• Mature • [Memory] Mercy

[Llyr Llywelyn]

44th Ymiden 715

Almost ten trials… Ten trials that felt like a hundred.

Tomé had thought himself strong enough to endure. He had allowed himself to take the fall. He’d practically offered himself up for the inevitable questioning that someone in their little operation would have to undergo - someone had to do it, to ease the heat of the rival gang following them from Quacia and far into the jungles, hunted for their ill-gotten treasures. Now he saw that his girl had warped his pride against him. Got him sloshed, made him think that if it had to be one of them, let it be the stronger of the group: himself.

She was probably sitting pretty at a campsite, already moving ahead to the next village, while he sat in an iron chair barely able to feel his jaw anymore. He’d been left for a fool, trying to keep his mouth shut so that the location of their stash remained secret.

For all he knew, she’d already moved the damn stash to a different hiding spot. And she’d gotten rid of him in the meantime.

“Puta,” he muttered in Vahanic. He winced. The open sockets where some of his teeth used to reside had swollen with infection.

“What was that?” asked the lilting voice of the torturer’s son, in that godawful common tongue.

Tomé grumbled. He forced one eye open, the other firmly stuck shut. The gangly biqaj - hardly a man, one foot still firmly set in boyhood despite the tall height - stared at him with innocent eyes of periwinkle irises. Tomé turned his head away. The next moment his cheek stung as a damp cloth set against it. He weakly tried to kick out, but the chains clinked against the shackles.

“I’m to clean you up,” said the boy. “A-and I’m not supposed to… but… here.”

Something tapped against his scabbed lips. It stung, but he soon realized what it was. Water. Fresh water too. Though it stung his mouth, he greedily swallowed the cool liquid. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been given anything that wasn’t pure alcohol or a sour juice that’d left a bitter taste in his mouth and sent aches through his stomach.

He could have drank the whole waterskin, but after a few trills, the boy pulled it away.

Tomé snarled, “Give it back.”

“Not too fast, mister. You’ll throw it up.” Whether true or not, Tomé didn’t care. He wanted to chug the water. Infuriatingly, the boy held onto the waterskin and returned to dabbing away dried blood with the cloth.

“Wh-where is he?” asked Tomé. He glanced around the suffocatingly small room. The couple of boarded windows blocked any hint of what time it was outside.

“Father? He’s… out,” answered the blond. He leaned away, startled, when Tomé pulled at the chains holding him to the chair. “N-now please don’t do that. I can’t… I don’t want to.”

“Can’t what?” he pressed. “Don’t want to what? What did he tell you to do? Is he listening to us?”

“He’s out. I told you,” said the boy. He looked over his shoulder at the door, then allowed for another drink of water. He added, “He says you aren’t being honest about what you know. I’m not to speak with you or give you anything. Please don’t tell him about this, mister.”

Tomé drank till the waterskin pulled away. His jaw tensed. He spat out purulent blood, then said, “Okay, kid… Kid. Listen to me. Hey, look at me. Your name is Zarik, eh? You know where the keys are, don’t you?”

The boy glanced at him. He quickly refocused on cleaning the slash over Tomé’s brow.

“I’ve told your pai all I know, honest to God and all his Wounds. Trust me. I’ve got nothing more to say about any of it.” Tomé’s voice cracked, but he continued - uncertain of how much time he had to convince. “He’s going to kill me, if he keeps at it. Maybe even tonight. You want me to die, boy?”

“No, I don’t…” said the biqaj weakly. “There’s nothing to be done about it. Nothing I can do. Sorry.”

“That’s not true. Get the keys, unlock the cuffs, let me go.”

The rag stopped dabbing against his brow. Zarik lowered it, eyes wide and breath quickening. He walked away.

“Wait!” called out Tomé. “Don’t go. Please, give me more water- god fucking dammit, you-” he barreled into a string of Vahanic curses. He kicked his heel into the floor. The boy had disappeared from the room. The door shut behind him.

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Zarik paced along the short corridor. He wrung his hands around the bloodied rag. His father would be gone for at least half a trial more. Not until dusk, he’d said.

The son knew what was planned.

He had been given no choice, but to listen to the maddened ramblings of his father the night before. Zalazar had imbibed in far too many shots of mezcal. Enthusiastic about his new ideas, he’d confided in his son about possible techniques on how to flay a man’s entire skin from the flesh without causing premature death or needing to sever it. An aim like peeling an entire apple's skin in one go.

The rants continued into the morning. Whenever Zarik leaned against the single chair they had - his father’s chair - or laid on the floor, Zalazar jostled him to wake and listen more. Long after the sun had risen, the older biqaj left to get supplies for the plan he liked the best.

Once Zalazar had gone, Zarik couldn’t sleep despite his tired state. He laid on the floor of the common room and stared at the ceiling. It warped and twisted in the young man’s exhausted vision. While he watched the tricks of his weary mind play out before him, he thought about the man strapped to the torture chair in the workroom.

Poor Mister Tomé: the brunet man wasn’t much older, maybe only a six, seven or so arcs more. Tomé had a handsome face, even dappled with scabs and bruises, with a short beard that matched the waxen black of his cropped hair. The dull tan of his skin contrasted Zarik’s own fair shade; a paleness unlike many others in the southern jungles. He’d heard some townsfolk murmuring about it recently: Doesn’t look much like any biqaj I know of, one woman had said. It was true, even the other biqajs in the area had ruddy sun-kissed skin.

Distraught at the imagined vision of Tomé’s earthen-shaded skin flayed, Zarik felt nauseous. He knew he’d have to be there. He’d have to help with such an ambitious endeavor. At the very least, he’d have to change out the bucket where excess blood and flesh would be discarded. It would be impossible to avoid the sight of it, he knew.

He got up then, and decided the least he could do was clean Tomé and give him some water before that. Maybe even a bit of food. Zarik knew the Intended hadn’t been given anything of substance for nearly four trials.

. . .

The offering of water hadn't gone exactly like he'd meant for. He felt conflicted. He paced in the hall and thought over what the man had said. Free him? It wasn't the first time he'd been asked that by someone under his father's hand... but...something about Tomé felt different. What if he could actually save Tomé? Before his father got back… Was it possible? Wouldn’t his father catch him? It was always worse when someone made an attempted escape... always so much worse afterward. Or...

Zarik thought again, vivid imagination as always, about instead having to watch Tomé's skin peel under his father’s knife. He winced. He heard shouts from the closed off room, then ran to the dresser. He took out the spare set of keys that he used while cleaning during the times when his father was out.

He returned to the workroom with a heavy breath, and hovered at the entrance while the door creaked shut behind him. In his hands, he held the key ring.

Tomé glanced with his one good eye, then straightened his battered posture. “Oh god, yes! Come here. Don’t be scared. Come here! Don’t just stand there, unlock them already!”

“I… I shouldn’t,” said Zarik. He stepped closer, however.

“Don’t make me fucking beg,” whined Tomé. His fingers outstretched though he couldn’t raise his hands off the built-in restraints on the arms of the chair. If the man could cry, he might have but Zarik knew tears weren’t easy when a face was that swollen. “Por favor, meu Deus, rapaz. I’ll do anything you want. Just let me stretch my legs and arms.”

Zarik hesitated. He gnawed at his lower lip. Whether Tomé managed to get away from the town or not, there would be consequences. He thought for a moment. An idea occurred to him.

He asked, “Can I… come with you?”

“What?” replied Tomé, then he hurriedly added, “Yes! Of course you can. Fuck, I’ll be happy for the company. Now, let’s go.”

The blond smiled brightly. His irises turned a happy daffodil yellow color. He knelt at the chair and sunk the key into the shackles around the man’s ankles. He said, “You can borrow a cloak, and I’ll pack us some bread. We could go north? I hear there is lots of land across the sea with cities even bigger than Quacia or Desnind.”

“North? Okay, whatever you want,” said Tomé. He stretched his freed legs with a groan. “The hands now. Come on, kid. Hurry up.”

Zarik unlocked the wrist restraints each. He helped Tomé to stand and stared at the older man with wide eyes. “We have some time to prepare. Can you walk?”

“Filho de puta, that hurts. Yeah, I can walk. Gonna walk the fuck outta here,” muttered the human. He stood on his own, though he nearly fell after a few trills before he found his strength again.

The blond biqaj waited until Tomé seemed able to move and then said with an easy smile, “I’ll find you that cloak.”

Zarik started toward the door, but he didn’t get far.

[Llyr Llywelyn]

Zarik’s head thudded with pain. The world around him had gone dark for… he assumed a few trills before he’d opened his eyes again to see stars blinking about the workroom. He’d slumped against the wall. Had he tripped or… he felt a sticky warmth against the side of his head, then looked to see silver blood dripping from Tomé’s knuckles where a shackle chain had been wrapped around the fingers.

Tomé waved the hand. The chains clattered to the floor. Silver blood spattered about, and he swore. He saw that Zarik had already come to, and hurried forward. He pulled the blond by the hair into the far corner of the room where the buckets were kept. A few pails fell over, rolling aside.

“O-ow, stop, what are you-” Zarik kicked his heels into the floor, then grabbed at the man’s wrist to try and get the hold off his hair. He wasn’t uncertain as to what was happening, but he didn’t want to accept the turn of events.

The answer made denial impossible, however, as a firm punch landed to his cheek. Zarik startled in pain and heard a pop in his jaw.

“How many trials,” snarled Tomé in his thick Vahanic accent. “How many goddamn trials did you stand there and watch him torture me? You stupid fucking boy.”

“Wai-wait!” Zarik held up a defensive hand and barely blocked the next punch. The human slapped his attempt aside, then forcibly grabbed onto the collar of his tunic and slammed his back against the wall. He coughed from the violent impact, lungs wheezing for oxygen. “You’re mistaken. Please, mister, let me help you escape.”

“Shut up.”

It wasn’t a fist that came next, but a heel that stomped to the inside of his thigh and then swung up to land the ball of the foot into his stomach. Zarik doubled-over. Silver trickled out of his mouth with his frantic gasps. He squinted through the pain.

Tomé went to the counter, making a mess of the tools until he grabbed an iron icepick.

Zarik forced himself to move. He crawled alongside the wall and attempted to get to his feet. Only a little ways he got before Tomé grabbed him by the shoulder, threw him back into the corner, and stabbed the icepick into his bicep. It’d been aimed for elsewhere - maybe even his heart - but Zarik had twisted at the waist before it landed. Instead, he felt the smooth iron impale through muscle. He cried out when Tomé immediately withdrew it in a splay of silver glory.

Tomé’s eyes had gone wild. The human sought his revenge and he would stab as many times as it took to claim it

Zarik stared up at the rage-filled insanity. He held his bleeding arm with a sense of fear.

He didn’t want to die, not yet.

Not yet.

He whimpered, “Por favor…

...Please, don’t.”

Blood - crimson and fresh - poured down Tomé’s chest. It spewed from his neck where a dagger had driven through the side. His good eye bulged, then rolled back to show the white. The human fell forward onto Zarik, with gargled attempts to breathe.

Zarik couldn’t find the will to move either himself or the dying man on top of him. He felt paralyzed under the warmth of the red blood that soaked through his clothes. The young biqaj trembled.

His father moved Tomé for him.

The older, short biqaj shoved the man off and the heavy dead weight of the body crashed to the floor.

“What in the fuck were you doing?” bellowed Zalazar Ki’enaq. He wiped his dagger off and holstered it at his belt. “Did you use my keys and let him OUT?!”

“I-I, da, I’m s-s-sorry,” stammered Zarik. He wiped the blood on his face, though in his panic, he smeared the red and silver around rather than cleaned it off. He moved to kneel in front of his father, then gathered his hands in a prayer gesture with fingers interlaced. “I didn’t mean to, da. I wa-wasn’t thinking right. He said he’d take me a-and I wanted… oh gods, I didn’t mean that. I’m so sorry! I'm sorry.”

“I don’t want to hear that shit. You’re always fucking sorry. He was going to kill you.” Zalazar grabbed onto Zarik’s sore jaw and angled his head so they looked each other in the eyes. The older biqaj’s irises burned raw gold and the youth’s flared crimson and black. “You daft moron. If you died, what would I do? Ever think of that? Ever think of your da? Or maybe you hoped he’d take me out? Is that it?! You wanted this piece-of-shit to kill your ol’ da? Well!? Answer me.”

“No! Never! I’d never think of that. Da, I love yo-” a backhand interrupted his defense. An accidental bite of his tongue gathered more blood in his mouth.

“Get up. GET UP!” Zalazar grabbed him by the pointed ear until he stood, though at an awkward lean due to the differences in their heights - son far taller than his father. “We’re going to make you remember this cannot happen. You will never let another Intended free again. Do you understand me? Nod, you daft boy! Yes? Well, let’s make sure you do. Against the counter. Take off your tunic.”

Zarik didn’t bother with any more excuses in the matter. He pulled off his tunic, placed his hands on the counter surface with his gaze on the wall ahead, and steadied his stance. Blood trickled down his arm from the puncture wound in his bicep. He closed his eyes, head pounding with sharp aches. He heard the swish of the familiar leather belt, the snap as it was folded, and he prepared himself to not cry too much and to not say too much - though he knew both were inevitable.

Eventually, after enough swipes of the belt, everything would come. He’d fall into a fit of rambling that mimicked his father’s. With enough lashes, he’d tell his father the truth of it all. He readied himself, tightened his lips to hold quiet for as long as he could, and swallow the bile that would rise. Zarik’s body tensed as the first lash swiped across the raw welts on the small of his back, and he thought about Tomé.

At least the human had gotten a swift demise rather than suffered the anguish of being flayed alive.

. . .

Continued here.

[Nursia]

The very specific taste I have in dark storytelling is something I wear on my sleeve. I enjoy that no-one in this situation is portrayed as wholly 'good'. Zarik nearly got his hide skinned for freeing a prisoner, and was summarily punished for it. While traumatic in its deliverance, nothing was clearly moral. The 'Victim' was wholesale willing to kill a kid that hoped to save him.

This is the second thread I've seen you dabble in morals with Zarik's childhood, and I can't express how well you tell a story when you paint with shades of grey. You've a natural talent for these types of stories. I hope you enjoy your rewards!

Llyr

Rewards

Knowledges:
Torture: The Iron Chair and its Restraints.
Torture: Psychological Torment.
Torture: Holding the Keys for Escape in Plain View.
Torture: Acts of Kindness can mess with the tortured mind.
Torture: Released victims might seek revenge.
Psychology: Not all ways to die are equal.
Wealth:
None Requested.
Renown:
None Requested.
EXP:
+10

Feedback

Understand that all criticisms are done in good faith. It would be a greater disrespect to not say anything in the face of problems. Please contact me through this account's inbox if you wish to further communicate on the matter of improvement, or if you feel as though anything is unduly harsh.

Player #2

Rewards

Knowledges:
Wealth:
Renown:
EXP:

Feedback

Understand that all criticisms are done in good faith. It would be a greater disrespect to not say anything in the face of problems. Please contact me through this account's inbox if you wish to further communicate on the matter of improvement, or if you feel as though anything is unduly harsh.

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