Fic: Forsaking Freedom (Iriel de Fiscarde/Duc de Bonnel, R)
Title: Forsaking Freedom
Rating: R
Pairing: Iriel de Fiscarde/Duc de Bonnel
Summary: "The last living anguissette I know of was Iriel de Fiscarde of Azzalle, who went willingly into a marriage of servitude with the Kusheline Duc de Bonnel to avert war between their Houses." But it wasn't just a matter of politics.
Warnings: None (full policy in profile)
Kinks: D/s, whipping
Word Count: ~6500
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Notes: I originally set out to write a fill for the
kink_bingo square "whipping/flogging", and came up with the last scene of this fic. Then I kept thinking about it, and the character of Iriel; in my head, I'd come to think of her as the exact opposite of Phèdre: a sheltered anguissette with neither a Night Court upbringing nor Delauney's training, and a prideful scion of Azza as well. I wondered how she had come to be the Duc de Bonnel's willing servant, and suddenly this fic accrued about 6000 more words of plot. And now here it is!
Iriel is six days away from her fifteenth birthday the first time she sets foot in the City of Elua. She has ostensibly come for the Midwinter Masque, but she is no fool. She had heard her parents arguing scarcely a week ago.
"We cannot sell her like a prized piece of horseflesh," her mother had said, nearly spitting with anger. "She is our daughter. She is fourteen! Would you have her crawl on her knees to de Bonnel like a common whore to appease his lusts?"
"She is an anguissette," her father had snapped back. "She is meant for the scions of Kushiel. And it is merely a betrothal, not a wedding contract; there would be years before the marriage was consummated. Would you rather risk his fury? We cannot afford the cost - "
At that point Iriel had slipped away, unseen, to brood in her room, just like she is now brooding in the carriage taking her to their townhouse. She'll spend a day there, being forced into pretty clothes, being poked by needles and pins (the best part of dressmaking, in her opinion), until she is primped and pampered and ready to be shuffled off to a deadly boring meal where, possibly, she will be betrothed to the Duc de Bonnel to settle a debt between their Houses. The thought had once been frightening (if strangely appealing - a man she doesn't know having her, owning her, taking her), but it now holds her in a quiet rage, contained only by her refusal to show any weakness. How dare they try to force me into this, she thinks, how dare they assume I would agree! Do they expect me to kneel and crawl for him? I am a scion of Azza, not a whimpering creature from Valerian House, and I will not be ordered.
(She does not acknowledge the part of her that aches for it; and oh, she aches, deep inside where none of her fumbling, adolescent lovers have touched. She aches in shivers across her skin, where the riding crops she's used on her thighs and the hand she's wrapped around her throat give her just a taste of that which her body so badly craves. And she aches in her mind, too, where the desire to give herself over to one burning with the harsh fire of Kushiel flares like the sun. All of this inside her, and yet she shoves it away, ashamed. She does not want to see it.)
. . .
"I hate this city," she grouses to her maid, holding her arms out from her side as she's stitched into her damned dress.
"Yes, my lady."
Iriel glances at herself critically in the mirror. Her dress is slim-cut, with tight long sleeves, the sangoire silk skimming what few curves she has - unfortunately, Iriel is lean, narrow-hipped, and a trifle gawky (but at least I'm growing into my height). Over it will go a shimmering white surcoat, and it will be belted with a ribbon of rich brown silk to match her hair. She is a little vain, as all girls are at her age, and even though she detests the fripperies of fashion, she must admit she looks lovely. The Duc de Bonnel should be impressed.
Still, she'd rather be anywhere but here.
Much to her chagrin, the maid's fingers are swift and sure, the needle only going where it's supposed to go, and there is no quick bolt of pleasure-pain to spur her into a good mood. Even when the maid twists her hair into its braid, pinning it like a crown along her hairline, there is surprisingly little pull, and certainly not enough for Iriel's satisfaction. She wonders if it's being done on purpose, denying her now to make her crave the pain the Duc could offer; it sounds like the sort of scheme her father would dream up.
"Iriel," her mother says from the doorway, and Iriel slants her gaze to catch her smile. It's slightly sad, and Iriel wants to reassure her, to let her know she has no plans to accept this marriage without fighting. "You look absolutely beautiful."
"Thank you," Iriel says, returning the smile. "So do you." It's true; the crimson dress is lovely, and red suits her mother better than it does her. If it were at all possible Iriel would give her the gown she's wearing, but sangoire marks her as an anguissette, and it is forbidden for anyone else to wear it.
Her mother moves from the doorway to circle Iriel, examining her from all angles.
"At least you're not covered in mud this time," she muses.
"That was years ago," Iriel counters, but she grins at the memory - an unwitting, nine-year-old Iriel barging into a formal dinner hosted by her parents, covered in mud and hay from falling off her horse. She remembers most vividly the glorious stinging pain from her scraped knees and palms, and how she had trembled with humiliation and eye-watering pleasure during the very public scolding.
"If you're done here - " her mother says it like a question to the maid, who looks Iriel over and nods decisively, " - then we'd best get to the dining hall before you run away."
"I would not embarrass our House like that," Iriel says as she walks at her mother's side. It sounds very mature to her, and has the benefit of being true.
"I am sure you would not," says her mother, and she has that wistful tone in her voice again.
"Mother." Iriel stops, and takes her mother's hands in hers. She looks into eyes nearly the mirror of hers, a bronze-flecked brown missing only a red mote, and says firmly, "I have no intention of agreeing to this betrothal. I expect I shan't like him at all."
"Oh, Iriel." Her mother smoothes an errant wisp of hair from her forehead, tucking it into the braid. "We've kept you sheltered for too long; you barely understand what you are. A simple glimpse of the scions of Kushiel from a distance, and only for a few minutes, is one thing…" Releasing her hands, her mother steps back and smiles again. It looks forced. "I believe it will be somewhat different here."
I don't, Iriel thinks, and says nothing.
. . .
As much as Iriel would like to slouch, she is always on proper behavior when she is among strangers. She sits with her head held high, watching her parents and the guests trade rumors while the servants rush the tardy cooks in an attempt to put food on the table. Normally she would be listening to the gossip, always curious, but tonight her eyes are only on the Duc de Bonnel.
He is not so old as she had thought he would be, perhaps in his late twenties, of middling height and a slim build, his hair a few shades lighter than hers and nearly as long. Iriel had seen members of House Shahrizai when they came to pay respect to the newly-sovereign Duc de Trevalion of Azza, and had noted their sensual grace even from a distance; there too she had seen the de Morhban twins, who conveyed the impression of sharpened steel even while standing at ease. The Duc de Bonnel is very ordinary compared to them (though there is somewhat about him that pulls her in, somewhat she resents and loves simultaneously); he seems to be just another one of her parents' guests, if a particularly dangerous one when politics are factored in. And, she thinks in annoyance, he hasn't looked at me once tonight.
As if he had heard her petty whine, he turns away from the Eisandine baron trying to hold his attention, and his eyes meet hers.
Desire hits her like a fist and spreads to pool like molten metal in her body; her knees turn to water and Iriel is thankful she is sitting down, for she'd almost certainly have collapsed if she hadn't been. She wants, oh, she wants, and she doesn't even know what it is she wants, for this dark tide of lust is not in the Trois Milles Joies and not in the songs the poets sing; her nails are biting into her palms and her teeth into her lip and she is flushing, trembling, there is a haze of red across her vision like the mote in her eye has burst and expanded, and he - he -
He is observing her with a slight smile playing on his lips, and his eyes - so light! she can barely see color in them at all - are pinning her to her chair as surely as an arrow pierces the flank of a deer, and that is precisely what she feels like: prey. Only she wants to be caught, she wants to be torn apart under his whip, be flogged into submission, and do anything, everything he desires.
He turns away from her and her soul cries out for him to look at her again. He says to her father, "She's far too young."
I will grow, Iriel thinks, and grits her teeth, doing her best to curtail the waves of longing and heat inside her.
"In three years she will have reached her majority; in less than two she would be of an age to serve Naamah, if she chose," her father says. "I merely ask for a betrothal until she comes of age."
The Duc is still for a moment, then shakes his head. "No. I cannot countenance it; she will change much as she grows into a woman." He gestures at her, not meeting her gaze. "She trembles to look at me, yes, but I will be a harsh master. Perhaps one too harsh for a scion of Azza, Kushiel's Chosen or no. I will not bind her to me before making her aware of my nature. If she wishes, let her come to me after she reaches her majority; I will reconsider then."
"You'll reconsider - " her father hisses, then swallows his words and continues, in a much more controlled tone, "Of course, your grace. In three years she will come to you."
"If she desires," the Duc says.
"Yes. If she desires." These last words are heavy with meaning, though no one but Iriel's family would hear it. So we will not be at peace, his words truly say. So there may yet be war.
Iriel doesn't look away from the Duc as he turns from her father, making to leave the room. She fights against the urge to beg him to take her; she tilts her head back in disdain and does her best to give him her haughtiest look. Her pride has been violently bruised, and she wants him to see what he has just declined.
The Duc's eyes slide across hers once more, and she has to grip the table to keep from flinging herself before him. Prostrate on the ground, she would plead for him to whip her into submission, here, in front of everybody. Why can't you control yourself, her mind screams, why couldn't Kushiel have chosen someone else?
He looks at her, not at her body but at her eyes. She doesn't know what he sees there - surely he knew about the Dart? - but he swallows convulsively, and she rejoices at this tiny victory. Then he bows deeply as he would to a peer, a courtesy she does not deserve, and Iriel can't look away until he turns on his heel and leaves. She feels as if all the air in the room has left with him.
Though she wants very much to collapse on the table, she settles for keeping her eyes on the seamed wood, and tries to calm her racing heart.
I don't even know his name, she realizes, yet in her thoughts their bodies are already entwined, his hands cruel, the pain he deals exquisite. She stares at the wood and thinks, in climax, she would call him your grace.
The next day, she goes to the temple of Kushiel for the first time, and loses herself beneath the lash.
. . .
Iriel stands at the open window and looks out at the courtyard. Her entire body hurts, a sweet sensation, and the front of her robe is crusted with blood; she should seek out the chirurgeon, but she stands there nonetheless. Her thoughts are too heavy for the bedchamber.
"Will you come back to bed, or shall I drag you here by your hair?" Lounging on the rumpled blankets, Rosine gives Iriel her bone-chillingly charming smile, and sweeps a lock of blue-black hair out of her eyes. "Truthfully, I would prefer the latter."
"I'm sure you would," Iriel says, doing her best to keep a straight face. Rosine always makes her laugh, even when she's whipping Iriel raw. "But I'm afraid I might fight back."
"Liar," says Rosine, and Iriel concedes with a sigh, flopping down on the bed and flinging her arms above her head. She's learned a measure of grace at court, and the courtiers' dance has become second nature to her, but sometimes she indulges herself and makes chaotic use of her limbs, exercising her fondness for melodrama.
"So troubled, my beauty," Rosine murmurs, and kisses her. Iriel grips Rosine's shoulders and melts, shuddering, into her arms; with the sensation of sharp teeth on her lips and a hand tugging her hair, Iriel opens herself to Rosine's command - and then Rosine lets her go, and Iriel falls back against the bed, gasping in a haze of pleasure.
"I hate it when you do that," she mutters, but she is smiling all the same. The welts on her back are stinging, and the cuts on her breast have opened. Rosine has a deft hand with the flechettes, and Iriel begs for them every time.
"I am a tease," Rosine agrees, and unties the knot holding Iriel's robe closed. Iriel shuts her eyes and groans when Rosine runs her finger between Iriel's breasts and down her stomach, basking in her touch until Rosine sets her hand flat against the bone of Iriel's hip. "A curious one, too."
Iriel looks at her from under half-closed lids, and weighs the risks and benefits of confiding in her. Rosine is a lover and a friend, but Iriel has had many of those and not trusted a one. She is notoriously private, yet courtiers live for gossip, especially when it concerns one of the rarest creatures Terre d'Ange has to offer. Iriel's slightest misstep is always gobbled up and passed around by the harpies who inhabit the upper echelons of the City. This could be a serious one; she'd prefer it if it were to be kept quiet.
Yet Rosine had taken her under her wing when Iriel first arrived at court two years ago, and had taught her about what she was; Iriel suspects there are more stories and poems about anguissettes in the Shahrizai library than anywhere else in Terre d'Ange. And of course, there are the lessons one doesn't learn in books, and Rosine had taught her those too, in the pleasure-chamber while Iriel, clad in chains and intricately patterned ropes, writhed under her whip and tawse; there she had embraced the parts of herself she had cradled close and secret, never daring to express them despite her desires. Oh, she has had other lovers, to be certain, but she has only ever returned to one.
"Sybille de Morhban has taken an interest in my family," Iriel finally says, decision made.
"The Duchese de Morhban?" Rosine props herself up on her elbow, her face furrowed with a frown. "Why would she - no. Could that be?"
"Aye, the old feud."
Rosine tilts her head to the side thoughtfully. "Kusheth has little to do with Azzallese interests, and Jephon de Bonnel is naught but a provincial Duc with an inherited grudge. Perhaps an economic reason - his estates yield the finest grains in Kusheth - but no, I wouldn't think that would be enough to involve other duchies."
Iriel represses a shiver at his name with sheer effort of will - it seems she's forever doomed to react with instantaneous arousal whenever she thinks of him, damn the man - and exhales in a huff. There is exhaustion, and far too much longing, in her sigh.
"My family has the implied support of the Duc de Convoitise, he with a grudge against House Morhban, Namarrese or no, while the Duc de Bonnel has allies looking for his trade," she says. "And those allies, though they be comtes and lesser lords, are numerous, and powerful in their shared force. "
"And thus three provinces, two Ducs, and an unknown number of lordlings are involved in your family's private war, which may explode, quite publicly, into violence. Kushiel have mercy! What a tangle." Rosine raises her eyebrows, looking mildly impressed. "De Morhban has no patience and a mind tuned to battle. She'll settle this with blood unless her brother reins her in."
An entire lifetime of strife and the promise of another, summed up in a few minutes' conversation. Iriel looks at the ceiling and curses her great-grandfather. One broken engagement, an overabundance of wounded pride on both sides, and three generations have bled for it. But she could repair the damage.
"There is a simple solution," she says, and hesitates. The thrill of her next sentence runs through her body like wine; it is the first time she has spoken it out loud. "I could give myself to him."
Rosine lets her have a few minutes of silence, then asks, "Will you?"
"Marrying him would end the quarrel," Iriel says thoughtfully. "The debt would be repaid. The others - I assume they would step down once their excuse was rescinded, but even if they don't, it has naught to do with my family anymore. No blame could be placed on us."
"Could you do it?" Rosine's voice is thoughtful. "De Bonnel demands absolute obedience from his lovers. I expect he would be even stricter with an anguissette."
Iriel has been avoiding this choice since she sat swaying at a table and watched him walk away from her, the first man to move her blood like the tides, but she must confront it now and damn her pride. She presses the heels of her palms to her eyes, and tries to strip everything extraneous away. Her thoughts roll like a stream over rocks.
Kushiel does not mark his chosen without reason. She could heal their Houses with a prayer and a vow - she could surrender her will to him, deliciously and without restrictions. She is bound to the call of Kushiel's bloodline, for whom she is born to serve, however violent their pleasures. (A quiver in her spine at the thought - violence is what her body is made for.) The Duc had said it himself: I will be a harsh master. His pale eyes, spearing her through, and at that moment she loved him. She would again, and again, until she never remembered aught else. And as for Azza's gift - she hates to think it, but pride is nothing, nothing, compared to the sweetness of the dance of master and slave.
"I could do it," she admits, and doesn't look at Rosine. "I truly could."
Rosine is quiet for a long minute, then sighs and says, "Then so you will. I sense the hand of Kushiel at work here. But I'll miss you, dear one! I was never meant to have you, was I?"
"I'm sorry, Rosine," Iriel whispers, and for what she's apologizing, she cannot say.
"As am I. But before you run off - " She sits up with a laugh, her mood mercurial as always, and swings her legs to straddle Iriel. The suggestion of endless hours of torture dances in her eyes. "I think you owe me one last night."
Iriel slides her hands up Rosine's white thighs, and is rewarded with a bruising grip on her wrists. "Do you know, I rather think I do."
. . .
It isn't until she is riding into Kusheth, accompanied by four retainers and a marriage contract awaiting the seals of Elua's priests, that Iriel grasps the enormity of what she has chosen. The rest of her life spills out before her, vague and disconnected, like a script before revision: she will be on her knees, in his bed, in the pleasure-chamber or the courtyard or shared among his friends (ah, Elua! She prays that will be the case); she will be subject to his whim, and if he wants to thread her skin with needles and force her to perform the languisement on every servant in his household, then she shall. If he wants her to spend hours scrubbing floors, tending the stables, working in the kitchen, then so be it. If he wants to spit at her, call her a whore and a worthless slut, then she will love him for it. If he wants her to speak only when spoken to, to give her mind over entirely to his control -
Would she accept it? Iriel doesn't know, and the uncertainty frightens her.
She tangles her fingers in her horse's mane, and murmurs soothing words into his ear. He is young and skittish, and she should not be daydreaming while on his back.
"My lady?"
"Yes?" She hasn't spoken in hours; her voice feels rusted in her throat.
The retainer, one she has known all her life, looks at her with compassion. "We will be in Bonnel by sunset. If we press on, we can make it to the estate before twilight gives way to night."
"Very good," she says, and wonders at his tone until she realizes - he feels sorry for me. They all do.
She calls for him, and he reins in his horse to trot beside her. "I am doing this out of my own free will. I would not have you worry."
"Of course, my lady," is his reply, and the only one he can make. She doesn't know if her words settle his mind. They do not settle her nervous heart.
. . .
They make good time, and arrive in Bonnel just as the last sliver of the sun sinks below the horizon. Iriel is wound tight as a bowstring and snaps just as easily.
She is standing with her posture straight in the hall of the Duc de Bonnel's estate when she is approached by a servant who informs her, with despicably polite phrasing, that the Duc will not see her until she has changed out of her riding habit. Iriel disregards his words and says flatly, "I would prefer to speak to the Duc now, please."
"You may not. You must change first. That is an order."
Even spoken in the servant's unctuous tone, the words make her jerk, and her ingrained need to obey has her walking to the stairway without thinking. Elua, but she is made to submit! She has not seen the Duc - Jephon - in three years, and yet it is all too easy to imagine his voice, once cool and controlled, now cracking like a whip: That is an order, Iriel.
"Gods," she whispers, a nameless appeal, and somehow makes it to the room chosen for her without fantasizing her way down a flight of stairs. She finds the clothes she brought already there, hanging neatly within a lovely and ancient armoire, and knows immediately which dress to wear. Iriel is still not fond of fashion, but this is a work of art: it is similar to the gown she wore at that fateful dinner, but cut to accentuate the long lines of her body rather than to emphasize curves that aren't there; the hem reaches the floor in one graceful sweep, and the high collar of the neckline is belied by a scoop so deep her entire back is bare. It is affixed at the nape with a single button, and it is, of course, sangoire. As if she could wear anything else, here, with this man.
He receives her in his study, a surprising fact in and of itself, but more startling is the second chair at his desk and the glass of wine awaiting her; she had been expecting to kneel. Iriel's gaze skips on the wine, on the carved chair, then she raises her eyes and reacquaints herself with Jephon de Bonnel.
Her desire is like a riptide that overwhelms all the careful defenses she has built over the past three years, rendering her again the fifteen-year-old girl unable to breathe at one glance of this man's eyes. She sways, rooted to the spot, and her body is burning, shivering for his touch; suddenly she is intimately aware of her pulse, throbbing in her throat and her fingertips and between her legs; she gasps and reaches for her armor, and draws it around her like a curtain.
What seemed like minutes lasted only a few seconds, and when she exhales, she has regained her control. Lust still rages in her, an impatient flood dammed in by walls of her own making, but she has control.
Jephon de Bonnel names her as if staking his claim to her body and soul. "Iriel de Fiscarde."
She curtseys, and replies courteously, "Your grace."
"Sit, please, and have some wine if you so desire."
He watches her as she obeys, fighting the red haze edging the corners of her vision. Not yet, she begs Kushiel, please let me speak first.
She sips her wine and meets his gaze, a shade of green-blue-grey too light to judge correctly. Regulating her breathing, Iriel smiles reservedly at him.
"You've learned to contain yourself since last we met," he observes, still studying her, his face a mask.
"My lover for the past two years has been Rosine Shahrizai," she says, and his eyelids flicker just slightly. Is there no one in Kusheth who is neither jealous nor fearful of that family? she wonders. "She taught me some measure of restraint."
"And taught you well, I'm sure. You've been at court, then?"
He has to know; Kushelines would be keen to hear news of an anguissette, and him even more so. "I have, your grace. It has been an illuminating time."
She could curse herself for her awkwardness.
"And do you still refuse to be parted from your horses? I seem to recall your mother mentioning something along those lines."
His grace seems to be enjoying her discomfort; unsurprising, really, considering his bloodline, and she loves him for it. The blush on her face and the speed of her pulse are hastening her breath and her desire - but he is throwing her off-kilter, rendering her carefully-crafted proposal useless. She shudders, bites her lip, and speaks without thinking.
"I do love horses, your grace, but I find many disapprove when you take a filly to a fête."
It takes him a moment, but he actually laughs, one devoid of mockery, and when he looks at her again there is a new light in his eye. "You're rather artless, aren't you, Iriel?"
With each word he speaks, the balance between Iriel of Azzalle and Iriel the anguissette becomes ever more precarious, yet she manages to say, "I am, I'm afraid. Neither words nor manners have ever been my strong suit, though I have a quick mind."
Thus she finds her perfect segue; while he gazes at her over the rim of his glass, she sets hers down, and folds her hands neatly in her lap.
"And so," she begins, "since words frequently fail me, I would like to be blunt, with your grace's permission."
After a moment, he gives her a nod, and she licks her lips before continuing. He looks at her mouth for a long moment, and she finds she can't speak until he glances up again.
"You wished to be blunt?" he inquires, amusement tinting his voice.
"Yes," she says, and closes her eyes for a moment. The words are difficult to say; they stick in her throat, and she fears it will be a choice between keeping her composure and finishing what she came here to do, what she wants so achingly to do. "Yes. Your grace, I wish to offer myself to you in marriage, if you find me pleasing."
Iriel opens her eyes, and he is staring at her, all amusement wiped from his face. He is grave - no, he is angry, and Iriel finds herself trembling.
"If I find you pleasing," he says, voice dangerous. She makes a tiny sound and clenches her clasped hands.
"If you do, your grace," she whispers, and she prays he does.
"I find you very pleasing, Iriel." His voice is low and every syllable throbs in her veins. She is losing herself to him, and her vision has gone scarlet. "Why do you offer yourself to me?"
"Your grace," she whispers. He's captured her, trapped her; he has her heart in his palm. She cannot say aught else.
"Do you seek to end the feud between our Houses?"
"Your grace," she whispers, and her voice breaks.
"Or do you have another reason? Hmm?" His words are vicious, his voice a knife. He stands abruptly from his chair, strides around to grab her by the arm, pulling her off-balance; she hits the stone floor with both knees, and the pain blossoms in her mind like a drop of blood in water. He takes her chin in a crushing hold and forces her to look at him. "Having tried the Shahrizai, do you plan to make your way through all the noble houses in Kusheth, starting with me? Do you seek to submit or to manipulate, Iriel?"
"Please," she chokes out, "please - "
"Well?"
She looks at him, those eyes that command her, those eyes she will submit to, and how she loves him! The realization pulses through her veins, more violent and more pure than anything she has felt before. It is inconceivable that he should need another reason; she has been waiting for him all these years, what else could he want?
Somewhat else, clearly; she drags a reason out of her mind, and says in a rushed gasp, "You are the only man I have ever truly wanted!"
He makes a noise she can't interpret, and flings her away. The stone floor rises to greet her, and she accepts it with open arms. It is cool and comforting, but she rolls to her knees and looks for him.
He is turned away from her, bracing a hand against the wall. Iriel lets her eyes linger on him, the muscles in his calves, his rigid posture, and realizes with a burst of crimson clarity he doesn't believe her, or he doesn't understand. Both, perhaps.
"Your grace," she breathes. "Jephon."
She goes to him on her knees, as she had once said she never would do, and lowers her head to kiss his boots.
"Ah, Kushiel," he whispers, and his hand tangles in her curls. Iriel looks up at him; she needs him to see the scarlet mote, bright against the iris of her right eye.
"Your grace, I do wish to avert war," she says, and leans her head against his thigh. She closes her eyes, more content here than she has ever been in a pleasure-chamber. All thoughts of lies and pretty words tumble out of her mind; she speaks only the barest truth. "And I wish to submit to your will, completely and utterly." He strokes her hair, and she arches her back to his touch. "And I wish you to love me as I love you." She turns to face him, sliding her hands up his thighs, rising to her knees; the new angle pulls at her hair, still clenched in his hand, and the pinpricks of pain bring tears to her eyes.
"Why?" His voice is rough.
"Who can say? I am Iriel, anguissette and scion of Azza. Mayhap he brought me here, to heal my family's wounded pride, or perhaps Kushiel sought to give guidance to his chosen; perhaps Elua saw love in us and gave it life. Does it matter?" She meets his eyes, and they are hungry.
He lets go of her hair, and for a moment she fears he is rejecting her once more. Then he says, "No," and it is a growl that echoes through her bones. "Your signale?"
"Lyra," she says, the name of her first horse, nothing she would forget, and he pulls her up to face him. He studies her, possessively, intimately.
"I will not let you go," he tells her, gripping her by the shoulders. "You will do what I say, as I say it, when I say it. You will be, in essence, my slave. I will permit you restrictions, to be outlined in our marriage contract, but they will be few, and you will be mine. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she says, and she cups his face in her hands, locking her gaze to his. "I do."
. . .
Iriel thinks she will die in his pleasure-chamber. She will die, and she will die screaming his name.
Jephon prowls around her with a single-tailed whip in his hands as she hangs suspended by her wrists in the middle of the room. She is sobbing and shuddering, body taut and arched, the blood pounding in her head like bronze wings. Her wrists are being rubbed raw by rope, every part of her has been flogged or bitten or cut, but these are background aches in comparison to this. Each bite of the whip carves out a streak like a scarlet comet behind her closed lids, the sort of piercing scream of nerves that goes beyond pain or pleasure into a blinding knot of sensation only an anguissette could withstand or understand. Every part of her twists to escape the lash, but he brings the whip down, down, down, and she throws her head back and screams for more.
Time stops, or restarts, Iriel can't tell. Each moment expands past the horizon, then contracts to a pinprick, and her breath comes ragged, a whimper on every exhale. The whip counts the seconds, her only measurement of time, though she lost the thread of it a million lashes ago - then suddenly it stops. She jolts, then yields to the weight of her body and hangs languid from the hook in the ceiling. She is nearly laughing, though she isn't sure she can tell the difference between laughter and tears anymore.
"Open your eyes."
After a moment, Iriel does. She had forgotten she wasn't blindfolded. Jephon is standing before her, a contemplative look on his face, a cat o' nine tails in his hand, its thin leather braids tipped with steel. Iriel moans, and her body quivers in anticipation.
"By the end of the night," Jephon says softly, brushing the steel tips against her stomach, her breasts, "I will hear the signale from your lips if I have to drag it out of you."
"A challenge," Iriel rasps.
"One I will win," Jephon assures her, and steps back and raises the whip.
Across her stomach, her thighs, the whip sears stripes of pain; and when he moves behind her and brings it down on her back, she screams until her throat is raw, the metal tip of every braid clawing at her shoulders and her back, and everything is red, her vision is blurring, and swimming in the haze is a stern face etched with cruel mercy. She gives him her prayers in the form of shrieks and sobs, and her blood drips steadily to the floor.
"On the third stroke," Jephon says calmly from behind her, "you will climax. Do you understand?"
Iriel manages a moan, and braces herself.
Jephon hadn't been holding back, but fueled by the promise of satiation and more pain to come, she find this to be so much better. He snarls as he brings down the whip, a true scion of Kushiel indeed, and it cuts through her flesh with all the force of her lord's rod and weal. Iriel goes beyond screaming to floating in the crimson mists, her awareness shrunk down to the whip and her own flesh.
The second lash, and it sends her further into the haze, and then the third - oh, the third! - the mists explode outward and she finds her voice again, screaming as every part of her sparks and convulses, and perhaps she truly is dying now, but if so or if not, she is certain her Duc's name is on her lips.
Eventually the mists fade, and she returns to herself, shivering and twitching in her restraints. She hears Jephon throw the whip away from him, but he leaves her bound; then a groan from him, scarce minutes later, and if the slow languor suffusing her body hadn't been enough to please her, the sound of his climax would have done so.
He comes to her then, and unties her hands, grasping her around the waist as she slumps, eventually settling them both on the floor. Brushing a sweat-soaked lock of hair from her cheek, he holds her head up, and tells her firmly to open her eyes.
Iriel does.
"Well met, your grace," she means to say, but she's been thoroughly rendered incoherent and it comes out as a mumble.
"Well met, Iriel," he says, and holds her until she can speak and breathe without quivering. A servant comes in, or perhaps a chirurgeon, bearing water and bandages; Jephon holds the cup of water to her lips, and disregards the bandages entirely.
She drinks in little sips, having learned that lesson already, and after a moment looks at Jephon. "I didn't say my signale."
"I'm aware," he says with a sigh. "It seems I underestimated your limits - or you overestimate yours. If I hadn't stopped - " and here he shifts so she is more or less sitting up on her own, " - I would have caused irreparable damage. It would not please me to have you scarred."
She hums in her throat and says, "No, I don't think so, your grace. I heal quickly. It's a gift of Kushiel's."
It's most likely a miracle sent by Kushiel that she hasn't fainted yet, as well. She turns her face against his shoulder, and he gestures at the door; someone is lurking outside.
"The chirurgeon will tend to you now," Jephon says. "Do not make it difficult for her. For now, her words are mine, and you will do whatever she tells you to speed your healing. Do you understand?"
"You keep asking me that," she mumbles. There is a night sky unfolding behind her eyelids, and she recognizes each star. "I always do."
"Good," he says, and kisses her ear. "Now sleep."
A line of poetry floats through Iriel's mind - upon me is bestowed Kushiel's gift, so I might better embrace his mercy and kiss - not one of the better poets in the Shahrizai library, but good enough - and then the night opens beneath her and she falls into it; clasped in Jephon's arms, she freely and willingly shuts out the rest of the world.
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Rating: R
Pairing: Iriel de Fiscarde/Duc de Bonnel
Summary: "The last living anguissette I know of was Iriel de Fiscarde of Azzalle, who went willingly into a marriage of servitude with the Kusheline Duc de Bonnel to avert war between their Houses." But it wasn't just a matter of politics.
Warnings: None (full policy in profile)
Kinks: D/s, whipping
Word Count: ~6500
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places belong to their logical and respective owners. I make no profit from this.
Author's Notes: I originally set out to write a fill for the
kink_bingo square "whipping/flogging", and came up with the last scene of this fic. Then I kept thinking about it, and the character of Iriel; in my head, I'd come to think of her as the exact opposite of Phèdre: a sheltered anguissette with neither a Night Court upbringing nor Delauney's training, and a prideful scion of Azza as well. I wondered how she had come to be the Duc de Bonnel's willing servant, and suddenly this fic accrued about 6000 more words of plot. And now here it is!
Iriel is six days away from her fifteenth birthday the first time she sets foot in the City of Elua. She has ostensibly come for the Midwinter Masque, but she is no fool. She had heard her parents arguing scarcely a week ago.
"We cannot sell her like a prized piece of horseflesh," her mother had said, nearly spitting with anger. "She is our daughter. She is fourteen! Would you have her crawl on her knees to de Bonnel like a common whore to appease his lusts?"
"She is an anguissette," her father had snapped back. "She is meant for the scions of Kushiel. And it is merely a betrothal, not a wedding contract; there would be years before the marriage was consummated. Would you rather risk his fury? We cannot afford the cost - "
At that point Iriel had slipped away, unseen, to brood in her room, just like she is now brooding in the carriage taking her to their townhouse. She'll spend a day there, being forced into pretty clothes, being poked by needles and pins (the best part of dressmaking, in her opinion), until she is primped and pampered and ready to be shuffled off to a deadly boring meal where, possibly, she will be betrothed to the Duc de Bonnel to settle a debt between their Houses. The thought had once been frightening (if strangely appealing - a man she doesn't know having her, owning her, taking her), but it now holds her in a quiet rage, contained only by her refusal to show any weakness. How dare they try to force me into this, she thinks, how dare they assume I would agree! Do they expect me to kneel and crawl for him? I am a scion of Azza, not a whimpering creature from Valerian House, and I will not be ordered.
(She does not acknowledge the part of her that aches for it; and oh, she aches, deep inside where none of her fumbling, adolescent lovers have touched. She aches in shivers across her skin, where the riding crops she's used on her thighs and the hand she's wrapped around her throat give her just a taste of that which her body so badly craves. And she aches in her mind, too, where the desire to give herself over to one burning with the harsh fire of Kushiel flares like the sun. All of this inside her, and yet she shoves it away, ashamed. She does not want to see it.)
. . .
"I hate this city," she grouses to her maid, holding her arms out from her side as she's stitched into her damned dress.
"Yes, my lady."
Iriel glances at herself critically in the mirror. Her dress is slim-cut, with tight long sleeves, the sangoire silk skimming what few curves she has - unfortunately, Iriel is lean, narrow-hipped, and a trifle gawky (but at least I'm growing into my height). Over it will go a shimmering white surcoat, and it will be belted with a ribbon of rich brown silk to match her hair. She is a little vain, as all girls are at her age, and even though she detests the fripperies of fashion, she must admit she looks lovely. The Duc de Bonnel should be impressed.
Still, she'd rather be anywhere but here.
Much to her chagrin, the maid's fingers are swift and sure, the needle only going where it's supposed to go, and there is no quick bolt of pleasure-pain to spur her into a good mood. Even when the maid twists her hair into its braid, pinning it like a crown along her hairline, there is surprisingly little pull, and certainly not enough for Iriel's satisfaction. She wonders if it's being done on purpose, denying her now to make her crave the pain the Duc could offer; it sounds like the sort of scheme her father would dream up.
"Iriel," her mother says from the doorway, and Iriel slants her gaze to catch her smile. It's slightly sad, and Iriel wants to reassure her, to let her know she has no plans to accept this marriage without fighting. "You look absolutely beautiful."
"Thank you," Iriel says, returning the smile. "So do you." It's true; the crimson dress is lovely, and red suits her mother better than it does her. If it were at all possible Iriel would give her the gown she's wearing, but sangoire marks her as an anguissette, and it is forbidden for anyone else to wear it.
Her mother moves from the doorway to circle Iriel, examining her from all angles.
"At least you're not covered in mud this time," she muses.
"That was years ago," Iriel counters, but she grins at the memory - an unwitting, nine-year-old Iriel barging into a formal dinner hosted by her parents, covered in mud and hay from falling off her horse. She remembers most vividly the glorious stinging pain from her scraped knees and palms, and how she had trembled with humiliation and eye-watering pleasure during the very public scolding.
"If you're done here - " her mother says it like a question to the maid, who looks Iriel over and nods decisively, " - then we'd best get to the dining hall before you run away."
"I would not embarrass our House like that," Iriel says as she walks at her mother's side. It sounds very mature to her, and has the benefit of being true.
"I am sure you would not," says her mother, and she has that wistful tone in her voice again.
"Mother." Iriel stops, and takes her mother's hands in hers. She looks into eyes nearly the mirror of hers, a bronze-flecked brown missing only a red mote, and says firmly, "I have no intention of agreeing to this betrothal. I expect I shan't like him at all."
"Oh, Iriel." Her mother smoothes an errant wisp of hair from her forehead, tucking it into the braid. "We've kept you sheltered for too long; you barely understand what you are. A simple glimpse of the scions of Kushiel from a distance, and only for a few minutes, is one thing…" Releasing her hands, her mother steps back and smiles again. It looks forced. "I believe it will be somewhat different here."
I don't, Iriel thinks, and says nothing.
. . .
As much as Iriel would like to slouch, she is always on proper behavior when she is among strangers. She sits with her head held high, watching her parents and the guests trade rumors while the servants rush the tardy cooks in an attempt to put food on the table. Normally she would be listening to the gossip, always curious, but tonight her eyes are only on the Duc de Bonnel.
He is not so old as she had thought he would be, perhaps in his late twenties, of middling height and a slim build, his hair a few shades lighter than hers and nearly as long. Iriel had seen members of House Shahrizai when they came to pay respect to the newly-sovereign Duc de Trevalion of Azza, and had noted their sensual grace even from a distance; there too she had seen the de Morhban twins, who conveyed the impression of sharpened steel even while standing at ease. The Duc de Bonnel is very ordinary compared to them (though there is somewhat about him that pulls her in, somewhat she resents and loves simultaneously); he seems to be just another one of her parents' guests, if a particularly dangerous one when politics are factored in. And, she thinks in annoyance, he hasn't looked at me once tonight.
As if he had heard her petty whine, he turns away from the Eisandine baron trying to hold his attention, and his eyes meet hers.
Desire hits her like a fist and spreads to pool like molten metal in her body; her knees turn to water and Iriel is thankful she is sitting down, for she'd almost certainly have collapsed if she hadn't been. She wants, oh, she wants, and she doesn't even know what it is she wants, for this dark tide of lust is not in the Trois Milles Joies and not in the songs the poets sing; her nails are biting into her palms and her teeth into her lip and she is flushing, trembling, there is a haze of red across her vision like the mote in her eye has burst and expanded, and he - he -
He is observing her with a slight smile playing on his lips, and his eyes - so light! she can barely see color in them at all - are pinning her to her chair as surely as an arrow pierces the flank of a deer, and that is precisely what she feels like: prey. Only she wants to be caught, she wants to be torn apart under his whip, be flogged into submission, and do anything, everything he desires.
He turns away from her and her soul cries out for him to look at her again. He says to her father, "She's far too young."
I will grow, Iriel thinks, and grits her teeth, doing her best to curtail the waves of longing and heat inside her.
"In three years she will have reached her majority; in less than two she would be of an age to serve Naamah, if she chose," her father says. "I merely ask for a betrothal until she comes of age."
The Duc is still for a moment, then shakes his head. "No. I cannot countenance it; she will change much as she grows into a woman." He gestures at her, not meeting her gaze. "She trembles to look at me, yes, but I will be a harsh master. Perhaps one too harsh for a scion of Azza, Kushiel's Chosen or no. I will not bind her to me before making her aware of my nature. If she wishes, let her come to me after she reaches her majority; I will reconsider then."
"You'll reconsider - " her father hisses, then swallows his words and continues, in a much more controlled tone, "Of course, your grace. In three years she will come to you."
"If she desires," the Duc says.
"Yes. If she desires." These last words are heavy with meaning, though no one but Iriel's family would hear it. So we will not be at peace, his words truly say. So there may yet be war.
Iriel doesn't look away from the Duc as he turns from her father, making to leave the room. She fights against the urge to beg him to take her; she tilts her head back in disdain and does her best to give him her haughtiest look. Her pride has been violently bruised, and she wants him to see what he has just declined.
The Duc's eyes slide across hers once more, and she has to grip the table to keep from flinging herself before him. Prostrate on the ground, she would plead for him to whip her into submission, here, in front of everybody. Why can't you control yourself, her mind screams, why couldn't Kushiel have chosen someone else?
He looks at her, not at her body but at her eyes. She doesn't know what he sees there - surely he knew about the Dart? - but he swallows convulsively, and she rejoices at this tiny victory. Then he bows deeply as he would to a peer, a courtesy she does not deserve, and Iriel can't look away until he turns on his heel and leaves. She feels as if all the air in the room has left with him.
Though she wants very much to collapse on the table, she settles for keeping her eyes on the seamed wood, and tries to calm her racing heart.
I don't even know his name, she realizes, yet in her thoughts their bodies are already entwined, his hands cruel, the pain he deals exquisite. She stares at the wood and thinks, in climax, she would call him your grace.
The next day, she goes to the temple of Kushiel for the first time, and loses herself beneath the lash.
. . .
Iriel stands at the open window and looks out at the courtyard. Her entire body hurts, a sweet sensation, and the front of her robe is crusted with blood; she should seek out the chirurgeon, but she stands there nonetheless. Her thoughts are too heavy for the bedchamber.
"Will you come back to bed, or shall I drag you here by your hair?" Lounging on the rumpled blankets, Rosine gives Iriel her bone-chillingly charming smile, and sweeps a lock of blue-black hair out of her eyes. "Truthfully, I would prefer the latter."
"I'm sure you would," Iriel says, doing her best to keep a straight face. Rosine always makes her laugh, even when she's whipping Iriel raw. "But I'm afraid I might fight back."
"Liar," says Rosine, and Iriel concedes with a sigh, flopping down on the bed and flinging her arms above her head. She's learned a measure of grace at court, and the courtiers' dance has become second nature to her, but sometimes she indulges herself and makes chaotic use of her limbs, exercising her fondness for melodrama.
"So troubled, my beauty," Rosine murmurs, and kisses her. Iriel grips Rosine's shoulders and melts, shuddering, into her arms; with the sensation of sharp teeth on her lips and a hand tugging her hair, Iriel opens herself to Rosine's command - and then Rosine lets her go, and Iriel falls back against the bed, gasping in a haze of pleasure.
"I hate it when you do that," she mutters, but she is smiling all the same. The welts on her back are stinging, and the cuts on her breast have opened. Rosine has a deft hand with the flechettes, and Iriel begs for them every time.
"I am a tease," Rosine agrees, and unties the knot holding Iriel's robe closed. Iriel shuts her eyes and groans when Rosine runs her finger between Iriel's breasts and down her stomach, basking in her touch until Rosine sets her hand flat against the bone of Iriel's hip. "A curious one, too."
Iriel looks at her from under half-closed lids, and weighs the risks and benefits of confiding in her. Rosine is a lover and a friend, but Iriel has had many of those and not trusted a one. She is notoriously private, yet courtiers live for gossip, especially when it concerns one of the rarest creatures Terre d'Ange has to offer. Iriel's slightest misstep is always gobbled up and passed around by the harpies who inhabit the upper echelons of the City. This could be a serious one; she'd prefer it if it were to be kept quiet.
Yet Rosine had taken her under her wing when Iriel first arrived at court two years ago, and had taught her about what she was; Iriel suspects there are more stories and poems about anguissettes in the Shahrizai library than anywhere else in Terre d'Ange. And of course, there are the lessons one doesn't learn in books, and Rosine had taught her those too, in the pleasure-chamber while Iriel, clad in chains and intricately patterned ropes, writhed under her whip and tawse; there she had embraced the parts of herself she had cradled close and secret, never daring to express them despite her desires. Oh, she has had other lovers, to be certain, but she has only ever returned to one.
"Sybille de Morhban has taken an interest in my family," Iriel finally says, decision made.
"The Duchese de Morhban?" Rosine props herself up on her elbow, her face furrowed with a frown. "Why would she - no. Could that be?"
"Aye, the old feud."
Rosine tilts her head to the side thoughtfully. "Kusheth has little to do with Azzallese interests, and Jephon de Bonnel is naught but a provincial Duc with an inherited grudge. Perhaps an economic reason - his estates yield the finest grains in Kusheth - but no, I wouldn't think that would be enough to involve other duchies."
Iriel represses a shiver at his name with sheer effort of will - it seems she's forever doomed to react with instantaneous arousal whenever she thinks of him, damn the man - and exhales in a huff. There is exhaustion, and far too much longing, in her sigh.
"My family has the implied support of the Duc de Convoitise, he with a grudge against House Morhban, Namarrese or no, while the Duc de Bonnel has allies looking for his trade," she says. "And those allies, though they be comtes and lesser lords, are numerous, and powerful in their shared force. "
"And thus three provinces, two Ducs, and an unknown number of lordlings are involved in your family's private war, which may explode, quite publicly, into violence. Kushiel have mercy! What a tangle." Rosine raises her eyebrows, looking mildly impressed. "De Morhban has no patience and a mind tuned to battle. She'll settle this with blood unless her brother reins her in."
An entire lifetime of strife and the promise of another, summed up in a few minutes' conversation. Iriel looks at the ceiling and curses her great-grandfather. One broken engagement, an overabundance of wounded pride on both sides, and three generations have bled for it. But she could repair the damage.
"There is a simple solution," she says, and hesitates. The thrill of her next sentence runs through her body like wine; it is the first time she has spoken it out loud. "I could give myself to him."
Rosine lets her have a few minutes of silence, then asks, "Will you?"
"Marrying him would end the quarrel," Iriel says thoughtfully. "The debt would be repaid. The others - I assume they would step down once their excuse was rescinded, but even if they don't, it has naught to do with my family anymore. No blame could be placed on us."
"Could you do it?" Rosine's voice is thoughtful. "De Bonnel demands absolute obedience from his lovers. I expect he would be even stricter with an anguissette."
Iriel has been avoiding this choice since she sat swaying at a table and watched him walk away from her, the first man to move her blood like the tides, but she must confront it now and damn her pride. She presses the heels of her palms to her eyes, and tries to strip everything extraneous away. Her thoughts roll like a stream over rocks.
Kushiel does not mark his chosen without reason. She could heal their Houses with a prayer and a vow - she could surrender her will to him, deliciously and without restrictions. She is bound to the call of Kushiel's bloodline, for whom she is born to serve, however violent their pleasures. (A quiver in her spine at the thought - violence is what her body is made for.) The Duc had said it himself: I will be a harsh master. His pale eyes, spearing her through, and at that moment she loved him. She would again, and again, until she never remembered aught else. And as for Azza's gift - she hates to think it, but pride is nothing, nothing, compared to the sweetness of the dance of master and slave.
"I could do it," she admits, and doesn't look at Rosine. "I truly could."
Rosine is quiet for a long minute, then sighs and says, "Then so you will. I sense the hand of Kushiel at work here. But I'll miss you, dear one! I was never meant to have you, was I?"
"I'm sorry, Rosine," Iriel whispers, and for what she's apologizing, she cannot say.
"As am I. But before you run off - " She sits up with a laugh, her mood mercurial as always, and swings her legs to straddle Iriel. The suggestion of endless hours of torture dances in her eyes. "I think you owe me one last night."
Iriel slides her hands up Rosine's white thighs, and is rewarded with a bruising grip on her wrists. "Do you know, I rather think I do."
. . .
It isn't until she is riding into Kusheth, accompanied by four retainers and a marriage contract awaiting the seals of Elua's priests, that Iriel grasps the enormity of what she has chosen. The rest of her life spills out before her, vague and disconnected, like a script before revision: she will be on her knees, in his bed, in the pleasure-chamber or the courtyard or shared among his friends (ah, Elua! She prays that will be the case); she will be subject to his whim, and if he wants to thread her skin with needles and force her to perform the languisement on every servant in his household, then she shall. If he wants her to spend hours scrubbing floors, tending the stables, working in the kitchen, then so be it. If he wants to spit at her, call her a whore and a worthless slut, then she will love him for it. If he wants her to speak only when spoken to, to give her mind over entirely to his control -
Would she accept it? Iriel doesn't know, and the uncertainty frightens her.
She tangles her fingers in her horse's mane, and murmurs soothing words into his ear. He is young and skittish, and she should not be daydreaming while on his back.
"My lady?"
"Yes?" She hasn't spoken in hours; her voice feels rusted in her throat.
The retainer, one she has known all her life, looks at her with compassion. "We will be in Bonnel by sunset. If we press on, we can make it to the estate before twilight gives way to night."
"Very good," she says, and wonders at his tone until she realizes - he feels sorry for me. They all do.
She calls for him, and he reins in his horse to trot beside her. "I am doing this out of my own free will. I would not have you worry."
"Of course, my lady," is his reply, and the only one he can make. She doesn't know if her words settle his mind. They do not settle her nervous heart.
. . .
They make good time, and arrive in Bonnel just as the last sliver of the sun sinks below the horizon. Iriel is wound tight as a bowstring and snaps just as easily.
She is standing with her posture straight in the hall of the Duc de Bonnel's estate when she is approached by a servant who informs her, with despicably polite phrasing, that the Duc will not see her until she has changed out of her riding habit. Iriel disregards his words and says flatly, "I would prefer to speak to the Duc now, please."
"You may not. You must change first. That is an order."
Even spoken in the servant's unctuous tone, the words make her jerk, and her ingrained need to obey has her walking to the stairway without thinking. Elua, but she is made to submit! She has not seen the Duc - Jephon - in three years, and yet it is all too easy to imagine his voice, once cool and controlled, now cracking like a whip: That is an order, Iriel.
"Gods," she whispers, a nameless appeal, and somehow makes it to the room chosen for her without fantasizing her way down a flight of stairs. She finds the clothes she brought already there, hanging neatly within a lovely and ancient armoire, and knows immediately which dress to wear. Iriel is still not fond of fashion, but this is a work of art: it is similar to the gown she wore at that fateful dinner, but cut to accentuate the long lines of her body rather than to emphasize curves that aren't there; the hem reaches the floor in one graceful sweep, and the high collar of the neckline is belied by a scoop so deep her entire back is bare. It is affixed at the nape with a single button, and it is, of course, sangoire. As if she could wear anything else, here, with this man.
He receives her in his study, a surprising fact in and of itself, but more startling is the second chair at his desk and the glass of wine awaiting her; she had been expecting to kneel. Iriel's gaze skips on the wine, on the carved chair, then she raises her eyes and reacquaints herself with Jephon de Bonnel.
Her desire is like a riptide that overwhelms all the careful defenses she has built over the past three years, rendering her again the fifteen-year-old girl unable to breathe at one glance of this man's eyes. She sways, rooted to the spot, and her body is burning, shivering for his touch; suddenly she is intimately aware of her pulse, throbbing in her throat and her fingertips and between her legs; she gasps and reaches for her armor, and draws it around her like a curtain.
What seemed like minutes lasted only a few seconds, and when she exhales, she has regained her control. Lust still rages in her, an impatient flood dammed in by walls of her own making, but she has control.
Jephon de Bonnel names her as if staking his claim to her body and soul. "Iriel de Fiscarde."
She curtseys, and replies courteously, "Your grace."
"Sit, please, and have some wine if you so desire."
He watches her as she obeys, fighting the red haze edging the corners of her vision. Not yet, she begs Kushiel, please let me speak first.
She sips her wine and meets his gaze, a shade of green-blue-grey too light to judge correctly. Regulating her breathing, Iriel smiles reservedly at him.
"You've learned to contain yourself since last we met," he observes, still studying her, his face a mask.
"My lover for the past two years has been Rosine Shahrizai," she says, and his eyelids flicker just slightly. Is there no one in Kusheth who is neither jealous nor fearful of that family? she wonders. "She taught me some measure of restraint."
"And taught you well, I'm sure. You've been at court, then?"
He has to know; Kushelines would be keen to hear news of an anguissette, and him even more so. "I have, your grace. It has been an illuminating time."
She could curse herself for her awkwardness.
"And do you still refuse to be parted from your horses? I seem to recall your mother mentioning something along those lines."
His grace seems to be enjoying her discomfort; unsurprising, really, considering his bloodline, and she loves him for it. The blush on her face and the speed of her pulse are hastening her breath and her desire - but he is throwing her off-kilter, rendering her carefully-crafted proposal useless. She shudders, bites her lip, and speaks without thinking.
"I do love horses, your grace, but I find many disapprove when you take a filly to a fête."
It takes him a moment, but he actually laughs, one devoid of mockery, and when he looks at her again there is a new light in his eye. "You're rather artless, aren't you, Iriel?"
With each word he speaks, the balance between Iriel of Azzalle and Iriel the anguissette becomes ever more precarious, yet she manages to say, "I am, I'm afraid. Neither words nor manners have ever been my strong suit, though I have a quick mind."
Thus she finds her perfect segue; while he gazes at her over the rim of his glass, she sets hers down, and folds her hands neatly in her lap.
"And so," she begins, "since words frequently fail me, I would like to be blunt, with your grace's permission."
After a moment, he gives her a nod, and she licks her lips before continuing. He looks at her mouth for a long moment, and she finds she can't speak until he glances up again.
"You wished to be blunt?" he inquires, amusement tinting his voice.
"Yes," she says, and closes her eyes for a moment. The words are difficult to say; they stick in her throat, and she fears it will be a choice between keeping her composure and finishing what she came here to do, what she wants so achingly to do. "Yes. Your grace, I wish to offer myself to you in marriage, if you find me pleasing."
Iriel opens her eyes, and he is staring at her, all amusement wiped from his face. He is grave - no, he is angry, and Iriel finds herself trembling.
"If I find you pleasing," he says, voice dangerous. She makes a tiny sound and clenches her clasped hands.
"If you do, your grace," she whispers, and she prays he does.
"I find you very pleasing, Iriel." His voice is low and every syllable throbs in her veins. She is losing herself to him, and her vision has gone scarlet. "Why do you offer yourself to me?"
"Your grace," she whispers. He's captured her, trapped her; he has her heart in his palm. She cannot say aught else.
"Do you seek to end the feud between our Houses?"
"Your grace," she whispers, and her voice breaks.
"Or do you have another reason? Hmm?" His words are vicious, his voice a knife. He stands abruptly from his chair, strides around to grab her by the arm, pulling her off-balance; she hits the stone floor with both knees, and the pain blossoms in her mind like a drop of blood in water. He takes her chin in a crushing hold and forces her to look at him. "Having tried the Shahrizai, do you plan to make your way through all the noble houses in Kusheth, starting with me? Do you seek to submit or to manipulate, Iriel?"
"Please," she chokes out, "please - "
"Well?"
She looks at him, those eyes that command her, those eyes she will submit to, and how she loves him! The realization pulses through her veins, more violent and more pure than anything she has felt before. It is inconceivable that he should need another reason; she has been waiting for him all these years, what else could he want?
Somewhat else, clearly; she drags a reason out of her mind, and says in a rushed gasp, "You are the only man I have ever truly wanted!"
He makes a noise she can't interpret, and flings her away. The stone floor rises to greet her, and she accepts it with open arms. It is cool and comforting, but she rolls to her knees and looks for him.
He is turned away from her, bracing a hand against the wall. Iriel lets her eyes linger on him, the muscles in his calves, his rigid posture, and realizes with a burst of crimson clarity he doesn't believe her, or he doesn't understand. Both, perhaps.
"Your grace," she breathes. "Jephon."
She goes to him on her knees, as she had once said she never would do, and lowers her head to kiss his boots.
"Ah, Kushiel," he whispers, and his hand tangles in her curls. Iriel looks up at him; she needs him to see the scarlet mote, bright against the iris of her right eye.
"Your grace, I do wish to avert war," she says, and leans her head against his thigh. She closes her eyes, more content here than she has ever been in a pleasure-chamber. All thoughts of lies and pretty words tumble out of her mind; she speaks only the barest truth. "And I wish to submit to your will, completely and utterly." He strokes her hair, and she arches her back to his touch. "And I wish you to love me as I love you." She turns to face him, sliding her hands up his thighs, rising to her knees; the new angle pulls at her hair, still clenched in his hand, and the pinpricks of pain bring tears to her eyes.
"Why?" His voice is rough.
"Who can say? I am Iriel, anguissette and scion of Azza. Mayhap he brought me here, to heal my family's wounded pride, or perhaps Kushiel sought to give guidance to his chosen; perhaps Elua saw love in us and gave it life. Does it matter?" She meets his eyes, and they are hungry.
He lets go of her hair, and for a moment she fears he is rejecting her once more. Then he says, "No," and it is a growl that echoes through her bones. "Your signale?"
"Lyra," she says, the name of her first horse, nothing she would forget, and he pulls her up to face him. He studies her, possessively, intimately.
"I will not let you go," he tells her, gripping her by the shoulders. "You will do what I say, as I say it, when I say it. You will be, in essence, my slave. I will permit you restrictions, to be outlined in our marriage contract, but they will be few, and you will be mine. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she says, and she cups his face in her hands, locking her gaze to his. "I do."
. . .
Iriel thinks she will die in his pleasure-chamber. She will die, and she will die screaming his name.
Jephon prowls around her with a single-tailed whip in his hands as she hangs suspended by her wrists in the middle of the room. She is sobbing and shuddering, body taut and arched, the blood pounding in her head like bronze wings. Her wrists are being rubbed raw by rope, every part of her has been flogged or bitten or cut, but these are background aches in comparison to this. Each bite of the whip carves out a streak like a scarlet comet behind her closed lids, the sort of piercing scream of nerves that goes beyond pain or pleasure into a blinding knot of sensation only an anguissette could withstand or understand. Every part of her twists to escape the lash, but he brings the whip down, down, down, and she throws her head back and screams for more.
Time stops, or restarts, Iriel can't tell. Each moment expands past the horizon, then contracts to a pinprick, and her breath comes ragged, a whimper on every exhale. The whip counts the seconds, her only measurement of time, though she lost the thread of it a million lashes ago - then suddenly it stops. She jolts, then yields to the weight of her body and hangs languid from the hook in the ceiling. She is nearly laughing, though she isn't sure she can tell the difference between laughter and tears anymore.
"Open your eyes."
After a moment, Iriel does. She had forgotten she wasn't blindfolded. Jephon is standing before her, a contemplative look on his face, a cat o' nine tails in his hand, its thin leather braids tipped with steel. Iriel moans, and her body quivers in anticipation.
"By the end of the night," Jephon says softly, brushing the steel tips against her stomach, her breasts, "I will hear the signale from your lips if I have to drag it out of you."
"A challenge," Iriel rasps.
"One I will win," Jephon assures her, and steps back and raises the whip.
Across her stomach, her thighs, the whip sears stripes of pain; and when he moves behind her and brings it down on her back, she screams until her throat is raw, the metal tip of every braid clawing at her shoulders and her back, and everything is red, her vision is blurring, and swimming in the haze is a stern face etched with cruel mercy. She gives him her prayers in the form of shrieks and sobs, and her blood drips steadily to the floor.
"On the third stroke," Jephon says calmly from behind her, "you will climax. Do you understand?"
Iriel manages a moan, and braces herself.
Jephon hadn't been holding back, but fueled by the promise of satiation and more pain to come, she find this to be so much better. He snarls as he brings down the whip, a true scion of Kushiel indeed, and it cuts through her flesh with all the force of her lord's rod and weal. Iriel goes beyond screaming to floating in the crimson mists, her awareness shrunk down to the whip and her own flesh.
The second lash, and it sends her further into the haze, and then the third - oh, the third! - the mists explode outward and she finds her voice again, screaming as every part of her sparks and convulses, and perhaps she truly is dying now, but if so or if not, she is certain her Duc's name is on her lips.
Eventually the mists fade, and she returns to herself, shivering and twitching in her restraints. She hears Jephon throw the whip away from him, but he leaves her bound; then a groan from him, scarce minutes later, and if the slow languor suffusing her body hadn't been enough to please her, the sound of his climax would have done so.
He comes to her then, and unties her hands, grasping her around the waist as she slumps, eventually settling them both on the floor. Brushing a sweat-soaked lock of hair from her cheek, he holds her head up, and tells her firmly to open her eyes.
Iriel does.
"Well met, your grace," she means to say, but she's been thoroughly rendered incoherent and it comes out as a mumble.
"Well met, Iriel," he says, and holds her until she can speak and breathe without quivering. A servant comes in, or perhaps a chirurgeon, bearing water and bandages; Jephon holds the cup of water to her lips, and disregards the bandages entirely.
She drinks in little sips, having learned that lesson already, and after a moment looks at Jephon. "I didn't say my signale."
"I'm aware," he says with a sigh. "It seems I underestimated your limits - or you overestimate yours. If I hadn't stopped - " and here he shifts so she is more or less sitting up on her own, " - I would have caused irreparable damage. It would not please me to have you scarred."
She hums in her throat and says, "No, I don't think so, your grace. I heal quickly. It's a gift of Kushiel's."
It's most likely a miracle sent by Kushiel that she hasn't fainted yet, as well. She turns her face against his shoulder, and he gestures at the door; someone is lurking outside.
"The chirurgeon will tend to you now," Jephon says. "Do not make it difficult for her. For now, her words are mine, and you will do whatever she tells you to speed your healing. Do you understand?"
"You keep asking me that," she mumbles. There is a night sky unfolding behind her eyelids, and she recognizes each star. "I always do."
"Good," he says, and kisses her ear. "Now sleep."
A line of poetry floats through Iriel's mind - upon me is bestowed Kushiel's gift, so I might better embrace his mercy and kiss - not one of the better poets in the Shahrizai library, but good enough - and then the night opens beneath her and she falls into it; clasped in Jephon's arms, she freely and willingly shuts out the rest of the world.
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