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

Chapter 3

...

  This torture has continued for weeks, maybe months? I can't tell anymore. He would come in here and continue his torment. He doesn't even try to break it up with anything else, reducing me to this.
  Sometimes it was just him in here; sometimes he would bring in others—sometimes to watch, sometimes for other reasons; and sometimes, they got so violent, Zarkos had to intervene to save me from blood loss, burns, or any other wounds I sustained through my "interrogations". Lord Zarkos has needed to visit me more often: my anxious nausea, cramping, and headaches made Naeus complain about my performance. I'm lucky he was so 'generous' to send a doctor to care for me, let alone one as experienced as Lord Zarkos.
  This Nether Tyrant seems to take too much pleasure from this constant anguish he puts me through; although I doubt saying anything about the Frostbourne would stop or lessen this form of torture.

  The dreaded sound of the keys pushing into the lock causes me to clench up unconsciously, my arms folding over my ruined body while eyes squeezing shut.
  "The Emperor requests your presence, madam." A voice speaks to me. I'm very used to new and random voices coming into this cell, but never to deliver news. This hasn't happened before; I haven't left this room since I arrived.
  The person at the door was just an ordinary skeleton, dressed up in armor and a sword to his right side instead of the left. In his hands, he carries a maroon robe in his hands, and a simple leg brace—Zarkos must have protested for that at least.
  The skeletal man frees me from the chains on the wall, letting me fall to the ground. He doesn't give me a second to collect myself before tossing the robe and brace at me, nearly hitting my face. "Get dressed; don't leave the Emperor waiting."

  Before, my first, or maybe even my second week here, I would have found a way to use this situation to my advantage: maybe strangle him out with the robe's ribbon, take his sword and armor, and fight my way to the nearest portal home; but now, I can't even find the strength, physically or mentally, to resist his order—the King has been keeping me underfed for weeks, praising that my slim body made me 'more desirable' and 'less resistant'. And if I were to follow through with that wish, I would be apprehended immediately, and... Naeus would never let me forget that mistake.

  I slip on the silk robe and put on my new leg brace; the robe was a little too short and shows off a little too much for my liking, and the brace wasn't nearly as well-constructed as the custom one I made for myself; however, for going weeks with little to no clothes at all, and no ability to stand up on my own, I can't complain.
  Weeks... how much time has passed by now?
  I wonder what the Frostbourne looks like without me there. I ponder as I mindlessly wrap the robe up and tie the silk belt around my slim waist. Patrick, Lyria, and the others must be back from the Far Plains by now... I wish my regards to Flint, and the poor soul that had to tell the kingdom I had disappeared. No easy job, especially telling Patrick.
  ... or maybe they didn't even notice?

"Who would come back for you after what I've done?" His words repeated in my head, "You're just a used c*nt now; anyone that sees you now wouldn't waste their time. Everyone will see who you are now; this is who you are now."
  He repeats phrases such as those about every time he's dressing himself again, and about to leave. I don't want to believe him; I don't want to think the Frostbourne could just leave me like that. I don't want to think my Lord, my love, could just leave me.
  But sometimes, I think if they really could be better off without me.

  I'm pulled from my thoughts after a while. I'm now sitting in a chair outside my cell. One wither skeleton was holding a chain that linked to my neck, likely to ensure I didn't try to run, not that I can with my leg; the other was putting on a light bit of makeup on my face. He traces my lips with a liquid red coloring (I...didn't want to ask what the origin was...), and the corner of my eyes with a light layer of charcoal.
  I'm unsure why that Netherite Tyrant wants me in makeup, and allows me the decency of a robe, so suddenly? He didn't seem to bother when I was back there. Whatever it is it can't be much worse than that cell, it just can't be, right?