It would hurt, of course.

It was punishment.

It was supposed to hurt.

They had stripped her of her rough tunic and cuffed her wrists behind her back. Now they led her naked to the clearing.

The archer waited there. Her executioner. Younger than she. Younger than she expected.

“You can go now,” he said and the guards walked away.

He examined her naked body for a long moment, and she felt a warm flush rise on her face. Then he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Over here, I think. The light is better.”

He positioned her so that the morning sun fell on her pale white body, then stepped back a few paces. He took the quiver from his shoulder and she saw that it contained only one arrow. That was all that was needed. It would do the job.

Her executioner knelt to one knee and placed the arrow on the bowstring. Drew it back. Not all the way. It wouldn’t take much to do this task.

An arrow through her left breast would make quick work of it. But that was not to be. This was punishment. They wanted her to feel it. They wanted it to hurt.

She knew it would.

She saw that the arrow was pointed at her belly, that soft, vulnerable place. The archer was taking his time with his aim. He wanted to get the shot right. He was an expert, and at the short distance, it would be an easy shot. She knew the arrow was pointed at the shadowed indentation of her navel.

That’s where she would get it.

She made herself breathe normally, her belly rising and falling gently with each breath. She waited.

Stoic

She looked beyond the archer’s shoulder to mayflies flitting in the boughs of the trees.

Waited.

It came quietly. Just a gentle whir of the arrow splitting the still air and the sound of something hard penetrating something soft. And a bright, sharp, piercing sensation - unlike anything she had felt before. Her body stiffened as it was invaded. She uttered a gasp.

She squinched her eyes tightly shut and clenched her teeth hard.

She looked down and saw that the arrow had entered her perfectly, right into her navel. The pain quickly turned to a throbbing ache. Deep inside. A think trickle of blood emerged.

The archer rose, approached her, examined his shot and nodded. Then he walked away.

She gasped and gritted her teeth against the growing pain. They wanted her to suffer - to feel it.

They were getting their wish!

The archer dropped cross-legged to the ground and watched.

She inhaled and the pain intensified. She moaned and her body trembled.

She looked down and saw the blood running down into the sparse thatch of hair between her legs. She became lightheaded.

She dropped to her knees and cried out as the arrow moved deep inside her. She closed her eyes tight and turned her head away. Beads of cold sweat popped out on her forehead.

Each shallow breath she drew was excruciating.

This is how they wanted it to be.

She looked down and saw the arrow moving with each small, agonizing breath. The stream of blood had soaked her fronds and pooled black on the grass.

The archer simply sat and watched, the smallest of smiles on his lips. His had been a job well done.

Odd how strangely intimate this was.

Together, they waited.