witch captures pretty princess, handsome prince rides to tower. The ending …”
He shifted the blade to his left hand. He stared at her for a moment longer in its reflection.
“It’s always the same.”
His arm snapped. The knife wailed. It quieted with a meaty smacking sound and her shriek of pain. He turned, smiled gently.
“There is a struggle, some brave test for the prince to conquer,” he whispered as he walked over to her. “But in the end, he reaches the top of the tower—” he took the hilt jutting from her bicep, “—he kicks in the door—” he twisted the blade slightly, ignored her snarling, “—and he carries the pretty princess out.”
He drew the blade out slowly, listening to it whine as it was torn from its nice, cozy tower, listening to the flesh protest. He caught his reflection in the steel, saw that his smile had disappeared.
“Always the same,” he said. “The fairy tale is how we tell ugly children to survive. This is why the same stories are told. Through repetition, the child understands.”
He lifted the blade, tapped it lightly on her nose, leaving a tiny red blot upon her purple flesh.
“And we can repeat this story forever.” He slowly slid the blade over, until the tip hovered beneath her eye, a hair’s width from soft, white matter. “The princess can keep going back into the tower until you tell me. Until I know where Jaga is and what you handsome princes want with it.”
Now, he waited. He waited for the fear to creep up on her face. He waited for something he could use. He waited until she finally spoke.
“I have to piss.”
He sighed; mistake. “Just let me—”
She wasn’t making a request. The acrid smell that hit him a moment later confirmed that. He blanched, turned around; bigger mistake.
You’re showing weakness
.
More like disgust
.
You’re turning your back to her. Shall we get back into this? People counting on you and all that
.
Right you are
.
He turned around to face her. Tremendous mistake.
She was sitting there, grinning broadly as the liquid trickled down her chair to stain the hut’s sandy floor. He showed her no disgust, though for how much longer he was hesitant to say. There was something in her grin beyond the subdued hatred, the pleasure in suffering that he had come to expect. There was something in her eyes that was beyond scorn and fury.
Something that made it seem as though she wanted him to smile back.
“What?” she asked.
“You disgust me.”
“Why would a man who asks for piss and blood be surprised at getting piss and blood?”
He blinked, looked down at the stained sand. “I’ve known of your breed’s existence for almost a month now, so if this is a riddle, I don’t feel ashamed saying I don’t get it.”
She smiled; not grinned. “Master Sheraptus said you were stupid.”
“Your master is dead.”
“Master Sheraptus is never wrong,” she said. She looked at him curiously, sizing him up. “But … you’re not stupid.”
“Thank you.”
“But you desperately want to be.”
It was generally agreed by most torturer and interrogator manuals that cryptic musing from one’s victims was generally a poor reaction. He flipped the knife around in his hand, noting that there wasn’t a great deal of blood on the blade.
Possibly because there wasn’t a great deal of blood from her wound.
“It doesn’t work that way,” she grunted, smiling at his recognition. “Cut me however deep you want to. I won’t bleed.”
“You won’t,” he said, forcing his voice cold, trying to force the conversation back into his grip. “Because you’re going to tell me.”
“No.”
No defiance. Only fact. She would not talk. It made him cringe to realize that he believed it as much as she did. It made him cringe again when she noticed this and smiled. Broadly.
“You’re not stupid,” she repeated. “There is a way it is. Everything works as it should. You call it inev … inva …” She
He shifted the blade to his left hand. He stared at her for a moment longer in its reflection.
“It’s always the same.”
His arm snapped. The knife wailed. It quieted with a meaty smacking sound and her shriek of pain. He turned, smiled gently.
“There is a struggle, some brave test for the prince to conquer,” he whispered as he walked over to her. “But in the end, he reaches the top of the tower—” he took the hilt jutting from her bicep, “—he kicks in the door—” he twisted the blade slightly, ignored her snarling, “—and he carries the pretty princess out.”
He drew the blade out slowly, listening to it whine as it was torn from its nice, cozy tower, listening to the flesh protest. He caught his reflection in the steel, saw that his smile had disappeared.
“Always the same,” he said. “The fairy tale is how we tell ugly children to survive. This is why the same stories are told. Through repetition, the child understands.”
He lifted the blade, tapped it lightly on her nose, leaving a tiny red blot upon her purple flesh.
“And we can repeat this story forever.” He slowly slid the blade over, until the tip hovered beneath her eye, a hair’s width from soft, white matter. “The princess can keep going back into the tower until you tell me. Until I know where Jaga is and what you handsome princes want with it.”
Now, he waited. He waited for the fear to creep up on her face. He waited for something he could use. He waited until she finally spoke.
“I have to piss.”
He sighed; mistake. “Just let me—”
She wasn’t making a request. The acrid smell that hit him a moment later confirmed that. He blanched, turned around; bigger mistake.
You’re showing weakness
.
More like disgust
.
You’re turning your back to her. Shall we get back into this? People counting on you and all that
.
Right you are
.
He turned around to face her. Tremendous mistake.
She was sitting there, grinning broadly as the liquid trickled down her chair to stain the hut’s sandy floor. He showed her no disgust, though for how much longer he was hesitant to say. There was something in her grin beyond the subdued hatred, the pleasure in suffering that he had come to expect. There was something in her eyes that was beyond scorn and fury.
Something that made it seem as though she wanted him to smile back.
“What?” she asked.
“You disgust me.”
“Why would a man who asks for piss and blood be surprised at getting piss and blood?”
He blinked, looked down at the stained sand. “I’ve known of your breed’s existence for almost a month now, so if this is a riddle, I don’t feel ashamed saying I don’t get it.”
She smiled; not grinned. “Master Sheraptus said you were stupid.”
“Your master is dead.”
“Master Sheraptus is never wrong,” she said. She looked at him curiously, sizing him up. “But … you’re not stupid.”
“Thank you.”
“But you desperately want to be.”
It was generally agreed by most torturer and interrogator manuals that cryptic musing from one’s victims was generally a poor reaction. He flipped the knife around in his hand, noting that there wasn’t a great deal of blood on the blade.
Possibly because there wasn’t a great deal of blood from her wound.
“It doesn’t work that way,” she grunted, smiling at his recognition. “Cut me however deep you want to. I won’t bleed.”
“You won’t,” he said, forcing his voice cold, trying to force the conversation back into his grip. “Because you’re going to tell me.”
“No.”
No defiance. Only fact. She would not talk. It made him cringe to realize that he believed it as much as she did. It made him cringe again when she noticed this and smiled. Broadly.
“You’re not stupid,” she repeated. “There is a way it is. Everything works as it should. You call it inev … inva …” She
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