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“You going to tell me what is?” I say, trying in vain to repress the panic rising as I realized in my haste I’d not asked about the consequences. Knowing Roya’s story had lulled me into complacency.
“Hard to say… Do you have an equally important piece of information to trade?” She said with her head tilted back, massaging her scalp with one of her potions.
“Depends on the effect I suppose,” I say, making my way to the chaise where a patch of shadows appeared to separate my dress from the velvet.
“Well either way it’ll last the rest of your life, so most would say it would be worth a lot… though I suppose you aren’t known for valuing your life very high.” So she’d skipped the pleasantries and small truths I was planning on telling in favor of a larger one. One I’d been hoping to save for later. Perhaps if I played off, its importance I could return to small truths.
“An occupational hazard I’ve been told,” I say flippantly.
“It’s been the contrary in my experience… martyr’s make shitty sell swords,” she began scrubbing her arms, slowing down as the movement drew her chest closer to the surface of the tub. Focus. I needed to focus.
“Why? They’re more likely to face any danger.” I said, swallowing against the collar that seemed to be a little tighter than before.
“And less competent in measuring the danger they’re equipped to survive. It’s the selfish that survive. The ones starving for life who anticipate the minor things that could get them killed. Like dropping their weapon at a fire made with dreadwood for example.”
“Perhaps.” I said, unwilling to give anything away, but filing away the need to research the properties of a dreadwood fire. This keep had to have such things documented, since it was likely in the heart of the forest. Perhaps the keep’s Library would have other information that would fill in the gaps of whatever she might reveal to me.
She rinsed the last lotion from her skin before standing and draining the water.
“Wait!” I cried out, my raw skin cracking now and my pride lessening in yearning for any potions that might help.
“I can smell your blood, you’ll need fresh water so nothing can cause infection. I’ll inform the staff why we had to draw a second bath.”
“…Oh.” was all I could manage at the thoughtfulness. Perhaps it was just another level of the game, she just needed me alive.
“No need to think so hard Nettle, you have information I need. Get those memories ready while we try to get that dress off of you.”
“Wait, we?” I said,
“I can try to just use the shadows if you prefer, but my control of them won’t be as gentle or precise if I’m not also involved.”
She’d already seen me mostly naked and hadn’t mentioned my lack of femininity. Hadn’t sneered or done anything beyond continuing to flirt endlessly. Yet knowing she’d be the one undressing and helping me felt more intimate. But then… I needed her to begin to trust me, had already struck a bargain for that purpose… and perhaps this would speak louder than anything I might reveal in our game of truths. I knew there was no way I’d be able to remove the dress myself, and as I shifted on the chaise, I felt the sting of salt in the wounds she’d smelled.
“Alright then, just… be quick.” I spun around quickly, fighting every instinct to not turn my back on her.
I was relieved by the audible splashing steps she took; it was the first time I’d ever heard her walk. Perhaps this was her way of acknowledging my vulnerability. Or perhaps she was just too tired to stay silent.
As she began tugging on the laces, I felt the telltale cool silk of her shadows slipping between my skin and the fabric, both ruined by misuse. I’d never had to train in fine fabric before and didn’t realize it would chafe to this degree. The shadows acted like a barrier while she slid the fabric down and off of me. She took such care, showing me more tenderness than I’d ever received before. It made me warm, the hatred and anger further retreating leaving warmth and confusion in their wake.
Her hands hovered as I made my way to the full bath, still clothed in her shadow. Despite her hands never making contact I felt especially aware of them, of the pain I’d once experienced from them… of the pleasure they tauntingly promised.
The bath was neither hot nor cold and still she hovered, the shadows still in place while she added what seemed to be lightly milled grain.
“Am I meant to be your meal then?” I said lowering myself into the bath-made stewpot.
“Only if you wish to be.” She said with an expression that sent heat rushing through me. Was she actually interested or just saying what might get me to reveal what she needed.
“I did offer you a feeding… though I’d hope your promise of safety would apply to that.” I said, wondering if perhaps I had created an insinuation where there was none.
“I was talking of another type of feasting, of which I believe you were fully aware. Though I’ll not drain and turn you if that’s what you meant by your facetious pivot.”
Her dark head between my legs. My hands buried in that maddeningly smooth hair bringing her closer to feel what it was to be the meal for an insatiable beast.
I turned redder still, but despite the increased circulation the baths grain water soothed away all previous stinging.
“What bit of information do you think worthy of the oath’s effects? Or am I meant to guess?” I said, continuing to avoid acknowledging the continued offer of pleasure, or the images they inspired.
“Something tells me any information I specifically request will only discourage your open participation.” How did she already know me so well? Was it her time spent in my mind with the dreadlings, or was I simply predictable? She wanted a story, something that could give her insight into what she actually wanted to know, why I was here, who I was, why I wanted to kill her. There was one story that could give insight without revealing who sent me or who I was… it would be vulnerable enough she might not mind the necessary censoring.
