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The Iron Cage	By : Aragem23 Category: Comics > WitchBlade Views: 2083 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Haibane Renmei or Witchblade. I do not make any money from writing this fic.

Chapter List
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Rakka felt as if she was floating and looking down at what was happening below. She saw herself clinging to Irons – Mr. Irons – leg and the long dark hair man approaching the woman and speaking quietly with her. The woman's face was a combination of relief for there being a sale, but frustrated for not being the one to make the sale. The product sold itself to the potential buyer.
She was returned to her body when the leash was tugged upward. Mr. Irons was standing and she was to stand with him. She quickly got to her feet and saw that he towered over her with his greater height being over six feet. Rakka felt small, powerless standing so close to him and realized she would becoming closer than this with him later. Though she was young and remembered very little before the Room, she understood what this game of submission and obedience would in inevitably lead up to and it sent chills and sparks down her stomach and heat through her belly.
The woman came up behind. “I'll remove the collar for you, and I'll explain the rules for taking her out of the facility.”
“This is not my first visit.” There was impatience in Mr. Irons' tone.
“My apologies.” The woman fiddled with the collar at the back of Rakka's neck.
“I've been receiving that a lot from you,” Mr. Irons said sourly.
Rakka could feel the heat from the woman's humiliation. The collar slipped from her neck and for the first time since she could remember, she felt cool hair on her neck. The collar had been thick and weighted and Rakka couldn't help but lift a hand to her neck to touch the newly exposed skin there. Then a fine leather collar slipped around her neck. It was light and soft, but strong. A silver hoop hung at the front, a small constant weight, a reminder of her position. The collar tighten and buckled at the nape. It was given an experimental tug and a finger slipped between the leather and skin to test the tightness.
A left hand cupped her chin and lifted her face upward. Rakka met Mr. Irons' gaze. He regarded the collar at her throat and said, “She suits it well.”
The woman was balling the old collar in her hand and she took the cuffs from Rakka's wrists and ankles. She gave Rakka one more dour look and then left through the door she had brought her. When the door closed, a chapter of Rakka's life had been closed. She was sad, relieved, and frighten at the same time. She was in the unknown in the hands of Mr. Irons and Nottingham.
She was turned to face Nottingham. Mr. Irons had towered over her, but Nottingham loomed over her. He was well over six feet, even taller than Mr. Irons. Her head was barely on level with his chest. His eyes were still empty, apathetic. If he held any emotion towards what was happening now, he kept it well hidden like gray walls, the shade of his eyes.
Nottingham took a pair of handcuffs from somewhere and put them around her wrists at the front. She was apprehensive about her control being taken again and even more so when Nottingham produced a blindfold. Before she had the chance to resist, or offer any resistance she was brave enough to produce, he slipped it around her eyes. When the darkness took over her sense of sight, she whined low in her throat. She had never had her sight restricted before and it frightened her.
“Be still.” It would have sounded soothing coming from anyone, but from Mr. Irons it was a command.
“Y-y-yes, Mr. Irons.” Her voice was so soft, it was barely above a whisper.
She heard the whisper of heavy fabric and was wrapped in a heavy, but soft leathery blanket. It swallowed her up from her feet to the top of her head. Then she was lifted up and up and held against a hard wall which moved and breathed. In a short panic, she grasped at something to hold to. Her bound hands closed around silk and hair. Nottingham was carrying her. They moved onto hard floors as she could hear their footsteps. She swallowed feeling afraid and Nottingham's scent was around her. He smelled exotic like jasmine and something else that reminded her of metal. If he didn't like the grip she had on his tunic and hair, he did nothing to dissuade it.
After long minutes of being carried and listening to them walk (they road yet another elevator, again she had no idea if they were going up or down), she smelled something she barely remembered smelling. Fresh air. She was outside! Grass being rippled by the wing, a distant bird song was all foreign and strange after weeks and weeks of being kept in a sound proof room where the only sounds had been her own voice and memories of her lost friends.
She heard the sound of a door opening, but not the usual door she was accustomed to hearing. This door didn't open with a swing or a screech, this opened with a dull click. Then she was dipped down and lowered onto carpet. A hand pushed her to kneel on the carpet and the blanket was pulled from her body nd her hands were disentangled from Nottingham's shirt and hair. The blindfold was finally removed and she blinked several times as her eyes adjusted to her new surroundings. She was inside a car with a generous backseat. The seats were leather and there was a mini-bar along the side by the door. Her mind plucked a word from her forgotten memories. A limo. This car was a limo.
Nottingham was sitting on the seat and Mr. Irons was getting inside. She was positioned to kneel between their legs. Just before the door shut behind, she was able to get a glimpse of the sky. It was overcast, as if the sun was beginning its descent. Then Nottingham leaned down and hooked a chain to the silver hoop at her collar and connected the other end to a small metal ring in the limo's carpeted floor. The chain was short enough that her head was at a constant bow with her spine curving. She supported her weight on her hands on the carpet. The highest she could see were their knees. She felt the limo move beneath her and could hear the tires crunching gravel.
All this time her heart were racing. Where were they going? What was going to happen next? This was what had happened to the others, she realized. They had been bought by others like Mr. Irons. Reki had been bought by a Nathan Coldstone. Nemu, Kuu, Kana, and Hikari had been taken away like this before, but by other men in suits. That was why they were never brought back! They could be alive somewhere!
Happiness was so new for her, it was foreign, alien. It felt good to be happy. Yet, knowing the others were potentially alive made her missing them all the more raw.
“I assume we'll be extending our stay in France?” A dark silk voice inquired.
“We don't have a reason to return now. A little R&R, never hurt.” Water flowing over stones replied. “And there are tomes in this country I wish to collect.”
“Shall I notify the Coalition you won't be attending their fund raiser?”
“That was this week?”
“Yes sir.”
“Ah, no, I'll notify the head of the event myself. Pass the croissants from this morning and get her on speaker.”
There was a rattling of a paper bag and she saw Nottingham leaning forward towards something behind Rakka. She caught a whiff of jasmine as he leaned backed A moment later, there was a short ring and a voice picked up.
“Hello, this is Amber Bradford speaking.”
“Mrs. Bradford, this is Kenneth Irons,” Rakka was astounded at the change in his tone. That hardness in his voice was gone, like ice melted completely into liquid. It was fluid, easy going, friendly without a trace of dominance or command. It was as if a different man had stepped into Mr. Irons' suit. “I regret to inform you, I won't be able to attend your fundraiser. I seemed to have caught a local bug in France.”
Paper rattled again and she smelled food.
“Oh no! I'm sorry to hear that and your presence will be sorely missed at the fundraiser.”
“You'll still receive my donation. I'll have my secretary send you a check for a quarter million.” A small piece of bread appeared before her lips. From the angle of the bow the chain forced her to keep, she couldn't raise her cuffed hands to accept it without falling forward onto her face. That was likely the point. She accepted the offered food between her teeth, careful not accidentally graze Iron's fingers with them.
“Mr. Irons, I . . .I don't know what to say! That is so generous of you!” The woman was beaming over the speaker.
The bread was delicious! It was soft and flaky with a hint of something sweet. It was several steps above bland oatmeal. When another piece was offered, she quickly accepted.
“Well, your foundation is generous to the unfortunate victims of human trafficking.” A hand ruffled Rakka's hair as she ate. “If my money can help prevent one poor girl from being treated like an animal, it is money well spent.”
They exchanged further pleasantries while Rakka ate a few more pieces of bread. Once the call ended, Mr. Irons swept a thumb across Rakka's lips, wiping away any clinging crumbs. She licked his thumb clean and when he placed his hand on her hair and bowed her head, she bent down to lick up any crumbs from the carpet.
A wave of shame crawled over her like ants as her tongue moved across the carpet. She knew too well what the price would be for resisting, she had endured it many times back in the Room. It would be Room with a capital R, a fearful memory at the beginning of her life where she had no idea of what to expect. Now would begin a new period of normalcy, but yet no less fearful.
* * *
An hour passed. She listened to them speak to each other. Mr. Irons had dropped the watery friendly voice and was back to speaking with the hardness beneath the surface. Mostly it was arranging future meetings or notifying people of his stay in France. And then it was arranging to fly to New York by the end of the week. Mr. Irons' voice would make the requests or commands, and Nottingham would consent, confirm, or make a comment when one plan would clash with another. Though she sense the lethal danger posed by Nottingham like heat from the sun, he seemed to be subservient to Mr. Irons. Answering his questions and receiving his orders.
Soon, it became boring to listen to them and she tried to get a glimpse through the window. She was able to turn her head slightly and could see from the peripheral sight. The windows were tinted making the sky appear darker than what it was truly was, but sometimes she caught a glimpse of a building, electric lines, or trees. One time she caught the sight of a bird with wings stretched out in a T.
Then she heard her name. She tried to look up, but the chain prevented her. A hand unsnapped the chain from floor ring and pulled toward the seat. She moved forward and a hand on her shoulders had her lay her upper body on the seat with her knees still on the floor. A hand roamed down her back and over her bottom and then thighs. It was rough with calluses and very strong. The fingertips explored her muscles and the bones beneath.
“She's undernourished.” Nottingham's dark silk voice dripped over her like warm honey. “Until she gains some 'padding', I'd wouldn't do more than a light flogging. Unless you don't mind severe damage?”
She had never heard of the word 'flogging' nor could she pluck it from her lost memory, but she knew in her heart that it fell along the same lines as whipping and caning.
“Let's preserve this one for a while. You'll flog her later tonight.”
A shard of ice stabbed her heart. She had thought the needless beatings were over! Now she was going to be punished when she did nothing wrong!? Hot tears began welling in her eyes and she burrowed her face into the seat to keep the men from seeing.
“What about the wings?” She heard Mr. Irons voice as her wings were touched and felt.
“I believe the wings are sturdy enough to withstand flogging, but there wouldn't be much sensation for her. The feathers offer too much padding and protection. It would be like flogging her while she wore a fur coat.”
“Shame.” A left hand rolled over over her shoulders. “She has nice shoulders. It would be nice to see them marked.”
“I could always cut the wings off for you.”
Rakka couldn't stay still after those words. Her nerve broke and she raised her head, her eyes dripping with tears. “No! D-Don't!”
Mr. Irons' face set into a hard scowl and Rakka's heart went solid in her throat. She had made a mistake, she had now done something worthy of punishment. Reki had warned her not to let them see her cry and there were tears rolling down her cheeks. He wiped a tear away with a thumb and he said, “Mr. Nottingham was only joking, dear. I would let him do a lot of things to you, but mutilation isn't one of them.”
It didn't sound like joking. It wasn't. She heard the inquisitiveness in his tone when he spoke of cutting off her wing as if he believed that Mr. Irons would consider it. She swallowed back a sob and whispered, “I'm sorry.”
“I'm sorry . . .?” His eyes were dark with a quiet impatient anger.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Irons.” She corrected herself quickly.
His gaze lingered on her before he sighed, “So much to learn.” He put a hand on her head and lowered it back to the seat. She laid her hand on her folded hands and tried to control her breathing and stop her tears. She heard Mr. Irons say, “After the flogging, you'll also cane her.”
* * *
She fell asleep with her head on the seat. A hand stroking her head woke her up and she was lifted to her feet while yawning. Her feet touched cobbled stone and a door open spreading light over her. An older woman was standing in the door way smiling kindly at Mr. Irons as he stepped inside.
“Good evening, Monsieur Irons.” The woman was in her late forties with a pretty face that dimpled each time she smiled. She wore a black dress with a white apron and her graying hair was bound up in tight curls. She smiled at Mr. Irons with maternal love. “I was beginning to worry, you were gone for so long.”
Mr. Irons kissed the woman on the cheek. “It was just a long trip, Diane. We've brought something special home.”
The woman, Diane, turned her eyes to Rakka and just beamed brightly, “Oh, Monsieur, you've brought a petit ange!”
The woman's cool hands touched Rakka's face and shoulders. If Rakka's nudity offended her she made no sign of it. She acted as if it was commonplace for Mr. Irons to bring home nude girls. She was led inside to a grand foyer with twin staircases leading upwards to a second level. “Shall I prepare her a bath and meal?”
“That will wait until after her flogging. Right now, take her to the guest room in the west wing and then bring her to the wine cellar at . . .” Mr. Irons checked his gold watch and glanced at Nottingham. “Is 9:30 enough time for you to prepare?”
Nottingham replied, “Yes sir.”
“Oh poor dear” Diane slid an arm around Rakka's waist and drew her away from the men. “I'll make sure a cool bath is waiting for you when its over.”
Rakka wasn't sure what to say. She still found it difficult to talk to wingless, even with one as seemingly kind as Diane. She remained in silent dread of her flogging, the woman's cheerful demeanor couldn't shake it. In the Room, when she was whipped or caned, it was sudden and instant for any minor infraction. There was never a wait with a cold dread. How long was it going to last? How many times was he going to hit her? Hard enough to leave a mark or make her scream? How many strokes would it take before she passed out? And would he stop hitting her after she was unconscious?
All these questions coursed through her mind along with the fear and worry. She barely noticed it when Diane let her up a set of stairs set near the end of a hall and toward a white door. “This will be your room.”
The room was white. White carpet and white wallpaper with gold and silver roses entwine in neat rows. The furniture was elegant antiques with a desk in the corner, a shelf with leather bound books and a fourposter bed with white sheets. There was a large window covered with laced curtains. It was so beautiful that she forgot her impending flogging by staring at it in amazement. This room was hers? She could sleep on the lovely bed with more than one blanket?
Diane gently nudged her to go inside and stepped back through the door. “Make yourself comfortable, dear. I'll come back for you when its time.”
The door was shut and there was a ringing snap as the door was locked. Then Rakka was by herself, her hands still cuffed together in an elegant room. She looked around enjoying feeling her feet sinking into soft carpet. Rakka tried looking out the window, but could see little in the dark night. Drawing her hands along the leather books in the tall shelf. The titles were in French, but there were some in English. She drew one labeled Jane Eyre and opened it on a small wooden table where she flipped through the glossy pages. After reading the first few lines, she set the book on the edge of the desk and selected another she found in English. Pride and Prejudice, Little Women, and Alice in Wonderland were stacked neatly. There was even a heavy tome of fairy tales. Maybe she would be able to read them later.
Then she realized this was a girl's room. The pages of the books she skimmed featured female protagonists and the room was feminine with lace curtains and elegant rose patterns on the wallpaper and bed covers. She wondered if she was brought here on purpose because of its previous owner or by mistake. It was too convenient to be a mistake. Was this Mr. Irons' intention or Diane's?
Wingless were strange. You had the cruel, angry ones back in the Room and the woman who presented her to Mr. Irons. There was Mr. Irons who was just as cruel, but more calculated about it. Nottingham who seemed to care about nothing, but serving Mr. Irons and thought nothing of chopping off her wings or beating her to please him. And now there was Diane who knew about Mr. Irons' cruelty was not just apathetic about it like Nottingham, but cheerful. The wingless came in all shapes, but they all carried the same tune. They were heartless towards her kind. A single tear etched its way down her face and Rakka hastily wiped it away. She was already being punished for crying, like Reki warned her. She was determined not to make that same mistake and to try, to try as hard as she could not to cry in front of them again.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed another girl standing next to her. She wailed in fright and spun, nearly colliding with the small table behind her. Did she have a roommate!? The girl was staring at her frighten, nude with brown hair and wings like hers! When Rakka recognized she was a wingless, she smiled so relieved to see another of her kind. The girl smiled back relieved. Rakka stepped towards her and the girl did so too. Rakka's smile faded realizing the girl whose smile was also fading was a mirror.
For the first time in her life, she saw herself. She saw her skinny body where she could almost count her ribs, her large soulful eyes staring back at her in numb shock, and her charcoal colored wings wavering behind her shoulders. Rakka looked mournful, definitely not as pretty as Reki. She could see why Mr. Irons was disappointed not to have bought her instead. It seemed that he had gotten the runt of the proverbial litter. She wasn't as strong as Reki or Kana, at peace as Nemu, or cheerful as Hikari and Kuu. She was simply Rakka, a sad wretch. A tear was rolling down her reflection's face.
“Stop it!” Rakka snapped at herself and roughly wiped the tear away. She told herself firmly, “No more tears.”
She was going to be brave. She was no longer in the Room and as long as she did as she was told and endured, she would be fine. A sense of calm flowed over her like warm water and she began to feel better. She told herself over and over why she shouldn't be sad and fearful. She had books to read, when it was morning could see outside, she got to eat good food and may do so again. Though fragile like glass, she was able to calm her fears and stare at her reflection with a sense of small pride.
But it all came crashing down when the door unlocked. Diane was at the door with a cheerful grin. “Come, petit ange, it is time.”
Rakka stood frozen like a rabbit in the headlights. Fear seemingly froze the blood in her veins solid. Diane kept up her friendly smile as she stepped across the carpet and hooked a leash at the silver hoop in her collar. “Come, ma fifille.”
Rakka resigned herself to go with the woman. Her wings quivered making her fear apparent. Diane touched her shoulder and spoke soothing things in French as she led her downstairs and deeper into the manor. They walked through a large dining room cast in shadows. Only moonlight slanting through the tall windows offered any light. She found small comfort in the large spaces having been in tight confinements with others for so long. Diane opened a heavy wooden door with a relief of grapes on a vine. A draft of cold air blew against her body making her nipples tighten into small buds. Diane's warm hand on her back was little comfort as they stepped down into the darkness.
At the bottom was a light, allowing them to navigate the stairs. A sense of cold calm came over Rakka, a numbness. As if her mind was tired of her being frighten and simply turned that emotion off. The floor was smooth old wood and there were rows and rows of wine racks set in lines next to the walls. It was a bit of a walk among these rows until they came to a clearing.
Nottingham was testing the sturdiness of an upright rectangular frame bolted into the floor. It looked like a bed frame without the rails or springs. There were rings with chains suspended from the top of the frame and matching set at the bottom. Nottingham was standing shirtless, he had changed his attire from his tunic to a pair of black Turkish pants with a long strip of red oriental cloth with gold embroidered borders hanging down the front. At the waist was silk cloth folded against washboard abs just beneath his navel. The rest of him looked carved from stone, muscles rippled beneath his skin as he turned to watch them approach. Rakka never realized how much his clothing had hidden his physique. Two of her could lay on his chest and there would almost be enough room for a third.
The memory of a wingless mercilessly whipping a girl with all her strength back in those dark halls came back. She had been small framed and had no where near the bulk of this man. This man wasn't going to flog her, he was going to rip her apart. Terror froze her body, her feet stopped working. She stayed in one spot, not moving even when Diane took her arm and spoke softly to her. Her body was so numb she barely felt the touch at her arm and the woman's voice was barely a hum in her ear. All she could absorb was Nottingham standing beside that black frame waiting and now he was approaching.
“Diane, go prepare a warm bath and light meal for her. Then take the rest of the night off.” Nottingham took the leash from Diane's hand.
Diane pursed her lips, concerned. “Are you sure? I can handle her aftercare.”
Aftercare?
“I will handle it myself.” Nottingham said firmly, his silken voice unfurling in a sharp snap.
Diane nodded to him and gave Rakka a warm kiss on the cheek. “You'll be fine. Mr. Nottingham will take care of you afterward.”
What was aftercare? Was that when you put bandages on the wounds? Nottingham was going to rip her apart and then sew her back together? A small panic whine left her throat as Diane walked away leaving her alone with the tall dark hair man with the steel gray eyes. Nottingham undid the cuffs letting them slip from her wrists and land on the floor at their feet. Even regaining some freedom did little to quell her pounding heart. Nottingham move around her as quietly as a shadow. His large hands came up to her chest, the strong fingers toyed with the nipples making her squirm against his hard body. She chewed her lower lip as pleasurable sparks spread through her breasts. It was enough to distract her from the heart wrenching dread and she whimpered when he twisted a nipple between a thumb and forefinger. Her wings flicked against his ribs and upper stomach making the skin tighten as the soft feathers tickled him.
He maneuvered her toward the frame, his hands never leaving her breasts. She didn't realize she was standing in the outline of the frame until he took her wrist. He lifted a it and fitted a black cuff around it. Fingertips drew down her arm towards her shoulder and then he stepped over to fit her other wrist in the second cuff. Again, he drew his fingers down her arm. She shivered as tingles laced down her arms from his touch. The chains held her hands above her head, but allowed her to bend her elbows. There was a shuffle as Nottingham knelt behind her and fitted the cuffs around her ankles. Just as her arms, after tightening each cuff, he drew a hand up her leg ending at her buttocks. Then he tugged on the chains at her feet and then rose to test the ones at her wrists. He moved around her and the frame, his great height blocking out the light. His eyes were cold, but they studied her intently. He reached out to touch her shoulder, her arm, and when he moved around behind her again he touched her wings stilling their shaking. His scent was heavy on the air, jasmine with a hint of metal.
Then another presence made itself known. “I thought you were going use the St. Andrew's Cross.”
She wrenched her head around. Mr. Irons was approaching from behind. He was scrutinizing the frame with his icy blue eyes. Instead of a gray suit, he was wearing a black oriental robe with silvery and gold embroidery at the lapels and sleeves.
“She's too short for the one we have and I wouldn't have access to both her front and back.”
Mr. Irons came around with a whisper of silk. Seeing her from the front, he nodded approvingly. “Yes, this will work nicely. Where is Diane?”
“I dismissed her for the rest of the night.” Nottingham walked over to a part of the cellar Rakka couldn't see.
“And why would you do that?” Mr. Irons's eyes followed Nottingham over Rakka's head.
“Because Diane isn't coming with us to New York.” Nottingham's voice come from a far corner of the room. “If she handles aftercare while we're here, Rakka may develop an attachment to her which will be traumatic once we take her to the States. I can handle it myself,” Nottingham's voice sharpen into a challenge. “you want to do it?”
“I'll trust your judgment on this, Ian.” Mr. Irons' tone indicated to Rakka that he didn't like being challenge. Then his eyes turned to her. He touched her chin and lifted it until her eyes met his. “Do you understand what is going to happen?”

“Yes, Mr. Irons.” Her voice was a tight croak.
“Tell me.”
“Mr. Nottingham is going to flog me, Mr. Irons.” Even saying the words sent sharp blades into her chest.
“Is there anything you don't understand?”
She swallowed, but finally asked the question that had been plaguing her since the limo. “Why? W-what did I do? Mr. Irons?”
“Oh, you think this is punishment? Little Swan, this is just for my entertainment.” Amusement danced in his eyes and he stroked her cheek. “I want to see what your skin looks like when its red with weals and you have such a pretty voice, I want to hear you use it to cry and beg. And then again, maybe its a day that ends with Y.”
He patted her cheek and then turned away. There was a leather bound chair with a barrel next to it. On it was an open bottle of wine and a glass. Mr. Irons settled into the chair and poured himself wine. “And you better entertain me well, dear, because you honestly don't want to see what I would consider punishment.”
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The Iron Cage