[Whump prompt: I’m going to pick the sensory deprivation one. Since I owe you a birthday present, I hope this suffices!
Content warnings for torture, blood, and obviously sensory deprivation.]
It took Silas’ mercenaries two hours to discover that it wasn’t that Isthe wouldn’t talk, but rather that he couldn’t.
To be fair, Isthe refused to even try. Their questions and threats had been met with snarls and clenched fists, and more than once he had broken through the ropes to take a swing at them. Once he had made it as far as the door before a cudgel had hit his leg with enough force to bring him to the floor before they hauled him back again. It wasn’t until they had finally hit a point painful enough that he opened his mouth, and instead of a cry of pain it was a rough coughing sound.
The mercenary tapped the ugly scar on Isthe’s throat. “So if this one won’t help us find that wolf, you think he’ll come to get him?”
Katze shrugged, toying with his bloody knife and watching the dark stains on the front of Isthe’s tunic, the way his shoulders trembled and his blond hair stuck to the sweat on his neck. “Only one way to find out, I suppose. It won’t hurt us to keep the dog for a day or so.”
Isthe pulled against the ropes. The chair he was tied to creaked protest. The other mercenary grinned. “We’ll need a sturdy cage for that.”
Katze’s smile was an executioner’s hood. “I have one in mind.” He stepped up to Isthe, tilting his chin with the tip of his knife. “You’ll have to forgive me. Way out in the country like this, we have to make do. Were we back at the castle, I could show you such things. I spent a week in one of Silas’ pits before he knew he could trust me. No light, no sound, no company. Just a dark ring barely big enough to lay in, and when you stood your head brushed the ceiling. Were I an inch taller, I would have been hunched and crying a few days in. Lucky me, huh?”
Isthe curled his lip in a snarl. Blood stained his teeth.
“Don’t worry, dog. Like I said–we’ll make do.”
Worry wasn’t the right word for the tightness that squeezed Isthe’s chest. He knew Katze was right, of course; Medvetis would come for him. T’ke would come for him. They would move the stars to keep him safe, as he would for them. He could be patient. He could be confident.
What he could not do, what made him dig his heels into the dirt and growl and fight the firm hands, was the small dark hole that Katze held him above.
“Used to be a cellar,” the mercenary crowed, his words echoing like the circle of ravens overhead. “The house burnt down due to some tax evasion and crown retribution, but the cellar held up. All we had to do was fashion a new latch. It’ll work as well as a prison pit, don’t you think?”
Isthe thought a lot of things he could not vocalize. He thought of the army marching towards the camp of mercenaries; he thought of Medvetis’ concern making the black stallion prance beneath him; he thought of T’ke sending his damned hawk into the sky again as if the bird could tell him where to find their lost Captain; he thought of the rolling tide against the old docks of Cember, the way it made the ships creak and groan, and the men groan, too; he thought of attack dogs and graying kings and tax evaders.
He thought he would not make it until he was found.
Isthe hit the bottom of the pit, sending up a cloud of dust and rewarded with a mouthful of dirt and blood. He flipped onto his back, pulling at the ropes still binding his arms and looking up just in time to see a heavy wooden lid drop over the circular opening, and throw his small prison into blackness.
He couldn’t breathe.
He forced himself to stay still, blinking a few times until his eyes found the barest ring of light around the hatch. He sucked in a breath through his nose. He spit out dirt. He heard muffled voices overhead. He watched as the ring of light slowly was replaced with nothing but absolute blackness, the mercenaries overhead filling in the seams with more dirt until he could see nothing, nothing, nothing.
Nothing.
Isthe closed his eyes; it made him feel better, at least. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see. He just chose not to. The voices overhead faded away as footsteps receded, and he was left with nothing but his own wheezing breath, and the press of the cool dark earth against his back.
He counted to ten. The ache in his chest remained; perhaps it was more from the bruising and cracked rib of earlier than it was panic. Slowly, he worked his arms free of the ropes, numbly aware that their bindings had been only firm enough to safely move him from chair to pit without him causing another black eye or broken nose.
Katze’s nose had been broken before, anyway.
Isthe wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, and cracked one eye open. He shut it again quickly when he could discern no difference, and his heart began to pound. The sound of it echoed in his ears, drumming panic with every hard, quickening beat. Medvetis would be coming for him.
He coughed just to hear a new sound. He could wait.
He couldn’t wait.
With no way to tell how long the time had passed, it could have been minutes or hours. Days. Weeks. He tried to climb the walls, but hit nothing but soft clay and damp earth, unable to get enough of a grip to haul himself up. No roots or rocks stuck out to give him support, and the effort only left him aching for breath that wasn’t clouded by grit.
Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks.
He took off his leather binder to sleep, relieving some of the pressure on his aching ribs. He thought of familiar voices, of the water against the docks, of some creature groaning protest to the tides. (That creature may have been him.)
Nightmares of an attacking dog and a high fever.
Minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks.
He put his binder back on and gave up on sleep.
Isthe kept his eyes closed as much as he could, and leaned his back against the curved wall. He took his gloves off. He put them back on.
His stomach growled.
Hours. Days. Weeks.
He tried climbing the walls again. He threw clumps of earth at the hatch. It fell back onto his face. He spat out dirt. It dried his mouth out even more.
He wished he could at least make enough sound to talk to himself.
Days. Weeks. Months.
They had called him a madman for years now, because he couldn’t talk, because he couldn’t write, because he couldn’t learn, because–because he didn’t try to convince them otherwise. Medvetis and T’ke saw through it. But if they found him now, sitting in the dirt, counting his heartbeat and contemplating peeling his own skin to pass the time, would they still think the same?
Days. Weeks. Months. Years.
His stomach growled. His mouth became paste, more dirt than anything, with the barest taste of iron still lingering. He picked at the cut on his lip. The blood tasted too salty. His mouth filled with the coin Katze would be making from this, if Silas got a hold of Medvetis. If this worked. If he died alone in this pit, and the mercenaries captured his friends.
Weeks. Months. Years.
He didn’t take his binder off to sleep. He wasn’t much aware of the difference between sleep and wake. His dreams were just as vivid. The sunlight off the sea. The fog across the docks. The steam curling across the top of his mug. T’ke’s hands bandaging his wounds. Stars winking in the night. Medvetis’ laughter. The silky mane of his horse as he braided it. The foam on top of an ale. The smell of T’ke crushing herbs in a wooden bowl. Medvetis showing him how to draw a bow. The bite of frost after the first winter snow. The smell of summer hay. The way pollen stained his gloves after picking flowers. T’ke’s little smile. Medvetis’ warm hands. The crackle of a fire.
The way his teeth ached. The weakness in his limbs. The smell of old earth. The utter blackness. The taste of decay. The sound of his own breath. The way his fingers curled and uncurled. The beat of his heart, too tired to trip any longer.
Months. Years. Decades.
When the seam of light first appeared again, Isthe was sure it was a dream. After all, why would his eyes be open? He had barred them from opening. Or, had he been in darkness so long, he forgot if they were opened or closed?
The light blinded him. The hatch popped open, and the sunlight hurt. He turned his face away with a whimper, and thought at last he had died. This would be the afterlife he wanted, after all: the sound of familiar voices, familiar hands lifting him out of the dirt, water dabbed at his dry lips.
“He’s alive,” T’ke said quietly, and pressed a palm to his cheek.
Isthe cracked his eyes open. Medvetis had blood on his face, and the worry that furrowed his dark eyes was enough to make Isthe smile. That worry was summer wheat, a cool stream on a hot day, pollen on his gloves, the first frost of winter, the foam on his ale. It was home.
If only the cast wasn’t so big, it would be an easier decision.
Isthe loves to cuddle. A lot of it stems from how much he uses his whole body to talk--he shows his affection best by pressing his full body against the person he adores. This is great for Medvetis. Less great for T’ke, who takes a long time to get used to any touch, much less puppy piles of affection.
Send me a “🖊+an OC“ and I will talk about that OC! Alternatively, send in just a “🖊“ and I will talk about any one of my OCs at random!
- Was an orphan from a very young age, and ran the streets with the other orphans on the docks, finding work/stealing to stay alive
- Was attacked by a dog when he was a young teen, which caused the scarring and the loss of his voice. A high infection followed the bite, and caused problems with his short-term memory and capacity to learn. This is why he is never able to learn how to write even after T’ke tries to teach him, and sticks with his pantomime and expressions instead.
- Despite the dog attack and everything else, he is extremely lucky in games of chance. Many of his friends and fellow soldiers quickly learn not to gamble against him.
- He really enjoys weaving/braiding, and has great fine motor skills. This is why he braids his own whip, and is able to use it in combat with deadly force.
- Keeps his hands gloved because they give him dysphoria with how feminine they are. This actually bothers him more than his chest.
- Has to be reminded by T’ke not to sleep with his binder on so he doesn’t crack a rib. Pouts every time T’ke makes him take it off.
- Hates bathing. Eternal bed-head blond hair.
- Gets jealous when T’ke gets a pet falcon. I’m not entirely sure why, but he does.
- Really enjoyed sailing with Medvetis, and would have happily continued to be a sailor if T’ke didn’t get so violently seasick. Whoops.
While spending the wet, cold season inside the walls of a castle was better than huddled in a tavern or some small hovel off the main trail, it wasn’t exactly what Medvetis had expected. Saddler didn’t have enough in his castle stores for the army that had taken residence, and the rest of Rockwood didn’t have much to contribute, either. Hunting parties braved the cold until there was no game left to bring in. T’ke helped the cooks spread the stores as thin as they could, Isthe enforced rations, and Medvetis walked the halls to whisper encouragement and reassurances, but it didn’t matter.
By the time the spring thaw finally poked tender green shoots through the mud, famine had taken its toll. The soldiers Medvetis had meticulously gathered to take Rockwood from Vendave left as soon as they were able, lean and vicious, emptying the last defensive reserves from the castle walls.
Medvetis leaned against the battlements, shivering in the sunlight that still couldn’t burn through the winter’s chill. “Vendave will march on us soon.”
“If they are not already on their way,” T’ke agreed, watching the way the sun found every hollow in Medvetis’ face, curving out the places that had been full of laughter and muscle in the autumn. “We should leave, too.”
“Rockwood is my home.” His fingers tightened against his arms. “I will not abandon her. Silas can throw himself against the walls as much as he wants. I won’t be moved.” He sucked in a careful breath, hearing the air whistle through his teeth. “Will you stay with me, T’ke?”
“Always, my Lord.”
In less than a week, Rockwood burned.
The battle was bloody, tactful, short, and Medvetis would have been impressed if he hadn’t been on the wrong end of it. It didn’t matter much in the end; the result was the same. His strength-sapped arms were tied behind his back, he lost track of his Captains in the chaos, and he was forced to his knees in front of the gray King of Vendave.
“This is the wolf that’s caused me so much trouble?” Silas asked with a scoff, looking down at Medvetis with a curl of his lip. “My men tell me you had a silver tongue. That’s all well and good, but you can’t keep an army with promises, now can you?”
Medvetis snarled, but when he opened his mouth to retort, Silas stuck the tip of his dagger against the inside of his cheek. He froze before he impaled himself on it, watching the King’s face and feeling a squeeze of his chest.
“You’ve caused me a lot of grief. And for that, your execution will not be quick. It will not be clean. And I won’t give you the privilege of begging for it to end.” Silas looked up, nodding to one of his soldiers. “Get a platform set in the center square, and make sure it’s raised enough for the peasantry to see. I want them to remember what happens to dogs that bite their master’s hands.”
Rockwood wasn’t well equipped for public executions, but the soldiers had no trouble clearing enough space to make a raised wooden platform and drive heavy iron bolts into it. Chains were attached to those, and then shackles, and the spring sun shone promise of budding flowers and agony. Castle guards dragged Medvetis onto the platform under Silas’ supervision, and he had no strength left for the struggle. Hollow-eyed townspeople formed lines under the tips of spears, and they watched his dragging march to his death. Some of them looked away. Most looked, but didn’t see. He couldn’t blame them.
His knees hit the platform, and shackles secured his ankles to the metal bolts. Soldiers took hold of his arms, stretching them straight on either side of him, straining his shoulders before the manacles were clasped around his wrists, and the chains secured. He flexed his hands, pain rippling across his shoulders and down his back from even the small movement. At last, one of the guards crouched in front of him, and pried open his jaw. A small metal bar was forced between his teeth, leather straps buckled around the back of his head keeping it in place. Affixed to the front of the bar was the likeness of a snarling wolf’s muzzle, the bottom jaw resting against his, digging in with sharp spikes until blood trickled down his neck, warm in the spring chill.
And, once every buckle and pin was in place, the soldiers left him.
The sun arched across the sky, and its warmth was the only solace Medvetis could find. As the hours stretched on, the ache in his arms and back turned to numbness, the tingling sensation spreading to his legs as well. The platform dug into his knees. He could taste nothing but iron and copper. His vision pulsed at the corners in time with his sluggish heartbeat. His empty stomach growled.
Of all the places to die, at least this was home.
The sun set and the moon rose twice. People passed in front of the platform, soldiers called and peasants stoically looked to the ground. In the dead of night, children snuck onto the boards and ladled water into his mouth. Most of it spilled down his chin. The rest kept him breathing.
On the third night, it was not a child that climbed the platform, but someone with a softer step. So quiet was the ghost that he didn’t wake Medvetis, not until gloved fingers gently lifted his chin, and unbuckled the leather straps from the back of his head.
“Make no sound,” T’ke whispered, rubbing at Medvetis’ jaw as he set down the wolf-muzzle, careful not to let it clang against the other chains. “I’m going to have to pick these locks.”
“You’re alive,” Medvetis whispered, his voice cracking, his eyes welling with tears that his dehydration would not allow to fall.
“I am, and so is Isthe,” he assured. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.” He pressed his hands against Medvetis’ face, soothing his thumbs over his freckled, sallow cheeks, and he leaned forward enough to touch his brow to the young warlord’s. “I’ll get you off of here.”
“And then what?” he asked roughly. The first shackle came undone, and T’ke was there when he fell against him, unable to support his own weight. He felt another set of hands on his back, and Isthe took T’ke’s place under his chest, quieting the rattle of the chains and keeping him from collapsing.
“And then, my Lord, we will try again,” T’ke answered at last, unbuckling the final cuff. Between him and Isthe, they slid off the platform, and carried Medvetis into the shadows of the forest at the edge of Rockwood. By morning’s first light, all Silas would have left of his prisoner was the bloodstained, snarling wolf muzzle and a platform full of empty chains.
[Tell me: one character confessing something to another
Answering this three years later, but have some fluff to make up for the pain I put Harding through earlier.]
“Do you ever sleep?”
T’ke angled away from the window just slightly to look back at Medvetis. Moonlight pooled against his white skin, turning his cheeks almost blue, bringing out the violet of his pale eyes. A smile ghosted the corner of his mouth, and he tucked his hands into his sleeves. “You are supposed to be the one sleeping, my Lord.”
Medvetis sat up, carefully easing Isthe off of him. The other man had fallen asleep in bed beside him, sprawling on his stomach and snoring quietly, the sound rough around his scarred throat. Isthe never stirred, even as Medvetis swung his legs over the edge of the bed to face T’ke. “I just woke from a dream. What’s your excuse?”
T’ke shrugged, then leaned his shoulder against the window frame. His breath fogged the glass, hazing the starlight. “I don’t sleep well.” He paused, then without looking at Medvetis added, “I woke from a dream as well.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
He rubbed the brand on the back of his neck. “It’s nothing you want to hear.”
“I’ll tell you about my dream, if you tell me about yours.”
T’ke pushed away from the window at last, and sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. His arm barely touched Medvetis’, and it was more contact than the man usually initiated. “Memories from when I was a child,” he explained, and arched his back like it ached. “I tried to escape Khalid so many times when I was young. It never ended well, but I kept trying until I grew wise enough to wait.”
“He did all of that to you?” Medvetis asked, resisting the urge to look at his back. Even covered by his clothing, he couldn’t forget the sight he’d caught once of the whip marks, the brands, the scarring that stood out in painful contrast to his pale skin.
“Most of it,” he agreed. “When you stopped the stoning in Rivel–that had been what I thought would be my escape. I thought death was the only way to freedom. Otherwise I knew Khalid would always come back to claim me again.”
“He didn’t come for you after you joined me,” he pointed out quietly.
“He did not.” T’ke’s smile came genuine for once, and vicious. “Because he’s a coward. I stayed with you for entirely selfish reasons, my Lord. I never intended for it to last this long.”
“Do you regret it?”
T’ke leaned his shoulder against Medvetis’. “Not for a moment.”
Medvetis, moving slowly, wrapped his arm around the other man. T’ke stiffened for just a moment, then sank against his chest. “You want to try and sleep again?”
“You’re supposed to tell me about your dream.”
He chuckled. “We were walking through the snow, all three of us, and it kept getting deeper as we went on. Eventually it was up to my chest, and I could hardly move, but you kept saying we had to keep going. I turned around to tell you we couldn’t, and it was the horse talking instead. Then Isthe sprouted wings and flew off.”
T’ke snorted, and his shoulders shook with barely-restrained laughter. “Then what happened?”
“I woke up to Isthe snoring. No wings,” he added. “My dreams don’t usually make much sense.”
“I long for that kind of nonsense to dream,” T’ke chuckled, finally relaxing against him. He said nothing for a moment, his fingers tapping on Medvetis’ knee the tempo of his heartbeat.
“Come here,” Medvetis said at last, pulling away from him just enough so that he could lean against the headboard, the pillows under his shoulders. He nudged Isthe over enough to make room for T’ke on his other side. “I’m sure you’ll be the first one awake in the morning anyway, and we can all pretend this never happened.”
“Who would Isthe tell even if he was awake?” T’ke pointed out dryly. But, after only a moment’s hesitation, he joined him, laying beside him and pillowing his head against Medvetis’ shoulder. Exhaustion hit him at last, and his fingers tapped the heartbeat on Medvetis’ stomach for only a few moments before they stilled. Medvetis tilted his head back, putting his free hand on Isthe’s back and closing his eyes. No matter where the three of them ended up, this would always feel like home.
Stand up, show them what we're made of
That's what we're fighting for
Don't wanna lose it all
Stand up, lead a generation
That's what we're fighting for
They're gonna give it all
Stand up, the world is worth fighting for
Original challenge by the amazing @theguildedtypewriter!
Mute, trans, loyal, loving, eager to fight. One of the dynamic trio.
By the time the thieves came running back over to his position, Isthe buckled on his leather vest again, and flashed them all a smile that rivaled the starlight.
