The Dove and the Hawk, Pt. 01

This novella is a fantasy romance featuring some heavy themes, including sexual assault and torture. (There will be a happy ending, eventually.) Please consider the content warnings and proceed mindfully.

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

Content warning: references to sexual assault, depictions of violence, depictions of attempted suicide

***

The clouds danced under each other, cutting the light in intermittent rays. Litheian walked face to the sky, eyes tearing in the flood of brightness. The long days in Olandrion's dungeons had left her eyes grasping for any possible light, and now it was blinding her. But she wanted to drink it in -- the sun and sky and clouds. All of it, before she was inevitably locked in a new room, with a new master.

She shivered despite the sun on her skin. It had been a good respite, these days after Igandrion's death. Despite the occasional blows and cuts, no one had dared touch her in that way. She was the property of the crown: a royal captive made to play Igandrion's bed slave for three years, now to be passed on to his younger brother. No one had spoken to her in the dungeon, but she heard them talk.

As fast as a hound, one guard had said, and he expects the rest of us to keep up with him. And if you can't, he makes you run twice as many paces.

Did you hear? another had said. He demoted a herald for failing to report to him fast enough.

Latrine duty used to rotate regularly, had muttered a third, but these days it's full of those who catch the prince's ire.

Litheian shivered again. Olandrion's last son, his precious heir, was hard with his men and would no doubt be rough with her as well.

She curled her fists even as she lowered her gaze to avoid the tall figure standing in the middle of the bright courtyard. She would do as she had always done, ever since that first night Igandrion had violated her: she would fight. The bruises and cuts were worth it; she would never let a man take her easily. Not her first tormentor, nor his favored soldiers whom he permitted to take her, and certainly not the last son of that monster Olandrion.

The guard leading her by the neck stopped abruptly to salute his prince, and she narrowly avoided tripping over his feet.

"Insolent bitch!" he hissed, shoving her to the ground. She knelt on the hard cobblestones, knees and hands scraped bloody. "My apologies, your highness," he said. "She is a stubborn one, as will take some force to break in."

"No apology is necessary," responded the prince, his voice as clear and cold as the autumn wind that whipped at her ragged dress. "I know of her reputation. But I think we'll quickly come to an understanding."

She shivered at the threat as he chuckled, and the soldier joined in. "Then I shall take my leave, your highness," he said, saluting. She felt a tug as the rope was passed from hand to hand, then listened as the soldier's footsteps faded away.

"Get up," said the prince, tugging at her neck. Mutely she rose, still facing the ground. She would see enough of his face in the future, and besides, there was no point in goading him into striking her.

"Good," he said icily, then pulled at her again to follow him.

***

When he reached the anteroom to his chambers, Bethaer waved off the guards to post outside his doors. They bowed curtly and gave him sly glances as they filed out. When the door latched shut, he let out a long breath. He glanced behind him, and she stood there, eyes down and hands crushed to her side.

He took a breath and opened the chamber door. He tried to see it through her eyes -- the bright rugs and lush tapestries, the heavy chairs with plump pillows, and the gauzy curtains with his bed out of focus behind them. He turned to shut the door and she stepped sideways away from him the furthest she could.

This time when the door latch caught, he could almost feel her curling into herself, pressing to the wall as though she could slip between the stitches of the tapestries and melt into the cold, hard stone. In the corner of his eyes he could see her gaze dart around the room, looking for a sliver of freedom. He turned away from the door and she dropped her gaze, crimping her hands to her sides.

His father's words laughed in his ears. She's a tricky one. But why wouldn't a deer try to run from a hound? He took another breath. Her fear was like a haze around him, and his actions needed to be sure. He took one step toward her, then another, as she stayed frozen in place. Slowly he unbuckled the collar around her neck, careful not to touch her. She stayed still as a rabbit, unmoving.

He backed away and dropped the filthy thing to the floor. He raised his hands to greet her properly, as befitted the daughter of a royal house, when she suddenly lunged forward and the space below his ribs collapsed in pain.

He fell to the floor, gasping. He could hear her rustling the drapes of the windows, looking for an out. He forced his stomach to breathe, forced his legs to stand and follow her before she found the laundry chute or --

The screen doors opened with a soft whine, and he tore away the curtain between him and the bedchamber, slammed open the swinging screens and saw her standing there at the balcony rail, looking down like the earth itself had betrayed her.

Any doubts about not moving to his brother's room were erased in the moment she turned to him, in that brief second she took to decide whether to jump. His own rooms were not high enough to kill, but Igandrion's were.

Bethaer grabbed her before she could lift herself over, dragged her thrashing back inside, and dropped her indelicately on the bed. She nearly flew off the mattress and he tackled her. He could hear her panting and realized she hadn't made a sound, not even a whimper. She used his pause to try and kick him, and he ended with his knees on her legs and his arms pinning hers above her head. She squirmed furiously under him, and he realized this was the opposite of what he intended, the last impression he wanted to give.

The door wrenched open and he lifted his head to see the heir-guard swarm in, the captain pulling back the curtain and giving pause.

"Forgive us for interrupting, my prince, but we saw the bitch fit to leap from the window, and your royal father did bid us keep her alive."

Bethaer could feel the mask tugging down over his face, the cool mirth in his eyes as he smiled at the man before him.

"Of course. We can't have her escaping in any manner." He hardened his gaze and looked back down at her, her skirt at her thighs, the dead set of her eyes in her sunken face, her ratty dark braid unravelling across the bed. "Bar every door to my chambers except the main entrance, bolt every shutter, and post guards outside."

His stomach clenched as the man curtly saluted him, and he waited for the sounds of their heavy feet to fade before he lifted himself from the bed. She sprang away and flattened herself against the wall, eyes out and angry, chest heaving. He lifted his hands and she pivoted away, circling him to reach the far corner as he stepped into where she stood only moments ago.

"Forgive me, il-susashai," he said softly.

Her eyes went blank and her face closed, unreadable.

"I would help you to escape," he continued, "but my father watches both of us more closely now." He paused, and Igandrion's death rose between them. "He is not likely to send me to the front of battle, not so soon. So this is the safest place for you."

Her lips gave the barest twitch, but she said nothing.

"I did not mean to frighten you, il-susashai, but my father expects me to... keep you in line." He swallowed before speaking his next words. "It is better if you let him believe that you submit to me. It will keep him happy, and he will leave you here with me -- and not give you to someone else."

She folded her arms like armor and glanced at him, eyes appraising. He tried not to flinch under the fire of her gaze, let himself be inspected -- his day-old shave, military uniform, and the heavy signet ring on his hand.

Only when she turned away, almost shy, did he speak again. "The bathing room is there," he said, nodding to the far wall, "and the door behind you is your room."

She didn't turn, didn't open the door, but he wished she would -- that she trusted him enough to find what he told her was true.

"It used to be my manservant's room, but I had it cleaned and the belongings of my sister-in-law sent up."

Her eyes flashed, and he remembered she would have heard the story, the woman his father forced to marry his second son -- the only sister he could ever claim to have had. He shoved the memories away.

"I have arranged for meals to be brought three times a day and for the bathtub to be filled weekly. There is a chute by my wardrobe" -- he gestured to the hulking wooden structure -- "for the dirty linens. Any laundry you send down will be returned clean along with meals."

He paused, wondering how to end his speech. "These rooms are as much yours as mine now -- more so, as I have little need of my chambers but to sleep. I bathe and eat with my men, so please -- do not hesitate to use them as you see fit."

Bethaer braved a glance at her, but she was looking sideways at the floor. He shifted his weight between his feet and she tensed.

After a moment he said, "The servants should not disturb you -- or even speak to you. And my guards will remain outside, always." He took another breath. "Il-susashai," he began, and stopped because she looked at him, dark eyes deep as twin pools.

He tested one step, then another, so he could look at her straight as he spoke. "I swear on my life, il-susashai, that I will never touch you lustfully." She held his gaze for a heartbeat and then looked away, at anywhere but him.

Suddenly the awkwardness engulfed him, and he made for the door. Only as he reached it did he remember the lamp in the servant's room. He turned back to her, still standing small against the wall, beyond the mess of curtains.

"Please, do not do anything foolish, il-susashai. And if you need anything" -- he gestured lamely to the room between them -- "you have only to ask, and I will do what I can."

He gave a small bow, one he hadn't used since his days at the high court to address the other young royals there. "Until this evening, il-susashai." And then he left.

***

Litheian waited until the heavy doors below groaned shut, until the chatter of the guards died down, until all she could hear were his words in her head. Please forgive me. I swear I will never touch you lustfully. Do not do anything foolish. Let my father believe you submit to me. She shook her head to banish these echoes, because men's words didn't matter -- only what they did to her.

He could have taken you, a voice whispered in her head, and she shuddered. He'd been easy to surprise, but he'd recovered so quickly, overpowered her so easily. Igandrion would have given her just enough freedom to fight back and would have punished her for it and smiled as he did so.

The ugly memory of it reared its head, and she winced, trying to push it down to no avail. That first terrible night, she'd screamed and kicked, and he'd loosened his hold, laughing. Then she'd landed a blow to his chest, and he'd roared in anger. He'd pinned her wrists above her head and kneed her legs open and --

Litheian shook her head, forcing herself back to the present. This man, Igandrion's brother, had shown nothing but horror even as she lay defenseless beneath him. He'd turned cold in the presence of his guards, but he'd let her go. She rubbed her wrists where he had gripped her, trying to banish the feeling. Surely it was a trick. What son of Olandrion wouldn't take her, unless he meant to deceive her with kindness, only to enjoy the betrayal later?

With a shudder she pushed away the possibility, busying herself instead with tending to her hair. She undid her disheveled braid, combing out her long tresses with her fingers before plaiting them again. Automatically she tore a strip from the ragged hem of her dress to tie it off, then paused to look at the makeshift thing. Might there be ribbons among his sister-in-law's belongings? Or perhaps that was the sort of thing he'd meant she could ask for.

Litheian sighed and leaned her head back against the wall, shutting her eyes. She shouldn't believe his words, but his face had been so clear, his voice so earnest. If she hadn't known he was Igandrion's brother, she might not have seen the resemblance at all. He had the same mousy hair, but it curled where Igandrion's had lain flat, and his green eyes were nothing like his brother's dark, soulless gaze.

The sudden bustle beyond the doors startled her out of her thoughts, and she turned to the wall, panic rising in her blood. She found the handle of the door he had said was hers and slipped through into the darkness. She bolted the latch and breathed silently through her mouth wide open, pressed her ear to the door and tried to imagine the actions behind the sounds of scraping and shuffling. She didn't move until she heard feet walk away, out the door, and the room become silent again. She pulled the latch softly as she could, pressing gently on the light frame of the door.

She stepped into the empty room, the large bed -- his bed -- smoothed out, the curtains straightened and tied back. She walked a wide arc around it, past the weak sunlight filtering through the shuttered balcony. The lamps had been lit, steady flames in fine ceramic ware, illuminating the neat piles of pressed clothing -- what must be formal wear by its lustrous sheen -- and a luxurious stack of towels, but it was the food that took her eyes.

Her mouth watered and her fingers twitched. The flatbread and stew and fruit were like a mirage, like a test. Maybe this was how he'd take her -- after she feasted on the meal he'd drugged. But she couldn't ignore the pain in the pit of her belly. With a tear of bread she took a scoop of stew, and afterward she could not stop herself.

***

Bethaer stiffened as he stepped into the anteroom. His guards stood at all three doorways -- his bedchamber, his parlor, and the exit to the hallway. He frowned and put steel in his voice.

"Didn't I dismiss you from this room?" There was a tense pause and then one of the men -- a veteran of the king's guard -- stepped forward.

"We blocked every door but these, your highness. How else can we keep the prisoner from escaping, without guarding them?"

He waved his hand at the airless room. "Block the windows of these rooms too. From now on, you only enter my chambers by my express permission." He frowned. "And if you must disturb me, knock first."

The guard nodded and stepped back, waiting for him to leave. Bethaer put a smile across his mouth as he walked to the door, swaggering his step. "Leave the bitch to me."

This earned him a whistle as he descended the stairs, one or two raised eyebrows as he exited through his men's hall -- once a library, now converted to relieve the crowded barracks.

The guards bowed in their places at the double doors as he exited the hall, where he'd only recently passed through with her. He hesitated to look back, up at the windows of his study, knowing she was somewhere behind there. He felt for his ring, the seal of House Andertha, and told himself to walk away as though he didn't care what happened to her.

He made first for the kitchens, flirting with the scullery maids as he'd done since before Igandrion became heir. He gave sugary compliments to the cook, who swatted him away but sent him off with some sticky buns. Then next to the laundry, where his gifts earned him the ears of a few younger laundresses, and they promised to send underclothes and watch after the princess' monthly courses. He begged a few extra pairs of clean undergarments to take with him and then set for the garrison apothecary.

The man was older than his father, gruff and hard, but last year he took a Berelthian captive to help him as need grew, a healer woman not too much younger than him. Bethaer's charms would be worthless against her, for both her age and her duties in the apothecary's bed, if his information were correct.

The older woman came out from the back as the door swung shut -- a mechanism designed by the same inventor who convinced his father to install the laundry chutes. She stiffened instantly and bowed her head. "My master is out, lord. He will not return before the evening meal. Shall I have him call on you then?"

Bethaer leaned forward on the counter. "That won't be necessary, il-sushvya."

She gave him a glance. "Surely my master can serve you better, lord." Her voice was smooth, but there was fire underneath.

He tapped his fingers on the table and spoke pleasantly, calmly. "Not without reporting on me to my father." He tipped his head. "I'm watched more closely these days. Perhaps you know the feeling."

For a moment he thought she'd say nothing and wondered if silence were a virtue of Berelthian women, but she met his eyes like a challenge. "Perhaps it is her highness who knows best what I feel."

He lifted his chin, impressed. Even speaking of the princess could get a Berelthian captive whipped and starved. Her words were enough to get her hung in a cage at the palace gates to die of thirst. He wouldn't need the underclothes or any other bribe. This woman would help her princess -- but trust in him was another matter.

"How opportune," he said, keeping his voice light. "That's the very reason I'm here."

The woman's face clouded, her resolve replaced with suspicion as he seemingly wandered the shop, perusing the ceramic jars and the dried bunches of herbs.

"I've suffered some wounds that require tending. Shallow cuts, but many of them. What can you give me to heal such injuries?"

Her eyes widened a fraction. "Such wounds should be attended by a physician or a healer, lord."

"Unfortunately, that isn't possible." He sighed, pausing to look at a glass jar holding some kind of pickled specimen. "These wounds can only be attended to in my chambers, and any physician who visited me there would find it hard to lie when questioned by my father's guards."

She narrowed her eyes. "Why would they need to lie?" She looked at him sideways, wanting to hear him say it.

He turned to face her and kept his expression blank. "Because the wounds they would attend aren't my own."

She tilted her head. "I am only the assistant to an apothecary. Why come to me?"

"Why not?" he retorted. "Are you not knowledgeable enough?"

She regarded him silently, then nodded. "We have an ointment you will find most useful, lord."

He walked to the counter and laid his hand on it palm-up. "It would be a great service to her," he said quietly.

She didn't meet his hand with hers, but reached into her skirts and placed in his palm a folded scrap of paper. "These are my instructions for the patient," she said smoothly.

He raised his eyebrows but said nothing as he tucked it into his uniform, taking the container of ointment she placed before him and slipping it into his pockets. "One more thing, il-shusvya," he said, clasping his hands behind him.

Now she looked at him, serious.

"I cannot say if I may have need for... certain herbs," he said in a low voice. "The kind that make a woman bleed." He paused. "Can I trust your assistance if I do?"

She straightened and looked him dead in the eyes. "For her highness, anything."

***

Litheian ate like a starved dog until her stomach felt ready to tear open. She swiped the rest of the bread and retreated to the closet that he had called her room. She propped the door open for the light and glanced at the furnishings: a low bed, a stool, a small table with a lamp -- she grabbed it and tested the wick. It was old, but the pot was full of oil. She looked around for the flint and saw the chest in the corner -- Adrialsa's, she thought. She shivered but opened it and felt around until she found a striker. It took her four times, but she made the light bloom and barred the door.

In the soft and steady light, the room turned a dull brown, bare of the warming tapestries afforded to the prince's chambers. The walls were solid wood, and she remembered the prince's words, to not do anything rash. She bit her lip. It wouldn't matter if she set the room on fire; the wood meant they were interior walls, not like the external stone walls. She pressed her ear to each side -- left of the entry would be the bathing room, and the far wall, too. But the right wall -- it was flush with the room outside. She had assumed his quarters spanned the width of the long building, like Igandrion's. But the wooden wall meant there was another room, one facing the inner courtyard. And hadn't there been a door nearby his bed?

Litheian pressed her ear to that wall, breathing shallowly, but all she could hear were distant thumps. She bit her lip, then set down the lamp. Slowly she lifted the bar of her door, inching it open. She glanced around the room and stepped quietly toward the left wall. The plain door sat there like an architect's afterthought.

With the practice of a pickpocket she lifted the latch whisper-soft. The door swung open silently, suggesting frequent use, and she flattened herself against the wall to look beyond. At first she could only see open space, but the silence strengthened her and she peered around the frame to face strange wooden steps that curved downward in the air.

She took the steps slow as honey, each foot arched against telltale creaking. She didn't dare to lift her eyes until she reached the cold stone floor, casting her eyes around what was sure to be some sort of storage, with something she could use as a weapon.

Giant windows rose above her crouched form and like a moth she could not look away from the sunlight pouring in. But the light made her visible, so she scuttled back to the wall, only to press against something more giving. In the dim afterglow of the sky the shelves were not themselves inspiring, but stretching above her were honeycomb wells of scrolls and their tags gently swaying in the air.

Unthinking, she stood, taking the nearest slip of paper in hand. Songs of the Dura-Maxt, by Corvin Hesod. She mouthed the sounds, strange on her tongue, tag after tag until she found the poems of Ligthi and she could not resist pulling the crisp scroll from its hole in the wall. Her hands remembered for her, after too many years in the dark, how to undo the knot and weight the tome, to unroll it with gentle fingertips on the table like her older brother had taught her.

In her mind the bushy-tailed fox yelped out laughter in her mother's voice as he once more tricked the earth-gnomes into giving him fire. The jewel-eyed sea maiden blessed the fisherman's son and gave him the seven-pointed shell he needed to rescue his father from the mountain troll. The firebird set free by the shepherd's hand flew like a shooting star about the world to find for itself the tallest tree...

The grind of a bolt yanked her from this web of words. She fumbled to reset the reading tools, tie up the scroll and shove it behind an unsuspecting stool before the latch came up, throwing herself under the table with the heavy chairs like guard dogs around her. Barely breathing against the fire in her air-hungry lungs, she waited.

***

Bethaer swaggered to the double doors to mask the hard beating of his heart. He could feel the heat of the scrap of paper in his jacket like an ember threatening to burn itself out of hiding, but he smiled gamely as his guards nodded to him, waving past the soldiers fresh off morning watch. He made for the unassuming door off to the side, walling off what was left of his second brother's once-vast library. Two of the heir-guard had taken up watch outside, and he nodded approval and went through the door, bolting it behind him.

A rustling sound made him pause, and he gauged the room silently from where he stood. He noticed that his weight-stone was not where it should be. The careless error of a servant, perhaps? But the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Slowly he walked around the airy room, motes of dust rising in the sunbeams that poured through the paned windows. There was no space to hide behind the circular staircase or the walls of scrolls. That left only...

Quietly he bent his knees and looked under the great table. Between the legs of the heavy chairs crouched the princess, eyes shut and hand over her mouth as though she worried she might breathe too loudly. Though still, her body seemed to almost vibrate with the speed of her pulse.

"You can come out now," he said quietly, but she didn't move. Sighing, he stood and said to the air, "You are allowed in here, but it is best if you read upstairs. My men know I use this room and will often seek me here." Hearing no reply, he continued. "I am going upstairs to leave you something by your door. Then I will leave."

He walked up the spiral stairs and through the door, putting the bag of undergarments on the floor in front of her open door. On top of that he placed the small dish of ointment, and in it the scrap of paper he'd received from the apothecary's woman. He paused briefly, wondering if he should read what it said, but shook his head. The message was for the princess alone, and besides, it couldn't be so sensitive to be handed off to him of all people.

Descending the stairs again, the study looked the same. He walked to the table and moved the weight-stone to its position, commenting, "The servants always put everything back in place. You should memorize where things go as well." He heard nothing in response, so left again the way he'd come, locking the door behind him.

Turning to face the smoky hall, he said loudly, "Who wishes to spar with his prince?" A cheer went up as first one man then another rose to the challenge. Bethaer grinned at them, accepting a cup of wine and downing it in quick succession.

An afternoon of training would surely take his mind off the frightened woman locked in his rooms.

***

Litheian waited until the roaring died down before daring to move a muscle. Shakily she climbed out from under the table, her legs numb and heavy as lead. She glanced at the table, where the weight had been moved a few fingers' widths. Was that all it had taken for him to realize she was there? She shuddered.

Climbing the stairs as her legs regained strength, she paused at the top to listen for any noise before slowly opening the door. Inside his bedchamber once more, she saw a pile laid out neatly in front of her room. She picked up the small crock suspiciously, lifting the lid, and a pungent smell met her nose. A small, folded piece of paper lay on top of the smelly stuff, already oily. She unraveled the scrap, finding only a handful of words written in neat, tiny script: go north, under the gatehouse.

She furrowed her brow at this obscure message. Which way was north, and even if she could get there, why under the gatehouse? What did that even mean? Had he written this? Unlikely, when he could speak to her whenever he wished. But who, then? And for what purpose? Her head ached, and she felt unsteady from all the excitement of the day. With one last look at the message, she tore it into pieces and swallowed them, wincing as they went down her throat. Putting down the ointment, she opened the bag, pulling out soft cloths and blushing as she recognized them.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd worn underthings of any kind. Her gown from the night Igandrion abducted her was long gone, and afterward he had only seen fit to throw her cast-offs that even the lowest of servants wouldn't take. It always left her feeling so exposed, with nothing but a single layer of cloth between her body and the rest of the world. Not that it made a difference, with how often and violently Igandrion attacked her.

She shivered at the memories and pushed them down, down into her stomach with the scraps of the useless message she had uselessly swallowed. Igandrion was no more, but this new man, his brother, was still alive, doing and saying things she couldn't fathom. He'd clearly noticed much about her body -- her fresh cuts, her lack of undergarments -- so did he truly have no interest in her? She might yet have luck on her side. Perhaps she wasn't his type, or maybe she was too old for him? He could prefer men or boys instead, or older women.

Or he might simply be repulsed by her bleeding, scrawny, dirty form. She certainly looked and smelled worse than she had before Igandrion's death. Her skin itched to be cleaned; he had even told her she could use the bathing room. It would be such a disservice to these clean clothes to sully them with her filthy skin. She glanced out the shuttered windows, trying to judge how much more daylight was left. Surely she had enough time for a quick bath? He said he bathed with his men; if he were telling the truth, he'd never even know. But if he were lying...

If he were lying then it didn't matter, she decided. He could break down the door to her little room and have his way with her whenever he pleased. What difference did it make if he discovered her bathing or eating or even reading his precious scrolls? If he were going to hurt her anyway, she might as well be clean.

Litheian put her new things into her room and cautiously walked past the giant bed to take a single towel from the pile by the main door. She crossed the room again and paused, ears pricked for any sign of the prince's return. Hearing nothing, she steeled herself and quickly tore off her dress, shoved it into the hole in the wall that he had pointed out, then wrapped the towel around herself and tiptoed her way into the bathing room.

The tile floor made her footsteps echo, and she winced at the noise. Would she be able to hear anyone coming as she bathed? She cast about for something with which to block the door, eyes landing on an empty bucket next to the large tub. She grabbed it and dunked it into the water, lifting the now-heavy thing and placing it in front of the closed door.

Satisfied, she unwound the towel from herself and took a linen cloth from a basket by the wall. She wet it in the lukewarm bathwater, then wiped down her skinny form. She had to change cloths twice, so dirty they became from all the grime she had accumulated in Olandrion's dungeons. But at last she felt clean.

She threw the dirty cloths into an empty basket and climbed into the large tub. The water was a bit too cool for comfort, but she didn't care. She hadn't bathed in years. Litheian sighed and leaned her head back, listening to the water lap at the edges of the tub.

Then she heard another sound, too soft to recognize. She froze and strained to hear, like a deer catching scent of a predator, waiting.

There it was again. Was it... footsteps?

Litheian cowered back, then remembered the heavy pitcher next to the washbasin. Quietly as she could, she clambered out of the tub, feet touching the cold tiles just as the door latch lifted.