The Golden Cage

[Omi]

The princess' sleep was hardly sleep at all. It was the sort of restless, fitful endeavour that left you more tired than when you began, plagued by nightmares and trauma. Charlotte came to in a cold sweat, bolting upwards in her bed with a desperate, fearful gasp. Her heart was pounding in her breast, like a tamed animal gone wild with terror. Her head felt like it was falling off her, the inherent wrongness of the situation she found herself in only adding more confusion to the whirl of emotions. Wide brown eyes stared wildly around the room, but none of it made sense. What had happened to Valetta? Where were the grey metal walls, the empty, echoing corridors, the smell of sweat and fear and death? She must still be dreaming, she decided. The room she was in was opulent and beautiful, the bed underneath her soft and warm. It was all in stark, disorienting contrast to the horrors still etched into her memory.

Thankfully, there was some evidence to prove that she wasn't going mad. Her hand went to pull up her shirt, hauling the fine cloth up to reveal her earlier wound. The pale skin at her right waist was marred by an angry red weal, though she could see that it had finally received some treatment. It wasn't bandaged, of course - apparently even the Maltese barbarians knew better than to bandage broken ribs - but a few telltale puncture marks dotted the outskirts, as well as some unfamiliar markings she couldn't place. For the briefest second, Charlotte wondered just how far advanced Maltese medical technology was. The agony from earlier had faded into only a slight twinge of discomfort, and even that only came when she poked it. An exploratory touch at her face confirmed that the black eye was still there, however, and just as uncomfortable as ever. Someone might have applied ice in the meantime, but it was hard to tell. The most welcome discovery was that the collar round her neck was well and truly gone.

Each passing second brought more memories back. Unfortunately, there was a huge black void between the shuttle bay and here, so the most pressing question of where they'd taken her was still up in the air. If her surroundings were anything to go by, however, it definitely belonged to someone rich. Someone powerful, too, but wealth implied that anyway. Some of the furniture was even hers, she noticed, although the clothes definitely weren't. A nice, deep purple shirt and a long black skirt - the sort of thing she might have worn on occasions where she was more of a status symbol than a figure of strength. They had brushed and washed her hair, too - what had previously been a scraggly, dishevelled mass had been neatly transformed back into the jet-black, shoulder-length style she was used to. Despite the change in treatment from before, the implication left a sour taste in her mouth. Whoever had had her brought here had left her looking like some sort of trophy, and even from here she could see that the door opposite bore a serious-looking lock in it. Retinal, fingerprint, a fourteen digit plus code - the works. Primitive by Gallic standards, but even a padlock would have kept her trapped in here.

Gingerly, she made to stand up, bare feet sinking into the fur carpet as she tested her own ability. Her side twinged again, but more gently than before. She could stand, at least. The rest might have only been part of a larger trap, but the medical treatment she could still be grateful for. She took one wobbly step after another towards the centre of the room, the fog of her unwilling sleep slow to wear off. She leant forwards against the wooden table there, the bowl of fruit resting on it drawing her magnetically towards it. She hadn't realised just how hungry she was until she saw it, but now she felt ravenous. One hand reached out and grabbed a shiny, red apple from the heap, and soon she was devouring it as if she'd been starved for weeks.

Charlotte was so busy enjoying her breakfast, in fact, that she didn't even see the door opening.

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