A/N: This chapter was finished much sooner than expected, so please don't think all updates will come this fast. This chapter is a series of moments throughout Elizabeth's time at Comstock House-the next chapter will take place after her reunion with Booker.

Chapter 3

"Hello, dear."

Water. She could hear it, she could taste it, somewhere behind her, always out of reach. It was Ruth—it was always Ruth—who walked in front of her with a jug and glass. She smiled sweetly. It made Elizabeth's stomach turn, but she kept her gaze to the liquid, memorizing its motion as it tumbled from the larger container to the smaller. The sloshing was a lovelier music than she'd ever heard before.

"Please," she croaked. She couldn't even recognize her own voice, as dried out as her throat was.

"Well of course!" Elizabeth's heart thudded in something near excitement when the glass was brought to her lips, and she eagerly tipped her head back—"But first, you must repent."

"For…what?" She strained forward out of the chair, but the straps held firm and the glass was pulled out of reach. No, please. How long had it been since her last drink? Two days? She wasn't sure, she spent so much time sleeping now to forget.

"My dear, if you can't even name your sin, your penance won't be genuine," Ruth chided, taking a sip herself. Elizabeth yearned for a pair of scissors.

"I-I'm sorry, for escaping the tower, please, it was a mistake!"

Ruth scoffed derisively. "You were kidnapped, Elizabeth. You can't truly believe you'd ever be capable of escaping all on your own, do you?"

"The Vox, I helped them, I'm sorry!" And God, she meant it, too. All the bloodshed throughout the city, because Elizabeth and Booker had helped armed the rebels. It was supposed to be justice, it was supposed to be romantic. But the children of Shantytown were still starving, and now the Founders' children were bleeding. Columbia simply wasn't meant to have a happy ending.

"Oh, dear, you have a knack for being self-involved." Ruth tutted and pressed the glass against Elizabeth's forehead, bringing a whimper out of the teenager. "You really think those undesirables are a threat? Our forces will have them put down soon enough. Whatever trouble they've caused, they would have accomplished without you."

Elizabeth wondered if the nurse had left the mansion recently—surely she wouldn't be so indifferent if she'd actually seen the riots and corpses and looted homes. The glass was cold and wet against her brow and she shot out her tongue, hoping to sweep up some of the condensation, but it was pulled away all too quickly. Booker can shoot her, I won't mind—Booker. That was what Ruth was after. Elizabeth curled her lip and steeled herself. They wouldn't let her die, she was too precious to the prophet. Water would be given well before then, whether she repented or not.

"Booker…the false shepherd," she murmured softly, noting the way Ruth perked up.

"Yes, now you've got it," the nurse agreed encouragingly. She took a hearty gulp from the glass and topped it off from the jug.

Elizabeth nearly lost her nerve at that, but pulled the strength from somewhere to push on. "I put hands on him, and…and he put hands on me, in Emporia." How long ago had that been? Days bled together here, much like in the tower.

"We all succumb to sin," Ruth replied solemnly. "What matters is we seek forgiveness, and grow stronger so as to avoid it."

"Yes, I…I succumbed."

"And are you sorry, dear?"

"O-Oh yes, of course!" Elizabeth's words were fervent, much to Ruth's liking. "And I'll be sure to make it up to him when I can."

Ruth shot her a quizzical look. "Make it up to who, Elizabeth?"

"Why, the false shepherd," Elizabeth answered innocently, cocking her head to the side. "You see, every moment spent in this hellhole is a moment I could be spending in service to him." Ruth's jaw went slack and her grip on the jug loosened, spilling water across the floor tiles. "I only hope he can forgive me—but I'm sure he will, he's quite generous like that. He'll probably put hands on me right here, in this chair, to make up for lost time." The jug fell to the floor with a crash, spurring Elizabeth on. "Right after putting a bullet in Father Comstock's head."

The glass shattered when it cracked against her jaw, and more glass than water ended up in her mouth. Ruth dropped the remaining shards and backed away in horror—but Elizabeth knew she herself was the source of the nurse's fear, not the prophet. No, Ruth wouldn't be punished for hurting her—no one else ever was. She spit out the pieces of glass and winced as her tongue ran over the cuts. Perhaps it was a mistake, but it was the first sliver of control she'd felt since being brought here. Even restrained with no tears to access, Elizabeth had managed to strike fear into her jailer, and for now, that was sweeter than water.

"Hello, dear."

Dr. Powell would be a handsome man if there wasn't a cruel quality in his eyes. Unfortunately, with the mask he insisted on wearing nearly all the time—as if her obstinacy was some contagious disease—his eyes were all Elizabeth ever saw. He strolled into her cell, rapping on the bars to rouse her from a fitful slumber. She rolled over to glare at him.

"And how are we feeling today?" The corners of his eyes creased—her displeasure must have made him smile. She was sure he and Ruth got along famously.

Elizabeth flung the thin blanket off her in distaste. Her sense of modesty was not what it once was, and she cared little if he saw her in her undergarments. For all she knew, he'd been one of her many observers in the tower. She gestured between her legs and, when there was no response, sighed impatiently. "My monthly course has started."

"Right on schedule, then, you've always been quite punctual in that regard." His knowledge of her menstruation cycle made her recoil in disgust. "The prophet will be pleased. I'll send for fresh underclothes and your morning lesson will begin on schedule."

Dr. Powell made a swift exit—he was obviously eager to deliver the news. Elizabeth curled up on her mat and pondered the tackiness between her thighs. She ought to be glad, shouldn't she? A pregnancy and the resulting baby would only complicate things. Worse, if her abilities were hereditary…the child would suffer the same upbringing she had. Elizabeth inhaled deeply, wrapping her arms around herself. This is for the best. I can't be a mother, even if Comstock let me. Not now. The things he'd do to it…

She pictured a baby with Booker's eyes and fought back tears. God, she missed him. He…wouldn't know what to say at all, really, but his presence would be a comfort. A child would be conclusive proof of their night together, proof that existed outside her memories and missing hymen—it would absolutely infuriate Comstock. The seed of the prophet impregnated by the seed of the false shepherd. How poetic.

"Hello, dear."

Another cell, another window. For once Elizabeth missed the chair. She'd been forced to her knees for what felt like hours, and the bindings at her wrists that attached to the stake in front of her made any other position hard to hold past a few minutes. They probably expected her to be praying. She glared up at the glass, mustering up all the spite she could in Father Comstock's direction.

"I trust you've spent this time reaching out for the Holy Spirit."

"It's a bit hard to focus on my devotions when it's so cold," Elizabeth retorted. Her jacket and corset had been stripped from her before the bindings were applied, as if they were determined to destroy any lasting sense of shame she had. "Surely my father can't bear that his child was left half-naked?"

"No father can bear his child's pain—the child must grow to bear it on their own." The door opened and a Founder soldier walked in, a coil of leather in hand. Elizabeth inhaled sharply. They wouldn't. It's to scare me, nothing more. "Penance is due from all of us, in one way or another. You must answer for your wrongdoings, Elizabeth, and yet you've resisted all our efforts to help you."

She glowered at the soldier, whose helmet blocked most of his face from view. Even if he wasn't leering at her, his presence was affront enough. "Ruth absolved me of my sins. I'm not to blame for leaving the tower, or arming the Vox."

"You confessed to your transgression in Emporia," Comstock cut to the point impatiently. "But confession is not enough, remorse must be shown. Unless…" He leaned in close to the glass, scrutinizing her. Even with a drastically diminished sense of propriety, his gaze made her tuck her elbows close to her chest and hide what she could. "…you claim that you were forced?"

Elizabeth recalled the way Booker had hesitated between her legs, the way she'd bucked up against him begging him to hurry. "No." She couldn't fight a smirk.

Comstock's expression didn't change. "I thought not. DeWitt is a monster, beyond what you can see. I know him, the things he's done. The women and children he's slain, the villages sacked. His bloodlust will never be sated…but he's no rapist."

She couldn't picture Booker ever harming a defenseless woman or child, but…Wounded Knee. Something truly terrible must have happened there to haunt him the way it did. Anger flashed over her—where the hell was he? It had been at least one month, but not quite two. Without a calendar her periods were the only way of keeping track of the time. He's coming. Whatever is stalling him, he's taking care of it. He'll be here. Soon.

"Do you repent, child?"

Elizabeth raised her head, swallowing hard. The cuts from Ruth's "disciplining" still burned at her mouth—it had been weeks since then, but they just wouldn't heal. That victory had been short-lived; they'd made her wait another full day before giving her water. It wasn't enough to wash the taste of blood out of her mouth. She shot another furtive look at the whip and decided the words wouldn't matter as much as the pain. "Yes," she murmured softly.

Crack.

The force knocked the air out of her body, and for a brief moment there was no sensation. When it came she cried out, and tears welled up in her eyes. Nothing had ever hurt like that before. "I said…yes!" Elizabeth screamed, wiggling away from the solder while stretching out the welt. His boot rammed into her side and she grew dizzy.

"And that was the first step," said Comstock coolly. She could barely make out his face through the tears, but couldn't see any of the love for her he professed to have. "Pain can be a fine instructor."

Elizabeth did her best to stay still and breathe through the stinging from her left hip to the right side of her waist. Don't move, don't cry. Booker, think of him. She shut her eyes and pictured him kneeling next to her, his face full of empathy, just like after Daisy. What would he say now? Just hold on.

"You are the miracle child, Elizabeth," Comstock preached through the microphone. The speakers rang so loudly it felt as though the room was shaking. "Your mother carried you for only seven days, you are God's blessing unto Columbia."

"Liar," she hissed through her teeth. "You stole me—"

Crack.

Elizabeth fell to her side, her arms twisting awkwardly against the bindings. Booker held her head in his lap and stroked her hair silently. She couldn't stifle a sob.

"Below the mid-back," the prophet ordered sharply. "You are the miracle child. All of Columbia will look to you for guidance when you take up my mantle. You will lead them against the Sodom Below." Elizabeth chewed her lip and focused on the imagined feel of Booker's fingers running down her face. "You will learn from this…indiscretion, but they must never know it even happened. And you will rise above the licentious inclination of your sex!"

Booker was humming the hymn they'd played in Shantytown. It sounded much sadder coming from him. Elizabeth wept into his knee as another lash landed on her exposed side, wrapping around from just under her breast to the back of her hip. She curled her legs up, making herself small, and earned another kick for her trouble. Make him stop, Booker, she pleaded internally, wrists chafing from the rope around them.

Just hold on.

"Hello, dear."

Shit. Elizabeth could have sworn she'd woken up early, giving her some semblance of privacy. The blanket covered her and she faced the wall, leading Ruth to believe she was still asleep.

"Rise and shine, Elizabeth," she cooed, approaching the mat where she slept. Elizabeth yanked her hand out from between her legs and rolled over, pulling at the blanket to ensure everything was covered. "Are you ill? You're sweating quite a bit, and you look flushed."

Elizabeth could feel her heart pounding in her chest and a throbbing further down. She'd been so close, too. "J-just hot, is all," she excused herself meekly.

Ruth cocked an eyebrow and set down the basin full of water she'd been carrying. "Then perhaps a blanket isn't the best idea," she replied half-accusingly. "I've brought you some fresh underclothes, hand yours over. There's time for a bath before your morning lesson."

Her thighs slipped against each other under the blanket and Elizabeth stretched exaggeratedly, hoping to conceal her attempts at drying them against the fabric. Ruth tapped her foot impatiently. Elizabeth shimmied out of the garments, realizing too late there was nothing she could do about the smell. She thrust them into Ruth's arms and pushed past her to get to the basin. The nurse, usually so quick to start a new errand, remained uncharacteristically still. Elizabeth took the rag on the side of the basin and soaked it thoroughly, hoping Ruth would leave the cell before discovering her latest "sin".

"You…" Ruth broke off and gazed at the naked girl in front of her with a horrified expression.

Hmm, if she recognizes the scent, she must not be so pure after all, Elizabeth thought scornfully, sliding the cloth up and down her arms and staring a hole into the ground. Self-pleasure was never mentioned in any book she'd read, and she could only assume it lay far outside the realm of socially acceptable practices. Elizabeth finally raised her head and shot an unruly look in the nurse's direction, silently daring her to make a comment.

"Just…get ready," Ruth snapped, flinging the fresh clothing to the ground and holding their soiled counterparts far from herself.

There would be a punishment, Elizabeth didn't doubt that. She traced a finger down her abdomen along the latest addition. That lashing had felt particularly brutal against the softer flesh of her stomach, and it had only been given yesterday. She hoped they'd wait a few days before "chastising" her again.

A few days? The rag fell from her hands with a plop in the lukewarm water. Elizabeth curled over the side of the basin, letting the cool metal press against her brow. I'm not giving up on him, I just…Booker was coming, of course he was. But three periods and come and gone, and she was tired of going to bed every night disappointed. He'll be here…soon. Just...probably not today.

It felt an awful lot like she was betraying him.

She took up the rag again and pressed it to her stomach, wincing at the pressure on the bruises and welts. She closed her eyes and let Booker take it from her, cleaning her in tender circles. The kiss he pressed between her shoulder blades felt real enough, and Elizabeth could practically hear him breathe her name in her ear. Her fingers—his fingers—returned to the apex of her thighs and she sighed, perhaps too loudly. It wasn't enough, never enough, but...it gave her something to hold on to.

Booker came to her that night, as he did most nights. It always felt so real, but Elizabeth always knew it was a dream, even as it happened. She didn't mind. This time he was at her cell, yanking at the bars that served as her door. She ran to meet him, free of any pain from exhaustion, or hunger, or penance. Her arms were at his neck and his were at her thighs, plucking her up from the ground and carrying her to the nearest wall, just like that morning in Emporia after she'd shaved his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he muttered between hasty kisses on her neck. "I should have been here—"

"You are here," Elizabeth moaned, ripping at his clothes. Somehow the garments simply disappeared, without him ever lifting his arms. When she looked down, hers were missing, too. She enjoyed the contrast of the cool brick at her back and the fiery warmth she was holding onto, both between her arms and between her legs. There was no ache from the whippings or the beatings—they'd never happened in the first place. There was only him. "Booker, please."

His face was buried between her shoulder and neck, his hands roaming everywhere and leaving hot trails on her skin. She clung to his frame and shivered as his touch grew colder. The stubble at her throat became coarser, longer, and wounds she wasn't supposed to have opened at his fingertips. Elizabeth tried to squirm out of the embrace, but he had her pinned against the wall. A deep chuckle vibrated against her skin before Zachary Comstock raised his head from her throat to smile at her.

"Hello, dear."