Warnings: Contains murder, and non-consensual situations; Riccardo x Fiona. An odd, choppy narrative from Riccardo's perspective of Fiona's time in the water tower during Ending D.

Once she's captured, you hide her away.

Like Rapunzel in her tower, it's for the girl's own good; only she is not gifted with a lovely room to brush her luscious (and disappointingly short) locks in. She's been too bad for that.

So instead, like a precious gem, you lock her in a case. The purple lining, reminiscent of the late maid's hair, glows against her white skin in a delicious way. Like candy. Candy, you decide, you will have your lips on soon enough.

You expect her to plead after her outburst, to beg for freedom.

Yet she doesn't; instead, after warring her lungs out through a panic attack that almost forces you to free her, she sinks to the bottom of her cage, curling in on herself like a fetus nestled in its mother's womb.

The imagery pleases you, at least.

But annoyance hits you; you had longed for her to sob, to repent her sins against you, to beg for freedom, just so you could smile cruelly and walk away; just so you could further cement your control over her and slowly chip away at her resolve.

Perhaps you'll have to break her yourself.

You enjoy tapping at the cage, watching her twitch like a scared rat at each noise.

She will not look at you; instead, she leans against her prison, arms wrapped around her chest as her watery eyes look desperately to the floor.

You discover that when you put your hood up, she is at least willing to look at you face; it is a compromise you are more than willing to make, delighting in those beauty eyes, glittering like cerulean sea glass, so like your own. Her pupils twitch as they to maintain an air of self control.

'You have gorgeous eyes.' You tell her one day. They widen, and the girl looks down, never to meet your concealed orbs again.

The old man's blood stains you hands as you drag his corpse into the water tower, unwilling to let it out of your sight in the event that it somehow scuttles to life and gets away.

You delight in telling Fiona the news; high on a sadistic euphoria, the only happiness you can feel.

Yet she looks horrified upon the revelation. Her lips tremble as she sees the corpse, lifeless in the door way. When she spots the blood on your hands, there is a new, primal fear in her eyes that you've never seen before.

You remember the letters you found in her boots, and suddenly you are livid. You scream and bang at her cage while she trembles and cries, until she finally screams that she'll never betray you again.

Then you stop, as if you had never lost your head at all, and smile at her.

Time flies by, and you grow anxious. She is frightened, but she is strong. So very like you. You realize that your child might not be conceived in a timely matter, a risk you cannot take with your peeling body.

She cries and pleas as you tie her limps to the table by the cell, kicks and bucks. For such a tiny thing her legs do contain a fair amount of power.

All of her limps are tied firmly down, but you realize it simply won't do. You find another strap, one that holds her abdomen firmly to the table as she lays there, chest heaving and face pink. You realize she thinks this is a means to rape her – and laugh. You don't dissuade the allusion, because she has gone still, like an animal playing dead. Hoping that you'll take what you want and leave.

You run your hand up her thigh, just to hear her squeak.

The look on her face when you do check her ovulation is priceless – her eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape in shock. But the results are not in your favor, and soon all amusement fades. Your fingers dig into the wood in anger, and you seriously consider taking her on the table, to affect some odd revenge on her body for the betrayal.

Instead you untie her, scream at her as she cowers against the wall. Luckily she retreats just in time, running back to her cage, and saves herself from more pain than she'll ever know.

In her sleep, she murmurs about that damn mutt. You are not yet ready to stoop to torture to break her – so you decide to kill her with kindness.

Like training a dog, sometimes you allow her freedom from her cage. She cannot leave the room – but she can sit on the tiled floor, read a book where she can stretch her legs. The blond learns very quickly not to avoid you when you want to touch her – and stays still as you tangle your fingers in her hair, kiss at her neck. The taste of her skin makes you ache for so much more, but you cannot risk trying to impregnate her when the results aren't in your favor.

Sometimes, she even talks to you. Asks you for things tentatively, like apples or a new book.

You gift her with novels about sex and pregnancy, and she takes the hint quite well. Yet she reads them anyways, a slight curiosity in her eyes mixed with terror. One day, you notice her reading the book full of Italian names with full attention, and a delight hits you that she's starting to accept her fate.

One day, you let her out and then go to leave the room. The prospect frightens her, and she actually pleads with you not to go – you are confused by this, the desperate fear in her eyes at your departure, but you abandon her anyways.

She looks utterly shocked when you return with a puppy in your arms. It is white and fluffy, with floppy ears and a very wiggly tail.

When you allow her to hold it, she is delighted. She plays with it for hours, and when it is time for her to return to her cage, you are kind enough to tie the mutt to one of the pipes, food and water in its reach, so she can watch her new playmate.

Yet for the next three days she does nothing but give her full attention to the mongrel, not even looking in horror when you remove your hood to stare her down.

On the fourth day, you rip the fluffy white puff from her arms, and disappear outside the water tower. You return with wet sleeves, and promise Fiona a new dog when she learns to better behave herself.

She cries when you rip off her dress, and you try to ignore the heat it's sending to your crotch. She trembles naked on the floor, her eyes giving you a look that makes it clear she feels betrayed.

Yet all protest die when you lift the bucket and pour steaming hot water over her head, skin turning pink as you scrub viciously at the darker spots on the white organ stretched over bones and muscles. Water slides down to the drain, hidden under the web of pips connected to her home.

Afterward, you wrap her in a towel and cradle her in your lap. Her eyes drop, and she clutches at your uniform helplessly.

When you present her with a beautiful new gown, made of blue silk and trimmed with white lace, she isn't sure what to think. You urge to try it on, and she blushes miserably. She begins to pull at the strips on fabric barely holding on her medical gown, lets it slip off her slightly curvy body and drops it onto the mattress on the floor, her new place for sleeping. Once the dress is on, she turns, trembling, swishing her hips a little as she tries to pose to your satisfaction.

Later, as you glance at her sleeping form on the bed, you realize with some shock she didn't ask you to leave the room while she changed. You're not sure what to make of it.

You don't tell her the results are positive – that she's ovulating. Instead you wait patiently, treating her with the utmost kindness throughout the day, even allowing her some dark chocolate, though you force her to eat it from your fingers. Despite your concealed eyes, she seems to notice the longing in your gaze, arms always making movements to cover her chest or stomach but never going through with it; afraid you might say something and confirm what she knows.

When you arrive at night, she's surprised. Her eyes open, and the comforter slips from her shoulders as she sits up. Her eyes widen as you set the straps on the table you moved into the room long ago, and she begins to stand.

You give her an ultimatum – she can scream and fight and you'll have to tie her down, or she can behave herself and make this pleasant for the both of you.

Those beautiful eyes look around desperately for an escape, and then close helplessly, tears escaping, when she realizes there isn't one, because there has never been one. You sit down next to her on the mattress, and pull her to you. Give her that false comfort, the one that reminds her that you're all she has, all she'll ever have.

As you lay her on the mattress, illuminated by the glow of her once-prison, she asks you gently, helplessly, if it'll hurt.

After that night, she goes further into the odd fog that seems to have captured her long ago. She can barely function, it seems, and often times her focus is so numb you're forced to read the books she once loved to her. You don't mind – she's gone limp, like a doll you've always wanted her to be, and you can touch and fuck her all you want. You begin to stay with her at night – because when you try to leave her, she trembles and tells you she's scared.

One morning you return with her breakfast and find her puking near the drain, last night's dinner splattering against the pipes. You ignore her illness and persistently ask her for her arm, to take blood.

When you tell her the news, excited as you have ever been, grasping at her fragile wrists as you speak to her, Fiona, love, we're going to have a child, aren't you happy?, she doesn't move. She glances down at her stomach, staring at it as if she's never seen it before.

You take her back to the castle – lay her in the bedroom you've set up, cradled in the blankets you've set on her. As you go to leave her, she catches your wrist – and asks you if she can name your son Achille.

Author's Note: This is just a very quick fic I wrote - I realize the narrative is a very odd choice, using some odd detached version of the second person. I just didn't think I could write Riccardo accurately in the first person. I might do a Fiona version of this, when I'm not lazy. One of these days I'll even be confident enough to write some Daniella x Fiona!