#loiral al'sekath

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Routine - 8.ii

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"Work" as it turns out is not the ordeal Loiral is expecting. He sits at the table with Marcus, and answers questions about politics. They refer frequently to the map as Loiral dredges his memory for troop numbers and movements, past skirmishes, trade deals and supposed alliances, and Marcus takes copious notes in an unfamiliar script.

He thinks about lying, but it seems unwise. It's difficult to sabotage an endeavour with misinformation when you don't have the first idea what that endeavour might be. And he's acutely conscious of the consequences of being caught out. He can't start to guess what the surfacer might already know, and that's before the possibility of magic for catching lies.

Marcus' attention seems to centre on Houses Det'tar and Noquvalin and their territories and affairs. What Loiral can infer from that he's not yet sure, but if he keeps his ears open maybe he will start to understand what is going on. Not having any personal history with Det'tar or Noquvalin, he struggles to answer many of the questions in much detail. To his profound relief, Marcus doesn't press him for information he doesn't have.

"I'm not a library," he grumbles sourly, unable to come up with anything about hypothetical dealings between Houses Det'tar and Barrahel. "Don't worry," Marcus smiles, "A library visit is in our itinerary. How about House Al'Sekath?" "We've probably bought something from them, or sold to them." "Come now, you can be more specific than that." "I'm thinking," Loiral protests plaintively. "I don't think I've seen anything with their stamp on it recently..." "And can you draw that stamp for me?" "I can try..." Reluctantly he sketches, on a new page, the stylised execution scene of the Det'tar sigil. It comes out lopsided and not looking much like the original. "Just look at their front gates," he jabs a finger at the map, "it's blazoned twelve feet tall."

"Hm. So, nothing recent, you say... what about less recently?" "I think we bought some maille from Det'tar when I was younger... just a few coats, nothing to wage war over." He remembers getting to touch it -- dark links that ran over his hands like water -- but it was meant for someone more important than Loiral. His aunt made the deal, he thinks. "If not Det'tar, from whom would you normally purchase arms and armour?" "House Orlivayas," he lies easily. "And does Det'tar export a lot of metalwork?" "I don't think so. They have an excellent smith and she does piecework for the occasional client, but as far as I know they don't have extensive forges..."

And so it goes on.

Nothing about this exercise ought to be particularly strenuous, but Loiral finds he is flagging by the time he's finally dismissed. His thoughts are sluggish and a headache is building behind his eyes. "Weapons practice in an hour," Marcus tells the drow. "You may do as you will until then." "Yes, master." Best behaviour. "Thank you, master." This is tolerable. If things stay this way, he can survive this. He will mind his manners and not provoke the human and maybe he can survive this.

Do as you will. He doesn’t know what to do. There is nothing in this bright, foreign house that he wants to do. The closest thing to want is he does not want to still be in the same room as his master. So he slinks back toward the pitiful bed that is his to rest in. He’ll rest for an hour, and then they’ll let him spar, and maybe he will feel a little more like himself for it.

Except he doesn’t get all the way to his bed. He meets one of the juveniles in the hall, the one – he thinks – who hit him in the face by mistake. The same whip is coiled on her hip, the same arrogant strut marks her gait. She grins when she sees Loiral, showing off a crooked mouthful of broad, oversized teeth.

He doesn't know the word she uses as a command, but the gesture is clear enough. One hand extended in front of her, a single finger pointed at the floor and then jabbed sharply downward. It can only be "Down."

Loiral's soul aches with humiliation. His hands itch to lash out. 

When he doesn’t move fast enough, the girl sticks her hand out again and confidently grasps the front of Loiral's collar. She doesn’t have Marcus' terrible strength, but Loiral lets her force him to his knees anyway.

Even absent, the priest stands behind Loiral, controlling his every move.

He lets his head drop as the human lets go of his collar. Her hands run through his hair, invasive. Shame burns across his skin. One hand cups the back of his skull and pushes him down further. He folds like a doll.

She’s talking, jabbering in her own tongue, cooing like a woman with a favourite lover. The sheer perversity of it turns Loiral’s stomach. He could kill her, if her clumsiness with the whip is any indication of her general competence. She’s barely even bigger than him. He could kill her, and mutilate her corpse, and feed it to the lizards.

But instead he grovels at her feet, and her hands roam over his back, and he does nothing to stop her.

Even when the knife comes out, he does nothing. The edge kisses his skin. Cold – and then warm as blood wells. It’s sharp enough that it barely stings. Or she’s picked a line of scar tissue where he’s lost more sensation than he thought. Or his ordeal under the scourge has destroyed his perspective and his ability to tell what is damaging him.

She lifts his head, fingers tangled in his hair, and the tug on his scalp doesn’t really hurt either.

She speaks, the words loud and slow and drawn-out as if that could somehow breach the language barrier. Loiral watches mutely. Lack of reaction is most likely the best way to convey that he doesn’t understand.

Using his hair as a handle still, she sits him back on his heels. When her grip releases, he stays where he is put. More pointless, incomprehensible words, guttural even in her youth’s voice. She holds one hand out towards Loiral, palm up, as if pantomiming a request for something to be handed over.

Loiral has nothing, just the clothes on his back. He stares blankly at her hand. She sighs, and that at least seems to be universal. Not that it helps him to know that she is growing frustrated.

She grabs his wrist, moves his arm through the same motion, and he understands enough to present his hand, palm up. Another word. When she lets go, he holds still. Same pantomime, other arm. He offers her his other hand also. The same word again. Praise, perhaps. Or maybe she’s trying to teach him the word for hand, or for this gesture. He has no way to know.

It should, he thinks, be an effort to keep his palms out and vulnerable like this. He knows that nothing good is about to happen. But a strange calm has settled into the crevices of his soul, and he feels nothing but dull disgust for the girl.

Whatever damage she does, Marcus will fix it. He’s fixed everything he’s done so far, so it’s clear he wants his property fit and whole.

The knife is no surprise. The tip traces the lines of his palm, grazing the skin just enough that a barely-felt sting trails a few seconds in its wake. He watches, disinterested, as she presses a little firmer. It’s sharp. The tip sinks into the heel of his hand without resistance, without even exerting the pressure that might make him flinch downwards away from it.

It hurts a little. But it doesn’t matter. Less pain than biting his tongue, less than a deep bruise, less pain than the morning after a hard training session.

The knife comes away with just the barest hint of his blood still clinging to it. She’s scared to cut any deeper, Loiral surmises, more scared of the consequences than he is, somehow.

Instead she scores another shallow cut. The skin parts like paper, blood welling slowly to fill the indentation. What a nuisance. How is he to touch anything without leaving prints of blood now? Two, three, four lines, none of them deep enough to nick the sinews. One palm and then the other, and he doesn’t even lower his hands. 

Blood trickles across his skin, runs round the sides of his hands, gathers underneath and drips from his knuckles onto his knees. Is it less red than usual? Diminished, perhaps, by how much he lost, and not quite fully restored by the magic he received?

Maybe he’s imagining it. Maybe it’s just his soul that is dimmer and drained of its vitality.

The human girl is exclaiming something. Impressed or annoyed by his lack of reaction, perhaps?

There – that feeling in his chest is fear, putting in an appearance at last. Not sharp terror, nor the suffocating anxiety of the priest’s presence, but a low, dull pang as he wonders how far she’ll go to get the results she wants. Should he be faking a response? Cowering, crying, begging her for mercy?

He can do it, he thinks, if he has to. He will do it, if it starts to be too much. The throb of his sliced palms is bearable, but he doesn’t want to know if he can bear losing a finger.

But all she does is lay the blade flat against one of Loiral’s palms, and close his fingers around it. He holds on, tentatively. The sharp edges are more painful buried in the flesh and shifting with every twitch of his muscles than they were just gliding across the skin and departing. But it’s bearable.

She lets go of the hilt. The absurdity of handing Loiral a weapon very nearly makes him laugh, but he schools his features to stillness. No need to warn her, if – if he – 

His heart is pounding, thundering in his ears. He could kill her, right here, right now. He could open her throat and it would feel so good to take back that power. To take her life from her and watch the shock fade from her idiot, animal eyes.

It isn’t worth the price.

She’s pantomiming flipping his hand over, fist still closed. Loiral obeys, demonstrating that he’s really holding onto the blade. The metal bites a little deeper. It’s nothing more than a bravado trick. He’s seen more than one young soldier do it to themselves just for the social kudos.

The same idiots who really do lose fingers trying to catch blades barehanded once they’ve convinced themselves that it’s not so bad. 

Loiral’s never felt the need to hurt himself participating in that kind of one-upmanship, but he supposes he could now without flinching. If he survives this, will it be the dead calm that persists, or the suffocating fear, the twitching at stray footfalls? Is there anything he can do to choose one over the other?

He’s almost sliding towards reverie as he watches the blood drip from between his fingers, but he jolts back to the present the instant the girl moves. She snatches her knife back, but she’s not quick, and Loiral is able to loosen his grip enough that he doesn’t think anything important is severed as it slides from his grasp.

She wipes it on his clothes, and even the deliberate slight doesn’t really sting either, because they aren’t his clothes and because he’s been filthy enough that he doesn’t care.

She wants to see the damage, of course, before she’s willing to move on. It does burn, loosening his fingers to let her see, and reluctance starts to well up from that ache in Loiral’s chest.

Those last cuts are deep. At rest the edges don’t sit closed, and white is visible in the wound as well as red. A little grimace from the human tells him she didn’t quite mean to do so much damage.

He wonders if she’ll be in trouble with Marcus. He hopes so. He remembers her fear.

She closes his fingers again like she doesn’t want to see, and Loiral keeps the hand fisted as away to apply pressure and slow the bleeding. Not that it matters. He won’t lose enough to die before Marcus finds him again and fixes it.

Her knee knocks his shoulder as she brushes past. The drow waits until she’s gone, then picks himself up.

Back to his mat he slinks, because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. Especially now that he’d paint anything he touched with his blood. He lies down, curls up, and closes his eyes to feign sleep. They usually leave him alone when his eyes are shut.

His hands throb. The pain is ramping up now as his body realises the damage. He keeps them balled tight, as if he could crush the pain into submission along with the blood flow. 

And then he’s crying.

One second he’s just annoyed at the indignity, the next the pain and helplessness and indignity hit him like a wall. He can’t believe he just sat there and let her do that. He can’t believe he didn’t even try to protest or pull away. And now he’s crying again, how pathetic, how spineless is he.

He rolls over to face the wall, as if it could hide his tears. He curls up tight around his hands. And, teeth gritted, telling himself over and over to just pull himself together, he sobs into his knees.

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Routine - 8.i

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Reverie is a blank room, empty and silent. The constant babble of the slum is walled out, and the mind is still. No thoughts unspool. No memories -- thankfully -- present themselves for examination. There is just nothing.

The nothing is interrupted by nearby footfalls, heavy on the flimsy floorboards. The voices that Loiral has been hearing and not hearing for some time, become near and immediate. He gets up promptly, scurrying out of the way of the two women who converge on his pallet.

One of them strips the sheet off it, adding it to the bundle under her arm, while the other replaces it with clean. It's still strange to see them doing slave's work, but it seems to be the surfacers' way. They talk continuously, laughing with each other. Their words are still meaningless to Loiral, but he is starting to be able to pick out the rhythm and the tone. They are relaxed and cheerful, and he is happy to be ignored.

Still feeling the echoes of emptiness in his skull, Loiral slinks barefoot down the narrow stairs two floors to the latrine. That at least he is allowed without asking permission. Days are settling into routine, and that fact is distantly terrifying, but it is difficult to feel anything but numb. Exhaustion dogs his heels despite hours and hours of rest.

Next in his day, Loiral goes looking for his master. He finds the man in the kitchen, poring over a map of the city. A plate of char-cooked meat is cooling by his elbow. Loiral goes to his side and kneels silently, waiting to be acknowledged. Without looking round, Marcus ruffles his hair fondly. Loiral tolerates it with numb indifference. It's not relevant. If anything, it is good. Better that the man is in a good mood.

A moment later, with just as little attention spared, he's offered a chunk of meat. He takes it carefully with his teeth. Despite the humiliation, his mouth and stomach have opinions -- the meat is good. Rich, perfectly cooked, and hopefully filling. He gulps it down hungrily, and the next. But the food intensifies his thirst. "Please, master..." he ventures nervously. "Hm?" "May I have a drink, please?"

Without further acknowledgement, the surfacer holds out a mug. Loiral puts his mouth obediently on the rim. He's got used to drinking this way and rarely chokes on it now -- but he splutters this time, as he finds that the liquid isn't water but rather some strong liquor. His master chuckles as he puts the mug back on the table.

"There is water in the jug on the side there. Drink all you like." "Thank you, master," Loiral forces out between coughs. If manners can keep the whip from his back, he'll say everything he's supposed to say. It's not worth fighting. It's not worth protesting the casual mockery.

He pours water, and drinks three full mugs, expecting permission to be rescinded at any moment. The sensations of thirst don't vanish instantly. But it's still good to have enough.

When he's done, he returns to Marcus' side, and goes quietly back to his knees. In another pleasant surprise, the man continues to feed him. Every other piece of meat goes to Loiral, and by the time the plate is empty his hunger pangs have abated. Sitting on his knees, staring at nothing, he almost slips back into reverie.

He's jolted back to alertness when the surfacer pushes his chair back. He searches the man's face anxiously, wondering what to expect now. "How are you feeling, drow?" "Obedient, master." It's become his standard response, almost a ritual. As always, it brings a faint smile to the human's lips. "And what else?" Loiral swallows. "Grateful," he adds quickly. It doesn't seem to be enough. He tries to think, pulse racing. "I... not bad," he ventures. "I feel well." It's almost a surprise as he says it. But he's not hungry, or thirsty. Barely anything hurts. He worries, once it’s too late to take the words back, that his master will take measures to correct matters. But, "Good," Marcus allows at last. "This is not so bad, then?" A lazy gesture encompasses the room, Loiral kneeling at his feet in the stinging light. "This is tolerable?" "Yes, master." Loiral cannot agree fast enough. Only -- what, ten days ago? less? -- he would have regarded this as the nadir of humiliation. But he is not being whipped within an inch of his life. So yes, this is tolerable. Shame is a crushing weight, but it's tolerable.

"Every day could be like this," Marcus suggests, voice full of that false warmth that means nothing. "I do not want to have to beat every service from you. Obey me and I will not punish you. Obey me willingly, submit to me, and I will reward you. Food and water could be the least of it. Would you not prefer to live that way?" "Yes," Loiral whispers, head bowed. "What troubles you, drow? What makes you hesitate?" "Nothing," Loiral protests, "I submit, I -- I'm your property, master." The words are still bitter in his mouth. "I'm -- scared of you, I'll obey you, whatever you say." Marcus clicks his tongue, amused. "Perhaps, but only until you are out of my sight, hm?" "I've learned," Loiral breathes. "I won't run again." It earns him a chuckle, and a pat on the head. "You've learned fear," Marcus agrees. "But fear is only half of loyalty, drow. The other half is desire. So tell me -- what do you desire?"

Loiral hesitates, searching for the right answer in the human's eyes. Surely this is another trap. But Marcus' tone is still calm and patient. "There is no wrong answer, drow. I know that you wish me harm and I do not hold that against you. Of course you hate me. It amuses me, because I know you fear me too much to act upon it." Loiral flinches, dropping his gaze sullenly. "But there must be other things you would enjoy. You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. So tell me -- what do you want?" Refusing to answer is not an option. Lying seems pointless. "Freedom," Loiral admits. "Really? And what would you do with it if you had it?" "I could go home--" Loiral starts, but the surfacer speaks over him and he falls silent.

"I know enough of your culture to know that your defeat at my hands will not be viewed with sympathy. If you return to your House you will be a laughing stock at the very best. Or would you not tell them where you have been while you have not been at your post?" "I'd cope," Loiral snaps, then flinches as he hears his own tone. Anxiously he turns his eyes up to search for anger, but he finds only calm, cruel mockery. "Would you, now? I am told your peers are quick to take advantage of weakness. You could find your life very difficult... if they accept you back at all." "I'd be fine," Loiral insists, "Or -- I'd go elsewhere. If you hadn't robbed me." A cold sweat is gathering on his skin. "Go elsewhere and do what? If I set you loose with the money I took from you, where would you go? Would you live as a common mercenary? A merchant trader, perhaps?" "Yes," Loiral insists, despite the pit in his stomach. "I could do that. I could do lots of things." "Your savings will not last long. As a commoner alone, without House or allies... it would be hard work. You might not make it. And every step of the way you will be deferring to those more important and more powerful than yourself, ducking and scraping to avoid their wrath. Is that the life you want?" Loiral's eyes are burning. He fights the impending tears. He deserves better, he thinks petulantly. He had better, before this creature took it from him. "Rather that than a slave," he says.

"Hmm. Very well. I'm sure that determination will serve you well when I set you free." A chuckle. "Don't look so shocked, I have not forgotten the terms of our agreement. When your ninety days are up, you will have your freedom and you will have your money and possessions back too. You can forge your own way in the world. But to what end?" Loiral blinks up at him blankly. "What is it that you want from life? Power? Glory? Fame? The favour of your goddess?" That last makes Loiral's gut twist. Lolth's favour does not fall upon the weak and the cowardly. The best he can hope for is to be beneath Her notice.

Into the silence, Marcus remarks, "Now, there's a thought." The chill humour in his voice puts Loiral's hackles up instantly. "Which do you fear more, I wonder? Your Spider Queen, or me?" Loiral is a rat caught in a basilisk's gaze. Lolth, of course. The human is no god. But... he fears him a great deal. "If I ordered you to blaspheme against your goddess, would you obey me still?" The man smirks, studying the drow for a moment, then laughs. "No wonder you fear death so much. I hear She has little patience for weakness." He shakes his head. "It must amuse Her no end, the predicament it creates for unfortunates like yourself. Regardless, I interrupted. You were thinking on what it is that you want from life." Loiral nods, swallowing his heart.

He's given time to gather his scattered thoughts. He doesn't understand the point of this conversation. Doesn't understand what Marcus is looking for, and so doesn't understand what to hide. But conversation is better than torture. "Power, I guess," he ventures at length. "Wealth. Normal things." "You want to live well." "Yes," he agrees sourly. "And you want safety?" A skeptical stare. "There's no such thing." “There are degrees, and the powerful surely have more ability to defend themselves than the weak." "I suppose..." "It's power over others that you want, then? Control?" With a smirk, the man reaches out to cup the side of Loiral's face, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. The helplessness wrenches in his chest like a physical pain. "Yes," he breathes, forcing himself to hold still. "Yes, I want that." As soon as his master lets go, he flinches away and lets himself shudder. "I see what you're at," he accuses bitterly. "You've taken everything from me to make me, make me need things. I see what you're doing." "I should hope so," Marcus responds mildly, "It is disappointing when my handiwork goes unappreciated." A tiny sob of despair wells up, catching Loiral by surprise. He bites down on his tongue to cut off the sound.

"You are mine." Marcus' voice is low, but it is heavy with confidence and power. "I have claimed you by the oldest right, the right of conquest. Everything you experience is mine to give or withhold. You know this is in your heart. It is not a foreign concept to your kind. The strong take from the weak, and all are slaves to those who hold the power. "So yes, I have taken from you. It is my right. Do you deny that?" "No, master." Loiral's voice is a whisper. "Truthfully? I am not looking for blind acquiescence." Loiral turns the question over in his head. Every part of him screams no, the human has no right, this is wrong, this is not how it works, Loiral is better than this... But he fought, and he lost, and -- and his mind shies away from the thoughts but he still has to answer the question. His skin crawls. "I can't deny it," he whispers. "Good."

"Now, I will ask you again. What do you want? No more philosophy, no more on the purpose of life. Here and now, what do you want? I will not grant your freedom, not yet. But there are many other privileges I could grant. What would make your servitude bearable?" For a long moment Loiral sits dumb, unable to think. His chest is tight and his skin is clammy. He doesn't know how to answer. Then a flood of wants and needs hit him, all at once so that he's almost overwhelmed by the deprivation. "I want shoes," he blurts out. "And clothes that fit, and I want to bathe. I want time to, to exercise and train with the sword. I want a--" A weapon. But he stumbles on the words, caught off guard by the sick thought of what the punishment might be if that is not allowed. "Done, done, and done," Marcus declares across his hesitation. "Would you like me to teach you?" "I, what?" "Swordplay. You have had some formal training, but there is more that I could teach you." Loiral is frozen, eyes flickering across the surfacer's face in confusion. "I... don't want to learn by getting stabbed." A rich, deep laugh. "I assure you that training will not involve unnecessary injury, although I cannot rule out the occasional accident, or a few nicks and bruises. It will not be at all like when we first crossed blades." "Then... yes. Yes, master." Loiral belatedly forces himself to show respect. "I would like that." "You want to learn to best me," Marcus observes with a chuckle. He grins at the flash of guilt in his prisoner's eyes. "A few short weeks will not be enough, I fear, but you are welcome to try. What else?" "Food. I want enough to eat, when I want it, and water when I'm thirsty." "Hm. No. I am enjoying our current arrangement. You will continue to ask my permission to eat and drink. But, barring exceptional circumstances, when you ask I will provide." Loiral nods reluctant acquiescence. It sounds like a lie, but he's in no position to argue. "I want... time to myself." "Space is not a luxury I have in abundance," Marcus points out. It's true. The narrow building has more occupants than rooms, by Loiral's best guess. He can hear them always, even now, moving about and talking on the floors above and below. "Provided that I do not require your services, however, I won't stop you from seeking privacy. Perhaps when the others are out you will find it. Is that all?"

Is it? Loiral wonders for a second. Such simple things. His world has narrowed so much. But of course it isn't. He wants out of here. He wants his life back, he wants to be treated with respect, he doesn't want to bow and scrape and kneel and especially he doesn't want to get whipped within an inch of his life-- He takes a shuddering breath, and tries to think only of things that the human might grant.

"Money?" he dares. "I want--" "No. Money is freedom, is it not? What would you spend it on? Perhaps I will grant that instead." "... a weapon." He almost cringes just asking. But his master's good humour holds. "No again. If you want to cut my throat, you will have to try a little harder than that." "I wouldn't dare, master," Loiral mumbles weakly. "I am glad to hear it." A heavy hand rests on his head again, crushing his thoughts into silence, leaving him shivering and dead-eyed.

"There are some practical concerns, of course. Water, soap and time to bathe you will have daily, circumstances allowing. Clothes you will have, and yes, shoes, but given the behaviour I expect of you, you may find that you prefer to dress as a slave when we go out in the city. Weapons practice happens daily, at around the third hour. I advise you to practise whatever stretches you prefer beforehand, as the others do. "Our relationship remains unchanged, I trust you understand. You will address me as master, you will obey me without question or hesitation, and you will show proper deference as you do now. Your new privileges are contingent on your continued good behaviour, and upon my whim. Do you understand?" Loiral nods carefully, feeling the hand shift against his scalp. "Yes, master. I understand." "Good. I imagine you are eager to get clean. Do that now, and attend on me again when you are done. It is about time we got to work."

[Next]

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Recapture - 7.vi

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And a brief final part for this section.

---

The hot water soaks into Loiral's still-tender skin. The new flesh is paler than the old, a subtle patchwork of stripes and ragged blotches across his body -- or is it the remnants of his old skin that are paler, and the new that is a little darker?

The horror runs deeper than words can express.

Even sitting in hot water up to his neck, Loiral is shivering. His body is caked in blood and filth. Red swirls slowly out from his skin. He should be getting clean. But he keeps catching himself just sitting. Looking down, not really seeing, as something like reverie creeps into his skull. Something like reverie but empty and sick.

It's only fear that keeps pushing him back to going through the motions, dragging the washcloth across his stinging skin. He said he would. It's too soon to invite more punishment. He can't handle it. He's already coming apart at the seams.

Will he ever be brave enough to defy Marcus again?

He's too exhausted for these thoughts. He just needs to focus on getting clean. Getting the blood out of his hair. Out of the creases of his fingers. Just focus on not making this worse.

The little food he was given isn't enough. Hunger hurts like a cramp in his core. He doesn't know which he wants more -- food, or more rest. More than either, he wants to avoid further punishment. If he can just keep from making it worse, surely it has to get better eventually...

(It doesn't, he knows.)

He can't afford to dwell on how much worse it can get.

The water isn't hot any more by the time Loiral has rubbed himself down with soap and wiped it all away again. It is cold and opaque with the muck off his body. He is shivering harder than ever. But it is still strangely difficult to force himself out of the tub.

He isn't really clean, with the now-filthy water still clinging to his skin. He has no idea what he is expected to do next. Get cleaner, somehow? Or is this as much as he is allowed? Should he dry off, or is he intended to just shiver?

It takes him a distressingly long time to work it out. One of the things set out for him was a bucket, and there is more water in the butt in the corner. It shouldn’t be complicated. He struggles to be certain. 

The fresh water is colder than the lukewarm tub he climbed out of. Loiral still pours it over himself in generous quantities. It takes the last of the muck with it, and leaves him feeling genuinely clean for the first time in... He isn't sure. He doesn't want to think about how long it's been. Some cycles. Too long. Not nearly long enough to justify his cowardice.

And he is back to not knowing what to do next. There's no towelling to dry off with. There are clothes -- more coarse grey slave's clothes -- but water is still dripping from his skin. He wants to dress, he hates the vulnerability of nakedness. But he's soaking wet.

There's really only one thing to do, but it still takes an age of shivering in uncertainty to convince himself to just do it. He pulls the clothes on despite the way they cling and are instantly made damp. 

It's... better. A fraction warmer, a fraction less exposed.

If he must survive by fractions, that is what he will do.

[Next]

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Recapture - 7.v

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Unexpectedly, inspiration has struck to write some more of this! Happy holidays, folks.

---

The door opens, and blinding light washes across Loiral where he lies. Marcus is just a dark and blurred silhouette, but Loiral knows him by his heavy footfalls, and by the easy confidence of his posture, and by the threatening shape of the scourge on his hip. His captor, his torturer. His master.

Loiral's first impulse is to curl up and hide his face, like a useless child. His second is to beg for mercy.

But he has a better option. He knows what behaviour has been rewarded in the past. What the human – his master – wants to see. He desperately, desperately needs to avoid provoking further punishment. In the harsh light of all that it is possible to suffer, grovelling is not so great a hardship.

He expects agony as he asks his so-recently-shattered body to move. But the movement is smooth and easy. His limbs don't fail or falter, only tremble with his fear. The gulf between expectation and reality leaves him disoriented and confused. Still, he rolls sideways off the edge of the low pallet and up onto his knees, the sheet sliding off his body and gathering around his hips. He lets his head hang low enough that his hair – matted and heavy with his blood – rests on the back of his hands where they are braced against the floor.

"How are you healing, drow?" Loiral hesitates, uncertain how to answer. He is interrupted before terror can nudge him into blurting something out. "Come here, let me have a look at you." He crawls obediently across the floorboards to cringe at his master's feet. Fuck humiliation, he will do anything not to be whipped like that again.

Marcus stoops to take one of Loiral's arms, lifting and letting his hand slide down the forearm until his grip tightens at the wrist and he pulls Loiral to his feet. The tug on his aching body makes Loiral gasp, and he expects to be lifted into the air once again. But after a couple of seconds with his feet still in contact with the floor, he remembers to take his own weight. He's tipped one way, then the other, then spun with a hand on his shoulder as Marcus examines his handiwork.

"Very good," the man declares, "That's all looking very healthy." Loiral finds himself at least a little relieved. It would be worse, he supposes, to end up a cripple as well as a coward and a slave. “How about the pain?" "It, uh, there's not much, master," Loiral answers shakily. Not enough, he wonders? Having admitted it, will he be given more? His desperation escapes his throat as a tiny whine before he catches it. "Ah, and you have not lost the power of speech after all. That's good." The humour at his expense ought to sting, but Loiral is too exhausted to care. When the tension on his wrist is lessened, he lets his knees buckle and is lowered back to the floor.

"What do you think, will you remember that lesson?" "Yes master," he all but squeaks, cringing lower against the floorboards. "Yes, I swear, I swear." "I believe you." Loiral daren't raise his head, but he can hear the lazy smile in the warm, low tone of his master's voice. "Thank you master," he half-sobs, hoping that it means the 'lesson' won't be further reinforced.

"Things can be better, going forward. Behave yourself, and I will not have to punish you. You want that, don't you?" "Yes, master. I'll behave, I swear." "Excellent. Now, I can see that you still need some time to recover, so I won't put you to work immediately. Let's see to your needs, and then perhaps you may accompany me for a little while. What do you think of that?" "I, uh, I'm grateful," Loiral flounders. "Whatever you want, master, I just, I only want to please you, master." Marcus chuckles, and it is hard-edged. He goes to one knee, and his strong fingers tangle in Loiral's hair and lift the drow's head. Loiral meets his master's eyes with breathless fear, searching for a cue. "Hmm." The surfacer's lip curls as he studies his victim. "No, I think not."

Loiral has no words to defend himself with, he doesn't even know what he said wrong. He whimpers and his master laughs again. But more softly. "Panic not. I am not accusing you of lying to me. I simply think you are confused. You have little interest in pleasing me yet. What you want is merely to avoid angering me, wouldn't you agree?" "I'm sorry master," Loiral apologises desperately. He's torn between the desire to press himself lower against the floor, and the knowledge that he shouldn't pull away from the hand in his hair. "I'm sorry, I, I can try harder, uhm, I'll, uhm..." "Hush," Marcus smiles, and Loiral is glad to obey. "You may relax, drow. I am not angry, and I am not intending to hurt you today." "Thank you master," Loiral breathes. "I have taught you with fear, it is no surprise to me that it is fear that motivates you. ... But perhaps you are still too shaken for philosophy, poor thing."

The grip on his hair is released, and Loiral remains frozen in place, paralysed by eye contact and the acute awareness of how easily those hands can inflict agony. "Never mind it. Simply come downstairs and follow my orders, and you need worry about nothing else for now.

There is a terrible comfort in that.

Downstairs, Loiral drops back to his knees without needing to be told. "Stay there," Marcus confirms. He fills a pewter mug from a pitcher, and brings it to Loiral. It feels unnatural for Loiral to lift his head while so scared and so wretched. He hesitates, and Marcus does it for him with two fingers under his chin. "Drink," comes the order. The water is cool and clean. When the mug is empty Marcus turns away again, and returns with a square of dense fungus cake. "Eat." He breaks off small pieces, and brings them directly to Loiral's mouth. Loiral eats, and barely spares a thought for the humiliation. He is so very hungry, and the food goes down easily. After the food there is more water. It is good.

And then, "How are you feeling, drow?" "I don't know, master," Loiral answers honestly. He has no words for the shivering emptiness in his head. "Hmm."

Silence stretches, and Loiral aches with fear. 'I don't know' isn't good enough. The nightmare is unending and there is no way out. His chest heaves. Uncontrolled shudders race through his body.

"If you do as I command, I will not need to hurt you like that again," Marcus tells him softly. "I'll do everything you command," Loiral promises. "I'm sorry I disobeyed you, I'm so sorry." "That punishment is over. Do you understand? Look at me, I want to see your eyes." Loiral lifts his gaze. His breath keeps catching in his throat. What is he expected to say? "It is done. Paid for in full. I am not angry any more. It is like I said – though I cannot blame you if you do not recall the details of that conversation – I understand why you had to try and run from me. I have caused you a lot of suffering, of course you want to escape me. "And you understand that I had to punish you harshly, so that when the thought next occurs to you, you will remember that it is not worth the consequences. But the lesson is taught, and there is no need for me to hurt you further. It is behind us now. Do you understand?"

There is a logic to it, and Loiral wants to believe. He is so, so helpless against Marcus deciding on a whim to indulge his cruelty. He would far prefer to believe that it won't happen for no reason. But he doesn't. "Yes master," he nods anyway. "I understand, master." "Punishment means nothing without mercy to contrast it against."

Loiral simply watches his master woodenly, and after a few moments Marcus smiles again. "Can I trust you to wash yourself?" "Master?" "If I leave you unsupervised with a tub of hot water and so forth, are you able to get yourself clean without assistance?" "Yes, master." Loiral is wary. What's the catch? "Good. This way then -- you may walk."

[Next]

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Recapture - 7.iv

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Loiral has the peculiar experience of becoming familiar with the manhandling well before he consciously understands. At first it is purely a rhythm in the pain. Agony jumps and flares in patterns. Across his back. Across his front. Each limb in turn.

Water is poured across his lips and he is desperately thirsty but he does not want it. He doesn’t have the coordination to drink. It gets into his throat, his lungs, leaves him coughing and choking. Agony in his chest, over and over. Then, before the spasms end, the pattern begins again.

Slowly, slowly, over the course of what must be an eternity, the intensity dims and he becomes aware of more detail.

The points of painful pressure on his shredded flesh resolve into the grip of firm hands, and the unforgiving solidity of the floor as his body drags across it. He becomes aware of the distinction between the pain that is broken bones shifting and the pain that is wounds cracking open over and over as the magic like fire tries to seal the gashes but the movement of his body pulls them wide again.

He is being moved, he understands. Strong, rough hands are manipulating his body as if he is a doll and they are a child at play. He has no opinion. The pain is unending and all he wants in the world is relief and it will not come. Nothing else matters.

He does not pay attention to the pattern exactly, he has no attention to spare. But it repeats and repeats and he learns anyway. Lying on his side, he is curled into a ball – agony in his back and the side that scrapes across the floor – with his head on his knees and his wrists by his ankles. Then his body is made to curve the other way – agony in his side again and all down his front – back arched, shoulders pulled back, head tipped back to expose his throat.

Then he is flipped onto his back and each limb in turn is manipulated excruciatingly through its full range of motion. Bones shift. New just-forming skin stretches and splits. Loiral is on fire and the torment never stops. The water returns – more drowning, more coughs to crack open his ribcage. And then onto his other side and it starts over again.

Eventually he is able to swallow the water instead of choking on it. Swallowing hurts his raw and swollen throat, but his body craves the life-giving fluid. Suddenly, the scant mouthfuls that were too much are not enough.

The awful, relentless movement resumes, and Loiral wants the water again instead. He clings to that longing. Holds onto it through each cycle, desperate for the scant respite. When the water does return at last his lips part eagerly to receive it. Maybe it will quench his thirst eventually.

The one that is hurting him is human, but it is not his master Marcus. He does not lift his eyes to look, and he does not wonder about their identity. He is a doll in their hands and he does not need to know more.

Each iteration of the cycle is a little less unbearable than the last. Eventually he cannot feel his bones move at the places that were broken. Eventually his skin doesn’t split when his body is flexed and curled.

Slowly, slowly, a profound relief seeps through Loiral’s mind. His bones merely ache, his skin merely stings and itches, his flesh merely throbs and cramps. He could move, perhaps, if he wanted, if he dared. He does not. He can’t imagine making that choice. He has been limp in this stranger’s hands for so long that he doesn’t know what else he would do. And he can’t do anything that might be taken for defiance, he can’t. He can’t face another round of punishment, he’ll do anything to avoid it.

So he doesn’t look at the surfacer’s face and he doesn’t protest the repetitive manipulation of his body. He drinks as much as he is permitted and he doesn’t whine when the water is taken away each time. And the pain gets better, not worse, and that is everything he can hope for.

At last, blessedly, the burn of the magic winks out. The air is cool on Loiral’s tender skin – just cool, not the whisper of pain that it was against the open wounds. Tears well up and he lets out a soft sob of relief.

When the pattern breaks, Loiral whimpers in immediate terror. The human’s arms slide under his knees and shoulders, lifting him from the floor, and all he can think is that this new development must be the beginning of the next round of torture. “Please no,” he whimpers, clinging to the desperate shred of hope that his pleas might eventually appease. “Please I’ll obey please…”

There is no answer. Loiral is floppy as he is carried, mind blank with fright. Utterly, utterly helpless.

The last thing he expects is to be laid down in clean linens, on a surface that – while not exactly soft – is certainly softer than the floor. He lies still, trembling with horror and anticipation, long after the surfacer has stepped away and closed the door and left him alone. It is not dark. Light filters in around the poorly-fitted door and up between the floorboards. But it is dim enough not to sting his eyes, at last. Is he actually, finally being allowed a rest? Does he dare to hope that the punishment is over?

He regrets running. He regrets being bold enough to take that risk. It wasn’t worth it, it wasn’t worth it at all. He is a coward and a disgrace but he would rather be a coward than a howling, mindless, broken thing beneath the whip. He regrets disobeying. He is sorry and he can only hope desperately that he is deemed sorry enough.

The pain is dim and distant and he is so, so grateful for that. But as he lies still and waits for judgement, a strange emptiness creeps into his body in its place. A sense of something off, something missing, filling up his limbs and his core and even out to his fingers and toes. It’s hard to believe that the pain can be gone – reduced to an unpleasant but profoundly tolerable ache. Loiral feels raw still in his soul, flayed open and shattered and exposed. His body – shivering and more or less whole – cannot be his, cannot be real.

It is as if the agony was an illusion, vanished away like the breaking of a spell. Or as if the relief he feels now is the illusion and it will break at any moment and drop him back into the unbearable torment. His skin crawls. His body feels empty, unreal, not his own. The memories press at the inside of his skull, sickening. The awful sensations of flesh tearing and skin peeled slash by brutal slash from his bones. The intensity that smothered his thoughts. He couldn’t stop struggling, even when struggling only broke his body further. And the words, the things Marcus threatened to do to him if he disobeyed again…

Loiral whimpers and shudders and weeps. The pain is mostly gone – and he is so, so grateful – but he is still somehow shattered.

[Next]

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Recapture - 7.iii

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[Caution: gore.]

Loiral whines as he feels the chains on his ankles shift, stammers another useless “no no no please-!” as his legs are lifted, then screams as his body comes off the floor, forcing the broken limbs to bear his weight. He loses all other awareness as he swings from his ankles. Each break is alight with agony, stretched to the point of rupture. The already-torn-and-swollen tissues cannot bear the strain, he is almost certain that his legs are going to come off. The agony makes him jerk and writhe helplessly, and the motion redoubles the agony in turn. His throat is already raw but he screams and screams, panicked and shameless with desperation.

Suddenly fresh pain slams into his side from hip to armpit, stinging and bruising at the same time. The force knocks him sideways, jolting the strained breaks yet further. The cuffs on his wrists jerk him back, stopping him from swinging freely, yanking hard on the breaks in his arms.

Again, and this time the swathe of pain falls across his back. Again the impact slams him sideways, pulling his body taut between his ankles and wrists. Again, across the belly. Loiral’s arms are chained to the floor with little slack and he cannot lift his arms to defend his exposed body. His hands twitch and spasm frantically, catching at the chain and tangling in the links. He’s oblivious to the force of the metal on his fragile fingers, utterly consumed by the greater agony in his limbs.

The blows keep falling. Loiral can’t even tell what kind of injury is being done to his skin. Each time it’s a broad tract of stinging heat across his body, littered with sharper stabs of pain. It pales at first beside the effects of the sheer force, each impact translated by the chains into a blindingly hard tug on each and every break. He can’t think, can’t breathe past his own screaming. In scattered, fragmented thoughts he longs to black out. But it goes on and on and on without respite.

The fire across his skin gets worse with every impact. Lacerations layer across lacerations, leaving him raw and burning. There is no warning as to where the blows will fall next. Back, chest, back again. Sides, thighs, shoulders, arms. Blood drips across his skin and forms rivulets down his arms. Sometimes the agony stabs hard into particularly sensitive points and rivals even the breaks. Occasionally his face is struck and the weapon leaves deep burning gashes across cheek, chin, scalp. He twists and struggles helplessly, driven by raw instinct.

His voice gives out long before the punishment ends. His thrashing grows weaker. He is all agony. All awful, over-extended breaks and shredded, searing skin. There’s no thought left, no hope, no reason, no understanding, no sense of self. There is only pain layered over pain, and the torment gets worse and worse and worse without end.

---

Marcus loves the way his prisoner’s strength fails. He loves the helpless tremor, and the way the back-arching tension gives way into feeble limpness. He loves the wet sound of the scourge against bloodied flesh, and the near-silent straining gasps. The drow’s mouth is stretched wide, lips peeled back from the teeth as he tries to scream, but his voice has cracked and splintered and faded and now there is only the quiet whistle of air forced through his tight throat.

Marcus loves the opportunity to let loose, to abandon careful restraint and break his fragile little toy.  He works the whip up and down across that narrow, frail-boned body until the skin hangs in ragged scraps and strips from the lacerated flesh and the drow is coated evenly in crimson, seeping blood from his knees down to the tips of his fingers where they just barely brush the floor. There was more than a handspan of clearance when Marcus started. The breaks in the long bones of the drow’s legs are horribly elongated, the soft tissues stretched grotesquely by his body weight and the constant jolt of the whip.

Eventually Marcus stands back to simply watch Loiral tremble. There’s no visible reaction to the respite from the whipping. Only the frantic, irregular pace of his breath gives away that he is still conscious, though Marcus knows that he will be. It is difficult to pass out while suspended head-down. 

Unhurriedly he kneels down in front of his victim. He traces his fingers along the edge of the blindfold to the back of the head, and unpicks the knots with gentle, precise care. The cloth is sodden with blood as it peels away from the skin.The drow’s pupils constrict to pin-pricks at the sudden onslaught of light. But the eyes remain wide and glazed, unseeing. Loiral is lost in the agony, rendered all but insensible. Just the way Marcus wants him. 

He pauses to stroke the drow’s cheek, unable to resist pressing firmly enough to pull wide the gash left there by a stray hook. Blood flows freely over and around his fingers. Loiral reacts not at all. Marcus did not mean to tear up his face, but all in all he is quite pleased with how few strikes landed off target. The new scourge is not yet familiar, and placing all nine tails precisely is not trivial.

Still smiling to himself, he stands and unlatches the chain that suspends his prisoner from the ceiling. He lowers Loiral to the floor slowly, relishing every feeble twitch and agonised gasp. The drow’s chest heaves, sucking in air. Marcus can see the broken ribs shifting beneath the patchwork of shredded skin and exposed muscle. It is beautiful. He could just watch his prisoner shudder and struggle to breathe for hours.

But he only waits until the frantic gasping slows a little. He cannot be sure how conscious Loiral is, and he doesn’t want to leave him too long to recover. “How are you feeling, drow?” he asks, smirking fractionally at his own humour. “Are you still in there, or have I driven you out of your mind altogether?” There is no answer – not unexpected – so he puts a little more edge into his tone. “Do you hear me, drow? I asked you a question, I expect an answer.” Loiral’s mouth twitches, but no sound emerges. His eyes slide sideways, searching, but fail to settle and focus. Marcus crouches beside him and gently turns his face to help him make eye contact. His gaze wavers, eyes still dull. “Do you hear me, drow?” Marcus repeats patiently. “—hhhh—” whistles Loiral’s breath as his abused voicebox fails to engage. “Words, drow. The answer you are looking for is ‘yes, master’.” “—ss—” he manages faintly “—ss — mmhh—sr—” “Good,” Marcus purrs, amused. “Have you learned your lesson yet?” Another near-silent whistle of a whimper. “—mmhh — plhhh — sss — plea—hsss—” Marcus chuckles.

But amusing as the incoherent attempts at pleading are, there is little evidence of understanding. Marcus wants to speak to his prisoner. He anticipated this. After all, he deliberately took Loiral past the point of reason, it is no surprise that he is not recovering fast. So Marcus incants a spell-prayer. Just a small thing, a little expenditure of power. He touches his fingers to Loiral’s forehead. To his irritation, the magic fizzles out against the drow’s skin. Marcus frowns. He casts again, and this time delivers the spellcharge into the exposed muscle at the base of the neck. The enchantment will find the mind regardless, it does not need to be delivered directly to the cranium. A minor nuisance.

As the magic takes effect, Loiral’s eyes clear and find focus. He does not look happy to be forced into lucidity. His mouth works uselessly. The utter terror written across his face is gratifying. He will learn from this experience. Now he just needs reminding what lesson it is that he is meant to be learning. “Are you hearing me now, drow?” “… yes, master…” Loiral whispers. A shudder ripples through his flesh and makes his eyes roll back for a moment despite the magical aid. “Good. Do you remember why you are suffering like this?” “… yes, mmh– master.” Marcus waits, wondering idly if his silence will be cue enough, or if the drow will need more explicit prompting. “… tried … to run …” comes the confession at last, “ss-- I’m-- I’m sorry, master… so sorry, please, ple-ease…” Satisfaction is warm in Marcus’ chest. He has picked his victim well, this time. Loiral breaks so beautifully into shards of panic and servility.

“I do so enjoy your submission, drow,” he tells him fondly. “Show me more of this in future and less defiance, and I will not have to keep breaking you so.” Silent sobs break Loiral’s breath up into shuddering gasps. “…please,” he mouths, “please, please…” “Make no mistake, though. Your screams bring me just as much pleasure. Do you think that you are at the limits of your endurance? You know nothing of the limits of pain, not yet.”

“Listen very closely.” Loiral’s breath is very fast again, shallow and irregular with terror. But his eyes are still focused. “If this were solely for joy,” Marcus tells him, speaking slowly, clearly and with unconcealed relish, “I would next finish breaking your limbs. Six or seven breaks for each of the long bones. Or perhaps I would take a hammer and reduce them to shards, as I did your feet. “Once shattered like that, a prisoner can be restrained by weaving the limbs through cage bars or the spokes of a wheel. Can you imagine how that would feel? I doubt your imagination captures the full intensity. “I might crack your teeth next, or finish the flaying that I have started with the whip. Or perhaps I would just leave you alone with your pain for a few hours. I wonder if you would beg for death, in the end? I would grant it to you eventually, of course. I have a busy schedule, after all, and my goddess loves sacrifice just as yours does.” It is a shame that his prisoner has no voice left. Marcus considers healing his throat so as to hear his whimpers. He is a perfect picture of terror and suffering.

Tragically, though, it is time to lift him back out of despair and offer him some mercy to cling to. Loiral is not merely a sacrifice, despite his recent transgression. “But,” and he touches the drow’s face gently again as he lets his tone warm. “This is not an exercise in self-indulgence, and I do not mean to kill you. This is a lesson for you. And if you learn it well, this will be the end of it. What do you think of that, hmm?” “—please—!” Loiral begs urgently, “please, please—!” Marcus laughs softly. “Very good. I want you to remember this, drow. I want you to remember this point that we have reached. How bad it is, and how it can still get worse. Will you remember?” “—yes,” he sobs, “yes, master, yes—!” “Good. Remember this also: if I must bring you to this point again, I will show a little less restraint. I will take you a little further down the path of agony. You will learn new depths of misery and desperation. Do you understand?” “—yes, master, yes, I— I understand—” “Very good.”

Marcus smiles as he invokes his divine patron again, channeling her healing power. He wants his prisoner witless a little longer, so he crafts a variant spell-prayer that will deliver the required energy over perhaps an hour. The pain will be less intense than a single burst, but it should be more than enough to keep the exhausted drow insensate, especially once the artificial clarity wears off. This time he remembers to deliver the magic to the exposed flesh, bypassing the properties of drow skin.

Loiral convulses as the reddish energy envelops him. His strength is already spent and he can barely lift his back from the floor, but the tortured motions still convey the depth of his agony beautifully. “—mercy—!” he gasps voicelessly, hopelessly “—please please — I’ve learned — please—!” Marcus watches impassively until the attempts at speech stop and the light vanishes from his eyes again. 

Then he kneels down to set the broken bones back into place and to lay the limbs out straight. Without proper care, injuries like this are at risk of leaving debilitating scars, even with magical healing. The slow delivery will reduce the risk. Still, he’ll have one of the initiates come and tend to Loiral as he heals. 

It will be interesting to see how he takes that, as he starts to return to lucidity.

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Recapture - 7.ii

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Through the pain and the hysterical panic, Loiral isn't certain when the cuffs are clipped round his wrists. He certainly notices when a hood is shoved over his head, the rope pulled tight around his throat.

In the suffocating dark, he cannot decipher the impacts any more. The gauntleted hands are all over him – gripping and pulling and snapping and driving home blow after punishing blow. Pain flares over and over until he has no idea which way is up.

Broken bones grind across each other in his arm, his legs. The flesh tears and he is spinning, swinging, falling. The pain is so bad that he thinks the arm must be ripping off but it doesn’t end, the tearing keeps going and going and he is screaming but he can’t even feel his voice in his throat.

Then, suddenly, he is waking.

No time has passed but he is cold and the floor is hard under his back and the bright fresh pain has ripened into a complex, sickening cocktail. The piercing agony of unset breaks is intermingled with the swollen, feverish throb of wounds left too long, and his skull is full to bursting with heavy, molten hurt.

He whines. The sound is low and wavering and broken, desperate with pain and terror.

“Are you awake yet, drow?” drawls the familiar voice of his captor, lazy with boredom and satisfaction. Loiral’s voice pitches up in a terrified squeak. It’s going to get worse. It’s going to get so much worse, Marcus is going to make him scream and suffer for hours or days or more, Loiral defied him – he tried to escape and he failed. His breath comes only as shallow, rapid sobs. He’s not hooded any more – small mercy – but his eyes are still covered and he can’t see.

“I asked you a question,” his master reminds him. “Yes,” Loiral gasps, “master. Master please – please, please –” “I am disappointed, Loiral,” Marcus speaks over him. “I thought you understood our arrangement.” "I do," he swears breathlessly. "I do, I'm sorry, I’m sorry, I’m –” "No. You're not sorry. Not yet." Loiral can only whimper. Chains rattle faintly with the helpless shaking of his limbs, and every shudder wracks him head to toe with pain. The blows could start falling again at any moment and he can’t even see it coming.

"You tried to run from me. Did you really think you could get away?" Yes. No. “I, I, I- please I know better now, I’ve learned, you showed me master please I won’t run again-!” "You defied me, drow." "Never again. Never, I swear, please, master-!" A low chuckle brings Loiral no comfort. "Never again?” The tone is mocking. “And why would I believe that?"

“I’ve learned,” Loiral insists desperately. “Please, I know now, I know I can’t, I just – I wouldn’t try again, please I swear never-!” “You knew the consequences when you ran from me.” “I had to try,” he sobs hopelessly, “Just once, never again, I’m so sorry master, please…”

“I understand.” Loiral isn’t naive enough to mistake the calm amusement for genuine mercy. “Of course you had to try. Just so, you understand why I must now make sure you never try again, do you not?” Loiral sobs harder. The cloth over his eyes is well-saturated with his tears. “Please I won’t, master. I’ve learned, I’ve already learned--” “Be silent.” There is another warm laugh when the command is followed instantly, Loiral’s chest heaving erratically as he holds his breath to suppress his crying.

"Good. You may be afraid now, my little escapee, but what will happen if I do not punish you? That fear will dim. And when you next have a chance to run, you will remember mercy and think perhaps it is worth trying. When you next think of running,” He crouches beside Loiral, voice suddenly very close. “I want you to remember punishment."

Warm, callused fingers touch the side of Loiral’s face, almost gentle. “Do you understand?” The pressure on the swollen bruises barely registers as pain over the cacophony of his broken body. Loiral lets his face be turned towards his master. He’s a servile, trembling mess. Stuttering whimpers escape with every tight breath. He doesn’t know what response is expected of him. "Do you understand," Marcus repeats softly, "Why I am doing this?" “Should I, master?” Loiral asks miserably. He can’t see what difference it makes, but he’ll say whatever he’s meant to. Unsurprisingly, he is laughed at again for his effort. “It’s a genuine question. Do you understand my reasoning?” Loiral takes a shuddering breath, then another. And another. “Yes,” he admits. Yes he understands why unruly slaves are punished. “Yes what?” “Yes master-!” “Better. And do you disagree?” Loiral can’t think straight. Pain and panic have chased all the thoughts out of his head. “I, what, master?” “I hold,” Marcus’ tone is patient, “That if I do not punish you now, you will not fear as you should, and you may dare to run again. Do you disagree?” “I won’t,” Loiral swears hopelessly, “I won’t, I won’t, I wouldn’t hope for mercy twice, please master…” “And you won’t receive it once. There is no use in begging. Not today.”

Loiral lets the broken, despondent sobs well up and overtake him. The motion hurts, but not as much as he is about to hurt. He had his one chance to get away from this and he blew it and there will likely never be another one. The nightmare is reality, and he can’t handle it.

"Take heart," Marcus smirks. "You will live, and the pain will end. I believe that you will learn from this experience."

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Recapture - 7.i

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Loiral runs at the breakneck pace that only outright terror permits. He is acutely aware of the gravel giving under his imperfectly-fitted boots, stealing his momentum. His hand moves to the sword on his hip. Not fast enough. He’s sure it won’t be fast enough. 

Several paces in, he realises he has to decide where he’s going. Away is not good enough. He can hear the human’s deep voice ringing out in sonorous incantation behind him. 

The next wagon down -- some of the mercenaries are still in there. They made a pact. Technically for outside the city -- but maybe they’ll help him fight. He can’t face Marcus alone, he knows that much.

His skin tingles with the distinctive touch of magic against his back. He doesn’t have time to wonder what the spell might be or whether it’s taken hold. He flings himself up onto the back of the wagon and dives through the unlaced doorflap -- breaking line of sight -- before the surfacer priest can cast anything worse.

“Enemy!” he yells, “Incoming!” “Oi!” one of the duergar snaps, standing up, “Your feuds are no business of ours.” “No feud,” Loiral half-lies, jumping up onto the table and eyeballing his chances of making it through and out the front without anyone grabbing him for bolting past them. “What other kind--” the duergar starts. But they are interrupted as the wagon shakes under the human’s considerable armoured weight.

The door is torn open hard enough that the canvas rips. The towering man has to stoop to enter. His broad frame seems to fill the entire space. Loiral skips backwards, heels knocking plates aside, as a single stride brings Marcus within striking range.

The mercenaries are on their feet, hollering and drawing blades. They might not want any part of Loiral’s trouble, but he’s brought it to them and they’ll definitely fight to save their own skins. Marcus shows no hesitation in coming at them with steel.

There are goblins on the table with Loiral. He doesn’t know if he can flee, so he lunges forwards instead. These are the best odds he’ll get. A duergar axe has caught the rapier in a parry, and in the brief moment of stillness Loiral hopes to land a solid strike on Marcus’ extended arm. His aim is true, but the armour turns the blade away.

He’s saved from a counter-attack by one of the goblins charging in. The creature brushes recklessly close across Loiral’s side, barking a guttural battle-cry. Marcus blocks its sword with one armoured forearm, knocks it off balance, and follows through with a gauntleted fist to the face.

Fueled by desperation, Loiral lunges again, hoping that the goblin doesn’t try to come up between his legs as he steps over it. He can’t afford to give ground. Fighting here at the edge of the table negates a little of the human’s height advantage - though not his reach. Their swords meet with the same bone-shaking force Loiral remembers. He already has a knife in his off-hand, aiming for the underarm. But his momentum isn’t enough. His strike lands short and screeches across the breastplate instead.

Marcus’ fist clips the side of his head as he jumps back, making his eyes water and his ears ring. He narrowly avoids colliding with the second goblin. Distracted, the creature botches a parry, and the rapier takes it in the throat.

The duergar are faring a little better. Marcus treats their axes as more of a threat than the swords. A particularly vicious swing makes him step back, buying Loiral enough time to find his footing and blink his vision clear.

Gods and devils, he hasn’t even left a scratch on the armour.

How is he supposed to fight this? 

Again he thinks of running. But with an ally on either side, is he ever likely to get better odds? He levels his sword, and looks for an opening.

Marcus towers over the squat duergar, and in the cramped space they don’t have enough room to flank him properly. Loiral recognises the tactics duergar always use against larger creatures - they’re aiming predominantly for the knees, hoping to drop him to their level. The best thing Loiral can do to help is to keep that sword high. So he aims for the face. Maybe he can even manage to get between helmet and gorget or through the face-plate. At the very least, he can play distracton.

Swipe, lunge, void, lunge, parry, riposte. He can’t spare much attention to monitor his allies’ swings. Three against one and Marcus is on the defensive, but he’s still a threat. Loiral lands a couple of hits but none of them with the strength he’d like, and none of them get past the plate steel. Three against one and they still haven’t drawn blood. The human moves like a master. Loiral is beginning to despair.

Then at last Marcus grunts and staggers. Loiral’s heart leaps. There’s an axe buried in the surfacer’s calf. Loiral presses the attack eagerly.

But Marcus catches his sword in one hand, and throws it to the side violently enough that Loiral is pulled with it, losing his balance and staggering off the table into the way of one duergar.

Anticipating a lethal follow-up, Loiral dives forwards, rolls, and comes up clumsily against the canvas. He finds his feet just in time to see Marcus boot one of the duergar squarely in the face. And then blood sprays as the rapier is driven through the unfortunate mercenary’s chest.

They aren’t going to win this fight.

So Loiral bolts.

Back out through the torn-open doorway and he hits the ground running. Maybe the surviving stranger will buy him precious seconds.

He runs for the line of stables, hoping to lose himself amongst the buildings and the noise. But there’s at least a hundred metres of open ground between him and the uncertain safety of that cover.

Behind him he hears another death-scream, and then heavy footfalls in pursuit.

He sprints flat out, but the human is faster. The footfalls get louder and nearer with every step, closing his narrow lead.

He’s not going to make it. He can almost feel the razor-sharp blade slipping between his ribs. Or a heavy hand closing on the back of his maille, yanking him off his feet yet again.

He’s not going to make it.

Loiral jumps left and spins, hoping to catch the man off-guard with a desperate swipe. His options are running out and the tide of panic is rising, choking rational thought into silence.

His judgement is poor, and his slash is easily avoided. He back-pedals, sword pointed at the human’s face, desperate to defend himself. “I won’t!” he shouts breathlessly, “I’ll fight and I’ll die!” Panic panic panic pounds his pulse in his chest.

Marcus’ response is in no language Loiral speaks. He recognises the cadence of prayer and leaps forwards again, hoping to break the priest’s concentration. But he’s not quite close enough. His skin stings as the magic slams through his defences and into his core. He jumps back --

-- but --

-- he doesn’t.

Nothing happens.

He’s frozen.

Panic has him trying to thrash like an animal caught in a snare but he doesn’t move. His muscles are unresponsive. He’s stopped stock still in an unsteady stance, limbs trembling. His lungs suck in quick, automatic breaths but he can’t even control that, can’t will himself to breathe more deeply. All he can move is his eyes, staring in stark terror as Marcus closes the remaining distance in a single stride.

One enormous hand grabs his wrist with painful force, while the other takes his sword by the blade and twists, effortlessly ripping it from Loiral’s unresponsive fingers. The sword is tossed aside and his other wrist is pulled forwards. One hand is sufficient to encircle both and yank them above his head.

Loiral isn’t sure if the magic releases him then, or if sheer terror gives him the will to break out of its grip. Either way it’s much too late.

He twists and struggles, trying every trick he knows but he can’t break free. The human is impossibly strong and his wrists are held too high. It’s like tugging against steel cuffs. He screams obscenities and kicks wildly.

“You are mine, drow,” Marcus snarls. “Did you think you could escape me?” His grip tightens until Loiral is keening in pain, feeling the bones grind against each other. He’s yanked roughly off his feet, swinging from his wrists. His legs come up reflexively, kicking out against his captor, but his boots find only polished metal and he finds himself scrabbling ineffectually for purchase.

Marcus’ fist strikes him solidly in the gut. The maille links provide no defence against the impact. The second blow drives up beneath his sternum and knocks the breath from his lungs. Loiral’s struggles become more frantic and less coordinated. He can’t breathe to shout insults. He can’t break the vice-like grip.

The world lurches as he’s swung sideways and then down. Impact is a jolt through his bones, a flare of pain along the left side of his body. While vision is still snapping back into place, a massive hand grabs his face with crushing force and slams his head back against the stone. The world is white, then black, then blurred and swimming. He still can’t breathe and the animal terror of suffocation only compounds the splitting pain in his skull.

Another full-body impact, and all he feels is the white-black flash of redoubled pain in his skull. Then the grip on his wrists releases and for a moment he is falling before the world reorients and he’s on the ground, twisting wildly in panic. His arms come up to try and cover his head, but there’s a sharp, tearing pain in his abdomen and he curls up around it. Was he kicked or stabbed? And the pain keeps coming.

“Last time.”  -- the words are distant and distorted, punctuated by pain -- “I gave you a choice. You. Chose. To. Submit. This time.” -- Loiral can’t tell which way is up, can’t shield his face or gut --  “I will show you.” -- pain and terror and the taste of blood --  “That choice. Is. A. Luxury. You cannot run from me.” -- ribs crack, breath is a distorted whine --  “You cannot hide from me.” -- hot bright unbearable pain in knee and skull and knee again --  “You cannot stand against me.” -- pain fear pain --  “You. Are. Mine.”

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Flight - 6.iii

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[Content includes: fantasy racism, mention of slavery.]

"It's not that simple," Aeliira explains, voice edged with frustration. Loiral feels it too. Panic still beats a steady rhythm in the back of his head, despite the comforting weight of new arms and armour, despite the distance he's put between himself and the source of the terror. He's been making tough decisions one after another for hours. He knows that implacable monster is out there somewhere, perhaps already on his trail. And even his supposed ally is as likely to gut and rob him as to help.

"Yes we need to leave with the next caravan," she continues, "But we can't just attach ourselves to any wagon. Take the duergar - they'd sign us up as mercenaries, no question. But you can bet your eye teeth we'd find ourselves in slave irons before the journey's out." Again, Loiral appends glumly in his head. "Any group strong enough to take us down without major risk - they'll do it."

Loiral has to consciously keep his shoulders from slumping. She’s right, and he hates it. Strip away his House's political clout, and what does he have? His own fighting strength: one single soldier, a second-rate sword and third-rate maille. And Aeliira. Who's neither a fighter nor trustworthy. He's still not even sure he should have armed her. But she'll need at least a chance to defend herself out there if she's going to be any use at all. 

And he doesn’t like admitting it, but she is useful. She knows much more about this kind of situation than he does, for a start. "What do we do?" he asks resignedly. "We need to make allies," she tells him. She sounds confident, at least. "We won't be the only loners in the caravan. And everyone vulnerable will be banding together. There'll be some kind of compact, just you wait and see. We just need to talk to the right people and get in on it." "You've done this before?" Loiral asks, surprised. He wouldn't have guessed that she'd ever been outside city limits. "Oh divinity no." She half-laughs, and Loiral glowers at her, feeling mocked. "Then how can you be so certain?" "This is how freelancers survive everywhere, noble master." Her smile takes a little of the sting out of the teasing. Just a little. "This world belongs to the Houses, guilds, cartels and sects. The rest of us get by through safety in numbers."

Reluctantly he lets her take the lead. This is her field of expertise, apparently. Especially when it comes to dealing with the lesser races. Falling in at her heels isn't exactly comfortable, but it is at least a familiar dynamic. She can do the talking, and he'll guard her back.

---

It takes an interminably long stretch of haggling and negotiating before Aeliira is satisfied. She speaks with all kinds of ruffians and scum, from fellow drow to hairy, stinking goblinoids. The mercenary compact - she was right - has more than a dozen members including themselves.

Finally - finally - they have a place at a campfire and they can rest and eat.

The food is rough fare - crudely prepared and barely seasoned - but it's hearty and most importantly there is plenty of it. Slices of dripping red meat seared over the fire, and a thick stew of sidarelle and rockchafer and an unidentifiable leaf. It's one of the best things Loiral has ever tasted. He eats until the ache in his belly is thoroughly silenced.

He gives his new sword some much-needed care. He listens to the mercenaries swap stories. He drinks from the flask of strong something that is passed round from hand to hand, and shares a cautious smile with Aeliira.

And he still can't relax.

Tomorrow is not soon enough to get gone. He just needs to hang on until they're outside the walls. And that’s a crazy thought. He'll feel safer outside the walls? But no mission in the beast-haunted wilds has ever felt as tense and perilous as his own city does now. He’s absolutely sick of being terrified.

Still, the sword on his hip gives him enough confidence to walk with his head up.  He can pass the anxious paranoia he feels off as an air of professional caution. The untidy cluster of wagons and corralled animals is not yet familiar. But it's not threatening either. The merchants and caravaneers are already beginning to acknowledge him with nods as he picks his way between the stacks of half-loaded cargo. They'll be in each other's company for weeks, it will pay to be on amicable terms.

Tentatively, he begins to hope that this could be home for a little while.

Until he rounds the corner of a wagon and fear hits him like a wall of ice. Right there --  not ten paces away -- enormous and intimidating in his armour and his long cloak -- is the enemy that he is running from.

Base instinct grabs the reins, and Loiral is running before he's even processed the shock.

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Flight - 6.ii

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Aeliira falters at the threshold to the bank foyer. The dim light shows off the rich decor in a full spectrum of hues, from the dark, plush carpet to the faerie fire flickering across the carvings of the vaulted ceiling. Aeliira has probably never seen so much wealth in her life. Her hesitance brings Loiral a kind of bitter satisfaction, and he uses that feeling of contempt to bolster his fraying nerves. He needs all the confidence he can get to keep his chin high and make himself stride forwards without hesitating himself. He's keenly aware of the stained, sweat-soaked rags he's wearing, the dirt on his knees, the state of his hair. All eyes must be on him, but he resists the urge to look around.

Clinging to anger at the injustice of it all as a defence against shame, he marches straight up to the closest member of staff. Shoulders square, back straight, chin high. All deliberate attempts to project status and confidence. A sneer crawls across his face - and he fights not to let it become a desperate snarl. He can't fail here, he can't. It doesn't bear contemplating. "I wish to make a withdrawal from my bank vault," he announces in clipped, barely even tones. "Now, if you please." The attendant's eyes flick up and down, assessing Loiral's dishevelled state. "And who might you be?" she inquires. Her tone is perfectly polite, but the lack of honorific grates. "My name is Loiral Al'Sekath," he declares. It feels good, surprisingly good. "And I would like to access my account." She inclines her head, expression pleasant but unreadable. "If you would step this way."

Following on her heels, Loiral tries not to glance up at the overlooks where he knows concealed guards keep watch. It's impolite to acknowledge the security. A point of etiquette that's hard to keep as hulking, heavily-armoured guards fall in behind them. Aeliira's presence at his shoulder does nothing to ease Loiral's tension. He knows it's ridiculous to fear a literal knife in the back here and now. But she is uncomfortably close. And she could make this very difficult for him with a few well-placed words.

But as they are lead through gilded doors that click locked behind them, he begins to worry that betrayal shouldn't be his biggest fear. He's been back here a hundred times, but he's never been so acutely conscious of how completely the bank controls the situation. He could disappear here without a chance to defend himself, and no one would ever know.

When they are shown into a familiar consultation room, he deliberately flops into one of the plush chairs. Maybe affecting bored relaxation will help him settle his fraying nerves. "If you would wait here," the attendant smiles, "A consultant will be with you shortly." "I just want to make a withdrawal," Loiral repeats shortly. Though he knows she heard him the first time. "Of course." This should not be complicated. But his heart insists on fluttering against his ribs, and when the attendant lets herself out, he almost expects to hear another lock click.

Almost immediately, a slave is at Loiral's elbow, offering a tray of fluted glasses. Loiral takes one deliberately. A moment's hesitation is dismissed. Even if the glim were poisoned - which would make little sense under the circumstances - refusing to drink wouldn't get him out of trouble. So he knocks it back. Aeliira takes a glass too, and perches herself nervously on the edge of another chair.

Loiral puts his empty glass down with a little more force than necessary. "Don't just stand there," he snaps at the slave. "Find me some clothes, by the hells." She bows deeply, and scurries away. It's unlikely that she'll succeed, and for a moment he wonders how she'll take the unreasonable instruction. But it's not as if she's actually obliged to follow his orders. And maybe she'll pass the instruction on to someone with the power to do something.

He's distracted by watching Aeliira realise that she now has nowhere to put her glass. He takes a small, petty satisfaction in it. The more off-balance she looks, the more readily he can convince himself that he belongs here. This is his world. Nothing has changed, just because he did a brief stint in chains.

The broker, when she arrives, is no stranger to Loiral. Her name is Phyraias, and he has never seen her less than perfectly composed. "Lord Al'Sekath," she greets him as she sweeps into the room. Her dress is close-fitted and immaculate, and her long hair piled atop her head in an elaborate do. Loiral has never managed to discern whether she is genuinely nobility, or if she's simply wealthy and powerful enough to wear the fashions of nobility without fear. "Good gracious, what has happened to you." Loiral feels naked in front of her, every humiliation laid bare. She pauses just long enough that he begins to fear that an answer is expected, but presses on before he can string the words together. "What can I do for you today?"

"I want to make a withdrawal." Why is she making him repeat himself? The attendant must have passed on his words. "Of course, of course. And your ally here, you trust her?" Loiral glances back at Aeliira. Tension accentuates the lines of her neck. Her fingers are tight on the stem of the glass. A smirk quirks Loiral's lips. "Only barely," he answers honestly. "Would you prefer she leave the room?" "I'll speak quietly." He stands and steps closer to Phyraias. She leans in obligingly, turning one ear. The smell of her doubtless expensive perfume fills Loiral's nose as he leans close and breathes the words of his pass-phrase. Phyraias smiles at him as he steps back to a more comfortable distance.

"Very good," she agrees. "In the interest of security, however, I must ask. Do you have any proof of identity?" Loiral is stunned. "Is this a joke?" he snaps irritably. "You know who I am." "I should hate to let a potential impostor have access to a client's vault." Her expression is serious, but her eyes are alight with something vicious. "A runaway slave, perhaps, or other such lowlife. You understand me, I trust." "You have my damned passphrase." Panic is rising fast. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did he refuse to plan for this possibility? "Isn't that enough?" "Normally it would be," Phyraias smiles, showing many perfect, pearly teeth. "But unusual circumstances call for unusual measures, do they not?" "How dare you!" Loiral snaps, taking a step forwards. He's had enough of people yanking his chain, he needs this to work.

But something in her demeanour stops him. She doesn't lift a finger. Maybe her predatory smile grows a fraction wider. Maybe her eyes flicker for a moment to something behind Loiral. Or maybe it's all in his head. But he is suddenly, chillingly conscious of how deeply within her domain he is. He steps back, heart thudding, anger sputtering out faster than he can rekindle it. Cold fear lurks behind it. "I apologise," he says into the chilly silence. "That was impolite of me." Her smile has not moved.

As Loiral hesitates, thoughts scrambled, Aeliira gets to her feet. "On what grounds are these circumstances unusual?" She sounds confident. Damn, Loiral thinks. She's come up with a plan while he's still reeling. She's going to snatch this out from under his feet. He should have disposed of her sooner. "You presume much about my lord's business," Aeliira continues. "And is your security really so lax that you think an impostor could fool you so easily? Do you not employ wizards? My lord is both tired and in a hurry, and has no time for your obstructive demands." Phyraias' smile is unwavering. Loiral fights not to gawk. "Of course, of course. Nevertheless, some proof of identity would put my mind at ease." "Do you really think we would have come here," Aeliira counters, "If we had time to spare?" "Stop playing games," Loiral agrees, finding his voice. "And give me my money." "Of course. How much would you like to withdraw?" No more objections? Can it be that easy? Alright. "All of it."

He was hoping for the satisfaction of seeing Phyraias surprised, but there isn't so much as a blink. "Give me five thousand as promissory notes," he continues, "Split as three thousands and four half thousands, three thousand in mixed bars, and the rest in coins." He resists an impulse to glance at Aeliira. "That is quite an unusual request," Phyraias notes. Anger bubbles to the surface again, but Loiral reminds himself to be polite. "I'm well aware. Don't make my life difficult." "Such a large transaction cannot be processed instantaneously, you realise." "So long as it's as quick as possible," he allows, "I'll wait." "Very good. I do hope you will be comfortable here – shall I send for more glim?" "Please do. Oh, and get me some clothes, would you?" It's an effort to mask his impatience as annoyance rather than desperation. "I've spent quite enough time in these rags." "Lord Al'Sekath, I'm afraid this is a bank, not a tailor's shop." "Find something," Aeliira instructs. "If we must waste our time waiting, you can at least spare us the necessity of making a detour." "Clothing is not free," Phyraias notes. "Yes, yes," Loiral agrees, "I'll pay a fair price. Just be quick about it." "I will see what can be done."

As the broker takes her leave, Aeliira shoots a delighted, incredulous grin at Loiral. For a moment, he can't help but smile back, amused by her glee. Before he remembers that she is not his friend.

Aeliira's face falls as his expression hardens. Disappointment morphs into angry suspicion. Loiral offers her a cold smile. "Don't sulk," he mocks. "You had your chance." "I'm still getting my cut," she insists. Loiral's silence is answer enough. "Don't you dare ditch me now -" she starts, getting to her feet. But Loiral cuts her off with a snarl. "Don't raise your voice to me, commoner. You had your chance, and you failed. You should be happy with whatever scraps I deign to give you!" "Ignorant boy," she snaps back, surprising him with her vehemence. "I just dragged your ass out of the fire for the second time there! You need me, or -" "I do not! I would have been just fine without -" "You were about to let that bitch bully you into a very awkward position!" Despite his anger, the casual reference to Phyraias as 'that bitch' startles a laugh out of Loiral. Aeliira looks just as surprised to hear it as he is.

There's a moment of silence.

"I'd be an idiot to let you follow me," Loiral tells her bitterly. "You'd slit my throat at the first opportunity - all you want is my money." "No, you cretin." He expects a counter-argument, but she just stares at him. "What, then?" he prompts, suspicious. She takes a breath. "You know what anyone else is going to say, if we admit to being scared of a human?" "They'd mock us. But I don't intend -" "Shut up and listen, will you?" Loiral glares, but he lets her talk. "If we - if either of us admit what we're running from, we will be laughed at. And if he catches up with us, do you think anyone else will take the threat seriously enough? Who else would understand how important it is not to be taken alive?" Loiral can feel the fear rising at the very thought. His pulse is loud in his ears, and his chest is full of cold weight. Aeliira's voice is soft as she implores, "Wouldn't you prefer to have an ally who understands? I know I would."

Something in Loiral wants to agree. Because she's good at this, isn't she - convincing people of things. But it's a false promise. How could he and she be allies, after what's already passed between them? He laughs - a bitter, brittle sound. "You would trust me?" he asks her. "Don't you think I should rather kill you than look at you?" She pauses. Then, "Go on, then." "What, you want me to throttle you?" But his objection falls flat as she pulls a knife from the folds of her tunic and offers it to him hilt first. It's a narrow blade, undecorated but pleasingly elegant. In Loiral's opinion it's barely long enough to be practical for fighting, and so narrow that he'd fear it snapping. He wonders if she's ever used it, or if its only purpose is looking good. "Don't be ridiculous," he tells her sourly. "As if I'm paying for getting blood on their floors." "Cleaning a carpet is hardly expensive," she points out. "Come on, take it."

So despite a certain reluctance, Loiral takes her knife. The balance in his hand is a little far forwards, despite the narrow blade. Aeliira takes his wrist gently. Her fingers are hot on his skin. She tugs him forwards gently. Her free hand taps against her throat. "Right here," she says. "Come on." When she lets go, she leaves him pressing the edge of the blade against the smooth skin. It's not sharp enough, Loiral reflects. It should be grazing the skin, not indenting it. Someone should teach her how to use a whetstone. He's aware of her chest rising and falling with fast, deep huffs of breath. Her lips are slightly parted, her eyes a touch too wide, intense, staring into his. "Do it," she urges softly. "If you really want to kill me, do it. I can't stop you." Loiral's gut twists with nameless emotions. He ought to feel in control. And there is a thrill to it. But when the sword was at his throat, he flinched and cowered and begged for his life. What in the Nine Hells is she playing at? Who does that? He has all the cards, but he still feels like she's playing him. He should kill her, to head off whatever scheme she's weaving. Carpet cleaning is cheap. Cheaper than feeding a travelling companion.

He can't look away from her eyes.

Maybe he shouldn't kill her. But lowering the knife would be admitting defeat. Wouldn't it? He's suffered too many defeats and humiliations, he can't face bending the knee again. But this is his choice, isn't it? He searches the depths of her eyes, hoping for answers, but finds nothing. His breath is almost as fast as hers. He hates this trickery, hates not knowing what to do. He should just kill her and make it simple. It hurts inside his chest. A tight ache, as if his organs had somehow tied themselves in knots inside his ribcage.

When he lowers the knife, he doesn't know why. Aeliira swallows visibly and takes a deep breath. She smiles, and for a moment he's tempted to stab her after all, just to spite her expectations. But he doesn't. He looks down at the knife, turning it over in his hand. He could keep it, to stop her putting it in his back later. But that seems like an insecure thing to do. And besides, she probably has another one somewhere. He flips it, lamenting the poor balance again, and offers her the hilt.

"Thank you." Her smile is hesitant. Loiral gives a little huff of irritation. "Let's try it?" She's almost pleading, for all that she kept her cool while the blade was out. "What do you have to lose? I'm not exactly a threat. Let's try and make it together?" "Fine," he sighs. He expects her to return to the question of the money. But all she says is "Okay."

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - What Slaves Do - 5.vi

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“Were you good while I was away, drow?”

Pretend it never happened, he said to Aeliira. To his best hope of escape. That shared conspiracy feels like a tentative promise that she might help him...

But on his knees before the human that he calls master, all thoughts of lying shrivel and die in Loiral’s mouth. There’s too much evidence. His healed back. The witnesses - hells, how many saw, if you count the slaves? Too many.

She attacked me, he wants to say, I didn’t do anything, she attacked me.

But he feels as transparent and as helpless as an unschooled child. Pinned by the monster’s gaze as surely as it will pin him with his weight or a blade at his throat or hells a blade through his body...

“Well?” The human’s hand runs through his hair. Gentle at first, sickeningly possessive. Then gripping firmly and using that grip to tilt his head back. “Look at me.” Loiral’s guilt is writ large across his features. He knows it is, and he still can’t find a shred of composure. “I,” he fumbles. Lying at this juncture will only make it worse. “I... defied the female you left me with.” The admission is difficult to spit out. “But I’ve learned my lesson,” he adds urgently, “I swear! She punished me, it won’t happen again!”

Anger sweeps across Marcus’ face like a shadow. Loiral cringes, but he has nowhere to go, not with strong fingers tangled in his hair. Without warning, the man turns on his heel and starts walking, dragging Loiral behind. He yelps in surprise and scrambles after his master. Practically crawling, scrabbling at an awkward angle with no dignity, he can still only relieve some of the pressure. But better that than being dragged limply across the floor.

They stop, of course, at the too-familiar cell. Loiral is tossed to the floor, and there he sprawls, unwilling to even try and get up. He’d only be kicked back down, he’s sure. “Tell me what happened.” The tone is clipped. “I -- She wasn’t satisfied with, she thought I was disrespectful. I, I was tired and I didn’t--” “Don’t make excuses for yourself.” Loiral flinches, but there’s no blow. He swallows and presses on. “My tone made her angry. I apologised. But, she came at me with a knife. I thought she was going to kill me. So I... defended myself.” With his eyes locked firmly on the floor, he can’t see the surfacer’s expression. But he thinks he can feel that frown intensify. “I’m no use to you if I’m dead,” he protests, “I only--” But that’s an excuse, he realises, fractionally before the surfacer’s boot collides with his ribs.

“Sorry,” he chokes out, gasping for breath. “Facts, drow. Tell me what happened.” “I... I got the knife off her. Then I didn’t know what to do. She called her guards and had me beaten. And. She put me on the rack.” He shivers with the memory, hanging his head so that his forehead brushes the floor. “I deserved it. I should never have resisted her.” Even to his own ears the words sound pathetic, bitter, and insincere. Marcus doesn’t comment, so he keeps talking. “I think she might have killed me, but Aeliira stopped her. Because, because I’m your property. And she gave me healing potions so that I could get back to work.” He’s so acutely conscious of the things he isn’t saying. The words shared. The intent to deceive. It’s so loud in his head that he thinks his master must surely be able to just reach out and pluck them from his mind... and that’s a chilling thought if ever he had one. Lolth grants her favourite priestesses the power to read thoughts, or so they always claim. What’s to say that the surfacer gods might not give similar gifts to their favourites? Another involuntary shudder ripples across his body. He cowers against the floor, feeling utterly wretched.

“Look at me,” his master orders. So Loiral obeys. He’s hesitant, expecting a glower and maybe to be struck as soon as he lifts his face. Instead, the human just looks faintly amused. It’s almost as worrying. “Better,” he praises, smirking. “I have decided that I will allow you to look at me whenever you wish.” Loiral goggles, baffled. Does this have anything to do with whether he is about to be punished or not? “No need to look so shocked, drow. I like to see that you fear me. So do go ahead, show me your eyes.” Loiral nods fractionally, still confused. He’s not at all surprised when Marcus returns to the topic at hand, though the cruel smile makes him cringe. Is a few hours without pain too much to ask? “You have chosen wisely in telling me the truth. I had quite the appropriate punishment devised for if you tried to lie to me...” Loiral shudders. He believes that whole-heartedly. “Please master,” he begs tiredly, “Please, I’ve learned my lesson, I won’t do it again. Please don’t punish me more.” “On the contrary,” Marcus declares, and Loiral swallows back a sob of despair. “You did the right thing.” Wait, what? “You are of no use to me dead.” Loiral blinks stupidly up at him, trying to process that statement. He did the right thing? He’s not going to be punished? He went through all that, got tortured, for doing what the human wanted him to do? “If you think your life is at risk, of course you may defend yourself. Though I will expect you to submit as befits your lowly station if your betters are merely trying to discipline you. You have done well today.” He smiles down at Loiral’s bewilderment. “We still have a long way to go, but you have done well.”

He’s not going to be punished. And Loiral hates how much that surge of hope lifts his spirits. It’s not a victory, he knows it isn’t. The surfacer is just playing with his emotions. He looks down, eyes still wet. “What have I told you about good behaviour?” Marcus asks. “It’s rewarded,” Loiral answers warily, almost asking. “Indeed. How would you like, let us say, to have your revenge?” Revenge. It’s the first time he’s been offered anything more than simple, animal necessities. A part of him wants nothing more than to put that gutter-born dross back in her place. But does it really count, if it’s handed to him on a plate by the surface scum that holds his leash? And is it worth jeopardising his relationship with Aeliira - his only plausible escape route? Definitely not. “Of course,” Marcus continues, “It would not be immediate. I still have use for this place, and it would not do to kill our hosts prematurely. But when the time comes, I could give her to you, and you could take your vengeance as you please. What do you think of that?” “I’d like that, master,” Loiral acknowledges warily. He’s rewarded with a smile. “For now: food, water, and rest. Does that sound good?” “Yes master,” Loiral agrees. And he tries not to feel too grateful.

[Next]

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Flight - 6.i

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She comes for him while he’s drifting in shallow reverie. He’s alert instantly at the sound of the key in the door, skin prickling with anticipation. She doesn’t say a word - she doesn’t need to. Loiral can see from her tension and her almost furtive attitude that she’s not here on the human’s command. His heart starts pounding.

He abandons the blanket wordlessly, and waits while Aeliira crouches to unlock the end of his leash from the floor. She wraps the chain several times round her wrist, clearly concerned about him jerking it out of her grip and making a break for it. It won’t help her much, he thinks sourly. If he wanted to, he’s pretty sure he could pull her off her feet. The collar round his neck won’t give her much of an advantage.

Next she unlocks the short chain between his ankles - removing it entirely rather than letting it drag. He gets up as soon as he’s able. The heady mix of fear and hope makes him dizzy, almost nauseous. She insists on locking his wrists together before they leave the cell. He thinks about resisting, about overpowering her now and fleeing alone... but the noise of the struggle might attract attention. And he still needs her. He can always take the key off her body later.

“I could use some more water,” he tells her softly as he lets her lead him out into the foyer. It’s empty, there’s no one else in sight, not even a slave. She nods. There’s a jug beneath the counter that she points out for him. He can’t see any glasses, so he drinks straight from the lip.

Her bag is under the counter too, and she slings it over her shoulder while he gulps down the water. It’s not a large bag, but it’s stuffed full. Clearly she doesn’t mean to stick around after crossing the surfacer priest, and Loiral can’t blame her. She tugs on the leash impatiently to indicate that they should get moving. Loiral glances at the door, then down at his feet. “Shoes wouldn’t go amiss either,” he points out in hushed tones. “What, you can’t cope with a few scratches and splinters?” she snaps quietly. “I can.” He understands her irritation. Every second of delay grates, feeling like Marcus will walk in on them at any moment. “But I think I’ll make better time if I have shoes.” She exhales shortly in frustration, but she nods.

One brief detour to the supply cupboard later, and he’s outfitted with a pair of crude, barely-fitted almost-moccasins. They’re nothing like his own boots. But the soles are tough leather, and that’s good enough for now. Oh how my standards have changed, he laments silently. But he can worry about that later. For now, getting out of here is all that matters.

They walk hurriedly, with purpose. Not running - it stands out too much, and Loiral isn’t even sure how long Aeliira can run. Maybe they’ll find out later, once they’re away from the crowds. He gives her the street address of his bank vault, and she leads the way. His legs are shaky. He can scarcely believe that his desperate gambit is actually paying off. Unless Marcus actually put her up to this... But no, he can’t think like that. There’s such a thing as too much paranoia. Those who watch their backs meet death from the front.

“Has he put any kind of magical alarm on you?” she asks once they’re a few blocks from the facility. “Any... scrying focus, or... tracker?” She doesn’t sound like she knows her magic. But it’s a very material - and very worrying - question. “Not that I know of,” Loiral answers, trying not to sound too irritated. “It’s too late to go back now,” she insists, “I’m not going to ditch you, I’m in this up to my neck already. But I need to know how long we have before he comes after us.” “I don’t know,” he admits bitterly. “I didn’t see him do anything like that... but I’ve been unconscious. A lot.” “Fine,” she sighs, and she tugs him a bit closer to her. He’s not even sure she realises she’s doing it.

They pause at a busy, noisy intersection, and Aeliira flags down a lizard and pays for a ride. Loiral’s glad to climb up behind her, though neither the animal nor its rider seem in particularly good condition. They strap in to the saddle, and the creature takes off up the side of the closest building.

“What are you going to do next?” Aeliira asks, close to his ear as the somewhat ill-fitted harnesses force their bodies together. “If I take your money and leave you a key?” “I’d appreciate if you’d leave me a couple of hundred, too,” he tells her bitterly. “To buy some clothes, and a ride.” “Sure,” she agrees readily. It’s hypothetical, after all. “Then what? Are you going to run home and hope your family take you back without asking too many questions? Leave the city?” He’s silent for a long moment. And not just because a fast turn jerks them apart and makes him struggle to lean forwards again. “I thought we could leave together,” she suggests. “Split the money, get on a caravan. We’d do better as a team than alone.” “I could agree to that,” Loiral allows warily. He’s not sold. He wants his life back. But it might not be so bad to leave the city for a little while. Maybe he could that... if it didn’t sound far too good to be true. If they left together there would nothing to stop him from killing her and taking his money back, and she must know that. So why would she suggest it?

The ride continues without further conversation. Loiral wishes his hands weren’t cuffed together so that he could hold on more securely. But wishes catch no bolts. He needs to keep his mind in the present, because she is going to betray or abandon him at some point, and ideally he needs to betray her first. At the bare minimum, he needs to survive it.

The journey simultaneously takes too long - is Marcus in pursuit yet? - and not long enough. Loiral feels no closer to solving the problem as unfamiliar streets transition into familiar, and finally they are dropped off just across the way from the vault. It’s a squat, imposing building partially dug into the rock, and Loiral knows that it’s draped in a mesh of invisible spellwork far more expensive than the rather plain facade. How many times has he been here - casual, unconcerned, just going about his business...? He is suddenly acutely aware of the chains and the slave’s clothes, his grubby, tousled hair and his bruises. His face burns.

Aeliira takes a deep breath, and looks him in the eye. “So. How are we going to do this?” She sounds nervous. The stakes here are extremely high, for both of them. “You have the pass-phrase,” she notes, “And I have the end of the leash.” Mistake, Loiral thinks. She should have got them inside as soon as possible, and asked the vault staff to take a hold of her slave for her, and he’d be pretty much screwed. Like this, he has the opportunity to tackle her, choke her out, take the key, get these blasted chains off, and go claim his money.

But... he glances up and down the street. It’s busy - mostly drow and their slaves, in this more reputable district. Would any of these people intervene, if they saw a slave trying to overpower his mistress out in the open like this? Maybe. No slave owner likes to see that kind of brazen defiance of status...

She spreads her fingers a little, signalling not quite submission, but an attempt to placate him. She’s still looking him in the eyes with that steady, open gaze, as if approaching a dangerous animal. Not jumpy per se, but not exactly confident either. There’s a respect in her wariness of him, and he appreciates that.

“We both need to leave the city,” she reminds him. “I need you. You know how to handle yourself in a fight. And you need me. I’m a trader, a negotiator. I know how to talk to the lesser races. You’ll do better out there, with me on side.” Loiral nods slowly. She’s not wrong. But she’s still holding the end of the chain that connects to his collar, and he doesn’t know if he can forgive that. “So here’s my proposal,” she continues. “You give me the pass-phrase, so I can get the money. They might not even give it to you if you went, you’d look like a runaway.” More heat colours his cheeks. He hates it, but it’s true. “You wait behind, I come back with the coin, and the first thing I do is I get those chains off you. I have to trust you, I need your help.”

And Loiral finds he wants to believe. Her tone is earnest, her eyes are almost hypnotic. He wants her to need him. He likes, on some level, the idea of fleeing together, making it as a team, finding somewhere to lie low until it’s safe to come home...

But it’s not true, he realises with a chill. She doesn’t need him. She could hire a whole squad of mercenaries with his money, if she needs protection. Mercenaries with far less reason to want her dead. And he doesn’t need her, for the same reasons. But... does he dare attack her?

“No,” he tells her, almost breathless with tension. “You’d never come back for me. Take me in with you. Take the chains off. Then I get the money out, you get your share, I get mine.” Her lips press together unhappily. “How can I be sure that I’ll get my share? I haven’t put my neck on the line getting you out for nothing...”

Suddenly Loiral isn’t entranced by her attitude at all. He is angry. Just a sliver of raw, exhausted irritation, but he can sense the deep well of bitter, humiliated fury beneath. Aeliira is nothing but a greedy, grasping, dirt-born commoner, and he is sick of being tugged around on a leash and treated like a slave.

Her eyes widen a little as she sees his demeanour shift. He takes a step closer, so that there’s less than an arm’s length between them. She’s a little taller than him, but she doesn’t carry herself well. Loiral sets his shoulders and lifts his chin and glowers at her. “Listen up, gutterborn,” he snarls under his breath. “I am done playing slave. You should be grateful that I’m willing to pay you anything for your help. We do this my way, or I swear to Lolth I will snap your neck now and take my chances as a ‘runaway’.” Her fist tightens on the chain leash and she starts to step back, expression equal parts surprise, indignation, and apprehension. Loiral grabs the leash with one shackled hand, and when she tugs on it, it doesn’t move. “Give me the key,” he orders her, putting every ounce of authority he can muster into his voice. “Now.” A jerk on the chain pulls her arm forwards - and she doesn’t seem so happy now to have wrapped it securely around her wrist.

Aeliira nods jerkily, looking afraid now as well as angry. “Your way,” she agrees. “Alright.” Her free hand slips under her clothes to find that inside pocket, while the other unwinds itself from the chain. She pulls out the key and offers it to Loiral. He jerks the chain between his wrists taut with a meaningful glare, turning the locks on the shackles towards her in the same motion. She unlocks both sullenly, and he takes the key from her fingers. “Great,” he tells her with a hard, bitter smile. “Thank you. See, we can be friends.”

[Next]

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - The Holding Facility - 2.ii

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A slave carries the requested items into the cell: a small table and a substantial hammer, suitable for driving in large nails... or breaking bones. Loiral’s nerve begins to slip. “No, wait,” he tries, “Wait, please!” The human laughs, a deep, rich chuckle that is entirely too pleased with itself. “Too late, drow. Too little, too late. Don’t despair, next time you’ll have another chance.” Loiral grits his teeth, already cursing himself for faltering. All he’s achieved is to make himself look like an idiot and a weakling.

The uniformed female sees her slave out, then closes the door behind herself, leaving the two of them alone in the cell again. Loiral squirms fruitlessly as the surfacer positions the table in front of him where he hangs on the wall.

The man doesn’t need to use further restraints. Each of his hands is large enough to fully encircle one of the drow’s slender ankles, easily strong enough to hold it still, foot flat against the table, regardless of Loiral’s struggles. He writhes and wriggles and tries to pull free, but to no effect. He kicks at the surfacer, but his bare foot is little threat. Even when he connects with the face he can’t so much as dislodge that infuriating smirk. He pushes down against the table and tries to lever himself off the wall hook, but the chain between his wrists is firmly locked in place.

Eventually, panting from exertion and panic, he is forced to admit that it is hopeless. He is completely helpless. And once he has finally stopped struggling, the surfacer hefts the hammer, as if to make sure that the drow is paying full attention to what is about to happen.

Loiral has time to set his jaw against the pain. He’s broken bones before. He knows what to expect. He doesn’t scream as the hammer falls, though the pain brings tears to his eyes. He lets his head fall back against the wall and stares up at the ceiling. No need to make the pain worse by looking at the damage.

He keeps silent through the second blow too, though it lands close to the first and the pain is worse. He can feel the bones crunching. He is hyperventilating already. It is going to get worse and worse and worse, worse than anything he’s been through before probably, and he is going to go out of his mind. Terror is crippling.

When the third blow lands, he can’t suppress a strangled scream. And he’s still screaming at the next impact, and the next. He thrashes desperately, despite knowing that it’s futile, despite the fact that every motion makes the pain worse. Blind panic is in control, and he can’t stop himself.

The human works methodically, starting at the base of the big toe and working across the foot to the outside. Then he breaks each toe, striking some of them more than once. Then he works back and forth across the foot to the ankle, ensuring that every bone is shattered.

By the time the torturer is done with the first foot, Loiral is a limp wreck, face streaked with tears. He’s barely conscious of the words tumbling from his mouth, promising repentance, pleading incoherently, begging for mercy that does not come. When he isn’t talking he is howling, voice raw and strained and wavering.

His pleas redouble when the left foot is let loose and the right is taken, braced against the table in exactly the same way. He is frantic, desperate, half-delirious from pain. The surfacer just smiles at him and starts again.

Blessedly, eventually, darkness comes for him and drags him down into the relief of unconsciousness.

---

He comes to on the floor. His feet are agony, blotting out all other sensation. He whimpers, not yet sure where he is or what is happening, but already wishing that he could pass out again. “Look at me, drow.” He looks up. His tormentor stands over him, and the sight kicks recollection into his frayed and exhausted mind.

The man is holding something out towards him. A flask. Water, perhaps? Does he dare to hope? He is so thirsty that it hurts. His throat burns from screaming. His mouth is dry enough that it feels like it should crack with every motion. “Water, for you. Take it.” He knows that it’s a trap before he figures out how. The tone of voice tells him. It’s laced with malicious humour. But thought is difficult. What’s the catch? He wants to take the water. But it’s well out of reach. Oh. I see. He’s going to have to get up in order to reach it.

Fresh pain tears through him with every motion. Even trying his best to keep his feet still, to only raise his torso, he can’t help but jostle them against the floor. He cries out and falls back to the ground. The agony is too much, he can’t do it. He snivels against the floor, despairing.

The surfacer stoops over him. Loiral watches numbly as he wets his fingers from the neck of the flask. He extends his hand, and lets a few drops fall onto the drow’s lips. Loiral licks at it almost involuntarily. The water is cool and sweet... and insufficient to wet his dry mouth. If anything, it just makes him more acutely aware of his thirst. He whines in disappointment, sounding pathetic to his own ears.

Time passes. He’s not sure how much. His captor seems content to wait and watch.

It hurts so much. But he wants the water so badly.

Eventually, he tries again. He takes every movement slowly, tries to exercise the utmost care - though his shaking arms betray him. It is hellish. A dozen times he doesn’t think he can make it, almost gives up again. But eventually he is on his knees, the flask within reach.

To his chagrin, the surfacer brushes away his hands when he reaches shakily for the flask, and instead holds it directly to his mouth. But when he tips it to allow Loiral to drink, all thoughts of resentment are instantly dispelled. Water. It’s almost good enough to dull the pain. He gulps it down urgently, fearing that it will be withdrawn at any moment. But he’s allowed to drink until his stomach is full. The intensity of the sheer relief he feels provokes another wave of self-disgust. Weakling.

When he is finished, the human withdraws the flask and replaces the stopper. His smile seems almost fond, though that seems nonsensical. Perhaps it’s a trick of Loiral’s beleaguered mind. Then it turns cruel. “Sleep well,” he says, and leaves Loiral alone with his agony.

[Next]

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - What Slaves Do - 5.iii

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She shoos her creatures away from the crank so that she can work it herself. Loiral’s pleading gets less coherent and more frantic, higher pitched with panic as his limbs are pulled taut and the last of his wriggle room disappears. He’s seen what the rack can do, seen the broken, crippled creatures that result. “Please, please! I, I - aah - fuck--! Please no please I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

There’s very little he can do to save himself. Just one last ploy of the desperate that might leave him a little less broken than he could be.

He starts sobbing and yelping as soon as the tension in his shoulders starts edging into pain. As the shackles bite into his wrists and ankles and the ache starts to creep into his elbows and knees (and hips, and back), he lets his pleas dissolve into frantic noises, scattered with mere fragments of words. By the time the pain in his shoulders is searing, he’s screaming outright. Maybe if he seems hurt enough she’ll stop. And maybe - hope against hope - Marcus will hear someone else damaging his property and come to the rescue.

But she doesn’t stop just because he’s screaming. The next notch jolts into place and the pain that lances through his joints is sharp enough that it would probably have yanked a scream from his throat even if he were trying to be quiet. He can feel it in his spine and his gut and his chest and especially every single joint in his arms and legs. He thinks surely his shoulders will dislocate soon and he almost wishes they would because it will hurt but at least it would give some momentary slack to the rest of his body and let him breathe - his ribcage is too taut to expand and its getting hard to draw breath. Especially while screaming his lungs out.

Another notch and still nothing gives. Panic is reaching new heights. Between that and the screaming his vision is swimming and dark-spotted. She really is going to fuck his body up beyond recognition and his best efforts at playing broken are not enough. Terror builds in anticipation of the next notch, the next shocking jump up in agony... and it doesn’t come.

He doesn’t have the breath to keep screaming full volume. It breaks up into ragged, keening gasps. The waiting leaves him lost in a kind of blurry haze of anticipation. He doesn’t dare to think she might be done. Probably she’s just waiting for him to start to relax so as to get a better reaction. Not that he can relax, the external tension robs him of any control over his muscles. He can’t do anything but wait for more pain. But it still doesn’t come, and he’s running out of momentum to scream. Slowly he quiets back to whimpers and sobs.

She steps away from the crank, and it is a profound relief. This hurts, yes, and its hard to breathe, but nothing has snapped or dislocated. And so long as he continues to put up a good show of being very very sorry, maybe - just maybe - it might stay that way.

“Have you learned your lesson yet?” she taunts, waving the knife in front of his eyes. “Yes,” he gasps, “Yes, I’m sorry! I, I’ve learned! I’m so sorry!” “I’m not so sure.” She walks round, knife in hand, to stand by his bare feet. He can’t lift his head to track her, but he can hear her boots clicking on the tiles. He’d shiver with anticipation if he could. Without warning, the knife opens a bright line of pain across his sole and Loiral could swear he feels it scrape tendon and bone. Shock and pain tear elicit another tight scream.

Without giving him time to breathe, a second slice tears a strip from the front of his shin, and a third punches through his meagre clothes into the meat of the hip and Loiral has no idea how deep but it feels deep. He howls and howls, no longer sure how much of the sound is played up and how much is an involuntary response to the pain. It’s all getting rather blurred.

“What is going on here?” Aeliira.

[Next]

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - A Lesson In Respect - 4.i

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Loiral is picked up by his collar, and Marcus drags him out of the cell. Even if he weren't far too miserable and scared to ask questions, he's too busy choking. He's dragged a short way down the corridor, then released in front of the water closet and shoved towards it. "Relieve yourself," he's ordered shortly, and he supposes he's glad of the opportunity to do so. By the time he is done and stumbles back into the corridor, the surfacer is waiting with a box of metal objects under one arm: shackles and clamps and locks and nails and so forth. Deeply intimidating, in context. He doesn't have time to dwell on it. He's dragged by the neck again back to the cell and tossed roughly to the floor by the back wall.

"Sit up. Back to the wall, legs out in front." He's still gasping for air, but he obeys. The whip at his master's hip is still red with his blood. Just sitting up makes his head swim again. Marcus takes hold of his wrists and lifts. Loiral's torn-up back hits the wall and drags across the surface, eliciting a breathless cry. He's lifted until most of his weight is on his arms and there's an appreciable gap between his rear and the floor. Marcus holds his wrists against the wall, a little more than a shoulder-width apart, and waits while Loiral instinctively gets his feet underneath himself to take some of his own weight. Then, "Keep your wrists where they are."

Loiral doesn't dare move. He's still shaking and panting and he doesn't know what a "more subtle" punishment might entail, but he fervently wishes he weren't about to find out. From his box of parts, Marcus takes a half cuff and fits it over one trembling wrist. He speaks an incantation, and Loiral's eyes widen with the anticipation of pain. But there's no burning. Instead the metal band deforms under his fingers, fitting snugly to Loiral's wrist. Not so tight as to dig in - not yet, with no pressure on it - but perfectly shaped to hold the wrist flat against the wall. There's no way he's going to be able to slip his hand free.

The half-cuff has a screw hole on either end to allow it to be attached to another cuff or surface. There's no equivalent holes in the wall here, but Marcus casually slides a heavy iron nail through the hole and deep into the wall, apparently effortlessly. As soon as his hand stops touching it, it is embedded firmly and will not shift. Loiral's breath comes quick and shallow. Getting out of these cuffs will take more than a simple key. Not that he didn't expect to be reliant on his master's goodwill to get down anyway. But there's something deeply unsettling about the thought.

The process is repeated for the other wrist, then Marcus steps back to admire his handwork. Loiral is crouched awkwardly against the wall, arms still almost at full extension above his head. He keeps his head bowed and his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. He's learned his lesson.

"Stand up." Loiral tries, he really does. With his wrists pinned flat against the wall above head height, there's no way to lean forwards. So he'd have to scrape his bleeding, shredded back painfully up the wall. Between the pain and the shaking in his legs, he doesn't think he can do it. But disobedience is out of the question. He can still hear anger in his tormentor's tone. So he tries. And tries. And makes little progress. Eventually he's hoisted up by the collar, trying to scream as the friction drags the myriad wounds further open.

When he manages to get his feet underneath him again, driven by the need for air, he finds that he can't actually stand straight. He can only stand so tall before he has to stop because his hands are pretty much immediately above his shoulders. And at that point, his legs still aren't quite straight beneath him. He can immediately see that supporting his weight on bent, shaking legs is going to be tiring and somewhat difficult.

His imagination can suggest a number of unpleasant things that might happen next. He is very, very helpless like this. And it wouldn't take the whip - though he is most scared of the whip - to buckle his knees and have him slip back down the wall and tear his back up even further... he can imagine being hoisted up to semi-standing over and over to face the lash and be made to fall again. He squirms anxiously, trying to get more stable. If he puts his feet out further from the wall, he can lock his legs straight and brace himself against the wall, which feels a little better.

"Ah yes, well thought of. Let's stop you from doing that, shall we?" Loiral curses himself bitterly for an idiot as Marcus goes down on one knee and fastens his ankle cuffs to the base of the wall. He's left a little bit of freedom to move his feet around - he supposes he should be glad - but not enough to lock his legs straight. Despairing, he lets his head drop and his eyes slide closed. Tears are building up again. He is shaking, and helpless, and ashamed of how dreadfully afraid he is.

But further torture is not immediately forthcoming. His irregular, strained gasping subsides into quiet sniffling, and he starts to wonder what the torturer is waiting for. Has he left? Did Loiral miss that somehow? He opens his eyes, careful to keep them lowered. No, he is still here. Watching, apparently. "How is that, drow?" "... uncomfortable." A miserable admission. "Master." "Good. I am going to attend to some other matters." At least the anger is gone, though humour is not much better. "You - obviously - are going to wait here." Oh. Loiral finally understands. It's just going to be time that makes this torture. It's a powerful relief, at least for now. “Take a guess. How long do you think I will leave you like this?"

Loiral swallows anxiously. The question is obviously a trap. If he guesses too low, he might seem like he's trying to weasel out of the punishment. But guess too high, and he risks being called on the implicit boast of endurance. Better guess correctly then, he supposes. And he needs to think fast, he doubts Marcus will wait forever. How long would he leave a captive like this? There's not much point if you aren't prepared to wait a few hours for the pain to really sink in -- unless the whole scenario is a bluff designed to intimidate a prisoner who thinks like a torturer.... no, no, he can't think like that or he's going to actually go crazy.

A few hours then. Dread deepens. At least a couple. And what upper bound? His wrists will be damaged if he ends up dangling from them for long, once he can't support his weight any more. He's seen slaves lose hands that way. And his back will go septic eventually. But there seems to be no shortage of magical healing, so perhaps that doesn't matter. He's breathing fast again. There isn't infinite time, he reminds himself desperately, Marcus apparently has a schedule. He won't want to waste too much time.

"Twelve hours?" he guesses, voice wavering. His tormentor laughs heartily. "I was only going to leave you for a couple of hours. But if you think you can take a whole day…" He leaves the threat hanging as he turns to leave the cell. Loiral groans, half-sobbing. Too high, then. Unless that's just another mind game too...

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[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - The Holding Facility - 2.iv

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Loiral can’t just cry forever. Misery and impotent fury are one thing, but the pain is a lance through his mind, a constant reminder that he needs to do whatever it takes to stop it from hurting so. It should be a simple matter. ‘Perform better,’ get healing. It’s so frustrating. He was past breaking point, he was willing to beg, why would it only come out faltering and false-sounding? It came easily when he was out of his mind with pain. Yes, and he will push me to that point again if I can’t learn to swallow my pride so focus.

Slaves do it all the time. It shouldn’t be a difficult act. Maybe he can put the words together in advance, and practice until he gets it right. It’s a humiliating idea. But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it. He knows how it goes: all ‘please please please’ and ‘master I beg you’ and ‘please I need it’ and --

Memory intrudes unbidden. Her hands on his cheeks. Her bright, bright eyes. The curl of her lip as he pleads, breathless, hypnotised - no, focus! He’s grown used to countering recollection by focusing on the present. But here and now the present is even worse. His skin prickles with fresh sweat and he hates it because he’d only just started to get dry and now the cold will redouble again and he hates his body for its responses that he can’t control and he hates the human for doing this to him and it hurts so much...

And the cycle of useless thoughts goes round again.

When he hears the key in the lock, his heart all but stops. He’s not ready. He’s not ready to face his adversary again. But it isn’t the surfacer, it’s the facility attendant. He lets his head drop back to the tiles and watches her numbly.

She has a bundle of cloth in her arms. It looks thick and warm and Loiral is too suspicious to hope. Her face is expressionless. This is just routine to her, he supposes. She doesn’t even bother to close the door behind her as she walks over and unceremoniously drops the bundle on top of Loiral. “From your master,” she states boredly, “For good behaviour.”

First he suspects some trick or trap. Then, warily, he lets himself anticipate warmth and be glad. Belatedly, it occurs to him that he should be speaking to the attendant, trying to convince her that it would be worth her time to help him out... but when he lifts his head free of the cloth, the door is already closing again and she is gone. Damn. He curses at himself for being so stupid.

But hating himself is less engaging that investigating the new blanket. It is coarse and hairy and rough against his skin and he doesn’t even care because it unfolds large enough to cover his body and keep the cold air off his skin. If he could just get it underneath himself, it would even shield him from the tiles a little.... but that would mean moving, and motion is hell. If I can get warm, though, the shivering will stop. No shivering, less pain... it’s a good motivator.

Carefully, using his arms at awkward angles so as not to have to move his hips - and thus jolt his feet - he spreads the blanket beside him. He takes a moment to grit his teeth and work himself up to it, then forces himself through the motions of rolling over. His feet drag across the tiles. He groans and whimpers and half-sobs, but he does it. And when he’s done he lies still and pants and congratulates himself. It’s not perfect. Folds of the cloth end up trapped beneath his body and there’s not enough left to cover himself completely... but it’s good enough. Good enough not to pay the tax in agony of trying to adjust it.

Only once the pain has ebbed back from all-encompassing to merely horrible, does it occur to him to think about the attendant’s words. For good behaviour. A chilling thought occurs. If this is his ‘reward’ for good behaviour... is he still even going to get the chance to beg for a healer? Don’t be stupid, he chides himself. The man will have to get him healed sooner rather than later if he wants him to be useful and not to die of blood poisoning. But later could be a lot later. It could be days before infection becomes a concern... The pain is maddening already, the thought of having to wait days for relief is enough to drive him back to despair. Not that he can do a thing about it either way.

Slowly, slowly the shivering diminishes and stops. He’s still cold. The pain still gnaws at the edges of his mind. But it’s better, and that’s enough to let him relax, just a little. Perhaps he can even find reverie.... He tries, but it’s still out of reach. He’ll have to just lie here, and wait, and perhaps rehearse what he is going to say and do when the surfacer returns.

When it does happen - who can say how much time has passed - the sound of the door is startling. He twitches in surprise, which hurts, which in turn causes a strangled yelp to escape his throat before he can choke it off. And this time it really is the surfacer. Best behaviour, Loiral reminds himself. No pride.

Reluctantly he abandons his fragile shell of warmth and faces the agony of forcing himself up to his knees. The human waits until he is upright and his gasping has subsided a little before speaking. “How are you feeling?” Loiral swallows. “In pain, master. Please, please have mercy.” An expectant silence is his cue to continue. So he does. He regurgitates rehearsed phrases, doing his best to put a genuine tremor into his voice, to show how badly he wants to prove willing. To humiliate himself for a chance of relief. “Please master, take mercy on me. Please, please forgive me, I beg you master. I - ah - I’m sorry I disobeyed, I’ve learned, I won’t do it again, I’ll do better. Please, I’m grovelling, I’m desperate, please just let me --” “Stop.” He stops instantly, shivering with dread. What has he done wrong now? He searches the surfacer’s face for hints. But the man doesn’t seem angry per se, just... frustrated? And perhaps a little amused? Is that good? Bad?

“I realise now that I asked for a performance, and that is exactly what I’ve received. But this farce is not what I want from you. I require your sincerity, drow. I require your fear.” “This is sincerity,” Loiral insists, bitterly morose. “I’m scared. I’m willing, just tell me-” “No,” the surfacer continues pensively, talking over him without a second thought. “This won’t do at all.”

He approaches, footfalls audible on the tiles, and Loiral flinches away. Frowning, the surfacer crouches beside him where he kneels. Loiral’s breath comes in quick gasps, dread rapidly sharpening into panic. There’s absolutely nothing he can do to escape whatever new torment is in store, and that truth is paralytic.

One large, surprisingly deft hand reaches out towards his shattered feet and Loiral goes rigid with tension, curling into himself in anticipation of agony. But the human takes hold of him by the calf, not the foot. Relief flashes through him, absurdly potent despite the certain knowledge that the reprieve will be seconds long at best.

“Do you know what my favourite thing about breaking bones is?” His tone is pleasant, conversational. Loiral can only whimper in response. His trembling has given way to full-body shaking. Every tremor is pain. “Broken bones make it so easy to elicit further pain when required.” He runs his free hand gently over the foot itself. Loiral cries out involuntarily. The human’s palm is rough and warm against the swollen flesh. Even this subtle contact is shockingly painful. What will it feel like when he applies pressure? When he crushes and twists, bone shards tearing through the bruised and swollen tissues... “No, please,” Loiral whimpers, “Please, no, please.” And there is that rapidly-becoming-familiar smile. And there, quick on its heels, is understanding. This is the sincerity the man is looking for. Not fighting past his pride, but here on the edge of agony where terror is overwhelming and pride a distant memory.

The weight of his powerlessness is crushing. He can hardly breathe. He is utterly helpless in this creature’s hands. He can’t fight back. No one is going to intervene. If this human so chooses, broken feet could be the least of his pain.

“Please,” he begs, “Please, please, no more.” “Beg me.” “I beg you.” “Swear to obey me.” “I swear, anything you say, I’ll do as you say.” “Tell me...” a pause, a smile. The man’s hand brushes over the foot again and elicits another whimper. “What are you thinking right now?” “It hurts. Oh please, it hurts, and --” Barely any hesitation. “And I’m afraid and I’m helpless and you’re in control and --” Gasp, shudder. “And I just want to give you what you want and get mercy, is this what you want?” He is desperate, and pathetic, and he barely even cares. “Do you think this is what I want?” “Yes?” Loiral ventures in a tiny voice. This is sincerity. This is fear. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more afraid in his life.

His leg is released, gently. “Good,” the surfacer tells him calmly. “Smart drow.” He runs a large and calloused hand through Loiral’s damp, tousled hair. Loiral flinches under the touch, but doesn’t try to pull away. “Let it never be said that I am without mercy.” The surfacer smiles.

Then he speaks in a deeper, more formal tone, incanting in a language foreign to Loiral’s ears. The cadence is reminiscent of prayer, which is far from comforting. He places one hand on the back of Loiral’s head, forcing it down, and the other on the centre of his back. The room suffuses with a reddish glow. The human’s voice is amplified, echoing unnaturally. And all of a sudden, his hands begin to burn against Loiral’s skin.

Loiral cringes instinctively against the floor to escape the pain, but the human’s strong hands follow him down. The heat spreads outwards across his skin like liquid fire. Each half-healed wound comes alive with fresh, sharp pain as the magic washes over them. Loiral twitches and yelps with it, bewildered and overwhelmed.

And then the fire reaches his feet, and he forgets everything else. A raw scream tears out of his throat. He barely hears himself. He can feel the shattered bones moving beneath the skin, grinding against one another. The pain is sharp and bright and clean and fierce, driving out the throbbing, swollen ache that had made its home in his flesh. The intensity leaves him spasming on the floor, eyes unseeing and mind utterly blank.

And when the pain passes, it leaves blessed relief in its wake.

He comes back to himself slowly, shaking and sweating and gasping for air. He tears his eyes off the ceiling and glances around the cell in a moment of panic. But the surfacer is gone and he is alone.

He breathes. Fear is giving way to confusion. Nothing hurts.

He knows before he checks that his feet are whole again. Not even bruises remain. There is a sort of a phantom memory of pain under his fingers as he prods and pokes. But the joints move through their full range smoothly and without so much as a twinge. His other wounds are gone too. Even the places where he bit his tongue struggling. No scabs, no bruises, no scars.

Why? He doesn’t understand. Pain makes a prisoner easy to control. Why heal him so thoroughly? And at the same time, he is stunned. It had not occurred to him that the surfacer might be able to deliver healing personally. Let alone with such power. How much favour must he have with his strange surface gods, to heal so much damage so swiftly? Is that the point? Another show of power? And why did it hurt so much?

His thoughts go round and round in little, baffled circles as he sits and stares blankly at the door. He hates the human for doing this to him. Hates him more fiercely than he has ever hated anything. But just the thought of the creature leaves him queasy with fear too. And somehow, at the boundary of fear and hatred, he finds a kind of unexpected respect. He had no idea that a member of the lesser races could be so ruthless. He’s so hopelessly off balance.

But... at least he isn’t hurting? For now?

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