ragnanivalkyrie | and i run from wolves

and i run from wolves

The Valentinian stronghold falls before her in degrees. Gwendolyn allows her troops free reign along the lower levels and storms the upper floors on her own, spear cutting through the enemy soldiers like a sickle through wheat even as her wings bear her aloft, out of the reach of their swords. A few curse her before they die, blood rattling in their throats. She knows what they call her. Odin's Witch, the King's claw, unsheathed, his vengeance wreaked upon all those who would oppose Ragnanival's dominion.

It's quiet now as she walks through the hall of the topmost level, listening to the creak of old wood overhead. Her hands are bloody, and copper stains the edges of her armor, pool in the footprints she leaves behind. Father would be proud, she thinks, and allows herself a moment of satisfaction before pushing open the final door at the end of the corridor.

The room that awaits her gives her pause-- it might have been a noble's dining room once, one that seems to have been converted to a common area for the soldiers. Tattered banners hang high on the walls, and long tables and benches are pushed to the sides, a few dragged to the center to form a ragged circle, something like a makeshift arena. Gwendolyn takes two steps forward before stiffening, instinctively raising her spear. She'd heard-- something. A ragged edge of breath, perhaps, or the rustle of fur. Someone else is here.

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Antonio doesn't know how long he's been here. He's long since lost track of time. After all, all of the days blend into one another. Morning just means that he's being kicked awake or being told that he gets to wake someone up with a pleasant "surprise". What little food he gets is table scraps and halfway through the day, there's always someone or something for him to fight. A dog, some poor prisoner, one of the soldiers who fancies having a go at a real, live werewolf. It's his lot in life, apparently. He can still dimly remember a time before, when he actually had a life that wasn't an endless cycle of sleep, fight, eat, over and over and over again.

He can't count the number of times he's wished that he had full control of himself. If they didn't have a collar around his neck, he could tear them apart or at least die trying. Instead all he has is a filthy corner, a bed of dirty straw, and chains when they're not making him fight. Today had been different, though. He's listened to the sounds of cursing, the clash of metal on metal that carries distantly through the corridors. Someone finally caught up with them.

Antonio is grimly satisfied by the thought. At least they're all going to die. And if the mysterious invaders kill him, so much the better, as far as he's concerned. He waits, ears straining to try and pick out the footsteps that come down the corridor - determined and steadfast. Someone who knows what they're doing. He shrinks back into his corner and waits, eyes dull and staring as she finally enters the hall. He sucks in a rush of breath as he takes her in. She's powerful - but to a street rat, almost anyone in armor and carrying a weapon is powerful. He's heard rumors, of course. As much as he tried to ignore his masters when they weren't beating him, he still caught murmurs - "Odin's Witch".

Maybe this is her.

He shifts his weight and drags himself forward into the light, moving in way that is very much more animal than human. He's shaky, favoring one of his forelegs with a limp. The last fight had almost shattered bone and they won't let him shift. Not often, anyway. He's a large wolf, covered in mottled brown-grey fur and he's clearly been neglected. He's hopelessly thin and his eyes are a bit dull, even if there's a spark of intelligence and animation still flickering back there somewhere.

Antonio is stopped short by the chain and collar around his neck, the cold metal biting into his flesh - it's always too tight, always choking - and he sways on his feet, staring at Gwendolyn. His tail his down, ears cocked forward - and then he draws back a slow, limping step, lips rolling back from his teeth in a low, warning growl.

Part of him wants her to kill him. Put him out of his misery. The other part wants desperately to live and he's afraid.

Movement, out of the corner of her eye, and Gwendolyn whirls to level her spear at-- a bedraggled wolf, limping toward her. Caught by surprise, she cocks her head, studying it even as her shoulders tense in expectation of an attack. It's big, far larger than the usual beasts she saw in the forest, and a dull glint of metal reveals itself to be a control collar around its neck. Could this one be...?

As the wolf makes its unsteady way out into the light, she realizes that she can practically count its ribs through the pelt of its coat. The creature had clearly been through hard times, all skin and bones as it limps along on three legs, swaying like a stiff breeze might knock it over.

Pity is a sudden, poisonous swell in her heart, a sharp ache in her chest. You are too soft, her sister had once chided her, and now that Griselda is dead, Gwendolyn is left alone to bear the weight of her legacy in battle. She had sworn upon her honor to clear this fortress of Father's enemies and leave a mountain of corpses behind to warn those that might oppose Odin. She cannot afford weakness now. And yet-- the wolf has reached the end of its chain, staring at her with pale eyes. Its low growl fills the room. And yet, it's helpless, as helpless as any creature that might have cowered and begged for its life before her.

Gwendolyn doesn't realize she's made a decision until she's already in motion. Two swift steps forward, and she brings the flat of her spear around in a wide arc, a blow meant to unbalance and stun, not kill, intending to knock the the creature down before she drives the spear point down into the ground, its sharp edge cracking the control collar around wolf's neck barely a hairs breadth from its throat.

"Your Highness!"

Running footsteps echo down the hall as her troops belatedly catch up to their captain. At the sight of her, spear brandished, standing over a fallen foe, there's an sudden, palpable spike of tension, weapons raised, the clatter of swords drawn in anticipation of another enemy-- until Gwendolyn throws out an arm, motioning them down.

"Lower your weapons. This one is my prisoner."

Her first reaction isn't completely expected. She doesn't immediately try to kill him. He's reasonably sure almost anyone else would have, but he's perversely grateful for however many more moments of life he can wring out of himself. For all of Antonio's faults and failings (of which he is acutely aware), he possesses a stubborn determination to survive. It's probably why he's lasted as long as he has. Despite what the murderous scum had thrown at him, he'd managed to live. Even if he had had to kill to do it.

He's not proud of that.

Of course, when she does react, he doesn't have much of a chance. If he were completely healthy and not an exhausted, beaten down wreck, he might have had a chance to dodge or counter-attack or do something. As it is, he jsut draws back a step or two with a yelp of surprise before the flat of the spear comes around and knocks him sprawling, stunned. Pain blossoms and it's a depressingly familiar feeling. He gasps, tongue lolling as he fights to get his wind back. He knows he doesn't have time, though. She's going to end him - and why shouldn't she? He's just a mangy dog. A wolf.

Antonio is surprised when the tip doesn't bite through his flesh. There's no pain and then oblivion. In fact, there's just pain and sound and the sudden sensation of being able to breathe easier. The collar is gone and he suddenly feels in control of himself again. Like he's had his legs chained together and now he's able to run. He rolls over, form twisting and changing. He's only distantly listening to the clatter of boots and the ring of weapons being drawn. Instead he's trying to get himself back to a form he hasn't worn in what feels like months.

By the time Gwendolyn has finished speak, there's a naked man curled up on the stone floor, gasping for breath. His hair is long and ragged, beard unkempt. There are scars here and there - evidence of violence in his past - and still-healing bruises, colored and ugly yellow-purple, on his sides, along with dozens of small cuts and scrapes. He favors his left arm, holding it close against his chest. After a long moment, Antonio scrambles back,away from the pointed weapons, eyes darting from soldier to soldier and then to Gwendolyn. Despite the change, he still looks - and acts - like more of an animal than a person, as if he has to be ready to run or fight at a moment's notice.

He's afraid, chest rising and falling as he takes rapid, quick breaths.

How long has it been since he was able to use his voice? It comes out as a rasp, as if he has to figure out how to make it work again.

"Don't kill me."

He feels pathetic. He's almost begging. But Antonio wants to survive. She said "prisoner", but he has no idea what that means. What if she just wants to kill him later? What if he justends up like this all over again?

Edited (sorry for the late edit wanted to add a couple lines. ) 2016-12-14 23:10 (UTC)

Gwendolyn straightens up, eyeing the ragged man who had, just mere seconds ago, been a ragged wolf. A were, then, just as she'd guessed, frightened and begging for mercy. This much she would grant him.

"Gather our dead," she instructs Sieg, her second-in-command, who'd come running up the steps not ten seconds earlier to come to a skidding halt, dropping to one knee at her side. "And--" a jerk of her chin to indicate the man in the corner, "--bring him in."

On her command, two knights in heavy armor exchange glances before begin to move toward Antonio, each with a hand on their weapon as they approach.

"Your Highness... are you certain?" Sieg is careful to keep his expression neutral, but there's an undercurrent of barely repressed disapproval at her choice-- Ragnanival rarely brings in prisoners, and not without good reason. An exception is certainly not to be made for some dirty, half dead lycan with no hostage or ransom value whatsoever, in fact, no value at all.

"I've made my decision," she replies coldly, leaving no room for questioning. Sieg merely bows his head in acquiescence before moving away, leaving Gwendolyn alone to grapple internally with her regrets. This was a fool's choice, would reflect poorly on her, and she already knows it. What would she do with the creature after bringing it back to the castle? There are a few weres in the castle guard, she knows, and a few more among the servants, but they were all thoroughly vetted, well trained, and collared, not some feral unknown from outside of the kingdom, starved and battle-scarred. But even so, it's too late now to rescind her decision-- her own honor would not permit it.

Antonio's gaze flickers between the two soldiers approaching him and he tenses up, sucking in his breath with a 'hiss'. He's prepared to be beaten again; struck until he's unconscious or simply hit for the crime of being a fraction too slow for his new captors. But he's going to live, isn't he? Isn't that what he wants? Then again, these people don't seem to agree with their leader. He can pick up on that. Not like most people enjoy his kind. They call them dangerous and bloodthirsty. Barbarians. They're able to be trained, but they're still different.

He still tries to force himself to relax when the two guards pick him up by his arms. He sways on his feet, suppressing a whimper of pain as one jolts his damaged arm. It'll heal, it's just going to take a bit of time. He steadies himself (or maybe it's the fact that there's an iron grip on each arm) and allows himself to be led. Even if he weren't exhausted, starving, and injured, he doesn't think he could actually fight his way out of this. Nor does he particularly want to. He has nothing to lose and the animal part of his brain is singing to him of survival.

As he's led out, his eyes fall on Gwen and he meets her gaze. In that brief moment before he's finally hustled away he mumbles, "Thank you-"

An uncertain future awaits him. Are they just going to kill him? Or is he going to end up as another entertaining, chained beast?

Thank you. Gwendolyn stiffens ever so slightly in surprise, even as the were is whisked away. One of the knights standing beside her bristles indignantly at the prospect of some damn dog daring to speak to the Princess, but she... she can hardly even remember the last time someone had thanked her, truly and honestly. Not even Father.

She finds herself dwelling on his words after the fact, on the odd pulse of some unnameable emotion they conjure beneath her breastbone, like the flutter of wings. But despite that, Gwendolyn doesn't see or think much on the were again until they reach the cloud-capped castle of the capital. She had already made her report before the throne, and soldiers are bringing forth the tally of plundered goods and valuables to present to the king. That's when she sees him-- being dragged along on a choke chain, arms chained behind his back, and the tell-tale mark of whip wheals across his back, to all evidence from the coiled bullwhip hanging off the belt of the overseer holding the end of the leash. At the very least, he looked like he'd been fed, no longer as starveling skinny as when she'd first discovered him, but that was little consolation as Antonio is dragged before Odin himself and presented to the king.

"A lycan slave, captured from the enemy. Fit for the mines or the pit-- as you can see," the overseer jerks the chain to force him to turn and reveal the many scars and cuts over his body, "this one has proven to have a fighting spirit. Bet gold on his victory, and I suspect you'll not be disappointed."

For all that he was still alive, Antonio wasn't sure that his deliverance was that much of an improvement. True, they fed him with more regularity and with better food than table-scraps, but he was still a lycanthrope and they still thought of him as barely above an animal. He wasn't kicked as much or beaten simply for not moving quickly enough, but they did not treat him with any sort of love. He was still whipped when he failed to satisfy. From one cage to another. This one just has more disciplined taskmasters. The journey back to the capital is mostly uneventful and Antonio is thankful to actually be left alone for the most part. He can sleep and none of the soldiers seem inclined to use him for anything but the target of scorn.

Mostly he thinks about the valkyrie that came striding into the great hall and who spared his life with a few words. He wonders if she actually thinks about him or if he's just another tally on a long list of items and things taken from an enemy. That hurts a little. He doesn't like thinking of himself as a thing, but when everyone around you treats you like livestock (at best), it tends to seep into your thoughts and your manner. Especially when there's an iron collar on your neck and your arms are manacled.

he doesn't see her again until he's presented to his new "owner". The king of a land that he's only heard talk of. A part of him - the part that keeps the thinking, human part alive - is sardonically amused that he's getting a chance to meet someone so powerful. The other part is terrified and ready to fight or flee, given the chance. He's back to being a chained beast and he resents it. He's not quite as beaten down as the last time Gwendolyn saw him. He's more alert, eyes a bit brighter - rest and sleep have done some good on him. He's still a slave, though, and he knows it. Even if there's resentment hidden somewhere.

Antonio slumps onto his knees as he's shoved forward and doesn't look up. Rulers don't like it when slaves look at them, he's discovered. Instead his gaze wanders - and then snaps up when he spots Gwendolyn standing off to one side. He stares at her openly, curious and perhaps a touch resentful and maybe grateful. He's not sure what he feels. His overseer, of course, is not amused, and a command is hissed at him - "Don't stare at your betters-!"

He gets a cuff to the side of the head as a reward for that and he shrinks down with a low huff of breath, acting like a kicked, reprimanded dog. That's what he is, isn't he?

"Hold." Without thinking, Gwendolyn strides forward, gray eyes gone cold with anger. The mines? The pit? This is not what she had intended when she had brought him in as a prisoner. None of this had been approved by her, so why...? "You'll do no such thing."

The overseer cringes away instinctively at the sight of her rage, sweeping a deep bow with trembling limbs.

"Your Highness, I meant no insult. This beast... I didn't realize, I-- what would you have of him?"

The question catches her off guard, any reply she might have made dying away on her tongue. She'd not thought this through-- and only then does Odin look up from his grand throne, eyes dark with contempt and irritation.

"Gwendolyn, cease your foolishness at once. Your lack of respect is unsightly." His sharp gaze swings from his daughter to the slavemaster before him, and his eyes narrow. "And you, overseer... why would you bring this mongrel before me? Have him taken away."

Biting her lip, Gwendolyn kneels immediately, preparing to receive her punishment as the overseer stammers some frightened apology and is bustled away by the knights.

...

The overseer drags Antonio off... but only to bring him to a lavish set of rooms, furnished, it seems, for royalty. An enormous plush bed draped in velvet occupies the center of the chamber, next to a finely carved wooden screen and a vanity foiled in gold. An enormous chandelier dripping in crystal and precious metals hangs from the ceiling. But for all that opulence, there's something grandly, intimidatingly impersonal about the entire setup, not a single personal touch in sight-- except a wreath of blue and pink feathers, hung on one corner of the bed. He's chained to a small, delicate-looking table of wood and marble, next to a matching chair, and then left there.

Not half an hour later, Gwendolyn strides in, a high flush of anger and humiliation on her cheeks, smarting from her father's reproach. She had been too lenient. Too soft. And to rectify her mistake, Father had said, she would need to to rid herself of the creature or be responsible for his care and incorporate him into her own retinue-- and to see it done by her own two hands.

Humiliating. She, a princess, expected to play the butcher or the nursemaid to some lowly were. Well, it's obvious which is the easier option. She's not expecting to see Antonio already in her chambers and stops short immediately at the sight of him, eyes narrowing as her mouth tightens into a hard line.

Antonio keeps his head down throughout the exchange. He doesn't have anything to say and even if he did, they'd probably just beat him if he decided to bring it up. Instead he watches and listens, trying to figure out what they mean to do to him or with him. The mines? Back into the fighting pits until his luck runs out and he ends up bleeding to death in the sand? He doesn't get to listen for too long, though. Within moments he's being hustled out and taken down several corridors, being cuffed with a whip or hand if he slows down too much or trips over his own feet. They leave stinging marks and bruises, but they'll heal.

The chambers are impressive. Much richer and elaborate than anywhere else he's ever been before and it takes his breath away for a long moment. He's never had this much space, even to share with others, and it's overwhelming in its opulence. In a thousand years, he'd never have dreamed of owning even one piece of the wealth located in this room. When he's chained and left, he settles in the chair to wait, leaning forward to rest his head on the table and to try and think.

On the upshot, maybe they won't murder him here. His blood would stain the floor. There's a cheery though. After a few more minutes of turbulent thoughts, he drops off into a doze, jerking back to wakefulness when determined, angry footsteps come echoing down the corridor. He hastily scrambles out of the chair as the door opens and he settles cross-legged onto the floor as best he can with his hands manacled behind him. He's also thankful that they've at least given him trousers and a pair of shoes. Better than being dragged around naked.

Antonio stares. So - these are her chambers? That makes... well. Some sense. She's the one who spoke up for him - twice. Of course, she doesn't look that happy to see him. He returns her gaze with cool interest, a hint of nervousness and fear in his face. The tip of his tongue works nervously over dry lips and then he dips his head in a bow.

"Your... Highness. I - thank you. Again. That's twice you've spoken for me."

His voice is still a bit of rasp, low and hushed, as if he's wary of being overheard. And he's taking a bit of a chance, speaking before being spoken to. He half expects a blow for that (or at least a reprimand). Not that he can go anywhere. He doesn't have much play with the chain connecting him to the table. At least the collar doesn't choke him like the other one did.

She had been struggling with a decision-- whether to cut her losses, forget honor, and rid herself of the proof of, as Father had put it, her "act of fool's mercy." The choice that he himself is pushing her toward. It would have been easy enough-- one thrust with the spear, and no one to question her or bring the matter up again. The other option is to swallow her pride, and-- do what with the were? She doesn't know.

But Gwendolyn had somehow forgotten that there was a man and a will beneath the chains. She blinks at Antonio when he speaks, and for a moment, her expression wavers. Anger, with a hint of violence, shades into surprise and then again to uncertainty before she looks away, hands tightening around her spear. There was something utterly disarming about being thanked, a feeling that is equal parts unfamiliar and warm in her chest. Again. Twice now, she'd intervened, and not by his choice. No, none of this situation was of his making, and while Gwendolyn doesn't like the direction her thoughts are turning, she knows now that she will not take the coward's route.

"You needn't thank me. I've not yet decided your fate."

This time, when Gwendolyn looks him over, it's to gauge the extent of his injuries. She remembers the wolf's limping gait at their first meeting, the tremble of his limbs and the way the collar had cut into his throat. The troops are not known for their tender mercies, so how many of his wounds remain to be seen to? A half-dead slave would be of no use to her, and she knows her orders. Any tending would be by her own hands, or none.

Barely audibly, all but under her breath: "What am I to do with you?"

He can see all of the emotions that play over her features and he knows that he's still walking a very thin line between being allowed to live or simply disposed of so that someone can save themselves time and effort. He shrinks back, fingers clenching against his palms. Not for the first time he wishes that he at least had his hands free, but they wouldn't trust him like that. They think he'd try to get out of his collar and find a way out (or murder them all in their beds). They're not entirely wrong. He'd like to escape. He'd like to have his own life to live again, even if he sometimes feels as if he can't remember what that felt like. His expression darkens just a touch and he glances away apologetically, shoulders hunched.

He acts like a dog that's been scolded.

"I - apologize. For getting ahead of myself."

His jaw clenches and then relaxes as he trembles and finally settles himself back against the leg of the table. He wants to panic. The room feels smaller than it has any right to and maybe it's because of how none of this is really in his control. He relies entirely on her for his future. His body is still covered in scrapes and bruises and scars and the more recent welts from the lash of the whip can just be seen creeping over his shoulders and toward his collar bone.

They haven't spared him the lash, even if they don't go out of their way to make his life completely miserable.

Her murmured, breathy question drifts to his ears and he straightens, pushing himself up to his knees, but not quite to his feet, "Please-!" There's a note of fear in his voice, but he holds himself steady. He needs to find a way through to her. He needs to keep himself alive.

"Don't send me into the mines! I'll - I don't want that. I - please."

What he wants doesn't matter. He knows that. And again, he half expects to be struck for his insolence. That's what the others would have done. He's already flinching in anticipation of a blow from a hand or perhaps the haft of her spear.

In a way, Gwendolyn misses being back on the battlefield. Not the gore and devastation, but the clarity of war, a time where she knew her strength and her place and doing the right thing was as simple as cutting down the enemy in a single stroke. Watching the lycan cringe as if struck, before rising to his knees to plead for his life-- it brings her no satisfaction, just an odd, sharp pang beneath her breast. She had never meant to place his life in her hands, to bring her father's wrath down upon herself, and yet, here they are.

Slowly, hesitantly, she reaches out-- not to strike or hurt, but to brush her fingertips against his cheek, over his lips, to staunch the flow of words and desperation spilling from him. Her voice comes stiffly; comfort is not one of her strengths.

"Be still. The King has chosen to grant you mercy, should you prove worthy of it." And Gwendolyn has chosen to turn away from the path of the butcher. "You will join my retinue... though in what role, I do not know."

A maid appears beside her, glancing at Antonio with wide, frightened eyes before leaning forward to whisper something into Gwendolyn's ear. She murmurs a quiet reply, and the servant darts away. Mere minutes later, she returns, bearing a tray with large glass bowl of steaming hot water, towels, various potions and medical implements, setting them on the table and nearly tripping on her curtsy in her hurry to leave. A high flush has risen in Gwen's cheeks, but her gaze is intent on Antonio. Having made her decision, she won't turn away now.

"Sit," she says, motioning toward the chair as if she has no doubt of his obedience.

The gentle touch of her fingers against his cheek is like a shock of cold water. It's the last thing he expected and he goes still and silent, partially from amazement and partially because she's started speaking. He listens to people with power over him, if only because he's learned that more often than not they are prepared to inflict pain. Despite that trepidation, her words are oddly reassuring, even if they are a bit stiff. Maybe he's just desperate to believe that someone (anyone) will show him some sort of kindness. Even if it's all a lie, maybe it's better to believe it for now. He swallows and then nods as she speaks.

Her retinue? That's different. He's usually just used as some form of entertainment or as a fighter. Not for anything that might be a real job. He's just there, like some sort of accessory or decoration. He stiffens, sitting up a bit straighter when the maid arrives and he tracks her with a wary gaze until she leaves - and then comes back. He tries to ignore her and tries to ignore the knot of anxiety and fear in his belly when he replies to Gwendolyn.

"Your... your Highness, I am not sure what I can offer you, but - I - I am very grateful for what you're giving me-"

Make sure she knows that he knows that he owes her. That's how this works, right? He keeps expecting someone to come in and drag him away. That this is some sort of cruel joke. After a brief moment of hesitation he clambers into the offered seat. His hands are still manacled at the small of his back, so he leans forward slightly in his seat, watching Gwen closely. The flush is noticeable, but he doesn't comment.

"What would you like me to do...?"

Because surely she wants him to do something, not offer him anything.

"I don't know much about attending to a highborn woman. But I hope I can be of use."

"You needn't attend to me as... some highborn woman." Gwendolyn swallows, and continues stiffly, "I would rather you treat me as a warrior." Still, there is something awkward and gallant in the way he responds to her, and it eases the tight feeling in her chest somewhat.

"Now, hold still," she tells Antonio, before wetting the corner of one of the towels and pressing it to his temple. The corner of her mouth twitches, as much with uncertainty as distaste, but Gwendolyn delicately wipes away the crusted dirt and dried blood from a deep scrape on his face, dipping the cloth in water again and drawing it down his cheek.

Father had intended for this to be punishment, an act too degrading for a princess of the royal blood to bear, but every valkyrie has seen and tended to enough of the injured in battle to know better. The only sign that Gwendolyn finds this humiliating is the hot flush of her face as she works with steady hands and focused eyes, mouth pursed into a thin line. It would be... entirely too much to hope for, for the were to not comment on this, and yet, she hopes. Whatever he might ask, she doesn't know how to answer.

"If... that is what you wish, I will do it," Antonio replies and he drops his gaze in deference. He won't question her command to treat her "like a warrior", but he knows that depending on who is present he will receive kicks and blows and he is not completely confident in her ability to protect him. He's also... confused. She's treating him with a sort of kindness he is not used to and although a part of him aches for it and wishes to simply allow it, another part is frightened and suspicious, wondering when the other shoe will drop and the whole facade will be stripped away. To trap him in something and then punish him for it - that's what this is for, isn't it?

He still goes stock still when she tells him to hold. His eyes lift to track her, though, heart still hammering away in his chest. When will she get tired of this? Of him? There's an involuntary flinch as she reaches out for him and then he settles as she gently starts to wipe dirt and blood from his face. There is a man underneath all of the grime and as she works, she might actually find him underneath all of it. Even with better food, his face still seems a bit drawn and perhaps a touch too pale, but healthier than he has been in a long time. As the moments tick away, he braves a question, just as the cloth draws away some of the filth above his eye.

He feels a bit like a child, but the soft, warm touch is also deeply, deeply enticing and despite his natural suspicion, he has to fight back the urge to weep with relief.

"I - you are the first person to bother with me like this in - in a very long time."

Which might be the wrong thing to say if she thinks this is an unfair, horrific chore, he may face retribution. But when you're a slave (and a lycan to boot), almost anything you say can get you in trouble. So why not try?

"...what have I done to deserve the honor of this?"

Nothing, she almost replies, feeling the bitterness well up in her throat, you have done nothing. But the wide-eyed, uncertain look he gives her quells any desire to be cruel, and she's silent for a long, long moment, even as she smooths the damp towel over the line of his jaw and down the column of his neck, fingers light over raw skin, a remnant of that first collar she had cut from his throat. The next time she wets the cloth, it's with something out of one of the bottles-- a healing potion, which tingles and leaves a cool numbness behind.

"This... is part of the price for your life," she says finally, picking her words with care, though there is a wavering, unhappy note in her voice all the same. Gwendolyn would never speak ill of her beloved father; she knows she has displeased and disappointed him. And would disappoint him more, once he receives word of her choice. And yet-- had sparing the life of a single lycan weighed so heavily on his trust in her? She had only meant to act with honor. A low breath escapes her like a sigh.

"Turn around," she tells him, wanting to change the subject. The overseer had given her the key to his shackles, along with the control sigil to his collar, and she is a soldier with no fear of what he might try unchained. "What am I to call you? And how..." Gwendolyn pauses, uncertain how to phrase her words, "how did you come to be in that castle?"

There's still a harsh circle of raw flesh on his neck; bruised and worn at by the tightness of the collar he'd been forced to wear. It's still raw and tender to the touch, but he tries not to flinch when she slides the cloth over his throat. It's hard not to. He keeps thinking that this is all some sort of trick or cruel joke and that in a moment, he'll be dragged out and put to death. Or that suddenly he'll do something wrong and they'll beat him for it and be put back under the lash. So when instead there's the cool, numbing touch of a poultice or a potion, he lets out a low, involuntary sigh. It's partially of relief, partially born of the way he inches toward being more comfortable in her presence.

He's not sure he should be comfortable with her. She's the mistress, the princess - he's a lycan. A filthy were who is better used on the battlefield or hidden away so he doesn't get in the way of polite company. His betters. He swallows nervously as she mentions the price for his life and he speaks up, voice low and carrying a trace of nervousness.

"You did not have to pay for it, but I am more grateful than you can imagine-"

He bites off some words that would be too effusive. Too much honey and flattery toward someone who lords over him can sometimes be as dangerous as too little. He shifts in his seat and simply does as he's asked, shifting in the chair until his back faces her. His hands are kept manacled at the small of his back. His back... is not a particularly pleasant sight. Aside from the fresher welts and marks from her overseer's whip, there are ridges of raised scars on his back from an older, far more vicious beating. There's a puckered scar from where a a spear or knife has pierced his flesh just below one of his shoulder blades and then there are a dozen other small reminders of cuts and bruises, some still healing, some faded and dull with time.

She is asking about him, though. So he must answer. Mustn't he?

"My name is Antonio," he offers quietly, half turning his head to try and look at her as he speaks. His eyes remain cast down, so it is more that he tries to keep her in the corner of his vision, "And I was there because I was caught and the people who caught me thought it would be entertaining to see how long I could last fighting beasts and men. Or chasing and killing rats."

Among other things. It's not exactly an elaborate story, but he doesn't particularly feel like opening up about his life before he was brought there. Not yet.

Gwendolyn lets out a long, low breath at the sight of his back, not quite successful in masking her surprise. Certainly, she's aware that the life of a slave is not easy, and any warrior true bears the marks of violence on their bodies, her own included. But-- she traces the deep, puckered scar on his back with a cloth, where the red line of a whip weal intersects-- these not the marks of wounds earned in valor, but of sustained cruelty. For sport. A lycan he may be, but surely no living creature deserves to be toyed with like this.

"Antonio, is it?" She repeats his name back, mouth shaping the unfamiliar syllables, "Very well."

She draws out the key from a silken pouch, inserting it into the lock of his shackles. It's an impulsive decision, one that may earn her more criticism, and yet, it feels like the right thing to do. Antonio had offered her no violence and little resistance, not when she'd first captured him and not now. And even should he turn on her, she has no fear of what a single were might do. A turn of the key, and the chains fall away with a clatter of metal upon the marble floor.

"It seems you've outlasted them all. That takes strength." There's little change in the cool tone of her voice, but in the measured look she gives him, there's a hint of something warmer, almost approval-- just as another maid appears, bursting through the door in a flurry of skirts and panic.

"Your Highness, the delegation from the Fire Kingdom has arrived! The Fire King's envoy is here to send his..." a slight pause, as the maid composes herself and dips a bow, "most admiring regards."

Gwendolyn had stiffened immediately at the mention of the delegation, and her hands on Antonio's back, initially gentle, exert sudden sharp pressure against a particularly lurid bruise. It's her turn to pause, swallowing hard before she replies.

"As you can see, I am otherwise occupied. I will see him another time." The maid looks from princess to were, then back, visibly making an effort to keep her face composed.

"Your Highness...? I-- As you wish."

It isn't until the doors shut that she realizes her hands are trembling. Gwendolyn immediately pulls away from Antonio, taking a step back and closing her eyes. She cannot afford to show weakness before a mere-- servant, now, if the were is to join her retinue.

He's aware of her reaction in an obtuse sort of way. He can't see her express - he is carefully looking forward, trying not to offer offense- but the way she lets out that breath is enough to tell him what she might think. He winces slightly, feeling oddly ashamed, as if it's his own fault that he's offering up this ugliness that disturbs her. His shoulders tremble and then fall slightly as the cloth traces over his scars, feeling its way across his back. It's gentle and touching and a part of him desperately wants to believe that this kindness will last. That this means something.

His broken from his own thoughts by the feeling of the shackles on his wrists falling away and he quite suddenly, for the first time in ages, finds himself with relatively free control of his own hands and arms. He actually jerks his head up and glances at her with a started expression, as if he's expecting some sort of reprimand. Like it's a trap or a mistake. When there's no harsh words forthcoming, he carefully draws them up and in front of himself, staring down at his own hands, tracing the contours and calluses of his palms and fingers. He swallows thickly, not quite sure what to say, especially since he can sense real approval in her look. He opens his mouth as if to respond, feeling a tightness in his throat-

And then he promptly shuts his mouth, head down and hands in his lap as the door clatters open and a maid comes bustling in. His shoulders hunch again and she can probably feel the tension slipping back into them. The fear. And then the tensing again when her fingers press against sensitive, bruised flesh and a soft, harsh intake of breath (but he doesn't make a sound). He's learned not to object when hurt. It only leads to more pain.

Fire King. She's turning down seeing a diplomatic envoy because of him? That's impossible. She must simply be using him as an excuse. She can't really be fond of him. He's just a lycan. A battered, bruised, broken thing, fit only for the pit or the mines. Antonio sucks in a breath and glances up as the maid leaves, catching some of the concern and disgust from her. Then his attention is back on Gwendolyn, although he still doesn't dare maintain eye contact or stare at her for too long. He still acts like a whipped and beaten dog - skittish. But he can feel the way her hands tremble and see how she steps away. He shuffles to his feet and turns to face her, still restrained by the chain that keeps him from moving more than a few steps from the table. His hands stay carefully at his sides. He's not threatening. Definitely not threatening.

"Your... Your Highness-" He starts, hesitates, and continues, voice still a bit of a rasp, "You're upset. I'm sorry."

He's not sure why he's apologizing. BUt maybe it's his fault. Maybe he can help. She's shown him more kindness than he's received in years and that has to count for something.

"Is it - you would rather... not see this envoy? And deal with me instead? If I am keeping you, please, please, don't - not on... my account. I'm not worth that much."

There's altogether something very skittish, very tentative in the way he looks and moves around her, like some frightened dog expecting a kick at any moment. Well, perhaps that's to be expected from a lycan, a creature destined for servitude or slavery-- or to be scorned and hunted like the feral beings they are.

But... would someone more beast than man offer up his apologies to her like this? To his... captor? Gwendolyn is under no illusions about the relation between them, but despite the clear wariness in his eyes, and the way he'd so desperately pled for his life, there's nothing pathetically fawning or falsely flattering about Antonio either. Her hands are still shaking ever so slightly, but she finds himself looking toward him with a very small, wan smile.

"And yet, you are worth twice more than Fire King Onyx. This I promise you." Perhaps not the diplomatic thing to say about a ruling monarch who was one of her suitors, but it's the truth all the same. Father would make his choice in the end, and she may end up betrothed to him yet... but meanwhile, in her heart of hearts, Gwendolyn detests the Fire King.

The moment - her weakness - has passed, and she has left her work half done. Reaching for the bottle of healing poultice, Gwendolyn pulls the cork from its neck and begins to dab it over the whip-weals and visible cuts on Antonio's shoulders and back, over bare skin now cleaned of grime and dirt.

"I-- No, you are correct. I would rather deal with you." Certainly even this is better than sitting about in court with the envoy, listening to their honeyed words, and all around them the gossip and backstabbing and insincere flattery from nobles and would-be suitors alike, hungry for power and ties to the throne. There's the slightest wry tone to her voice as she continues: "The state you are in, it would hardly be honorable for me to abandon you now."

No, Antonio is not given to fawning or pointless flattery. He doesn't have much experience with either. If anything, he's more inclined to grovel, like a whipped dog. Which is what he's tended to be half the time. For most of his adult life, he's been a servant or a slave or worse. And most of it hasn't been pleasant. This is really the first time in recent memory where someone has bothered to treat him with anything beyond bored indifference. Which was itself an improvement on malicious abuse.

He listens to her, wincing slightly as the poultice sinks into the his wounds and soothes his skin. It's a pleasant feeling, even if there's a bit of a sting. It feels cleansing. What's more, it means someone cares enough to try and help him through the pain and recovery of his wounds. Despite the many aches and throbs that accompany his still-healing body, it's a different sort of pain than the one he was living in a few days ago. This one has an end in sight. This one doesn't seem to leeach down into his very soul.

Antonio sucks in a breath. She's admitting some things to him that he's not sure she should, but he won't question it. He won't ask her to justify it. It's enough that she trusts him, at least for now. He risks a glance over his shoulder to get a better look at her. In the old castle and in the throne room, his eyes were often elsewhere and he had other things to think about. Here he can see her - the white hair, the elegant clothing, the composed, calm features. She's beautiful. Stunning. And he feels even more out of place and awkward. His feet shuffle and he sets his hands on the table for lack of anything else to do with them.

"I... am very flattered to hear you say that, Your Highness," he finally replies, voice a low murmur, "But I'm not worth that much. King Onyx is... likely... human. And that puts him above me already. I'm just - I'm not usually worth the notice of others."

A part of him believes that. She can likely hear it in his voice. It's the voice of someone beaten down and beaten down until he almost believes the abuse heaped on him, because the alternative is rage and fight a battle he has no chance of really winning.

"I just - honor has very little to do with me," he continues, words rolling out of him before he really has time to think, "But - but thank you. Again. It means quite a bit to have you treat me like this. No one's ever done this, least of all... least of all royalty."

He says the last hesitantly, as if he's afraid he might insult her. And with it comes a choke, almost a sob, as he feels tears threaten. He clenches his hands into fists, eyes shut tight. He cannot afford to show weakness of any sort. Deference, yes, but emotional outbursts? Another thing entirely.

Gwendolyn dabs a bit more ointment onto his back before stepping back, looking her work over critically. Certainly, it would take more than a few swipes of cloth and some poultice to clean Antonio up proper, but this is a start. She's silent as he speaks, unsure how to respond to the pain she can hear in his voice, a nameless, bone-deep ache that ends in that choked sound as his shoulders tense beneath her hands.

Part of her is at a loss for words, as royal dignity and gentler pity war in her head. He is only a lycan, after all, and though Gwendolyn may be tending to his wounds now, she is still his master, not some sympathetic shoulder for him to cry upon, as equals. Fate is cruel to us all, she thinks, trying to harden her heart. But there's no denying the gratitude in his voice, alongside the fear. His life is in her hands now, and despite what Father or her sister might have said about leniency, about protecting her reputation and ensuring obedience through a show of strength, she does not have it in her to punish him for punishment's sake, to force him back into his place.

Instead, Gwendolyn very lightly sets a hand against his cheek, feeling the roughness of his beard under her fingers.

"Your birth alone does not determine your worth." Hypocritical, perhaps, given her own feelings toward werewolves, but not untrue. Surely there are lycans with honor and strength of will, just as there are humans detestable and utterly lacking in every way. "Lift your head. You have worth enough for me."

She considers adding something like do not fear, for you are mine, but the words catch and stutter in her throat, and all that comes out is air. It may be a truth, and no one would bat an eye at her claiming a wolf, a mere slave as her possession, but even so... the thought of it touches a nerve, one she does not care to examine too closely. (Come the day she is wed, she too will become a possession.) Instead, Gwendolyn thinks to the future. She may have only pretty words for Antonio for now, but she still must find a place for him here. It's a daunting thought, placing a were on her retinue, to find him a purpose, some position where he would not be abused. If she were to use him as a soldier, out on the front lines alongside her own troops, that may be easier... and yet, cruel as well, to toss him back into fighting for survival.

Earlier, she had asked: What am I to do with you? This time, Gwendolyn lets out a soft breath.

"What would you have me do with you?"

The gentle touch is not something Antonio is sure he'll be able to adjust to. At least not right away. He still feels jumpy, like every movement she makes might be a blow or a reprimand and all he wants to do is please her. He wants her to be happy, because a happy overlord or mistress means less beatings and maybe he won't starve. Which is terrible to think, because so far she's been nothing but kind (if a little distant). So why should he treat her with the same strange caution? But the rational mind and the subconscious are not always in sync. Especially in this case. He flinches at her touch, but he raises his gaze to look at her. To listen. And besides, she's asked him to.

"Then... I am glad you find me worthy," he says in reply. He is still nervous about actually looking her in the eye. That had always meant a beating before, so adjusting will be hard. He's managed to choke back the tears, at least, so this will be a conversation and not a complete breakdown.

He keeps telling himself that he won't let himself break, but it's harder than he realizes. As she considers him, he shifts in his chair, acutely aware of the freedom he's been given (will be given). The only thing really binding him at this point is his word and the collar on his throat (and the guards and the entire castle). He's already made up his mind, though. She's lifted him up. She's shown him kindness where no one else has. She's beautiful.

If he can be of use or serve her, he has decided he will be happy (and the more pragmatic part of him whispers that this might be the best he'll get).

"Let me serve you, Your Grace," he replies, finding his voice again, "As a servant or a bodyguard or - anything. Let me stay here and I will give you my life. I promise you that. You will have it, from now until my dying breath."

A bit melodramatic, but it gets the point across.

Gwendolyn twitches ever so slightly in response when he flinches under her hand-- touch does not come easy to her either, and she only resorts to it now because comforting words are even more difficult. And isn't that just as it should be? She is a warrior-- what need does she have for soft words or tenderness.

But she has also never had anyone look at her the way Antonio looks at her now, afraid and yet in awe all at once, as if she were the moon and the stars in the night sky.

"No, I did not mean--" The flush on her cheeks, which had only just begun to recede, flares up again, and Gwendolyn looks away. She had meant no tricks, no expectations, no rhetorical demand for obedience absolute. "I do not ask for your life. Only... only your strength by my side." Despite the earnestness of his pledge, there's a faint hint of discomfort, unhappiness in the downward curve of her lips. A moment's hesitation, before she reaches out again, this time unlocking the padlock shackling his new collar to the table.

"You will need to be presented before the King again." And who knows what Father will say to him. What he will say to her. "Before that, I will show you to your new quarters. Come."

The room she leads him to is just down the hallway from her own. It's clearly intended for a servant's use, much smaller and less grand than Gwendolyn's royal chambers, but it's clean, with its own washroom, a cozy looking cot, and what looks like a fresh set of clothes laid out upon the bed-- clearly on her orders.

Perhaps Gwendolyn doesn't quite understand what she's lifted him out of. A part of him wants to hang on her every word and another part knows that he's overreacting; swinging too far toward a woman who might be his savior, but who does not want his servitude or devotion. He cannot and should not wrap himself in the cold comfort of serving another master, but it is a very tempting idea. But on the other hand - she has been nothing but kind and if he leaves, where does he go? He genuinely thinks well of her and - she is beautiful. Ephemeral in a way. Despite her very apparent ability, there is still a gentleness to her that he cannot quite tear himself away from.

Maybe he should sleep on all of this. On everything.

Then, of course, she speaks and he can see the way she begins to blush and how she glances away and he has done that. He had forgotten what it was like to have real, genuine human contact like this and it makes his heart leap (and also because it is her). His tongue runs over dry lips and he dips his head in a nod. His strength at her side? That he can give her.

"I'll give it to you. Freely. You won't need chains or a lash or - anything. I owe you more than you really understand."

That is perhaps not a politic thing to say, but they are moving beyond politeness and politics already. He already feels oddly at ease in some respects and intensely, acutely nervous in others. He stands and he follows her obediently, shadowing her by a few steps. He remains... deferent. Still submissive, still wary, as if he is waiting for a blow that never comes. His mind will take longer to heal than his body (if it ever truly heals completely).

Antonio's eyes widen, mouth agape as she shows him the room. His room. He honestly cannot remember the last time he actually had a room to call his own. He has slept in stables, in kennels, on the cold, hard ground. Being allowed - no, being given a room of his own is something alien and new. His hands tremble and he turns back to her. He forgets himself and he grabs for her hands, trying to get the babble of words that streams out of him into some sort of logical order, "Thank you, thank you. You don't understand, but - thank you. I won't disappoint you. I swear it."

That is a step too far.

Gwendolyn stiffens as Antonio takes her hands in his own; the sudden touch is like a shock to her senses, wholly unexpected and unwelcome... isn't it? Another other noble might have struck him, purely on reflex, but taken aback by the sudden outpouring of effusive thanks and the gratitude in his yes, Gwendolyn merely stares at him with wide eyes, cheeks turning pink, before she pulls her hands out of his grasp. This is-- beyond the pale, he has overstepped. She has every reason to reprimand him, and yet...

Perhaps this is what her sister had meant, when she had described Gwendolyn as being too lenient. But she cannot find it in herself to punish him, to withdraw her offer or strike him down. Even so, her displeasure is clear as her lips press together into thin line, a cold cast falling over her usually reserved expression as she pulls away.

"I-- " Her eyes are cooler now as she draws herself up, gathering her dignity. After all, Gwendolyn is royalty, and though she may have granted him her favor, Antonio cannot be permitted to forget. "I trust you'll restrain yourself going forward."

Especially before the court and the King. She lets out a long breath, uncertain of what to say next, but there is some time yet until dinner, and they both must be presentable at that time.

"Gather in the main hall in two hours time. The other servants will show you where to go. The king will see you then." With that, she turns away, movements precise as she makes her exit.

Antonio knows he's made a mistake when he feels her tense and sees the reaction in her eyes. The way her cheeks brighten. In his own mind, he's already mentally berating himself for going too far, for getting too familiar with the noblewoman who's done so much for him already. Here's where it all comes crashing down and he's exiled back to a life of wretched servitude. He steps back, feeling awkward, gaze downcast as she likewise pulls her hands away. He's half expecting a blow and he's bracing himself for a blow. He can't offer any verbal apology - the way he acts is enough. Like a whipped dog who knows that he's done something wrong and is waiting for the punishment to fall.

Instead, there's simply a relatively mild word of reproach and he dares to lift his gaze again, shoulders tense, hands drawn in together against his belly. He nods slowly - he's lucky. This time.

"I - yes. Of course I will, your Highness. I - I'm sorry. I forgot myself. I will... will look forward to attending you-"

And then she's gone and all he can do is watch her retreating back. The tension is still, a shivering, nervous sort of energy that makes him want to jump. It makes him think there's an enemy around every corner and this every move is being scrutinized. A single hair out of place will mean pain. That's how it feels anyway. Once the door closes behind her, he lets out a long, slow breath and tries to relax. He can't make that mistake again. He can't be familiar. For all that she's helping him, she still exists in a world apart.

Those thoughts swirl around his head for the next two hours, but he does remember how to dress and clean himself. He's looking... better by the time he's guided to the main hall. He's less ragged looking and the clothing is more suitable. Simple, but he fits in now and doesn't seem to stand out that much from any of the other servants. Except, of course, for the collar around his neck. That still draws disdainful glances and murmurs and nervous looks from the other servants. He tries to ignore and endure it, letting it all roll off of him. This is his lot in life. In any case, he is finally ushered into the main hall with a gaggle of other servants and carefully lined up behind a row of guards, who are all statue still as the court waits on the pleasure of the king.

Antonio is a bit nervous and he tries to restrain himself. Despite that, he still glances this way and that with subtle little movements of his head and eyes, searching for the one semi-friendly face that he feels he can count on in this strange new world he finds himself in. He doesn't have much time, however, before he's pushed forward to be presented.

Is he supposed to say something? He simply bows low - very low - instead. Maybe the king will think better of him now that he's not so much of a wretched mess.

Gwendolyn stalks back down the hall, brow furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. She's... angry. No, embarrassed. No, there's no word she can put to the complicated roil of emotion in her chest. She feels like a fool, and she feels disarmed, caught off guard and blindsided by Antonio's sudden outpouring of gratitude and devotion. She has already made a misstep, she's certain, been too permissive. For all her sympathy, Gwendolyn cannot forget that a lycan is merely a few steps from a beast itself.

But no one has ever looked at her like that before.

By evening, she's clad in a deep blue gown, hair down in silvery waves over her shoulders. Gwendolyn stands behind the King, the whole court waiting to be seated at his pleasure after dinner is set. As Antonio is brought before the throne, she steps forward-- he is her responsibility, after all. Odin stares down at the lycan for a long moment, grey eyes cold beneath his heavy brow as he strokes his chin.

"So, you are the dog that my daughter pulled out of the gutter." There's a hint of disapproval in his deep voice, but it's otherwise masked by the utter indifference in his tone. "Very well, Gwendolyn. See that you do not regret your choice."

Hearing the dismissal in his voice, she dips a deep curtsy, releasing a mental sigh of relief, even as a smaller, quieter part of her wonders if he has already forgotten the "punishment" assigned to her, whether he even cares enough to remember. Well, no matter. The places are set, and Gwendolyn takes her seat before the grand table laden with steaming, sumptuous dishes. As her assigned servant, Antonio is ushered behind her, but given no place to sit or eat. Servants, after all, are not fit company for the court's table, and weres even less so. Whatever meal he's granted would be in the servants' quarters, or at Gwendolyn's pleasure. A pageboy makes the rounds along the table, offering goblets of wine. Gwendolyn accepts the last cup from his silver tray, raising it as the King begins his toast to victory.]

The lycan in question feels out of place and awkward. The clothes he's been stuffed into are beautiful and lavish and more expensive than anything he's ever worn before, but it's also oddly uncomfortable. A bit too tight in places. He feels as if he's on display, even after the monarch has given him a long look and accepted that he's here. Maybe he shouldn't be. Maybe he should ask the Princess to send him away, if it will make things simpler. It's not as if he's earned any sort of right to ask for a place at this table or a place in her entourage. She's simply extended the place to him.

Of course, then he had to go and do something foolish. Like touch her. He's still mentally berating himself for being a stupid, idiotic dog. For being too enthusiastic. He's just lucky that she's not the sort to use beatings. It's hard, after all, to drag one's self back into a sense of self worth and genuine respect for one's self after spending months or years at the bottom of the pecking order, hit and kicked and reviled and generally used as nothing more than some sort of oddly endearing distraction.

Antonio manages to settle himself as he's once again ushered into place. He feels strange, unsure of what he's meant to do besides stand behind her chair and try to look... what? Pretty? Imposing? As if he belongs. He takes a quick sniff of the air, nose wrinkling. There's a clash of scents in the air - food and wine and sweat and people. It's hard to pick out anything, especially when he's shaped as a man. His senses are sharper, though, which means that he still has a chance to detect something that's bothering him. Something that's off. It's sharp, almost hidden by the fruity scent of the wine, and it takes him a moment to figure out what it is and where it's coming from.

It takes him another moment to decide to act. He's frozen in indecision, unsure if it's his place to say or do anything. And what if he's wrong? He'll have made her the laughingstock of the court. Again. He cringes internally, but it's a risk her needs to take. Has to take. Antonio steps forward, hovering for a moment to try and catch her attention. He can't touch her. Shouldn't touch her. So he settles for a hissing whisper that manages to carry.

"Something's wrong," he says to her, "Something's - off. Your wine. It doesn't smell right."

He can feel his heart trying to escape through his throat. He expects kicks or blows or a scolding, but he can't just let it go by without comment.

Gwendolyn glances sidelong as Antonio approaches, eyes narrowing fractionally as she finds herself thinking -- what now?

But this? She looks from the were, worry in every line of his body, to the goblet and then back. What a preposterous idea to suggest, that she might be poisoned here in the crown city, and yet... why would Antonio lie? All around them, people are drinking and taking their seats-- she's missed the toast altogether, and Gwendolyn catches a few looks of disapproval directed at her as she belatedly settles into her own seat, scooting the chair forward.

"Are you quite sure?" She frowns before dipping her chin to sniff discreetly at the cup; she smells nothing, but a wolf's nose is keener than hers by far. "I don't--"

A faint twang is all the warning she gets. Gwendolyn stiffens, glancing up-- just as a crossbow bolt buries itself in the back of the chair a bare inch away from her throat. On the far wall, nearly invisible against the rough stone wall and sneering gargoyles, a shadowy figure uncurls, dropping the crossbow in its hand and unsheathing a sword with a ringing sound before throwing themselves off the balustrade and landing in the middle of the grand table with a crash and clatter of plates and glasses, sword raised above her head.

The look of disapproval almost makes Antonio cringe on the outside as well. It's a look that makes his whole body tense and makes him want to curl into a ball and ask (beg) for forgiveness. Instinct from the time he's spent under more abusive masters. He manages to hold that instinct in check, though, even if there's a slight tremble to his voice when he replies.

"I'm sure. Can't you smell it? It's so sharp-"

He knows that humans cannot smell or hear as well as he can, but to him it seems so breathtakingly obvious that he almost doesn't catch the twang of the crossbow. All of his attention, up until the at moment, was focused on Gwendolyn. Instantly his head snaps up as he realizes that there's physical danger coming their way - her way - pupils dilating to sharp points as he tracks the mysterious, dark figure that comes hurtling down from above, a sharp blade glittering in the candle and lamplight.

He acts without thinking. His hand grasps Gwendolyn's chair and tugs it back with a scraping noise of wood against stone and then he steps forward, leaping forward onto the table in a flying rolling tackle, a sharp, sudden growl rolling up and out of his throat. Even with the collar on him, even unable to truly change, there's something animalistic tugging at his features, as if his inner beast is straining to be set free.

He and the assassin go down into a clattering pile, scattering dishes, glasses, and food as they fall into a grapple. This is life or death and the relative silence of the struggle is broken by a shriek as Antonio sinks his (unfortunately blunt) teeth into the assassin's sword wrist.

He still fights like an animal.

The razor edge of the blade slices through the air, the end of its arc aimed at her throat. Time seems to slow to a crawl, and Gwendolyn realizes with a distant pang that despite her sharp reflexes, honed by years on the battlefield, despite her instincts screaming at her to move, to duck or dodge, despite the brief few seconds Antonio's interference had bought her, she is still too slow, trapped against the back of the chair-- until her seat is yanked back with a loud scrape and she nearly topples backward as the lycan lunges forward, barrelling into the would-be assassin.

The dining hall erupts into noise and movement, guests screaming and panicking, guards shouting and trying to push into the room. Only the envoy from the Fire Nation appears to have his wits about him, sword drawn and dark eyes shocked as he takes in Antonio's vicious attack upon the assailant.

In a flash, Gwendolyn is on her feet, but with no weapon on hand, not even her armor, she's worse than useless. As she hesitates, the assassin drops the sword with a clatter and aims a vicious kick at Antonio's ribs. There's a gleam of silver-- a small knife drawn from a belt, the dark figure slashing viciously at the were. Gwendolyn tries to shout a warning to him, throwing a hand up-- and the light flashes off the band of the control sigil for the collar on her wrist. She stares at it for a bare moment before focusing her will-- loosening the magic bound to Antonio's collar.

There's chaos and screams around him. A clattering of armor as guards start to rush in. Antonio's tuning it all out, attention focused on his fight. There's a shout of warning and the thud of impact as a boot connects with his ribs. Pain blossoms, but he does his best to ignore it, relying in that dogged determination to live that's carries him this far. The space the assassin creates for them self is enough for them to draw a knife - but then he feels something click and loosen and all of his instinct and anger start to flow again.

His body shifts and melts and reforms and a wolf lunges. All he can see is the target in front of him and the gleam of the knife and he attacks. The blade bites against his side, but he ignores the sharp, cold pain that runs into him and focuses on winning. He bears down on the would-be assassin and his jaws close around the attacker's wrist with hideous strength, the crack of fracturing bone echoing above the chaos - followed by a scream of pain.

The rest isn't much of a fight and by the end of it, his muzzle is stained with blood.

And suddenly it's over, the assassin collapsed in a crumpled heap of black on the table. Crouched over him is a bloodstained wolf on all fours. The guests cringe away from the beast, their cries no less panicked for seeing the menacing figure fall, and the guards advance, weapons in hand. Seeing the first of the armored figures approach Antonio with his spear leveled, Gwendolyn abandons any pretense of royal dignity, grabbing double fistfuls of her skirts and lifting them up as she darts forward, climbing up onto the table as well to put herself between the wolf and the guards.

"Leave him be!"

He had saved her. She owes him her life-- but even so, Gwendolyn is suddenly, acutely aware of the smell of blood, the presence of the enormous, vicious beast behind her. Just what does she know about lycans, anyway? Mostly generalities and the occasional rumor-- that they were barbaric, uncivilized, bloodthirsty, that the worst of them were uncontrollably violent and brutal and the best of them could only be expected to serve as lesser servants and soldiers all their lives. Her shoulders tremble for a moment, before her expression hardens. No matter. She only does what is needful now. The guards halt, confused, but don't quite withdraw. None of them dare threaten the princess, but the presence of a bloodied lycan amidst the court can hardly be tolerated either.

"He is one of mine," Gwendolyn says, forcing ringing authority into her voice. She doesn't bother looking backward, merely summons him with a crook of her fingers as if there is no doubt he would obey, "Come."

In his high backed seat, Odin is silent, grey eyes calculating.

Antonio sees red for a moment. He's crouched over his target, claws clicking against the table through the fine tablecloth (that he's ruining at this moment; there's a spreading pool of crimson from the remains of the assassin's throat). A low, threatening growl rumbles out of him and a part of him wants to savage the corpse until there's nothing but bloody gobbets of flesh left. Crack open the ribcage and scatter the offal. His old 'masters' would've enjoyed seeing that. But this isn't his old master and this isn't the home he had before. The tide of crimson recedes as Gwendolyn is suddenly there, arms spread and voice commanding. He shrinks back a step, glancing at the advancing guards.

She's saving him again. Perhaps from himself.

And then there is a command and that he can follow. He slides forward a step and then another until he's alongside her and as he does, his body changes again, bones cracking and flesh rippling until he's human again, lips and chin stained with blood. He glances furtively around him, half expecting to be cuffed or run through. He's still too cautious, still trapped in his own endless cycles of recrimination and self-abuse.

Antonio fidgets, waiting for judgment.

Her jaw tightens, lips pressing together in a thin line at the click of nails against wood, the heavy steps of the great beast behind her. Despite herself Gwendolyn is a little startled when Antonio comes to her side, just as she'd bid him to. There's a collective sharp inhale from the soldiers as the wolf approaches, and she doesn't dare drop her gaze; the guard-captain tenses as Antonio pads within stabbing reach, the point of his halberd rising until Gwendolyn affixes him with a fierce look. Without looking away, she reaches out to set a possessive hand atop the lycan's head, and although she'd heard the sounds of transformation beside her, she's still half expecting fur and pointed ears as her fingers brush through his hair, palm resting lightly upon his head, heedless of the blood.

"Stand down." They don't dare disobey a direct order from royalty, she thinks, even if she is not her father. And as if he'd caught a glimpse of her very thoughts, the captain slowly, reluctantly draws his weapon back, the rest of his soldiers following suit as he salutes stiffly. But not toward her.

Gwendolyn follows his gaze to the grand throne, where Odin looks on over the proceedings, fingers steepled, and has inclined his head ever so very slightly in acknowledgment of her orders. So they truly do not recognize her authority...? And yet, Gwendolyn is glad, a sharp, yearning happiness like a pang beneath her breastbone. Father has acknowledged her actions; he doesn't disapprove.

"So you've done Us a service, wolf. Defending the realm's princess and the commander of Our armies... such bravery is to be commended." A hush immediately falls over the great hall as Odin speaks, but despite his high praise there's hardly any emotion to his low, rough-edged voice-- no relief, and no joy. Almost... boredom. "For this, We are willing to grant you a boon, within reason. Ask."

He's surprised to feel fingers in his hair, but the gesture is touching. Even if it makes him feel more of an animal than a man. Of course, he is an animal; he just tore out someone's throat with his teeth. He's spent the last few months (or is it years) as a whipped cur, a creature for entertainment and killing. Isn't this the best he can truly expect? A kind gesture and a word from his new masters and the pleasant thought that they won't kill him out of hand? His gaze is wary and frightened, shoulders hunched, and he looks every bit the cornered animal as his eyes dart from the gleaming halberd to Gwendolyn to the king sitting on his throne. The hand against his scalp helps his nerves, but not by much. Not when he feels surrounded and the animal inside is screaming at him to run.

It looks like he's going to be spared. At least for now. Antonio tries to square his shoulders back, but it's hard to fight the instinct to cringe and scrape and grovel after all this time. A part of him screams that if he doesn't do it right, he's just going to be beaten. That he'll be starved and locked in a cage until he's nothing but pain and the gnawing sense of hunger that threatens to tear itself out of him. His fingers clench into fists, nails digging into the skin and flesh of his palms. There will be little half-moon marks there later.

He can take comfort in Gwendolyn, at least. She's spoken for him. She's protected him. Isn't that worth something? Of course, his thoughts are shattered by the king's proclamation. This can't be true - it must be a mistake. His throat works in a swallow and he tries to straighten himself, gaze downcast, not daring to even look up at the king, lest he change his mind. His words are halting - he's not used to speaking in front of royalty, let alone an entire court. Say the wrong word and they'll skin him alive and have his pelt on display.

"Your Majesty, I - thank you. You... you do me too great an honor. But I will ask, since you wish it," he begins, trying to find his verbal footing, "I only... I have one request. Please allow me to serve the Princess in whatever manner she thinks appropriate. I owe her - I owe you - a great debt that I can't possibly repay. Not in a single lifetime. That - that is all."

His throat works again and he dares to shoot a glance at Gwendolyn, as if to judge her reaction. Will she reject him now? Or has he gone too far? Worry, worry, worry.

Under the weight of Odin's gaze, she feels Antonio stiffen beneath her hand. His answer is halting and tentative, and oddly... noble, even touching in its sinceity, Gwendolyn can't help thinking with some surprise. Slight movement beneath her fingers, and she glances down to find the lycan staring back at her, eyes wide and frightened. Though Gwendolyn is unpracticed herself when it comes to offering reassurance, she finds herself tentatively letting her hand drop down to his shoulder, offering a light squeeze. He has not misspoken, and she is not displeased.

"Is that so, wolf?" The king remains nearly motionless on his throne, and only the shadowy glitter of dark eyes beneath his heavy brow hint at any deeper emotion. "Very well then. It seems my daughter has drawn the ire of enemies with no honor and no fear of Ragnanival's vengeance. I would have you remain at her side, as her guard dog, until that time comes that she is wed."

This time, it's Gwendolyn's turn to stiffen with surprise and indignation. Father does nothing without reason, and yet... she cannot comprehend his intentions now. Antonio had come to her aid, yes, but she is not weak, not helpless, nor incapable of defending herself. Only just the other day, he had looked down upon her choice to spare the lycan; now he would foist him upon her by no choice of her own?

"But I--" She swallows hard. He is the King, and she must obey his will. "If-- If that is your will, Your Majesty, I will abide by it."

Even so, there's no disguising the unhappiness in her voice.

The squeeze that Antonio feels against his shoulder helps settle his racing pulse and hammering heart. He takes a slow breath, still trying to fight down the panic reaction that still wants him to fight or flee. He's in danger and he needs to get out. He needs to be away from the sharp blades and hostile looks and the threat of imprisonment or worse or-

His breath slides out of him as he glances up at the king again. He's pronouncing judgement on him and Antonio can only hope that it won't be something horrid. Not that he expects much. The lycan's expectations aren't high, especially when it comes to humans and how they treat his kind. He shifts a hair closer to Gwendolyn, taking comfort in her presence. Then her father blows his expectations out of the water and he finds himself staring up at him until he finally gets a hold of himself. He stiffens and steps away from the princess (it takes all his willpower to do it; he feels comfortable around her) and drops into a stiff bow.

"Thank you, your Majesty."

On the other hand, Gwendolyn doesn't sound that pleased by this. Or was it the marriage aspect? Probably him, if he had to guess? He shoots another quick glance at her as the guards slowly approach. They help the both of them down and Antonio - well. He's covered in blood and they're certainly not going to let him stick around. He gets hustled off to be cleaned up again.

Between the corpse collapsed atop the fine silverware, the spreading stain of blood on the cloth, and the frightened guests milling about, there's no salvaging the dinner. Gwendolyn does her part in restoring calm and order, before excusing herself to return to her quarters, dodging the overly solicitous queries by the Fire Kingdom Envoy. The man had attempted to pepper her with all sorts of invasive questions-- Weren't you so frightened, your Highness? And what about that wolf of yours? How very daring of him to interfere. I suppose it all worked out for the best, but you really must discipline him better...-- and so on and so forth until she'd managed to extricate herself.

In the quiet of her own room, she's better able to think. To calm the panicked flutter of her heart, until she recalls the King's words once again-- until that time comes that she is wed. Hands curled into fists in her lap, Gwendolyn shudders, squeezing her eyes shut.

She must control herself. She is the princess of Ragnanival, and her father's word is law. Even when she cannot comprehend his intentions-- like why he would insist on the lycan's presence at her side. Another sort of punishment, perhaps, thinking that he would impress upon her the consequences of her lenience by chaining her to a slavering beast? Although... Antonio is hardly anything of the sort, skittish and desperate to please that he is. Just as well, she thinks, letting out a deep sigh, he is the least of her worries...

...

For their part, the palace servants dunk Antonio into the servants' bath as if he were a dog in truth, rinsing him off with cold water and scrubbing at the bloodstains with rough, uncaring strokes. After hauling him out of the tub, they bundle him into new clothes-- rougher and more coarse than the ones Gwendolyn had given him before attaching a leash to his collar, handing it over to a hard faced man who yanks on the chain with seemingly every intention of dragging the lycan down the castle hallways.

Antonio isn't all that surprised that the servants don't exactly treat him like royalty. It's still a step up from being left to cower in his own filth. So he stays grateful for the cold water and the hard, rough scrubbing that he gets. He tries not to flinch, even if his skin is left rubbed raw and pink. The clothes are... clothes. So again, he doesn't complain. What does make him hesitate is the leash. For a moment, he's stock still, terrified again, and then it's attached and he's essentially dragged through the hallways and corridors. He does his best to keep up. Being choked does not sound like a good time (nor does it feel particularly amazing). He's still choked.

Asking for a moment won't earn him anything but kicks. So he stays silent, enduring the rough treatment. This is what he expects from humans. This is what his kind is meant for. Even if he resents it (and he does), lashing out won't do anything. Whenever he stumbles, there's another yank, and he is quietly relieved when they finally arrive at Gwendolyn's rooms. The man raps on the door and then pushes through with another tug at the leash.

"Your lycan is here, Your Grace," the man says. It's respectful, but there's an undercurrent of distaste -- for Antonio, mostly. Antonio stays silent, but his eyes light up when he sees her. She's still safe and that's what matters, isn't it? And he's going to be able to stay with her.

"What would you like me to do with him?"

Lost in thought, Gwendolyn jerks to a start when the door swings open, having completely missed the knock on the door. She immediately schools her expression into one of appropriate noble dignity, but not quite fast enough to disguise the flustered look that flashes briefly across her face. Her lycan. What a strange thought.

"I--" She hesitates, gaze flitting from the servant's tight-fisted grip on the leash, the way the collar digs into Antonio's neck, the wide band of scar tissue beneath the band. His quarters are further down the hall, but there's something about the way he turn to look at her, eyes bright, that makes her reluctant to order him removed.

"Leave him here." Here in her personal quarters, she realizes, and moves instinctively to stave off the inevitable, scandalized response. "As the king commanded."

The man had stiffened at Gwendolyn's words, but his head is ducked and she cannot make out the expression on his face before he dips a deep bow and retreats, leaving princess and lycan to stare at one another across the stretch of marble tile. Before a soldier, a vassal, even a servant, she would know what to say, what propriety dictated and what courtesies to attend to. Before a slave (or whatever status "guard dog" entailed-- pet?), she is left tongue tied.

"I suppose I should say thank you. For saving me." Try as she might, grateful is not a tone Gwendolyn can quite manage right now. The idea that she might have appeared weak before the court, before the King-- it was worse than nearly anything else she could have suffered. And the way Father had said it, as if she would just be-- passed along after she was wed...

Gwendolyn looks away, hands balled into fists at her side. Despite her resolve, her loyalty to her King, she cannot force herself to accept this fate with a smile.

Edited 2017-03-18 05:03 (UTC)

Antonio catches the flustered face and the mixed emotions in Gwendolyn's tone and his back stiffens, head dropped to avoid looking directly at her. At least while the servant is still in the room. He thinks he might have done something wrong, from the way she acts and the way she sounds. When the door clicks shut behind him he finally lifts his gaze. It's in time to see her face and hear her voice as she thanks him in word, if not entirely in tone. The leash dangles from the collar on his neck, the length of leather reaching almost to his feet. He tries to will himself to stay still, despite the screaming urge at the back of his head to run.

This is the only chance he has, part of him says. If he stays, they'll kill him or worse. They'll turn him into another piece of entertainment. Something to be gawked at or used up. Something keeps him there, though. She hasn't treated him horribly and he is still grateful. There are people trying to kill her. He can be useful, he thinks (although it is a cringing, subservient part of him that thinks that). His hands flex at his sides, curling into fists and then relaxing. What does he say to her? What does he do now that he's here? He dares not move without permission.

That's how one earned a beating, after all.

"You're... welcome," he finally replies, voice quiet but carrying across the tile floor. The collar works against his throat as he speaks.

"You... you saved me. You took me out of that hole. I can't let you die. I won't."

It's still quiet, but determined, even if he still feels as if he's going to be struck or kicked for speaking.

"Is my being here displeasing? If you want, I'll leave. Just-" He hesitates, face twisting into something desperate and plaintive, and then he pushes on, past the nattering, screaming, panicked fear that this will get him killed, that this will all turn out to be a deception. That he'll be hurt.

He doesn't want to be hurt anymore. Please. He'll do anything.

"Don't. Don't send me away. I want to stay with you, at your side. Let me serve you. You - you've shown me so much kindness and if I have to repay you with my life, I will. Just - please don't send me away."

He's almost begging, from his spot across the room. There's a very real fear in his voice and in his face.

The sudden torrent of words catches her blinking and off guard. She glances up, struck by the desperation in Antonio's voice and his earnest plea.

"That's not-- I don't--"

I haven't earned this, she wants to say, painfully honest. Gwendolyn had only done what honor dictated, and even then acted reluctantly. But she doesn't miss the terror in the lycan's voice and the way he seems to cringe in place like a kicked dog, too afraid to run away and too afraid to approach. Antonio had saved her tonight, and whatever her personal feelings were about what had followed, he had acted on her behalf, for her sake.

Gwendolyn exhales, then very slowly extends her hands, palms turned upward as if in offering. There's a fragile, tentative warmth in her eyes as she calls to him, voice soft.

"Come here."

She may have no talent for comfort, no skill with soft words, and yet... she would not leave him to suffer in fear alone. Antonio belongs to her now, her lycan, just as they'd said, and he-- deserves better. Better than the suspicion and outright hostility that the guards had treated him, better than choking collars and disdain. Gwendolyn cannot change what the others did or how they respond to him, but at the very least, she could make her own choice.

For a split second, Antonio is sure that she's going to reject him and send him away. He trembles, waiting for a sentence that might as well be death. She seems so unsure now and he doesn't entirely know what that means. Is it hesitation? Disgust? Fear? He doesn't know. He doesn't entirely understand her. She has to balance him against so much.

But she extends her hands to him. She calls to him and after only a moment more of hesitation, he crosses the tile floor, bare feet padding against marble. He draws up short, hands hovering in front of him. Is he allowed? Antonio's eyes flicker to Gwendolyn's and then be slowly reaches put, as if to take the offered bands. Or is that a step too far?

It seems to take him a very long time to approach, but perhaps that's just a reflection of the thudding of her heart. How strange, she finds herself thinking, that such a thing still has the power to make her worry. Gwendolyn leads armies, dozens, hundreds of Ragnanival's soldiers, all of them looking to her and seeing her dead sister, their fallen commander, and here she wonders at the fear of a single lycan-- the first person to have thanked her or looked to her and seen something beyond her purpose in a long time. Then Antonio is standing before her, hands tentatively outstretched, and she gently takes them in her own, thumbs brushing over the backs of his palms.

You are mine, she almost says, because that would be simple, and because that is what he seems to yearn for too. But beast he may be, Gwendolyn would not make a possession out of him, like some bauble or strange blade she'd picked up on a whim. Instead she says:

"Stay by my side. And I--" A low breath, and a small smile lifts the corners of her lips, gray eyes soft as she looks over him. "I will protect you and guard your honor. From the boredom and pettiness of court, if nothing else. Oh brave wolf." Her voice ends on a lilting note, lighter than the declarations of devotion and obedience that had characterized the words between them-- almost a gentle tease.

Antonio's heart skips a beat when her fingers brush over his and then their hands settle, her thumbs brushing against his skin. It's a gentle, tender touch. Something he hasn't really felt for months. Maybe years. He's not sure which - his sense of time had been distorted as one awful day bled into the next, marked only by pain and discomfort. Despite how gentle she is, he can feel the calluses on her fingers, the mark of a woman who trains and fights as a warrior. His own hands are rougher, torn by years of unfortunate neglect and mistreatment. Lycan healing powers can only go so far, after all.

The world narrows until there is only them. Only her. He dares to raise his eyes to meet her gaze, encouraged by her treatment of him and the soft touch that ghosts against his skin. Her words are enough to steal his breath away and he thinks, in that moment, that she is the most beautiful person he has ever seen and will ever meet. She acknowledges him as a person. Not a tool or a creature, but as someone. The gentle tease at the end of it, the promise of protection -- it all marks her as different. His face flushes and he stares down at her for a long moment, trying to work his mind through the tangle of confused emotions.

Antonio takes a breath and he replies in a soft voice, pitched low to try and prevent it from carrying, as if there were a dozen unseen eavesdroppers, "You have my promise and my pledge, then. If you stay by my side, I -- I will stay by yours, until I am spent and gone or your enemies defeated. I will serve you, as long and as well as I can."

Despite the words sounding more like an oath of fealty, there's a breathless, enchanted feeling to the words, as if he's speaking to a lover or a close family member rather than any sort of liege lord. He squeezes her hands (and wants nothing more than to curl against her and take comfort in her closeness). His cheeks are pink, closing in on red, as he continues, "If I am your wolf, then you will be my princess-"

He might have overstepped and he backpedals a little, "If... If I do not overstep my bounds."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

and i run from wolves

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sorry for the delay, but happy belated holidays!! (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

No problem! I hope your holidays have been excellent!

yes!! i've eaten so much haha. how about you?

pretty good! enjoying some time at home now.

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aah hi, i'm alive! sorry for the delay

It's all good! Welcome back.

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sorry about the delay; been sick this weekend.

aa, hope you're feeling better! o/

I'm doing much better now, thank you!

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