Tennant would struggle with muted dreams. In his hands is a smooth, twining stone, a slightly spongy stone, the rounded edge of Gems that no man on earth had the power to cut into such a surface. Three gems, winding together; glimmering opal (white teeth in a Wolf's red mouth), midnight obsidian (was Black ever wicked? Or had it been deemed to always be so by uncaring Fates?), and deep, heart's blood garnet (like a stag, an antlered stag, running care-free in the blood of a sunset). His fingers would brush the gems, over and over, artwork inseparable. His fingers would brush the horn, and they welcomed him with a child's grasping hand, welcome him with an embrace -
Your first, conscious thoughts are, perhaps, of the cold. The fact that you lay down. Your senses are slow to come together. It is as if tea taken still lingers as a miasmic taste upon your tongue. A strange thickness. The slight bitterness of a Black Rose-petal, one that had not been crushed entire. Yes, you remember, now. You had been taking tea. tea with your Lady.
As it comes back you, you are aware of two, solid thoughts. You are naked. And you are bound. Your arms are stiff at your sides; your legs, slightly spread, are bolted to the hard, sturdy table on which you lay. It is no amateur's affair of ropes. While your chest is strapped down, general ties, so too are your wrists. Perhaps, if your mind can scramble together, you could recognize that particular table. A table that lies within the Inquisitory. Specially made, special-crafted. It was meant for a monster greater than you.
There is a hand stroking your hair. As you open your eyes, you cannot see who, exactly, it is. Your view confirms what you have feared. These are the deepest parts of the Inquisitory, the basement parts that you have glimpsed but once, or twice. The hidden parts that Glenn Burnie had wanted no one to know existed. Low, hard-packed earth is all that lies above you. There is the tail-end of a worm, probing carefully about this sudden ocean of air. It wriggles in rhythm to a sound. You know this sound, too, for you have heard it often enough at your sham-work, the cheerful front of your dark, Rhaena-tweaked mind.
The sound of a blade being whetted upon stone.
You realize that an equally murmurous sound has been speaking. And, when you can turn your head, you can see the figure seated next to you. It is Rhaena. It is your Lady, her bronze scales gleaming with scented oils, her bronze eyes a pity, and a disappointment. Not in you. That is instinctive. She sat upon a padded stool, her dresses and skirts immaculate, as always. She is so unreal to your mind, because she has made it so. She radiates, in the damp. It is she that is stroking your hair.
"It is a terrible shame," she is saying. "Such a terrible waste."
"Your wish is ever my command," says a gentle, accented voice, and though you cannot see him, you know him for Giuseppe. It must be, for he speaks to Rhaena in a way you dare not speak to her, you or Elliot or any number of mind-meddled slaves. No. No, that isn't true. Rhaena liked your wit. She liked your sass. She left that part of you alone. "If you're having second thoughts, better take this out of his head now -"
The Lady sighs, and she leans forward in her stool. She looks down into your eyes, your green, your emerald eyes. This is difficult for her, you know.
"No, no, Giuseppe," she will sigh with regret, after looking into your drug-addled eyes. "It must be done. My husband ever knew the need for necessity. Ah, Tennant! Could you have imagined it?" she asks, and you are naked and cold and bound to a table, and the primitive part if you - the part she did not rewrite - struggles like a rat in a drain, wants you to scream, wants you to gnaw your way out of your bindings. "Perhaps a little, blond girl - the Haytham girl, maybe, with her light hair and blue eyes - a girl for you. And with your family's penchant for twins -"
He tongue clucks against her teeth. "Such a shame! Little, matching handmaidens in green-lace dresses, perhaps, or footboys in smart, blue uniforms, on matching ponies, to announce my coming. It would have been dazzling. I always had that in mind for you, my Tennant. And you would have done it for me, wouldn't you?" Her perfumed, warm hand is hot against your cheek, skin gone clammy and feverish from the basement's cold. "You would have given me such a gift, such a prize. Little, strawberry-blond twins. And they would have had cakes and dresses, would have moved in the highest of circles."
"Oh, but then, your sister..." She trails away, her bronze eyes distant. "I will have to deal with her, too, I suppose. A little less elegantly than you. I couldn't bear to part with you, my Tennant. You are far too useful. You are... controlled, in a way my Husband could never hope. Ah, it would have been lovely. But it is more efficient to make certain traitorous blood does not breed traitorous blood, isn't it?"
She is so reasonable. So gentle. You could, perhaps, fight down the panic as the hot, sharp blade touches your inner thigh.