She returned to consciousness due to a vile aroma, an odor so abominable that she very nearly emptied the contents of her stomach.
She was very much grateful that there were currently no contents in her stomach.
It took several rapid blinks of her eyes to clear away the cloudiness from her vision. Then, she wished she had not done that simple, natural, instinctive act.
A young woman – perhaps the same age as she – was walking away, completely naked, holding something in front of her; given that the stomach-churning scent had dissipated, the young woman was likely carrying the source of that vile smell. She had beautiful long fiery red hair, descending in curly tresses to nearly the back of her knees; what skin was visible was of a white so pale and pure that it made her wonder if this gracefully-moving person had ever been exposed to daylight.
Unfortunately, that was the only "good" thing she saw in the chamber.
The walls were all made of light-brown stone, and there were no windows. The door was made of metal, obviously thick and heavy and colored a noticeably darker brown than the stone. The floor was made of stone as well, although of a grayish color marked with dots and entire swashes of long-dried blood. The ceiling was very far above her – even if she were to stack ten of herself upon her head, her uppermost self would likely not be able to reach the ceiling. But what definitely did not make sense was that there was no source of light in the chamber, yet she could clearly see.
What was definitely not a mystery, however, was the purpose of the many pieces of "furniture" scattered throughout the large chamber. Looking from one to another, she could almost hear the cries and screams of those who had been unfortunate enough to learn firsthand of the pains inflicted by such devices. She knew from abundant well-reasoned rumors and a scant few confirmed tales that when a woman was brought to such a place, the torture almost always lasted longer – much longer – for her, as the men tortured her body not just outside, but inside as well.
The stone walls were lined with numerous implements designed to either restrain or inflict various levels of pain. Some were familiar: various paddles, for example, to discipline wayward children – such as she had been, for a very short period of her royal childhood. Other implements simply seemed odd, such a thin, tiny, two-pronged "grappling hook" at one end of a ling, thin cord, seeming to serve no easily-discernible purpose.
But most disturbing were the shackles secured to the wall at her back. There were five sets of shackles – each set comprising two for the wrists and two for the ankles – along the wall, and she was in the centermost set, directly opposite the heavy metal door. Fortunately, she was the only captive here; to her knowledge, only the young woman gliding toward the metal door had seen her nakedness. But it was rather disconcerting to notice the blood upon the wall and on the floor in the area of the shackles.
Half-heartedly, she tested the metal shackles, finding that they definitely held her securely and would not break no matter how violently she tried to regain her freedom. With a silent sigh, she slumped back against the cold stone wall, a little surprised at the contrast between the cold stone and the warm air of the chamber. Closing her eyes, she tried to hold back the tears which she knew would come eventually – tears due to being captured, tears due to the brutal deaths of the guards, tears due to the betrayal of the man she had truly loved.
And now, given that she was here and not at the anticipated destination – her lifelong home – her father had very likely met a similar fate to that of the guards. If he was not already dead, then he would be, soon.
She thought of the kind, near-poetic words the betrayer had spoken to her when they had first danced at the grand mid-summer feast – the words which had caused her heart to skip several beats for the first time in her life. Despite the many years of rigorous training to see through and endure the many subterfuges of the court, his words combined with his innocent, near-angelic looks to capture that which no other had yet been able to attain: her heart.
Likely, her father knew. She knew that virtually all the eyes in the court were trained upon her at all times, even when she was alone (a true rarity) in her chambers; she knew that that mouths beneath those eyes reported back to him regularly. He therefore almost certainly knew that her own blood had been cast upon the silky linens of her bed… by the very man who had betrayed her and orchestrated her capture and the senseless slaughter of those sworn to protect her.
Given her value, in riches and in politics, she would not die anytime soon. Instead, she was certain that she would alternate between being an object of pleasure and being an object of torture. If she was smart, then she might be able to play the only card she truly could – her own body – to spend the majority of the rest of her days as an object of pleasure, even though the near-constant, abusive treatment of her body would be a far, far more malicious torture of her soul.
The memory of that inauspicious night returned to her, nearly overpowering her senses. She could once again feel the sensuous silk at her back, the cool late-night breeze drifting over her saliva-dampened breasts and her proud pointed nipples, his gentle hold upon her hips as he slipped inside her to that annoying barrier. Then, the pain as she released a silent scream and a tear fell from each eye. Then the pleasure building within her as he leaned over her, his face a finger's length above hers, his eyes and his motions displaying a love as profound as that found only in long-forgotten legends known only to the oldest of the bards.
She opened her eyes, and allowed the twin tears to begin their trek down her face. When next she bled, it would definitely not be from natural causes. When next someone entered her body, she would derive no pleasure from it.
All she could do was bide her time, use her body to extend her life as long as possible, and hope to find a means of escape before she was finally killed. Her father was almost certainly dead, and she was almost certainly in an enemy land, but at least she would still be alive – able to live another day, able to hopefully mount a revolution.
But what does a princess know about revolutions? she thought with a grimace. What does a princess know about waging war? I was born female by fate, so I was never in a position to rule due to those damned traditions. I was never taught to fight, to conquer other lands, to protect my people with my own blood. All I learned was how to read a few books, always maintain my beauty, conduct several key ceremonies, and navigate the turbulent seas and plottings of the court.
Her tears suddenly flowed unabated, her sobs loud as they echoed in the torture chamber. The princess hung, limp and naked, in the metal shackles, her long golden tresses providing a curtain between her angelic face and the door, so that she could not see the door even though a nagging intuition warned her that the door was being opened.
It was the sound of the unsheathing of a sword which caused the sobbing princess to finally lift her head and look through the curtain of her long golden tresses. There he stood, the very man who had betrayed her, who had massacred her guards and annihilated her innocence. If her guess was correct, her father now also lay, somewhere, lifeless – at this man's orchestration, if not actually at his hands.
