cw: referenced beatings/abuse/torture, death wish, brief reference/allusion to self harm
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Even warm and dry, even in a bed for the first time in months, even utterly exhausted, Cerus could not fall asleep. In the time since his fall, not a single person had falsified kindness before hurting him, before taking from him, but nevertheless, Cerus didn't trust the soldier's intentions. He'd never given anyone a reason to love him. Never a reason to extend a hand. And even when asked directly, the soldier wouldn't give him an answer.
What did they want? Every possible reason for their administrations eluded him; beating him didn't require a bed. Taking vengeance in other ways didn't demand his wounds be bandaged. Anything they wanted from him could've simply been seized, be it the boots off his feet or the flesh off his back, and not a soul would bat an eye. Such were the rewards of the damned, and Cerus had come to expect as much.
There was always the possibility that the soldier wanted more than simple revenge. Perhaps they thought they could access his magic, the lifeblood that had been torn away from him at the trial where he should've been allowed to die. If that were so, the soldier was a bigger fool than he'd thought. In his early days as a slave to the kingdom, when he was at his most desperate, he'd tried to cut away the tattoos the priests had tainted his skin with. He'd despaired to learn it was a fool's errand; they kept coming back.
Even without the black marks of the holy mages, any spell requiring refined movements would be impossible with his ruined hands. He'd been allowed a healer after the trial, so that he could be put to work right away, but the woman who'd done it didn't bother to align bones, or even hold the larger gashes closed, and Cerus was left with ugly scars and uglier hands. Hands that could hardly grasp the tools he was made to use; fingers that still spiked with pain when he tried to curl them.
The soldier hadn't returned yet. Cerus was uncertain how long it had been since they'd closed the door, and as he lay shivering on the mattress, trying to suppress the painful coughs that wracked his body, he wondered if they'd come back at all. Despite their supposed determination to care for him, they didn't seem to enjoy it; hardly looking his way, hardly speaking. Perhaps they were only acting on orders. That would explain some of the situation, but still left the larger question of why unanswered.
He wished they would hurt him and be done with it; the fear of what was to come was worse than any pain they could inflict. At least then he'd know what to expect. A whip, a stick, a fist. Something that left him shaking and bleeding, something easier to understand than a gentle hand.
In spite of those hopes, Cerus still flinched when the door at last swung open. The soldier was back, a steaming bowl in hand.
"My uncle's gone to bed," they said as they crossed the room. "I'd thank you to not start shouting at me again."
Their uncle. Was that who had ordered him brought here? What did he want with him? A ransom, perhaps. Nurse him back to health and sell him to a lord who desired revenge. Cerus was very used to revenge.
At the mines, if a night was particularly dull, workers would pay him a visit. Reminisce about sisters and mothers, lovers and sons, lost to the war. Punish him for it, with whatever they had on hand, and let his screams soothe their grief. He couldn't pretend any of it was undeserved.
"Let me help you sit up," the soldier said. "You'll have an easier time eating if you aren't lying on your stomach."
Cerus didn't respond, but allowed himself to be lifted, wincing as the movement pulled at his damaged back. The feeling there wasn't what it had once been, but pain still found a way to sink its fingers into him.
The soldier propped him against the wall, taking care to avoid the wounded skin, and Cerus once again wondered why they'd bother. Even on orders, their master couldn't fault them for a moment of carelessness. They picked up the bowl then, holding a spoonful of broth to his lips.
"Shell stew," they said. "I'm sure you've had it since coming here."
He hadn't. A thin porridge in the morning, bread and a strip of dried fish at night. Enough to keep him on his feet, for the most part.
Cerus took the broth, too hungry and exhausted to feel humiliated at the notion of being fed like a babe. Whatever the soldier's plans were for him, refusing food wouldn't help. He hoped the stew was poisoned.
In slow silence, the soldier helped him to empty the bowl; thin, salty broth full of bits of potato and seaweed and a chewy meat that reminded him of the smell of the ocean. He felt warmer after, though shivers still ran through his body.
The soldier rolled him back onto his stomach, then left with the dish, returning moments later with another blanket. They laid it on the floor, parallel with Cerus, and blew out the pair of oil lamps that lit the room; leaving nothing but the faint glow of clouded moonlight from the window.
Were they sleeping on the floor? Had they been commanded to watch over him tonight, so he wouldn't try and run?
"Wh—?" he started to say, but the shift of air in his throat sparked another coughing fit, driving spikes of pain through his lungs and still-healing ribs.
"I hope you're not about to ask me 'why' again," came the soldier's voice from somewhere in the darkness. "Sleep."
Cerus was silent for a moment, steadying his breathing before trying again. "Are you meant to be guarding me?" His voice came out ragged and small. He hadn't had much reason to speak in the last months. Begging rarely granted him a reprieve, though sometimes his stupid tongue couldn't help itself, and conversation wasn't one of the labors the kingdom demanded of him.
"If you'd really like to leave, by all means, do it." The soldier's tone told him they were tired of this topic. Cerus was tempted to push it, to goad them into lashing out, into striking him, or throwing him back into the rain. Something that would shed a light on their intentions for him.
But he didn't, instead allowing his eyes to drift closed, though he knew sleep would elude him. Pointless as it was, Cerus hoped the soldier or their master could be convinced to kill him.
The command, spat at the guards, was the last thing Alexei heard before they threw him back into his cell, ears still ringing from the punch he'd taken. The door locked, and for a while it was quiet. In the cell, in the hall. Quiet everywhere but in his head.
The dread building inside him was so potent he was sure he'd be sick, and try as he might, he couldn't direct his thoughts away from it.
Cold blue of a clear sky—
(What are they going to do?)
Flaking rust, crumbled iron—
(What are they going to do to me?)
Clear, cheer, deer, fear, gear, hear—
(What are they going to do to me?)
He'd been stupid. He wasn't going to pretend otherwise. The city council had been invited on a tour of the prison, something about securing funding, or acquiring votes for a new bill. Wade had told Lex about it beforehand as he hosed him down, forced a comb through his hair, a toothbrush into his mouth.
"Even the mayor will be there. Be good, or else."
They'd unchained him from the wall and had him stand in the doorway, flanked by two guards. The warden had thought he was helpless. Half-starved and wearing power dampeners and missing his fucking arms. His mistake.
When one of the council members had reached out to touch him, like a child on a double dare, Lex had fought past the dampeners, focusing until he thought his very blood would boil, and set her expensive silk blazer on fire.
And now he was about to find out exactly what 'or else' meant.
The cell door opened before long, guard after guard pouring into the small space. Lex knew what was coming; he curled into a ball and ignored them, waiting for the blows to start flying. And when they inevitably did, he tried to find a poem, or even a rhyme to cling to, make it all more bearable, but every boot in the gut only served to scatter his thoughts, and in the end, he was resolved to simply waiting for it to end.
The beating was the worst one he'd taken since coming here, leaving his body shuddering, blood oozing from his lips, breath coming in short wheezes—he'd felt several ribs crack during the assault.
The voices above him were fuzzy. He didn't care. He didn't need to know what the guards were going on about—
"But is it enough?"
That pulled his attention, shoving him into a cold-blooded clarity, words sharp enough to cut into his skull.
"What do you mean, 'is it enough'? Look at him."
"They get beaten all the fucking time. Lopez said—"
"What do you suggest? We're not supposed to do permanent damage."
"That's what the healer's for."
The conversation was quickly turning to argument, and the words were bleeding together. He could only catch scraps.
"...strung up." (Shut up)
"Nothing to tie on…" (Bygone)
"...in the break room." (Doom, plume)
An arm curled around his torso, pressure on newly-cracked ribs, and he bit back a whimper as more hands latched onto him and lifted his body. His instincts screamed at him to fight back, but it hurt to move. He could only hang there limply as they carried him out of the cell and down the hall. Going where? Why? (Cry, pie, lie, die.)
Movement stopped, a switch was flicked on, and Lex squinted as bright light flooded his vision. He could hear garbled words from a TV, music coming faintly from a radio, the slight squeak of boots on the floor.
Break room.
"Stand him up!" one of the guards called. Lex blinked away the spots in his vision, letting his eyes adjust to the fluorescent lights. As he did, he saw that the guard's number had dwindled down to three.
"I don't know if he can—"
"Well he'll remember to really fucking fast."
Hands held him up on either side, and something was looped around his throat, pulled tight against flesh and knotted. (Spotted, clotted, dotted, no no no—)
He was vaguely aware of the other end of the thing around his neck being tossed high, over a metal ceiling beam, and caught, yanked.
Lex's body jerked as it cinched on his throat, and he choked, trying to take in air, finding he couldn't unless he stood perfectly straight, and even then it was only barely. All his body wanted to do was curl in on itself, and his ribs throbbed as he tried to hold position, closing his eyes against the harsh lights.
"Fucking hell man, this is gonna kill him."
"He passes out, you let him down. Hand me the whip."
"You sure we're allowed to touch it? Rentals—"
"Rentals won't give a shit as long as we return it clean."
A whistling sound pierced the air, followed by a sharp slap across his back. Lex arched forward reflexively, cutting off his own air with the movement.
"Dude. That was weak as shit, let me try."
Lex braced himself, but it wasn't enough. The whip cracked as it hit the air this time, striking him on the shoulders. Another was right on its heels, lighting a line of fire that ran parallel to his spine.
With every blow, it was getting harder to hold himself up, to keep breathing. It was only the fear that kept him awake, that animal terror that struck him when he couldn't reach the air.
A strike cut across several marks at once, and Lex cried out, his knees buckling.
"Maybe we should stop—"
"He's fine."
He managed to get to his feet, gasping, tears streaming down his cheeks. Wasn't it enough? How could this not be enough?
The next lash pulled a scream from him, cut off rapidly as he stumbled and the rope closed his throat. He didn't even have the energy to hold back a strangled sob. How could this not be fucking enough?
Another strike, and he lost his footing, the pressure on his windpipe crushing, legs shaking and useless and failing.
"For God's sake."
The rope suddenly went slack, and he crumpled, gasping, unable to choke down the whimpers that came crawling up his throat.
"Jeez, David. Buzzkill much?"
"I'm not losing my fucking job for your entertainment."
The linoleum floor was cool on his face, and Lex clung to the feeling, trying to focus on anything other than how much it all hurt.
"He literally tried to kill Senator Collins. He should count himself lucky right now."
"Lucky? He's practically dying at your feet."
"Yeah, we're supposed to ensure this never happens again. Gotta make sure he never forgets." Lex heard fabric shuffling above him, the faint click of metal on metal.
"Fucking hell, dude,"
"No one's making you stay and watch."
"He's already had the shit beat outta him."
Another sob escaped Lex. They were done now, right? Fuck, he'd hoped they were done, they had to be done—
Summary: Obi-Wan's first night back at the Temple after Melida-Daan.
Angstpril day 4: "why did you leave?"
Obi-Wan wasn’t asleep for long before being lulled awake by the bed beneath him shifting.
(Or rather, the couch. He had only been back at the Temple for a few hours and didn’t feel comfortable reclaiming his old room. Not while he was on probation.)
The living room was dark, but Coruscant’s nightlife brought enough of a blue-tinted glow to illuminate the outline of a familiar Jedi Master perched on the edge of the cushion near Obi-Wan’s feet.
“M’ster Jinn?” Obi-Wan muttered while wiping away the sleep. For the first time since they arrived back from Melida-Daan, Qui-Gon made eye contact with the boy.
“Why did you leave?” the question was not laced with bitterness or accusation like Obi-Wan would have expected it to be. It was soft. Uttered with the cautious cadence of someone who laid awake choosing each word with careful intention.
Even more surprising was the bitterness that Obi-Wan felt. His gut reaction was to respond with sarcasm. “You should know why. You were there,” felt favorable on his tongue. “Technically it was you who left me,” followed close behind.
Despite the small truths they harbored, neither was allowed to be spoken into existence. Obi-Wan had spent his own sleepless nights in deep thought over the morality of it all and knew exactly his answer.
“I didn’t leave,” he said, ”I stayed.”
Qui-Gon hummed with mild interest. “Is there a difference?”
“Well, yes. Staying meant fulfilling my duty. Leaving meant walking away from it.”
“So you believe your duty was to the Young?”
Obi-Wan nodded. “I know it was.”
“How?”
“Because I could feel it in the Force, Master Qui-Gon.”
Qui-Gon looked away again.
“So what do you think I chose?”
“What?”
They were staring at one another again, but Qui-Gon’s gaze had hardened again. “Did I stay? Or leave?”
That was the question. The dilemma the Temple was buzzing about. The critical decision the Council had to make a verdict on. Was Qui-Gon’s primary duty to the Jedi and his injured friend, or to his padawan that was making rather radical decisions a few months into his apprenticeship?
The problem with the question was there wasn’t a clear answer. Even Obi-Wan fluctuated his positions. He understands the reasons that Qui-Gon had to return. He knows he didn’t exactly give his Master a choice. Time was running out. Obi-Wan was stubborn and Qui-Gon— whether he was willing to admit it or not— was scared.
“I think you did what you thought was right.”
“Leaving you on Melida-Daan was right?” Qui-Gon whispered. His tone was too neutral for Obi-Wan to deduce if he was being sarcastic or genuine. No matter the intention, Obi-Wan shook his head with matching neutrality.
“No. But staying with Master Tahl was,” The couch shifted with Master Jinn’s shift in weight. His lip twitched a few times as it struggled to decide which emotion would surface. When the silence started to become uncomfortable, Obi-Wan cleared his throat and fiddled with the seam of the blanket that was not there when he fell asleep. “How is Master Tahl, by the way.”
It took Qui-Gon a moment to snap out of his daze. “She’s doing… better. It’s been a long road since… well, I’ll let her tell you the story.”
Obi-Wan swallowed the lump in his throat. He had assumed the worst when the days began to turn to weeks and Qui-Gon hadn’t turned back up on Melida-Daan. Though he relinquished his apprenticeship by not getting on the ship, he assumed— he hoped— his master would return. When he didn’t, Obi-Wan prayed it wasn’t mourning that kept Qui-Gon from finding him.
Learning Master Tahl was alive was a relief.
Realizing Qui-Gon did not come until Obi-Wan pleaded for assistance sent a new wave of dismay through his mind.
“It’s late,” Qui-Gon said, even though it was he who awoke Obi-Wan in the middle of the night. “Get some sleep, Obi-Wan.”
And then he was gone.
Obi-Wan settled back down under the blanket that usually rests on the end of Qui-Gon’s bed. It smelled like the laundry detergent used in the Temple washroom and Qui-Gon. Home wrapped around him like the hug of a stranger. His senses were torn between the comfort of familiarity and the dread of having to let it go all over again.
Despite his physical exhaustion, sleep refused him.
Part of my "Jason's poems during his muordertour during Lost Days". You're welcome to leave comments/fake replys to add to the "Tumblr " I'll do once I'm better.
day 25: Nothing Lasts Forever.
Thaey say that love is a given
It's a free present you can't untake
(Unconditionally)
When I stand in front of you
Bloody hands
Sweaty palms -
Will you be my refuge on the hawling, stormy night?
Will you feed me,
Keep me shelter from the haunting crowd?
When the fork lifters and the flame throwers
Stand upon your castle
Will you keep me?
(Or will you let them take -
Every pound of my body -
Pay my bills with blood
And pain?)
# Frankenstein #monster #real question #poem #sad
...
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To even say he wants to be out from this would be lying to himself. He did that before. He wishes he hadn’t, but it… needed to happen. If Anakin hadn’t finally stepped forwards to demand more, something, they never would have made it to where they are now. At least here, they have… something. Some semblance of equality.
“That’s not what I treated you as,” Obi-Wan objects. Anakin glances at him, wordlessly – he could argue endlessly to that, but he… won’t. There’s no reason to, anyway. He catches Anakin’s look, anyway, and sighs. “That… was not what I meant to treat you as.”
“But you did,” Anakin tells him, quietly. “Everyone did.”
There has never been a way out. Not for him. How many others is that true for? And to think this is what he wanted so much to end that he left everything just to try. Because he had to try. But he failed that as everything else.
Obi-Wan reaches out, touching his arm. The sensation is… comforting at least.
“What do you want?” he asks. “If you could choose?”
He never wanted to reach this place, but he has. He’s become what all slaves try never to be. “I don’t know. It’s… unachievable, and irrelevant.”
There was much to be done within the central city, even after Cerus was taken care of. Rebuild, relieve, reform. It was months before Tansy started looking toward home, and the journey there would be longer still, but eventually, as the summer came to a close, they turned to the road. It was time to do their own rebuilding.
The first sight of the coast filled them with a mixture of joy and sadness. How young they'd been, the last time they'd seen the ocean. A glance over their shoulder as they ran, blurred by tears.
Gone were the days when they'd spend all afternoon on their father's fishing boat, when they'd come home to their mother cooking, when they'd chase their siblings through the tide, splashing and looking for seashells.
Their grief for everything that could never be again wasn't as sharp as it had once been, now replaced with something hollow. An emptiness in their chest that could never be filled.
Tansy still had family in the little coastal village; people to come home to, which was more than some of their fellow soldiers could say. Their great-uncle's house was smaller than they'd remembered, but wasn't that how it always was with childhood memories?
Now that the war was over, it was time to try and settle down and remember how life carried on. Realize how many slow, small moments there really were in a day, so much more noticeable when you weren't just trying to stay alive, so much more beautiful.
Great-Uncle Aldon had managed to keep a fishing boat safely out of the reach of the war, and despite being well into his seventies, tended to the nets day in and out. Tansy mostly kept to the house; mending torn nets, cooking, and keeping things tidy. They weren't ready to climb aboard the vessel without their father just yet.
One evening, a fortnight or two from the day they'd returned, they picked up a parcel of clams from the market; a meal they were looking forward to, as the central city had been too far inland to receive any fresh seafood. It was dusk when they started the long walk back to the house, and a freezing, late-fall rain had begun. Tansy's cloak was heavy, but not waterproof, and they did their best to keep under the awnings of the merchants.
As they passed the shipyard, they paused to watch half-constructed vessels bob in the stormy water. Beautiful as it was dangerous. Were they not eager to get home and cook dinner, they would've found a better spot to watch the rolling of the dark waves.
They started off, but a figure near the ships caught their eye; stick-thin, in soaked clothing that didn't look at all appropriate for the weather, struggling under the weight of several wooden planks.
Odd. Most of the shipwrights knew the climate well, and wouldn't be caught in a storm without adequate layers. They watched as the figure stumbled, scattering their heavy load across the pier. Tansy started forward to help them, but another dock worker got there first.
A shock ran through them as the worker began to beat the person on the ground, shouting words that were drowned out by the storm. For a moment, Tansy was frozen in place. They'd never seen cruelty such as this, not in their village. Had the war really changed the people so drastically?
"Stop!" they shouted, their clam dinner forgotten as they charged out into the rain. The worker froze, looking more surprised than angry as Tansy moved to stand in front of the fallen figure.
"Leave them alone."
The worker shook their head, turning to leave. "Too cold out for this shite. Get a move on! Weather's no excuse." The last command seemed directed at the person on the ground, but the worker didn't wait for acknowledgement, disappearing into the dockside shack.
Tansy turned to kneel beside the person, who was still curled tightly on the ground, hands balled into fists, covering their face protectively. With a start, they realized what they'd assumed to be gloves were actually the person's bare hands, black as coal and crooked, like the bones had been broken and healed improperly—
"Cerus?" they said, barely able to hear their own voice above the rainfall. The man on the ground seemed to catch the name anyway, flinching away like it was a weapon Tansy wielded.
Oh gods, it was him. The Shadow King, the tyrant, trembling before them on the ground. The catalyst of the war, the thief who'd stolen Tansy's family— they wanted to run, forget they'd ever seen him here, but they couldn't bring themselves to turn away.
Because it was clear to them now that the Council had indeed sentenced Cerus to death. A slow, drawn-out death, to be carried out in silence, with no ceremony, no recognition. Tansy doubted the fallen ruler would live through the winter… unless he had help.
And who would help him? they thought, even as they knelt. Who would help him, if I turned my back?
"Cerus," they said again, taking a great effort to shape their tone into something resembling gentleness. A single gray eye peered warily at them from beneath dark hair. Someone had cut it, they realized, and not with a careful hand.
Tansy sighed. "Do you have a place away from the rain?"
The response was a rattling breath, an almost inaudible, "I have nothing."
Those words, hollow and hopeless, pierced Tansy like an arrow. In that instant, it didn't matter who he was, who he'd been. In that instant, Cerus was just another human who was suffering, and Tansy was so tired of watching people suffer.
"Then come with me," Tansy said, holding out their hand.
Without a word, perhaps because he thought he had no choice but to obey, perhaps out of desperate hope that someone cared whether he lived or died, Cerus took it.
A phrase on everyone's lips, passed around like a greeting, a blessing, a well-wishing.
"The Shadow King has fallen, and we are free."
General Nisha was at the head of the makeshift procession that paraded through the city, enemy shields and helmets held high like banners.
The war for the kingdom had been waged for five years. The fields outside the city were red with blood. But they'd won, they'd won. The undead legions had met their defeat, and their dark king had been imprisoned and was awaiting trial.
There was little doubt what his fate would be.
But before he could be executed, certain matters needed to be addressed. There were whispers in the streets, rumors of secret blood rituals, fail-safes emplaced by the Dark King to ensure he'd always be able to rise to power again. And if these rumors were true, they must be destroyed.
There were holy mages in cities further from the capital, wise men who could draw truths from a person's mind, but it would be weeks before their arrival. For now, Cerus the Shadow King would face Nisha.
They held a meager feast in the reclaimed castle; the city was still suffering from being besieged. Knights and lords and commoners dined together in celebration. Once the evening had turned to drinking and song, General Nisha took their leave, making the long journey down the stairs, to the dungeons.
Cerus hadn't moved an inch from the spot he'd been left in, Nisha had seen to that personally. The ex-king was blindfolded, chained spread-eagled on the ground with an iron bit in his mouth. Knight's gauntlets had been fitted over his hands, their joints fused together to form immobile metal gloves.
One could never be too careful when dealing with a mage, especially one as powerful as the Shadow King.
Nisha said nothing at first, unlocking the cell door and circling the prisoner inside.
Cerus's breathing quickened at the sound, his long black hair plastered to his face with sweat. He wore nothing but his restraints, leaving the multitude of wounds he'd sustained during his capture plainly visible.
How should they proceed? Normally, allowing a captive mage to speak would be exceedingly dangerous, but Nisha had taken precautions. One of their mages had crafted a runed cuff that would sap Cerus's power. The real question was, how would they get the man to respond?
They knew appealing to Cerus's morality was a lost cause. The former king had no issue razing whole villages to eliminate a single rebel. He'd executed entire families, burned the crops of his own people. There was no hope of finding any humanity in him.
Pain could be a motivator, but it would take time. And they had time, but pain alone wouldn't be enough. Someone like Cerus would need to be wholly broken before he'd give them anything worthwhile. Now fear… fear would be a useful tool, but how to employ it?
Nisha supposed they were already making some headway with their silent circling. Now to heighten it…
They eyed the rack of implements that lined one of the stone walls, selecting a slim wooden rod that looked like it had been freshly cut. Someone had stocked the dungeon for the occasion, then.
They tested it, watching Cerus's chest hitch as it cut through the air with a swish. Good. Instead of bringing it down on his exposed flesh, Nisha resumed their circling, letting the anticipation rise for a long moment before hovering over one of the deeper wounds on the chained man's torso and slowly, slowly forcing the tip of the implement into it, increasing pressure until Cerus was screaming around the bit.
Then without a word, they withdrew, the tip of the rod now slick with blood as they continued circling.
How would it feel, they wondered, to be in the Dark King's place? Dethroned, rendered powerless, in the hands of enemies who were hungry for blood. A prisoner in his own dungeon. They imagined it was terrifying. They hoped it was terrifying.
Nisha stopped, found another wound, and repeated the slow, pressured prodding. None of the cuts that littered Cerus's body were too deep; a few still oozed blood, and a few looked like they'd require stitches—or at least they would were Nisha inclined to grant the man any sort of medical aid. No, if Cerus were to be healed, it would only be to allow more pain. He deserved no mercy.
Nisha allowed themselves a few more jabs, a few more screams elicited from the tyrant, before even bothering to lock the runed cuff onto his wrist. They already knew they'd be up well into the night, whether Cerus elected to respond to their questions or not.
Whatever answers they were granted, they couldn't deny that they were going to enjoy this.
