#cerus when someone is actively healing him and outright states they're tired of seeing people hurting: ???? what can it mean

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Undeserving

for Angstpril, Day 28: Trust Issues (alt)

cw: referenced beatings/abuse/torture, death wish, brief reference/allusion to self harm

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Even warm and dry, even in a bed for the first time in months, even utterly exhausted, Cerus could not fall asleep. In the time since his fall, not a single person had falsified kindness before hurting him, before taking from him, but nevertheless, Cerus didn't trust the soldier's intentions. He'd never given anyone a reason to love him. Never a reason to extend a hand. And even when asked directly, the soldier wouldn't give him an answer.

What did they want? Every possible reason for their administrations eluded him; beating him didn't require a bed. Taking vengeance in other ways didn't demand his wounds be bandaged. Anything they wanted from him could've simply been seized, be it the boots off his feet or the flesh off his back, and not a soul would bat an eye. Such were the rewards of the damned, and Cerus had come to expect as much. 

There was always the possibility that the soldier wanted more than simple revenge. Perhaps they thought they could access his magic, the lifeblood that had been torn away from him at the trial where he should've been allowed to die. If that were so, the soldier was a bigger fool than he'd thought. In his early days as a slave to the kingdom, when he was at his most desperate, he'd tried to cut away the tattoos the priests had tainted his skin with. He'd despaired to learn it was a fool's errand; they kept coming back.

Even without the black marks of the holy mages, any spell requiring refined movements would be impossible with his ruined hands. He'd been allowed a healer after the trial, so that he could be put to work right away, but the woman who'd done it didn't bother to align bones, or even hold the larger gashes closed, and Cerus was left with ugly scars and uglier hands. Hands that could hardly grasp the tools he was made to use; fingers that still spiked with pain when he tried to curl them.

The soldier hadn't returned yet. Cerus was uncertain how long it had been since they'd closed the door, and as he lay shivering on the mattress, trying to suppress the painful coughs that wracked his body, he wondered if they'd come back at all. Despite their supposed determination to care for him, they didn't seem to enjoy it; hardly looking his way, hardly speaking. Perhaps they were only acting on orders. That would explain some of the situation, but still left the larger question of why unanswered.

He wished they would hurt him and be done with it; the fear of what was to come was worse than any pain they could inflict. At least then he'd know what to expect. A whip, a stick, a fist. Something that left him shaking and bleeding, something easier to understand than a gentle hand.

In spite of those hopes, Cerus still flinched when the door at last swung open. The soldier was back, a steaming bowl in hand.

"My uncle's gone to bed," they said as they crossed the room. "I'd thank you to not start shouting at me again."

Their uncle. Was that who had ordered him brought here? What did he want with him? A ransom, perhaps. Nurse him back to health and sell him to a lord who desired revenge. Cerus was very used to revenge.

At the mines, if a night was particularly dull, workers would pay him a visit. Reminisce about sisters and mothers, lovers and sons, lost to the war. Punish him for it, with whatever they had on hand, and let his screams soothe their grief. He couldn't pretend any of it was undeserved.

"Let me help you sit up," the soldier said. "You'll have an easier time eating if you aren't lying on your stomach."

Cerus didn't respond, but allowed himself to be lifted, wincing as the movement pulled at his damaged back. The feeling there wasn't what it had once been, but pain still found a way to sink its fingers into him.

The soldier propped him against the wall, taking care to avoid the wounded skin, and Cerus once again wondered why they'd bother. Even on orders, their master couldn't fault them for a moment of carelessness. They picked up the bowl then, holding a spoonful of broth to his lips.

"Shell stew," they said. "I'm sure you've had it since coming here."

He hadn't. A thin porridge in the morning, bread and a strip of dried fish at night. Enough to keep him on his feet, for the most part. 

Cerus took the broth, too hungry and exhausted to feel humiliated at the notion of being fed like a babe. Whatever the soldier's plans were for him, refusing food wouldn't help. He hoped the stew was poisoned.

In slow silence, the soldier helped him to empty the bowl; thin, salty broth full of bits of potato and seaweed and a chewy meat that reminded him of the smell of the ocean. He felt warmer after, though shivers still ran through his body.

The soldier rolled him back onto his stomach, then left with the dish, returning moments later with another blanket. They laid it on the floor, parallel with Cerus, and blew out the pair of oil lamps that lit the room; leaving nothing but the faint glow of clouded moonlight from the window.

Were they sleeping on the floor? Had they been commanded to watch over him tonight, so he wouldn't try and run? 

"Wh—?" he started to say, but the shift of air in his throat sparked another coughing fit, driving spikes of pain through his lungs and still-healing ribs.

"I hope you're not about to ask me 'why' again," came the soldier's voice from somewhere in the darkness. "Sleep."

Cerus was silent for a moment, steadying his breathing before trying again. "Are you meant to be guarding me?" His voice came out ragged and small. He hadn't had much reason to speak in the last months. Begging rarely granted him a reprieve, though sometimes his stupid tongue couldn't help itself, and conversation wasn't one of the labors the kingdom demanded of him.

"If you'd really like to leave, by all means, do it." The soldier's tone told him they were tired of this topic. Cerus was tempted to push it, to goad them into lashing out, into striking him, or throwing him back into the rain. Something that would shed a light on their intentions for him.

But he didn't, instead allowing his eyes to drift closed, though he knew sleep would elude him. Pointless as it was, Cerus hoped the soldier or their master could be convinced to kill him.

Put an end to this. Once and for all.

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