[What could be hours or minutes later - to Isaac -, he twitches to life, gasping like a man shaken out of a dream. His senses filter back in, slowly. Taste first: vinegar and rust sticking to his tongue; then the icy press of something flat and wide underneath him, and the prickling of his skin as he shivers and goosebumps rise, his nipples pebbling. When he finally cracks his eyes open, it's to a world so black and still. A near-total silence that sharpens his awareness of the pulsing at his temples and the calmer, steadied flow of his magic. It's too quiet for a cell in a dungeon but he listens for footsteps anyway, for howling, for the chitter and hiss of rats. Something whirs faintly by his ear - an insect? He blinks and blinks until the darkness thins, turns to shades of gray, and a jagged wall pulls into focus. Nothing hurts; not yet. But some part of him is counting the seconds, waiting for his nerves to light up when he dares to flex an arm and pull it closer to him. Nothing pulls it back. He isn't tied down. The arrowhead is gone too, he realizes, because the fog in his head is clearing and he can breathe again, deep breaths that don't feel like they're ripping him apart.
He pushes up after a moment, too smoothly, too easily, chains softly rustling. Dirt rains from his hair. Still no pain. Only the violent headrush of sitting up too fast - and then, as it settles, a series of memories flashing through his mind, vivid fragments. The pieces all begin to slot into place when he turns to see a fairy drifting nearby and a man's silhouette against the mouth of the cave.
He stares and stares, feeling like his chest is folding in on itself.
Hector did this.
This is Hector's punishment: leaving him at the mercy of his own demons, the wrenching humiliation and self-hatred that no healer can soothe or cut out of him or draw out with a poultice; a pain that makes him wish that he had never woken up at all, that Hector left him on the mountainside and did them all a favour. Dying is easy, has always been easy; it's living that's hard.
He swats at the fairy, his throat bobbing.]
I never asked for this! [He roars.
Abel looks on from a distance, its lip curling into a snarl.]
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He pushes up after a moment, too smoothly, too easily, chains softly rustling. Dirt rains from his hair. Still no pain. Only the violent headrush of sitting up too fast - and then, as it settles, a series of memories flashing through his mind, vivid fragments. The pieces all begin to slot into place when he turns to see a fairy drifting nearby and a man's silhouette against the mouth of the cave.
He stares and stares, feeling like his chest is folding in on itself.
Hector did this.
This is Hector's punishment: leaving him at the mercy of his own demons, the wrenching humiliation and self-hatred that no healer can soothe or cut out of him or draw out with a poultice; a pain that makes him wish that he had never woken up at all, that Hector left him on the mountainside and did them all a favour. Dying is easy, has always been easy; it's living that's hard.
He swats at the fairy, his throat bobbing.]
I never asked for this! [He roars.
Abel looks on from a distance, its lip curling into a snarl.]