, both intrigued and terrified of what his answer might be.

 

[Shrike]

“Your eyes reek of your thirst for it.”

Could there be more to this dead speaker than just haunting beauty and a tongue like a lash? Perhaps.

The fingers on her cheek became claws that gripped her jaw with iron, thumb wrapping around chin just below her lips.

“You want power.” So she could stop running. So she could finally hurt those who would hunt her down. “But you do not have the stomach to take it on your own.”

His lips twisted and he removed his hand from her, idly toying with a ring on his right hand that resembled a serpent. Slowly, he removed the ring and placed it in a pocket.

“There are three convicts I have signed death orders for. We will sacrifice them under the moonlight to enhance your strength.”

Keres

 

[Keres]

Her stare only sharpened, blazing like flint struck against steel as his claws dug into her jaw. Gods, she hated him. Hated the smug certainty in his grip, the way he claimed to see through her like she was nothing but glass.

“My stomach is just fine,” she shot back dryly, the words rough with restrained venom. When at last he let her go, she rubbed her chin where his claws had left it aching, eyes narrowing on the glint of the serpent ring before it disappeared into his pocket. Another secret. Another tool. Her curiosity pricked like a thorn, no matter how she tried to shove it down.

“Convicts?…” she echoed, one dark brow arched in suspicion. “And what grand crimes have they committed, hm? Washed up on the wrong island?” she muttered.

Her lips pressed thin. If this was to be her so-called “strength,” she wanted to know exactly whose blood would be on her hands.

 

[Shrike]

A third infraction, perhaps, in her tone. He misliked the shape of those words. There would not be a fourth permitted.

Grand crimes? Spoken like a mainland cur. On the sea, the captain’s word was law. On this island, so too was his.

“They die because I want them dead,” he hissed. “The scale of their crimes is as meaningless as the scope of their lives. Would it sicken you if I said one merely stole a loaf of bread to feed herself? Would it ease your conscience if another was a murderer?”


The pirate shook his head, “Maybe we should abide by the laws of Cortos,” he tapped a finger under his chin in thought, “but then their laws would say I am to burn you at the stake. Should I burn you, nightingale?”

Keres

 

[Keres]

Keres let out a quiet huff as he asked about her conscience, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug that tried to look indifferent and landed somewhere between insolent and exhausted. Her brows lifted as he threatened her with a pyre however..

“Burn me?” she said, amusement razor thin. “Save your tinder, Shrike. I’m far more valuable breathing than crispy or you'd have killed me already.” her arms folded.

 

[Shrike]

Crack.

His now ringless hand struck her across the cheek hard enough to turn white skin red.

“You overestimate-“

Crack. Another slap, striking the way one might hit an annoying dog.

“-your worth.”

So much for her appetite. She would rather play games than eat. Enough. He had tolerated her insolence enough. No more prattling. No more veiled threats. She would learn her place, or suffer the consequences.

Reaching out, he sought to seize a fistful of her hair near the base of her scalp, then began to drag her toward an adjacent room.

“You wished to speak of boys earlier. Then let us.”

He swung the door open, another window cast small light in the cloud ridden gloom, revealing a chamber barren of all decorations and furnishings save a pillory. And beyond it, hulking in the shadows, an immense, hulking, and horned figure, filling up so much of the room it was a wonder he had even fit inside. The air here was colder than the study. The floor just that hideous black stone.

“Meet my minotaur.”

Keres

 

[Keres]

Her face burned, each blow landing sharp and hot enough to leave her reeling, her skull snapping first one way and then the other. The taste of copper bloomed fresh on her tongue. Instinctively she tried to shrink from the next strike, arms curling in, only for his hand to knot in her hair and wrench her upright, her scalp screaming as he dragged her across the chamber.

She’d steeled herself for hooks and knives, for cold iron and whispered curses. But the word that left his mouth was the last thing she expected. A fucking minotaur?!

Her head jerked up at the sound, eyes glassy, breath catching as her gaze snagged on the shadow hulking in the far corner. She could make out horns, shoulders like carved stone, a faint shift of massive weight in the darkness. Her pupils blew wide, black swallowing what little white remained.

Her hands shot up to his wrist, fingers trembling, either desperate to pry him off or to stop him from letting her go. “Alright—alright! I’m sorry—” the words tumbled out ragged, her voice cracking with panic. “I’m sorry! You’ve made your point—” She swallowed, forcing the words he wanted past the knot in her throat. “I’m afraid. I’m wretched. Brazen, petulant, foolish—an outcast, a slave, I'm worthless.”

“I’ve learned my place.”

It was all she had left to give him, every shard of pride broken and laid out like an offering, her hands still clutched at his wrist while she stared at the beast in the shadows, waiting to see if he would release her, or cast her forward.

 

[Shrike]

“No,” he rasped, with a detached cruelty, “I don’t think you have.”

Heedless of the way she grasped at him, pleading, eyes wide and terrified, he pried free of her grasp and shoved her forward. The panic in her cracking voice stirred a darkness in him - a hunger that needed to be sated.

Why else place this room across from his study?

He had given her chance after chance, afforded her a measure of patience that none of the others received, much less for a slave. The thin sands of his tolerance for her defiance had run out, like that last grains in an hour glass.

“You will sing for me now, nightingale. One way or another.”

The door slammed behind her.

In the darkness of the room came a bullish snort. And the stomp of a hoof.

Keres

 

[Keres]

Keres’ palms and knees smacked the cold black stone as she stumbled forward, spinning to face him, panic blazing in her eyes. The door slammed like a hammer behind her, cutting off his silhouette and the faint light from the hall.

“No!” Her cry cracked, echoing off the barren walls, swallowed by the dark. The sound of the beast answered her instead, the heavy stomp of a hoof that made the floor and her heart tremble.

She bolted to the door, fists pounding against it hard enough to bruise and burst her knuckles. “Shrike!!” she shouted. She was halfway to another plea when it hit her that pleading had never bought her anything here but more cruelty. She let out a roar of frustration. "You fucking coward!!!"

“What's wrong, too weak to do it yourself?” she barked at the door like a feral thing, her voice a snarl. She slammed a bare foot into the door, toes cracking, her nails bleeding. “Cock! Not! Big enough!?” she spat, each word punctuated by another kick, another shoulder slam, another thud of pain. “FUCK!!!”

Her forehead pressed to the cold door for a moment, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Tears streamed hot and silent down her cheeks and she slid down the door to her knees, trembling as the hoofbeats drew closer.

Roul. She wanted Roul. She wanted that stupid cabin and the smell of salt on the air, a little peace, a little safety. Instead it was just another cell, another mistake, another fuck-up in a life of fuck-ups. And, as far as major fuck-ups went, this was about to be the fucking worst of them.

Her fingers curled against the stone, nails biting. She would fight it. She would piss it off enough that it would hit her hard enough and kill her quickly and free her from this hell.