Chapter 6: Collapse
The garments lay on the silk-covered chaise like a promise made by a cruel god. Cassian stood before them, still naked from his bath, steam curling off his damp skin. White fishnets, so fine they seemed spun from moonlight, arranged with predatory care. A mesh jockstrap folded beside them, its white fabric transparent enough that a child could count the threads. And the torso harness, black leather straps tooled with the Baron's serpent sigil, rings glinting where they would sit over his nipples and along his spine.
His wedding garment.
The word caught in his throat. He remembered standing before the King with his sword still warm from the forge, vowing to protect the realm. He remembered his own wedding, the one he had dreamed of as a boy: a white cloak, a fair lady, the cheers of his men. What would that boy think now, looking at white fishnets meant to make his legs look feminine? What would the man who had held a shield wall against the mountain tribes say about the see-through jockstrap? About the leather straps that would bind his chest and leave him utterly exposed before every guest in the Baron's hall, before the man who would soon own every breath he took?
Cassian's hands began to shake.
The trembling started in his fingers and spread upward, through his wrists, into his arms. He tried to stop it. He clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms, but the shaking only worsened. His knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the chaise, knocking one of the silk pillows to the floor, and stood there, doubled over, gasping.
Everything he had endured. The duel. The King's decree. The Baron's training. The ball where every partner had taken their turn with him, each with their own method of breaking him further. The public spectacle in the park, the pillory, the crowd's laughter. He had told himself he could endure it, that he could keep some part of himself sacred and separate. That the knight inside him might be beaten and bound and used, but he would not be killed.
Staring at the fishnets, at the leather and mesh arranged like an executioner's tools, he felt that final refuge crumbling. They were going to make him a bride. A display. The Baron was going to stand before his assembled guests and bind himself to this creature in white, this hollowed-out thing, and every soul in that hall would see exactly what remained of Cassian of the Northern March.
A sound escaped him. It was not a sob, exactly, and not a laugh, but something between the two, broken and ugly. He pressed his fist against his mouth to stifle it, and his shoulders heaved.
"Pathetic."
The voice came from the doorway. Cassian spun, nearly losing his balance on the damp floor. A man stood in the threshold, tall and broad in the grey livery of the Baron's household guard. Cassian knew the face beneath the steel cap. He knew the scar that ran from the corner of the man's left eye to his jaw, a gift from the same skirmish where Cassian had pulled him from beneath a dying horse.
"Roderick," Cassian breathed.
His former brother-in-arms stepped into the room and closed the door behind him with a soft click. Roderick's eyes moved over Cassian's naked body, over the trembling hands and the damp hair, and there was no warmth in them. There was no pity.
"I heard you were getting married," Roderick said. His voice was flat. "I volunteered to help you prepare."
The words hung in the air. Cassian straightened, some old instinct pulling his shoulders back even though his body still shook.
"Roderick," he said again. "We served together for seven years. You swore an oath to the same order I did."
"I did." Roderick crossed the room, his boots heavy on the polished floor. He stopped close enough that Cassian could smell the leather oil on his kit, could see the faint grey at his temples that had not been there when they last parted. "And you broke yours. You lost your honor in a duel you should never have accepted, and you brought shame to every knight who ever rode beside you."
The words struck like a slap. Cassian flinched.
"I was goaded," he started.
"You were arrogant." Roderick's voice did not rise. It remained calm, almost kind, which made it worse. "You always were. You thought no one could beat you. And when the Baron proved otherwise, you did not fall on your sword. You did not demand a trial by combat or a noble death. You knelt. You let them leash you. You wear his collar now, and you spread your legs for him, and you call it a marriage because it is easier than calling it what it is." Roderick paused. "Slavery."
Cassian's vision blurred. "You do not know what I have endured."
"I know what I witnessed in the park." Roderick's jaw tightened. "Every man in the Baron's service was ordered to watch. To learn what happens to those who defy their betters. I stood in that crowd, Cassian, and I watched you take his cock like a whore while children looked on."
Cassian made a sound, a wordless denial, but Roderick continued, relentless.
"The Roderick I rode with would have died before he allowed that. He would have bitten through his own tongue before he moaned for the man who ruined him." Roderick's eyes were cold, distant, as if he were looking at a stranger. "But that knight is dead. He died in the arena with his pride, and what remains is this." He gestured at Cassian, at the trembling nakedness of him. "This creature who weeps at a bit of lace."
Something inside Cassian cracked open. A sob tore from his chest, raw and animal. He doubled over, his hands clutching his stomach, and the trembling became a shaking that seized his whole body.
Roderick watched him for a long moment. Then his voice softened, just slightly.
"The Baron commanded me to prepare you for the ceremony. That means I am to ensure you are clean, presentable, and without the sort of defiance that might embarrass him at the altar." He reached out and gripped Cassian's chin, forcing his head up. "Look at me. Are you still fighting him, Cassian? Still dreaming of escape?"
Tears ran freely down Cassian's cheeks. I cannot..."
"Cannot what? Cannot obey? Cannot accept that this is your life now?" Roderick's grip tightened. "You will accept it. You will walk down that aisle with your head bowed and your legs spread and you will let him take you before every lord in the realm. And when he is done, you will smile and curtsy and thank him for the honor." Roderick's voice dropped to a whisper. "Because if you do not, he will simply give you to the guards. And next time, I will not be the one to hold you down."
The threat, delivered in that soft and reasonable tone, broke something final in Cassian. His resistance had been a thread, already frayed by the Baron's constant handling. Roderick's cruelty, his contempt born of old brotherhood, severed what remained.
Cassian sagged. His knees gave way, and he sank to the floor at Roderick's feet.
Roderick looked down at him for a moment. Then he sighed, some of the coldness leaving his face.
"Come." He bent and hauled Cassian to his feet. "Let's get you cleaned. The Baron wants his bride to shine."
Roderick's grip on Cassian's arm was firm, almost impersonal, as he steered him toward the bathing chamber at the far end of the suite. Cassian stumbled, his bare feet slipping on the polished marble, but Roderick did not slow. He did not offer kindness. He simply dragged his former brother-in-arms like a man hauling cargo.
The bathing chamber was warm and steamy. A copper tub sat in the center, filled with water that still released lazy curls of vapor. Roderick released Cassian's arm and gestured at the tub.
"In."
Cassian stood there, trembling, his arms wrapped around himself in a weak attempt at concealment. "Roderick, please. We rode together. We bled together. You carried me out of the Thornwood when the fever took me."
"And you saved my life at the Crossing." Roderick's voice was flat. "I have not forgotten. It is the only reason I asked the Baron to let me be the one to do this. Because I would rather it be me than someone who would enjoy hurting you."
The words struck Cassian like a blow to the chest. He stared at Roderick, searching the scarred face for some flicker of the man he had known. He found only a stranger wearing familiar features.
"In the tub," Roderick repeated. "I will not ask again."
Cassian obeyed. The water was hot, nearly scalding, and he hissed as he lowered himself into it. The heat seeped into muscles that had been clenched for hours, days, weeks. He wanted to close his eyes and sink beneath the surface and never come up again.
Roderick knelt beside the tub. He picked up a cloth and a cake of soap, and he began to wash Cassian's back with slow, methodical strokes.
"Say nothing," Roderick said, before Cassian could speak again. "I am not here to be your friend. I am here because the Baron ordered a bride that shines, and I intend to deliver one."
The cloth moved over Cassian's shoulders, down his spine, across the muscles of his back that had once carried a shield through a hundred battles. Roderick's hands were steady and strong. There was no tenderness in them, but there was no cruelty either. Only efficiency.
"You were the finest swordsman I ever knew," Roderick said quietly, his voice barely above a murmur. "I watched you cut through the mountain tribes like they were wheat. I watched you hold the bridge at Thornwood alone for three hours while we regrouped. I would have followed you into hell itself."
Cassian's throat tightened. "Then why—"
"Because you knelt." The words were soft, but they cut deeper than any blade. "You knelt, Cassian. You chose this. And every knight in the realm knows it. Do you understand what that does to the rest of us? Every time we swear an oath, every time we raise our swords, we know that one of our own chose shame over death."
Cassian's shoulders began to shake. "You do not understand. He broke me. He—"
"He did not break you. He offered you a choice, and you chose to live on your knees." Roderick paused, the cloth stilling on Cassian's skin. "There is a difference. And until you understand that, you will never be anything more than what he has made you."
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft lapping of water. Cassian stared at the far wall, at the steam curling along the stone, and felt something shift inside him. Not resistance. Something else. Something that felt like the final collapse of a wall he had been holding up for so long.
Roderick rinsed Cassian's back with a copper ladle, the water running in rivulets over his skin. Then he moved to Cassian's chest, washing the scars of old battles, the taut muscles that had softened slightly from disuse. He worked in silence, his face set in neutral lines.
"Lift your arms."
Cassian obeyed. Roderick washed his sides, his armpits, the sensitive skin along his ribs. The cloth moved lower, over his stomach, his hips. Cassian flinched when Roderick's hand brushed his thigh, but Roderick did not pause.
"I am going to clean every part of you," Roderick said, his voice matter-of-fact. "The Baron will inspect you before the ceremony. If he finds anything less than perfect, the punishment will fall on both of us. So you will stand here and let me do this, and you will not fight me."
Cassian's hands gripped the edge of the tub. His knuckles went white. "Please. Not you. Anyone but you."
Roderick's eyes met his. For a moment, something flickered in them, something that might have been pain. Then it was gone.
"You lost the right to choose who touches you," Roderick said. "You are a bride. Brides do not choose."
The cloth slid between Cassian's legs, washing him with the same methodical efficiency as everything else. Cassian squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners, his body rigid with humiliation. Roderick worked quickly, thoroughly, cleaning him as if he were no more than a horse being prepared for a parade.
When he was done, Roderick helped Cassian out of the tub and wrapped him in a large linen towel. He dried Cassian's body with brisk strokes, then guided him back into the main chamber where the wedding garments waited.
"Sit," Roderick said, pointing to a chair near the chaise.
Cassian sat. His body felt hollow, weightless, as if Roderick had washed away not just the dirt but some essential part of him.
Roderick picked up the white fishnets. They shimmered in the lamplight, impossibly fine, designed to show more than they concealed. He knelt before Cassian and held them open.
"Stand. Step in."
Cassian rose on unsteady legs. He gripped Roderick's shoulders for balance, and for a moment, their eyes met. Roderick's face was unreadable.
"Step in," he repeated.
Cassian complied. The fishnets slid up his legs, the fine mesh clinging to his skin like a second epidermis. Roderick worked them up over Cassian's thighs, his hips, settling them high on his waist. The fabric left nothing to the imagination. Every line of Cassian's body was visible through the mesh.
Roderick sat back on his heels and studied his work. "The Baron chose these for a reason. He wants every guest to see what he owns. Every curve, every muscle, every bruise that marks where his hands have been."
Cassian looked down at himself. Through the fishnets, he could see the faint marks of the Baron's bites on his inner thighs, the fading bruises of past punishments. He looked like what he was: a possession dressed for display.
"The jockstrap," Roderick said, picking it up.
He held it open. Cassian's face burned, but he stepped into it, and Roderick pulled it up over his hips. The mesh fabric was so transparent that Cassian's sex was plainly visible through it, cradled in a filmy pouch that offered no concealment.
"Now the harness."
Roderick lifted the black leather harness. It was intricate, tooled with the serpent sigil of House Franz, with straps that would cross Cassian's chest and back before fastening at his shoulders and sides. Roderick worked it into place, threading the straps through the rings, adjusting the fit with practiced hands.
When he was finished, he stepped back. Cassian stood before him in white fishnets and a mesh jockstrap, the black leather harness binding his chest, the rings sitting exactly over his bare nipples like targets.
"Look at yourself," Roderick said softly.
Cassian turned to the full-length mirror by the wardrobe. The image that stared back was unrecognizable. Not a knight. Not a man. A display piece, arranged and adorned, every inch of him curated for someone else's pleasure.
A sob caught in his throat.
Roderick came to stand behind him. In the mirror, they made a strange pair: the guard in his grey livery and the bride in his transparent finery.
"Do you know what I see?" Roderick asked. "I see a man who had everything and threw it away. I see a knight who chose to become a whore because he was too proud to die with his honor intact."
Cassian's reflection wavered through the tears in his eyes.
"But I also see a man who can still choose," Roderick continued. "Right now, in this moment, you can decide. You can walk out that door and let yourself be married to the Baron, and you can spend the rest of your life as his pet. Or you can make him pay for every humiliation, every degradation." Roderick's voice dropped to a whisper. "Not through escape. Through survival. Through becoming so necessary to him that he cannot function without you. Through learning his secrets and his weaknesses. Through making yourself the one thing he cannot live without, and then holding that power over his head like a sword."
Cassian stared at Roderick's reflection. "You want me to—"
"I want you to stop weeping and start thinking." Roderick's jaw tightened. "You are not dead, Cassian. As long as you breathe, there is a chance. But only if you stop behaving like a broken thing and start behaving like a survivor."
For a long moment, Cassian said nothing. Then, slowly, he wiped the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand.
Roderick nodded. "Good. Now, the Baron wants you in a white cloak for the altar. Nothing underneath. When they dress you in it, you will stand still and let them. When they lead you to the sanctuary, you will walk without stumbling."
Roderick turned and walked toward the door. At the threshold, he paused.
"One more thing. The Baron will consummate the marriage in front of the assembled guests. It is his right, and he will exercise it. You will not cry out. You will not fight. You will take him, and you will smile, and you will thank him when he is done."
Roderick opened the door.
"The men who served under you will be in the front row. They requested that position themselves. They want to see exactly what you have become."
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Cassian stood alone in the mirror, dressed in mesh and leather, his former brother's words echoing in his ears. The white cloak waited on the chaise, a shroud for the last thing that remained of Cassian of the Northern March.