Pam Swynford De Beaufort (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lazy_but_loyal) wrote2014-10-13 12:14 am
lazy_but_loyal) wrote2014-10-13 12:14 am
Entry tags:
OOM - Fangtasia pt. 3
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Water collected in stagnant puddles in dark corners of the dungeon.
The drip, drip, drip was the only sound in the dimness, and it was starting to annoy the fuck out of Pam.
Focusing on being annoyed was better than feeling the silver chains dig into her bare skin.
She couldn't tell how much time had passed since Eric left. A couple of hours, maybe more. It wasn't dawn yet, she was at least sure of that, as she didn't have the bleeds.
In those couple of hours, maybe more, the Magister had used the silver tip of his cane to carve the year 1478 into the flesh of her lower back when she said didn't know, and didn't give a fuck, when the Spanish Inquisition was established.
When she could no longer keep herself upright on the Wheel, he had his henchmen pull her down and lay her out on a table. They draped the heavy chains across her bare throat, shoulders, stomach, and ankles. And then the Magister continued his lecture, burning each of her fingertips with the cane as he counted off how many infidels and heretics he'd converted. She remarked how fortunate it was for her that there weren't very many.
The Magister eventually found her amusing. She had spirit, he had to give her that. But that only prompted him to come up with more ways to break her. And by doing so, more ways for Eric to feel just how much his dear little Progeny was suffering.
This quiet drip, drip, drip was a respite from that. An annoyance to distract her from the faded echoes of her own screams, still ringing in her ears.
A different kind of torment.
---
She hadn't slept.
She couldn't, not with the continuous agony of the silver embedded in her skin and weighing her down, draining her. Blood seeped from her nostrils and ears from the fatigue. Her body felt dead, leaden, paralyzed. A deep, gnawing hunger tore at her insides.
To keep herself alert, she thought of Eric.
Where was he? What was he doing now? Did he have a plan? Did he find Bill Compton? What was the King of Mississippi really like?
Hurry. Please hurry.
By now it was impossible to prevent him from feeling what she was feeling. Her pain was inextricably his. But if she could stay calm enough, he might be able to sense that she was okay. Despite everything, still okay.
She hated how they'd last spoken to each other, the night before the raid. And she hated to think that that might be their last conversation.
Blinking blearily at the concrete ceiling, her mind started to cloud around the edges. Her eyes were still dry. Besides not sleeping and eating, there was one other thing Pam hadn't done.
She hadn't cried.
The dungeon door slammed open and several pairs of footsteps made their way down the stairs. There was the tap, tap, tap of the Magister's cane on the floor.
"Rise and shine, Miss De Beaufort!"
She wouldn't cry.
---
A second nightfall comes.
The Magister, alone, once more descends the steps into the dungeon. He sheds his jacket and hangs it on a post, then rolls up his shirtsleeves before pulling on a pair of black leather gloves.
"I come bearing gifts, because I want you to know how rotten I feel about the way I've been treating you," he says, circling the table as he produces a small square box from his pocket. "I sent one of my minions to Tiffany's to pick up a little something for you."
At this point Pam is in a dull haze of pain, weakness, and hunger, yet she gathers up every bit of her wits about her to respond.
"How'd you know I was a Tiffany's girl?" she says, her voice an exhausted croak, her lips barely moving.
The Magister opens the box. It contains a pair of teardrop earrings. He lifts one out to show her.
"Most women are," he replies, smiling a little, "and those who aren't, just think they're not."
Pam stares up at the earring for a moment; it really is no more than a stylized silver hook, gleaming in the pale light with the promise of more pain.
"They're beautiful."
"They're sterling silver."
"Excellent. They'll match my chains."
The Magister chuckles darkly.
"Unfortunately, seeing you now," he then says, tilting his head at her, "I realize your ears are already pierced."
Pam gulps, her body defensively going rigid.
The Magister leans in and asks quietly, politely, evilly: "Would you object to my piercing your eyelids?"
She starts to tremble despite the fight that she's determined to keep up.
"Not at all," she exhales shakily.
The Magister smiles. "Very well."
Holding one earring in his gloved fingers, he pulls the other glove off his other hand with his teeth, tossing it aside. Then, with great care and delicateness, he pinches the thin skin of Pam's left eyelid between his thumb and forefinger...
[NOTE: Last part and following thread taken directly from True Blood episode 3x07.]
Drip.
Drip.
Water collected in stagnant puddles in dark corners of the dungeon.
The drip, drip, drip was the only sound in the dimness, and it was starting to annoy the fuck out of Pam.
Focusing on being annoyed was better than feeling the silver chains dig into her bare skin.
She couldn't tell how much time had passed since Eric left. A couple of hours, maybe more. It wasn't dawn yet, she was at least sure of that, as she didn't have the bleeds.
In those couple of hours, maybe more, the Magister had used the silver tip of his cane to carve the year 1478 into the flesh of her lower back when she said didn't know, and didn't give a fuck, when the Spanish Inquisition was established.
When she could no longer keep herself upright on the Wheel, he had his henchmen pull her down and lay her out on a table. They draped the heavy chains across her bare throat, shoulders, stomach, and ankles. And then the Magister continued his lecture, burning each of her fingertips with the cane as he counted off how many infidels and heretics he'd converted. She remarked how fortunate it was for her that there weren't very many.
The Magister eventually found her amusing. She had spirit, he had to give her that. But that only prompted him to come up with more ways to break her. And by doing so, more ways for Eric to feel just how much his dear little Progeny was suffering.
This quiet drip, drip, drip was a respite from that. An annoyance to distract her from the faded echoes of her own screams, still ringing in her ears.
A different kind of torment.
---
She hadn't slept.
She couldn't, not with the continuous agony of the silver embedded in her skin and weighing her down, draining her. Blood seeped from her nostrils and ears from the fatigue. Her body felt dead, leaden, paralyzed. A deep, gnawing hunger tore at her insides.
To keep herself alert, she thought of Eric.
Where was he? What was he doing now? Did he have a plan? Did he find Bill Compton? What was the King of Mississippi really like?
Hurry. Please hurry.
By now it was impossible to prevent him from feeling what she was feeling. Her pain was inextricably his. But if she could stay calm enough, he might be able to sense that she was okay. Despite everything, still okay.
She hated how they'd last spoken to each other, the night before the raid. And she hated to think that that might be their last conversation.
Blinking blearily at the concrete ceiling, her mind started to cloud around the edges. Her eyes were still dry. Besides not sleeping and eating, there was one other thing Pam hadn't done.
She hadn't cried.
The dungeon door slammed open and several pairs of footsteps made their way down the stairs. There was the tap, tap, tap of the Magister's cane on the floor.
"Rise and shine, Miss De Beaufort!"
She wouldn't cry.
---
A second nightfall comes.
The Magister, alone, once more descends the steps into the dungeon. He sheds his jacket and hangs it on a post, then rolls up his shirtsleeves before pulling on a pair of black leather gloves.
"I come bearing gifts, because I want you to know how rotten I feel about the way I've been treating you," he says, circling the table as he produces a small square box from his pocket. "I sent one of my minions to Tiffany's to pick up a little something for you."
At this point Pam is in a dull haze of pain, weakness, and hunger, yet she gathers up every bit of her wits about her to respond.
"How'd you know I was a Tiffany's girl?" she says, her voice an exhausted croak, her lips barely moving.
The Magister opens the box. It contains a pair of teardrop earrings. He lifts one out to show her.
"Most women are," he replies, smiling a little, "and those who aren't, just think they're not."
Pam stares up at the earring for a moment; it really is no more than a stylized silver hook, gleaming in the pale light with the promise of more pain.
"They're beautiful."
"They're sterling silver."
"Excellent. They'll match my chains."
The Magister chuckles darkly.
"Unfortunately, seeing you now," he then says, tilting his head at her, "I realize your ears are already pierced."
Pam gulps, her body defensively going rigid.
The Magister leans in and asks quietly, politely, evilly: "Would you object to my piercing your eyelids?"
She starts to tremble despite the fight that she's determined to keep up.
"Not at all," she exhales shakily.
The Magister smiles. "Very well."
Holding one earring in his gloved fingers, he pulls the other glove off his other hand with his teeth, tossing it aside. Then, with great care and delicateness, he pinches the thin skin of Pam's left eyelid between his thumb and forefinger...
[NOTE: Last part and following thread taken directly from True Blood episode 3x07.]
no subject
Fucking Christ, what the hell happened in these past two days?
She holds her tongue. Because she's not stupid.
The newlywed royals make their way past her toward the stairs, and she politely smiles at them with a little bow of her head. Good riddens.
And then Eric's arms are around her-- and for a moment she forgets the mess they're in. She clings to him, closing her eyes and pressing her cheek to his chest, letting go of the torment she's endured. She's still weak and in pain, but the worst has passed. He came for her, and that's all that matters.
no subject
Because she is still weak and in pain.
And because he needs to.
He mutters, " This had better fucking work," as he walks up the stairs, down the hallway, and pushes the door to < a href="http://milliways-bar.dreamwidth.org/25669494.html">his office open with one foot.