@ElderGod-kirky group
Dom, you've already read this so you don't have to read it again, it's just that this is probably the best 'heart-wrenching' scene I've managed to write
TW: this is an aftermath scene of a rape, so there are hints to it but nothing really said or shown.
Nothing could compare the blind panic and terror that coursed through her veins. She had thought, long ago as just a child, that she had become immune to the horrors of the world that could be inflicted on her. She’s taken a beating without flinching. She’s stared down death without batting an eye. She’s kicked and screamed and fought tooth and nail against everything life had to throw at her.
But this…
She had forgotten what fear felt like.
It crawled over her skin like thousands of slugs. Spiders clung to the back of her neck, fangs poised to strike if she so much as breathed wrong. Hornets kissed her jaw and ears with their stingers so, so close.
Off, get it off of me.
Her bare feet sunk into the mud and grime of the camp. The stench of worn soldiers hung in the air. Rain poured from the heavens as if the gods wept for something—or someone. Metal choked her from her split lip.
Please please please.
Oh, how she hated that word now.
She burst into the black tent, wet, dirty, and adorned with only a soaked blanket that did nothing to preserve any shred of modesty she wished to keep for once. Male eyes turned to her, and she felt their touch like a bucket of a hundred pounds of slime being overturned over her head. Their snickers… She had never felt so belittled, so objectified. Her pleading eyes turned to ones she desperately hoped would save her.
Gorgeous violet met burnt gold. Emyr hardly took one glance at Theresa’s ragged appearance before ordering the men in the tent to leave. Their war plans could wait until a later date—this couldn’t. The soldiers and generals grumbled and complained, but they still reluctantly let themselves be ushered out of the tent.
Only the two of them remained. Alone.
Theresa’s bones locked up.
Swooping in, Emyr slowly held his hands out, not touching her just yet but still wanting to help his friend. He hated treating her like a spooked animal, but he had no choice. An idea of what happened to her formed in his head, and it chilled his long-deceased blood to ice. What has he done to you what did he do please be okay what can I do to help please please be okay please make me wrong Tess I’m so sorry please.
His worry, which he had hoped would be lifted, only increased tenfold as the girl whimpered and crashed into Emyr, her legs giving out. He quickly wrapped his arms around her to keep her upright and against his chest, nose buried in her damp hair and eyes sealed shut.
The dead warrior had always seen her hands as battle-scarred and molded for any kind of weapon. But now, seeing her so desperately clutch the blanket around her even as he held her close, delicate was the only description for them.
It disheartened him more than he thought it would.
Emyr held Theresa close as she buried herself against him, clinging to that blanket as if her life depended on it. Maybe it did in her mind. Here she was, the most powerful woman that Emyr has ever known and had the privilege of befriending—crying in his arms and trembling to the point where she practically vibrated. He doubted it was from the rain.
“…Tess?” he murmured hesitantly, pulling back a fraction to get a look at her face.
She shook her head and pressed herself closer to him, determined to keep herself as hidden as possible from the world.
“Okay, that’s okay,” he whispered quickly, not wanting to push her to say or confess anything if she didn’t want to. She was strong, he knew, but her strength wasn’t enough right now. She needed him, her undead friend.
Theresa held onto him for as long as her trembling limbs could, and when her grip loosened and she started to give out, she felt strong arms carefully scooping her up. She tensed at the masculine touch to her legs, ready to thrash and get away from it, but the touch slid to her knees and stayed there, loose and submissive. No force, no danger. Safe. The shivering girl curled up and pressed into Emyr’s chest, a sob tearing through her.
Cadfael, her own mate, had…
She didn’t know if she could ever learn to trust anyone again.
The chest she used as a pillow rumbled. Soft words bounced against the cotton in her ears. Everything but the caring warmth surrounding her slowly fizzled away, and even the warmth was starting to go numb.
Her body molded into a familiar surface. Again, she tensed, remembering the cot she had been pinned to, helpless and powerless for the first time in years. Panic seized her so tightly that she didn’t notice the hands quickly snatching her away and moving her to a different, softer, surface.
Oh, how she fought against him, screamed at him to get off, to let go of her.
Oh, how he had ignored her, belittling her with familiar slurs, with his touch.
“Tess, I need to take off the blanket to get you into dry clothes,” Emyr murmured. He kneeled on the rug-covered ground and gently stroked Theresa’s drenched hair. The usually bright gold seemed muted tonight.
She didn’t respond, at least verbally. Her death grip on the blanket slowly loosened, and at once, she fell limp. Defeated. Utterly defeated.
Another crack split through his heart.
One of the girls had delivered clothes the moment he asked for it. Questions never got asked, but hesitation never occurred. Their friend was hurting, so they worked together to help no matter what.
Emyr didn’t let himself linger on the circumstances that broke this powerful woman into thousands of pieces, nor did he let his hands represent the touch that had caused them as he slowly unwrapped the blanket. Eyes averted and focus on the objective, he undressed and dressed Theresa, then grabbed his heaviest fur-lined blanket and draped it over her still-trembling body. She curled it even closer as she became half of her size, knees drawn up nearly to her chin. Emyr stood to leave, but fingers hooked into his shirt.
“Stay… please.” She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t need to for him to know what she looked like. Yet another crack formed.
“How do you want me?” he questioned, not moving until he got her permission and direction. Never—never would he want to be like the man he once called a friend.
No words left her lips this time. She scooted to the side, leaving room between the tent’s wall and the front of her body for him. He understood instantly.
Theresa watched warily as Emyr climbed over her to the space she left for him. His movements remained slow and careful; any other time, she would’ve been angry, but now all she felt was immense relief and gratitude. I don’t deserve a friend as sweet as him. She uncurled as he settled with his back to her—with a significant distance between them.
The gesture might’ve been appreciated, but it wasn’t needed.
She needed something else.
Snaking arms slipped around Emyr’s waist, and he stayed still while Theresa hugged him from behind and pressed her face into his back. He didn’t move for what felt like ages and listened. Listened to the rustle of soldiers outside of the quiet tent, to the breathing fanning over his back in a rhythmic pattern, to the howls of hungry hounds and rattle of swords being sharpened, to the thumping heart steadily calming behind him. He listened for the sound of deep sleep, so sure it would be soon that the barely-there words startled him. A breathy chuckle rasped against his spine.
“Thank you.”
He only slid a hand up her arm and laced his fingers through hers, giving them a gentle squeeze in answer. She squeezed back, and at once, the two fell asleep, tumbling into horror-filled dreams that failed to wake them.
