[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.
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."
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.”
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.
