Work Text:
Anaria had thought she could take it: another day of this, another day of the tortures that Hakur brought down upon her. He'd always give her a few days to rest and recover, and she never knew when he'd hurt her again. She'd tightened her resolve and told herself she could handle it. She was strong now, wasn't she?
And yet, when she found herself back in his dungeon, (he never liked getting the floors dirty with blood unless it was the dungeon), she found herself crumbling. There was her blood on the floor, on the wall over there, and it was going to be spilled again.
Hakur cast her down onto the floor on her knees. Hands bound behind her back, she couldn't catch herself, and her momentum put her forward onto her face, the stone scraping her cheek open. Tears stung in the new wound. No, he hadn't even started and she was already crying!
"Get on your knees," he ordered, voice cold. There was a hint of relish in it. He'd never told her why he did this to her. He just seemed to get a sadistic satisfaction out of hurting others.
Anaria struggled where she lay on the ground, but couldn't bring herself up without the use of her arms. Hakur's hand went into her hair, tugging hard, and Anaria yelled in pain as he used the grip to pull her up onto her knees.
"There," he said. "Was that so hard?"
"Please don't do this," Anaria said, so quietly she wasn't sure if he'd heard. She wasn't even sure the words had left her mouth.
"What?"
Oh, they had.
Hakur went to the table in the dungeon that was supplied with what he used to hurt her. Anaria trembled in her bindings, tried futilely to reach for her magic, but the collar burned her incessantly, and she had to give up, gasping, nearly sobbing.
"You said something," Hakur said. He was looking at the table and not her, fingers drumming against it. "I would like to hear what it was."
"Please don't... don't do this," Anaria managed to get out, much louder this time.
"Ooh, begging," Hakur said, sounding delighted. "That's new." He picked up the whip, which seemed to be his favorite implement. He came around to face her, took her chin roughly in his hand. It was so ironic how clean he was, how clean his hands were, when really he'd had her blood all over them.
"Do you think it will work?" he asked teasingly.
"Please..." Anaria didn't know what to say. Her lip was shaking, an ache building in her throat. She couldn't go through this again. She couldn't. She was sure the experience would break her. Or maybe she was broken already and that's why she was begging. "Don't. You... you haven't even told me why..."
"Why?" Hakur asked. He let go of her chin, straightened. "Does there need to be a why?"
That frightened Anaria to no end, turned her stomach. The horror of those words - he was just doing this because he could, because he wanted to, because he was cruel.
And there was nothing Anaria could do or say to stop him.
But she couldn't help but want to beg.
Hakur circled around to her back, and Anaria sobbed. She pulled her wings tight up against her back, to protect the healing lacerations there. She had clothing on, but clothing would do nothing against the strength of Hakur's strikes.
"Now, now, princess. Let me see your back. Unless of course you want me to tear up your wings some more."
Anaria whimpered, cried. Her wings were already an atrocity, the beautiful flight feathers painfully pulled out, the rest cut and missing. He'd made a mess of them so she wouldn't be able to fly or even think of doing so.
She didn't want her wings taking the brunt of the whipping. She just didn't. So she slowly spread them out, revealing her back. She didn't know how she was brave enough to do it. Or maybe she wasn't brave. Maybe it was just weakness.
Hakur swung, and the whip cracked against her back, tearing through clothing, skin. She screamed; blood flew, leaked, streamed, as if eager to leave her body. She didn't blame it. She didn't want to be in her body either.
She screamed again as the whip came down.
"Stop! Please stop!"
"But, princess, we've only just started."
" Please . My other wounds weren't even... even healed. Some respite, please. "
"Hm..." Hakur hummed, thinking.
Please, please. Just don't hurt me.
"How about this?" he asked. "You count to ten, and ten lashes is all you get. If you don't count, you will receive more. Fair?"
Fair?! That wasn't fair! That was sick and cruel!
"Do I start from three?" Anaria asked, even as she wanted to scream at him.
"Pretend the first two lashes didn't happen," Hakur said. "Start from one."
Anaria gritted her teeth. She could do this, couldn't she? It was just counting.
But it was counting the amount of times a weapon was struck against her body, the amount of times she felt pain intensify.
"One!" Anaria suddenly cried, the whip coming down with no warning. She was left breathless, shaking, but she was glad she'd gotten the word out. She didn't want to be down here any longer than she needed to be. If Hakur saw fit to let her rest after ten lashes, then she would try her best to have only ten.
"T-two!"
"Good, good."
Crack!
"Three!"
Anaria shook, pulled at her bonds without thinking, the rope digging into and cutting her already sensitive wrists. She let the tears stream down her face, mingle with the blood from the wound on her cheek, sting in it. She could do this. She could do-
"Four!"
Crack!
"Five!"
"Good girl. Halfway there."
Anaria swayed with the eighth snap of the whip, and her words didn't come out. She didn't count it. She just sobbed wordlessly, blubbering, feeling like a weak fool.
"What was that?" Hakur asked. "Did I hear counting or no?"
"E-eight..." Anaria panted.
"Too late." There was a smile in his words. "Beg all you want, but I will not stop until I am satisfied."
And Hakur was almost never satisfied.
The whip came down again, and Anaria screamed. And she begged.