The Dove And The Hawk Pt 02

Many thanks to my advance readers, including Not_E and happyyy_, as well as to my editor LaRascasse.

Content warning

: depictions of sexual assault, depictions of violence, depictions of domestic abuse, references to violence against a pregnant person, references to pregnancy loss, references to maternal and infant death

***

Bethaer lowered himself into the hot water of the garrison baths, sighing contentedly. Though he had his own bathing room and servants who could attend to him, he'd never seen the point. Water was water, and besides, the company kept his mind from wandering. Even though much of the talk was too vulgar for his taste, he didn't have to keep up as much of an act with his men at the bathhouse. Normally, that was.

"How was she, your highness?" asked a soldier to his left. "We heard you got to business right quick." A handful of men chuckled around him.

"Quite satisfactory," he replied, trying to sound as boring as possible.

"Did you need to rough her up?" asked another man. "I heard she's quite the fighter."

"Indeed!" interjected a third. "My brother used to guard his highness, and he said he was always having to smack her pretty little face to make her lie still."

Bethaer bared his teeth in what he hoped was a hard smile. "We came to an understanding," he said tersely, and the men guffawed.

"Did she say anything?" asked a man to his right. "Word is that your royal brother silenced her the first night he took her, and she's never made a peep since."

Bethaer shrugged. "I didn't exactly ask her any questions," he retorted, to which his men laughed heartily.

"She's not too loose yet, is she?" asked another.

"No more than a wife after three years of marriage," he replied with a wink, to yet more laughter.

"When do we get a taste?" came a voice from the back. The group fell silent, and a few eyed the youngster, shaking their heads.

"You don't," Bethaer said firmly, and some of his men nodded.

"She belongs to our prince, and none else. Isn't that right?" This from yet another man, older than most, looking about the pool for any who might disagree.

Bethaer smiled warmly at the veteran and said, "Precisely. She's mine." He leaned back and closed his eyes, making clear he was done with this line of questioning, and the talk moved on to which brothels had the best girls, or the cheapest, or the newest.

He wondered if she had made use of his private bathing room yet. The water would be cold by now, but he hoped she had, for she was grimy from her stay in his father's dungeons. He winced, remembering the open wounds that peeked out from the ragged hem of her dirty dress, if you could call it that. It had been more like an undergarment, thin and fraying and barely covering her knees. When he'd had her pinned to the bed it had hiked up to her thighs, almost exposing her, enough to give sight to the dark scars on her legs. He didn't want to think about how they had happened, what his third brother had done to make such terrible wounds on her body.

Trying to cleanse his mind, he immersed himself fully in the hot water until he needed to breathe. Standing, he shook himself like a dog, and the men laughed.

"Ready for a second round?" joked one voice, to more laughter.

He snorted. "We'll see," he said, shrugging. He walked off to the servant waiting for him with a towel to dry him off, and the conversation behind him faded.

Once dried and clothed, he waved away the servant and exited the baths, making for the hall where he knew he'd find supper. Having eaten his full, he retired up the stairs to whistles and lewd jokes. He sighed as he reached the landing and hoped his men would soon tire of the matter.

Entering his bedchamber, he was surprised to see the supper tray laid out and untouched. Perhaps she was still full from the midday meal? Or maybe she was bathing -- in that case he should make himself scarce, he decided. He was headed for his study when he heard a muffled noise from the bathing room.

He froze, unable to place the sound. Surely she wasn't in distress, unless, gods forbid, she were trying to drown herself in the large tub. He waited, stuck in place, unsure of what to do until he heard the unmistakable sound of shattering pottery.

Bethaer's stomach dropped and he rushed for the door thinking only that he had to stop her from hurting herself with the sharp edges of the fine ceramic ware. He shoved open the door, hitting a heavy bucket of water that must have been placed there to stop him from doing so. It sloshed about, wetting the tile floor as he turned and saw the broken pitcher scattered across the room, and beyond that a sight that raised fury in his blood.

On the floor by the wooden bathtub was the form of a soldier, pushing down on the princess' frail body as she kicked and beat him in a futile effort.

Bethaer roared, rushing forward and yanking the man off her, throwing him to the hard floor. The young man floundered, confused and panicked, then kneeling in terror as he recognized his prince looming over him.

"Mercy, mercy," he begged, not because what he had done was wrong, Bethaer knew, only because it had angered his lord.

"You dare touch what it mine," he said in a low voice, his fists clenched and face burning with rage.

The soldier prostrated himself fully, his voice muffled against the floor. "I didn't know -- no, I didn't think --"

"Clearly not," Bethaer hissed. "I should have your hands cut off for daring to covet what belongs to me."

The man whimpered, terrified, though not enough to cool his prince's wrath. Bethaer turned to glance back at the princess, who was curled up in a fetal position in the corner of the room, clutching her naked body. He shouldn't belabor the point, he realized, for her sake at least.

He stalked over to where the young man lay shaking on the floor. "Let me see your face," he commanded. Haltingly the soldier lifted his head, and Bethaer memorized his features. "I will let your direct superior decide your punishment," he said, and the man sagged with visible relief. "Go report your crime to him immediately," he snarled, "and if any man asks what you did to deserve your punishment, tell him you touched the prince's woman and only escaped with your life by my grace alone."

"Yes, your highness," the man warbled, picking himself up off the floor and bowing low before scampering out the door.

Bethaer waited until he heard the main door slam shut before taking a deep breath, trying to cool his anger. Looking about, he spied a towel thrown upon the floor and went to pick it up. He approached the princess slowly, holding it out in front of him to shield her body from his eyes.

Swallowing down the bile in his throat, he tried to speak softly. "I am so sorry,

il-susashai

. I should not have let this happen." He took another few slow steps and knelt down, covering her petrified form with the large cloth. "I will ensure no other man enters my chambers from now on," he promised. "Not so much as the lowest servant. I swear to you, I will do my best to keep you safe from this day forward."

Her wide eyes stared out blankly at some horizon only she could see, and she stayed silent. Cautiously he stood up and backed away, feeling for the door behind him and shutting it firmly. He didn't wait to hear her move. Heavily he walked out of his chamber, then the antechamber, easily assuming a brooding visage as he exited to face his guards.

The men shuffled, uneasy. "You allowed him in," Bethaer said. They hung their heads silently in shame. At least they didn't make excuses, like their fellow soldier. "Latrine duty for two weeks, starting tomorrow," he growled, and the men straightened and saluted him.

"Yes, your highness!" He nodded and left them at their posts, striding down the steps and entering the ghostly silent hall.

"Where is the insolent coward?" he barked, watching his men flinch at his wrath.

"In the outer courtyard, your highness," one of them spoke. Bethaer marched out the double doors, past the courtyard and through the gatehouse toward the sharp cracks of a whip and the cries that followed. He smiled grimly as the sight came into view, the soldier stripped to the waist and tied to a post by his hands. The man let out another cry as the long, barbed lash ripped once more at his flesh.

An older man, captain of one of the units, came to stand beside him. "Twenty lashes," he said tersely, and Bethaer nodded. The man's captain had meted out a punishment the lad wouldn't forget, and it sent a clear message to all the soldiers garrisoned at the palace.

He wondered if she could hear the man's cries from his chamber, situated as it was facing the north side of the outer wall. Did it frighten her, he wondered, or was she pleased to hear him suffer for what he'd done? Bethaer couldn't help but wonder how close the man had come to violating her, and he stifled a shudder.

"Twenty!" came the call as the final stroke was dealt. The soldier sagged against the pole, gritting his teeth against the pain, but Bethaer felt no pity for him. If he had his way, he wouldn't just be punishing this man for disrupting the tight order of the army or coveting a possession of the royal family. He really would have cut off the man's hands, and his manhood too, before beheading him and displaying his severed head.

But in his father's army, raping captives was expected, even encouraged. Breaking the spirit of the peoples who they once shared peaceful borders with delighted Olandrion, who reveled in causing pain of any kind. And unless he wanted his father's attention turned on him, Bethaer would need to keep up appearances.

He suppressed a sigh. Six years he'd played this game, since his second brother Gaerton died. He'd only been seventeen then, a powerless child unable to protect his sister-in-law or the daughter she carried. But he was the heir now, no longer resting in Igandrion's shadow. He had more power, yes, but also more to prove. And as his father kept him within the confines of the palace walls, he felt his every move scrutinized. It was exhausting, but he had only to wait until Olandrion died. By the grace of the gods, that couldn't come soon enough.

***

Litheian lay on her little bed, shuddering at the screams that drifted in from outside. He must be punishing that man, she knew, but the sounds were the same as that of prisoners being tortured in the dungeons she had just left herself. She winced at each cry until finally the sounds came no more, and she exhaled a long breath.

He had come so close to taking her. He'd pawed at her with his disgusting hands, spreading her open as he readied himself to do the deed. If the prince hadn't arrived when he did, she'd have had to feel yet another man thrusting inside her, spilling his foul seed. How long had it been since that last happened? She remembered Igandrion forcing himself on her as usual, and then the next day he was dead. She hadn't bothered counting the days it took to travel back to the capital, and it was useless to even try in the black depths of the dungeon where she'd been held. All she knew was that she hadn't bled yet, which meant it was either less than a month, or she was with child, again.

How would this prince react? Igandrion had been furious that first time, beating her belly until she lost the baby. The second time he'd restrained himself, leaving her nothing to drink but some foul concoction cooked up by an apothecary that had wrung out her guts and caused her so much bleeding she'd nearly tasted death. But her foolish body hadn't crossed the threshold, hadn't released her into the sweet embrace of oblivion. Instead she had continued on, eating because she was hungry, sleeping because she was tired, and fighting off her attackers because it was the only choice she had, the only thing that was hers.

Sitting up, she gazed about the room in the warm light of the lamp. She'd already donned the undergarments after spreading ointment over her wounds. Now she searched the large chest, finding a trove of ribbons for her hair and several gowns that would suffice to wear. She wriggled her way into one, and it hung loosely on her starved frame but was not so long that she would trip over it. It chilled her to think she shared the same height as Adrialsa.

She shuddered, remembering the story that had reached even her protected ears, back when she was the precious daughter of the king of Berelthia: King Olandrion of Anderar had heard tell of a man who boasted his daughter was so proficient at spinning, she could even turn straw into gold, like the stories of old. Of course it was an absurd tale, nothing but the ramblings of a drunkard.

But Olandrion, greedy and cruel, had threatened to kill her and her father both if she didn't complete the task. Then his heir at the time, Gaerton, took pity on her and begged his father to spare her at least, for he had taken a liking to her, and his father had relented. They had married, and soon she grew big with his child, but not before her husband fell in battle. Raging, the king had locked his own daughter-in-law in the dungeons of his palace in the capital, Jashil. There she had labored alone, it was said, and bled out after delivering a stillborn daughter.

Litheian shivered, wondering if that would be her fate too. If she didn't bleed soon, that would mean she had conceived Igandrion's child. How awful it would be, to die bearing the hated spawn of that man. She shook her head, willing away the possibility. She would bleed -- she must bleed. Even if she had to beg this new prince to bring her another foul distillation to make her lose the baby, she would do it. She trembled at the thought, but gritted her teeth, resolute.

He was confounding, sliding from hard to soft, angry to apologetic with the ease of an actor shifting roles. His words were confusing, but his actions.... True, he had pinned her down on his bed, but he hadn't taken her. Then he'd brought her things he'd noticed she needed. And lastly he'd stopped another man from assaulting her, covering her up before leaving her alone. So perhaps... perhaps she could trust him, just enough to test the waters.

***

Bethaer stood at attention, hands clasped behind him in the soldier's way he'd learned since before he could ride a horse. On the dais before him, seated on his sparsely decorated throne, his father brooded, tented hands against his lips. It was a pose that used to strike fear in his heart and still quickened his pulse even now. But he had a plan and so held steady, breathing slowly, waiting.

"You don't wish to share her at all?" his father asked finally.

"No,

il-hanaan

," he replied formally.

His father waved a hand and said, "Speak candidly, my son."

"As you wish, royal father," he said, loosening his grip on his wrist and letting his hands fall to his side. Taking a breath, he began. "When you gave her to me this morning, you said she was mine to do with as I pleased, royal father. And what pleases me is to have her to myself."

Olandrion looked at him probingly, his dark eyes hollow and cold. "We need something to inspire the men," he responded.

Bethaer nodded. "I shall reward them as I always have, royal father -- days off to visit the city and coin to sate their thirst at the taverns and brothels."

"We're running low on ready funds," observed his father, ever practical.

"I shall reimburse the military coffers with my own personal stipend," he offered.

Olandrion nodded slowly, satisfied with this compromise. A dark grin spread across his face, and Bethaer tensed with anticipation. "So how do you like her, my son?"

He forced himself to chuckle. "She is a bit rough around the edges, but I can handle her."

"I heard she was in the bathing room when you caught the man," his father noted.

Bethaer smiled jovially. "I did tell her to clean herself up."

"I'm glad to hear she's obeying you already," his father said, pleased.

"As I told my men," he replied, "we came to an understanding."

"It wouldn't do to strike such a pretty face," agreed his father, frowning. "Igandrion always had too much a taste for it."

Bethaer swallowed. "There is no need for striking when you can just hold her down and take your time in her."

"So that's how it is," his father murmured, then waved his hand. "Off with you, then. And take your time again tonight," he said, winking.

Bethaer bowed. "Yes, most royal father." He backed away before turning and taking his leave, relieved the conversation had gone so well.

He walked out the main keep into the evening air, nodding as he passed men coming and going for the night watch. Reaching the main hall beneath his chambers, he stopped a maidservant, instructing her to clean up the broken pottery in his bathing room before nightfall. She bowed and hurried off to do his bidding.

He threw himself down on a chair by the fire, watching the stairs like a hawk for the maidservant to return, carrying a bucket full of the shards. He frowned, realizing that the pitcher would need to be replaced, and so rose to tell another servant. Since he'd dismissed his manservant from his rooms, there was no one to manage the place, and now that he'd banned even the male servants from entering, there were very few to spare for daily cleaning.

But he preferred it that way. Let the princess fade from notoriety and become a mysterious, unseen figure. No longer gifted for the night to whichever soldier needed rewarding, tales of her would dwindle and interest would disappear. At least, that was what he hoped.

***

Litheian woke unmolested, hardly believing it. She'd lain await all night in expectation of him pounding at her door, finally drifting off sometime before he awakened. Putting her ear to the door, she heard nothing and dared to creep out.

The room was empty, save for a breakfast tray long since gone cold. She eyed the windows blearily, noting the high angle of the sunlight filtering through the shutters. How long had she slept?

She wolfed down breakfast and retreated to the bathing room to wash her face, where all evidence of her harrowing encounter the day before was gone. A new pitcher stood next to the washbasin, and she poured out the clear water with a sigh. As a child she'd hated this chore, but had come to long for it during her days with Igandrion. Without such simple measures, it was easy to be stripped of one's humanity, called a filthy rat, a dirty whore, and worse. But now she would clean herself every day, gods willing.

She ruminated on the words he'd spoken the evening prior, calling her his woman. Did he really mean it, or was it just a story to make sense of his anger? She shook off the memory of his rage; it had been painfully real, the only raw truth he'd displayed so far. But was it because a man had attacked her, or only because it wasn't himself that did it?

She sighed. Things had been simpler with Igandrion; she'd never needed to question his motives. She almost missed the certainty of it, knowing that another spate of violence was just around the corner. Now she could only worry, and worry, and worry again about things that might never happen. Perhaps that was the real torture.

Quietly she opened the door to the library, freezing as she saw him seated at the great table amidst piles of papers. She slunk back and prepared to shut the door slowly, slowly, but his voice carried across the room.

"You can come in."

She stayed frozen, not knowing what to do. Igandrion always yelled when he caught her going anywhere she wasn't allowed, which was most places, or doing anything that angered him, which was almost everything. She narrowed her eyes, waiting for him to shout at her to fuck off, or threaten her with a beating, but he said nothing more.