I Love [to Control] You -A Fractures Short Story

Epilogue

One last reminder of the content warnings of this story. You can still close out of this short story, turn off your device, go outside to feel the sun, and never have to read this🥲

  CW: heavy violence, mental and physical t0rture, manipulation, assault, sexual assault, slight internalized sexism/purity culture, forced marriage, domestic abuse, (inferred) r@pe (marital and not), starvation/depriving needs, forced pregnancy.
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I awoke in a hospital bed, wrapped tightly in warm, weighted blankets, in a clean room. White walls; grey stone floors; a sink to my right, next to which was a medical cabinet full of basic supplies; my bed in the middle of the room; a single door on the wall that led to a small bathroom, and another in front of me that continued to the hallway; a side table covered in cards, drawings, flowers, and even some candy; a bucket to my left, just in case I felt more ill than how I feel now; basic medical equipment behind me. My room was nothing special, alike most hospital rooms in the Frostbourne Hospital, but I analyzed it a few times over to keep my mind preoccupied, to keep my focus off of what happened: him. His touches, his words, his demands, it will all be burnt into my mind for all of eternity.
Compared to everything around me... well, maybe for besides the floor... I was dirty, disgusting, all in more ways than one. My skin drenched in cold sweat and blood, my own and others. I want to call a nurse to help me up, unhook me from the wires that are attached to me, and go take a cold shower to scrub the filth off of me, but I won't be able to get the dirt off, I can't ever get it all off.
Time flew by while I was in here; doctors came in and out of my room endlessly, but I hardly paid any attention to them. I was acquaintances with most of them, due to my position of power requiring me to be rather social, but I couldn't muster up the strength to offer any small-talk, like I used to. They just ran their tests, asked a few questions, an odd 'I'm glad you're back home safe' or 'I hope you feel well again, my Lady' every here and there, and just left. I hope they didn't take any offense by it; I hope they could understand.

Eventually, someone walks in that manages to draw my attention away from the white-painted, brick wall in front of me: the Frostbourne General, Ser Patrick.
He stands there for a moment, in awe of me as if I was an angel in front of him. I look nothing of the sort, however: sitting in this hospital bed, unbathed for days, dressed in a loose hospital gown and my recovering wounds wrapped tightly in bandages and gauze, burns covering my body, and my azure hair frizzy, burnt, and an unwashed mess of strands; yet, he still looks at me like I'm the most beautiful woman this whole world.
He's dressed in his usual heavy armor, masses of silver, dark metal, and hints of teal frame his tall figure, but some things about him have change since I've seen him last. It's been a few months now that I think about it, more than half of a year; we were saying our goodbyes to one another at the stables. I remember; he, Hilda, and Lyria were leaving to take back the Far Plains from the Nether Horde. I was there to tell him to be safe, and take care of himself while he was away; he told me to do the same before getting on the back of his snowy steed. He leaned down to kiss me one last time, which I return. After that, I watch him along with the majority of the military ride off down the horizon, heading into a messy, prolonged fight for the freedom of our people.
This was the first time I've seen him since then. I've been told by multiple nurses that he has spent hours visiting me while I was out still cold from my malnourishment and pain, and despite his work, he hardly left my side; however now, by his reaction, he looks like he hasn't seen me in centuries. His mouth agape, his chest moving rapidly as he lets out shaky breaths or air, all as if he had ran the way here; his eyes scan me as if he was trying to figure out if he was really seeing me in front of him, if I was really there in front of him.

I feel the tears build up in my eyes, watching him stand there. "You... you don't look well my Lord." I analyze, a little too coldly for my liking, but it's the only way to prevent myself from bursting into rivers of tears at this very moment. "You look ill. Thinner, paler... you look like you haven't been sleeping well either?"

He lets out an uneasy sigh and hangs his head, "I... yeah." He runs a hand through his red hair; it's longer than it was since I saw him last, by a good inch or so. "No, no I haven't been." He confesses. He walks up to me, and takes my hand in his. "It's... good to be in your presence again, my Lady. I am glad you have been safely retrieved from the Nether Palace." He punctuates his sentences my leaving a kiss on the palm of my hand.
This type of act would have normally brought a smile to my face, and he knows that; however, not this time. I can't find it in me to muster a smile to show him. I wish I could. "I assume you are here to interview me about my captivity." I say with a blank tone, looking at my hand in his.

His eyes dim a little, lowering his hand, before giving a nod. He sits at the foot of my bed, "Yes... I am." He seems grim about having to do this, "But... u—um...I didn't come here alone now!" He utters, before letting out a low whistles, and in comes a familiar husky.
This pup is one of the Frostbourne emotional support dogs, trained in helping those whom came back from being imprisoned or held hostage by enemy kingdoms. His name is Yule, after the Pagan holiday, since he was found during the winter solstice. He's about 4 years of age, and has worked his tail off to help others. Despite his breed, Yule has been an excellent emotional support dog for the Frostbourne, as well as an exemplary companion to his family when he's off-duty.
Yule walks up to me carefully before sniffing my hand—the one that's connected to the IV, and heart monitor—with his cold nose. After he does so, he hops up onto my lap, pressing his muzzle in between my hand and chest, allowing me to pet his soft fur. Despite feeling out of it, I can't help but smile while he does his job. Who can't help but smile when petting a puppy? "Thank you, my Lord." I voice quietly, my tone shaky and uneven, which is odd for me.

His hand reaches for my free one, careful not to disturb the working animal on my lap, I let him hold my hand; he pauses before he speaks, "Whenever you're ready, my Lady. You are in no rush to speak." His tone is calm and assuring. "I'm sure that... whatever it is you've been put through, it's been hard on you..."

I look up at him, my gaze meeting his, before I nod, "Worse than I could have ever imagined..." I look down at the ground, as I try to hide the embarrassment in my face.
I was both relieved and ashamed as soon as I saw him walk through that door: relieved, because I could... I didn't have to explain my story, what he did to me, to a complete stranger; however... very much so ashamed because I'm not speaking to no doctor or friend, no: I'm explaining it—no filter to smooth out the story, no hiding what happened—all to my lover, my world.
He may have done this job a thousand times over, talking to the victims of these situations, all similar to mine, and using their stories to, not only understand the enemy, but help give these victims the justice they deserve. But... me? The one he holds dear to him, the one he lies next to at night, the one... he could easily leave with a single word? How could he possibly look at me the same after what has been done to me? All that he has done to me?

I just need to start. Start talking, I tell myself, There's no good way to start talking about your experience, being trapped there; if you don't start, you never will.

"Okay..." I sigh heavily, stroking Yule's soft fur to comfort me. I speak numbly, "I'm ready..."

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