The Dolorosa was not gifted with any talents particularly useful aboard a ship. She should have been confined to cleaning the deck, or perhaps the galley. But that was not her purpose. She was not just another slave.

Her quarters, her private (with one exception) quarters, were located mere steps from Orphaner Dualscar's rooms, and had belonged to his previous pet lowblood. The Dolorosa wondered, upon her first entrance, who had been graced with such comparatively spacious quarters on the vile Orphaner's ship. The single jar of mind honey tucked between the recuperacoon informed her with a shock so strong it was nearly a physical blow. After that, she did her best to never think about where she was, or who she was with, or why she was with him.

The Orphaner was euphoric in the immediate aftermath of the execution, reveling in the Condesce's favor for quashing the largest rebellion on Alternia. However, when he realized that his actions had not actually inspired any form of relationship, much less a matespritship with her, he flew into a dark rage that the Dolorosa could only assume had been a hallmark of his personality for as many miserable centuries as he had lived.

The second time he came for her was worse than the first.

His moods were wildly erratic. In his rages, the Dolorosa was powerless, but when he attempted to woo her, he was possibly more terrifying. When he stormed into her quarters, she knew to shut herself down, distance herself from her body. But when she was summoned to his, it was always to some mockery of a polite meal and sweet conversation.

On those days, he taught her pleasure – an abominable, twisted pleasure that she abhorred as much her body delighted in. But she hated him then as much as she hated him when he thought only of himself and smiled at her screams. No matter what he did though, she was keenly aware of her status. She was his personal courtesan, concubine, mistress, prostitute. She was his pet whore.

She loathed him with every fiber of her being when he was near her. But by herself, in the brittle privacy of her quarters, she remembered beautifully orated words about forgiveness and mercy. She remembered how desperately she had believed in them, and how wonderful they sounded when she saw the faces of lowblood trolls light up. And she tried to believe those words again, truly she did, but it was so difficult. She could not remember why forgiveness seemed like such a sweet ideal when she was moaning and straining and sobbing, nor could she imagine a world free of hatred when her blood throbbed with the most potent, dangerous loathing she had never imagined.

But the idea never left her. Even when she was bruised and bloody and gasping, her precious grub's words burned in her mind. They burned until she could not bear to ignore them any longer.

The Orphaner smashed her door open with his customary courtesy and dragged her, barely clad and bleary eyed, from her sopor slime. She was hardly awake before he slammed her against the wall and thrust his hips against hers; one hand squeezing her throat and the other dealing with his pants with a frantic trembling that betrayed his drunkenness just as effectively as his rank breath. The Dolorosa had long since stopped trying to be stoic during these surprise ministrations and whimpered softly.

"Oh yeah, you fuckin' like that, don't you?" Dualscar hissed. "Dirty fuckin' whore."

He released her throat to dig his nails into her lower back. He finally got his pants off and the Dolorosa turned her head away, but the invasive feeling of him did not lessen. She didn't know what had happened to make him so irritable – she never did – but his mood was darker than it usually was. Probably someone had mentioned the Condesce.

Her distracted thoughts were forced back around to reality when he began to use his mouth in what he probably thought was a sensual way. The Dolorosa gritted her teeth and pressed her head against the wall, focusing on that pain in lieu of the rest on her body. Dualscar kept muttering curses between kiss-bites and somehow she noticed that they weren't directed at her. It sounded almost like he was talking to himself, but that couldn't be, because he had not been "a fuckin' impudent, shitfaced wriggler" for centuries. His words sounded an awful lot like the sick admonitions an adult troll would give a wiggler forced into concupiscence too early.

Dualscar finished for the moment, and leaned against her, breathing heavily, slime clinging to them both. In the calm, a particular lesson flashed through her mind about cycles of hatred and abuse, and how if one never knew kindness, one could never show it to others. She took a ragged breath.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"The fuck are you talking about?" he growled.

"I'm sorry that you were fucked as a wiggler," she said. Slowly, not believing herself, she lifted her hands from where they clenched against the wall and placed them on either side of the Orphaner's shocked face. "It must have hurt. You didn't understand why, but it hurt and it wasn't your fault – none of it was your fault."

He pulled away, anger masking terror that she was quick enough to see. "How- what the hell-"

"I'm sorry you had to suffer through that," she continued. "It wasn't fai-"

He had had enough. His fist cracked her jaw on impact and she hit the ground like a dead musclebeast.

"Don't you ever talk to me like that again!" he roared. He stormed out of her quarters, leaving the Dolorosa motionless and aching, but deep in thought.