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feredarStory: When I Lay My Vengeance Upon Thee
Year: 994 FY
Characters: Kesshare, Rema
Warnings: Torture, murder
Notes: This takes place in the Incest AU
It had taken Kesshare nearly two years, after the end of the war, to track down the person responsible for her son's death. Not the guard who had actually killed him--he'd been easy to find, with the detailed records Sorell and later Kellom had kept. That guard, it was fairly easy to determine, had been following someone's orders, for all he tried to make it look like an escape attempt gone out of control. Kesshare had staged accidents herself--even discounting the one she would when she finished here--to know the tells.
Which meant tracking records, and bribing the right people, and finally working her slow way up the chain of command to where the order had originated.
She had taken another year and a half after that to plan, to make sure that her accident would have minimal tells, to make sure she had the time and space to work. Someone else had handled the actual kidnapping, of course. And she had, in the event that foul play was detected, found a suitable patsy--officially, she wasn't even in the city. Officially, she was in a resort oasis that she owned where the staff would reassure anyone who dared to suspect that she had been there the entire month. And she would return there when this was done. But now, finally, seven years after her son's murder, she was here.
Kesshare set her bag down and began unpacking it, examining all of her tools, testing the edge of the knives, before finally selecting how she would begin.
Then she turned around, and smiled. "I am not, as a rule, particularly fond of torture," she said, conversationally, gliding across the dusty warehouse to where the target was suspended from the ceiling, ropes twined around the arms, gagged. "Any information gained that way is suspect, at best. And it is so very messy." She ran the flat of the blade she had chosen delicately down the target's cheek, and was pleased when there was no overt response. Not even in the eyes.
She was very glad she had ensured privacy for at least three or four hours.
"Not just the obvious--the blood and such--but people tend to have such strong opinions on the subject. It should, as a rule, be avoided, even more so than murder." She twisted the blade and drew a fine line of blood along the target's cheek. Still no response. Excellent. "Turning people to one's political views that way is equally problematic. Oh, it works, but it so often leaves them too broken for any real use." A matching line of red welled up on the target's forehead, slowly trailing down to the right eye.
"But you..." Kesshare's smile sharpened. "I don't want information from you. I have covered my tracks. And I don't care to make you believe as I believe. You are here for the one appropriate use of torture." She pulled the targets head back and drew another line along the chin, high and shallow enough to risk no damage to the vital anatomy, but low enough that the threat was clear. Finally, a response--she felt the target swallow bile, the convulsive movement against her wrist. She leaned close to the target's ear and murmured, "If you had chosen any other symbol--any target but my son--I might have commended you for it. A masterful move, if only it hadn't been my son."
She pulled back, and began tracing lines along the target's back, about an inch apart, and another deeper line across the shoulders. "I do not allow my children to be harmed," she said, maintaining her surface calm. "No more than I allow any other possession of value to be stolen, or broken, or in any other way rendered useless to me." She studied her work on the target's back, then went back to her table to retrieve another knife. This one had a thicker blade, with a dulled back for improved leverage.
It was a hunter's knife, designed for skinning.
"You had my son killed," she said, and then slid the knife into the top cut and drew it, as slowly as she could, along the first inch-wide strip of flesh, separating it from the muscle. "I don't care if he died quickly. You will not."
Against the gag, her target screamed.
Kesshare smiled.
Again and again, she slid the hunting knife down along the target's back, until the convulsions grew slower. She set the knife aside--too early yet to kill.
She returned to her toolbag to check the time. She had another hour or so before she had to begin the final step. Good.
She pulled out a vial of smelling salts and left the rest of the knives behind. She returned the target to consciousness. "I'm not done yet," she said. "Do not do that again."
The eye that wasn't gummed shut by blood from the forehead showed a gratifying amount of fear and loathing.
Kesshare pulled a tendril of greying blonde hair forward, examining it, twining it around her fingers, then yanked as hard as she could. It came out entirely, a clump of skin at the base, and there was a muffled cry against the gag.
So simple a thing, to provoke a response even after all this.
She set fire to the tendril, ignoring the stench, and dropped it at the target's feet. She kept the fire at her fingers alive, and began to work on the target's front.
She began with the breasts, burning fingerprints in patterns spiraling in towards the nipples, but stopped just short of reaching it.
The target was crying now.
Kesshare continued the pattern down, to the navel, noting how different it felt--for her--than similar fire-play did when the goal was pleasure for the target. Context meant everything.
The target was whimpering in the ropes, but, through judicious application of the smelling salts, still conscious, blood from her back pooling at their feet.
"I think it's time," Kesshare said, examining the practically artistic work she'd done with a certain amount of pride.
She returned to her tools and pulled on gloves before selecting another vial. "This is venom extracted from vipers that live near the City of Glass," she informed her target. "I have never been bitten--few who have survive--but I am told it is one of the most painful bites in the desert. It causes pain, of course, incredible swelling at the site, profuse bleeding, nausea, and eventually difficulties with the heart. It is usually that last which kills, a few hours after the bite." She moved around to the target's back. "It might be, of course, in the dose you will be given, that the pain alone will kill you." With great care, she took the top off the vial and poured it over the target's open and still-bleeding back.
The target went rigid with pain, and Kesshare could hear her scream against the gag.
She cut the ropes, leaving the convulsing body on the floor, then stripped herself of any clothes carrying even a speck of blood. She carefully wrapped and replaced her tools, then redressed in a man's suit she had brought with her, securing her hair under a hood.
She turned back one last time to study the target. Still moving. "Did you think that, if I found you out, your rank would keep you safe?" she asked. "I don't care whose sister you are, Lady Rema. You had my son killed."
The target couldn't respond, of course, between the gag and the pain, but Kesshare didn't care. She turned away, and stepped outside.
With a snap of her fingers, the warehouse burst into flames, and she ducked her head and disappeared into the crowd that began to gather outside to stare.
Year: 994 FY
Characters: Kesshare, Rema
Warnings: Torture, murder
Notes: This takes place in the Incest AU
It had taken Kesshare nearly two years, after the end of the war, to track down the person responsible for her son's death. Not the guard who had actually killed him--he'd been easy to find, with the detailed records Sorell and later Kellom had kept. That guard, it was fairly easy to determine, had been following someone's orders, for all he tried to make it look like an escape attempt gone out of control. Kesshare had staged accidents herself--even discounting the one she would when she finished here--to know the tells.
Which meant tracking records, and bribing the right people, and finally working her slow way up the chain of command to where the order had originated.
She had taken another year and a half after that to plan, to make sure that her accident would have minimal tells, to make sure she had the time and space to work. Someone else had handled the actual kidnapping, of course. And she had, in the event that foul play was detected, found a suitable patsy--officially, she wasn't even in the city. Officially, she was in a resort oasis that she owned where the staff would reassure anyone who dared to suspect that she had been there the entire month. And she would return there when this was done. But now, finally, seven years after her son's murder, she was here.
Kesshare set her bag down and began unpacking it, examining all of her tools, testing the edge of the knives, before finally selecting how she would begin.
Then she turned around, and smiled. "I am not, as a rule, particularly fond of torture," she said, conversationally, gliding across the dusty warehouse to where the target was suspended from the ceiling, ropes twined around the arms, gagged. "Any information gained that way is suspect, at best. And it is so very messy." She ran the flat of the blade she had chosen delicately down the target's cheek, and was pleased when there was no overt response. Not even in the eyes.
She was very glad she had ensured privacy for at least three or four hours.
"Not just the obvious--the blood and such--but people tend to have such strong opinions on the subject. It should, as a rule, be avoided, even more so than murder." She twisted the blade and drew a fine line of blood along the target's cheek. Still no response. Excellent. "Turning people to one's political views that way is equally problematic. Oh, it works, but it so often leaves them too broken for any real use." A matching line of red welled up on the target's forehead, slowly trailing down to the right eye.
"But you..." Kesshare's smile sharpened. "I don't want information from you. I have covered my tracks. And I don't care to make you believe as I believe. You are here for the one appropriate use of torture." She pulled the targets head back and drew another line along the chin, high and shallow enough to risk no damage to the vital anatomy, but low enough that the threat was clear. Finally, a response--she felt the target swallow bile, the convulsive movement against her wrist. She leaned close to the target's ear and murmured, "If you had chosen any other symbol--any target but my son--I might have commended you for it. A masterful move, if only it hadn't been my son."
She pulled back, and began tracing lines along the target's back, about an inch apart, and another deeper line across the shoulders. "I do not allow my children to be harmed," she said, maintaining her surface calm. "No more than I allow any other possession of value to be stolen, or broken, or in any other way rendered useless to me." She studied her work on the target's back, then went back to her table to retrieve another knife. This one had a thicker blade, with a dulled back for improved leverage.
It was a hunter's knife, designed for skinning.
"You had my son killed," she said, and then slid the knife into the top cut and drew it, as slowly as she could, along the first inch-wide strip of flesh, separating it from the muscle. "I don't care if he died quickly. You will not."
Against the gag, her target screamed.
Kesshare smiled.
Again and again, she slid the hunting knife down along the target's back, until the convulsions grew slower. She set the knife aside--too early yet to kill.
She returned to her toolbag to check the time. She had another hour or so before she had to begin the final step. Good.
She pulled out a vial of smelling salts and left the rest of the knives behind. She returned the target to consciousness. "I'm not done yet," she said. "Do not do that again."
The eye that wasn't gummed shut by blood from the forehead showed a gratifying amount of fear and loathing.
Kesshare pulled a tendril of greying blonde hair forward, examining it, twining it around her fingers, then yanked as hard as she could. It came out entirely, a clump of skin at the base, and there was a muffled cry against the gag.
So simple a thing, to provoke a response even after all this.
She set fire to the tendril, ignoring the stench, and dropped it at the target's feet. She kept the fire at her fingers alive, and began to work on the target's front.
She began with the breasts, burning fingerprints in patterns spiraling in towards the nipples, but stopped just short of reaching it.
The target was crying now.
Kesshare continued the pattern down, to the navel, noting how different it felt--for her--than similar fire-play did when the goal was pleasure for the target. Context meant everything.
The target was whimpering in the ropes, but, through judicious application of the smelling salts, still conscious, blood from her back pooling at their feet.
"I think it's time," Kesshare said, examining the practically artistic work she'd done with a certain amount of pride.
She returned to her tools and pulled on gloves before selecting another vial. "This is venom extracted from vipers that live near the City of Glass," she informed her target. "I have never been bitten--few who have survive--but I am told it is one of the most painful bites in the desert. It causes pain, of course, incredible swelling at the site, profuse bleeding, nausea, and eventually difficulties with the heart. It is usually that last which kills, a few hours after the bite." She moved around to the target's back. "It might be, of course, in the dose you will be given, that the pain alone will kill you." With great care, she took the top off the vial and poured it over the target's open and still-bleeding back.
The target went rigid with pain, and Kesshare could hear her scream against the gag.
She cut the ropes, leaving the convulsing body on the floor, then stripped herself of any clothes carrying even a speck of blood. She carefully wrapped and replaced her tools, then redressed in a man's suit she had brought with her, securing her hair under a hood.
She turned back one last time to study the target. Still moving. "Did you think that, if I found you out, your rank would keep you safe?" she asked. "I don't care whose sister you are, Lady Rema. You had my son killed."
The target couldn't respond, of course, between the gag and the pain, but Kesshare didn't care. She turned away, and stepped outside.
With a snap of her fingers, the warehouse burst into flames, and she ducked her head and disappeared into the crowd that began to gather outside to stare.