Hey friends! This is the official information post for the event, plus answers to the questions that have been popping up!
What Is This Event?
Season’s Beatings (formerly Saint Whumpolas) is a gift exchange in the style of a Secret Santa. Everyone who signs up will both give and receive a whumpy gift based on their OCs!
How Does It Work?
When you sign up for the event, you will be paired with two people- one person who you will make a gift for, and one person who will make a gift for you. You’ll be sent an ask with your gift person’s OC/story/favorite trope/disliked tropes information, and you’ll use that to create something amazing for them! Meanwhile, your own gifter will be making something wonderful using your OCs! I’ll collect all the gifts here, and on Christmas Day, everyone will receive their gifts!
When Does It Start?
I’m hoping to have the sign-up form finished this weekend. Stay tuned!
Sign-ups will close on November 28. I’ll hopefully have everyone paired up by December 1.
The deadline to send in your gifts will be December 28, giving everyone three weeks and a bit to complete their gifts, and three days for the standby people to fill in if necessary.
Gifts will be sent out on December 31!
What Makes A Gift?
A gift can be anything! Art, writing, moodboards, other types of art- anything you can think of! There’s only three restrictions- for writers, gifts have to be 500 words minimum (no maximum!). You’ve got to put at least some effort into your gift- five minutes to make a vaguely whumpy meme edit is not going to cut it. And this event is SFW only, so please make your gifts accordingly. (For the purposes of this event, NSFW is anything sexual- so implications, references, fade-to-black, etc., should all be left out.)
Who Can Join?
For this year, the event is open to OC whumpers only. The holiday season is very busy for me this year, and I’m not able to accommodate fandom whump in this style of event right now. However, if anyone would like to create a similar event for fandom whumpers, they have my blessing and I’ll be happy to offer assistance!
And that’s it so far! If I need to, I’ll come back and update this post with more information as the need pops up. Sign-up form is CLOSED! Happy holidays!
The sound of Ettie's right pinky snapping echoed through the stream before her muffled scream did. The camera caught the way her pupils dilated instantly, her breath catching mid-sob.
Numbers ticked upwards in the viewer count. Someone in chat typed "lol".
Ettie's shoulders jerked as another set of fingers pressed against her right hand, spreading her digits wide against the cold metal table. A bead of sweat slid down her temple, catching the harsh lights.
Off-screen, the guy tapped a knife against the table. Tap. Tap. Tap. Chat blew up with emoji spam. Some dude threw twenty bucks in with "do her thumb next."
Ettie's nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply through her nose – the duct tape pulled at her upper lip, damp with spit and the coppery tang of blood from where she'd bitten her tongue. The old lights hummed like insects, a constant buzz.
The blade stopped tapping. Chat froze for half a second. Then the knife-edge pressed into the soft webbing between her thumb and forefinger, not deep enough to draw blood yet, just enough to dent skin. Ettie arched against the restraints, the chair legs screeching against concrete.
Off-screen, a distorted voice muttered about "audience participation." A new poll appeared in chat: "Which finger next?" The options flickered – middle, ring, thumb.
Ettie's breathing turned ragged as she watched the percentages climb in real-time, the numbers pulsing like a heartbeat on the screen mounted just above her. Someone tipped fifty dollars with the comment "why not all three?"
The blade twitched against her skin, following the erratic movement of the poll. A drop of blood welled up where the edge bit deeper – accidental or intentional, it didn't matter. The masked figure chuckled and leaned in closer to the mic. "Democracy in action."
Ettie's pulse throbbed against the knife as the votes settled on the middle finger. Chat erupted in a frenzy of emojis – some laughing, others spamming skulls. The knife lifted. Behind her, someone adjusted the tripod, the lens catching the way her throat moved when she swallowed.
Blood dripped onto the table, forming tiny dark islands on the metal. The masked figure exhaled before bringing the blade down in one swift motion. Ettie's scream tore through the duct tape as her thumb bent sideways at a grotesque angle. Someone in chat posted a low-res GIF of fireworks.
Her vision swam, the edges blurring into static – she could taste her own heartbeat in her mouth, metallic and frantic. Off-screen, a soda can hissed open.
Chat scrolled faster now, donations pinging like slot machines. Someone tipped a hundred with “show us her eyes when you do the ring finger." The poll reset, new options loading – left hand this time. Behind the camera, a shoe tapped impatiently against concrete.
Ettie's wrists had started shaking, the tremors traveling up her forearms. The duct tape peeled back slightly where she'd been straining against it, revealing a raw strip of skin above her lip.
The masked figure reached over and pressed it back down with a gloved thumb.
A notification popped up – another hundred-dollar tip: "I wanna hear the crunch." The blade hovered near her left pinky, still whole for now.
The camera adjusted focus automatically, zooming in on the way her eyes darted around in panic. Someone commented "cry harder" between spammy strings of clown emojis.
Then – static. The screen fuzzed out completely for three seconds before resolving into a black rectangle with white text: "PAYMENT RECEIVED." Chat erupted into confused outrage, donations flashing red like emergency lights.
Ettie's chair legs hit the floor with a hollow clang as the restraints released automatically. She slumped forward, her broken fingers curling instinctively against her chest like a wounded animal.
The masked figure stepped into frame for the first time – just their gloved hands, reaching down to rip the duct tape off in one brutal motion. Ettie gasped.
Behind her, a door opened. The camera panned to black as footsteps retreated in a hurry, leaving only the sound of Ettie’s uneven breaths and the humming of the lights.
From your gifter: Xavier and Callie, being restrained and manhandled >:) It was a lot of fun to imagine these two in a nasty situation. Can't wait to see what actually happens in the story!
From your gifter: I cannot describe in how much I LOVED getting to learn about Nandi, they're such a little freak and I'm so glad I got the chance to write a little something for them! I hope you enjoy <3
In which a runaway fighter meets a far worse fate.
If Octavia's situation weren't so miserable, the scenery on this hike would be nothing short of beautiful. The woods are empty at this time of night, snow shimmering silver in the moonlight, the air cold enough to sting the mouth and nose and throat with every breath.
But for her, there's no time to take it all in. Her body moves more or less on autopilot, trudging through the snow, chest aching with each step. The chill bites straight through the simple layer of clothes she's wearing—it's not like she had time to grab a coat before she left. She's been hiking for hours, enduring the cold despite the numbness settling deep in her bones, doing anything to get away from that awful place.
There's only one reason she's made it this far but now, even her lifeline has begun to falter. The gemstone clutched in her left hand has fed her a slow drip of energy since she left, steeling her against the cold and giving her just enough willpower to continue on—but as the night drags on, its reserves have clearly started to dwindle. Its typical blue glow is much weaker than before, barely visible even in the darkness.
But surely at this rate she must be close to finding someplace. A town, maybe, or a kind stranger willing to take her in. She'll take just about anything as long as it spares her a slow, miserable death by exposure.
Octavia wanders onward for a while longer, more like a ghost than a living being searching for a safe place to stay, but suddenly she stops short. The trees start to thin out and a few stumps jutting from the snow have clearly been cut down by man, but that's not what makes her heart leap into her throat—
It's the cabin.
It's not a very large one but there's no mistaking the shape of it, broad and dark against the blackness of the sky. None of the lights are on but based on the footprints around the area it's probably inhabited.
All of her exhaustion evaporates for just a moment, enough to clear her head so she can think properly. She must be far from town, but not so far that it's impossible to make it. She could take her chances here, pray that she meets someone who's willing to help her. Something stirs in her, a little spark that feels dangerously close to hope.
She approaches the front door slowly, wrangling her breathing under control even as the cold burns her lungs. She's not good at playing victim but if she looks bad enough, maybe it'll raise her chances of a good outcome. And if nobody's home then maybe she can follow the driveway back to town.
She creeps up to the porch, hands shaking as she rehearses the scene in her mind. She'll just knock, explain that she's lost, and hope for the best.
Something stops her before she can even raise her hand to the door. Maybe it's a prickle of intuition or just blind luck—what she knows for sure is that just a few seconds after she pauses, she catches the sound of tires crunching in the snow as a bright yellowish light illuminates the cabin from behind her. She turns slowly—can't risk seeming like a wannabe burglar—and watches as a pickup truck pulls up next to the house.
And as soon as she lays eyes on that thing, it's clear something isn't right.
She starts to back away from the house—maybe she can get away before something bad happens even though she can't prove that anything is really off, but before she even steps off the porch the driver is already out and approaching her rapidly.
Fuck.
Octavia forces what's probably a nervous smile as the stranger comes into view, most of their identifying features still a little vague in the dark. All she can make out is that their expression is mostly unreadable and their eyes are still fixed solely on her.
"Hey, are you lost?" Their voice is calm, carrying no trace of anger or irritation.
"A little. Just trying to make my way back to town, was looking for someone to give me directions."
"Mmm." The stranger hums thoughtfully as they step closer. It's a little easier to see them now, just enough to make them look more like a real person—dark hair cut in a choppy fringe, darker skin with a few notable pale spots, hands tucked into their pockets. They don't look much older than her, though it's hard to be certain. "Most people don't go hiking at this hour, especially in… such little protective gear." A shiver ripples through her that has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the way they look her over like a piece of fresh meat.
"Long story," Octavia manages through clenched teeth.
"Oh, yes, I'm sure." They step closer and it takes everything in her to not bolt then and there. "Must not have had anyone to come pick you up."
She's going to have to run, isn't she? Her hand tightens around the gemstone in her pocket, silently begging for a little more power to get out of here in one piece. A bit of energy trickles into her but it's barely a crumb compared to what she needs.
She'll have to make do.
"It's a shame, really." Another step. "You stay outside like this, you'll freeze to death for sure."
They reach into their pocket.
Octavia catches a glimpse of moonlight on steel and all higher thought immediately halts.
There's no choice. She makes a break for it, sprinting down the driveway.
No footsteps pursue her, but a loud pop splits the air and she lurches forward, warmth oozing down the back of her leg as her ears start to ring. Still, she grits her teeth and rights herself and keeps running. The wound will heal itself as long as she keeps the gem on her.
When she reaches the bottom of the driveway she takes a sharp right, sprinting back towards the forest along the side of the road. Pain rips white-hot through her nervous system as she pushes herself as hard as she can, fueled more by her own adrenaline and will to survive than anything else.
She can't hear if the stranger is chasing her but that isn't important yet. It's too hard to focus on that with the feeling that surges through her hard and fast, an animal sort of terror like she's been tossed back in time by thousands of years. Trees whip past her, some of the lower branches leaving tiny stinging cuts on her face and arms as she passes.
By the time Octavia finally stops to catch her breath, she must be less than a mile down the road but her body is reacting like she's just run a marathon.
She must have lost them, right? They have no real reason to chase her. Maybe it's safe enough to stay here for a moment, not far from a little ditch where she might be able to sit down and assess herself.
The pain comes back to her in dull pulses, radiating out from her calf. She checks to find that the fabric of her jeans has torn, stained almost black with her blood. The wound itself struggles to heal properly, a thin ring of scar tissue forming around the point of impact as the skin starts to itch.
Octavia leans back against a tree and draws a shaky breath. The gemstone in her hand glows even weaker now—it's a miracle it's still giving her any sort of power at this point.
Now that she's near the road, at least, she can settle down and wait for someone to pass by. It should give her some time to rest, heal, and maybe conserve a bit of energy. She sits down in the snow and draws her arms closer to herself, staring out at the flat expanse of the road stretching out in either direction.
A bit of time passes and then she hears it again. Soft crunching in the snow, accompanied by someone humming.
Every fiber of her body clutches tight in panic, forcing her to her feet before she can even consider the benefit of keeping quiet. Why on earth did they follow her? Is there any real reason to follow someone a mile out into the woods like this after shooting them in the leg?
Is she just… prey to them?
The thought makes her sick to her stomach in equal parts fear and rage. She's not just some game animal to be finished off, not some trophy to be claimed. She's had enough of that for a lifetime and more. If they want her dead she's not going to go down easy.
She searches around in the snow until she finds a sizeable stick, forcing her numbed fingers to close around the thickest part and lift it in a way that should vaguely register it as a weapon. It has to be enough—there's no time for anything else.
Sure enough, a few moments later the stranger emerges from the dark like something out of a nightmare, hands tucked into their pockets as they approach her at a casual pace. They're smiling now, expression mostly normal but there's something manic in their eyes that makes her stomach twist in disgust. "Hey, you can really run. I'm impressed."
Octavia backs away, holding the stick out in front of her as a warning. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
The stranger shrugs. "Does it matter?"
"You shot me in the leg!"
"And you ran nearly a mile and stopped leaving a trail of blood partway through. You've clearly got something going on too."
Octavia scowls, still taking little steps back for every stride this person takes toward her.
"You're something special," the stranger sighs almost dreamily, their smile widening until it's damn near predatory. "I've never had a chase like this before."
"So you do this regularly, don't you."
"It's the best way to eat! And you…" Their eyes roam over her, finally settling on her left hand. "…Could probably keep me fed for a while. I bet it's because of that stone, isn't it?"
"That's none of your business."
"Too bad." The stranger pulls a look of faux sadness, closing the distance bit by bit. "I've already made up my mind."
"Fucking try it," Octavia hisses through clenched teeth.
"Ooh, bad call."
Before she knows it they're on her, ramming their knee into her stomach and wrestling her to the ground without giving her time to catch her breath. It only takes a second to get her wits about her and then they're struggling against each other in the snow, battling desperately for control with all the grace of a pair of wild animals. Octavia refuses to make it easy, shoving and kicking and even biting whenever any part of the stranger's body strays too close to her face.
Still, fighting with one hand puts her out of her depth and the stranger finally pins her down, pressing her wrists down with one hand while their knees apply just enough pressure to her ribs to make her wince.
"You know, you're a real piece of work," they coo, studying her like a bug pinned for display. "And I've had plenty of time to think about what I wanted to do with you." They pull a knife from their coat pocket, a sick grin spreading over their face. "But I want to test something first. Don't squirm or you'll make this messier than it has to be."
"No way." Octavia lurches to the side in a vain attempt to break their grip but she just doesn't have the strength. "No, no fucking way you're gonna—"
She shuts up when cold metal touches her cheek, the tip of the knife dragging along her skin with just enough pressure to open up a stinging line in its path. The stranger watches her intently as her skin starts to itch, slowly stitching the cut back together.
"So you do heal," they murmur in awe. "I knew that excess energy had to go somewhere." They withdraw the knife and watch as the rest of the cut knits back together with only a tiny raised line to prove anything ever happened.
"Get off me, you fucking psycho!"
"You're not really human, are you?"
"Are you?"
"No, but seriously. Your eyes glow a little when you heal like that." They reach up towards where her wrists are pinned—even with how numb her fingers are, she can feel them starting to pry the gemstone out of her grip. Panic immediately surges through her.
"Hey, hey! Don't touch that!" She starts to thrash, jerking her weight from side to side as their fingers pry hers away from the smooth surface one by one. "That's mine, I—"
"Could you still heal without this?" They ask, completely ignoring her protests. "If you keep fighting me I could just stab right through your hand and find out the hard way."
Octavia knows it makes the answer too obvious, but she stops struggling right away. "Please," she whispers, voice breaking slightly. "I need it."
"See, normally I wouldn't do this, but… I think I'll keep you." The stranger sighs happily as they finally wrench the stone from her grasp. "I bet I could put you through all sorts of things without really killing you."
She just stares at them for a long moment, the last dregs of strength finally draining away. It's getting harder to think clearly, a numb sense of defeat washing through her in a way that seems to sap the warmth from her body. Only the stranger's weight on her supplies any kind of heat and even then it's not very much. Their silhouette blurs and the details go blurry for a moment before she blinks it away, wetness slipping down her cheeks.
"Give it back," she whispers. "Please, I-"
"Oh, don't worry," the stranger replies with that same grin, "I won't keep you forever. I might even let you have this depending on how it affects you." They hold the gemstone in front of her face, its light pulsing weakly.
Octavia doesn't let her gaze linger, refusing to give this person what they want.
"So. Are you done fighting?"
She looks away, gritting her teeth until her jaw aches.
"Good enough." By the time Octavia glances back up they're holding the knife to her skin again, this time letting the edge bite into her wrists. With a few quick motions some new cuts open up, though the stinging pain does nothing to sharpen her senses. "Alright, up you go. Come on."
Before she even gets a chance to pull herself up the stranger has already grabbed one of her arms, pulling her up and seeming to intentionally press their fingers into the fresh cuts. She stifles a grunt of pain as she regains her balance.
"Don't do this," she breathes, voice ragged.
"Do you want me to just go ahead and shoot you? That's not off the table yet."
"…Fine."
"Good. Now keep up, I’d hate to have to drag you."
And so she follows them back up the hill, arms held close to her body, leaving a thin trail of blood in the snow.
From your gifter: I hope you enjoy this short fic! I found your characters and worldbuilding extremely interesting! I hope to read more of your story in the future. Happy holidays!
Night and Rain
Sometimes Nightfall still dreams of the laboratory.
In his nightmares, he could not move—his wrists and ankles are secured with thick leather restraints to a metal examination table, freezing against his bare back. The scientists’ voices circled him like malignant satellites, poisonous and brimming with cruelty. They came closer carrying their medical instruments: long, thick needles, razor-sharp scalpels, drills and forceps. Tools meant to pierce him, cut him, carve him open, pry him apart and look inside. To invade him while ignoring his screams, his sobs, his desperate pleas.
They did not care. By then, they knew all too well that whatever they did to him, he would regenerate within a few hours, as though nothing had happened. They could reduce his body to a corpse, and the next day he would breathe again, his heart pumping blood once more—just so they could repeat it all over again the following day.
The hum of the machines kept him awake, painfully alert. Chemicals burned through his veins like living fire racing through his insides, corroding everything in their path. The sterile stench of the lab, mixed with the coppery scent of his own blood, made his stomach churn.
Nightfall had wanted to die—to put an end to all the suffering, to disappear completely. But he could not. The gem embedded within him would not allow it, reshaping his body, his mind, his very soul into something else entirely—something neither human nor anything the world knew.
So he decided to escape.
For a while, hunger and cold were his entire existence—until he met her.
And what he first believed to be paradise slowly revealed itself as a new type of hell.
Nightfall woke from his nightmare.
Instead of the metal table in the laboratory, he lay on a rough, familiar concrete floor. Darkness was absolute, but that meant little to him, his eyes capable of perceiving the subtle outlines of the shelves lining the basement walls even through the thick, suffocating black.
The chains rattled as he shifted, the weight of them pulling at the shackles around his wrists, ankles, and throat, making it impossible to fall back to sleep. He had no way of knowing what time it was, but it was certainly late enough. His stomach felt like a hollow pit in the center of his abdomen. He hadn’t eaten in… three days? Four? It was hard to tell, locked down there.
This was his punishment. A correction for his so-called “violent nature”, for trying to bite his mistress’s hand. Nightfall was truly exhausted, but after so long, escape felt impossible. His mind had been trained too thoroughly, his body too conditioned. And the nightmares—which tormented him in his sleep with those relentless memories of sterile rooms, electric chairs, and blood pooling on white floors—only reinforced a bitter truth: whatever his life was now, it was still better than what it had once been.
How pitiful.
A few minutes later, he heard the creak of wood above his head. Familiar footsteps, unhurried, approached toward the basement door. His emotions churned in his empty gut, a mix of revulsion and relief.
The door at the top opened, and a square of artificial light spilled down the stairs, framing a silhouette he knew all too well. She looked like a god descending from the heavens—or a demon returning to her infernal domain.
Nightfall watched, brow furrowed, as she descended each step with deliberate calm, as though time itself bent to her will. No rush. No concern.
“Did you learn your lesson?” Rain asked, stopping in front of Nightfall, just close enough for her smile to be unmistakable, yet far enough that his chains kept him from reaching her.
He did not answer. Hunger had taught him caution, more effectively than the lashes she had delivered before locking him away. The only thing filling his mouth—aside from the rigid bit of the muzzle strapped tight around his face—was saliva, pooling in his throat and slowly burning his tongue and inner cheeks. The pain was constant, familiar now, though never less unpleasant.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Rain crossed her arms, her smile widening. “What a good dog.”
Nightfall rolled his eyes but did not contradict her. She had shaped him carefully and methodically to turn him into what he was now, until he was nothing more than an animal trained to obey.
He hated her and she knew it. But he had realized it too late—or perhaps accepted it too late—when there was no longer any path back.
“Let me take this off.”
She crouched in front of him and loosened the straps behind his head, removing the muzzle. The bit was visibly corroded from prolonged exposure to his acidic saliva. His lips were split and covered in wounds and burns; the inside of his mouth and throat could not have been any better.
A thin strand of saliva dripped onto Rain’s hand. The skin hissed faintly, a red line blooming where it touched.
“Oh,” she murmured. “Look what you did.”
The burn faded moments later, her skin knitting itself whole again until no trace of it remained.
“I’ll bring you something to eat. You must be starving.”
Rain turned her back to him and headed for the stairs; this time, however, it took her no more than a couple of minutes to return, holding a plate of food, which she set on the floor in front of him.
Despite the hunger tearing at him from the inside, Nightfall did not touch the food until she gave the order. It tasted like nothing. His brain failed to register flavors or even identify what he was eating. Bread and chicken, fresh human flesh—it made no difference when his instincts took over. Hunger erased all distinctions.
Once he finished, a fragile clarity settled over him. Rain smiled again with that same condescending, false smile he knew so well. She projected a gentle calm, an innocent façade concealing the storm beneath.
And Nightfall was the thunderous roar and the annihilating lightning that always followed the signs of the rain.
I was so excited to receive you as my secret Santa recipient!! I hope my gift captures even one/eighth of the brilliance on display in your series. Thank-you so much for being such a fantastic writer and I can’t wait to see what you achieve in the new year.
Much love,
Your Santa.
What the Pholcidae Saw
What the Pholcidae Saw
She had scrambled from a low cabinet corner in a dirty bathroom, escaping the dampness that had slowly sunk into the plaster walls. Through a crack in the floor, she made her way down into a dim basement. As far as we know, she did not run in fear or in pain, but only in the sort of knowledge that these were not prime feeding conditions. Guided by emotionless, insignificant animal instincts.
Yes, that is good. We will tell ourselves that.
In the cellar, she found a good high corner. She made herself an inexquisite web. Sometimes the room was flooded with a dim blinking bulb, the colour of lime-wash. She had been in the cellar for a good five hours when the men came in.
One hit the floor, shoved harshly into the room from behind. His already scraped knees hit the rough tile, blood oozing from between the cracked scabs. The other followed him, roughly nudging him along with toe of his boot. First, kicking the side of his waist, and then roughly pushing hin am the top the he him and fally, when they were in the midle of the for he lited the boot anc
He spoke, and his words moved the hairs across the little spider's legs.
"You dipshit."
The man underneath his boot shivered but didn't move.
"Why?"
A sort of whispered hiss, a race for clarity scrambled out first and then he said- "Why- why what?"
"Why are you a dipshit?"
With every syllable, he dug his heel in, up and down. He tracked those wet brown eyes without mercy and then began to ruthlessly interrupt and undercut and blame. Kicking with sounds.
"I- I-l didn't, I forgot-"
"Yeah, that's really convenient for you. Does that work on other people Morja? Does that work on Brax?"
"No, I forgot to do- I forgot the ironing- iron the shir."
"Oh is that all? Is there anything else you wanna tell me?"
"Sir?"
"Sir this, Sir that. I don't want to hear it. I wanna hear why?"
"The training, the- Cobi and-and"
"Why are you a dipshit?"
The man leaned down, grabbed his face. He wrapped his hand around the roots of his hair, using it to painfully wrench his head back.
Morja heaved a breath. He did not speak. He did not move.
"Because information you gave us about some base camps came back faulty, Morja. And if you gave us faulty information, that would be truly stupid."
Morja swallowed.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, commander Jorah."
He was dropped, back onto the floor. The other man stretched up tall, brushed himself off and said with practiced casualness.
"Just some friendly advice."
He left. After a few minutes the other man left as well.
The cellar-spider heard this and saw this, and understood nothing of it. To her, they were like hazy skyscrapers in a faraway city of mist. Their voices were like wind rumbling through a great pine forest. She heard the sound but couldn’t interpret it in any way that mattered. After the men left and the light turned off, she continued building her web. She was a very practical spider. What did it matter to her what their names were?
The next time the light turned on, Jorah walked in first. He whistled blithely, searching through a stack of plastic tubs that had been left gracelessly in the corner. Morja walked in after him, steady and straight. A live-wire of tension strung through his spine.
The commander dragged out a box and motioned for Morja to sit down. He did, warily, watching Jorah circle around him. He seemed to be waiting for an explanation. For a lecture. For a command.
He didn’t get one. Jorah stopped in front of him. Regarding him, for a moment. And then he wrapped his hands around Morja’s throat.
The cellar spider had caught herself a tiny-flying creature. Gracelessly, it flew into the wonky unsymmetrical lines of her net. Stuck, it tried to find a way out but twisted itself further in. The cellar spider watched closely, carefully swaddling the little bug in silk. She was not hungry. She had no want.
If you could imagine a steel pole stiffening, you could see Morja as Jorah suddenly grabbed him by the neck. He didn’t struggle, he kept his arms by his side, his knuckles white against the sharp rim of the box. He closed his eyes when Jorah began to squeeze.
Almost tenderly, the cellar spider set her little bug aside. A meal for later.
Morja gasped a little and Jorah relented but he didn’t let go. He let Morja take in a heaving breath and then tightened his grip again. The man began to shiver in his arms, shaking. The flesh of Morja’s throat warped around his fingers. It rippled and tried to bloat out from between his knuckles.
Jorah relented again and the boy finally wavered. He bent in half, coughing. The force of his search for air sent vacuums of wind seething around the room. It sent a new wave of tiny bugs towards the spider’s web.
Jorah’s fists closed again, and this time, Moria’s eyes were wide open, terrified. He tried to stay a soldier. He tried to stay a Diathesimos. A tool. An asset. He wrapped his hands around the rim of the box. He stared Jorah down, a single tear leaking down his face as he felt the surface begin to dry out. As he felt new blood vessels bursting. He too, was subject to his insignificant animal instincts, hands raising without his want or permission. He clawed at the Commander’s hold.
Jorah let him go.
Again, Morja collapsed to the floor heaving and struggling. There was a look on Jorah’s face. A triumph. A smugness. Like a point had been made. He dropped the treasure he found onto Morja’s face, revelling in his panic as it constricted the soldier’s movement and vision. A pathetic net of woven cotton and silk.
It was a gaudy green scarf.
“Happy Saint Patricks day” Jorah said.
The light turned on. The light turned off. What did it mean to the spider? Somewhere above us, a star exploded into existence and another trailed out of the sky. What does it mean to you? She spun her webs, which became burdened with the weight of dust, then she spun a new one. She ate the stash of bugs she caught when Jorah was in the room and caught more when he came in again. His voice was like static to her as he hummed a pleasing little tune to himself. To her, understanding the arrival of a heavy-wood table, roughly dragged into the room was like trying to understanding the layered galaxies below us.
Here was something she understood. Something she desired, and narrowed her pin-focus onto. In the dank basement, there were several other cellar spiders. Some were male. On the afternoon she initiated her courtship, Morja returned.
The look on his face was one of lame resignation. A layered despair, quietly shoved underneath a cracked stone expression. Jorah was already waiting for him there, the table, the rope. Morja floated nervously by the door.
“Come here.” The commander asked. Quietly. Dangerously.
The cellar spider moved across the wall. Scuttling her way toward the male. The animals circled each other, entranced.
“I spoke to Commander Brax today, sir.”
Waiting for the same call.
“What did you talk about?”
Waiting for that same irrelevant animal instinct to kick in.
“He said that there wasn’t any punishment here. That I didn’t need any punishment. That what happened- that it was fine.”
Gently, he approached the female of his species. Freezing as she backed away.
“I don’t care. Do you understand that?”
Letting her come to him.
“Yes sir”.
A little closer.
“While you’re here, you answer to my command. Is that clear?”
She inched onto the stranger’s web.
“Yes sir.”
His fist whipped against Morja’s face. But to Jorah’s surprise he did not falter. On the next hit Morja grabbed his assailant’s arm. He did not fight back. He held steady.
And the cellar-spider inched along the frail threads of the web. Almost reaching the male spider.
Entranced by the call. Entranced by the call.
Jorah’s next hit was fuelled by blind rage. He slapped Morja, twice, with quick succession, forcing him to release his grip and duck his head. Jorah grabbed his hair, spit in his face shouting.
“YOU LISTEN TO ME!”
And then he flung Morja back. He tripped over the plastic boxes, crashing into the dirty wall. The spiders stopped, vibrating with fear as Morja’s hand flew up to steady himself and ripped through the web. The little cellar spider was flung high, high into the air.
The commander didn’t give him time to recover. He grabbed Morja back, weeping and ranting.
“You’re under me now. You’re mine to command, and I get to command you. Even if you aren’t on the team- and you will never be a part of the team. You’re a traitor. A dirty, filthy coward. I don’t care how good it is for us-“
Morja allowed himself to be pulled along, bent over the heavy wood table. His hands were tied in front of him and lashed to the two most forward legs, looking to the back of the basement. He was placed higher than necessary, so his two legs dangled above the ground and were secured to a pin there. Jorah nashing his teeth and rambling as he went.
“And I don’t care how bad it is for your people on that side either. I hate people who abandon their sides just because they think they deserve it. No matter how stupid or cruel Brax was, I’d still obey him. Our people would follow him. Loyalty is everything” He finished, breathing heavily.
He looked Morja in the eyes, drawing out a long round piece of wood.
“You have no loyalty. That’s why you’ll never be part of us” he explained. “But as long as you’re here I’ll make your cowardly idiotic ass obedient.”
He used a pair of weighty fabric scissors to remove the shirt from Moria’s back. He stabilised the soldier with an extra few lines of rope.
He struck against Morja’s back and waited for a sound of pain. There came none.
“No-one likes a traitor.”
Applying himself and all his strength, he rained down several blows and watched with satisfaction as red lines rose from his work. He stopped for a cold drink.
When his back was turned Morja screwed up his eyes, letting the water in them run freely. His mistake, he couldn’t get it to stop when Jorah came back and the abuse started again. A red line formed against a rib Jorah had struck three times before, and he couldn’t stop the sound that came out of his mouth. A stifled whimper. And that too, he couldn’t contain once it had sprung.
Jorah did not exert himself with consistency. He went two-handed to begin with and couldn’t keep it up. Then, he had to stop constantly. And he could not target regularly where he had hit before. What he lacked in precision he made up for with quantity and there would have been a great satisfaction found in watching him reducing the soldier in his web into a feeble thing. Morja could not hold steady in the abuse anymore, his body desperately trying to dodge the blows and failing. The muscles in his back twitching. Layering these new bruises across all the lash marks and the strikes and the scars that came before. The breaths Morja took were frequently punctuated with an “Ah, aah, ah” and interrupted constantly with throaty painful sobs.
The tears and the sound were what Jorah had toiled for and they spurred him on while he worked to strike his final gold vein with blood. It leaked out, pooling underneath Moria’s feet and when Jorah cupped a handful of it they both cringed as he brushed against open edges of skin.
Jorah threw the cane aside.
“I see you now” he said. “Your whole body. You were made for this. You have to be corrected with pain, your people understand that. I’m not cruel, I’m not. I just understand what Brax doesn’t want to think about.”
He slapped Morja again, making sure to angle it so that his head hit the table underneath. He went back in for another but reeled his hand back at the last second.
Afraid of a little cellar spider. Cradled underneath Moria’s trembling shoulder.
Disgusted, the commander spit in the soldier’s face and walked out.
The spider stayed in her cave for quite a while. The heat of the human body above her, the silence and the shade against the harsh light soothed her teeny-tiny heart. But eventually, the inevitable movement urged her forward. Avoiding the puddles of moisture, drool and tears and also blood from where the boy had badly bitten his tongue she made her way along. Morja’s tired eyes followed her as she went.
“Stay?” he whispered. But she did not understood. And she was cruel. She would not have come even if she knew. She was a blunt, practical creature with no empathy, no love. She kept on going, reaching the very rim of the table. Rising to the top of the ropes that held him in place, she prepared her descent.
Morja cried out for her. And she waited until that moment to leave. Dropping out of sight.
The lime-wash bulb flickered and then went out. So the little spider made her way in darkness.
Travelling slowly across the floor. Carefully feeling out for danger and holding, frozen, if she thought for a second she was. Many times she was interrupted by an entity in the dark, crying or shuffling. After a while, the sound would go away. And she went on her way.
Over and through the boxes. She navigated around an unusually large pile of dust. She finally found a vertical plane and happily ascended, taking not much longer to find her way back to where she was before. She got to building herself a new web, trapping a new meal. It did not stir her much when the door opened again.
When he saw who it was, Morja turned away, trembling. But the shape who was not Jorah stepped inside. Eyes wide. Mouth slack. For a second, he hesitated. And then he was by Moria’s side, cradling that large dark bruise stretching across his cheek and eye.
“Morja, Morja” he called, “please don’t be angry at me.”
And the boy snapped looked back to him so quickly, you could hear the click of his bones. He opened his mouth but whatever he wanted to say couldn’t be said. The hoarseness of his throat maybe. Or his sore tongue. Whatever it was, it was not long before the ropes were cut and Morja slid off his table falling gracelessly to the ground. The new man hissed at the lines in his legs where the edge of the table had bitten him, and deep in the crater of those lines a deep redness where the skin had split. Commander wrapped Morja in his coat and carried him out.
The door shut behind him and the cellar spider thought of finding the male she had lost track of earlier.
Perhaps we will find it in ourselves to forgive her. We live in the dark too. On a strange little clump of dust and we observe things beyond our understanding. But, like the pholcidae, I hope we are in the presence of some strange and fathomless mercy.
It had never felt this real before. It had all felt agonising, true, but the pain had never felt so lasting. Bruises would eventually heal, scars would eventually close; someday he’d see the faces of his tormentors for one final time and then the memory of them would start to fade, and then he’d finally be free of it all.
As horrific as it all had been so far, he’d never been this hopeless. After all, this was never supposed to be a lifelong job. He’d struggle and scream for a few years at most and then he’d be rid of it all, it wasn’t like this was permanent. It wasn’t like they were trying to kill him.
Things were different, now. Alan had almost died today, his life entirely finished. No healing, no recovery, no blossoming growth into a new life. His corpse would have crumpled with impact against the relentless ocean floor and at the age of nineteen there’d be absolutely nothing he’d ever be able to do again, just an unceremonious death to an indifferent killer.
He’d never been afraid of the ocean before, always one to see beauty in her menacing waves as they crashed against the shore. It was a stupid thought, to think that the sea had the capacity to recognise him as a person and decide to grant him a better ending than drowning.
She had almost swallowed him whole. Held him in the welcoming maw of a watery death with the lingering promise swimming around his limbs that she’d bite down and consume him if she so felt like it. And, if she had – if Alan had not been pulled out of the water barely in time – it would have made no difference to the world. It would have been just as miserable if he were dead, too young and immature to have ever left any noticeable dent in the world.
Cold water dripped down his back, losing its grip after it had been clinging to strands of his hair, and Alan fought back the urge to shiver. There wasn’t much he could do at this current moment to appear even slightly less pathetic, but something engrained in him still fought back at the mere idea of being perceived as any weaker than everyone on the ship already did.
There was blood on his lip, too, he noted, identifiable only by the metallic tang it had left to rot in his mouth. Had that been from the drowning, or had someone thought it highly amusing to kick a man whilst he was unconscious from more than anything the shock of it all? It wasn’t like the answer to that mattered, what would he even do with that information?
Suddenly, from around the corner, out of sight from Alan, footsteps emerged, reverberating around the cargo hold that they’d dumped Alan in to wake up alone. The person, dressed in uniform, walked straight over to the slouched man and paused, towering over him. In the extremely dim light of the room, Alan couldn’t make out much of the person before him. It didn’t look like someone he knew intimately at least.
That wasn’t necessarily a good thing, just meant the avoidance of an even worse fate. The lesser of probably two evils. The face in front of him, blurred from dizziness, didn’t look overly friendly. It looked more like the kind of face that belonged to someone that had been rather enjoying the fun, up until someone had ordered them to haul that idiot’s sorry ass out of the water until everyone got in serious trouble over it.
There was something in their hand that looked an awful lot like some kind of horribly stale bread (the kind he’d groan about being forced to eat in school but had soon learnt not to make similar jests in the navy). The other fist was balled up, nails likely digging into the skin, yet made no indication that they intended on swinging any time soon.
It made some semblance of sense: the person before him donned a uniform that indicated a lower rank than most of Alan’s tormentors. The kind of person who likely lacked much experience (after all, they looked Alan’s age) and therefore couldn’t be trusted to not get reckless when handed a mockingly fragile punching bag after a frustrating day’s work.
The individual, evidence of contempt in their eyes, chucked the (what, at least, looked like) leftovers at Alan’s feet, caring not if they dirtied the food on the damp, moisture-ladden floors of the cargo hold. Then, they practically barked at Alan to eat, and promptly turned to leave without a second thought, leaving to enjoy the festivities upstairs, too far for Alan to hear their cheering.
At the end of the day, it didn’t matter in the slightest who had been sent down to placate a certainly starving Alan, ensuring he didn’t die from his frequent neglect lest the highest ups got suspicious of foul-play. They could have sent anyone else down, each person would have scrutinised him with equal levels of disdain. He’d no allies left on the ship, even the ocean herself seemed content with letting him succumb to the horror of it all.
Alan scooped up the bread from the floor, ignoring how it crumpled in his grasp. He was starving, but not yet without enough dignity to stop him from scrounging for the dank crumbs that fell onto the metal floor.
Even though no new bruises had blossomed on his skin, and no cuts had formed underneath the old, today had turned out to be impossibly worse than the rest. Because the torture no longer seemed fleeting. There was a tangible chance that Alan didn’t make it out of this ship in enough pieces to be considered alive. It almost happened today.
And the worst part was that not a single person seemed perturbed at the idea of it happening again.
From your gifter: Thank you for allowing me to write for your characters. Happy Holidays!
"Dyri!"
Dyri's eyes shot up from vis paperwork, and ve straightened. Anton stood across the room, adorning his coat with a sour look on his face.
“I’m heading out for the day,” Anton said, doing the buttons. “I need a box of files for tomorrow morning. ‘Miles Armano’ from room 32F. Leave it on my desk before you go.”
“Uh, wait!” Dyri said.
Anton stopped.
“I-“ Ve hesitated under Anton’s scrutinizing gaze. He wore it more often after the Sylvia incident. Dyri felt uneasy in ver skin after that weekend, like anytime he was around he was always looking for another misstep, a reason to throw ver away, this time for good. Nevermind that they were the idiots in the first place, neglecting their due diligence in research and abiding by their stupid assumptions. It didn't matter to Anton, his word was truth. Silvia was the enemy. Dyri had been adequately punished and thus spared.
But the consequences still hung in the air. The suspicion had eventually tempered-in part because the corporation just had too much to focus on, and in part because Dyri worked twice as hard trying to regain favor—but still, the wariness lingered. Anton looked at ver through critical eyes, and Tim followed his lead whenever they were together. It put an uncomfortable chill in the air and a tension Dyri couldn't seem to shake.
The sound of a cleared throat shook ver stupor, and ve snapped back into place.
Anton raised an eyebrow, still waiting. Spit it out. "I- don't know where 32F is," Dyri said.
Anton huffed. The stern look fell, replaced by one of dry amusement. "Really, Dyri, I know you're not as bright as me, but I didn't think you were stupid."
Dyri's face flushed, half in embarrassment, half in irritation.
Anton continued, "It's the storage room on the lowest floor."
"Got it," Dyri said, and Anton rolled his eyes as he walked out the room.
—————
32F. Dyri took the elevator down to the bottom floor and gasped lightly as the door opened, filling the space with shocking cold air. Did they have any heating down here? Ve stepped out and found verself subconsciously hugging ver arms to keep warm. Ve could actually see vis breath in the air.
The long hallway was damp and smelled of mildew. A leak echoed somewhere down the hall and strange pipes ran along the walls with their white paint chipping off onto the floor. When was the last time anybody actually came down here?
Dyri studied the dusty room signs then groaned as vis foot landed in an icy puddle of sludge that soaked through to vis sock. As if bloodstains on vis clothes weren’t financially damaging enough…
"I just need those files," ve muttered, shoe squelching down the hall. Then I can get out of this freezing hellhole.
Dyri continued down the hall to 32F and walked in, taking in the rows upon rows of dusty boxes on cobwebbed metal shelves. Ve began to look around and sighed. The boxes weren't in alphabetical order; Dyri would have to look through all of them to find the one ve needed. Ve huffed, shook out ver arms, and got to work.
Miles Armano, Miles Armano, Miles Armano... Dyri repeated the name, trying hard to focus or vis task rather than vis numbing fingertips and the chill in vis lungs that made vis breath catch every so often.
The icy air pricked at vis skin especially vis foot. Across the room laid vis wet sock and shoe, Dyri preferring the aching numbness of the bare foot to the painful bone-chilling cold of the wet shoe.
Dyri scoured over the boxes, working ver way through a hundred or more, before finally ver eyes landed on it. Miles Armano. Dyri snatched the box from the rack, gave it a cursory glance inside, and sighed in relief.
Ve picked up the box and ver shoe and went to leave the freezing storage room.
The door didn't budge.
Dyri rattled the handle again but still nothing gave. Ve put the box and shoe down and in one strong motion tried to pull the handle down. Nothing.
Panic took over and ve frantically shook the handle. Nothing happened. Ve threw shoulder against the door. It remained shut. Ve threw verself against it again and again until vis shoulder throbbed then ve kicked at the door then kept kicking then pounded on the cold metal until ver knuckles started to bleed. It was futile. The door remained firmly shut.
Ver stomach dropped as the reality of the situation set in. Ve was stuck, trapped, in a faraway, out-of-use room with nobody aware ve was even there.
Dyri slid down the wall, knees to ver chest. Cold blood raced through ver. Ver limbs were frigid and ve could already feel slight tremors in ver extremities. The temperature was well below what the average person could withstand for a prolonged period. Dyi verself was nearing ver limit.
How long could a person last down here? How long would Dyri last down here until someone came down to find ver dead? Would anyone come down at all? Only Anton knew ve was here.
Only Anton..
Was this another punishment?
Was this another punishment for seeing Silvia? Ve already paid the price in blood and a weekend of misery. Was it not enough? Or maybe this was for something else. Perhaps Anton found that final "misstep" and this was the final punishment to rid them of ver.
Or perhaps, still... it was just dumb luck….
Dyri winced as tears ran down vis face along vis stinging skin. Whatever the reason, the outcome would be the same. Dyri would succumb to the cold. Dyri wouldn't make it back home, wouldn't kiss Silvia again, wouldn't hug Kad again, wouldn't have fun with Janelle or be held by Eden again. Dyi would not make it home to ver family. The thought burrowed into vis chest and ached a torturous pain.
Vis body shook from the chill and the anguish and at last vis limbs went fully numb. Vis teeth chattered, the only sound in the room barring ver quiet crying. Dyi wept and hugged verself in the cold, cold, oh so cold room...
The wooden chair creaked beneath him as he rocked back and forth, nervously glancing between the door and his watch from where he sat perched in the corner. 3:14. The client should have been here a while ago. He could hear footsteps in the hall, heavy boots and shouting, before the door burst inwards under the size of the hulking client.
“Just how I like them.” The client smiled in some strange exhalation of relief, the rope in his hands thick and short, the tags still attached to the end. “Went out of my way to get this for you, so you better enjoy it, buddy.”
“Yes, sir.” Spencer lowered his head and put his hands against the back of the chair, letting out an appropriate whine at the roughness of the client. It wasn’t entirely sham, but he always played it up for the big tippers. His bills needed to be paid somehow.
The client stepped back before giving an affirmative nod, both his handiwork and Spencer’s display of submission clearly up to his standards, and gave a rough yank of Spencer’s legs so that he lay sprawled on the ground beneath him. The muscles in Spencer’s arm pulled taunt as he was forced into the unnatural position, a genuine curt scream escaping from between his lips at the sudden jolt of pain as the client stepped over him and grabbed a knife from his back pocket. It was so sharp it gleamed in the dim light of the room.
“Never before tested on human flesh.” The client grinned, a violent twinkle filling his eyes. “You’re a lucky young man, Spencer. Not many people get to be in your position.”
“Yes, sir.” Spencer tried to stay calm and collected, as he knew this client preferred, but his voice squeaked as the fire in his arms burned from his fingertips down to his heart.
His chest trembled with fear and pain as the client kneeled on top of him, scanning his upper body and dragging the dull side of the knife along the edges of his neck before letting the point lay on the underside of his bicep. The client slowly dug it, cutting his flesh in a jagged up and down motion as his other hand pressed against Spencer’s mouth for support. Spencer’s whimpers slipped through the client’s fingers, slowly at first, then gaining momentum before eventually crescendoing into a throat-rending scream that made the client pause for a second before slipping back into character.
“Aww, do you feel bad? Am I hurting you?” The client cooed in a patronizing voice, lowering the knife from his work as he leaned back and yawned.
Spencer tried to remember what to say, the cacophony of agony in his head making his words hazy and vague and his voice waver. It sounded like somebody else was speaking. “-Y-yes sir. No sir. Yes sir.”
“I think that the answer should be no, boy. Are you really being hurt by such a tiny cut?”
From your gifter: Hey, Quiet, I love your story!! I binged all of Phantom Pains and NEED MORE, please add me to taglist? I hope you enjoy this gift and a song to match, and have a fabulous 2025,
Love Exo x
“Agh!” Charlie cried out as her back hit the wall and she crumpled to the floor. The Overseer chuckled, flexing her bloodied knuckles. Not her blood, mind — Charlie’s. Charlie’s chest heaved, sucking in breath after breath as she felt close to passing out. The beating felt like it had gone on forever; time moved strangely here anyway, where she was being drugged half the time and beaten the rest. No breaks, no chance to rest. She’d do anything for just a day off, anything. But they never came. The Overseer never stopped. And she never would.
Charlie’s train of thought was cut off with a sharp kick to her gut, agony radiating out across her whole abdomen. She screamed again, unable to keep it in any longer.
The Overseer leant down and grabbed her by the collar, shoving her up against the cold brick wall to take a swing at her face. Charlie’s head snapped to the side, pain exploding in her jaw and richocheting down her neck. The Overseer hit her again. She felt her nose crack, and blood immediately begin to flow. Again. A tooth loosened. Again. Her lip started swelling at once. Again. Drool fleck with blood dripped down her chin. Again. A burst of agony across her temple. Again. Her vision flickered. Again. Dread pooled in her gut as her consciousness flickered with it. Again. She forced her eyes open, reaching up to claw weakly at The Overseer’s arm. But it was no use against the tattooed muscle holding her up.
Eventually The Overseer dropped Charlie, and she fell in a heap, pain flaring everywhere as blood oozed from countless wounds. The Overseer smirked down at her. “Lightweight,” she sneered, “can’t take a little sparring? Let’s try something else, shall we?”
Charlie panicked, her breathing quickened, she stared up fearfully at The Overseer, mouth desperately trying to form some semblance of “No,” but between her busted lip and fading consciousness all that came out was a strangled “N-nnngh…”
The Overseer laughed cruelly, grabbing Charlie by the throat and squeezing, pressing all the air out of her lungs and sending her thoughts into Panic Mode. She gasped and choked but no amount of weak struggling could free her. The Overseer only laughed harder at her failings. “Aw, lost for words are we? Want me to stop?”
Charlie didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, her face slowly turning red, her eyes near popping out of her skull. Then The Overseer dropped her suddenly, taking her by surprise so even when she was released she couldn’t quite suck in a breath, her brain taking a minute to realise she was no longer being choked. She half-coughed, half-gasped, collapsing once again. She didn’t register the glint of a syringe until The Overseer crouched next to her and waved it in front of her face. Charlie flinched automatically, shaking her head as frantically as she could in her weakened and bloodied state. No, no, not again, please, PLEASE! She tried turning invisible, but nothing changed. Her stomach dropped.
The Overseer sniggered. “That’s not gonna help you love. You should know by now — your little power doesn’t work here, ghostie. Now, hold still.”
The needle plunged into her neck, and she screamed and screamed, but no sound came out.
That was when Luna woke up screaming, drenched in a cold sweat.
Ropes dug into Killian's skin as they suspended him above. The friction stung as it crushed his skin, the ropes as tight as possible around his wrists and lower arms as they hoisted him up. He couldn't move them, not at all, though he could move his hand as difficult as it was.
Killian's head was turned upwards towards the ceiling, despite the bright light above. Maybe there was a way out. Maybe there was a possible opening that could free him from whatever was tying him up. But the strings were so tight around him that they'd reddened his skin.
He couldn't get out.
Killian looked around the room, trying to absorb his surroundings. There was nothing much to see. The walls were grey and shiny, with some light scratches on them. The single white light above, attached directly to the ceiling, blazed down on him and illuminated the small room entirely.
Killian didn't want to look at that.
He stared straight ahead, trying to think. Why was he here? Could he recognise this room from somewhere? From his childhood? How could he get out of here?
“I’ve never seen you here before," a voice said from in front of him. Killian flinched slightly. How was she there? He didn't notice her before now. He didn't even notice anyone there until the very moment that she spoke. you've done, to deserve being tied up
"I don’t know either.” The woman narrowed her eyes, tilting her head just a little.
"Why?"
"I..." Killian stopped for a moment. He genuinely didn't know. He didn't know why he was here, he didn't even know where he was. Killian looked around.
"Well?"
Killian sharply turned his head towards the woman. "I don't know. I'm sorry."
The woman smiled a little, her mouth open. It looked unnatural. "Are you trying to doubt me?"
"I'm not." The woman nodded her head slowly, looking away for a little bit. She reached behind her, pulling out a long, thin blade.
It shone against the light above, the ray piercing his eyes a little as it shone in his vision. She inched the blade closer to him, towards his chest. The sight caused him to shake, his stomach churning as the blade inched closer.
He didn't move.
Even if he did, he couldn't get far. He felt the ropes tighten and tighten around him, almost by magic.
"What are you doing?" He quickly whispered.
The sword immediately sliced it's way into his chest. He felt the way it slammed into his ribs, slicing through them and outside his back.
It was a strange feeling. The feeling of his skin slicing against the metal, the pain that it caused as it ruptured into his lungs and shattered his ribs. The feeling of fear. The knowledge that he possibly could die because of this, that he could lose his breathing...
Yet he could still breathe. It had punctured his lung, yet he could still breathe.
He could literally feel it coming out of his back, smashing into his skin, yet he could still breathe. Even when the woman yanked it out, taking away his airways. He couldn’t breathe as much, but…he could. This should’ve completely suffocated him.
"It's best you have an answer the next time I see you," she said. Killian looked around. He couldn't see her anymore.
From your gifter: Hi Whumpobsessednarwhal! WoW here! I was pleasantly surprised when I was given you as my giftee! I had a great time writing this for you, despite my knowledge of FFXIV being a bit limited. But regardless, I hope I did your Callux justice! ❤️
Callux knew that something was wrong when he and his older brother, Tallus, along with their small group of knights, had to help a man who was apparently robbed. When he and his team found the robbers who supposedly took the man's money and supplies, the same man suddenly appeared, with him more people brandishing weapons that then surrounded the team. Callux knew he should have spoken up, he should have warned Tallus about how fishy the man's story was. But it was too late, and he and his team had no choice but to fight their way out.
During the fight, Tallus stayed close to his younger brother, protecting him from any attacks that were aimed at Callux. Callux knew how protective his brother was, especially after everything the younger knight went through, but… sometimes it could be a bit much, to the point Callux and Tallus argued about it a few times. But Callux learned to accept it and focused primarily on getting out of this situation alive.
"Callux, your left!" Tallus yelled, and instinctively, Callux dodged a robber's spear before he killed them with his weapon. He turned to face Tallus with a firm nod of thanks, before he continued his fight against the robbers.
As he and the rest of the knights fought, Callux began to wonder about why these people were after them. He was only a knight, not a king or part of royalty. So… why? Why would they go after them? Had any of them done something wrong to these people?
He shook his head, realizing that he wasn't focusing on the task at hand. He needed to keep his concentration so he could survive this.
Another robber went down. Callux turned to attack another via their face, and that robber went down.
Things were looking up. They had to keep the man who tricked them alive so he could be taken in for questioning, but Callux and the rest of the knights were almost out of the trap that had closed around them.
Callux turned and his eyes widened and a gasp escaped from his mouth. The man that had orchestrated this readied a spell of some sort, aiming straight for Tallus' back. Tallus didn't seem to notice this, as he defeated another robber, before stopping for a brief moment to catch his breath.
That was a mistake that Tallus shouldn't have made at this time.
At that exact moment, the man's spell went off, colors of yellow and gray heading straight for Tallus.
"BROTHER!" Callux screamed, rushing forward towards his older brother.
Tallus turned, not towards the magic that was about to hit him, but towards Callux. Before he could question what was going on, Callux shoved him to the side, away from the magic that was aimed at Tallus.
The spell hit Callux squarely in the chest. Callux screamed as he fell to the ground. Sparks of electricity flowed around his body, keeping him still. Every movement burned and ached, no matter how much he tried to stand up.
"CALLUX!" he could hear his older brother's fearful scream. Footsteps began to approach Callux, to which the elezen panicked and gasped out to his brother.
"Run, Tallus!" he cried. "Save yourself!"
"No!" Tallus cried, "I won't leave you again, little brother!"
Callux could hear footsteps from behind coming closer, and his heart lurched in worry. If Tallus and the rest of the knights didn't flee now, his sacrifice would be in vain.
"RUN! GO!" Callux screamed, fear in his eyes as his assailant approached. Closer. And closer.
"NO!" Tallus grunted and yelled, as if he was struggling against whoever was holding him back.
"It's too late, Tallus!" one of the knights cried, "We must retreat!"
"But my brother!" Tallus nearly let out a sob, "I can't leave him like this!"
"I'll be fine!" Callux reassured with a small smile. A shadow enveloped the elezen knight, and he knew time was running out for him. "GO, BROTHER! RUN!"
Tallus continued to protest, yelling for his younger brother. While Callux was unable to look up to meet his eyes thanks to the paralysis, he could hear Tallus's voice slowly fading. Eventually, his brother's voice disappeared, along with the rest of the knights. Callux could only hope his comrades could keep Tallus from rashly saving him.
The man who had set the trap loomed over Callux, his large shadow enveloping the elezen knight. Callux gulped, unsure whether his captor would kill him right here, right now, or worse.
"You made him get away," the man's growl was cold, rough, to the point a shiver went down Callux's spine. "I'll make sure you pay for this!"
The last thought Callux had before everything turned black was that at least Tallus was safe…
_____
Pain exploded everywhere in Callux's body when he came to, his bones aching and burning with agony. Callux bit back a whimper of pain as he blinked his eyes open. Darkness. That was all he could see. His ears picked up on the sounds of dripping water that echoed in what was likely either a cave or a dungeon, along with footsteps close by pacing in front of him.
He blinked, hoping that would be enough to deal with the darkness that covered his sight. It didn't work.
He thought back on what happened. The man who needed his and his comrades' help, the ambush, Callux sacrificing himself to protect Tallus—
…Yes. That's right.
It all came back to him in a blur. Callux took a hit for Tallus and ended up getting paralyzed by the man's magic spell, and told Tallus to flee. And then everything went fuzzy after that.
He shifted his body, but paused when he realized that he was standing upright. Not only that, but his hands were behind something cold and metallic. He pulled his hands to test something, and it was confirmed, they were bound together. He could also feel rope lashed around his chest, making it slightly difficult to breathe, and rope also tied his feet to what Callux guessed was a steel pole.
It dawned on him. He was taken captive, likely by the man who set the trap on Callux and the others.
He knew that struggling wildly wouldn't do. Despite only seeing darkness—he was likely blindfolded—he would be able to escape by picking at the knots that held him. He moved his hands again, his fingers searching for anything that could liberate him from his captivity. However, he couldn't feel the knot; it was out of reach.
He tried again, only to hiss when a sharp pain surged from his chest, the same place he was hit by the spell hours before.
"You're awake?" a gruff, hard voice asked.
Callux's eyes widened. However, he closed them, tightening them shut in case his captor removed his blindfold. Footsteps approached. Callux struggled to not make any noise due to the pain, slumping in his bonds in an attempt to look like he was still knocked out.
"Hey," the voice growled, "I know you're awake."
A swift, sharp kick to Callux's stomach knocked the wind out of him, and Callux could feel something warm dripping down the side of his mouth. He coughed, gagging as he felt what he guessed was blood flying out from his mouth. He groaned, and knowing that the jig was up, he glanced in his captor's direction.
The blindfold was removed from his eyes.
Callux blinked, readjusting his sight, seeing only blurs of dark green and dark blue. In front of him was the same man who dared to hurt Tallus. Once Callux's sight was finally cleared, he realized he was in some cave of sorts, with large, green and blue crystals that were deep in the ground and ceiling shining in the dark, lighting up the area he and his captor were in.
It was beautiful. Callux would have admired the sight if he wasn't bound to a pole.
He grunted, wiggling against the ropes in an attempt to remain defiant. "Who are you? What do you want with me?!"
The man smirked, shaking his head before he spoke, "I don't want anything from you. You just happened to be in the way."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Callux questioned, tilting his head. If this man didn't want anything from him, then why was he being kept alive? Dread filled his stomach, afraid of his captor's answer.
"I was after him," his captor growled, inching closer to his prize. Before Callux could react, the man's gloved hand gripped his neck, choking him as Callux gagged and coughed. "I was going after your brother, but you ended up in the way! I was so close to capturing him, and because of you, he escaped!"
…Oh. Oh no… Callux gulped, although it was difficult to do so as he was being choked. It was a good thing Callux did what he had done; otherwise, this man would have harmed his older brother, or worse.
The man released his grip on his throat, and Callux coughed again, taking in as much precious air as he could. When he opened his mouth to take another deep breath again, a filthy cloth was shoved there. He bit into the cloth, tasting dirt and grime, nearly making him gag as his captor tied the cloth around his head, silencing him effectively.
Callux glared, mumbling unintelligible threats towards his captor's life. The man shook his head, as if unaffected by Callux's threats.
"If it weren't for your stunt," the man said, "I wouldn't be doing this. Now…" he took Callux's hair, pulling it closer to force him to look at the man in the eyes. "Guess you'll be the bait to lure that damned Tallus in."
Callux held back the urge to widen his eyes in fear, instead keeping his glare towards the man who was holding him hostage… although deep down, he was terrified. He was bait? For his brother? No. Tallus wasn't dumb enough to fall for such an obvious scheme. He would never come for his brother. Otherwise, Callux's sacrifice would be in vain.
The man moved towards Callux's bonds, tightening the ropes holding the helpless knight to the pole. Callux winced, but his glare remained as the man added more ropes around the knight's body. The rope bit into his skin as they tightened their hold, with one piece of rope bound around his neck. Strong enough to keep his head in place, but weak enough to not choke him.
Callux knew that this man wanted him alive, after all. It was just a precaution.
Once the man finished, he eyed the knight, a satisfied expression on his face. Callux attempted to struggle, to try to untie himself, but alas, the ropes held firm.
"I've already sent the ransom note," the man chuckled, "once your brother comes for you, he'll fall right into my hands. And I'm sure a knight like him wouldn't abandon his loved ones, correct?"
Callux's eyes narrowed, but his heart was pounding so hard in his ribcage that he swore his captor could hear it. No. No no no. This couldn't be happening. If his brother fell for the trap, then… who knew what this man would do to him? He was too afraid to know. But he couldn't let that happen. The elezen refused to let his brother get hurt trying to save him.
When the man left, Callux began to struggle against his bonds, but was forced to stop when the rope around his neck began to choke him. Tears began to form in his eyes, but he held them back. He needed to find a way to escape. Somehow. He had to save Tallus. He had to!
_____
Callux wasn't sure how long he was there, bound and gagged to a pole waiting for Tallus to arrive. The elezen knight whimpered, straining against his bonds in a futile attempt to break free. Alas, the ropes held firm. He sighed through the cloth keeping him quiet, before he gulped. His head was down, closing his eyes as he wracked his mind, trying to figure out what to do. His weapons were taken. He couldn't find a way to break free. What was he supposed to do here?
He didn't want to stand around and wait for his older brother to come and rescue him. If he did…
He shut his eyes again, tugging at the ropes holding his wrists behind the pole. How could he even escape?
"Callux!"
Callux's eyes widened, and his head shot up when he heard the familiar voice calling out his name. His heart pounded in his chest, fear running through his veins.
There, skidding to a halt from the side and spotting Callux in such a pathetic state, was Tallus. Tallus' eyes widened in shock, his mouth gaped open when he spotted his brother.
"Brother!" Tallus' voice was filled with relief, "Hold on, I'll get you out of this!"
Callux's eyes grew wider, and he began to shake his head wildly, not caring that the rope around his neck was choking him. He yelled out muffled warnings and pleas through his gag, hoping that Tallus would get the message and flee.
However, this caused the complete opposite effect. Tallus rushed forward, closer to Callux. Closer to the trap that was set for him.
Tears bubbled in Callux's eyes, as he shook his head harder. No no no no no. Tallus needed to run. He needed to get far away from here as fast as possible. If he didn't leave now…
When Tallus was close enough, he began to work on the ropes holding Callux's wrists. He whispered to his panicking brother, "It is okay, little brother. I'm here."
No! Callux wished he could scream. Run, Tallus! He cried out through his gag, writhing against his bonds in an attempt to warn Tallus, that Callux was only bait. The pole moved slightly due to Callux's frantic struggles, and because of this, it gave Tallus pause.
"Brother?" Tallus questioned, pausing freeing Callux's bonds. He looked at Callux for a moment, as if realizing that his brother was trying to tell him something urgent. With quick hands, Tallus removed Callux's gag, and the younger elezen coughed and spat out any dirt and grime that ended up in his mouth.
"Tallus, run!" Callux cried, "It's a trap—"
It was too late. Before Tallus could turn, another paralysis spell hit him squarely in the back. Tallus screamed, the electricity flowing through his veins before the older knight fell to the dusty ground, unconscious.
"BROTHER!" Callux screamed, his heart breaking as guilt hit him hard.
No! This couldn't be happening! Tallus is caught, because of me!
The man smirked as he appeared from behind one of the crystals, his hands crackling from the magic he had used against Tallus. He eyed Callux, before closing the distance between himself and the younger elezen knight.
"You…" Callux growled, although he knew that his defiance was a ruse to this man at this point. But he didn't want to show fear.
If something happens, Tallus had once told a younger Callux, always stay brave, little brother. No matter what.
"Thank you for your cooperation, boy," the man chuckled at Callux's defiance. He held up his hand, close to Callux's face, as another paralysis spell began to form on his fingertips. "I would have never captured the great Tallus without your help. Now…" His grin grew wider. "You and him are my prisoners."
The last thing Callux remembered was the spell going off, and everything went black.
_____
When Callux came to, he was being thrown onto a cold, tiled flooring, before what sounded like metal bars closed shut behind him. He groaned, his head spinning, as he tried to move his hands. They didn't budge—they were bound behind his hands with metal cuffs. His feet were also bound with the same cuffs, keeping him immobile.
He glanced up to see his older brother, Tallus, equally bound with metal cuffs, slumped on the wall, his eyes filled with worry. But when he heard his younger brother's groan, he glanced over at him.
"Brother!" Tallus cried, shifting to scoot towards Callux. A frown formed on his face, before he whispered, "Are you harmed?"
"I…" Callux gulped, now remembering what had happened. How Callux was used as bait for Tallus. How Tallus tried to save him. And now he was caught.
All because of Callux.
"...I'm sorry, Tallus," Callux whispered, his eyes averted from his older brother. "This is all my fault. If I—"
"It's not your fault, little brother," Tallus tried to soothe. "I should have realized it was a trap the moment I got the ransom note… I should have been more careful. Forgive me for letting myself get captured…"
Callux frowned, before moving into a sitting position. Scooting closer to his brother, he placed his head on Tallus' shoulder. "It's not your fault, big brother… you were worried for me. I'm sorry that I couldn't warn you sooner…"
"The man who took you did everything he could to keep you from warning me, Callux," Tallus reassured, "it's not your fault."
Callux sniffled, but held back his tears as he glanced at the cell door that held the two elezens captive. Now what? What would be in store for them?
"Someone will save us," Tallus spoke, as if he read Callux's mind, "maybe the Warrior of Light would come for us."
"...Yes…" Callux's voice was filled with relief, sighing as he tried to make himself comfortable.
"Stay strong, brother," Tallus whispered, "we will be fine. I promise."
Callux knew they would be. Despite the guilt he was feeling for letting Tallus get captured, he knew one thing for sure; he wasn't alone. He and Tallus had each other. They would be rescued soon.
