2 - Heat

  Darkness clung like a shroud. Pain lanced up every limb, every nerve, sharp and relentless. Every breath burned his lungs, raw and ragged. Heat burned where his left eye was like a furnace in his own head. It throbbed beneath heavy bandages. The world around him was a fractured haze. Everything hurt. Nothing made sense. He shifted. The clink of chains greeted him.

  Panic surged through him, wild and instinctive. His heart pounded, the adrenaline pushing him to thrash. But the agony lashed back at him like a whip. His lips parted in a pained cry.

  “Hold him still, dammit!” someone yelled.

  Hands, cold and uncaring, pressed him down.

  No - no, no, no!

  It hurt. It burned.

  Magic coiled around him like a snake, its chaotic nature bubbling to the surface. He called to it, desperate. But something was wrong. He couldn’t feel it like he normally could - wild and untamed, a fire that was his. Now, it felt uncertain, like trying to catch the wind. It slipped through his fingers.

  Another voice, low and fearful. “Careful! He’ll kill us all if he gets loose!”

  “Just need to get this tincture in his system again,” grunted someone else.

  A small glass vial was pressed to his lips. He turned his head, sending a fresh wave of agony through his body. He shuddered violently. A strangled sound tore itself from his throat - a sob, guttural and raw.

  “Dammit, I said hold him!”

  He fought but his strength failed him. They slipped the vial past his torn and mangled lips, covered his nose and mouth until he swallowed. It burned on the way down. Warmth crept beneath the skin, different from the hell fire. He fell limp. A ragged, shuddering breath dragged from his lungs.

  “Monster,” someone muttered, hands retreating.

  His one good eye blurred with tears and confusion. He could barely make out the shapes of figures standing around him, their faces distorted. His instincts screamed. Fight! Run!

  But instead, his world fell back into darkness. He greeted it.

  His consciousness ebbed and flowed like the tide. In and out. In and out. Where was this? Not the hole. Not familiar. Panic curled itself around his chest, binding his heart tightly. He couldn’t see. It hurt. Fear. Shouting. Hands. Hands that hurt. Not different, but not the same. Voices drifted in and out, each more confusing than the last. Their sounds held little meaning.

  “He’s coming ‘round.”

  His eye flickered open and then closed once more. The other still burned behind the bandage.

  “...fights us every time...”

  “...can’t let our guard down…”

  “Bastard.”

  “Can’t believe we’re keeping this thing alive.”

  He let out a strangled cry as a cruel hand lifted his arm. White hot pain lanced across his whole torso, nearly sending him back into oblivion with a single touch. The burns stretched, breaking the fragile skin. A click of the tongue. Annoyance. His other hand reached up, stopped short by the restraints that held down. Fingers clawed at the air desperate to stop it.

  The air felt thin. No breath, no escape.

  He struck out. More voices. More anger. The scent of fear - like sweat and salt, acrid and sharp - filled the room. From him? From them? Tense, anxious figures stood around him, dark silhouettes against the flickering torchlight. He caught glimpses of stone walls and iron bars. Chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles, a cold biting steel into flesh. The cot beneath him creaked as he shifted, the sound too loud in the pressing darkness.

  In and out. In and out. No change. Pain came first. Then the voices. Or maybe…maybe it was the other way around. It was hard to tell. His existence was constant agony, a living hell.

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  Then, hands were on him again. They peeled back his bandages. Open air seared against the damaged flesh. He cried out, choking back a sob. The hands stilled. A clicked tongue. Irritation.

  “He’s in pain.” Those sounds were softer, further away.

  Another voice cut through. “Dammit, we don’t have time for this.”

  A damp cloth pressed against his wounds with little care. Fresh waves of agony sliced through the haze. He yelled and thrashed, fingers clawing at the air again.

  “Hurry up!” someone cried.

  “I’m trying! He won’t stay still, dammit!”

  “Damned beast! Stop struggling. We don’t have all night.”

  His ragged screams bounced off stone walls. It hurt. It hurt so much! He wanted to curl in on himself, but the chains had no give. He wanted to lash out, but they were too far away.

  “Hold him down!”

  A knee pressed into his shoulder with a force that felt punishing. It pinned him to the thin cot as rough hands hurriedly finished their work. The pain was unbearable, lightning shooting through his body with every shift of the cloth, every hand that carelessly rubbed at his wounds or wrapped them tightly in bandages. But blessed darkness didn’t come. Instead, agony became his world. He sobbed. He hated the sound of it, hated the pounding of his heart in his ears.

  Soft sounds again.

  “He’s hurting.”

  “Enough! If you’re not going to be helpful, then just step back!”

  Angry. Hurting. Blinding agony.

  Then, mercifully, it ended. He sagged into the cot, his quiet sobs echoing in the empty space as the hand retreated. His good eye roamed wildly, but he could barely see through the haze of his tears.

  “Pathetic,” someone murmured, voice heavy with disdain. “This is the thing we all feared?”

  Sounds of retreat. The sound of a heavy door closing behind them echoed on the stone walls. He shuddered, each tremor a new wave of pain. His throat felt raw from screaming. He took a ragged breath, waiting for the darkness to return.

  But before it could, something else happened. Sounds in the darkness.

  “...shouldn’t be here.”

  “He’s in pain.”

  “He’s stable. I heard Reynold’s instructions.”

  “...it’s fine.”

  “Is it?”

  “Just watch out for me, okay?”

  Silence. Then…

  A cool touch. He hissed, arching in pain and fear as his fingers clawed at empty air.

  “Sorry. I’m so sorry,” a soft voice whispered in his ear.

  He gasped. No more screams. He didn’t have any left to give. But slowly, patiently, the gentle fingers spread a cooling balm over his wounds. The raw burns cooled for the first time. His breath relaxed, still ragged but easier.

  The soft sounds came again. He peered upwards through his only eye, barely making out a small silhouette.

  “There you go. Better.”

  It was the last thing he saw before slipping into darkness again.

  Centuries, moments - it didn’t matter. The ache was still there when he woke up again, a stabbing sensation that left him gasping for shallow breaths. His eye cracked open. His vision swam. The torchlight glared harshly despite the dim light it gave off in the dark stone prison.

  Someone was there.

  A man sat beside his cot - broad shouldered, imposing, hands folded beneath his chin while his elbows rested on his knees. Waiting. Stern. His gaze was steady, unreadable. He smelled of steel and of earth. Of blood. A soldier.

  “You’re in worse shape than I thought,” he said quietly, voice low and unfamiliar.

  It didn’t carry the same sharp cadence as the others. He blinked slowly, eye fluttering closed for half a second before opening again. The sounds coming from his mouth meant nothing, held no meaning. But the stone walls, the iron bars, the chains - these things were clear.

  The Stern Man leaned forward slightly, speaking again. More sounds, more weight behind them.

  He shifted, barely moving, fingers twitching against the rough fabric of the cot. His eye flickered towards the man briefly, uncertain. Then away.

  Another string of sounds, all harsh and demanding. He turned his head, breathing uneven. No answer. He didn’t know what this man wanted.

  A heavy sigh rose from the stern man. Irritation? Frustration?

  He tested the strength of the chains, flexing his wrists.

  “They’re not coming off,” the Stern Man said.

  Not. No.

  That he understood. He huffed and dropped his arm, metal clanking. His eye fluttered closed again, exhausted. But he did not sleep. The Stern Man said something more, his voice softening, lighting at the end in a question. His eye flickered open again.

  He froze. A hand had moved, had reached, slow and deliberate. He flinched violently, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He bared his teeth weakly, snapping feebly toward the hand, pain twisting through his torso as the burn wounds stretched painfully around his neck. His throat burned through the warning sound. The growl became a strangled whimper.

  The hand stopped. Breath quick, eye wide, he gasped in both pain and fear.

  “Easy,” the Stern Man muttered, pulling back.

  But he remained tense, chest heaving, gaze locked on the Stern Man. Every nerve felt on edge. No more pain if he could help it. They took him when he was weak, but now he was awake and aware. He didn’t know much, but he knew two things for certain - he was trapped, and this man wanted something.

  He just didn’t understand what.