Gertrude’s Perilous Rescue

Gertrude moved in the afternoon with a sense of urgency, guided by the whispered rumors of a raid in a nearby kingdom. She crested a small hill and looked at the unfortunate kingdom below. Smoke rose from a battered gate and a few burning structures, and beyond them, she glimpsed at some marauders. They looked like gruff men, perhaps mercenaries or bandits, armed with crude weapons.

She closed in on her white steed, leaving the horse safely outside the gates. When she arrived at the outskirts of the town, she found the gates broken off their hinges, the great wooden doors scorched and splintered. Drawing her bastard sword, Gertrude willed her breathing to remain calm. Her slender fingers curled around the worn hilt. It was a heavy but familiar weight that she had practiced with a thousand times over.

Carefully, she pressed onward. One cluster of bandits stood near the church, intent on preventing those inside from escaping or receiving help. Gertrude noticed several terrified women inside, peering out through the heavy wooden doors that had been barricaded from the outside.

Her presence did not go unnoticed for long. A few raiders turned to regard her with sneering grins. Coarse laughter and mocking taunts greeted her. “Who is this staring us down? She looks like she’d fetch a decent price,” one bandit said, brandishing a rusted sword.

Gertrude straightened her stance. The gleam of her shiny breastplate seemed to be her only protection. “Leave this place,” she commanded. “I will not warn you again.”

The men laughed. “Look at this blonde little broad threatening us—thin as a reed!” shouted another. “I doubt you can lift that sword without snapping your wrists!”

She braced herself, stepping lightly to the side as one of the men lunged forward, swinging a chipped axe. Gertrude raised her bastard sword, parrying the blow in a shower of sparks. She used her momentum to strike across the man’s torso. He stumbled back, blood staining his ragged tunic.

They had not anticipated that the knight’s slight frame hid such power. A second bandit came at her with a short spear, hoping to catch her off-guard. Gertrude sidestepped with dancer-like grace, pivoting just enough to avoid the brunt of the strike before she brought her sword down in a swift arc. The flat of her blade met the side of his head with a dull thud, and the man collapsed.

Her chest heaved and quaked with exertion, each inhalation feeling almost too shallow. She resisted the urge to pause and catch her breath, mindful that more bandits were closing in, looking to find her limitations.

Luckily, the ferocity of her display alarmed the remaining raiders. Witnessing their comrades crumple in swift succession, many turned tail and fled, clearly not prepared to die for what they must have thought would be an easy conquest. Gertrude, panting, watched them retreat into the labyrinth of alleys before she sank to one knee in the middle of the square.

With an effort that made her legs tremble, she pushed to her feet and staggered inside, sword dragging behind her. She carefully maneuvered around the broken pieces of the door to find the two cowering women chained to the pews. At their feet lay torn hymn books. The sight of such cruelty rekindled Gertrude’s protective fury.

“Fear not, fair maidens,” she said breathlessly, her voice ragged from exertion. “I have come…to set you free.” Her large heart pressed into her lungs, making it a struggle to speak. Each word felt forced out through shallow, desperate breaths. “None…shall lay a hand on you now.”

The women seemed to press against one another in fear or shock as Gertrude drove the tip of her sword into the length of the chain lying at their feet, freeing them. Though her sword was lowered in a gesture of peace, fresh blood still dripped from its edge, forming tiny crimson droplets on the stone floor. Gertrude yearned to comfort them, to let them know that their nightmare was over, but her own exhaustion took hold. Her legs buckled beneath her, and she sank to the ground.

“I am Gertrude,” she managed, attempting a reassuring smile that wavered on her pale face. “A knight…trained to defend those…who cannot defend themselves.”

The maidens exchanged glances. Their faces bore the dirt and tears of apparent captivity. One, tall and dark-haired, wore a torn silk gown that might once have been a vibrant shade of green. Gertrude tried to meet her eyes, only with an unsettling emptiness. The tall damsel surveyed Gertrude’s exhausted form, taking in the trembling arms, the sweat-soaked forehead, and the frantic throb under her breastplate.

The woman let out a quiet scoff. It was not a sound of relief or gratitude. It was, instead, one of amusement—of mockery.

The dark-haired woman stepped forward, her bare foot nudging Gertrude’s shoulder with a surprising lack of empathy. “Weak as a kitten,” she hissed. “Some knight in shining armor.” Gertrude’s mind reeled. Weren’t these women prisoners? Everything she had just risked her life for, everything she had fought to protect—did they truly feel no relief at being rescued?

“I apologize, my lady, I pushed myself too far. I’m still getting the hang of this.” Gertrude let out in shame.

The shorter one with auburn hair crouched over Gertrude’s head, intrigued by the frantic quake of her chest. “Incredible,” she said in a hushed tone, pressing a hand against Gertrude’s breastplate. “Edria, Feel how her heart hammers!”

Terror settled in Gertrude’s mind, a deep, undeniable sense of wrongness. The tall damsel flicked her dark tresses over one shoulder with a sneer and leaned in, pushing her hand beneath the metal of her cuirass. Edria spoke no words, hovering over Gertrude with a predatory glint in her eyes.

“Elise, don’t kill her. I need to find out more.”

“More what?! unhand me!” Gertrude said, feeling fresh panic rising in her chest. Though her heart was already surging with adrenaline, now it pounded with renewed urgency. Soft hands carried her wrists into the folds of Elise’s thighs.

Edria reached behind her back and unfastened the clasps of her dress; the fabric slid down her body. The dress pooled at her feet, a discarded shroud, leaving her in nothing but her undergarments. Her deep bronze skin glistened with a fine layer of sweat.

The act startled Elise, her eyes widening in surprise as she watched Edria disrobe. But Edria’s gaze was unwavering, her tone going from elated to commanding.

“Keep quiet and be ready to take orders,” Elise nodded, her expression a mix of confusion and obedience as she awaited further instruction.

Edria’s fingers moved to the delicate fabric of her undergarments. She slid them down her legs and bared the tuft of dark hair that barely concealed her vulva, stepping out of them, holding them in her hands,

Edria twisted the panties into a makeshift gag; the fabric was taut and ready. She leaned over Gertrude, her hair falling in a dark curtain around them, and pressed the gag against Gertrude’s mouth. Gertrude’s eyes met hers, wide and filled with fear and curiosity. Edria held her gaze, her eyes cold, unyielding hazel, as she secured the gag behind Gertrude’s head. Gertrude could do nothing but groan in protest and swallow the taste of the woman’s body.

Still pinned and at their mercy, Gertrude could do nothing but resign to her fate when she felt the woman’s weight press firmly into her belly. She had no illusions of immediate escape. Yet she held onto the hope that somewhere, in some corner of this desecrated church, fate might intervene—or that her own intense will would find a way.

A single metallic snap reverberated against the church walls. Then another. Gertrude’s cuirass loosened, and Edria peeled it away, revealing the thin linen shirt beneath. The cloth did little to hide the violent slamming of Gertrude’s apex. Edria’s cool palm slipped beneath the linen with the cuirass entirely removed.

Gertrude clenched her teeth, trying to twist away, but her exhausted muscles wouldn’t respond with enough force. The sweat that slicked her skin made her feel clammy and weak, and the roaring of her pulse was deafening. She wondered if Edria could hear it, too.

Edria’s palm pressed against Gertrude’s sternum. The knight’s heart rammed powerfully against her. An expression of near-reverence flickered across Edria’s face. She increased the pressure slightly, just enough to feel the full might of Gertrude’s heartbeat. The rhythmic thuds echoed through her fingertips like thunder. There was something surreal about a heart so robust.

“Oh, she doesn’t like that,” Elise teased. “Look at her squirm.”

Edria gestured toward Elise’s hip. Elise nodded and covered Gertrude’s eyes with her hands. Gertrude groaned through her gag as a sharp pain slid up her sternum, a sensation like a blade slicing through her flesh.

As Elise’s hands lifted from Gertrude’s eyes, Edria seized the moment. Her fingers dug into the soft tissue, and with a hard tug, she tore away Gertrude’s sternum.

“Breathe for her,” Edria said, looking to Elise, who responded obediently. She sensed the woman’s hyper-focus and tension, watching her boss enjoy herself too much.

Edria reached in with her right hand, fingers splaying around the broad center of that beating organ, feeling it slide under her palm with slick warmth. The natural fluid around the heart made it slippery; the hunger of the panicking muscle made the dark purple coronary arteries bulge taut against her fingers in each contraction.

Elise smiled, and Edria grinned mischievously as Gertrude gasped in horror, face covered by the cruel, delicate kiss of life-saving breaths, her eyes going wide as her lungs filled. If only her hands could escape the folds of those deceptively soft thighs.

Each breath gave Gertrude the ability to let out pleasantly frightened and pleading whimpers while Edria’s left hand explored the soft crest and crept upward to where the two major vessels rose from the organ’s upper portion.

A curious light shone in her eyes as she tested their flexibility, pressing them gently to see how they would yield. She felt the surge of warm blood pulsing within each vessel, a pounding current that demanded space and freedom, desperately working to supply the woman’s body with enough blood to put up a fight.

As Edria constricted her fingers around them, she felt the knight and her heart jerk and flail beneath her. The ventricles bulged in a futile attempt to keep pumping blood through the now-shunted tubes. The distinct recesses of thick, bloated muscle twitched against her fingers. A faint quiver ran through Gertrude’s body when the woman began exploring the heart’s bulging exterior, tracing the curve of the ventricles.

Edria’s fingertips gleaned a tactile map of the warrior’s most vital organ; Its chambers swollen and exaggerated in size.

Desperation took over, and Gertrude’s body jerked in protest. Her back arched off the wooden floor, her fingers spasmed in their sweaty trap in a pathetic display of discomfort.

“It looks like it’s going to pop,” Elise said, looking at the red mass.

“It does, doesn’t it,” Edria responded,

Sensing Gertrude was moments from losing consciousness altogether, the woman slowly released the vessels, allowing blood to rush anew. The woman’s heart, seizing its chance to reclaim lost beats, kicked with a distressed force. It ballooned and pumped vigorously beneath the naked vixen’s palm, rising in a vigorous thud that knocked against her hand as if protesting the deprivation it had just endured.

“YES,” Edria yelled, naked body shivering and gasping, feeling that tension, that ferocity.

She pressed her palms together and splayed her fingers, covering as much of her heart’s surface as possible. Her thumb settled near the upper valves, beating in urgent, desperate pulses. At the same time, her other fingers curved around the bulging side, feeling the powerful contortions of the ventricles. She realized how intimately she was connected to Gertrude’s existence at that moment. Every spasm and every convulsion were a direct line to the warrior’s failing consciousness.

Edria’s hands slipped a fraction, forcing her to redistribute her weight. She dug her knee into the knight’s ribs, leaning her weight onto her outspread fingers. Beneath her palm, the heart’s frantic pounding began to lose its crisp cadence as she sank into its form. What had been a relentless, forceful drumming devolved into uneven, stuttering attempts to push blood where it needed to go. Each contraction grew fainter.

Sensation flooded Edreia’s hand—a deep, trembling vibration, like the final thrash of an animal caught in a snare. She could almost feel the life draining, slipping between the beats, each pulse weaker than the last. The heart firmed and softened, yet it couldn’t move, giving up.

Gertrude’s eyes, once so fierce, lost focus. A trembling exhalation left her lips in a thin rasp. The warrior’s chest no longer heaved with the same urgency; her limbs fell slack, and her head lolled to one side. Valyria, watching intently, felt the final flutter under her hand—the last feeble attempt at a heartbeat, a slight, faltering quiver that lacked the strength to complete its motion.

A flash of emerald light tore through the dusty hush of the ruined church. In the doorway stood a witch, her silhouette outlined by flickers of green lightning dancing around her hands. She wore a tattered, dark cloak, and her red eyes shone with a cold, otherworldly brilliance. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she shot dark energy across the church.

Magical chains—ghostly links that glowed with a deep, jade hue—materialized out of thin air. Edria and Elise, the two women who had tormented Gertrude only moments before, were caught mid-step as they tried to flee. They yelped in confusion as the spectral bonds coiled around their limbs, securing them in place before they could even think to run.

Caught off-guard, Edria gasped, struggling in vain. Elise hurled curses at the intruder, eyes flashing with impotent rage. But the witch paid them little heed. Her attention was fixed on the silent figure of the knight on the wooden floor.

The witch braced herself, one hand gently curling beneath the rippling, quivering organ, the other resting on top. The first touch surprised her: the tissue was pliant yet dense and heavy. Even without beating, the heart retained an underlying sense of power. She had never felt it like this in all her years with them.

As she began the initial compressions, her fingers sank slightly into the muscle with each push. There was a deep inner resistance. She felt the faint squelch of blood forced through still vessels, the slight unproductive ripple of tissue shifting around her hands. Every press was deliberate, almost intimate, as she tried to coax a rhythm back into Gertrude’s body.

Despite the dire circumstances, the tactile experience oddly mesmerized the witch. She could sense each groove, each valve, every contour of this heart. Feeling a human heart this directly, without the barrier of flesh and bone, was beyond anything she usually encountered.

She muttered an incantation, weaving her own energy through her palms. The runes that flared to life felt hot against her wrists, pulsing with the magic she directed. The witch concentrated on maintaining a steady rhythm: press, release, press, release. She felt the heart flatten slightly each time; blood gushed through the valves, then sprang back with a faint elasticity.

When it remained stubbornly still, she tried a different tactic. She drew a spark of power and discharged a lightning-like jolt into the muscle. Gertrude’s entire body jerked, and the witch felt the heart shill beneath her palms—but it did not resume beating.

She angled her top hand differently, letting her fingers curl around the thick left ventricle of Gertrude’s smooth, glossy heart. With a gentler, more persistent pressure, she massaged it. Each new squeeze sent a ripple along the ventricle walls. The witch could feel the dormant power that had once driven Gertrude’s unstoppable stamina.

One more spark—brighter, more potent than before—crackled between her hands. Gertrude’s back arched, her lungs expelling a breath in a ragged wheeze. This time, the heart didn’t just twitch; it convulsed. The witch felt the muscle stiffen in her grip, and for half a heartbeat, it felt alive again, truly alive, resisting her press. It contracted on its own, a weak but definite beat that throbbed beneath her palms.

“Come on,” she urged, pressing her free hand along the base of the organ to coax it upward. Even with her gentle hold, she felt how vulnerable it was—large, soft, and unprotected. She repeated the routine: a careful compression, a timed squeeze, another mild shock.

“That’s it,” she whispered, leaning closer. The heavy organ in her hands contracted again, then weakened again, trembling as if unsure of its next move. Gently, she laid her hand back onto the pulsing mass; she could feel every slippery contour sliding beneath her fingers in an intimate ripple. She dared to remove one palm, still watching the heart to ensure it didn’t regress. It continued beating—slowly at first, but with an undeniable resolve.

The contractions grew more substantial, the heart’s movements more pronounced. The witch could feel the organ’s vitality returning, its natural rhythm reasserting itself.

The witch withdrew her hand. “Good.” She turned her attention to Elise and Edria, who remained bound in flickering magical chains. She tightened their shackles with a lazy flick of her wrist. “Would it not be painful for my dear friend here, to see a young woman perish… You wouldn’t be alive.”

Elise scowled but bit back any retort. Edria looked away, guilt etched on her face. The witch pivoted, and the chains vanished abruptly. Edria stumbled, nearly falling, and the magical support vanished. Elise steadied her, but the pair shrank from the witch, realizing their freedom was as tenuous as her patience.

“Go!” the witch yelled. Elise and Edria bolted through the church entrance, half-falling over splintered wood and scattered rubble in their scramble to escape.

A weak contraction, then another. The massive heart began to shudder back to life. The witch continued to assist, her magic healing Gertrude’s soft sternal wall. The witch allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.

As Gertrude’s heartbeat resumed, color returned to her cheeks in tentative blooms. Her body twitched again, a cough rattling through her throat. She made a feeble attempt to lift her head, though it lolled to the side. Her eyelids fluttered, a soft moan escaping her lips.

“Steady,” the witch whispered.

Gertrude’s consciousness wavered, though her pulse, now audible in the hush, kept a stronger cadence. Awareness leaked back into her mind with the force of a returning tide. The first thing she registered was her heart pounding again behind its newly restored barrier. The second was a voice above her.

“You truly flirt with disaster, darling; we didn’t free your kind for you to throw it all away,” the witch said. Her tone held an odd mixture of admonishment and concern. “In lands such as these, many would take one look at that heart of yours and exploit it—or destroy it.”