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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.

He stood before her, clad entirely in black: "his signature." This time, however, we wore a belt and a sheath – certainly the sheath for the sword in his hand.

In her world, a sword was an item of decoration. From the way he held the sword, despite the way its highly-polished silver blade shone in the mysterious non-light of the chamber, this sword was meant for her – and not as a decorative gift.

"Tana has prepared you quite nicely," he said as he stepped toward her, nary a sound coming from the heels of his boots as he slowly maneuvered around the many torture devices. "She has cleaned you quite well, and she even brushed your hair for you. I should thank her for that later, because it makes you look just as beautiful as on that sweet, sweet night. But she has already left the chamber so that you and I can share some quality time together."

That last suggestion caused the princess to instinctively fight for freedom, and he laughed openly, mockingly, as he continued to approach her, his eyes drinking in every minute movement of her young, unblemished, beautiful, royal, feminine body. "If only you could see yourself!!! If only you could also enjoy the absolute, exquisite beauty of your struggles!!! But you soon will, Princess, you soon will!"

The promise was so illogical that she ceased her struggles, breathing heavily from her short-lived efforts as her mind tried to wrap itself around the promise. The tears had ended and her hair – for the most part – was now out of her field of vision, providing her with a clear view of the sword's sharp blade as the betrayer moved ever closer to her. Fear welled up within her again, squeezing painfully around her heart as if the betrayer had somehow managed to reach inside her chest and wring her heart mercilessly, and she fought anew against the bonds with increased vigor.

It was absolutely clear that she would not be given the opportunity to use her body to extend her life. Instead, she would be killed swiftly, almost instantly, which truly made no sense whatsoever on a political level. Yet she would much rather die right here, right now, than debase herself any further by pleading for her life. After all, a princess should never be reduced to such a lowly act.

"Have you heard the old legends about the Sword of Anzul?" She did not respond, continuing her attempts to break free of the shackles even as they bit harshly into the soft, tender skin at her ankles and wrists. "This is that very sword, which cost me a great number of men to locate and then claim from its holder. I have used it once already, just once, and it definitely had its legendary and most amazing effect… upon your father."

The princess unleashed her fury at that moment, her infuriated words overpowering the sound of the shackles and chains. Her instinctive fear was instantly converted to an anger even more vile than the abominable scent which had awakened her to the present predicament. Yet, he seemed entirely unfazed by her reaction, as if this were an expected response, as if he saw this reaction almost every day from countless people in the same position as she was in now. He continued to slowly make his way toward her, holding the sword upward to look fondly upon the expertly-sculpted, lovingly-polished blade while still obviously keeping an evil-intentioned eye upon her exposed, flailing, well-restrained, very-feminine body.

"The legends…" he began. "Surely, you have heard at least one of the old bards relate the tale of the Sword of Anzul. Your father had quite a penchant for bards, particularly the older and more-traveled ones, and certainly at least one of them must have known of the legends.

"Or perhaps," he continued as he finally stopped in front of her, the long blade of the sword flashing prominently between their faces, "you must have at some time read of the legends. After all, your father had quite a love of writings, and he was rumored to have the largest collection of writings of all kinds on this side of the Grand Lake. I know you were taught to read and to write; certainly you will remember those legends now."

She instantly ceased her struggles, and her body slammed back into the wall, her head filled with pain at the violent act as memories suddenly filled her head: memories of her father holding her in his lap, reading to her from one of the many manuscripts; memories of a teacher diplomatically chastising her for not producing the proper curve at the base of a letter; memories of sneaking into the Royal Library and attempting to read numerous books even though she at that time lacked the vocabulary to comprehend the ideas contained within; memories of young Asern talking to her about the Sword of Anzul based upon several legends he had discovered in one of the dusty old manuscripts in a long-forgotten chamber of the Royal Library.

"It is rumored to be able to sever a body with no ill effects, other than the actual dismemberment itself," Asern had told her. She had felt revolted at the very thought of seeing someone dismembered, and had instantly cast away any notion that he could be a potential suitor.

"I see that you remember something of the legends," the betrayer observed with an audible sneer. Stepping back, he brought the sword horizontal to the floor, its impossibly-sharp tip dangerously close to her soft, unprotected throat. "How does it feel to be in the presence of an object of legend, Princess? How do you think it will feel to be sliced apart by this object of legend?"

Far behind him, the heavy brown metal door opened, and the same young woman as before strolled into the chamber, easily closing the door behind her as if it weighed no more than a single feather. She was not completely naked, wearing only a thin black collar around her neck, but she seemed amazingly comfortable with being naked in the presence of a man.

…a man with obvious evil intentions.

"Princess," he said softly, his eyes boring into her and holding her gaze captive, "since I doubt you were properly introduced previously, allow me to introduce you to Tana, my loving slave and partner. Despite whatever I may have said to you in the past, Princess, especially on that night in your chambers, only Tana has truly captivated my heart. You were simply a pawn to allow me to earn your father's trust… at least long enough to allow me to test the power of the Sword of Anzul upon him before he was killed in a manner befitting of a king."

She spat at him, hitting him just below the right eye. He may have indeed anticipated such an act of defiance from her, but the arm holding the sword wavered just enough for the impossibly-sharp tip to just slightly nick the defenseless skin at the front of her vulnerable throat.

"Very well, Princess. Enough play. Now, the torture begins."

Despite herself, a fearful sob escaped her lips, making him smile. "But, it will not be torture in a traditional sense. Such conventional thinking would not be proper for a princess, would it?" He at last lowered the sword and sheathed it. "I believe that for such a beautiful example of royalty, there should be some pleasure involved. What do you think, Tana?"

"I agree, Sir," the red-haired woman answered with an accent borne only by those from the northernmost villages of the known world, in a land so cold and inhospitable that no king had ever dared to send an army to conquer those few people. "And," she added with an audible smile, "it would be my pleasure to ensure her pleasure, Sir."

"That would be most fitting, as it seems that the princess is no longer very comfortable being naked in my presence. However, before I leave you two to become much better acquainted, there is one thing which truly must be done. Tana, please assist."

"Yes, Sir." Tana finally stood at the betrayer's side. "How do you propose we do this, Sir?"

"I was thinking," he said, his eyes continuing to hold her gaze captive, "that perhaps the princess would be more comfortable in a horizontal position. But, my apologies, Princess... I do not have any white silk sheets for you to lay on this time, but perhaps a particular tongue will feel just as nice and pleasant to you."

At that moment, the princess felt as if she was a bystander to her own body. Magically, the metal cuffs surrounding her ankles and her wrists opened without any physical intervention from either of the other persons in the chamber. She could not comprehend what was happening, but attempted to make use of the lack of bonds to attempt to escape... but her body would not, could not move. Out of frustration more than anything else, tears dribbled from her eyes and began to carve a trail down each cheek.

Tana stepped forward and lowered the princess' arms with ease. "She trembles greatly, Sir. Your magic apparently scares her, Sir."

Then the princess truly sobbed, as Tana gently squeezed her right breast, the touch as cold as the northernmost reaches of the known world. The tears began to flow in earnest as she was fondled for only the second time in her life... and not by a man she thought she loved.

...not by a man.

"I believe you are scaring the princess," the betrayer noted with a smile visible over Tana's shoulder. "Please continue."

With her arms at her sides, her feet spread wide, and absolutely nothing physically holding her to the cold stone wall, the princess was immobilized, both by magic and by fear. With a strange young northern woman touching her intimately, she sobbed again, more tears pouring forth from her eyes, and memories of the betrayer touching her similarly on that life-changing night so long ago as the moonlight filtered through the curtains and fell upon them both.

The northerner's touch was not at all the same; there was simply no comparison. It was softer, gentler, colder. Having lived in that forsaken northern territory, Tana's blood must certainly be as cold as the snow and the ice in her native land.

Yet the northerner's touch nonetheless felt good, even better than the betrayer's touch when they had shared her moonlit silk-covered bed several months before.

Still, she sobbed. The betrayer had preyed upon and stolen her innocence, and produced what essentially amounted to false memories; the northerner was corrupting those very memories.

"She is too frightened to enjoy this, Sir," Tana said softly, then leaned close to place a soft, cold kiss upon the quivering chin. "She is definitely in conflict with herself, Sir."

"Then she shall eventually learn to crave these wonderful moments," he responded softly as he stepped up behind his slave. As the princess' mind was tortured by the northerner's gentle, sweet touches and kisses, she found her head unable to turn away and her eyes unable to close or even blink, thus forcing her to watch as the betrayer caressed the bare shoulders of his slave kissed the top of the red-clad head.

She was unsure which was more revolting: the sight of the betrayer granting his kind, true love upon the foreigner, or the pleasure being forced upon her own unwilling body.

Yet, her own body was betraying her. She could feel the wetness forming and pooling inside her, much as it had in those final moments before he had undressed her in the light of the moon. He had touched her breasts and kissed her face much as the northerner was doing to her now, and then the dam within her had finally cracked, allowing the first trickle of desire to meander down a thigh.

…much as it was now.

Then, she was a willing participant, tricked into following her foolish heart. Now, she was a very unwilling participant, forced into allowing this obscene situation to occur.

No princess should ever suffer such a fate, she thought grimly, angrily, yet her sobs were quieter and fewer now as her body's desire began to trick down both her legs.

"Now," the betrayer commanded, "make her more comfortable."

He turned and slowly walked away, and the young red-haired woman took the princess' hand. Finding she could now slowly walk, she followed the cold female through the maze of torture equipment, able only to move as the foreigner apparently deemed appropriate – she could not run like a scared mouse, nor could she stop and hold her ground like a stubborn mule. And when she finally was permitted to stop, the princess stood beside a tall, wide table made of the finest, heaviest wood she had ever seen, wood with a dark red-tinted color, vastly unlike wood from any tree known within the borders of her father's expansive territory.