Well, I've done it again. I'm… not really sorry, honestly. I found this in a sort of archive of my stories, I haven't seen it in ages, but- well. I think it's time to post this one. I considered adding to it, changing the ending in one way or another, but this story is satisfied with its ending.
A heads up to you guys: this one's going to be intense. It's got some pretty heavy stuff in here, including mention of brainwashing, rape, and torture, though there's nothing explicit. I have it rated T for a reason- I seriously don't think it deserves an M rating. Shoot me a PM if you disagree. You'll probably want to drink a hot chocolate and hug a fluffy creature afterwards, though.
I wish you all the best.
-Alchemyfreak42
~Begin~
We wear the mask that grins and lies
it hides our cheeks and shades our eyes
this debt we pay to human guile
with torn and bleeding heart we smile
and mouths with myriad subtleties.*
He does not feel the cold.
He did, once, but that was long ago and is difficult to recall. That was when he had first come here, before he met Her. She has blessed him so that he no longer feels the cold seeping into his bones or his heart, in order that he may serve her better.
He is pleased, that she would find him important enough to do this.
He lives for her orders, exists so that he may carry out her will- some part of him knows that without her, the animals of the wood would have killed and eaten him long ago. He would not have decayed, though; the Winter is too cold for that.
He has wondered, on occasion, if the Winter will ever end- he thinks that it is not supposed to last quite so long, and should be followed by spring and summer and fall. He thinks that Winter should be winter, filled with warm drinks and ringing laughter rather than icy walks and oppressive silence.
When he thinks thusly, he shakes his head and chastises himself. That is nonsense. Winter is Winter- Winter always has been and always will be, for that is how she wills it. She wills many things, and Wills many others, and he obeys whether she Wills it or wills it, for he is Hers.
In the deep of the night, when he has been gone from her presence for too long, he thinks that it was not always so. He did not always live for her presence, longing to fulfill her will so that she should be pleased with him. He did not always feel honored that he would be the one who could alleviate her wrath or that she would choose him to use for such a purpose. He would have ranted and raved and railed that she would think herself worthy of his allegiance.
These are the dark, miserable thoughts he has in the dead of night, though; by the time morning comes they are long gone from his mind and he is once more eager to please her in any way she will allow.
He only spoke of these midnight thoughts on one occasion, when she asked if he was well. (He had been honored that his well-being would matter to her before he went out on a mission). He had told her that he had had the strange, disturbing thoughts, and she had explained that it is expected to have unhappy thoughts in the dark hours.
She had been gracious in disciplining him that day- he still feels pleased when he thinks that she would personally correct him. Nevertheless, he no longer speaks of such things, for he hates to displease her.
The one thing he has never spoken of, hardly dares think even to himself in those secret hours, is that he does not think she is his queen at all. Something inside him, something that watches all with eagle-sharp eyes as it bides its time, says that while she is not his queen, he does have a King who is coming one day soon. This something murmurs this only on the rarest occasions, emerges just barely from the depths of his mind and only long enough to be perceived. Once its message is delivered, it sinks back to the depths of his mind to resume its wait.
She does not know of this… thing, this voice; he would never betray her trust by acknowledging the traitorous demon in his head. She would not allow him to serve her if she knew of the demon. So he keeps his secret and is allowed to serve as her loyal vassal.
She sends him on missions with her other servants to catch the traitorous animals who wish the Winter to end, though he does not know why. If the Winter has always been and always will be, why does it matter if they wish such a thing? They are fools for thinking it at all, and should be pitied for their ignorance. When he asks why they should be punished rather than pitied, she corrects him with her favored whip and he loves her for it. She tells him that it is not their ignorance they are punished for, but the fact that many of them believe harming her would bring about the end of Winter.
Ah, he thinks, of course. They cannot be allowed to harm her.
He thanks her for the lesson once his sobbing dies down enough to speak.
He loves it when she uses him to expel her wrath, because it means he can do something good for her. She allows him to be the object of her fury for a time as she cuts him with knives or beats him with the whip or humiliates him in any of a dozen ways, and he cries out for her. He has to share this honor with other servants, of course, but he does not like to do so. He wishes to be the only servant she cares for, to bring her pleasure in every way possible.
Every time she takes it upon herself to correct another servant, he wishes it were him. Every time she uses another servant to vent her ire, he twitches in jealousy.
There is one way that she uses him and him alone.
Sometimes she will take him into her chambers and order him to strip down for her to see his body, and will guide his hands along her own. She will slide her hands along his skin, pinching in some places and stroking in others, and he is filled with ecstasy at every touch.
She teaches him how to please her in a myriad of ways, instructs him how to be subservient and pliant to her wishes. She guides him in learning how to read her movements and her gasps, that she does not have to order his every movement.
Those nights, long after he is once more secluded in his chambers, the demon weeps.
One day while he is on a mission, a bit of snow slips from a tree and falls on him.
He blinks and looks up at it, for it has not snowed in several days and there are no animals nearby to knock it down. He is startled to find that there is snow pat-patting to the ground from all the trees he can see. What is this, he wonders.
She is livid when he relays the oddities and whips him until his back is on fire and his voice has gone from the screaming, then throws him aside in her disgust and whips another servant in the same manner, and then another and another and more after that. Two of them do not wake the next day, or ever again.
As snow begins to fall from more trees when he goes on his missions (though never near the castle) she grows ever more furious and whips him more. There are some occasions when other servants must carry him from her presence once she has finished, for he is unable to move.
The demon rejoices and whispers more often.
Soon, it whispers with vicious pleasure, the King will come and destroy her and her Winter.
He never manages to find a voice to tell her these things, though, for by the time the demon grows so bold he has already gone mute with screaming.
She no longer uses him for much at all.
He weeps.
In his head, the demon crows its victory.
One day, when he has been waiting altogether too long (for what, he cannot say- or rather, cannot identify) when she orders him to join ready himself and join her.
He obeys, dressing in the leather armor that has been prepared for him and clasping the fur cloak around his shoulders even if it is altogether too warm. He does not pause to think when it became too warm to use it.
When they leave the palace, he is mounted on the steed she granted him when he first entered her service (when was that, again?). As they move farther from the palace, he is astonished to find that there is remarkably little snow on the ground, which is now covered in bright green grass and a gleaming army.
He does not think it is hers.
This suspicion is confirmed when she orders him, and the procession with them, to attack.
Ah, he realizes. They are not a procession, they are an army.
They are flooding down from the ridge they are on, roaring into battle where the world goes mad.
He has no time to think, for he is dodging and slashing and stabbing as those around him scream and bleed and die. There are centaurs and horses and wolves and dryads, and there is a boy.
He freezes when he sees him, because he is a human boy, another Son of Adam.
He cannot attack this boy.
"Edmund?" The boy says, his voice as filled with awe as his eyes are, and if the boy were not looking at him, he would wonder who the boy is speaking to. As it is, he tilts his head in curiosity and frowns when something occurs to him.
She will kill you, he realizes.
"Edmund, what are you-"
He interrupts the boy by changing direction, turning so that instead of facing the boy he is guarding him, tugging the taller boy with the fair hair away from the thick of the battle. He does not know why he does this- she would be furious if she knew- but he does so anyway.
"Edmund, stop!"
He stops.
"Edmund," The older boy's voice cracks, but he pushes on, "What is going on?"
He begs the boy with his eyes, motions to his throat and shakes his head rapidly to show he cannot speak, then makes a shooing motion with his hands, points desperately toward the woods.
The other boy narrows his eyes and nods slowly. "Only if you come with me. I won't let you go again; we had no idea what happened to you, Edmund."
The boy can't seem to stop saying that name- Edmund- but there is no time to focus on that. She will be wondering where he is soon enough, and he cannot disobey her when she orders him to attack again. His insides clench at the thought- he is sure she will order him to attack this boy, and he does not think he will be able to do it.
He thinks about this for another moment, and then his face hardens. He knows, in the same way he knows that Winter has ended, that he cannot attack this boy.
He cannot disobey an order, either.
He is gripped by impulse, and surges forward to embrace the boy.
Leave, he urges with his eyes and his hands, pushing against the boy, for his voice still does not work. If he could cry out to the boy, he would. Run!
The other boy's eyes are filled with fear and he shakes his head desperately. "No, Edmund- come with me, we can fix whatever she's done to you, please."
He shakes his head, embraces the other boy again.
"Go," he insists, choking. His throat burns on the word, but he forces it out regardless. He can feel her ordering him back already- there isn't enough time! His feet are turning him away, obeying the bidding of his mistress, and he finds himself able to make his voice work once more for this strange boy who he thinks might be a king. "Go!"
And then he is gone, running to his mistress as her magic tugs him to her side once more. The battle continues and he is honored to be her shield, to stand at her side and-
"Edmund!"
-this is wrong, says the demon that he no longer thinks is a demon at all, but he cannot stop and listen to it. His mistress has ordered him to protect her, and he cannot disobey.
"Edmund!"
The shout is louder this time, closer, and he is gripped with terror. She cannot find him! The demon howls, praying to any deity who will hear for the boy's safety.
"Edmund, come back!" The boy calls, and this time it catches her attention; she turns and smiles cruelly at the boy, her eyes flicking down to where he is still guarding her against the enemy troops.
"Be still," she orders, and he stops all motion, freezing in place as she steps forward to slide one arm around him in a mocking embrace. With her other hand she strokes his hair- once silky, it is now crusted with blood and dirt.
He shudders.
She notices his involuntary movement (how could he have even hoped she wouldn't, pressed up against him as she is?) and her fingers clench in his hair until he stills once more. The boy comes into view through the battle, eyes widening as they fall upon him and his mistress. He never wanted the boy to see this.
"Edmund."
He twitches forward (his king is summoning him, says the demon) but his mistress's fingers are claws in his hair and she spits- "Be Still-" and his entire being thrums with the agony of his conflicting orders.
"Isn't this just darling," His mistress says, her voice honey-sweet and poisonous as a viper's bite. "Quite the time to have a lovely family reunion."
The boy's eyes are filled with fury, for his sake he thinks, and he longs to tell the boy to flee while he still can. He cannot speak.
"Let my brother go," The boy says, and the demon whispers that this is correct, it is right, and she will die soon enough. He finds that he rather wants the demon to be correct in this.
"He came to me of his own will," she says, and the demon whispers that he did not, he was tricked, this isn't what he agreed to and by the time he knew anything it was too late, "He is mine."
He wants to shake his head, flee from her- he is not hers, will not be hers, this is his King she is insulting.
"Edmund." The boy says, his voice ringing with command, and he shifts slightly, makes a noise high in the back of his throat even if it is agony to do so, but she is still gripping his hair like a vice.
The boy's gaze softens for a moment, comforting him, and then it is hard and furious and latched onto his mistress.
"Let him go," The boy orders her.
She does not.
The boy shouts and lunges forward; she steps backward with a bark of laughter and he is dragged with her, his face twisting with the pain. He does not know what the boy's plan is- unless the boy intends to run him through, it is not likely he will get in a hit on her.
"Edmund, move!" The boy cries, and Edmund moves.
What?!
"What?!" The Witch shrieks, livid, yanking on his hair so hard tears come to his eyes, but something undefinable changed in that moment when the boy ordered him to move. His mind is not clear, but it is no longer suffocating under a fog of obedience either. He cannot quite act against her- not yet- but he thinks that if something- he does not know what- were to happen, he could defy her.
"Edmund!" The boy shouts, "I told you to move!"
The boy's voice rises until he is nearly bellowing and his body is moving under the new command, yanking free of the hand in his hair toward his new brother-in-arms.
Brother, he thinks, this sounds right. He thanks the demon for the term.
A corner of his mouth quirks upwards as he realizes he is grateful for this boy who ordered him to defy the witch, who is shrieking words he does not understand and bringing down her magic wand to slash at his brother-king.
Unacceptable.
He moves as he has been taught in his lessons: neither too fast nor too slow, but at the precise speed to arrive in his destination at the moment he is to be there.
He arrives in front of his brother-king as the wand comes down, meeting it with his sword in such a way that the wand shatters-
-Peter shouts-
-her face twists in fury-
-the remains of the wand are buried in his gut-
-Edmund collapses.
As he lies helpless on the ground, he hears the shouts of his brother and the witch echoing over the ringing clash of weapons and shields. He wonders if they will finish soon- he is tired and wishes to sleep. He doesn't, though; instead, he stays awake and waits until his brother leans over him.
"Edmund," Peter's voice shakes, "You'll be alright, you're going to be fine, I promise, just stay awake, alright?"
It is a lie, of course. His is a fatal wound, or it would not be from the witch. She always took great pleasure in knowing how to kill those who defied her in any way she wished. The death she has given him is only different in that it was so soon before hers, and that it is a somewhat slow one. It makes sense, if Edmund considers that she undoubtedly expected the battle to last longer. She would want him to suffer through it, he is sure.
He has.
"Stay awake, Edmund," Peter is pleading with him now, choking on his words, "Please, don't go!"
He gazes up at his brother- his brother!- and lifts a shaking hand to brush away the tears. He is glad that he stayed alive long enough to see Peter's face again, even if one side is smeared with blood and all the rest is blotchy from crying. It is good, he thinks, that their sisters are not there to see this.
Peter takes his hand and presses it to his cheek, sobbing.
Edmund smiles wide, the taste of copper thick on his tongue. He is pleased, and grateful, that he was freed before the witch killed him. He is so, so pleased that he has been given the opportunity to see his brother's face one last time, even coated in tears as it is.
He closes his eyes. Goodbye, Peter.
And He said, "Young man, I say to you, arise." – Luke 7:14
~Fin~
*Stanza One of 'We Wear the Mask' by Paul Laurence Dunbar, one of my long-time favorite poems. Here's the entire thing
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
it hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,-
this debt we pay to human guile;
with torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
and mouth with myriad subtleties.
But why should the world be over-wise,
in counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but, Oh great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!