Chapter 65 Solveig
Despite not knowing what she would find when she entered the dungeon, Solveig didn’t give herself a chance to back down. She strode right in, the prince behind her lending her an odd sensation of safety. His words had given her strength.
He was right—she was no coward.
“What the Hel is going on here?” Solveig asked, voice laced with venom as she walked in to find John completely naked and hanging by his ankles from the ceiling. She tried without success to block the vision of herself in that same position.
She blinked the image away as fast as she could, though it hovered at the edges of her mind.
“I’m allowing you to be here but not to touch the prisoner,” Latham hissed. She ignored him, going straight to the mortal.
“Prince, help me get him down.”
If he was surprised at her request, he didn’t show it. He stood on the mortal’s other side and helped her lift him off the hooks. Latham stepped forward to stop them, but Solveig growled at him. He backed off immediately. When she returned to her task, the prince was trying to smother a smile.
“What?” she whispered as they set the mortal on the ground.
There was a gleam in his eye. “That sound was positively Fae.”
Solveig whipped off the loose white tunic she wore for training and pulled it over the mortal’s head, leaving her in only the tight band across her chest. Cool air was a balm to her heated, sweaty skin.
The prince’s eyes dragged up her torso and she rolled her eyes when he got to her face, signalling to him that she caught it.
They propped John up against the wall and Solveig barked out an order for the guard to get water. He moved immediately, returning in moments with a small cup. Solveig stared at him hard and he scurried to get a large jug. Solveig dumped it over John’s head to rouse him.
“Subtle,” the prince muttered.
“Effective,” she retorted as John sputtered back to consciousness.
His glazed eyes rolled in his head, but Solveig gently placed her hands on his cheeks so he could focus on her. Solveig took in his deep welts and dark bruises. One of his arms was burned, and his hands were missing fingernails.
She swallowed the bile that threatened to make an appearance. There was no blood, he was protected by the same magic as the others in his village. Though just because he couldn’t bleed, didn’t mean he couldn’t feel pain. And he was clearly in a lot of pain.
“You’ll bruise my pride,” he wheezed. “Do I look that bad?”
“Worse,” she told him. He tried to laugh but doubled over. Solveig’s hands flew to his chest to catch him before he buckled completely. She could feel at least two broken ribs.
“Someone get him some pants and a blanket,” she ordered no one in particular, but two guards ran off to do her bidding.
“I knew you still had power around here,” John whispered.
“Only because they know they’ll lose their dicks if they don’t listen.”
“Well, ain’t that somethin’.”
Solveig waited until the guards returned with the items she requested and John was sitting in a chair, clothed and wrapped in a large blanket. He had trouble bringing the cup of water to his lips, and before Solveig could help him, the prince was there supporting John’s arm as he lifted the drink.
When he was done, Solveig brought a chair to sit in front of him. Just like that, it was like the first day he arrived. Except now he was covered in wounds and could barely sit upright.
“I heard you asked for me,” Solveig started.
“That I did. I want to ask you a question. Actually, two, if that’s alright,” he said slowly.
“Ask away.”
“If we were to ally, what would that look like for my people?” he mumbled. Solveig barely caught the words.
“I’m not entirely sure, John,” she said honestly. “The Trifold—the realms—will want vengeance, so I cannot promise that the entirety of your race will be safe. Some will perish—others will suffer fates not unlike your own.”
John tried to nod in understanding, but a wince crossed his face. “I thought as much.” He was silent for a long time.
“Your other question?” Solveig asked.
“Well, it’s changed a bit given the very honest answer you just gave me. Which I do appreciate. It’s more of a favour.”
“Go on.” Solveig would not promise anything until she heard his request.
“These idiots don’t know the first thing about extracting information.”
Solveig’s stomach plummeted and the bile stung her throat again, dreading the question that would follow.
When he didn’t speak again, she said slowly, “That’s not a request.”
“I’d like you to take over my questioning.”
“No.”
Solveig jolted at the prince’s deep voice close behind her. That one word held so much force. She didn’t need to face him to know he was baring his teeth at the mortal.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I wasn’t asking you,” John said politely.
“I don’t care if you were asking the fucking gods. The answer is no,” the prince spat back.
“Can Solveig not answer for herself?” the mortal asked, still calm. It was impressive given the hostility rolling off the prince. A weaker being would have cowered.
Under any other circumstances, Solveig would’ve challenged anyone who dared speak for her, but she was rooted to her chair. If she moved, the contents of her stomach would be all over John, and his wounds would not appreciate the infection that would follow.
She had not been prepared for this request, nor for the fear that shut her entire body down. As she tried to take deep breaths, the images escaped—Booth’s hands, his serrated knives, his pleasure as he squeezed the air from her lungs.
Latham was watching her, so she tried not to let her turmoil show on her face.
She managed to cock her head like she was assessing the mortal, when in reality all she wanted was to flee and never come back.
Her magic leapt when the prince took a step closer, forcing her to take a big inhale.
The breath calmed her enough, allowing her to speak.
“I have to say, that is the strangest request from a prisoner I’ve ever heard,” she said, hopefully sounding steadier than she felt. “Why would you want that?”
“Like I said. Your men here are terrible interrogators, and I’d like a change.”
“You want someone more adept to torture you? I’m flattered,” she deadpanned.
“I want someone who respects the process.”
“You do understand you’re more likely to talk if I interrogate you? Isn’t the whole point to keep your people safe?”
“Oh, I still won’t tell you anything,” he said bluntly.
Solveig stood abruptly. “Then I’m afraid I must deny your request. Regardless of what you think, torture does not fall under my purview.” She began to walk away.
“Wait! Please!” he called out. It was the brokenness in his voice that stopped her. She halted, waiting for him to continue.
“If you won’t take over for these morons, then answer me one last question.”
She waited.
“If it was you in this chair, when you were in the cave, wouldn’t you want the person causing you pain to at least respect you?”
Solveig’s stomach flooded with acid. She could not face him, but she said quietly, “I do not care about you. You would be trading one monster for another, John. That is what this war has done—it has turned every living being in this world dark. We are all monsters.”