Chapter Text
Ask to speak with Idra, Maia thought, but his head was hot and heavy with humiliation, or well-earned shame. Idra would not wish to speak to the likes of thee. Desirest thou to see yet more scornful faces, hobgoblin?
He could not bear to look at either Sheveän or Chavar.Casting his eyes to the side instead, Maia glanced at one of the armsmen, and froze. Later, Maia would conclude that it was not that the man's face looked like Setheris' face, for it did not. But the armsman's expression – disdainful but focused, sour yet calculating – was as familiar as any other expression Maia knew. It blew through Maia as cold wind blows through lace.
He couldn't think. What detachment he'd had before vanished as his throat closed up in panic. He was gripped by the consuming urge to turn around and run, but there was nowhere to run to. The door was locked. The other exit was behind Chavar and the armsman, who were watching him. They were waiting for him to make the next move.
The panic did not care. It wanted Maia to claw at the door with his fingernails, or to knock it down, even if doing so would break every bone in his body.
'We want to speak with Idra,' Maia said, weak and juvenile but still standing, because somewhere in the back of his mind he could remember a voice telling him that he was emperor... it is not their place to dictate to you. Maia could not tell who had been speaking.
'No,' Sheveän said, coldly. Her one word drowned out the voice, and it did not come back.
The word please was on his tongue before he could stop himself. Maia barely knew why he wanted it. What would he even say to Idra? Idra had no reason to support him, this fool of a goblin, this incompetent emperor. Truly, his absence would hurt no one.
Maybe… maybe they will let thee live for a while first, he thought, and tears stung his eyes. He hadn't wanted to be emperor in the first place, and now he was to be killed for it. Unfair. How could this all be so unfair?
It was an old feeling, and a childish one. Maia took a deep breath, cold and damp and tasting of stone. Self-pity seemed to have cooled his panic, but he could not tell if it were an improvement. 'We will abdicate,' he said, attempting to draw the ruined tatters of his dignity around himself. He still couldn't look anywhere but the floor, and the armsman who looked like Setheris frightened him even more than Sheveän or Chavar did. His heart was pounding in his skull, and it made him feel sick. His back was hunched with the expectation of pain.
When he signed his name, his bones felt heavy, and his signature on the vellum was even worse than usual.
Two guards escorted him back up the stairs, through a corridor, and into a small room. They left, and locked the door behind them.
There was no light, and Maia groped his way forward to the nearest piece of furniture, a smear of black in the dark grey of the room. It was a bed; the sheets were cold, and felt damp under his trembling fingers. A slight, icy breeze was coming in from somewhere, but he could not tell where. The thought that there was something in the darkness at his back occurred to him, and Maia held his breath, wanting to crouch down like a rabbit who had seen the shadow of a hawk. Time crawled by. His bare feet hurt with the cold, and his whole body was starting to shiver.
Maia forced himself up, hands outstretched, and found the wall. He followed it to a corner, and there, crouched down, arms around his legs and face pressed to his bony knees. Had Telimezh woken, yet? What of Dazhis? What of Cala and Beshelar?
Would Telimezh kill himself for not protecting his emperor?
Thou art not his emperor, Maia Hobgoblin.
He was crying before he realised it, wet, choking sobs from deep in his chest. Would Dazhis be punished for his part in this, or would the legalities of the coup mean he had done nothing wrong?
The bare stone wall was like ice, and his nightshirt no protection. Would Csethiro still be obliged to marry him, and become the wife of a penniless monk? Would she be put away and forgotten once he was dead? And Idra – how long would he last? Had he been a part of this from the beginning, then?
He had failed not just himself, but everyone. Maia knew that deep in his heart, whether he lived a life of prayer or not, he would never be able to find peace.
It was the first time since his coronation that he was alone to practice meditation. Maia could not stomach it, so he waited, miserable and restless, until dawn.
He jolted awake, startled by something unknown. Standing before he had fully woken, Maia took a small step forward, then fell to his hands and knees as his legs refused to hold him. He froze; he was alone. He could hear nothing. Had he been dreaming? If so, he could not remember what.
Gritting his teeth against the pins and needles that started to burn through his legs, Maia staggered upright. His situation seemed more solid in the light – more real, less of an absurd nightmare. He swallowed and looked around.
The room, lit dimly, was small. The furniture was both plain and sparse: a bed, a chair, a chest of drawers. The bed had a single set of clothes folded on top of it, plain and made of cheap material, that he had not noticed in the darkness. As he stood there, holding the shirt in his hands, Maia felt something wedge painfully in his chest, and took a few seconds to recognise it for what it was: loneliness. The keen sense of absence of those he trusted was a miserable blow he hadn't been expecting.
Dwell not on that, he told himself as firmly as he could, and dropping the shirt he made himself walk around the perimeter of his room. He looked under the bed – a bedpan – and inside the chest of drawers – a length of rope, thick and rough. For a minute Maia let himself be puzzled over it, until he caught sight of the heavy curtain rail, absent of curtain, above the small window. He choked back a laugh. He had not suspected either Sheveän or Chavar to be so heavy-handed with their hints, but then, he had not suspected them to physically kidnap and force him to abdicate either.
The time wore on. Maia ignored the rope, and put on the clothes, too exhausted to appreciate the act of dressing himself. He combed his hair with his fingers and attempted to braid it, though he suspected he only made a mess of himself. There was no fireplace, and the room grew no warmer with the daylight. He paced, and wondered what was happening outside his prison. He could hear nothing. Had Chavar already presented his abdication papers, and everything was already over? Or would other hoops have to be jumped through? Why was he still here? Maia peered out of the window, but the view was nowhere he recognised: a small, empty square, and blank walls with dark windows opposite. The frame leaked cold air, and Maia stepped away.
He continued to pace, but couldn't seem to warm up. He was not hungry, but thirst was starting to nag at the edges of his mind. The tremble of panic remained in his chest, dormant, and waiting. The day continued to pass as if he were the only one left in the world, while his thirst grew into a pain in the back of his throat and a throb at his temples. A thought sparked in his head that they'd leave him to die here – he subdued it forcefully, but it left him weak and shaking. Of course food and drink would be brought. Of course. Of course it would.
Maia gripped his hands into fists, but he didn't dare go near the door. There were undoubtedly guards nearby, who might bring him water if he asked for it. But he could not ask.
It got dark slowly, and Maia sat on the bed with his eyes closed, until the room had descended into a hazy soup of grey and black. Clumsily, he took off his clothes and put his nightshirt back on – the cool, smooth silk was a shocking pleasure after the rougher fabrics of the shirt and trousers, and Maia suffered a stab of guilt in realising that he'd lived his whole life in clothes such as those, and had never before thought of them as rough. A quarter of a year the emperor, and thou art already spoilt, he thought viciously as he slipped into bed, and somehow, the petty insult brought a stab of fresh pain to his chest. Thirst clawed at him like a gaping wound. Maia lay in bed with his hands covering his face.
He had almost fallen asleep by the time Tethimar arrived.
Maia did not hear him approach the door, but he heard the key scape in the lock. He froze absolutely still, and was saved being blinded by the lamp Tethimar held by his palms already pressed over his eyes. For a second, he did not dare to breathe.
'Good evening, Your Grace.'
Maia swallowed dryly. He hadn't know who or what he had been hoping for, but it had definitely not been this. He forced his hands downward, but he did not sit, nor reply, though a part of him insisted shrilly that he should. What, exactly, couldst thou say? he tried to retort, but it came out hysterical. The light stung his eyes, so he closed them, as if by pretending that he was alone he could make it so.
'We apologise for arriving so late. It took… some time to convince your sister to allow us this interview.'
There was something very, very wrong about Tethimar's tone of voice. The door closing and locking. A small noise as several items were placed on the chest of drawers, and the scape of something wooden. The mattress dipped. Acting without thought Maia all but threw himself away, but his wrist was caught in an iron grip and he was yanked back onto the bed. His head spun uncontrollably and Maia retched, unable to stop Tethimar as both of his hands were forced upwards. There was rope binding his wrist together and above his head, and Tethimar's knee pinning Maia's chest, and Maia tried to scream but did not have the breath.
A gag was forced into his mouth, and tied roughly around the back of his head, pulling out his hair. The world felt like it was spinning beneath him. Maia shook his head wildly even as his words, 'No – no – no,' were muffled into meaninglessness. He did not understand what was happening. Tethimar towered above him, kneeling between Maia's legs, his lower stomach pressed to Maia's crotch. He was grinning. Maia shut his eyes tight.
He did not understand. He did not want to.
Hands on his hips, pulling up his nightshirt, careful not to yank his ears as it went over his head and bundled up around his forearms. Maia kicked and twisted, but Tethimar moved his hands to Maia's shoulders, and it was like a rabbit trying to overpower a wolfhound. Tethimar might as well have been made from stone, weighted down by a mountain.
Maia was not strong, nor did he have physical endurance. After less than half a minute he collapsed, light-headed and trembling. His bones felt like they were made of starched linen gone damp. His ears were flat, down, the tips crushed against his hard pillow.
'Are you done?' Tethimar asked. Maia shuddered at the feel of rough hands on his skin, running down from his collar bones, brushing his nipples, over his stomach, to between his legs – Maia twisted violently, trying to force his knees between himself and Tethimar. Tethimar reached up and backhanded him across the face, hard.
Maia stopped struggling. Tethimar slapped him, then again, and again, until Maia's face was numb and he could not breathe. The gag pressed down against his tongue, filling his whole mouth. His nose was blocked. For a single moment Maia was absolutely certain that he would never take another breath again, and suffocate to death on the bed with Tethimar pressed against his naked skin, watching, and that thought terrified him beyond anything he'd ever felt before.
Then his nose cleared and Maia could breathe, and he sucked in great, needy lungfuls of air, sobbing tearlessly from terror and relief and the pain creeping across his face. The taste of blood seeped into his mouth.
'Maia,' said Tethimar, leaning down. 'Art thou done?'
Maia pressed his head against his arm, and did not offer resistance when his left leg was lifted to rest upon Tethimar's clothed shoulder, nor when Tethimar's finger, slick and cold, circled around his anus. The finger pressed against him, then inside. The undiluted shock of it, the raw feeling of violation, felt like a kick to the chest. Maia was dimly aware as his thoughts stalled and stopped, overruled by a base, instinctual terror that clenched his whole body tight in its grasp.
Tethimar twisted his finger, pumping it in and out in little, slow motions, until the knuckles of his fist rested against Maia's skin. The gentle sensation of something moving inside of him made Maia's gorge rise. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Closing his eyes, his breath whistled; he could not move, frozen stiff, ears rigid. Pumping his finger in and out, slowly, carefully, Tethimar stroked the skin behind Maia's balls with his thumb. It was almost possible to get used to, Maia tried to think, squeezing his eyes shut too hard and watching the patterns of colour on the back of his eyelids. The words slipped around in his head. It did not hurt. Perhaps he could get used to this and simply wait until it was over.
Tethimar crooked his finger, and the motion caused a jolt, like static electricity, that made Maia suck in a sharp breath, his jaw clenched around the gag. Tethimar touched something sensitive inside him, then touched it again, that made Maia tremble and the muscles of his back and legs tense and jump. With the touch came a feeling that took Maia several seconds to understand: pleasure.
His hips bucked of their own accord and Maia whined, desperate and unsteady as Tethimar pushed in a second finger. The stretch burnt and meshed with unwanted desire as again, Tethimar curled his fingers. Maia arched his back, kicking weakly, but Tethimar held him in place. His breathing became panting, hysterical; he felt like he was suffocating. This was wrong. What was wrong with him?
The pain eased, even as Maia tried to cling to it. The fingers pushed in, pulled out, slow and steady, again and again for what felt like hours. Then: a third finger.
Please stop, Maia cried in his head. Please stop it, please, please–
He ached, all over, as if on the morning after a beating. He couldn't breathe properly. And violation, the feeling of being peeled open and every last part of him examined by scornful, personal eyes. Like he'd stuck his hand in filth, only not his hand, all of his insides were now wrong and dirty–
Massaged by Tethimar's fingertips, Maia's insides felt hot. His penis was becoming erect. How could he? Why was his body betraying him?
'We will admit,' Tethimar said, 'that to begin with we had thought thee to be ugly, an unattractive goblin and no more.' His voice was rough and low. 'But we see now that we were mistaken. Thou'rt lovely indeed.'
Maia had not been called lovely since his mother had died. The word caused a knot in his gut and a swell in his throat that made him afraid of throwing up and choking to death on his own vomit.
He moaned through his gag as Tethimar took Maia's penis with his spare hand, stroking it loosely. His fingers were wet with some sort of oil or balm, and he pressed his thumb gently against the base of the shaft and dragged it upwards to circle around the head. He rubbed the slit and played with the foreskin. Under his ministrations, Maia's hips jerked and he grew hard. Tethimar's other hand toyed with his anus, stretching him out.
I will orgasm, Maia thought, as if from a great distance. He will force me to orgasm. He felt like the bed beneath him was insubstantial, and at any moment he would fall into a void. He could not move his legs.
Tethimar's fingers pulled from Maia's anus, leaving it feeling horribly and absurdly empty, cold to the air. Then something else pressed there, far larger than fingers, and hot. Tethimar's hand did not slow in its work on Maia's penis even as he pushed his own inside of Maia.
The pain was not significant among the rest of the pains he had suffered throughout his life. It still bludgeoned him, as if it had torn straight through his guts, breaking his spine. Maia's legs trembled and clung to Tethimar's waist.
'Ah! Thou clenchest our prick with each stroke of our hand,' Tethimar said, moving his hips. 'Does thy skill come from thy goblin blood, or art thou well practiced? Did thy cousin Setheris Nelar take thee to his bed and fuck thee? A sore loss if not.'
Maia hurt. The breath after breath he sucked in desperately dried his nose and throat, making them burn. His face rubbed against his upper arm in time with Tethimar's thrusts, skin sweaty and cold, sticking to and pulling his hair. It hurt and Maia did not know what was happening. What Tethimar was doing was not what Tethimar did, was not what happened, could not be understood, was absurd and wrong in every way. It carried on and did not stop.
As Tethimar had forced himself into Maia, Maia had lost his hardness – yet it returned, coaxed back by Tethimar's wet hand and strong fingers. A whine was forced from his nose as the pressure there increased like a spring being compressed, and the urge to orgasm grew. He didn't want this. He didn't want any of it, but this least of all.
The sound of flesh on cloth, and flesh on wet flesh, filled Maia's ears, made into a cacophony by his own heartbeat and ragged breathing, and Tethimar's breathing. The bed creaked in time with the beat of Tethimar's thrusts. Maia tried to press his arms against his ears, but his muscles, trembling in pain, could not hold the position. His back felt like it was broken. His shoulders burnt with a savage agony, deep down in the bone. Each thrust hurt like the jab of a hot poker in his guts.
Maia orgasmed feeling as if Tethimar had reached into his body and yanked out a fistful of insides. He came onto his stomach, hot on his cold skin.
Tethimar continued thrusting, but at a faster pace than before, leaning forward with one hand on the mattress while gripping Maia's hip with the other. Maia lay still, letting himself be jostled. He felt like food dropped on a dirty floor, like a layer inside of him had gone bad and needed scraping off. Thrusts losing their rhythm, Tethimar slowed, then stopped. After a few moments he pulled away, breathing hard, and moved to sit near the head of the bed. Maia flinched away as best he could, dry, itchy eyes still shut, but his body would not work properly. Very gently, Tethimar undid the gag and pulled it away, the fabric crusted and sticking to Maia's skin around the corners of his mouth. His hand lingered on Maia's face, stroking the length of one ear. Maia shuddered as he gasped for air, his ears flicking uncontrollably away, but Tethimar gripped his ear, his fingertips pulling at it then massaging the muscle near the base. It made Maia whine, the sound breaking his rapid, unsteady breaths.
'Stop,' he managed, but the word prevented him from breathing. His throat was raw and the urge to be sick filled him. He tried to shake his head but Tethimar's grip stopped him. Maia's eyes opened without him meaning them to, gritty and sore, squinting in the lamplight.
'Thou art very beautiful, Maia,' Tethimar said. 'Never forget it.' He had a glass of water in his hand, pressing the rim gently to Maia's lips. Maia shut his lips and eyes as hard as he could, even as his head pounded and throat begged for liquid. The glass disappeared. A few second later, wet fingers ran along Maia's lower lip. Water dribbled down his chin and into the corners of his mouth. Reflexively, Maia licked his lips. He licked Tethimar's fingers, which had been dipped back in the water and replaced at his mouth. The awareness of what he was doing screamed in the back of his head, but something foreign seemed to be controlling him. His eyes opened. Tethimar withdrew his fingers, then pressed them, dripping wet, onto Maia's dry tongue. Maia's lips closed around them and he sucked at Tethimar's fingertips. Tethimar's hand on his ear curled around Maia's jawline, so that his thumb was free to stroke the length his trembling ear.
Maia's mouth was no longer dry, but his thirst seemed all the worse for it. 'Please,' he begged. Tethimar wet his fingers and offered them, and Maia opened his mouth to let them in, suckle them desperately, and relinquished them only when they pulled away. 'Please let me drink.'
Sighing, Tethimar caressed Maia's ear and offered his wet fingers again. Drops of water fell on Maia's neck, and he opened his mouth without further prompting.
'Please.' His voice cracked, breath hitching with the beginnings of sobs. In the dim yellow light Tethimar's blue eyes were black and inscrutable. After a long moment he held the glass to Maia's lips, and Maia drank, spluttering as he tried to suck in more water than the gentle angle of the glass allowed. Then the water was finished and Maia tried to hold back a moan at its loss. Tethimar hushed him as he refilled the glass, and held it out again to let Maia drink.
As if suddenly bored, Tethimar stood, and undid the knot binding Maia's wrists. Maia flinched, a whole-body motion, and after a pause he rolled away, hands cradled to his chest and shoulders hunched in agony. He fell off the bed in his haste, stumbling to get up, and pressed himself to the wall. His nightshirt he pulled down over his head from where it bunched over his arms, biting his lip against the pain. He was panting, head spinning. He felt violently sick. The door closed behind Tethimar with a thud and the scape of a lock, casting the room into darkness.
Maia crouched down, gulping for air. He rubbed his ear until it hurt, but could still feel Tethimar's hand on it. He could feel Tethimar's hands on his hips, and his chest, and stomach, and–
He scraped at himself with the palms of his hands, sweat sticking the fabric of the nightshirt to his skin. Tethimar had – that didn't happen. It couldn't have happened. Do not think about it, Maia told himself. He couldn't stop thinking about it. He hurt. He felt hollow, disgusting, his insides the pulpy, wet flesh of an apple that had started to rot. He needed to get it out, to scour away his own guts and skin.
He was panicking, he realised abstractedly. The chill of the air pinched his damp skin. Reaching forward, Maia gripped the uppermost blanket from the bed and tugged it around himself as he curled up in the corner of the room. Nose dry and itching, Maia sniffed, which descended into a racking cough, throat raw and sticky. His heart beat like a moth. Do not think about it. He tucked his hands between his legs. What do I do? He trembled uncontrollably. He thought of hiding under the bed, or inside the chest of drawers, or throwing himself out of the window. He could not seem to make himself move.
* * * * *
When Maia woke the room was light, empty, and silent. His whole body was stiff with cold, still hurting, but more dully than before. His feet were entirely numb, as were his back and buttocks where they had been pressed against the wall and floor. His heart was racing. After a long time Maia crawled to a stand. He changed back into the day clothes, and stuffed his nightshirt, crusty with sweat, between the mattress and the headboard. He tried to comb his hair, teasing out the snarls, but his fingers were clumsy and wouldn't stop shaking. His shoulders hurt from holding his arms up. After a few minutes Maia stopped trying.
He used the bedpan, his urine a dark brown inside the stained pottery. It stank; he covered it with the thin pillow off the bed, which only helped a little. What if Tethimar came again? Maia pushed the bedpan against the wall with one foot. Perhaps, to better hide the smell, he could put it in the chest of drawers.
The rope was still in the chest of drawers. Maia froze, save for his shivering, and for his ears, which lowered slowly.
It was clear that if he were alive he would remain a threat to Idra's rule. Even if no one wanted him on the throne, he could still be used as a figurehead for political malcontent. Maia's ears flicked and he swallowed, the movement breaking him out of his stillness. Idra deserved better. Maia turned to the window, then back again, then paced a small circle. The noble thing to do, then, would be to take himself entirely out of the equation as soon as possible. Before Sheveän could. He could be the one to ease Idra's burden, even just a little. Some small, last way to be useful.
But... Maia stood in the corner furthest from the chest of drawers, facing the wall. He traced the brickwork with his fingertips. I don't want to. I don't want to die.
The room stank and Maia's head swam. He crouched, trying to warm his bare feet with his hands. He was so cold. He couldn't stop shivering. Why hadn't they got rid of him yet? What were they waiting for? His heart pattered in his chest, fast but faint, and Maia put his head down against his knees. The motion pulled at the skin of his lips, which cracked and started bleeding. Without warning he retched, violently, but nothing came up. Another retch forced him to his hands and knees, face low, almost touching the floor.
Why didn't they just kill thee? Maia thought wretchedly. It would have been kinder.
The room was getting darker, grey and grainy, night approaching. How long will they keep thee here for? What if Tethimar returns? Maia wrapped the blanket around his shoulders before sitting down in the corner of the room, and tried to pull it to cover his legs. His feet didn't quite fit inside, unless he pulled them close to his body, but that was painful in ways he did not want to touch. Panting, Maia straightened his legs.
There were two other blankets on the bed, but he did not get them. They faded from view as the sun set and the room fell into darkness. What if Tethimar returns? Maia thought, and could not stop thinking. The blackness and silence closed in around him, the coldness gripping his bones. At some point he stopped shivering. Inside his chest his heart raced, but his breathing was shallow and slow. Maia tried to count his breaths, but could not, the numbers slipping from him.
The morning came in slow, small degrees, and Maia could not tell if he had slept or not. His eyes ached to open them. He felt like his body had gone stiff, like plants frozen in an overnight frost, and moving would snap and break him. The thirst tore into his throat and the inside of his chest, never not in the forefront of his mind, making him feel hollowed out and aching, enough to drive him mad. Thinking he saw movement outside the window, Maia tried to stand, but dizziness gripped him and he stumbled back down. He lay down on the stone floor and closed his eyes, the blanket twisted around his legs. Time passed.
Maia did not flinch as the door was kicked down, but his ears pulled back as shouted words bludgeoned him.
'We found him! We found the emperor! Get a doctor down here, now! Hurry!'
Burning hot hands touched his neck and forehead. The voice quietened, softening.
'Serenity, hold on. All will be well, we promise. All will be well.'