Queensmen

Chapter 40

~Pretty Ones~

Oris had to fight to keep a smile from tugging at her lips, sardonic as it was. Her veil wasn't thick enough to hide it from the view of the guards that paraded her down the very hallways she had so confidently traversed hours ago and she wasn't in the mood to look for trouble, yet.

Up ahead, Faeradaigh rolled in front of them. Rolled, because somehow he had gotten heavier since last they met and now and then he paused to dab at his face and take a breath or three.

He shuffled more than walked, and nearly collided with walls more than halted his steps.

Somehow, Oris was reminded of the stubborn dough that her adoptive mother sweated to break just to get a pan of bread. Unnecessarily difficult with little gain at the end.

"Milord," she called, ignoring the way the guards shoved her as they turned a corner. "Are the shackles necessary? I will not run away if that is what you are afraid off."

"Do not fret," he said in between his panting, "it is simply protocol."

Oris could not not ignore how he had ceased to call her a lady. She wasn't one now but a suspected criminal, she supposed.

Maybe not even suspected anymore. She wondered if Hermes and Magnus had a falling out. If they did, why take it out on her? Why not duke it out in a duel and leave innocent women out of it?

Being tossed around like this filled her with nostalgia. She had always been an unwilling casualty in the games of men, though it had never gotten to the point where she had to make a trip to the dungeons.

It was always just the little things like undeserved blame and scorn but she supposed this was what loosing your crown does to you. Suddenly you were the lowest of the low with no chance of climbing out of the pit you dug for yourself.

Why did no one warn you of the future consequences of your actions? Why do the gods stand idly by when their worshipers die out of ignorance? Oris did not understand. She did not wish to.

That was why she depended on herself and not the gods.

Lost in thought, she could only perceive with her free senses that the hallways had gotten dimmer and the walls had transitioned from marble to stone.

The soft velvet carpet had all but disappeared, replaced with gritty and uneven bricks that no longer shined with reflected light.

It was only when a rough shove caused her to lose her footing and stumble forward that Oris realized that they had arrived.

The stench was what hit her first and oddly enough. It made her nose twitch when she realized that she found it was familiar. A bar tucked in a lonely corner of Orse smelt just the same. Same enough to make a laugh slip past her lips.

"Wha' ya luffing about, luf?" an inmate sneered from inside his cell. "Yer in here wih us now, ain't ye?"

"Oh," Oris decided to humor him. "It just reeks of unwashed men and desperation in here. Reminds me that I belong."

When he began to smile, exposing his rotting teeth, Oris got the feeling that they shared the same sense of humor. Then he laughed. . .and lunged for her neck through the bars.

Of course, she wasn't close enough for any damage to be done. She had made sure of that beforehand, having no doubt that the guards would turn a blind eye just to see her suffer.

"That's enough commotion," the guard behind her said when the attack failed. "Start moving."

Oris obeyed but didn't lose eye contact with the inmate. Tried to kill me, aye mate? We'll see.