Romanowski and Rosemary

13. Medisa and Althea

Julian

In a cold, dark prison, a woman wearing dirty white linen sat against the walls. I wanted to break the prison bars and set her free, but it felt as if I wasn't there. I could only witness whatever went before me.

Her frail wrists lay hanging through an iron chain hung on the wall, her hair a mess over her face.

Suddenly, three men entered the cell, and I had this violent urge to hit the man I recognised.

My first court writer.

"Did she drink it?" he inquired.

"No, Master. I think we'll have to go the hard way." The guard... The guard from the Romanowskian palace, my palace, smirked.

"Is that so, my love?" The writer kneeled before the woman to gently lift her head, moving the hair out of her face. My heart numbed.

Medisa.

"Medisa!" I shouted, wanting to move forward, to rip out the evil man's head, but it seemed none could hear me. It was just my conscience that existed there, watching the atrocity.

I couldn't bear to watch it, yet something was forcing me to see it all. Like I'd transported to the day before Medisa had cursed me and killed herself.

"P- Please... please k- kill me, but d- don't J-Julian-" Her trembling words were cut short by a harsh slap to her face.

"Not his name." The writer spat, yanking her by the hair, "Aren't you such a whore, Medisa? Moaning his name even as you fucking die!" He shoved her head against the wall.

"Medisa! Listen to me! I'm..." I couldn't even breathe as I felt hot moisture coat my face. "I'm here. I'll save you..."

'You can't, Julian, you just can't. You never could and you never will.' A cruel voice inside me whispered angrily. The court writer grabbed a goblet, the drink looking so red, it resembled blood.

"Sweetheart," he sighed, stroking her face as a bruise quickly formed over her pale skin. "Be a good woman and drink it."

"I- I would have..." she heaved, her lips trembling. "B- But it w- won't just kill me." She looked at him with such teary eyes. Still, the monster couldn't feel a shred of pity in him. "Y- You want me to... d- drink it, s- so I could c- curse him. I d- don't want to do that..."

The writer glanced up at the guard.

"Yes Master, she knows," he said.

"Oh my darling, so you know it's a black magician's blood?" he grinned. "And that, you'll curse Julian exactly how I tell you to after you've had it?"

"I- I don't want to curse... curse him," she pleaded. "P- Please don't do this to me," she cried and cried, pulling at the shackles around her wrists. "I- I'll burn in Hades if I- I curse a good man... like h- him."

Her words struck an axe in my heart.

She didn't curse me. My Medisa could never. She was forced to.

"No, dear. You won't burn in Hades," the writer shook his head as if reprimanding a child. "You're too good for that, Medisa," he leaned into her, placing his lips by her neck. "Haven't you been my sweet little pleasure toy?"

"Back off, monster! I'll kill you!" But my threats were empty. I was nonexistent for them.

Motioning the guard to hold her head, he took the goblet, pressing it against her lips.