#cw claustrophia

[aquadestinyswriting]

Fire-Hollowed Souls

Summary: Agnar checks in on the single prisoner currently occupying a cell beneath the Cathedral of Kherillim. What he learns is about to turn his entire world upside down.

Words: 1,827

Warnings: Disturbing imagery, suffocation, claustrophobia, pyrophobia, panic attack, undead. I think that covers it, but if I've missed anything let me know.

Tags: @druidx @homesteadchronicles @sparrow-orion-writes , @blind-the-winds, @odysseywritings, @writeblrsupport,@freedominique

Note: So we're carrying on with the whump/angst train here. Please note the warnings above and keep your arms and legs inside the train at all times.

It was a cold and damp night down in the dungeons beneath the cathedral. The guard on duty wrapped his thick, woollen cloak more tightly around his shoulders as he checked on the one prisoner currently held in custody, squinting through the bars of the cell. The young dwarf on the cot rolled over with a shudder and small whine, the thin blanket she’d been provided currently twisted around her legs and half-falling off. Agnar’s face pinched into a worried frown as he took in the sheen of sweat on the girl’s face, only barely visible through the hair that had come loose from its braids. His ears pricked as she began to mumble incoherently under her breath, an unsettling chill seeping into his bones at the sound.

~*~

Meredith hacked out a cough as she stumbled through the smoke-filled streets of the Trading District, trying her best to push through the panicked crowds of dwarves that were running for their lives away from the inferno that burned behind them. She didn’t know how the fire had started, only that it had quickly engulfed the entire mountain below her.

“Da! Da!” she called, trying to fight her way towards her father’s smithy, only to be pushed back by a whoosh of air filled with smoke, ash and embers as a part of the ceiling far above collapsed. Meredith stared at the charred and smouldering rock that now barred her way… wait. That wasn’t rock. It was metal. Charred and sooty, and still very much on fire, but it was unmistakable. Meredith backed up and craned her neck to get a better look at it. It looked almost like part of…

Meredith’s heart seized as she realised what she was looking at, her gaze slowly tracking upwards to the hole in the ceiling. Thick, green-tinged clouds roiled high above her, raining down more of what she now knew to be pieces of the Anvil of Souls. Moradin’s Anvil. Without thinking, Meredith reached for her Holy Symbol, only to remember she no longer had it on her person. Shaking her head, she bowed it and muttered a desperate prayer. Nothing. Terror gripped her as she tried again, desperate to feel the reassuring warmth of the presence of her god. An empty hollowness gnawed at her heart. Dead. Moradin was dead. Before the realisation could crush her utterly, Meredith felt herself being dragged away, back towards the front entrance of the mountain,

“Come on we need to get –” the voice was cut off by a thundering rumble emanating from the depths of the mountain below. The earth lurched unevenly, causing Meredith to stumble to her knees as more of the ceiling collapsed. Hacking out another fit of coughing as smoke filled the air once more, Meredith pulled herself up, only to find the way entirely barred by rubble. She turned back the way she’d come and ran as fast as she could to find another way out, only to find that this direction, too, had been cut off. 

Meredith sank to the floor, shaking uncontrollably, trying not to allow the despair of the end overtake her. Slowly the ringing in her ears abated as she looked at the people around her who had already succumbed to the smoke or had been crushed. Well, it wouldn’t take long for her to join them at least, though where they would go now that Moradin was no more… 

Booming laughter echoed through the rubble, only barely audible over the roar of the flames that were overtaking the area outside of this collapse. Meredith had only barely registered it when the dead around her suddenly erupted into discordant screams. She clapped her hands over her ears at the sound, somehow aware that every last dwarf in the mountain was screaming at the same time. Meredith scrambled back to her feet as ashy, cold hands grabbed at her. She tried to bat them away, but it was getting so hard to breathe. Her limbs were getting too heavy to move and the heat was suffocating. The cleric only barely registered the green-yellow embers floating past her eyes and the distant roar of the fire and booming laughter before the darkness finally swallowed her.

~*~

Agnar’s frown deepened as he watched the supposedly most dangerous dwarf in the mount toss and turn in her sleep, whimpering and mumbling as she did. While he had orders not to enter the cell under any circumstances, he knew he couldn’t leave things as they were. His training as a Cleric of Moradin bade him help those that were in need, and the girl clearly needed help. Agnar sighed as he gently touched the runes inlaid into the wall next to the cell’s door to deactivate the antimagic field before pulling out the key and unlocking the door. He quietly stepped inside and closed it behind him, hoping that Grimbeard wouldn’t notice the antimagic field had been turned off just yet. He crept over to the side of the cot and, as carefully as he could manage, lightly touched the girl’s shoulder. 

Meredith awoke with a startled, strained gasp, fighting against the blanket that had now become thoroughly entangled around her. Agnar’s hand glowed with a soft golden light as he laid it more forcefully on her shoulder,

“It’s alright, hen, ye’re alright.” he soothed, noting with worry that his prisoner was utterly drenched in sweat and was now shivering violently. Was it just the apparent nightmare, or was she running a fever, he wondered. He was brought back to his senses as Meredith choked out a sob, her hands scrabbling desperately for a holy symbol that wasn’t there any more. Aganar’s frown deepened. Grimbeard had told him and the other Inquisitors that the girl was no longer a devotee of Moradin, and yet, here she was trying to find the Holy Symbol that had been taken from her as a source of comfort. Was it just out of habit? Had she finally come to her senses and realised the error of her ways? If she had, then she shouldn’t need a Holy Symbol to feel Moradin’s grace, He could reach His most faithful no matter the circumstances. Either way, the girl was clearly becoming more distraught, her breathing becoming ragged and wheezy. Cautiously, Aganar pulled his own Holy Symbol over his head and pressed it into the girl’s hands.

Meredith hiccoughed as she tried to find the one way she knew she could connect to Moradin. While she normally didn’t need to have her Holy Symbol to feel His presence; since Grimbeard had come to talk to her, Moradin had become ever more distant to the point that she wasn’t sure that He could even hear her. She was only barely aware of the figure who had come into her cell. At least until a familiar, metal shape was pressed into her hands. Warmth immediately flooded into her, the connection reestablished. Meredith immediately bowed her head to the Symbol and muttered out a prayer, the one every dwarflet was taught the minute they could speak, relieved almost beyond thought that Moradin yet endured. 

Agnar’s mind reeled as his own Holy Symbol began to glow in the prisoner’s hands. It was rare enough for a Dwarf’s Holy Symbol to do so in their own hands unless it was being used to channel a spell like Turn Undead, it took an incredibly deep set faith in order for it to happen with just a prayer. For it to happen with a Symbol not your own? It was inconceivable. It just did not happen. And yet, here he was, watching a scared young woman making his Holy Symbol glow in her hands with just a prayer. 

“What in all the hells are we doing?” he murmured, “Ye’re no heretic at all.” Agnar slumped back, eyes wide at the sight in front of him. What kind of Heresy had he been a participant in to have been deceived into believing that a dwarf so clearly Marked was the one in the wrong?

Meredith finally looked up at her visitor at his mumbling. She smiled hollowly at him,

“It’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell ye.” she sighed, her voice hoarse, “I don’t know what our enemies have planned. All I know is that, currently, they’re winning.” 

Agnar stared at Meredith,

“How d’ye even ken they are?” he asked. Meredith shook her head and handed the Inquisitor his Holy Symbol back,

“Because they’re driving Moradin from the mountain. Have ye even noticed how distant He is?” she asked. When she only received a befuddled stare in response, she snorted, “Of course not, that would require ye to pay attention to anything outside o’ what ye’ve been told.” she muttered. Agnar looked down at his currently inert Holy Symbol, then back up at Meredith,

“The statues in the Contemplation Chamber.” he murmured, "I'm guessing a glamour was cast over them just before we got down there…" he trailed off as Meredith shook her head,

"The glamour was keeping their appearance as statues of Moradin." She corrected, "They've been twisted into the shape of whatever Demon Prince is behind all this, though for how long I don't know." She admitted. The younger cleric tried to suppress her renewed shivering, the chill of the night finally seeping through her sodden clothing. Agnar grimaced, pulled off his cloak and wrapped it tightly around her,

"I'm not sure what I can do about the overarching situation for now." He said quietly, "But what I can do is get you a temporary secure transfer to the infirmary to get that fever taken care of." 

Meredith was about to shake her head, when she felt a more feminine touch in her heart;

Those still faithful need to be warned.

The younger dwarf nodded,

"Aye, that would be appreciated." She murmured, yawning widely. "Ta, ye ken, for helping. You didn't have to considering my official status right now."

Agnar shook his head,

"I might be an Inquisitor, hen, but I was a cleric first. And Moradin's pretty damn strict about how we're meant to treat prisoners." He reminded her. He cast a critical eye over her, noting every visible ailment he could conceivably get away with describing, then pulling himself up, "Get what rest you can in the meantime." He added. Meredith nodded, curling up into the cloak in a vain effort to keep out the unnatural chill seeping into her soul. She was out even before Agnar closed the cell door behind him.

The older cleric huffed a stressed sigh as he walked back to the little office to contact someone about the situation. As much as he wished to inform the other Inquisitors of their mistake, he doubted he'd be believed. For now, all he could do was inform the infirmary, discreetly, about the condition of his prisoner and hope they'd pick up on the fact that the ailment wasn't necessarily physical.

[bibliocratic]

dark!AU, alternative S5 - Elias wins

There are content warnings in the tags, or here on A03 in more detail. Let me know if any further need to be added. 

Upon the Sighted throne, Martin’s presence infringes upon Elias’ knowing. From the clusters of eyes that sprout from the ornate seat like berry plants, he watches Martin approach slowly. The man has taught himself not to react to the multitude of pupils that flicker and swivel in his direction, and he stops a suitable distance from the throne itself. Elias is not ready to grant him the honour of his attention, and Martin knows he will have to wait as long as Elias wants him to.

There are no days here, nor time to measure his tempered impatience. Martin waits, as Elias indulgently observes the horror of the world he has reckoned into being, visiting pockets of terror to glut himself on the visions of the wretched there.

“I trust you have a good reason for demanding my attention, Martin.”

A shiver along the stalks of his many eyes is the only warning the other man gets as Elias sinks back into himself and gazes upon his visitor with his human sight. Martin schools his body still, aborting the shaking that has started up in his legs from how long he has stood.

“He’s been up there for too long,” Martin says. His voice is intentionally flat, stripped of demands, all its edges sanded off to quiet. He can be quite biddable when he tries to be, this wayward servant of the Eye. “Let him down so he can rest, just for a while.”

Elias studies his tamed prisoner carefully. His posture bowed deferential. Servitude has always been a good look on him for all he chafed and strained at his yoke in the beginning, and he will confess he has enjoyed turning his hand personally to this particular task. It took longer to break him in, longer than it took his treasured Archive, but he learned eventually.

He considers refusing him again, to feel the disappointment crumple in him no matter how much Martin tries to disguise its passing on his face. Elias does so delight in hearing him beg.

“And where are your manners?” he asks instead. Idly, studying his fingernails.

“Please.”

“What was that sorry?” he responds, indulgent and toying. He watches a muscle jump in Martin’s jaw.

He sometimes hopes for the defiance of yesteryear, the frustrating spark of refusal that Elias had spend so long trying to snuff out.

“Please, Elias,” Martin says in his flat, defeated voice. “Let him down.”

“And I suppose you’d beg for some time with him? To fuss and dote and play house?”

Martin doesn’t answer.

Elias sighs as if he is granting a great boon, a tax upon his time and energies. He snaps his fingers, the sound sharper in the hollow throne room, pointing at his feet like he’s summoning a dog to heel.

“You know how to ask.”

It’s a small pity, a frivolous, mildly rankling loss, that such humiliation doesn’t summon a flush to Martin’s cheeks any longer. It was quite a sight, in the early days of Elias’ rule, the man’s pathetic desperation to see his beloved warring with the dregs of his shame.

Martin walks forward to the foot of the throne and goes to his knees without a word.

Elias reaches down to comb his hair from his face, fixing some of the longer strands back. Martin used to flinch, his shoulders high, his mind flickering bonfire bright with all the things he feared Elias might do to him. He tenses now, his gaze directly ahead, and Elias knows that whatever he might choose to do, Martin wouldn’t stop him.

“What will you give me?” Elias murmurs. “To make it worth my while?”

“Whatever you want,” Martin replies. The words learned by rote, a dutiful call-and-response.

“That’s right,” Elias hums pleased. “Whatever I want.”

He moves his hand to Martin’s throat, his fingers splayed in a loose grasp, and uses this grip to raise Martin’s head up, force him to make eye contact.

Martin bites down a gasp as Elias slips easily into his head.

Elias buries him. Has him on his back like he’s coffin-bound, trying to open his eyes only to find them fused shut with the weight of the soil above, the burden of the earth around him like a second skin. Martin sucks in panicked inhales, and he swallows dirt in crumbling chunks, and he gags and coughs to expel it but the greedy earth slides further down his throat. Martin might have learned that it’s better when he doesn’t struggle, but his thrashing body doesn’t know that. Elias waits until he’s twitching with airlessness before the pressure eases, and he is suddenly able to pant thin huffs of air, the oxygen deprivation making him woozy and spiked with delirium, and Elias knows just when to retract this respite and let the earth choke him again. This goes on for some time. Sometimes, feeling fanciful, adherent to fickle whims, he allows Martin to see a poky patch of light, permits him to worm and writhe, his skin rubbed raw with the friction, his muscles burning and his impacted nails ruined, moving inch by inch exhausted and degraded to potential freedom before the earth gulps him back down again, shrieking and screaming in muffled terror.

Elias allows his torment to continue until Martin’s convinced he’ll die here, that no one will save him, that he’ll be abandoned in the dark and the crush. It takes a long time; Martin is ever such a hopeful soul.

His pitiful mewling fear makes for such delicious entertainment, a gourmet delicacy for the Eye.

Elias withdraws, feeling full and sated, his attention already drifting away. His eyes observe the trembling wretch at his feet, gasping and coughing, as his addled mind comes back to itself, recalls that there is more than the clutch and the cold.

“What do we say?” Elias asks.

Martin’s too drained, too shattered to hate him. Attempting to rise to his knees from where his body dropped against the hard marble of the floor.

“Thank you,” he croaks out.

Elias is feeling merciful today. A magnanimous ruler of his nightmare kingdom.

“I’ve let him down.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Go.”

Martin does not need telling twice.

-

Elias leaves them alone, as much as they ever are at least.

Cut down from his moorings at the centre of the Panopticon that marks the focal point of the Eye’s gaze, the eyes that scar Jon’s body flex and roll back into his skin. Martin lifts him and carries him the short distance to their sparse quarters as he returns to himself, his endless recitation of horrors quietening into a burble, like the drying up of a river. Martin settles him on the bed, gets a damp cloth to wipe away the sweat that’s sprung onto his face.

“Hey,” he says encouragingly. His voice is dry from screaming. “Hey, you with me?”

Jon looks up. Blinks slowly. Frowns. His mouth moves without sound. This goes on for some time, and Martin had known it would.

Eventually the tight line of his body relaxes. His frown loosening into a wincing confusion.

“Martin?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Martin says, and he can’t keep the relief back. “It’s me.”

Jon’s hand flops around on the bedcovers, searching before Martin grasps it. After so long in the dirt, the warmth of skin shocks him. The grip faint before rousing to anchor their palms together.

Jon squints at him.

“Your hair’s longer.”

“You’ve been up there a while. Every time I asked he said no.”

Jon’s hand reaches up to cradle Martin’s face.

“What did he do to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Martin…”

“Please. Jon, please. Don’t.”

Jon stores his questions back into silence. He strokes away the faint tear marks he finds under Martin’s eyes, the only evidence of the price paid for these moments together.

“I’d kill him, if I could,” Jon says. Martin nods and replies ‘I know’ as if that were at all possible. If we kill him. If we escape.

They’ve tried. Elias would have disposed of him without a second thought when they first came here, if Jon hadn’t pleaded for his deliverance. But Martin’s continued existence is no kindness, nor a testament to Elias’ benevolence; rather, he is a perfectly made shackle, a stick to beat an unwilling Archivist with. The last time they tried to escape, Elias made Jon watch Martin’s punishment, a hand-crafted nightmare borrowed from the Desolation. All his eyes forced open, feeding on Martin’s agony even as he begged Elias to stop. Jon had stopped talking about escape after that. In a small section of Martin’s mind that he hopes Elias has overlooked, Martin thinks of nothing but.

There isn’t a lot to say to each other. Jon shivers and quakes with the aftershocks of Seeing, the last vestiges of his humanity brutalized into the service of the Eye. Martin’s mouth tastes of dirt, and his skin crawls where he is hemmed in, but he makes himself push through that discomfort, to lie down next to Jon and hold his body against his own like mooring two sea-shattered pieces of driftwood.

Martin kisses his temple. His cheek. Makes his words whisper against skin, as if they are lover’s recollections should Elias be watching.

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“Do you remember when I was working with Peter? And you offered me something, and I didn’t take it?”

Jon stiffens. His hand in Martin’s clenches, any hope he might have felt poisoned with such reasonable terror.

“If I made you the same offer,” Martin continues into the hollow of his throat. “Knowing what would happen to you now. What would you say?”

“The same choice?”

“Exactly the same.”

Jon’s grip is bruising.

“You think there’s a way?”

“I know there is. I found something.”

Jon turns over so they are face to face.

“What about you?” comes the whisper.

If Martin succeeds, there will be no forgiveness. If Elias loses his Archive, there will be rage, pitiless and unending, the unendurable that he will be made to endure and an endless world within which to suffer it.

“Like you offered,” Martin promises. “Together.”

Carefully, he moves his hand to cover Jon’s eyes, a gentle blindfold. Without breaking eye contact, he takes Jon’s fingers, and brings them up so they run a line across Martin’s throat.

“Do you understand me?” Martin asks.

His limbs tremble more often than not nowadays, but Jon mimics Martin’s gestures – his hand held flat over his own sight, before tracing a shivering line across Martin’s neck.

“Yes,” Jon whispers.

“Even if it hurts? Even if it doesn’t work?”

“Yes,” Jon repeats. His eyes wet, the light in them calmer and clearer than Martin has seen in a long time. “Together.” He buries his face into Martin’s chest, bringing his arms around form them into one tangled mass. “I love you. I love you and I wish I could have given you better than this.”

“I love you,” Martin replies. “Just a bit longer, yeah? Just a bit longer.”

Jon leans in and presses their lips together. And Martin knows when the time comes Jon will look at him as kindly, with such compassion as Martin releases him from the Eye, and the thought almost rocks him to tears.

“Just a bit longer,” Jon confirms, and Martin folds into the embrace and prays they can both last till then.