Story Warning: This story follows the interactions and the developing relationship between a victim of severe child abuse and a victim of sexual slavery. As such, it contains depictions of and discussions about these subjects, as well as ones concerning dubiously consensual sex, rape, and reproductive abuse. While I would like to provide trigger warnings for every chapter and tell readers which parts to skip, I don't think there's a good way to do so here. These issues are what this story is about, so there is no chapter in this that isn't going to refer to them. As such, this will be the only warning I give. Readers are advised to tread lightly moving forward.
UNWANTED
CHAPTER 1: I WOULD CHANGE IT IF I COULD
On the sixth of February, the people of the Sunlit Empire went into mourning.
It was that way every year. Everyone, from the Goddess-Queen down to the lowest slave, dressed in black clothes. Black ribbons were tied around wrists and necks, black bells were rung in the streets, and black drapes were hung in the place of flags and tapestries. Black candles were lit in windows, where they burned with a cold blue light. In the morning, it was customary for mourners to visit the graves of their dead, while in the evening, it was required for them to gather at the nearest shrine or temple. There, under the sign of a blazing sun, they would sing, weep, and pray. They would give thanks that their ancestors had not died along with the old world. They would praise being born from the new people who had emerged from its ashes.
Not that the old world had burned. It had drowned. According to their sacred stories, the Great Storm had swallowed the world whole. Lands had flooded and fallen apart, cities had crumbled into the seas, and countless lives had been lost. But over the years that the storm had raged, everything had been washed clean. And after that, everything had begun to heal, like a wound after the infection was purged. Even the heart of their goddess had mended, thanks to the balms of time and change.
But for all that she had forgiven them, she remembered the world as it had been centuries ago. She remembered the people they had come from and would not allow them to forget it. For if they forgot, they risked committing the same sins as their predecessors—and if that happened, they would bring pain, despair, and darkness into the world again. They would let it spread until the world was rotted through. No one who read the stories of the world's death and rebirth wanted that.
And if someone ever thought to question this—to wonder if this was truly fair—their elders looked at them solemnly and reminded them of the prince. They showed them pictures of him in the sacred book and read aloud the passages describing his nature to them. And if that did not work, they went on a pilgrimage to the capital, to the palace of the Goddess-Queen herself, so that the children could see what human treachery had brought about.
When they glimpsed the monster born of their beautiful queen, their hearts quailed in their breasts. Their certainty fled. You see now, their elders said on their way back to their manors and farmsteads. He is what the stories said. And what a gentle queen she is, to love him despite it. He is lucky to have her as his mother. As are we.
The doubters, numb, often nodded and asked no more questions. Many of them returned home and became more devout from their journey. No more heresies fell from their lips or crossed their thoughts, which was important when worshiping a goddess who could read one's mind. And on the sixth of February, they gathered with the others and remembered why all of this was necessary.
And on that day, the prince secluded himself as much as his position would allow, for he knew he wasn't wanted. He had learned from a very young age that the day of his birth was nothing to celebrate.
Even so, God-Prince Mew II was still a prince. He had obligations to fulfill, no matter what his own wishes were. So he dressed in his finest black clothes—ones tailored to fit his awkward human frame (making ones for his true form was a challenge no one had taken on in a decade)—and went to join his mother for the ceremonies of the day. The morning was filled with speeches from the Sunkissed—the highest honored priests and priestesses of her temples—along with sorrowful songs with slow, steady beats that pounded against his breastbone like waves. Then there was a feast which lasted for much of the day, with heavily salted foods and wine too dry to quench one's thirst.
There was also a play—a dramatization of the events leading up to the Great Storm and those that had followed—which he was careful to look at, but not watch. He let the blues, greens, and greys of the costumes blur together and focused on the sound of his own breathing, rather than what the actors were saying. That worked through most of it, though he felt it whenever someone looked his way and then, just as quickly, looked away. Soon the miasma of emotions filling the hall made it hard to breathe. It was like trying to breathe underwater, and billions of people had learned firsthand how futile that was.
Soon it will be over, he told himself. Soon you may leave.
When the play finished, the court turned their attention to the queen, hoping to speak to her and offer their condolences. When they did, his mother looked at him. Her sky-blue eyes gleamed as she nodded to him. Dismissed, he stood and left the dais. The walk across the hall took an eternity. A thousand eyes followed his progress and his joints ached from sitting in a rigid chair for hours. As he passed through the curtained doorway, though, the feeling of being watched fell away. With a sigh, he focused his psychic energies, imagined his quarters on the far side of the palace, and teleported away.
He reappeared in his reception hall, which was much smaller and darker than the one he had left. There were torches lining the walls and a round table in the center, which held the same black candles that burned in every window tonight. But they always burned here and the fires in the torches burned blue, too. He was used to them and even took some comfort in their familiarity. And no one else was here, which was even better. He could be alone for the rest of the night.
He went through another door and another few rooms from there, until he reached his bedchamber. There were more candles burning on his table, though they were well away from the stack of books he'd been going over yesterday. The candles were starting to sputter, though, having burned low throughout the day and not been replaced. That wasn't unusual—the servants didn't like coming this far into his quarters to clean and replenish his supplies. Their reluctance would be even stronger today. But that was fine. He could manage on his own.
Wondering if he should read some more or turn in for the night, he shed his robe. He was working on the buttons of his shirt when something moved behind him.
He froze. It sounded like it had come from the bed. Was—was someone in here with him? He hadn't sensed anyone. He should have, unless—a chill ran down his spine—unless it was a dark pokémon. That had happened a few times over the years, when someone had wanted to rid the world of Queen Mew's child. The attempts had never gotten far and the culprits had met terrible fates, but as long as there was the chance of success, someone might try again.
Taking a breath, he turned around. He was relieved to find that he'd guessed wrong—but only a little relieved. This wasn't much better.
There was a strange woman sitting on his bed. A noblewoman, was his first thought, given her poise. Her back was perfectly straight, her ankles were crossed together, and her hands were folded neatly in her lap. Her eyes were downcast, as was proper given their difference in status. She was wearing a long-sleeved black dress, not unlike the ones he'd seen on the other ladies of the court today.
As he continued to stare, though, he realized there were details that didn't fit. He couldn't find any indication of her house on her clothes—no insignia or even a pattern that would refer to one. Why would that be? If a house was trying to gain favor with him (or more likely, his mother), they would want him to know who he had to thank for the offering.
That was the way it had been in the past. The first time it had happened, he'd been bewildered. By the sixth time, he'd run out of patience for it. He'd sent each of the women away, a little more firmly each time, until the families had stopped trying. His mother had been less easy to deter, though. Perhaps this was another of her attempts.
There was only one way to find out. "Did my mother send you?" he asked her.
She looked up at him. Her eyes were a dark color which he guessed was brown. The blue light from the candles made it hard to tell. "She did," she said.
Her voice sounded calm—too calm. He was used to women, especially maidens, fearing him. Why didn't she? And why couldn't he sense anything from her? Why—
Then he caught a glimpse of her neck and his mouth went dry. There was something there: a black mark on her pale skin. It might not be what you think it is, he told himself, taking a step closer. Then she shifted her hands and he saw the bracelets she wore: rings of black iron, sanded smooth and polished until they gleamed like glass. They were embedded with blue crystals, which glowed from the current of energy running through them. The rings were also, notably, too small for her to slip over her hands, unless she was willing to part with her thumbs to do so.
His heart hammered at the sight of those bindings. For a moment, he couldn't focus, but then he forced himself to take a slow breath. "For what purpose?" he asked her. He was fairly certain he knew why she was here, but given what she was, his thoughts kept shying away from his suspicions.
"To be your companion," she told him.
"For the night?" he asked, praying that was all this was.
"For however long you wish," she replied.
His stomach churned. "I see. Forgive me, but I—I need to speak with my mother."
As he turned to leave, she asked, "Would you like me to make myself ready for when you return?"
It took him a second to realize what she meant. "No," he said, more sharply than he'd intended. "That will not be necessary. Merely…make yourself comfortable."
"As you wish," she said, but remained as perfectly poised as she was.
At a loss for what else to say, he left his bedchamber and teleported back to the curtained doorway to the grand hall. He hesitated before going through—no one was expecting him back (no one would welcome him back)—but he forced himself to keep going. He immediately felt a thousand eyes snap to him when he did. As tense as he already was, the stares only made the muscles in his shoulders and back coil painfully tight. He was near to shaking when he reached his mother.
She was smiling. When he was younger, he would have felt relieved. Now there was a sour feeling in his gut instead. "Mother," he choked out. "May I speak with you?"
"Of course. Is something troubling you?" she asked.
"May we speak alone?" he pressed, aware of how many people were watching them.
She sighed. "Very well. I will return shortly," she told her court. She walked over to one of the adjoining tearooms, which served as a war-room most days.
Today it was only a tearoom, with delicate cups and a kettle arranged on its central table. The queen reached out a hand and, with a twist of her fingers, traced and illuminated the ivy pattern on the sides of the kettle with psychic energy. Within a few moments, steam was rising from the spout.
"Tea?" she asked, setting the tea leaves—which had red petals mixed among them—into the water to steep.
He wanted to say no, remembering other times when they'd shared cups of tea. He knew better than to say that, though. "Yes, mother. Thank you."
By the time the tea was prepared and poured, Mewtwo felt his bravery—or maybe it had been his outrage—beginning to falter. He should have demanded answers outside, before the fire in his belly had had a chance to die down. He cradled his teacup in his hands and took a breath. "Mother—"
"You are here about the girl, I take it?"
"Yes," he said, ice filling his stomach. "She said you sent her to me."
"So I did. Did you not find her agreeable?"
How could he? She was a stranger to him. And that wasn't the point anyway. "I do not see the relevance—"
"You don't? I spent a great deal of time and effort picking her out for you. If you dislike her, then it was a waste of a birthday gift."
He nearly cracked the cup in his hands by squeezing it so hard. "A gift?" he echoed.
"Yes. You've always been a moody child, but you've seemed especially dour as of late. I thought some company would do you good."
"So you bought me a slave?" he spat, anger rekindling his courage as he remembered the tattoo on the woman's neck.
She lifted an eyebrow. "You rejected every other companion I offered you. What other choice did I have?"
"You had the choice to not buy her!"
"I did her a kindness by doing so," the queen said, unconcerned. "Leaving her where she was wouldn't have worked out well for her."
That gave Mewtwo pause. "What do you mean?"
"She was drawing the wrong sort of attention. She will have a chance to start over here, if you give her one. But if you don't like her, then by all means, discard her like you did the others."
"I did not discard them. I let them go home. I would like to do the same with this one. Surely you could free her and give her enough to make her way?" Nothing would be easier for a queen.
"I could. Perhaps I even will, someday. For now, though, she will attend to you." When he opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off with an impatient gesture. "It need not be in a sexual way. I purchased her from the Tower of Dusk. I assume you know of it?"
The name rang a distant, black bell in his mind. Run by the Lady Agatha, it produced the most refined—and expensive—slaves in the empire. They were trained in multiple languages, poetry, music, and dance, among other subjects. Even more notable, though, was that Agatha only took in and trained children with Mew's gifts. Due to this, several noble houses had turned to Dusk over the years, selecting the most promising slaves as breeding partners for their second- or third-born children. Supposedly, more than one weakening bloodline had been restored through those unions. Perhaps it shouldn't have surprised him that his mother would try the same thing when her other options had failed.
His mother, seeing that he understood, went on, "Then you know she must have many talents. Perhaps she will surprise you with what she has to offer. You can ask her to brief you on her specialties if you like, though I'm sure it would be more interesting to discover them yourself."
He shook his head. "Why did you select her?" he asked.
"I already said why. I thought that you would like her."
He wondered what she imagined he would like in a partner. Her previous choices had been so eclectic that he hadn't ever seen a pattern among them. "That cannot be all there is to it," he argued.
She lifted an eyebrow. "Can I not do something nice for my son?"
There is always something you want in return, he thought. "You would not choose just any woman from the Tower for me," he said.
"No. I have always been careful in who I've selected for you, despite what you may think. This girl is no exception to that." She picked up her cup and took another sip of her tea. "Is there something that you're concerned about? If it's her health, you needn't be. Our own physician examined her. Unless there's someone else you don't wish to offend?"
He grimaced. "You know there is not."
"I wish it were otherwise. It would be a comfort if someone was willing to have you. Doubly so if she was carrying a child or two. Our bloodline has never been more precarious than it is now," she told him, as if he did not know.
"Am I not a sufficient heir?" he asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice this time.
She gave him a pitying smile. "Even if you had expressed an interest in ruling, which you have not, our people would never accept you. So we need an alternative. And since I cannot provide one—" At this, her smile vanished. "I need you to. If you give me an heir of the blood—an heir who I can teach to rule, who the people could love—then you can hide away with your books all you like. You would never be troubled for another thing again."
Glass cracked in his hands and red tea bled between his fingers. As his mother vanished the broken cup with an exasperated look, he stared at her, thinking, That's it then. This wasn't about him. This was about what she wanted, like it always was.
"Oh yes," he hissed, clenching his hands into fists. "I could give you that so easily. All I would need to do is force myself on her," he said, his voice rising with each word.
His mother was unmoved. "Don't you think you are being overdramatic?" she asked.
"She is a slave. She cannot say no to me, which means she cannot say yes," he said, strengthened by his conviction.
"Did you read that in one of your books?" she asked acidly.
"The old world had a great many discussions of the ethics of slavery, or the lack thereof."
"And yet there were still slaves, even to the end. At least this one will be well cared for. She will never want for anything and you will never share her with anyone. Do you think that would have been the case elsewhere?"
"…Perhaps not," he conceded. "But that is no excuse—"
"So you'd rather she be in someone else's hands, no matter how cruel they might be, so your own hands will still be clean. How noble of you."
He felt the cuts on his hands stinging. "Maybe not noble. But maybe someone else would be better for her than me."
"Yes, with my talent in premonition, I might have missed that possibility," the queen said dryly. "Don't delude yourself. Until I came along, no one was offering to rescue her. I did, thinking that you would treat her well." Her voice chilled a few degrees as she added, "But perhaps I was wrong."
He took a step back. "How can you suggest that I would hurt—"
"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm merely remembering what happened to the last slave you cared for."
He should have been ready for it, but her words knocked the breath out of him all the same. "I—I never meant for—" He didn't want to think about that. He couldn't have a panic attack here, not in front of her—
Suddenly she was in front of him. She laid a hand on his cheek. He couldn't stop himself from flinching. "Oh, my son, I know," she said, her voice warmer now. "But I think it's time you learned from your mistakes. Do right by this one. Take her in. I'm certain she'd be receptive to some kindness. She's probably had so little of it in her life." Then she pulled her hand back and smiled. "Perhaps she will even come to love you for it. It's not impossible that someone would."
Shame burned in his belly. He dropped his gaze to floor. "I won't—"
"You will," his mother said firmly. "You have wormed your way out of your responsibilities long enough. Did you think there wouldn't be consequences?"
"And if I refuse?" he asked, but his voice was weak and wearied. She'd already won and they both knew it.
Her smile wasn't pleasant. "Who would take your leavings?"
How could she say that? She was his mother. "I won't rape her," he said, recoiling.
"But who would believe that you didn't?"
And there it was. He could protest his innocence as much as he liked, but no one would believe him. They would expect him to do what monsters did. After all, what was one more crime after destroying the world? It wouldn't even be a crime, by most people's reckoning. Other, better men wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of a slave. No, they would expect him to use her. They might even wonder what was wrong with her if he didn't. Either way, she would be ruined.
As he stood there, wordless and hurting, his mother finished her tea. Her cup clinked on its plate as she set it down. "I'll check in on you both to see how things are going," she said, seeming satisfied with his silence. "I'll be looking forward to good news."
As she turned to leave, he forced himself to say something, though the word felt like it was being ripped from his throat. "Wait!"
"Nothing you say will move me on this," she said, her voice tinged with irritation—and danger. Do not press me further.
"I know." The sun rose in the east and set in the west, and nothing could change his mother's mind when she decided on something. "But…why did you put those bindings on her? Was it to keep her from running away?" They had been used that way before.
"Do you anticipate her wanting to?" his mother asked, sounding unconcerned.
"I doubt she would want to stay with me, if given the choice," he admitted.
She turned back to him, giving him a faintly amused look. "Do you think that matters?" When he stared at her, she added, "Don't forget that this is what she was trained for. Maybe she can't say yes to you in the way you want, but she won't say no, either." With that, she turned and left him behind.
It took him a long time to leave that room, and even longer before he returned to his bedchamber to face the woman again. She hadn't moved in that time, but her eyes looked tired and that she shivered when the door opened. Feeling the chill in the air, he cursed himself for being so thoughtless and went to light a fire in the hearth.
When the wood caught, the warm glow from the flames illuminated her in a way the cool candlelight had not. He took a few moments to study her. After all, they would be seeing a lot of each other in the months or years to come, until he found a way to free her or caved to his mother's demands. Both options were unlikely. He did not want to become the monster the stories made him out to be, and he knew the consequences of trying to take what didn't belong to him. No matter what his mother had said about this slave being his, he knew who held her contract. It wasn't as if he could buy out her debt, either—not when his stipend came from his mother's vault. She would laugh in his face if he tried.
This woman wasn't the type his mother preferred. Her long hair was black, not red or gold, with shorter locks covering her ears and falling across her forehead. Her skin was pale, though whether that was from fear or not, he couldn't tell. The angles of her jaw, cheeks, and eyes were sharp. She had thin lips and a small, upturned nose. There was none of the roundness in her face that he was used to seeing in court, nor any hint of the mirth his mother favored. She was also slender, with little in the way of curves. That surprised him most of all. He would have thought his mother would pick a woman with wide hips, considering her desire to use her for breeding. Then again, what did she care if this slave struggled with or survived childbirth? As long as she got the heir she wanted, what did the health of its mother matter?
The thought depressed him. The woman, whoever she was, deserved more than this. "I am sorry this happened to you," he told her, his heart heavy in his chest. "If I could make it right, I would." He couldn't remember a time when he'd made things better for anyone, though.
When the woman didn't respond to that, he tried again with something easier. "May I ask your name?"
She didn't say anything for a moment, but then she said, "Sabrina."
"Sabrina," he repeated. The etymology of most names had been washed away at the turning of the world, but he thought he knew this one: Sabrina, the girl who drowned in a river. "Do you have a surname?" he asked. "Do you have a family I could—"
"No," she answered. He waited for her to continue, but she didn't elaborate.
He folded his hands between his knees. "Alright." He tried to meet her eyes, but she kept her own downcast. He went on anyway. "Then Sabrina, please believe me when I say that I will never hurt you. I will never touch you in any wrong way, nor touch you at all if it can be avoided. My mother meant for you to—to please me, but I did not ask her for you. I would have told her no if she had," he said. Then he grimaced, because that had sounded worse than he'd meant it to. "Forgive me. Perhaps you are—relieved—to be here. For all I know, this is better than where you were before."
She didn't confirm or deny it, but she seemed to be listening to him. She'd gone very still. Best to just say his piece. "I imagine you will want to avoid me." No one would blame her for that. "There are rooms here I do not use, so we can set some up for you. Whatever you need to be comfortable, I will arrange for you to have. If you would rather not discuss those things with me, you can write a list—you can write, I trust?" She nodded. "Good. As for meals—I expect my mother would like for you to join me for them, but you do not have to. They are served three times a day, but the servants often leave extra, in case you want something in between. I usually give them ten minutes to set up and clear out before I eat, so you can take that time to pick whatever you like and return to your rooms, if that is what you'd prefer. As for tea…." She was looking at him now. "Yes?"
"I was informed of the schedule," she told him, "and of the conduct that is expected of me."
"Oh." He wanted to ask what that was, precisely, but maybe now wasn't the best time. "What else were you told?" he asked.
"Mostly that, but my guide showed me around your quarters as well." She glanced away, then continued, "I was also shown the way to the reception hall, in case you or the queen needed me, and to the infirmary, in case I…took ill," she said the last two words slowly, in a tone of that suggested she was repeating them verbatim.
"…I see. Are you feeling well now?" he asked.
She hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Do you wish to—"
"That is not what I meant," he interrupted, his gut wrenching at the suggestion. "I only wanted to know if you were tired or hungry or…." Or scared, he thought. But it would be foolish to ask her that, not to mention pointless. Of course she was scared, no matter how well she was hiding it.
"I…have not eaten since this morning," she admitted. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble…?"
"No, of course not," he said, relieved to have something he could help her with. "Is there any food that you particularly like?"
"Anything is fine," she said, lowering her gaze.
Of course. She wouldn't want to impose on him, even for something like this. "I will see what the servants brought."
There were a few platters of rice, oysters, fish, and seaweed in his dining room. There was also a bottle of wine, which he decided to bring along after a moment of indecision. Perhaps it would help her feel better. He levitated the meal back to his room, cleared the books and candles from his table, and laid everything out for her. After a moment, she stood and walked over, then lowered herself into the chair when he gestured for her to.
When he noticed her staring at the bottle of wine, he felt his face burn. What must that look like to her? "I wasn't certain of what you wanted to drink, but there is also water," he said, summoning a pitcher for her. Then he backed away and sat on his bed. It was disconcerting to find the blanket already warm beneath him.
It took her a minute to start eating, as if she'd been waiting for him to tell her it was alright first (maybe she had been. He hoped not). When she did, she ate in slow, dainty bites. Watching her, he debated whether he should leave her to it. If she'd spent half the day without food, she must want to fill her stomach faster than that? If his being here was hindering her…but what if she reacted poorly to the food? He decided to stay, just in case. He didn't know what else to do with himself anyway.
When she was done, some color had returned to her face. "I'm finished," she said. "There is some left for you, if you're hungry."
"That is quite alright. Have some later if you wish."
She turned to him. Her eyes, he suddenly realized, weren't brown at all. They were red, like the skin of a pomegranate or a fading coal. "So I will spend the night here," she said, with no hint of a question in her voice.
"Given that this is the only room with a bed, I think that would be best. I will find somewhere else to sleep," he assured her.
She blinked. "You're not staying?"
He tried to think of a better response to that than, Would you like me to? since there was no safe way for her to answer that. "I sleep very poorly," he said instead. It wasn't a lie. "I doubt you would find sharing a bed with me enjoyable."
"If you change your mind—" she began, but when he shook his head, she asked, "Will there be anything you require of me tonight, my prince?"
"No," he told her, feeling that same, twisting feeling in his stomach again. Nor will there ever be. "All I ask is that you get some rest. I am sure you've had a long day."
Even as he said that, though, something she'd said niggled at him, like a sliver beneath his fingernail. It was a small thing, compared to the assumptions she kept making about what he wanted from her, but he thought it should still be addressed. "About my title. You needn't use it when we're alone like this." It couldn't be avoided at court, but if she was constantly thinking about his status, he doubted she would ever allow herself to feel at ease here. Hearing her call him her prince also made him feel deeply uncomfortable.
"Then what should I call you?" she asked.
"You can use my given name. Mewtwo." This time he could tell that she was puzzled. It was the most emotion he'd seen on her face throughout their conversation. "When I was younger, there was…a child, who did not understand that 'Mew II' was pronounced 'Mew the Second.' So she called me Mewtwo," he explained, managing, somehow, to keep his voice steady as he did. "The name stuck among those I would consider friends." He had a few, despite what his mother thought.
Sabrina considered that, then turned to look at the fire. "I will keep that in mind, my prince."
He felt something shrivel up inside of him. He took a step back, then bowed his head and said, "Good night, Sabrina."
"Good night," she returned.
He left her be. He found himself in his library not long after. He spent some time crouched by the hearth, adding wood and stirring up the embers so the fire would restart. His joints ached as he stood up afterwards. Confident that the blaze would keep going now, he gratefully sank into the nearest armchair and summoned a blanket. He wrapped it around himself, but even with it and the fire, it was hard to get rid of the chill gripping him—or of the sensation that he was slowly but surely sinking into black waters.
What were you expecting? a small, sneering part of his mind asked. A smile? A thank you for leaving her be? She owes you nothing for that. And why shouldn't she hate you as the others do? She has more reason than any of them to feel that way. She has every reason to believe that you are a monster. She wouldn't even be wrong. It's disgusting of you to be thinking this way.
He stared at the fire, trying to calm himself by watching the dancing of the flames. But his thoughts kept circling, kept sinking into even darker reaches of his mind, until he felt like there was no way he could get back out. Eventually, he put his face in his hands, shivering and wishing that he could curl up and hide—but there was no way for him to hide from himself.
I'm sorry. I would change it if I could, he thought, remembering a thousand faces, including those of the mourners, his mother, and especially the woman now sleeping in his bed.
But today was the sixth of February, and if today had ever taught him anything, it was that there was nothing in this world that he could change.