No further word was spoken while the, in theory, mightier woman denuded in front of Geneviève, who was watching with no shame. There was nothing erotic about this, even if Geneviève had preferred women. The fact that all of this was forced at gunpoint howered above them like a gordian blade above a dead man's neck, affording little to no indulgence in the rather intimate situation. When the shirt came off, it was rather obvious that Charlotte had not seen the sun in a long while. This was not actually a good thing, as it would mean she would get sunburns rather easily, and given Malta's rather harsh sun, it was bound to reduce her already tenuous beauty value even further. That, and also drive up her maintenance, if the burns reached a point where she needed physical attention. "Have you had any sexual encounters within the last three months?" It was a question she had almost forgot. "Are you pregnant?"
No meat on those bones as well. The hip to waist ratio was a joke and by the way Charlotte's back looked, it was almost evident that she sat a lot, although it had not reached pathological extends. Still, her body was rather well looked after. It would give a Royal Navy soldier a run for his money, at least. She couldn't rightly speak for the Royal Guard, however. With a wave towards the door, she called in the brute who had stood guard and motioned for him to pick up the shed clothes to burn somewhere. They wouldn't be needed anymore, although it was a pity. They were well-made, after all. As he did as he was told, it was obvious that at least he enjoyed the little spectacle that was Charlotte, and as it became obvious that he was taking longer than needed, Gen snapped her fingers once to motion for him to leave the room again, which he did, although reluctantly.
If there was something that actively disgusted Gen, it was getting leered at, even if the stares weren't directed at her. It was strange, really. On one hand, she was not attracted to women, but as soon as men looked at her, she had the urge to hurt them. If she was honest with herself, she would know why that was, but it was so much easier to simply believe it was normal, or how it was supposed to work. The man could likely hardly wait for the woman to be sent out of the room where he would lead her to be further distrubuted. He would likely not go far, but they were little more than playthings here anyways, and games tended to work wonders against boredom. Tending to the pad, Gen took further notes, about the facial features — the black eye made it rather difficult to judge whether her eyes were symmetrical — and extremities. "Allergies, surgeries?"
Of all the things to be asked, somehow Charlotte had not seen that one coming. It was so out of place, so pointed, and so almost comically foreboding that she laughed, her voice high, clear, and just a little too on edge. It was the best way to deal with the dread running down her spine - there was an implication there that would have been crushing to face head-on. Laughing hurt her side, but for a moment the beauty hidden behind that expressionless, almost stern mask had managed to surface. If the other woman had to ask her that question, it was at last completely clear that she had no idea who she was facing.
"No," she replied shortly, the smile dying as quickly as it had come. The awful chill was gripping her bones, seeping into her blood through every inch of her exposed skin. It was more than physical now, and she had never felt dread like it. Forcing it down was an effort. Her breath was practically misting in the air now - someone was definitely playing with the temperature. Another tactic, she supposed. "Not- not that I know of." One answer for all three questions. She was doing her very best to ignore the armoured figure scooping her clothes up, with mixed success. Part of her was surprised he even cared enough - the man had struck her to be not the type to leer at her, writing it off as too much effort. Apparently, he was more eager to watch than he was to speak, and it took a quick, dismissive gesture from the blonde-haired woman opposite to finally send him out the door. His visored head tilted one last time to watch her, though - and when he was gone at last, she could hold back the shudder of revulsion no longer. Something told her he had been expecting trouble of some form from her after all. His eyes had been hidden behind a screen of darkened plexiglass, but his movements had betrayed a certain frustration. His job only bored him when things were quiet - when things got rowdy and the shackles came loose, though, it was better not to think about how much he might enjoy his work.
With that brief unpleasantry over, Charlotte's gaze fell back on Genevieve again. The other woman was a hateful little figure, but there was something that wasn't quite right. In a way, she could sense a certain reluctance there, too, as if the process was taking its toll on both parties to some degree. For the first time, she was curious how the other Gaul had wound up here - not curious enough to ask, though, nor for it to do anything about the bright flame of loathing burning in her chest. Even the most unwilling cogs were still part of the machine when it came down to it, and the way the blonde-haired woman's stare ran across her naked form was purely calculating. It was easy to hate her, she decided. Hatred was good, because it was a distraction. The deathly cold on her exposed body, the fear threatening to engulf her whole, the pain and stress and humiliation - she could bury it all under anger and whatever dignity she had left, for now. Each second felt like an eternity as she watched the other woman make notes, her arms still folded firmly in front of her chest. The thought of where she would end up kept trying to force its way into her thoughts, and keeping the various possibilities at bay was a full-time job. One step at a time was all she could take.
She nodded silently at her answer. She too felt the little drop in temperature. It was brilliantly done, she felt. Subtle enough to make people not think about it too much unless they paid close attention to it but also overt when they were most exposed. With a motion of her hand, Gen beckoned for the other woman to turn around so she could see whether there was something worth noting on her backside. Besides the little deformity on the back, there was nothing however. Interrupting what she was doing for a moment, she put a hand on her hip to rub, hoping it would soothe the dull throbbing but it didn't. Frustrated, she finished up the last few digits of information before closing the tab. The total estimated value clocke in a little more than the last one. However, Charlotte had the problem of her pale skin and that she was already injured. The buyer would need to pay for his or her wares to be restored and also take care of her additional maintenance cost that came with avoiding severe sunburns. It was either that or keeping her indoors only, which was a severe limitation. "We are done," she simply stated after turning off the pad and lowering it.
She would have liked to know if Charlotte had expected there to be more, or even to be given clothes. There was this aura of disbelief that seemed to emanate from her, from every movement, from even blink of her eyes that looked at her scornfully. Malta had the habit of not letting people leave, and that was true for more than only the physical reasons. It seeped into one's conscience, preventing those afflicted from truly entering the world of the normal again. Malta systematically deconstructed anyone in due time, creating them anew in her image. Regardless of one's power: One could be a king and would yet be a slave. Geneviève wondered briefly how this would reflect on these pugnatious eyes before she raised her hand again to call back the brute from outside. In retrospect, she could have probably kept him here. When he entered, the visored head turned from Charlotte to Geneviève on the far side of the room. "We are done," Gen repeated, this tome addressing the man, who knew all that was necessary from these words. Just like when she was brought here, he would reach for Charlotte, his grip just as unyielding as it had been before, and lead her towards the door. Only when the man had turned around with his baggage in tow did Gen allow her face to contort a little in pain at the prolonged pain from standing this long. This had taken way longer than necessary and the fact that it was self-inflicted made it worse. She was looking forward to moving a little now as well, given that she also needed to return to Corsica. She made a move to leave the room as well and follow them.
A flicker of uncertainty passed across the princess' features. Already? But-
The door swung open. In the frame, the armoured figure stood again, dominating the opening with the sheer size of his bulk. He looked infinitely more threatening than before. He hadn't changed a bit - of course, he had the same lazy gait, the same unveiled, unhealthy interest in her, the same metal-plated fists the size of dinner plates. No - all that had changed was that he wasn't simply standing guard anymore, and that alone was enough in itself. Her gaze snapped back to Genevieve's, but the other woman's expression gave nothing away. Whatever reassurance she'd been looking for, it was nowhere to be found.
"Wait," said Charlotte, her voice trembling. "What about-"
"Time to go," rumbled the guard, bulldozing over her train of thought. The speed of the man was shocking, considering his armour - he seemed to cross the room in seconds, one massive hand reaching out to grab her by the forearm. The grip alone was enough to terrify her. Even without his powered suit, the man could probably have snapped her arm like a dry stick. She offered no resistance as he half-led, half-dragged her away, stumbling after him in a vain attempt to keep up. He was too tall for her to keep pace comfortably, even if her side hadn't been killing her. With two ribs refusing to report for duty, though, it was too much. Her legs went out from under her halfway down the first corridor, and soon she was simply being dragged across the floor like a sack of potatoes. The guard didn't even notice until they had rounded a couple more corners - he spent almost as much time hauling dead things as he did live ones. Sometimes, it was hard to keep track which was which. This one was still whimpering, though, so it was the shuttles for her. If she died on the way there, he knew there would be consequences.
Consequences. The guard hated the word. He had suffered through consequences once before, and the memories had etched themselves into his psyche for the rest of time. It had not even been his fault - the girl hadn't stopped struggling, hadn't stopped fighting, hadn't stopped screaming.. He could still hear her voice piercing through his skull, her sobbing and wailing cutting through him like a red-hot knife. Really, it hadn't even been his fault - she had goaded him on, she had refused to cooperate. Another time he might simply have followed procedure - there had been taser at his belt specifically for cases like her - but his head had been killing him already, and with her help a small headache had blossomed into a full-blown migraine. Punishing her had felt good, but the consequences had put everything back in perspective. Ever since then, he had been much more careful about his job. That wasn't to say he was perfect - there was so much produce and so little other opportunities to enjoy himself aboard the sterile shipyard - but he would be damn sure nothing ever actually died on his watch in future. There were some things even he never wanted to see - or feel - again.
Thankfully, it would be no effort for him to carry this latest girl. He'd seen smaller and younger, but she was still well on the light side for someone of his armoured strength. He scooped her up from the ground quickly, draping her carelessly over one massive shoulder. It annoyed him that she couldn't keep up. It was as if she were trying to make his job harder, and he hated that. Genevieve might have been following behind, ready to keep an eye on him, but as they set off again Charlotte could feel the cold touch of steel dragging along her midsection, curving up round the side of her chest. Even with the steel as an intermediary, the gesture was revolting. You can't do this to me, she wanted to say. I am the princess- I am the princess! But they could and she wasn't, and in the end she just lay there limp and unmoving. Her stomach felt like it was twisting itself into knots, like a towel being wrung dry. The nausea was worse than ever now. She felt sicker than she'd ever felt in her life, every inch of her ivory-white skin pale and clammy with cold sweat. For the first time, the occasional choked sob escaped her as she was carried along, the steady clomp clomp clomp of heavy boots on steel flooring echoing in her ears.
The sight was not quite appetizing. There was something about unwilling bodies being dragged around the metal-clad ground of the hulking shipyard's undulating corridors that upset the stomach. Geneviève knew full well that this could have also been her if she hadn't met a different fate at the hands of the then red-haired witch with silken tongue whispering sweet promises of grandeur into her mouth, which she had swallowed and believe wholeheartedly for several months. She kept her unmoving eyes on the back of Charlotte's head as she walked, as if she could peer into her skull and read what was happening inside. Gen kept her distance of roughly five metres, and so she didn't see Charlotte's legs giving out from under her and when she came into view again, the Gallic noble was being hauled like a sack of grain, naked. Vulnerable. At least it was the head which was put in her direction.
As they walked, she could swear that there were occasional sniffles from the Gallic princess, though she couldn't say for sure since the sound of steps coupled with her increasing distance to the pair made it difficult to hear with accuracy. The brute meanwhile seemed to not care too much whether her broken ribs would cause the princess agony, although he did exercise diligence to not unduly cause harm, as any further damage might just push one of the loose ribs through her lungs. In this case, it would be unclear whether a medic would reach them quick enough to arrest the encroaching death by asphyxiation.
For seemingly an eternity did they move through Valetta's intestines before they arrived at their destination: The shuttle bays. Exiting the lift they had used, they would lay eyes upon some sort of atrium, where already vetted servants were being given some preliminary clothes, though they were bland and intentionally so, alongside a rather innocent looking collar. It was towards the middle of the room where the brute hauled Charlotte, while Gen waited in the elevator for a few moments before leaving herself. Her own stop would take her down another one of the four hallways that sprawled away from this room, each one of them framed by two guards with pulse rifles. At first, she intended to simply leave then and there, but she decided to wait a few moments longer and watch the process for herself.
Having brought his charge to his destination, the man carrying charlotte lifted her from his shoulders, trying not to break her bones in the process. As predicted, the girl seemed unable to stand, so he kept her hanging with his hands holding her by the shoulders while the scrawny man who was in charge of the distribution of prisoner clothing and collars moseyed over to them. His face looked as though he had not slept in days, and one would notice that he was wearing the same kind of collar around his own neck than the soon-to-be servants around him. He said something in Spanish, to which the man holding Charlotte grunted something in incomprehensible in reply, yet the scrawny, almost famished looking man scurried away to fetch the same attire that everyone else was having. While that happened, Gen moved around the small crowd of defeated and intimidated Gauls in order to look at Charlotte from the front. For some reason she believed that she would struggle against the collar, which was bound to be-
Her train of thought was interrupted by a bone-chilling screech followed by a wet smack. Gen turned her head too late to see that one small, terrified looking woman had tried to run off through one of the pathways out of the room and had fallen, the collar around her neck having discharged a debilitating amount of electricity into her system, enough to make her seize up and trip. The smacking sound had come from her head hitting the cold metal floor, where she now lay, lapping and wailing incomprehensively while one of the visored guards went over to pick her up and return her. They were not supposed to move yet.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Geneviève turned her eyes back to the princess who was still waiting for her, well, equipment. The brief interruption seemed to have neither shaken Gen nor any of the guards in the room, although the fact that they were outnumbered at least ten to one could be seen as worrisome for someone who hadn't yet felt the collar bring them to their heels.
Most of the crew was already too deep in self-pity to notice her, but the change in atmosphere when Charlotte was dragged in and propped up against the far wall was still readily apparent. There wasn't much she could do about it, though. One wrong whisper and it could all be over. Tens of pairs of eyes stared at her in horror, a few flicking away deferentially out of shared humiliation. Not all of the crew had been against her, it seemed - they had mutinied, but out of necessity rather than any real choice. Seeing their princess debased by these barbaric, savage people seemed to have sapped their spirits even further.
Maybe that was what had prompted the woman to run. Her eyes had met Charlotte's briefly, her gaze equal parts petrified and shocked. The princess had recognised her, but not enough to name. A member of the kitchen staff, perhaps? Whatever the case, it seemed to break something in her - Charlotte could see it in the way her gaze snapped away quickly, the gulp of anticipation reaching her throat before she made her move. Even if she had wanted to call out, to warn her not to do it, she would have been far too slow. She squeezed her eyes shut rather than witnessing the result, though the wailing and dull thud of flesh hitting metal flooring kept her clued in anyway. Her stomach turned.
The guard was still pinning her to the wall, twin gauntlets enveloping her bare shoulders with an almost comical difference in size. It hurt - everything seemed to hurt - but standing would have hurt worse. The silver lining to the cloud, she supposed. The blonde-haired woman from before seemed to have followed her, too. Whether it was out of interest or simply duty Charlotte couldn't say, but it was - in its own twisted way - actually reassuring to have her there. She was probably the least threatening Maltese official Charlotte was likely to meet, even if that constant, almost blank stare seemed to never leave her. It was far too late to care about that, though. By now, anyone who cared to look had seen everything there was to see about her, and out of all the pairs of eyes roving across her body the Gallic woman's was one of the least humiliating. She, at least, seemed professionally detached. If the subject matter hadn't been so revolting as slavery - and, of course, so personal - it might even have impressed Charlotte.
Her brief respite broke as soon as the guard's grip shifted, his massive right hand shifting to her waist and stomach to prop her up by itself, freeing his other arm to collect- something, anyway, from another, much thinner figure. Charlotte couldn't see what it was at first, but soon a mess of nondescript white fabric fell to the floor by her feet. Some sort of jumpsuit, perhaps? The sight of it gave her some small relief, but the collar that followed soon wiped that away. It was a heavy, metallic affair; a ring of what looked like solid iron, although there were numerous little contacts inscribed all around the inner surface. Even if the other woman hadn't demonstrated for her, Charlotte could have guessed what those meant anyway. As far as she knew, more than a few penal legions in the Navy used similar devices, although usually more lethal in nature. Safeguards more than torture devices - the Maltese design, however, looked like it could be either.
There was no point in struggling - not at this point. She did grit her teeth, willing herself to hold her composure for just a while longer. The beginning would be the worst of it, she told herself. These first few hours were designed to shock, scare, terrify and maim - it was here the Maltese did their breaking. She was smart enough to know that, so why was it so hard to cling onto it?
The snick of metal clicking shut on metal almost broke her tenuous resistance, the unforgiving chill and burdensome presence of a solid iron ring snapping around her pale neck sending an unexpected well of tears to her eyes. The simple action was like the culmination of everything the past few hours had been leading up to, and holding back the floodgates was one of the hardest things she had ever done. The fleets would come for her. They had to. Like a drowning girl clutching for the liferaft, she held onto that thought like it was the last one she had left, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Finally, they were dressing her again, scratchy white fabric being pulled up past her thighs and past her waist, but she hardly seemed to even notice. Her body was the only part to welcome it, clammy skin settling gratefully into the offered warmth, but the psychological aspect of her exposure had already taken whatever toll they could. There was nothing to separate Charlotte from the rest now, except for the fact that she needed to be held up. In her shabby white jumpsuit, with a few stray tears streaking her cheeks and her black hair a dishevelled mess, she blended right in. It was the best disguise she could have hoped for, but it had come at a price no one would have ever willingly paid.
Those actually did surprise Gen. She had thought the woman would hold out longer than that. Watching as the cloth was applied to her - and there really wasn't a better way to describe it, given how she was held like a broken doll, getting dressed by detached children - she could see her twitch ever so slightly, whether that was due to suppressed sobbing or because of the broken ribs, she couldn't tell. The black eye made the entire sight a sorry one, not to say that it bore the potential for further infections. Something was not right, Gen felt, but she couldn't for the life of her place what exactly it was.
Closing her eyes for a moment, she tried to zero in. Where had it all begun? There had been something that had caught her eye when this woman had left the Calliope. People seemed to tense visibly when she was around, too, which was an indicator, alongside her fine suit, that she was a person of authority. The captain? No, that had been Labourd.
Labourd.
He had been rather sullen during the flight back after their initial capture. Doomsay and zealous accusations soon gave way to defeated prophecies of their undoing. It had been said in space then and there that a noble had been on board of this ship. Then again, Gallia was full of them, and the pompous scrawny pawns were used to getting their wills at the snip of a finger. Was it really just this impulse to rule, their hurt pride that had made Labourd utter these threats, as if suddenly their personal bodyguard legion would mobilize and smite those who had dared to defy their lord? It sounded good on paper, but Gen had never been a person to think in too abstract concepts. She simply did not have the horizon to do it. Maybe she was being paranoid but something was off.
She watched as, with their work done, the man who had propped up Charlotte against the wall let go of her after making sure she wouldn't just keel over, allowing her to sit down if she wanted, which she did, as there was still work to do before they could all be transported to Malta, where they would spend the rest of their days working, breeding, dying on its poison-soaked soil. The man simply left afterwards, leaving the woman on her own devices. What could she do anyways, with the collar around her face? Gen looked over to the scrawny, famished, and benighted man who handled the clothes. It was a Corsair, that much she knew. It was sort of a ritual performed on Valetta, at least after the more sadistic elements of the National Council demanded it, to have one of these handle their slaves, getting neither sleep nor food, only Cardamine-laced water. It was a spectacle to see whether he would die of sleep depravation or hunger first. Gen knew for a fact that people were placing bets on those outcomes.
Her legs moved before she actively decided to move. With a quick holler, she made the man who had handled Charlotte pause in steps halfway towards the elevator. His shift was done and he likely wanted to indulge whatever vices a man like he would have. Gen didn't intend to take much of his time. With a few quick words, she told him to wait as she wanted to ask him something later.
With that done, she continued to cross the room, only a few metres having separated her from the other woman to begin with. If she was just being paranoid, there would be no harm done anyways, she kept telling herself. Coming to a halt in front of where Charlotte had slumped against the wall in a tearful, defeated heap, she knelt down in front of her, not quite going on eye-level, as this amount of stretching wasn't possible due to her injured hip, but it closed the distance between them even further. She knew the other woman had noticed her and she waited like this until Charlotte had turned her head to look her in the eyes, her hollow eyes. "Camille," Gen began, her voice low so only the woman in front of her could hear her. There was more stress than necessary on the pronounciation of the alleged name, though Gen only intended to make sure this was a personal question now, one that she had personal interest in. "Have you ever lied to me?"
For the first time since she'd left the Calliope, Charlotte had finally found a second's rest. She took it as gratefully as she could, sinking down the wall into a heap. Her head she cradled in her hands, piecing together whatever dignity she could still scrabble together. There was a certain numbness she had subsided into the whole way through her ordeal - it was easier to detach oneself than face the horrors head on. These things took time to truly sink in, the trauma content to take its time before trying to devour her whole. It was a vicious sort of paradox. The less she had to think about, the harder it was to not think about just how well and truly finished she might be. Hope was the sort of emotion that didn't like being thought about. Every second you spent actually considering it blew another hole in the best-case scenario. Unfortunately, there wasn't much else for her to do but wallow in her own despair - not unless she wanted to try the slavehandlers' patience and see if her new collar was working.
Something moved in front of her then, some figure crouching low to kneel in front of her. She didn't care, squeezing her eyes shut as tight as she could. Maybe if she ignored it, it would go away. For a moment she was a little girl again, hiding from the monsters that came out in the night.
But the monsters weren't real, and she wasn't a little girl. It was just a person, and she was a princess. No matter what, or who the thing in front was, it was just another person. A stupid person, too. Not one of the Maltese crews had recognised her, so she was even more than a princess - she was a princess with the power to be someone else. Charlotte DeFrance was tucked away inside, hidden where nobody could find her. Camille was left in her place, and who cared about a Lyonnais noble girl like her? No one at all. With all that in mind, what did she really have to be afraid of?
She opened her eyes, tilting her head up to meet the intrusion. It was the blonde-haired woman, and her eyes were piercing straight through her. "Camille," the other woman had said. It was just a name, and names couldn't be questions, so why did it sound so much like one? "Have you ever lied to me?" The followup was almost unnecessary - the cold sweat had begun beading on her forehead with the very first syllable, the blood freezing in her veins. Not now, not now, not after all this. Not when she was so close. Her heartbeat began to speed up, the steady ba-dump, ba-dump in her breast seemingly so loud as to echo in the confined space. The other woman was staring, still staring, and her mouth was just hanging open. She shook her head, but it wasn't enough, it would never be enough to deflect that searching look. She had to say something, say something, anything at all-
"No," she croaked. "I haven't- I didn't- there's nothing else-" Her voice was fragile like sugar glass, and soon it died away altogether. Part of her wanted to shout and rage still, to spit back the accusation with all the audacity she once had, but it couldn't quite come to the fore. It was much easier to pretend she was teetering on the edge, because it wasn't all that far from the truth. The last few hours were suddenly sidelined; the next few seconds alone would decide everything.
Geneviève held her gaze unwavering, unrelenting while the woman in front of her spoke. It wasn't so much that she particularly tried to seem insistent with eyes. She simply looked at her without much reaction to her condition. It was understandable that the answer hadn't come out clearly and decisively. Gen knew all too well the distress that this place was designed to inflict upon those who went through it. Yet still, it did not quite seem satisfactory. She kept her eyes fixated upon Charlotte's one non-swollen eye for a while longer before slowly turning her head to wave for the man whom she had beckoned to stay a while longer. Lucky for Charlotte, Gen had been away and therefore not heard Labourd's drunken exclamations about who Charlotte really was. Still, the few feeble words uttered in response to her question did not satisfy her. The lumbering brute grunted something about losing his free time before following the forceful beckoning of the small, officious woman kneeling in front of Charlotte. "I believe you," she told Charlotte quitely, turning back to her while the man came to a halt behind Gen, who then raised her voice to have him hear what she said as well. What did they know about the people here? Only what they revealed about themselves when answering the questions posed by them. The only thing that could have been lied about would be that. "Surely people here will know your name then, Camille." She reached into her pocket to withdraw the pad and opened the tab with Camille's data. Now addressing the man behind her, she offered the pad to him. "Ask around here." That was the last thing he wanted to hear after his shift was finished. He was about to raise his voice to complain but Gen raised a finger to silence him and pointed at Charlotte's midsection, meaning to indicate her damaged and broken ribs. "Before people think this was your doing."
For a moment, he simply stared at the little dwarf in front of him, the visor hiding the countenance of ire that her words had invoked. Who did this little floozy think she was? He was done with his shift. He was not bound to her words anymore. What she was doing was practically duressing him! Grinding his teeth, he snatched the pad out of the kneeling woman's hand before he marched off, his steps even heavier than they had been before. He would do what she wanted, but after that, she could shove this pad square up her urethra for all he cared.
Running his eyes over the crowd, he didn't even know where to begin. It didn't really matter, too, which made it all the more frustrating. He wasn't getting paid to make actual judgement calls like this. Gen looked at him as he went away, figuring he would return soon enough. Giving Charlotte one final glance, she made a move to rise again, wanting to stand upright as her hip was killing her. As she straightened her back, she couldn't help but take in a sharp intake of air as a jab of pain coursed through her side. To not embarrass herself even further, she crossed her arms and watched as the man approached one of Charlotte's crewmen.
"Wait- wait-" whispered Charlotte, but the woman had already turned away, and her throat was so dry it was barely audible to begin with. She barked something in Maltese, a quick little barrage of Spanish and Italian that the princess couldn't follow. Her heart was in her mouth now. What had she-
The armoured figure turned on his heel and left. She hadn't realised she was holding her breath until it came shuddering out of her lungs, abject terror written across her features. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her deception had never been strong in the first place, little more than a sandcastle on the beach in which to store her secrets. It had done all it could for her, but now the tide was sweeping closer to shore. Her limbs felt heavy, paralysed by indecision. Running wouldn't help - it would be more of a stumbling limp, anyway - and the time for confession had long since passed. If they found out who she really was, especially at this late stage, then her chances of ever leaving again would hit rock bottom. At best, she would be sold to the Bretonians, where they would lock her up until the end of time. At worst-
Her stomach twisted, and this time she thought she really would be sick. There was only one avenue left - only one way to escape the impending doom barreling towards her. She could hear panicked crying from across the room, the hulking guard reaching his first point of interrogation. Charlotte didn't expect even the most loyal crewmen among them to hold out long. The nausea was worse than ever, but even as she reached out to tug at Genevieve's leg, pulling faintly to draw the other woman's attention, some part of her felt strangely satisfied. One way or another, the nightmarish what-ifs were coming to an end. The armoured behemoth would have driven it out of her people soon enough, anyway - at least by doing this, she could spare some of them that terror. Anything more than that was a gamble - an impossible gamble, like playing poker with no cards in your hand, but it was all she had left.
"I'll- I'm not Camille," she murmured, clawing at Genevieve's leg for support. "My name is- is Charlotte." Her eyes implored the other woman to understand, to kindle that spark of recognition to life. Maybe, just maybe, there was some compassion left in there after all, some capacity to empathise with the horrors that might await her. Truth be told, Charlotte didn't believe that for a second, but it was all she had left. The resignation had left her empty, the strength of character she had been desperately propping up no longer needed any more. Her head dipped low again, her eyes fixated on the grey steel underfoot.