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little-bug-bruised · 2 days ago

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Meadowsweet

Chapter II

Pet didn’t understand.

Why was her new mistress worried about her?

The question rattled around in her head until it clicked. Master’s voice echoed in her mind like a cruel lullaby:

“You’ll be good for the queen, won’t you, mutt?”

She had nodded, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.

“You’ll obey. You’ll wait for your mistress to grant you permission to speak, won’t you, pup?”

Another nod. Another day in the dark.

Of course. Of course the queen was testing her. Seeing if her new pet had been properly trained. And Pet would not fail. Not even now. Not even after Master had given her away like a scrap of meat.

Pet kept her eyes low, fixed on the floor in front of her knees. Pets don’t look their masters in the eyes. That was one of the first things she had learned.

The queen said nothing to her. She turned instead to a servant nearby and gave a quiet order. Something about getting her unbound. Cleaned. Dressed in something new.

Pet didn’t move until the servant came. The ropes fell away, one by one, her limbs aching from the release. She didn’t thank her. Pets don’t speak until their masters said they could.

They took her through a maze of stone hallways, too wide and too bright. When they reached the palace baths, the servant guided her gently forward.

Pet obeyed.

She stood still as the woman began undressing her. There was no shame—shame was something she’d lost long ago—but as she stepped toward the water, a different feeling took root.

Panic.

It began slow. A tightness in her throat. A flicker in her chest. Then her vision narrowed and the bath seemed to grow enormous, a dark gleaming mouth waiting to swallow her whole.

She froze.

No. No, please. Not water. Not like this.

Her mind began spinning. The tiled floor, the water, the gentle hands—none of it was real anymore. In her mind, she was back in Master’s cold, brackish tub. The grip on her neck. The shove under the surface. The taste of iron and salt. The darkness.

She braced for it.

But nothing came.

No hands. No push. No pain.

The water was pleasantly warm.

And when her mind began to return—slow and trembling—she found herself already out of the bath, a soft towel wrapped around her small, shaking body. The servant was murmuring something gentle as she patted her dry.

Pet didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

She only followed, docile and quiet, as she was led to the launderers’ room. They rifled through shelves and chests until they found a plain cotton dress in soft cream, worn but clean. The fabric was warm from the fire. It smelled like lavender and sun.

Pet stared at it like it was a gown made of gold.

When the servant helped slip it over her head, Pet nearly cried. It didn’t itch. It didn’t smell like rot. There were no bloodstains, no missing buttons. It was hers. Her mistress had given her this. A bath. A dress. Clean skin. Warmth.

She wanted to speak. To say thank you. But the words stuck like thorns in her throat. She wasn’t allowed. Not unless she was told.

The servant led her through more twisting halls until they reached a set of grand doors.

The queen’s quarters.

Pet stepped inside, her heart thudding.

She crossed the room on quiet, bare feet, and dropped to her knees in the center of the floor. She knelt, hands folded neatly in her lap, spine straight, head bowed low.

A good pet.

She waited. For the sound of a voice. For the steps of her new mistress. For the next command.

And in the silence, all she could think was:

Please let me be good enough this time.

***

Mirryn stood before the fire, the sealed envelope heavy in her hands.

She had been avoiding it since the man had first delivered it—since the moment the girl had arrived in that crate like livestock. Part of her hadn’t wanted to open it. Part of her still didn’t. But she needed to know what they had done to her. What he had done. What she needed to undo.

The wax cracked.

Inside was a single sheet of thick parchment, its folds still stiff from lack of use. The handwriting was slanted, haphazard, the strokes occasionally smudged—as if written through drink or disinterest. Mirryn read slowly.

To Her Most Gracious Majesty, Queen Mirryn of the Middle Kingdom,

Below is a complete list of commands and the expected responses from the creature you have been gifted.

Sit – The pet sits cross-legged, eyes on the ground.

Down – The pet kneels, eyes on the floor.

Up – The pet stands upright with hands behind her back.

Heel – The pet follows two steps behind her master, head lowered.

Speak – The pet will bark once. Loudly.

Present – The pet will clasp her hands behind her back and stand with her feet shoulder-width apart for inspection.

Silence – The pet will freeze in place, eyes down, until told otherwise.

Cage – The pet will crawl into the nearest enclosed space and remain there.

Obey – The pet will follow any spoken order without hesitation.

Punish – The pet will remove her own clothing and kneel in apology.

Her true name is included in the sealed inner fold. Use it sparingly for best results. A word of warning: the pet responds best to a firm, consistent hand. She is known to tremble, whimper, and cry, but don’t let it fool you. She’s well broken. She just forgets sometimes.

With loyalty,

Lord Marksworth

Mirryn stared at the list until the words blurred.

Bark.

Present.

Punish.

She felt sick.

Her hand clenched around the parchment until it crumpled, and she tossed it into the fire without a second thought. The flames caught quickly. The paper curled and blackened.

She did not open the fold with the fae’s true name.

She would never use it.

When Mirryn opened the door to her chambers, she immediately saw the girl.

She was kneeling exactly where the servant had left her—centered in the rug, facing the hearth. Her posture was perfect. Too perfect. Her back was straight, her head bowed, hands folded carefully in her lap. She didn’t move.

Mirryn felt a breath catch in her throat.

She approached slowly, each step deliberate. Not out of ceremony, but caution. Not for herself—for the girl. Pet, the man had called her. As though she didn’t even deserve a name.

When Mirryn reached the middle of the room, she opened her mouth to speak—

—but the girl dropped, suddenly, pressing her forehead to the floor.

Mirryn blinked, startled. At first she thought it was a plea, some silent form of begging. But then she recognized the shape of the motion. Not desperate. Not frantic.

Grateful.

She was saying thank you.

Mirryn’s heart broke anew.

“You’re�� welcome,” she said, awkwardly.

The girl remained in place, trembling ever so slightly.

Mirryn lowered herself gently into the nearby chair, unsure what to do. Eyes studying her thin frame she called for lunch to be brought. The girl didn’t move. She sat for a long moment, watching the girl, the silence thick between them.

She didn’t want to see her like this. She didn’t want to see a person trained. She needed to help heal the hurt she had been through.

Mirryn finally spoke. “What can I call you?”

The girl’s head lifted just slightly. Her mouth opened—then closed again just as fast. Her eyes darted downward, and she curled in on herself.

Mirryn realized her mistake. “It’s alright. You’re allowed to speak.”

The girl tensed as though she’d been struck.

Then, slowly, obediently, she said: “Master used to call me mutt, or runt, or mongrel. And pup when he was in a good mood… and creature sometimes, but only when I was bad.” Her voice got quieter the longer she spoke.

She said the names like it was normal. Like she was listing weather patterns or old grocery lists. Her face didn’t flinch, but her hands trembled.

Mirryn swallowed, keeping her voice soft. “Those aren’t names. They’re insults.”

The girl didn’t respond. Just stared at the rug.

“You deserve a name,” Mirryn said. “A real one. Something that belongs to you.”

That was when the panic returned.

The girl’s breath hitched, quick and shallow. Her hands clenched into the folds of her new dress. She opened her mouth again—once, twice—but no words came out. Her chest rose in quick jerks, like she was choking on the air.

Mirryn sat forward gently. “You don’t have to think of one now. May I suggest one for you?”

The girl nodded so quickly it was almost desperate.

Mirryn studied her quietly.

Hair like snow, like flower petals after the rain. Green eyes that held storms and spring both. Thin as a willow shoot, half-starved—but alive.

Alive, despite everything.

“Sprig,” Mirryn said.

The girl looked up, eyes wide.

“It’s what we call the first little growth of a plant,” she explained. “Small. Delicate. But a promise of something more. A sprig may be tiny, but it’s strong enough to push through earth. It grows where nothing else will.”

She offered a gentle smile. “You’ve been through darkness, little sprig. But you’re still growing.”

The girl—Sprig—sat very still.

Then, slowly, she bowed her head once in silent acknowledgment. She didn’t smile. She didn’t cry.

But she accepted the name.

And for now, that was enough.

***

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little-bug-bruised · 2 days ago

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Meadowsweet

Queen Mirryn startled as a group of people burst through the kitchen doors. She had been enjoying a rare quiet breakfast on her day off, but dropped her pastry the moment she took in the scene before her.

Three palace guards surrounded two disheveled-looking men. Between them, they carried what appeared to be a large, covered dog crate, suspended by straps. Without ceremony, they dropped it onto the flagstone floor with a dull thud.

One of the guards stepped forward, but Mirryn’s eyes remained fixed on the crate.

“These trespassers were found on the palace grounds this morning, Your Majesty,” he announced.

Mirryn finally tore her gaze away from the crate to look at him.

“And this matter was so urgent,” she asked coolly, “that you couldn’t wait until I was prepared to give a proper audience?”

The guard stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I believe you may wish to attend to this immediately, Your Majesty.”

Despite herself, Mirryn felt her curiosity rise. She turned her attention to the two men. “Speak. Explain yourselves.”

The taller—and meaner-looking—of the two stepped forward and bowed stiffly.

“Your most gracious highness, we come from the Northern Kingdom.”

At that, Mirryn’s expression cooled. Her guards straightened, sensing the tension. The war had ended only three weeks ago. Whatever these men were after, it could not be good.

“We come seeking forgiveness, Majesty,” the man continued.

Mirryn raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “And in exchange for a pardon for your crimes against my kingdom, you offer… this?”

With a theatrical flourish, the shorter, duller-looking man yanked the cover from the crate.

It took Mirryn a moment to understand what she was looking at.

Inside the crate, a girl knelt on the metal floor. Her hair and skin were so caked with dirt that Mirryn couldn’t tell her hair color. Her clothes were threadbare and filthy. Thick rope bound her arms tightly behind her back, forcing her chest to jut forward unnaturally. Her legs were similarly bound beneath her. A leather dog muzzle was strapped tightly over her mouth, and a collar—far too tight, judging by the way her breath wheezed on every exhale—was fastened around her neck.

But worst of all were the bruises and cuts that covered every visible inch of her skin—angry, swollen, and cruelly varied in age and color.

Mirryn fought to keep her composure.

“You did this to her?” she asked quietly, her voice calm but frigid.

The stupid-looking man mistook her disgust for awe. He grinned proudly. “Not all of it. King Marksworth always made sure to keep her lookin’ colorful. But it’s a long boat ride down, and we made sure to keep her nice and docile for you, Your Majesty.”

Mirryn felt her stomach twist. The girl inside the crate barely moved, save for the constant trembling of her frail frame. She was utterly silent—too terrified to even whimper.

Mirryn opened her mouth to speak, but the taller man stepped forward and held out a sealed envelope.

She took it numbly.

“That there’s got all her commands written down,” he said. “For your reference. It also has her true name—just in case she decides to act up.”

Mirryn’s shock began to crystallize into something sharper.

“True name?” she echoed.

“Surely Your Majesty knows all about the fae and their true names?” the man said, as if surprised by her question.

Mirryn’s eyes widened as she looked again at the girl—this time noticing the tips of pointed ears poking through the matted hair. It finally clicked.

King Marksworth had kept this fae girl as a pet.

“Linus,” Mirryn said to one of the guards flanking the men. “Take these two away. They will face trial for their crimes at the next convening of the court.”

The men shouted and cursed as they were dragged away, but Mirryn barely heard them over the rushing in her ears.

She knelt before the crate and undid the latch.

The tiny girl flinched violently at the sound, and Mirryn’s heart broke.

“Are you alright?” she asked gently.

***

Two months at sea. At least, that’s what the men had said. Pet believed them. The days blurred together into nausea and darkness and cold, until she began to think the rocking of the ship might be the last thing she ever felt. A strange part of her almost hoped it would be. Dying at sea seemed easier than whatever waited at the end of the journey.

When the crate was finally lifted from the ship and set down onto solid ground, her stomach lurched. She was glad for the stillness—until the new kind of fear set in. It crawled up her spine like a spider.

Master had told her stories. Cruel, gleeful stories. About the Middle Kingdom and what they did to stupid mutts like her. She used to cry when he described it. He would pet her hair and coo at her, voice thick with wine, and tell her again. And again. And again. He said they would break her worse than he ever did. Said she’d beg to come crawling back to him.

And she had believed him. She still did.

When he told her she would be given away—to seal peace between the kingdoms—she had screamed. She had fought. For the first time in years, she had used what little strength she had left. He beat her for it. Bloodied her mouth. Laughed. Called her ungrateful.

Then he sent her away.

The room she was brought into was warm. Not like the belly of the ship or the cold stone of Master’s dungeon. It smelled like bread, like spices, like real food. Something inside her ached at the smell.

But she didn’t dare move. She barely breathed.

Voices rose around her, sharp and unfamiliar. One of the men sneered something, and then—like a magic trick—the cover was pulled from the crate. Light hit her eyes like a slap across the face.

She flinched, but didn’t lift her head.

She knew how she must look. Filthy. Broken. Her arms tied so tight behind her that her shoulders throbbed with every breath. Her legs curled beneath her, bound the same way. The muzzle dug into her face. She could feel the sharp corners cutting into her cheeks when she tried to shift even a little. The collar burned at her throat—too tight, always too tight—but she didn’t dare make a sound.

She heard someone gasp. A woman’s voice.

It almost sounded concerned. But that had to be a trick.

She’d learned not to believe in kindness.

The tall man spoke again. Said something about “commands.” About her “true name.”

She froze.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. No. No, no, no. Master wasn’t supposed to give that away. He promised. He said it was his secret to keep. That as long as he had it, no one else could touch her. That was the only thing keeping her from becoming nothing more then an unwanted mutt on the street.

But he had given it away like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.

A new voice spoke. Strong. Female. Not mocking or cruel—just cold. She gave an order.

And then the men were gone.

Pet didn’t dare believe it. The crate rocked slightly as they were dragged out, and she whimpered before she could stop herself. Her chest trembled so violently she thought she might collapse in on herself. Every nerve screamed don’t hope.

Then—hands. Gentle. At the latch.

She panicked. Flinched hard. Her entire body shrank away from the sound.

“Are you alright?” the woman asked.

Pet couldn’t answer. Didn’t know how. Didn’t even know if the question was meant for her.

She wanted to speak. To say no. Or please don’t hurt me. Or even just shut the door again.

But she only trembled harder, eyes fixed to the floor, heart screaming one useless word:

Please

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