Chapter 96 Golden Cutleries
Amarien's POV
I wake to hands that are not gentle.
They do not hurt me either. They are efficient, firm fingers gripping my arms, lifting me as if my body weighs nothing at all. Perhaps it doesn't anymore. Hunger has hollowed me out. Grief has done the rest.
The rags are the first to go.
They peel them from me without ceremony, fabric tearing where it clings to dried blood and sweat. I don't protest. I don't even look down. That body, thin, bruised, shaking faintly, is not mine anymore. It belonged to a woman who screamed for her child until her throat gave out.
They guide me into water.
Hot.
Too hot at first, then numbing. Steam curls around me, clouding my vision, softening the world at its edges. Someone supports my shoulders as I sink, the heat seeping into my bones, loosening muscles that have been clenched for days.
I close my eyes.
The water turns faintly red, then clears.
Cloths glide over my skin, washing away dirt, blood, the smell of sickness and despair. I feel fingers at my wrists, my ankles, my neck, everywhere I have been marked by suffering. They scrub gently but thoroughly, as if preparing an offering.
I am quiet.
Too quiet.
My hair comes next.
They tip my head back, pouring water over my scalp. Hot streams soak through the tangled mass, weighing it down, pulling at my roots. Fingers work through it slowly, patiently, loosening knots formed by neglect and nights spent clawing at myself in grief.
A comb follows.
It catches. Pulls.
I flinch once, sharply.
"Easy," the lead woman murmurs, not unkindly. "It will pass."
It always does.
Strand by strand, the tangles are undone. Hair I once took pride in spills freely down my back, darker when wet, heavy with water and memory. They rinse it again and again, until it lies smooth beneath their hands.
When they lift me from the bath, my legs tremble.
I am dried. Lotions are pressed into my skin, scented faintly with jasmine and myrrh. My body glows in the candlelight, polished into something almost whole.
Almost.
Then they dress me.
The gown waits on a nearby table, folded carefully, reverently. Silk, real silk, the kind that whispers when you touch it. Deep midnight blue, rich as the sea beneath moonlight. Silver thread is woven through it in delicate patterns, vines, stars, and crescents that catch the light when the fabric moves.
They slip it over my head.
The silk kisses my skin, cool and impossibly soft. It clings to me in places I didn't know still existed, my waist, my hips, my chest, reminding me, cruelly, that my body has changed. That I have changed.
The gown is fitted but flowing, cinched beneath my breasts, falling in long, elegant lines to the floor. The sleeves drape loosely, sheer enough to reveal the pale skin beneath. A subtle neckline frames my collarbones, my throat.
I barely recognize the woman they are making.
They fasten silver clasps at my back. Adjust the fall of the fabric. Smooth invisible creases.
Someone brushes my hair until it shines, then leaves it loose, cascading down my shoulders like dark water. Another woman steps forward and gently lifts my chin.
"We are preparing you for a feast," she says.
Her eyes flicker, not with concern, but with urgency. Obligation.
"Lord Theron has demanded your presence."
Demanded.
Of course, he has.
They guide me toward the mirror.
I stop when I see her.
Tall. Pale. Blue eyes too large for her face, glowing unnaturally bright against the dark silk. My cheeks are hollow, but the makeup hides it well. My posture, once curled inward, has been forced straight.
My chest was bigger, my waist slimmer, my complexion pale and even like I haven't touched the sunlight in years. My face held a depth, a certain richness, that unsettled me.
I look like a woman now.
Not the girl who cried in stone corridors. Not the mother who screamed her child's name into the floor.
A woman carved from pain and dressed in silk.
My lips are colourless. Someone presses pigment onto them without asking, a soft rose that brings warmth back into my face. My eyes remain unchanged.
No paint can hide what lives there.
I search them in the mirror, those eyes.
They are broken.
Empty in a way beauty cannot fix.
I wait for someone to notice.
No one does.
They step back, satisfied.
"You look perfect," one of them says.
Perfect.
I swallow.
This body is not mine tonight. This face does not belong to me. I am an object polished and presented, prepared for a hall full of laughter and wine, while my child lies somewhere unnamed, unmourned.
But none of that matters.
They have a duty.
Not to me.
To Theron.
And so I stand there, wrapped in silk and silence, staring at a woman who looks whole, while everything inside her is already dead.
Well, not everything.
Something deep and primal stirred within me. That anger was anything but long forgotten. It seemed to be a part of me now. And I will never let it go, no matter how prim or proper I look.
I was led down the stairways, and for the first time I saw the extent of the mighty fort. It was grand and imposing everywhere, like the palace. As like the palace, and I knew it would be an equally fancy cage.
They led me to a table full of food. I felt my stomach groan in response to the food. I didn't know I was this hungry. I sat and gulped the food into my mouth while the women watched in horror.
Their eyes soon lowered, and they bowed, happy that I was finally eating. While I eagerly stuffed the food into my mouth, I realized something.
There were cutlery pieces on this table made of fine gold and other metals. I should have used that instead of my hands. Quickly, I wiped my hand and mouth and began using the cutlery slowly.
And soon an idea popped into my mind as I raised the lamb chop to my mouth.
I looked around the room to be sure no one was watching me, and when I was sure no one was, I grabbed a metal cutlery knife and tucked it into my ball gown.
If Theron thinks he'd get away with taking my child from me, then he really underestimated me.
Now that I have the chance to see that bastard face-to-face, I won't let things slide without a fight.