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And immediately she began to plot.
Even in his putty-like state, he noticed her circling Lancelot like a ravenous shark. She never showed it in public, but inprivate she was livid over Arthur’s distraction. He was never fully under her control as long as Lancelot was near.
Though he failed miserably every time, he tried.
He tried to fight her when she took his body, blood and seed. Once or twice, he even got his hands wrapped around her neck, squeezing with all his sapped strength, screaming in the back of his throat with the effort it took, naked and bleeding, still trapped inside of her.
It had been useless, of course. She took her retribution from his flesh, siphoning out his life force until he lost consciousness, amplifying the pain of his wounds until he almost broke his jaw and bit off his tongue from gnashing his teeth so hard. And then she would shove a bit into his mouth, chain him up and use him all over again.
And again. And again.
The more he struggled against her control, the more violent she became. Until she realized—it was useless trying to beat him into submission. Even mind control wasn’t enough.
He would always fight her if Lancelot was within reach. Lancelot was his hope.
So, she set about killing this hope.
Words had come out of Arthur’s mouth that he never intended to say. He’d told Lancelot that he loved her. Chose her. That Lancelot meant nothing to him. Only a knight in his troop.
All the while he stared out from the prison of his own body, behind soulless eyes, at the only thing in the world that made this hell endurable…
Only to have him, along with the rest of Arthur’s men, become the Queen’s henchman.
Her whore.
She made him watch when she took Lancelot to bed. Or had him in her lair. She gagged and bound Arthur and put him ina secret room with notches cut into the wall that provided an unobstructed view of what she did.
His restraints were unnecessary, for she always made certain he was too weak to lift so much as a finger before these “performances,” as she called them, as if he should feel privileged that she went to the trouble of providing him “entertainment.”
He could hear her in his head as his eyes watched unblinkingly each and every act.
See how Lancelot obeys me so beautifully? It’s because he wants it. He loves it.
He has never known a lover’s touch, has he? Never been inside another?
Ah…I can hear those thoughts you try to hide from me, my poor, deluded husband. So, youhavetouched him, after all.
Here? Or perhaps there?
I shall obliterate the memory of your touch with my own. See how he enjoys it so much more?
You could enjoy it too, if you stopped fighting me.
Why do you fight, you stupid man. It is futile, you know. Everything would be so much easier, more pleasant for you, if you simply gave up.
Give up, Arthur.
There is nothing for you to hope for.
Look, he even gave me his heart. Carved it out of his own body, unlike you.
It was your fault I had to tear yours out the hard way. If only you fell under my spell entirely, like a good little king. Fortunately, the witch gave me what I needed to have my way…
See, I kept my end of the bargain. I am letting both of you live.
Aren’t you happy to be alive?
No.
