This short story is inspired by the illustration “On the Post” in this gallery.

Aranda stood in the forest clearing, naked and tied wrist and ankle to the post. The shaft of the wooden arrow protruded from her abdomen.

Yes, it had hurt when it had gone in. A sharp penetrating pain like nothing she had ever felt before. Had she screamed? She couldn’t remember. She had twisted on the post – and that made it worse. Now she hung limp, exhausted. By remaining still, the pain had subsided to a throbbing ache. She felt liquid running inside her.

She looked down and saw there was little bleeding on her outside. Just a thin trickle of blood running down and soaking the tuft of auburn hair between her legs.  

She tried to avoid deep breaths. That made the agonizing sharp pain return. She took shallow breaths only when she had to. Cold sweat ran from her forehead into her eyes. She tried in vain to blink it away. Her arms and shoulders ached from being stretched above her head. The leather binds cut into her wrists and ankles.

If they wanted her to suffer, they were getting their wish. Aranda had always known those to be executed were meant to suffer.

The archer was hunkered down in the distance in front of her.  His bow laid in the grass at his side, his quiver of arrows over his shoulder. After the guards had removed her tunic and secured her to the post, she had been left alone with the archer.

She had been surprised he was such a young man. Younger than she. His youth gave him a keen eye. He had placed the arrow perfectly in her navel. She recalled his arrow had made a slow arc and entered the soft flesh of her belly easily.

Oh, how it had hurt!

Now the archer watched – and waited. He was allowing her to suffer from his first arrow before he delivered another.

How many more would she be required to take? She could not count the arrows in his quiver because her vision was blurred by the sweat in her eyes.

She felt warm liquid trickle down her left leg. It was not blood. Her bladder had emptied. The archer smiled. Did he know this would happen? She was certainly not his first. No, he was far too accomplished in his task. She wondered if he enjoyed his work.

How many women had hung naked and vulnerable on his post?

A sharp pang struck somewhere deep inside her. She moaned and undulated on the post, which made the pain worse. She gasped and closed her eyes tight. This was what he wanted. What they wanted. She willed herself to be still. The iron head of the arrow was somewhere in the darkness of her insides, embedded in the coils of her intestines. In time, it alone would cause her demise as the blood filled her insides. But it would not be the only arrow she would receive.

Where would she take the next one?

Would it come into her stomach? Or perhaps it would penetrate the soft flesh of a thigh. An expert archer could place many arrows in her to ensure she suffered greatly.

Aranda saw a sheen of sweat on the tops of her breasts. Perhaps the archer would take pity on her and send the next one into her left breast – hard and deep. Skewering her heart and bringing an end to it.

But she couldn’t hope for that. It occurred to her that he might put the next arrow into the thatch of dark hair between her thighs – that most sensitive of places.

Ah, how that would make her suffer!

Now the archer raised himself to one knee and took an arrow from his quiver. Aranda’s body stiffened in anticipation as he placed the arrow on his bow. He stretched back the bowstring and took his aim. She saw that the arrow would come into her low.

Aranda held her breath.

But no. That would only make it worse.

She exhaled slowly and faced her smiling executioner.

And waited.