"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
07-01-2016, 09:42 PM (This post was last modified: 07-02-2016, 03:05 PM by Grumblesnakes.)
Oh, well done. Welcome to Grumblequest 2016, friends. Lucky for you (and unlucky for your ponies) no one has been eliminated this round. After all, what fun would it be to send you home after just standing around in a nice, cushy stall for a day or two? That's basically a swanky spa vacation. Hardly a nightmare to haunt a horse for the rest of their days. So let's fix that, shall we?
The stall door slowly swings open, and in walks Grumbles. He doesn't look like much, a tiny little man who doesn't even come up to your chin. He gives you a good once-over, dispassionately taking in your strengths, your weaknesses. Ah, and there are a few of you he recognizes. He crooks a finger, and whether you like it or not, your head lowers until he can reach out and stroke your forehead, your cheek, a twisted little grin on his face.
“Well hello again,” he says to each of his old friends, looking you in the eye. He trails his fingertips over Shan's scars, over the band of black on Malis's face, over the dark purple of Sleaze's coat. “Looking lovelier than ever, hmm?” And he runs those slender fingers along Malis's horns, adding, “Ah, these are new. They suit you, somehow. Should have thought of them myself.”
To the new friends, he says nothing, not so much as an introduction. He just smiles that devilish little smile of his and runs his hands over your face, your neck, getting to know you. New friend or old, he pulls out a halter and buckles it onto you. The moment the halter is in place, a strange placidity washes over you. You find you can move again, but no matter how hard you try, you can't make yourself fight him. Instead, completely disregarding your orders, your body calmly follows along behind him as he leads you out of your stall and down the aisle into what can only be called a torture chamber.
He brings you to the center of the chamber, and still that damned halter keeps you from harming him. Even as he tortures you in creative and excruciating ways. Oh, he puts you through the ringer, too. Deadpool style, he inflicts as much pain and suffering as he can to uncover any hidden potential for power, any magic or mutation buried deep in your blood, in the marrow of your bones, in the darkest recesses of your mind.
Run wild with this. Be creative. Make it hurt, make it burn, make it take your lovely pony to the breaking point. He'll twist them, freeze them, drown them, steal the air from their lungs, anything you want. Go nuts. And he'll patch them back up every time, tearing them apart and putting them back together until he turns them into his perfect weapon. They can't hurt him while they're wearing the halter, and because Grumbles is a tricky beast there is nothing they can do to get the halter off. All that unnatural calm, though, that's gone the second the torture starts.
He will only stop when they can't take any more. So be as gruesome as you have to be, and take your pony to the edge of sanity (and beyond if you have to). Stop just as they're about to break. This can take as long as you like, Grumbles isn't picky and as far as he's concerned he's got all the time in the world. After all, your pony is hardly his only weapon.
You have until Monday at 10PM CST. If you have any questions, you know the drill. PM, cbox, OOC board.
Q&A
Okay, so what's the deal with the like, magic bit? Are we supposed to come up with powers the torture unlocks or whatever? Or do we wait for Grumbles? Help!
Whoops, sorry. That's my bad, I did not clarify. Your job is the torture. I'll handle the results of it.
Um, different ponies are different heights. Soooo how tall is Grumbles?
Yeah, it made sense in my head. He'll just be variable in height, whatever, he's magic. Don't even worry about it, just roll with the info you were given. Chin-height is still good.
Just physical torture, or is mental okay too?
Oh, by all means. Mental is excellent. You be as creative as you want, do the most damage. Mental/emotional trauma is an excellent form of torture. Grumbles approves of this direction.
First it looks like an invisible force opens the door. It opens slowly, squeaking a little to make the whole ordeal a bit more dramatic. And then nothing. Igni’s blue eyes are stuck on the door – which now stands open – but even though she desperately wants to use this chance to flee, her body isn’t cooperating. She just stands there frozen, unable to lift a single hoof or sway her short tail. Then he appears. Even though Igni herself isn’t that tall, due to both her youth and linage, the man in front of her is even shorter. Only a tiny little man, and yet he holds great power. Her gaze meets his and if she wants it or not, her head lowers towards the ground.
She wants to cower into a corner of the small cave, to hide herself the best she can. And it is only more freighting that she isn’t able to do that, completely frozen and at this strange creature’s disposal. He doesn’t see hér, instead it is like he looks right through her. He doesn’t see her for the creature she is, it is only the tool that he sees. As his gaze travels across her she feels like shuddering, but instead she stares back at him like she’s unfazed by the whole ordeal. It is the white in her eyes and the distressed and haunted look in them that derogates it and shows quite the opposite.
There was probably nothing worse than feeling the panic, wanting to flee, while you find yourself completely immobilized. As result Igni panics more, her heart beating fast and loudly in her chest. Before she realises it his hands are all over her. Although the touch is gentle, the blue roan girl cannot help it but to feel dirty and hurt. He takes advantage of her, of this state he put her in, and it makes her feel like being used. Yet Igni does not move, still unable too. Just as easy he is able to buckle the halter on her, she’s simply not able to resist.
While she’s still busy getting used to the strange halter, the thoughts almost drive her to the point that it hurts to think. It feels strange, restricted, and surprisingly calm. Calm? She wasn’t supposed to feel this calm. Surprised she blinks her eyes and soon after she shakes her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts. Realising that she’s able to move again Igni only gets more surprised. Simply because she couldn’t before. Immediately after she snorts loudly, releasing some of the tension that had been stuck in her immobilized body. During the time that the almost yearling is busy with her own mind, the strange creature leads her away, through the door and past the hallway into a different room. She only realises this once he stands still, positioning her in the way he wants her to, before stepping back to cast his gaze for the last time upon her smooth frame.
Then the terror starts.
This must have been why the pained cries continued through night and day, until he had come for her. Now it are hér pained cries. With the pain the panic has returned too, the calm feeling gone just as quickly as it had come. Igni rears, pulling on the rope with all her might before she jumps sideward. By strange magic she’s genuinely afraid to hurt him, so in her attempts to move away from him she ends up dancing around him in a circle. But she doesn’t know what she’s fleeing from, her eyes catch nothing that could cause the pain that sored through her body. All he does is snap his fingers.
Snap. Like a thin twig her back gets broken. She’s only able to take two more jumps before she has to change it for a drunken walk. Snap. This time it’s her right front leg. Something pulls on it, dislocating it, like it was meant to make her taller. Snap. Her left front leg and she only sways on her place. Snap. Her right hind leg. Snap. Her left hind leg. And then she just stands still. Each time he had stolen the breath from her lungs and she left her gasping for air.
For a moment it is like he takes a step back, maybe to take his handiwork in or to wait and see if she gives some sort of reaction to the torture, but then it returns all over again. It cuts through her, like a hot knife through butter. And while the blood flows down her body before dripping into small pools on the ground, he’s already moulding the cut flesh into another form and different position. It is almost like she’s made of clay and that he’s able to sculpt her. For which cause is unknown to Igni, all she knows is the pain. She cannot tell anything apart anymore. The sharp pain, the burning sensation and the dull ache after. Anger burns inside of her, but only silently in the background, as the fear and pain play a more prominent role right now.
She can hear him chuckling softly and she knows he’s smiling that wicked smile of his. She should’ve known that something worse would be coming now, but she doesn’t and Igni is simply not prepared for the sharp pain that follows. Where she had thought that she couldn’t scream any louder, the blue roan filly now cries her lungs out. Fresh tears roll down her cheeks as her nose is filled with the smell of burning flesh. With desperate movements she tries to move away from the branding iron, which is pressed against her flank. But it doesn’t matter how much she moves in her attempt to flee, the thing doesn’t buckle like it’s magically sealed to her side. Her limp legs are barely able to keep her up as she twists and turns.
By the time it’s done she is trembling on her legs, unable to move any of them as the burning sensation spreads through her hindquarters down her legs and also towards her spine. Her sweaty sides are heaving heavily and her nostrils stand wide.
Then it’s all black.
Like she’s been hit by thunder she suddenly gaps, eyes wide open and with hurries she stands up. Her body is trembling as she glances around in panic, horror clearly written on her face. She steps backwards in an attempt to move away from the short man. There isn’t any pain and the absence of it takes her by surprise. ”What?” she breathes out. How is this possible? She then questions herself, turning her neck to glance across her own body. Her legs don’t hurt and neither does she have any trouble to balance herself. The only evidence of her torture is the sickly sweet smell of burned flesh and the pain on her right flank. The mark is there.
Igni jerks her head to look at the little man, eyes widening in fear. What has he done to her? She had clearly felt her limbs dislocating while being stretched, her back being broken and her flesh cut and moulded into a different position. All that had been real. She had smelled the blood and seen it on the ground. Right? She snorts loudly before calling out, desperately to get a reply from another equine. She’s no longer able to tell reality and dreams apart. Now the battle in her mind starts, dibbing between the two possibilities. In the end she just stands there, staring at him blankly, mindlessly. It simply hurts too much to think.
But she doesn’t fight it anymore, instead her head hangs low. He had drained her of all her energy in such a short amount of time, although in her experience it felt like hours, he had managed to break her within half an hour. Igni simply no longer has the energy to fight him, but it was the pain that had broken her spirit. She doesn’t understand anything of this and being young as she is, she’s not able to withstand and fight it any longer. She’s ready to submit.
It had crept open ever so slowly, inching away from the tiny figure which stood behind it, the responsible party for opening it in the first place. His door did not creak when it swung and the flip of the latch had been lost against the rising ruckus of a man’s footfall in the corridor. Fart had not heard these things in his sleep, was not coherent enough to heed the warning of danger approaching, he was too full and relaxed to notice. And then, there he was, frozen, immobile and unable to let loose the shrill scream that was sure to erupt past his severed lip. Of course it ends like this, he thinks, dread dripping through his veins like a lethal injection. The little man stands before him, no compassion in his wicked eyes whatsoever and Fart can not even have the satisfaction of choosing fight or flight. Not that he was in a frame of mind to fight, but for the sake of common courtesy let us pretend he had it in him.
There he stands, eyeing Fart and somehow taking him in whole with that once over glare that sweeps his entirety. A half-man if Fart knew better and somehow he does know, words and thoughts and ideas taking his mind that have no place being within it’s walls in the first place. A two-legger that barely reaches his chin but this does not provide the green roan with any shred of ease, it does not still the rabbit-like racing of his heart. The maneless stallion is undeniably afraid, if not for the magic holding him in place it was likely he would be trembling like a leaf against raging gale winds, and you can be sure that he would have wet himself- there’s no denying that.
Fortunately (or unfortunately) he can do none of those things, Fart can simply stare wide-eyed at the creature before him because surely it is that, a creature. There is no doubt in his mind just when Grumble’s eyes find his hairless scalp, without doubt he must notice because there should rightly be hair there, there should be a cascade of green instead of a smooth, blank neckline. And again, there has to be some twist of his lip when he takes in the stallion’s face, when he sees the separation of lip. Fart was ugly, it’s not exactly something you can get around. Perhaps there was some sort of twitch of the man’s nose when he took that breath, the one that would tell him how terrible the roan smelled, how soured. Either way he would know him and what frightened Fart the most was that realisation, that knowledge. He knew this man would know him but he didn’t want him to, anything but that.
Without warning that small man reaches for him, takes a hand with crooked fingers and runs it the length of his nose. Angled fingers press into the open space of his lip, pushing past the soft flesh until they are met with his blunt teeth which settled just behind that parted curtain. When finished prodding he took the other curled appendages and stroked his hairless neck and now Fart is not certain whether this compact little creature is pleased or displeased. That uncertainty was something most unwelcome, yet still he had no means by which to show this as those grubby little fingers trace their way about his face and neck. A deft flick of the wrist and a contraption of some sort is being buckled around Fart’s head, thick bands of fabric that make up this thing he now knows as ‘halter.’ Halter? he thinks, the word is odd still in its newness and if asked, Fart would have named it ‘trap’ instead.
No one asks Fart much of anything though, and besides, the green roan is hardly in anyone’s company long enough to even be asked but that is very well beside the point! Now, as it were this particular halter is yet another object of his undoing, as the last buckle latches and everything is fitted he feels, calm. Calm, oh yes. Serene peace washes over his limey skin and all his troubles fade away into nothingness, well, almost. They would be nothing if he still did not hold some small urge to struggle, yet as much as his brain told him to, his body just couldn’t. Oh no, instead, he followed, he allowed this short little thing to lead him without so much as a kick, not even one bite to those nasty little fingers that touched him.
The hall is dim, dank even and now he can see some of the others so very clearly as he passes. He doesn’t want to look at them, he doesn’t want to see their eyes and most of all he doesn’t want to be seen. Fart is a mockery, a jape in the horse world and he knows this, he knows the way their eyes harden when they look on him, he knows the curl of their lips- whole and fine and beautiful as they are. He tries not to meet their faces, aiming straight ahead with his own set of muddy brown orbs, intent on getting where ever it was that they were going. Intent, but why? He didn’t want to go with this man, yet his body minded the tug of lead, heeded its path regardless of what the skinny stallion wanted. And when the path ends, he knows in certainty that he is to die, he knows that he does not want this.
Fart had wished for death many times in his life, wished for but he never made good on it. Truly if he had really wanted to end it all he could have, there were so many ways that were easy enough to manage. Toss himself off a cliff, throw himself down a waterfall, hell, he could have trespassed some mancing brute’s territory. Truth is, Fart was afraid to die. Sure it might be better than his current existence, it might be nothingness for all he knows but the unknown always chilled him to the core, always unsettled him. It is now that they enter the center of the room that he finds this uncertainty still sits unwell with him, and as if to prove this point his bladder releases with a fervent gush against the floor. The man doesn’t seem to notice or if he does he doesn’t show any inclination as to whether he minds, but Fart knows and he is ashamed.
It seems that old Grumble thinks for a moment as Fart stands suspended before him, unable to move or harm the stumpy little man. Thinks of what? Fart doesn’t want to know but soon, soon he will find out. Does it take that sort of consideration then, the maiming of an animal? I guess it does because that is exactly how that pause of thought plays out.
Above him a great light moves to hover and glare with a harsh fluorescence that snaps his eyelids shut and carefully, as he opens them to adjust, his sight is met with the silvery gleam he does not trust. There are some things on a table nearby, tools of some sort, metal he knows as they flash bright white in the glare of the lamp. Little does he know that Grumble does not really need these items but the wicked little creature wants them, all for the sake of experiment he will use them in addition to his magic, all for the sake of his purpose. The first thing to touch him is a silver rod he eyes with the utmost panic, his heart threatens to break free of its cage in this moment of anticipation and when the searing pain traces along neck and back he knows he wants to die.
Please, he thinks as the tears already swell and spill from his eyes, stop, he wishes as the scream leaves him aching and bursts past his neon mouth. No one hears these words, no one heeds his wish, there is no one to help him after all- there is only Grumble.
By tool or by magic, maybe a bit of both, his skin splits, right down past the muscle until white bone is visible. Each scream to leave his body steals the air from his lungs as it pushes past his throat to echo against the chamber walls. He can only cry now, only hollar into the bright room where there is nothing but pain and sorrow. There is however, something that keeps him bound, something that stills his struggle and even if he could fight back, the very soul of his mobility had been compromised. Fart can feel each prick against the vertebrae in his spine, he can hear the digging of the metal as it passes over and over the fragile disks and once he feels a searing hot heat, he finds his voice.
“Nooooo”, the words gurgle up his throat until he gags, retching against his very speech. Spittle and bile find their way up too, choking him until he is sure to pass out, sure to suffocate but he doesn’t. Instead the blockage maneuvers itself out of his airway and no doubt a certain ex-fairy godfather is to blame (or thank) because he cannot very well just allow his little ponies to die so easily, now can he? There is nothing that stops the fire though, nothing that comes to ease the burning that quickly spreads throughout his nerves until he is certain he has been set on ablaze. And though he can not see the flames he can smell them, his flesh burning and melting by cause of whatever contraption digs itself into his back. A fever takes him, eyes fluttering rapidly as he sweats and trembles, his breath comes in jagged pulls, never enough to fill him. Is this moments? Is it hours? Fart doesn’t know any of that, but he thinks it is endless, he feels that it is an eternity of time as he suffers, he decides that it is forever.
And then, it isn’t, not quite. Finally the boiling stops, the fire seeps from his body as if vacuumed away, slowly fleeing from his legs, creeping past his hind and up his chest until everything is cool. It feels cool anyways. “You’ll fly too perhaps,” the little imp promises to no one but Fart doesn’t want this man’s word. What Fart wants, is to know why he isn’t dead, to know what the purpose of these terrible things done to his back were. It can’t be good no doubt, it can’t be anything with promise because once again that fickle fiend is reaching for him.
The stallion’s eyes roll, begging to bulge from their sockets, wasn’t it done? Wasn’t it over? Perhaps he shouldn’t have reacted in such a way though, maybe he should have stilled but Fart was too frightened to simply contain himself now. That’s the problem isn’t it? He knew the pain was coming, he knew the extent of the misery and he knew that he could not escape. He would be made to endure the atrocity of it, he would feel everything. His eyes were unceremoniously plucked from his skull, yanked from their sockets as if they were merely grapes from a vine. Now the squelch of his curdled scream was accompanied with the twang of flexing metal, a snip, snip, snip, yet try as he might he could not assault the abuser. Sightless, he screamed, foaming at the mouth as spittle collected in frothy clouds against his lips. “Tut, tut, tut,” Grumble chided, “A blind sire, well that won’t do.” and again his deep brown eyes are thrust back into his head, blinking wide at the world as though they had never left.
It’s the touching he hates most, he decides, wishing he could dance away as the crooked fingers run the length of him, searching. It’s the touching that hurts most too, making his skin crawl as the fingers tickled the length of his pelt and then his bowels give, releasing that soured smell that plagued his existence. At the very least, that is enough to earn momentary displeasure from Grumble but it is not enough to make him stop. Oh no, too easy. Instead he feels something pull from within him, reaching up his rear and yanking so hard that he is sure his stomach will loose, that his intestines will spill. Then, everything is being routed the wrong way, pushed too far forward, heading to the wrong places. Just when Fart is sure his bowls will spill from his mouth, the pushing ceases and the mere thought of it all is enough to make him sick. Grumble laughs, a sick, twisted sound, something without the usual jollyness or cheer. “Oh-hohohohoho,” but the laughter is short lived, as is the humor because Fart finds none of it funny.
“Enough, please,” the sickly green stallion manages to feebly request, the words scratching his throat as he speaks them. It’s dry, so very dry and raw and chafed and mere speech is enough to zap him like a wave of electricity. “Not done,” Grumble replies in an almost sing-song voice.
Not done, not done, those words echo in Fart’s mind, crashing against the walls of his consciousness until that is all he can hear. The shrieks are not even enough, they come too quickly and too often now to discern when they stop and when they start. It all blends together until he is trapped in the depths of his own mind, swinging back and forth on a pendulum inside his skull. Grumble flays him, the utmost care and precision taken in removing his flesh, inch by excruciating inch. Beneath is muscle and sinew, fat and tendon all laid out for the greedy man to see. It is not that that interests him though, not his blood or his meat or his bones, it is his skin that holds Grumbles attention. When it is taken, when he is bare Grumble snatches yet something else, something that rips him from the inside out as it loosens its hold on the very marrow of his being. “This is called a soul Fart,” Grumble instructs him, waving the shinning material in his face before stuffing it in a glass vat.
Then come the tubes, transparent lengths of plastic that dig into his chest, dive into his hips as they pump ghastly liquids into him. They mix from lidded capsules that sit in a row next to what was called, a soul, churning and pumping into one another until they all blend together in some hazardous recipe. This mixture feeds through the tubes, a pearlescent substance fills him with another burning sensation, one that cools him so much so that it he believes it is white hot. This, this is by far the worst of it surely, but all Fart can manage now is the pattern of words that haunt him. Not done, not done, not done.
This chant begins to make sense somehow and if he could half pay attention he would find himself muttering it in intermittent gasps. “Not done,” he said as he watched Grumble remove the tubes, then sew his skin back, fixing his flesh at the seams were it mended together- fusing without blemish.
“Not done,” Fart breathed against the screams that still left him, each pause soliciting that sequence of words. Grumble dove into his head next, pulling his scalp away, grinding and cutting into the bone to expose the fleshy tenderness of his brain. Still, Fart was quite certain now, “Not done.”
“Not done,” Grumble insisted too as he prodded into each lobe, delving deep into the tissue and ticking off the sections out loud as he went. From there he plucked a piece and moved it, or left it out entirely to replace it with something brand new. A magical substance, had to be, because when he finished mending the wounds Fart could still remember what he was told.
“Not done,” he said but Grumble nodded this time. “I am done,” the imp assured him and in reply Fart screamed just one last time.
His thoughts multiply and divide like a hundred cells in the span of a single door opening.
It is a quiet affair – both the door opening and thinking - and he realizes then why he’s never been terribly fond of the endeavor. There is nothing he can do, though. He cannot leap for the only way out he’s found in all his restless pacing. He cannot charge the man whose shadow makes an ominous path between them (a path he knows he will soon be taking; he can feel the crystallization of certainty like ice in his limbs). All he can do is stand and watch, helpless, as his captor steps further into the stall.
The little man’s footsteps are even, measured. He takes his time reaching Vidar’s frozen body, counting off the steps like a metronome to a funeral march. When he does stop just in front of him, it seems like time stops with him. Man and beast access each other in the span of a single heartbeat. Vidar sees the hard steel in the other’s eyes, the gritty determination that allows the once-normal to do the unspeakable, the unimaginable. As he sees himself reflected in those forward-facing eyes, the stallion wonders what conclusions the man comes to about him.
It isn’t enough information, whatever boxes the man mentally checks (or leaves blank) on first impression. Because quickly, Grumbles flicks a single finger and he is forced into another level of submission. Magic, Vidar knows, finally. He is the predator and I am his prey. And though he hasn’t known violence (despite his body’s obvious inclination towards inflicting it) he suddenly pictures all the ways he would hurt this grinning, evil man that marks him as his own. He grimaces at the alien feel of hairless skin against his own, stroking, prodding, examining. It is worse, in so many ways, than the death that he knows he will face. The taking of his will and collection of his freedoms makes him want the end to come sooner. But some glimmer of hope lingers within his stilled, violated body; the firsthand knowledge that the predator doesn’t always win – that the prey could outsmart them (if they only think) and get away – is in the back of his mind.
He steals the steel from Grumbles eyes and puts it in his own.
As long as he has breath in his lungs, there is a way out. As long as his heart beats (however frantically it rages inside his chained chest), he has a future. But his hope comes at a good time. The little man comes up from his inspection of Vidar’s hooves, makes a noncommittal sound, and slips a halter over his head. Immediately, his heart slows until he wonders if it will stop all-together. Perhaps it will be a quick and painless death for him after all. He sees the short human watching him succumb to the effects of the braided rope around his face; he hates the look of eager readiness he wears. But try as he might, he is useless to fight the content weariness that settles in his bones. The blue roan follows Grumbles out of the stall when he clicks his tongue. Worst of anything so far, he is almost happy to do it.
He is led down a hallway, past dozens of other stalls. In a few of them, Vidar can see the flash of frightened eyes or hear the plaintive cries of the captured prey. In one, a horse mutters softly but incessantly, its lips pressed to the doorway just inches from where his ear passes it. It doesn’t bother him, but it should (he shivers inside, in his head – the only place he still commands). He can’t call out to any of the others, and even if he could, the stallion isn’t sure he would. What would he tell them? What words could possibly prepare them for their own deaths and the agonizing cruelty of surrendering their own bodies beforehand?
At the end of the hall, a vast chamber yawns open like a whale’s mouth. When his feet forcibly cross the threshold, he knows it is over. He’s been swallowed by the circle of life (circling, circling; he’s spiraled too close to the drain this time). For his part, the predator is all smiles. And why wouldn’t he be? He has him right where he wants him. Grumbles spares Vidar a quick wink before dashing behind a sheet of fabric off to the side. In his last seconds, the horse can only take in the place of his final stand. The ceiling rises somewhere above, a sheer curtain that reveals the stars above. A nice touch, he muses, sure it is only magic. Still, he misses the Jungle immensely in that moment, says goodbye to it, just in case. He notices that the ground below his feet is solid, red. Blood red. There is little doubt in his head as to why.
“Like it?” Grumbles pops out again, his eyes scrutinizing and hands empty. This surprises Vidar; he imagined he’d be weighed down with implements of torture by now. The man is still wearing his shit-eating smile as he looks around the chamber himself. But he drops it immediately when he turns his gaze back to the horse. Instead, he takes on a look of pity. The jaguar does not pity the tapir, Vidar thinks. Maybe I’m not meant to die after all.“My sense of style extends beyond the merely physical. You won’t like the rest of it, I’m afraid.” He snaps his fingers.
And he is right.
Suddenly, the ground drops out from under the stallion. He falls, and unable to stop himself for the halter still on his head, hits hard a dozen or so feet below. He hears a SNAP, and the bolt of white-hot fire that shoots up his front right leg is enough evidence to know he’s shattered the leg. Vidar holds in a whimper, leaning heavily on his left side to stave off as much as the pain as he can. It’s difficult, though, because the floor here is less sturdy. His feet slide on a transparent surface that shows the world just on the other side of it. A fish darts between his legs, beyond the shell of glass that encases him. The ocean surrounds him on all sides but up. Up, where Grumbles peers down in haunting anticipation. The horse’s whole and fractured legs alike all tremble.
“See? Much less homey. Much more dramatic.” Vidar can feel the fear rising like a tide within him again. Part of him is glad he cannot move; he can picture how his hooves would scramble to climb up the sides, trapped, futile, caught. He isn’t surprised when holes appear in the glass and the water instantly pours in.
The sea splashes at his feet first, swirling little eddies around unmovable pillars. He feels the sting of salt in his broken skin but that is tolerable compared to what awaits him. The fish come as the water races along the floor and splashes up the sides of his underwater container. He can feel them bumping against his sides, his shoulders, as the water continues to rise. The tangy, ripe smell of the sea fills his nostrils; he becomes buoyant as his legs are lifted from the ground. Vidar’s eyes travel northward where Grumbles stands overhead. He does not panic at first (surely the man will stop it now that he’s got him beyond the point of worry - what use is he drowned?). But when he sees another sheet of glass sliding over the place he once stood, completing the cube he is now submerged in, the worry-plus evolves into sheer panic. The water rises nine feet, ten feet.
Somehow, he manages to keep his head above it. Not somehow, he thinks, gulping at the small space of air remaining. Magic. The answer and cause for all of this, coupled with the madness of his captor. He flails (in his head because his legs don’t work) as he begins to sink under, as the water blots out the last of his air pocket. Vidar is just underneath Grumbles when he takes his last breath, can see the satisfaction in the crinkles of the man’s eyes through the glass as he holds onto the air expanding his lungs as long as he can. It isn’t long.
Time feels wonky again as he clings to the spark of life in his breast, but eventually his body fails him. Saltwater floods his trachea and it is almost amusing how his lungs are a microcosm of his death cube, both taking on water to terminal volume. He laughs and kills himself a little faster, because he won’t give the sadistic man any more satisfaction. A bubble trail marks his downward descent to the bottom of his cube. His eyes are wide, unfocused when he hits the floor of his watery tomb. The light goes dim. A pressure starts in his stomach and it doesn’t make sense, because he is dead. Or should be. It reverberates through his spleen, rips down his intestines until he is sure he’ll implode. “End me,” he says, but it comes out as a watery Emmie instead. Bubbles press all throughout him, popping and forming dozens more in their wake. The pressure builds and builds and he doubles over, screams in soundless agony.
With a whoosh that shatters his eardrums, it ends.
But not him, not the blue roan stallion who remains at the bottom of the cube. He is very much alive and surrounded by nothing. The water is gone, and as he looks about him, he sees that the holes in the glass have closed. The fish hadn’t been lucky enough to escape. Mounds of fish every shape and size flop on the drying ground, their mouths gaping for a breath they cannot catch. One flops against his injured leg, its beady eye desperate and wide. He is repulsed by its obvious need, disgusted that he can’t stop its piteous suffering with one squishy stomp of his hoof. Movement above him catches his attention. Grumbles waves his gnarled hands and the glass door opens to reveal the star-strewn sky far above. Vidar can barely make out the big dipper. Ursa major, he remembers, swaying on his three good feet. Major like the trouble I’m in.
The human raises his hand again and brings it down sharply. A single lightning bolt races down from the ceiling, arcing and branching into smaller bolts as it reaches its victims below. The light blinds the horse, but it is the fire it causes on him, in him, that really matters. Every nerve sings in the highest soprano its pain; every hair rises to meet the bolt that strikes him. He remembers the water beneath his feet, the conduction assisted by Grumble’s complementing torture. The fire is over quickly, but the pain and the stench continue on. He shakes and shakes and cannot stop.
When he can see again past the blindness from the lightning, Vidar notices the grey mist rising around him. He sees the door sliding closed again, too, the shit-eating grin plastered on the man’s face (a promise that it isn’t over). The mist thickens, particles coalescing into a cloud that fills the underwater box to the bursting point once more. The cloud lowers and he knows he will have to breath it in, knows that breathing it in will hurt him in altogether new ways. “No,” he takes in the last bit of clean air. “No. No. Nnnn--- “ he says as he pulls grey air into his lungs anyway.
Mercury leeched and enhanced from the bodies of the vaporized fish floods his system like the water had before. But this time, there is no possible mechanical avoidance. He cannot dodge this threat, cannot hope to siphon fresh air from congested air. It collects in his mouth, slips down his airways and into his lungs, spreads outward throughout his body from there. The maniacal man laces it with a hallucinogen from the Sarpa salpa fish – the dreamfish – might as well make it as interesting as he can. Vidar doesn’t know this, of course. He only knows that he begins to lose himself in no time at all, both physically and mentally…
A hill rises in front of him, sloping up to the dark jungle beyond. “How nice to be home,” he says to the alligator that appears out of nowhere and walks upright beside him. In response, it cracks him a toothy grin and a million macaws shoot out of his mouth. The birds are a dazzling display that stops him for minutes, hours. Even he's not sure how long he stands there staring. They whizz as one by his head finally, splatting against the plastic sky with a sickening crunch and painting it all the reds, golds, and blues of their wings. The roan makes to take a step on the path, but his whole body rises without effort. Something carries him, something glides effortlessly towards the jungle to deposit him at the border. “Onward!” He laughs, and it is a hearty sound that he cannot stop, that splits his ribs (literally). His chortles descend into cries of pain, then, because his skin begins to peel away like an accordion. The edges curl and crisp as the mercury destroys him at the cellular level. His shaking starts again, tremors that threaten to topple him from his perfect ascension. Just as the trees begin to drip in his vision, his head pounds as if struck by second lightning.
“I am…” he starts, but he can’t remember who he is. The jungle is there for a split second, melting, but there. And then it disappears. And then he appears - the man behind the curtain. The horse finds himself level with Grumbles again, the glass once more beneath his hooves. He is broken, peeled, trembling, confused. He cannot do or think, only submit. “I am…” he tries again. The man snaps his fingers. “Healed.
It feels like slow motion as the heavy bolted door swings open. Our old man is still frozen like a toy soldier, tall and upright. His body is filled with the sensations of fear, yet he can’t flee, he can’t do anything…
Soon after what felt like an eternity, the door was open, and there stood a small creature. It stood just about chin height and smelled like the magic that had knocked him out cold before he woke up in this dungeon of abundant food and distant screams. He had no idea what this creature wanted of him, but he could see the creature, Grumbles (of whom our old man has no knowledge of this creature’s name yet), look him over with judging eyes. Taking in his ragged form, picking him apart with his beady eyes. Soon The creature comes forward, and Fascade’s head, with no action of his own, lowered to the creature’s level. It stroked his head and neck, taking more care examining Fascade’s physique. The small impish thing looked him in his scared eye with a devilish smile before slipping a strange contraption over his head. It fastened on snug and had silver rings and buckles to connect the strong pieces of leather. Soon he was able to move again, but he was no longer scared for some reason.
And no matter how hard he tried, he could not be defiant, he could not harm the small impish fae.
He knew something was not right, this strange head collar, not being able to control his own actions or even his body, the creature itself, this place of mysterious food and screams….
Yet he could not fight his way out now that the door is open. As small as it was, Fascade was under a spell that was too strong to break with his sheer will. He just had to follow the small fae as it lead him down the dark, damp corridor.
The screams became louder, but his extreme and unnatural calmness remained….
They soon walked into an open room, very large and smelled like nothing Fascade had ever smelled….burnt flesh, fear, and other scents he could not distinguish. There were torture devices of all shapes and sizes. Filled with horses he did not know, but smelled of fear and different kingdom and herd scents from Beqanna...he was not the only Beqanna horse held here. But they were being tortured to a horrifying extent. This creature…..why was it torturing them so…..what was this…
He looks to the creature now, his hypothetical brows furrowing, speaking in a strong gruff tone, though his placidity remains.
”Creature….who are you? What do you want of me? What is this...”
The fae cackles, its face twisting with devilish delight. Its voice was high and creepy…
”Heh...You see, you could be of use to me, but first I have to see what you are capable of….and who am I? HA. I am not stupid enough to give you my full name….but since you are now mine, you may address me as “Sir Grumbles” HEHEHEHE!!”
He gave Fascade no other answers, he kept snickering as he lead the old stag by screaming horses being tortured beyond belief. He wanted nothing more than to crush this Grumbles and get the hell out of this place, but the magic kept him obedient to him. The term "you are mine now" not only confused Fascade, but angered him greatly, well would have if the relaxation spell wasn't keeping him cooler than a damned cucumber. He belonged to NO ONE. He was the one who claimed others, not the other way around. He was alpha. Who the hell did this guy think he is anyway. Fascade would have pinned his ears and went out to strike at the fae, but of course, that was not about to happen.
Fascade’s real emotions weren't returned to him until he was lead into a strange upright cylindrical capsule. The sides were made of dark blue glass, and reinforced with black metal. Though he was curious of this strange thing, he was more interested in being a pissy old alpha male toward the creature who had laid a claim on him. He pinned his ears in anger and he went to snap at the fae as he turned him to face the door to the capsule, but the halter stopped him from harming him. Grumbles made a tisk tisk sound waving his crooked long finger at Fascade before smirking and shutting the door on him.
Since faeries can’t touch metal, Grumbles had to open and shut the door to the strange capsule with special gloves on, being sure not to touch it to his skin, as he lead Fascade in as not to harm himself in the process.
Still not able to run away or fight back due to the damned magic halter, he stood in the slender capsule. His anger started to ebb as the realization of being contained in such a small stuffy container began to take hold of him. He began to get claustrophobic, his fear began to return with full force. He began neighing wildly in fear, prancing in place, eyes widened. What was this thing, what did it do? Whatever it was, it was not going to be good. Not at all.
Soon, he could see Grumbles push a strange glowing blue button and the capsule turned on. The floor, made of metal with holes throughout, began to to gush water. It rose at a steady pace, and Fascade knew what this meant….he was going to be drowned. Grumbles stood there laughing as he watched the water rise up to our old man’s chin. Fascade raised his head up, his eyes rimmed with white. He tried hard to keep his head above the water, but soon he had to take in a deep gulp of air as it filled up over his head. He was fully submerged now. He tried to hold his breath as long as he possibly could, straining himself. If he had been a human, his face would be turning blue by now. He tried so hard, but he couldn’t hold it anymore. He thrashed wildly in the water, bubbles surrounding him as he twisted and contorted with pain. He let out his big breath of air, the bubbles flowed from his mouth. He instinctively went to draw in a big breath of air quickly, but instead of the lovely H2O he craved, his lungs were instead filled with a massive amount of water. He continually attempted to let it out and gasp for air again, even though he knew it was no use….his desperate breaths were only filled with more water. His lungs full, he struggled. His body felt like it was being crushed. His heart began to pound quickly as his fear escalated. A wild struggle as he thrashed and strained. As he fought wildly for air, his mind was not reeling with images of his past like he thought it would when about to die, instead it was reeling with inner voices shouting at him and the image of Grumbles glaring at him with his dark, malicious eyes and his twisted smile.
YOU ARE DYING!!! YOU ARE DYING!!! DIE DIE DIE DIE!!
He felt his body giving in, but the halter kept him living….
He was being drowned continuously, the pain of no air was excruciating...he couldn’t handle it….he had never felt such pain….such heaviness. Such fear.
But as soon as he was about to pass out, the water began to drain...
He coughed hard, heaving as water gushed out from his mouth and nose. As soon as he spit out the last of the water he gasped.
Air.
He was heaving, his body shaking with fear….he couldn’t move….his eyes were wider than dinner plates. What the hell was this...what was the point of this…
At his age, his mind is weak...he wanted to live his life peacefully, maybe start a small herd and die peacefully surrounded by loving family and children…..This was not that. This was pure hell… The screams surrounded him, the sound of tortured souls and pain beyond comprehension. Blood curdling screams to be exact. His mind was breaking….he wanted to just die now...get it over with. Why make this old man suffer so!?
But, Grumbles was not done yet.
He grabbed Fascade’s halter and dragged him to yet another glass enclosure. Poor Fascade was so exhausted from drowning that his body had a hard time moving, the oxygen to his brain made him unable to function correctly. This time, it was a strange square room, almost like the stall he was in, but instead of four stone walls and a door, this room was dark concrete with the front being a type of glass...He was lead inside, his exhaustion from the last torture was enough to make him not want to fight...he was not scared as much as he was mad and senile…
Grumbles’ spoke with a nonchalant tone.
Hm, the water didn’t seem to do anything did it my fine elderly friend? Maybe something a little more on the warm side will get you nice and fired up. I’m sure this will dry you off in a jiffy. We sure as hell aren’t done yet...
Fascade’s anger bubbled up in his chest, what the hell was this anyway!?
”WHAT?! What are you going to do to me now “SIR Grumbles”?! What hell are you going to put me through huh? WHY NOT JUST KILL ME NOW YOU DEMENTED PIECE OF SHIT?! WHY NOT JUST PUT ME OUT OF MY DAMN MISERY!? Why the hell are you so nonchalant about this!? WHY DO THIS!? WHY!? WHAT KIND OF SICK GAME ARE YOU PLAYING WITH US!?
Physical torture was not the only thing Fascade was enduring, but the mental aspect of this was torture as well...He was getting old, his mind was not as strong as a younger stallion’s and he was not some spry young stallion with a mind of steel….not anymore….he was breaking mentally as well as being ripped apart physically.
Grumbles made a face at him as Fascade made a false charge at him before the door slid shut on him. He squealed fiercely at the faerie on the other side of the thick glass. He was an enraged old geezer. He thrust himself at the glass, but he was not going to hit the creature now. Frustrated, he turned to face the opposite wall...of which looked a bit strange. It was not solid concrete. There were small metal pipes sticking out all over the walls around him except for the glass, which was pretty much just a viewing window for Grumbles. A deep crackling sound made Fascade’s dark tipped ears swivel back and forth, this was a sound he knew…..the sound of……Fire.
The pipes gleamed red and the crackling grew louder as flames suddenly burst forth from them. The entire room was being blasted. He was a small clay pot in a giant kiln. He screamed at the top of his pained, previously drowned lungs. The fire all around engulfed him, he could feel his body being seared and melting, he could smell his own flesh burning, he ran frantically, though of course that damned magical head collar kept his skin from being burned all the way off and kept him very much alive. The pain was unreal, the fear was unreal. This was too much for him, he could feel his skin practically melting off, his eyes burning out, his ears charring, his legs bloodied and raw. Continuously repeating itself thanks to the halter. He could not stand the pain anymore, he was literally being burned alive, body and mind alike.
It was too much...no...it was too much beyond describable. He was breaking.
He screamed at the top of his lungs, his entire soul blasted forth from deep inside him. Loud enough to probably shatter the glass separating him and Grumbles….
This was it...this was his breaking point….he was too old for this.
”PLEASE!! PLEASE STOP!!!!!!! MAKE IT STOP!!!!!!!! USE I NEED USE!!!!!! USE!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I CAN’T!!!! I CAN’T!!!!!!
There it was, his cry for Use. Of whom has been dead for years….his lover, his beloved leadmare. All he wanted was her, he wanted to be with her...he wanted to die. He was too old for this...it was too much for him to handle.
This was too much.
After all these years holding in his pain of her passing, all these years wandering without a purpose, this was how he thought it was going to end for him. This was his breaking point.
When a sinister person means to be your enemy, they always start by trying to become your friend
Perhaps I knew better than anyone that appearances were not always what they seemed. So when the very tiny man walked in and eyed me, I could see the darkness in his eyes. A tingle worked its way down my spine. This was not going to be good, not good at all. I struggled against the invisible restraints but I couldn't move. There wasn't anything I could do, nothing I could move. This tiny little man was someone powerful and from the sounds in the room down the hall, nothing good would be coming from his direction.
He moves around me, taking in all my strengths and weaknesses. I can guess from the calculating look in his eyes he's not entirely sure whether he did a good thing grabbing me from my home or not. This makes something inside me turn hard, turns something in me stubborn and determined. I have yearned for the approval from my Grandfather, only receiving some because I had wings. But there were so many other of his children and grandchildren that I was really nothing special. Perhaps to my Mom, but to the rest of them....No, I was just another Coveling.
So when my face lowers without my leave it sends fear coursing through my blood, but also something else, some type of resolve. I was not leaving here until he was done with me and I was going to have to struggle and live through whatever happened. His hands are on my face, my neck, and his grin sends another cold streak of fear through me, that band around my stomach going tighter and tighter. Fear made the food in my belly actually curdle. I felt like I was going to be sick.
Too soon, he is putting this thing on my face. He has to struggle a little to get it underneath my ears that were buried in my mane or so I think. But in reality all he does is move them himself and settled the halter around my ears and settles it across the bones in my face. He clips it and I feel myself settle into a deep calm. It's not even something I question. I'm so grateful for the feeling it gives me after living in fear for the past 24 hours that I don't think. I just do. I follow him, languidly and barely see the other's in the stalls see as I walk by them. Glimpses of them, a flash of fear, the rolling of eyes, some were angry, with teeth bared. And all of them seemed to say the same thing, but I couldn't make it out.
We cross through the door. The dreaded door that was the source of the screams and torture and pain. I still think nothing of it. Think nothing of it at all as he maneuvers me in the middle of the room.
Fire curls along his fingers and then when his hand touches my skin, I scream. Flames lick my shoulder where he had touched me. I had jerked away from the pain, tried to get it off me, tried to make it stop but nothing was working and something in me wouldn't let me get near Grumbles to hurt him and make it stop. So I scream until my vocal cords tear, until the fire swallows me whole and I know I will die here. I can smell my own flesh burning, feel nothing but the fire on my skin. Nothing stops it. And then, then I can't feel anything.
I might have blacked out for a second. When I open my eyes I'm standing in the center of the room again, whole and unscathed. There is nothing to mark what I had just went through and I could only look at Grumble with some odd mix of fear and awe in my eyes.
The magic he could wield would be enough for anyone to want power over.
And then there are fingers running across my back, my skin, but when I turn to look there is nothing. Pain! It flashes hot as cuts open up my flesh and my blood pours of out them. Thousands of them it feels like, this pain is different, sharper than the constant burning of the fire. I scream, of course I scream. I feel the fingers along my flesh, and then under it as he peels my fur off my muscles. My blood drips onto the ground, and then it pours as he rips off my purple and magenta colored pelt. I can see the muscles and tendons under my skin. I can see my bones once he starts to take them off, one by one and piece by piece.
My vocal cords are raw by now and I can do nothing more than scream silently when he rips my wings from my body. I sway, falling to my knees before I am jerked back upwards. He wasn't done. Some how I am still conscience and so damn relieved when the pain stops, even if it means that for a moment I am nothing more than a skeleton standing before him. A snap of his fingers and I am back together.
But then it starts all over again. He freezes the blood in my veins. He breaks my bones. He takes my brain from my skull and dissects it with precision. He takes the feathers from my wings, one by one. This seems to go on for hours as he does all different kinds of torture on my physical body.
Once he is satisfied with that he moves on to something worse.
I jerk away, home once again and can only feel relief. "Momma!" I call, my hooves quickly moving, taking me back to the last place I had seen her. The nightmare I had just had had been horrible. I needed her to tuck me into that safe place she has under her wings and up against her side. I needed to be near her, to smell her and touch her. I needed her to wash the memories from my skin, from my mind.
It's on the bottom of a sand dune that I hear the angry cries. My ears flicker and I am dashing up the sand with a quickness only known to those that grow here. I use my wings for leverage, giving myself an extra boost. When I can see over the top, Momma is surrounded and so is Grandfather. The rest of the herd is laying on the ground, unmoving and with blood every where. My eyes are wide and I want to run, but Momma sees me. "Chaol!" She cries and a wolf-like creature grabs a hold of her wing, yanking it. "Momma!" The fear that had frozen me is released and I surge forwards. My teeth grab one of the wolf creatures by his ear and I distract him long enough that Momma takes another one out with a sharp blow to the head.
I make my way to her side, using my hooves and teeth to protect her as much as I could in my young age. I am loosing, claw and teeth marks cover my body and hers. Our blood is pouring on the ground. I slip on the blood, falling beneath the wolves and I hear my mother's voice calling my name faintly before I fell nothing more than my flesh being torn from my body....Then nothing.
I open my eyes, still in that room and tears fall from my eyes. "No more...please no more." I say but I have no idea if he can understand me. My body trembles, my mind is weak and I want to break. I would do anything, absolutely anything to make him stop right now. "Please stop, I'll do whatever you want."
Only now do I realize that the horses outside had told me. "RUN! FIGHT!" Didn't they realize how futile it was? My head falls down, hanging almost to the ground as I wait for the next torture that he would imagine up for me.
The stall door swung open, and Slaybell braced herself for an attack, but she froze, unable to move, even the snarl on her face was stuck there. Her eyes widened as the little elf came forward, some leather contraption in his hand. Her skill crawled as his hands moved over her face, her neck, shoulders, and legs. It was a violation, and she strained against the power that held her in place. The veins along her temples bulged up from her efforts, though is was all for not. Slaybell was unable to move, just follow the imp around with her eyes. Those eyes burned a thousand deaths into the chin high man, spoke the terror she wanted to inflict upon him. He made no sign of noticing her attempt to slice his throat through her gaze. No, he said nothing, just caressed, touched and then brought the halter to her face. Oh, how the emerald green mare wished she could latch onto its little arm as the leather pieces formed around her head.
When the final strap clasped into place she was released from her statuesque form and she stumbled a step forward as she had still been fighting to move. Slaybell pulled herself upright, each muscle pulled and pushed to right her stature. Until she held her head high. He haunches bunched and she threw her frame into a rear. Emerald legs were meant to lash out at Grumble but when she went to it was as if a rope pulled her forcefully back down. Confusion flashed across her face. He red tail flicked with agitation, as she tried again and again to harm the little man, each one proved useless. No matter what she tried she was unable to touch Grumble.”You will let your guard down at some point, little man, and I can’t wait to fillet you when that time comes.” Her voice was surprising melodic, feminine and light. She said it with joy, not hate, and as if she were offering the sweetest of compliments. Slaybell was not typical, but that should have been obvious by that point.
If Grumble thought anything of her display he said nothing, nor gave any indication through his body language. Save for the smallest hint of a smile, that twitched at the corner of his face. The halter continued to work its magic, as the next thing that happened was the most peculiar. Slay couldn’t recall why she wanted to attack Grumble, the aggression seeped from her body as if the halter leeched it all away. Her eyes became soft, kind even. They lost their hardened edge and when Grumble went to leave the stall she followed in total compliance. Her mind knew it wasn’t right, that she should fight, resist, flee, but she was unable. Her legs moved forward, with a calm that beseeched her mind. The impish man led her down an isle of box stalls, where the inhabitants were in a vast array of states. Some were muttering nonsense to themselves, others stood stark still their eyes empty, there were even a few she passed that thrashed about their stalls- eyes wild and disheveled. Slaybell knew she should not go a step further, but again her body ignored her mind. It was a terrible thing.
The fairy led her further and further along until they came to a room at the end of the aisleway. The room was filled with things. Knives, needles, buckets of water, batteries, cages, straps and chains, etc. covered the walls and tables around the room. There was a cleared area at the center and grumble led her to it and secured her there with chains around her fetlocks. The halter still kept she from harming Grumble but the placid mind control seemed to have lifted as she tested her body for appropriate response. Sure enough, it responded as she expected it to. She watched grumble walk by a table his fingers glided athwart the metal and wood of the different tools before selecting a sharp 5-inch blade. The handle was an ornate wood carving, and the blade sat gleaming on the other end, a slight curve brought the steel to its tapered end. Silently Grumble brought the knife to her skin, lightly moved it across her neck in an aimless fashion.
Slaybell stilled, she had never seen a blade, she didn’t know it’s purpose. She was nervous, but who wouldn’t be in a situation like that? Her voice fell again surely the fairy could speak, ”And what it that little trinket meant to do--” Grumble answered her question with a quick jerk of his hand. The blade was sharp and the added speed was all it need to slice into her flesh. Slaybell sucked in a breath, and slowly exhaled as the sting of the cut radiated out. The sensation quickly dulled and she exhaled like normal. ”It that it? That isn’t bad..it’s almost pleasant.” Grumble stayed silent, just continued the slow light traversing of the blade against her hair. Three more times he cut her, in quick succession along her haunches. The emerald mare’s nostrils flared at the quick inhale from the pain, but then a second later she exhaled with a smile. It wasn't forced, but genuine, she actually enjoyed the feeling. (Look, no one said she was normal here….She is a psychopath after all) Grumble raised an eyebrow at the response and returned to the table, a cloth wiped the blood from the blade before he returned it to its spot.
Next, the impish fairy went over to a kiln with several long rods sticking out of the opening. He pulled one out, with a gloved hand. The far end gleamed a hot orange white. The type of heat you could smell it was so hot. Grumble moved over to her opposite shoulder from the where he placed the cuts. This time, there was no toying with her to test how easily she was scared. He simply pressed the poker onto her side. The smell of burnt hair came first, then the scream of pain from Slaybell’s lips, finally the scent of burnt flesh. The poker was held against her skin for a few second then removed. Her eyes dilated from the pain. The burn didn’t dissipate quickly after like the cuts, it seeped deeper into her muscles, throbbed and ached. She was not pleased and a hiss escaped her lips as she attempted to mentally get ahead of the heated ache. ”It nothing really. You can’t do anything to --” Grumble chose that moment to take the poker back to her shoulder, which forced another yelp to interrupt her sentiment. Again and again, he edged her toward the brink of her sanity. The pain of the burns built up quickly, pain--ache--pain--ache--pain--ache over and over, after the 10th time Slaybell finally stopped reacting. She no longer screamed, her eyes were not glazed over-- as it would be if she had broken, but hardened, determined. Grumble again raised his eyebrows at the odd reaction.
The fairy went to a different section of the table, it had needles, syringes, and vials lined up in neat rows. Grumble picked a large gauge needle and secured it to a syringe, and then picked up a vial that held a clear liquid within it. Methodically he pushed the needle into the vial and pulled the colorless substance from its container into the syringe. He returned the vial to its place and checked the syringe for air bubbles. Only then did he return to Slaybell and insert the needle into the mare’s muscular neck. Again he said nothing, and this time, the evil Christmas horse didn’t bother trying to get a reaction. Grumble must have thought well of that as that imp’s mouth jerked into that almost smile again. He turned and took a seat at the table, and waited. They both waited, for the serum to kick in.
Slaybell blinked as the serum made her vision blur. Everything was distorted, and soon enough the chamber swirled and dissolved. In its place was her cave at the top of her mountain. She relaxed, as she believed the whole thing with Grumble to be a dream, ”What an odd dream…” she moved out of the cave to look down on Valley, it was flooded with blood. She smiled down at the sight but it faded quickly. Something wasn’t right, down below there was a stallion drowning in the blood. A cry escaped her lips, guttural and heart wrenching, ”No No NO!!” Her emerald pelted body launched down the mountain, and through the chest deep blood until she reached the stallion. Though while somewhere deep in her mind she knew that she didn’t know the beast, but it was pushed back by the drugs and the rest of her mind that thought she needed the stallion, that he mattered to her. He glared at her, ”I trusted you, how could you do this do me?” Then she saw the marks on his neck as the life left his eyes. She had killed him. She had taken the life of someone she cared for. Her worst fear, her obsession with blood and killing would end up costing those she cared about. The blood continued to rise but she fled away from the body, the stallion’s words echoed in her her mind as she ran.
The situation repeated itself continuously, with different horses that the serum tricked her mind into believing she cared about and needed. Each time, she had killed them. Each time it had been her fault, her obsession that had caused their deaths. Each time she screamed and cried, tried to stop it but she couldn’t. She ran from each but ran right into another, until she could even run the vision of loved ones, dying over and over and over. In her mind’s eye she curled up on the ground. The blood lapped at sides, beckoning her to engross herself with its beauty. She screamed and cried out for it to stop to leave her be. But t never listened to her. It just continued to pull at her attention. When that didn’t work more death flashed before her. The emerald mare’s voice shook from sobs, and pleading for the blood to leave her be, ”Enough, stop just stop. Leave me alone! Oh please stop!” THe images didn’t cease though, nothing seemed to stop the endless onslaught of death. The blood rose higher and higher until it was about to take her under. She screamed out the most soul-crushing sound yet, but the blood overtook her muzzle, which left her dead, as there was no one left to save her. She had killed them all.
The door slides open and it becomes almost immediately apparent that it wouldn’t have mattered if the little man forgot to bind her in place, keep her a prisoner inside her own body. It is enough for her to see him, enough to take in that pale face hidden beneath the strands of dark hair. It is enough to recognize him, to remember what he did before. She would have been frozen in her horror and hatred even if he had not subdued her with the filth of his dirty magic. It takes a long moment for that initial shock to fade, but when it does she notices a few new details that she had missed as that last flicker of hope had been blown free from her chest. His hair was long and unkempt, his face gaunt even now as he calmly closed the distance between them- and when he reached out to stroke her face she could see traces of dirt crusted around the edges of thick fingernails. He was a shadow of who he had been before, and she felt a dangerous flicker of pleasure in her belly that he looked nearly as ruined as she felt.
His hands linger on her face, those slender fingers - fingers meant for taking things apart, and they trace the band of black that set her eyes like raw emeralds in a burned earth. His eyes drift to hers and his face is almost reverent as those fingers slip to follow the smooth, arching curves of her horns. The ache in her chest to run him through is almost unbearable, but still his magic holds her quiet so she is only calm, only obedient. He pulls a halter from somewhere and she would have balked if she could, certainly would’ve buried a horn in his throat to rend flesh from muscle, muscle from bone. But instead she is compliant as he slips it over her head and fastens a cold, metal buckle near the curve of her throat.
With a tug she finds she can move again, but it is not her will that her body follows. It is the half-man with the smile that makes her nauseous. She follows him quietly, placidly, finding that she could not turn her head to glimpse the faces of those she passed. But maybe it was better this way, there was nothing she could do now if she found a face that meant something to her. Her body belonged to him in a way that her soul never would.
The aisle opened up into a large room, and for an instant it was just a chamber that was cold and lit with dim lights, surrounded by walls that were made from stone and steel. But then she blinked, just closed those eyes for one treacherous millisecond, and when she opened them the room had morphed. Gone was the rock and metal, gone were the dim, flickering lights. Instead she found a scene that was entirely too familiar, the same kind of familiar that Grumblesnakes had been when he filled the open doorway of her stall. The room was a bedroom now, pink and bright and so large that it reduced her to the size of a toy.
A toy.
It felt like dying, like drowning in memories and suffocating on the pain that filled her up inside. Everything was identical, the three wooden toy chests, the garbage sitting in the corner- and she wonders if she opened them, would her friends still be heaped inside in a ruined pile? She tries again to pull away from the fairy, to rip the lead line through those long, delicate fingers. But he isn’t there anymore. The halter is still draped across the curve of her face, she is still physically quiet and placid, still subdued against her own iron will, but she is alone. She doesn’t have a chance to wonder if alone is worse, because a pair of hands reach down to pluck her up. While she is not quite as small as she had been before, much closer to the size of a lazy house cat, those long fingers still close around her neck and her belly and lift her carefully to the center of the room. She doesn’t try to fight him now, doesn’t beg her mind to allow her to use those legs because she knows it won’t work. This is not new, it is not different, it is exactly as she remembers and she remembers that there is no room for hope.
Grumblesnakes sits cross legged on the floor, perched in the center of the room with toy-sized Malis blue and perfect and trapped immobile in his lap. There is a smile that spreads slowly across his face, a smile as, with a flourish of his hand, her body tears open in a hundred places. “Oh dark one, do you remember that game Nerissa played with you?” Malis does, she remembers being torn apart and then rebuilt again with pieces of her friends, it is not something one can easily forget.
It was just a dream.
Malis doesn’t bother to answer him, she isn’t sure she could have through the pain of a thousand severed nerve endings. But her body begins healing immediately, sealing those thin, almost surgical wounds in a way that felt like time was lapsing around her. He frowned and tutted as though he had forgotten she could regenerate, as though he was displeased by how inconvenient she was being in this moment. But it is his magic buried in her veins, his, and she knows he hasn’t forgotten this. His fingers twitch again and the wounds reopen, blood gathering like unshed tears within the lip of each cut. Another twitch of his fingers and there is metal buried in every slice. She can feel it lodged within her bones, can feel the edges peeling her flesh apart when she breathes. But the metal isn’t buried only beneath the surface, pieces protrude like blades and plates and spines across her body like a grotesque armor. “See now, isn’t that better!” He beams down at her as he picks her up with careful hands and places her on the floor. She stands there in a moment of frozen agony, of shame, until he points one finger at her and gestures in a slow circle. Her body reacts immediately, the muscles loosening so that she can walk in a circle like his favorite toy on display. The movement is agony, trapped inside a body that is simultaneously healing and tearing, and she roars her dismay. The sound is pure fury, but it is sound not thought, and there is some small amount of relief that even if he won’t let her fight, he will let her cry.
Again and again she circles, until blood runs in ruby rivulets against the blue, until she thinks she might leap into the black that lingers at the edges of her consciousness. But she doesn’t scream again, won’t, because she thinks he must want her to or why else would he have freed her tongue. He must lose interest, because with a sigh and snap of his fingers, the metal is torn free as though the room around her is suddenly magnetic. She cannot stop this scream when it comes, when it rips like solid anguish from her wheezing lungs. At this he smiles again, and with a blink the bedroom is gone and she is standing back in the stone and steel room at the end of a rope held by Grumblesnakes.
He reaches out a hand to touch the curve of her cheek, and she finds that they are back to their normal proportions, that she could trample him if only her body would cooperate. But it doesn’t. Instead, he touches a finger to a wound on her face as it knits together and smoothes over like nothing had ever happened. With the tongue he had loosed, she says, “I should have known you weren’t finished with me yet, why else would you leave me frozen as I was when you first took me.” He says nothing, but his hand moves to her neck as though to soothe her in the most demeaning way he knows how. She flings her head away from him, away because there is something unexplainable preventing her from spearing him through the chest. “It’s not nice to pick favorites, you old fool.”
He gives a quiet smile and pats her nose, “ Ah, but how could I resist saying hello to such a dear old friend?"
She blinks and the room changes again- well, not change exactly, but it shrinks until it is a third the size of what it was before. There is a glint of color on the floor at her feet, and when she drops those ragged green eyes from him she finds that she is standing within the four lines of a small, painted white square. He follows her gaze and with a tone she thinks he meant to be gracious, he says, “You can move now, Malis, but only within that space. Go ahead, stretch your legs.” But she doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t react, just as she had refused to take the food he had offered. She doesn’t want anything from this fowl creature. Home, Killdare, her children. These are the things she wants, the things she sorely doubts he will give her.
Grumblesnakes sighs at her silent refusal. “You see, I need to break you to make you bigger, but Malis my dearest, you are already a little bigger than the rest." The fairy man strokes his chin as though considering this predicament. “I could burn you, I suppose.” And in the next instant the air within her small square was all fire and flame and she could feel her skin charring and melting and healing all at once. She inhaled to scream but it was fire, not air that snaked its way down into her lungs. “But we both know you like this pain, you can heal, so it doesn’t scare you.” The fire vanishes and in a few moments she is smooth and blue and as flawless as the day he first found her. Adrenaline pounds through her body, fueled by fear and rage and years of being trapped inside memories like this one. Her dark eyes are molten gems when she fixes them on his pale face, but she is silent because he is right, because he knows her perhaps more intimately than even Killdare does. He is silent for a moment as he considers, and she can almost see the ideas as they flicker through his eyes, rejected again and again and again for their impotency. She thinks of all the faces she had seen in their stalls, thinks of her large, dark neighbor and those glowing red eyes, and a pit appears in her belly. Malis might exist for a life of ruin, she might love the pain in some dark, twisted way. But she was certain that they wouldn’t.
His eyes light up and she is startled to find that she can taste her own horror as she watches a smile curl his lips. “How about a box?” And she might’ve laughed if not for the cruel way his eyes slid like razors over her dark indigo face. It would not be the first box he put her in, why did he assume this one would break her. She blinked, and when she opened her eyes again the world had been reduced to a small, wholly dark box that was only just big enough to fit around her body. She was laying down now, and she wasn’t sure when it had happened, but it didn’t seem important so she did not dwell on it. When she moved to lift her head, she was rewarded by the slap of solid stone. She thrashed again, finding that her body was at last her own, but there was no room to rise, no room to kick and fight, there was only a stone grave and she had been buried alive. A bellow erupted from her lips, a scream and she thought her lungs might rend apart with the sound. This earned her a chuckle from him, and when he spoke it was through her thoughts. She was entirely alone. “I have killed those you love. Your precious king, your children, they are gone. You might say his fury was volcanic. And now I will keep you here in this place so that it can be the only thing you think about until your body starves and deteriorates, until even you cannot live. Malis, my malis, this was always how it would end.”
He was gone then; she felt it when he faded away, when he pulled himself from her mind. Dark swept in like a tide, it lapped at her sanity until even this stoic blue beast found the only thing she was still capable of was grieving the loss of everything she had ever loved. Of her beautiful children, of a king who was better than anything she had ever known. She raged and she wept until the impossible pieces she had managed to glue back together came undone, until every part of her fell away. Time passed but it was impossible to know how much; time was irrelevant when there was nothing left to live for. Instead she drowned in what felt like a forever of numbness and starvation, of a loneliness she both hated and craved. This became her only reality until at last she felt him in her head again the moment before he spoke. “Hello Malis, are you still in there?”
She would’ve turned away from him if she remembered how, but her wasted body only lay there, her spirit wholly crushed. “No,” she whispered back instead, her voice ragged from so much silence, “Malis is gone.”
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
You, he would have breathed had he the ability to move, but he is still stuck, so instead his frozen eyes watch the creature – the monster – come forward. His head lowers, though he fights it – and a finger strokes down his forehead, dry and terrible.
He has not often been an angry man, but the fury that wells within him at the sight of the creature crashes like waves against his chest in a frenzy of heartbeats, and he tries, he tries to lunge forward, to tear the creature limb from limb. Anything to make him stop.
He can’t, of course. He’s frozen. The creature slips something over his head, something binding, and when it’s fastened there’s a moment of peace and hope (a pathetic and determined thing) washes over him. Maybe it will be okay. Maybe he won’t be chosen, this time.
He’s a broken toy, after all. Who would want to play with such things?
They walk out of the stall and he has a moment to think I’m going home and even though home is nowhere, for he has no home – even then, the thought of returning to the meadow fills him with a wild, desperate hope.
But instead, he is led to a chamber, a vast and empty space, sealed save for the way they came in. He tells his body to struggle, to flee, but it still refuses to obey. He even tries to possess the man, but when he tries it’s like knocking on a steel vault, everything is locked, no way to enter.
“Now,” says the creature monster, “let’s get to work.”
First:
The chamber melts away, is replaced by a meadow. It is bright, sunny. The sky (for suddenly there is sky again, not the dim solidity of the cave’s roof) is a blue bright enough that it hurts to look directly at it. The meadow is filled with wildflowers, and under a vast and towering oak there is moss, enormous carpets of it. He wanders over, still blinking in this new light.
It suddenly comes to him, why this feels familiar, why he was drawn so immediately to this oak: this is home. His first home.
Suddenly a presence falls like shadow, and he hears a voice: “kneel, Sleaze. Like I taught you.”
Just as he always had, he obeys his father. He kneels. The moss feels soft on his knees; though he knows that in time they will begin to ache under bearing such weight that they are not meant to carry.
Garbage is beside him, also kneeling. He leads them in a prayer that borders on nonsensical – Garbage found religion piecemeal, half based on lore and half on his own imagination, what sprung from that was garbled prayers and, of course, this misbegotten son.
If asked, Sleaze would have said he no longer knew the words – he’d stopped praying, after (she loves us)
the events, the ones that left him purple and strangely aching, the ones that left him with so many names on his tongue that all sounded both much too right and much too wrong at once.
But he is shocked to hear his voice rising along with his father, speaking in chorus. He feels the sun baking down on his back, warm, and he does not notice that his father is no longer praying, that he has risen. He notices none of this until he feels the warm weight of Garbage’s cheek on his back, an embrace, feels the curl of breath somewhere on his shoulder. This is love, Sleaze thinks, as he always had, because this was all he’d had, for the longest time. Just him and his father, against the world.
Sleaze is still praying.
“I always wanted to fuck you, you know,” says his father, and Sleaze whirls, the prayers slapped from his tongue, the heavy weight of his father’s (love)
embrace falling away.
It is no longer his father, standing there. Or, it is, but this is a terrible iteration of him. It’s Garbage, still – the orange eyes blaze bright – but he is emaciated, gaunt. His skin is gone in places, moldering, and where bone peeks through there are clusters of mussels. Coral grows from his chest like a ribcage.
What remains of his father laughs as Sleaze’s eyes widen, as he backs away. He spits out a bit of rancid seawater and the stench of salt and decay makes Sleaze’s stomach turn.
“Did you hear me? All those times I laid my head on you while you prayed your stupid little prayers, I was thinking about fucking you. Did you really not know?” This is love, thinks Sleaze, wildly, stomach roiling like the same sea that took his father, this is love.
“No,” he says, because he never thought it – never allowed himself to think it. It was simply how they’d been, two men against the world, father and son finding some sort of comfort in prayer. In touch.
“Stupid boy,” Garbage scoffs, “I’m glad I left. I’d hoped you wouldn’t survive, but you failed in that, too. You fail everything. I loathe you, Sleaze.”
Funny, how close the word loathe is to love, but how far away at the same time.
Garbage reaches out as if to touch him and Sleaze cringes away. Garbage laughs, a watery, choking noise, and then the world begins to bleed, begins to spin, and –
Then:
He’s plastic again, purple with pink-striped mane. The air is thick with smoke, hard to breathe. But then, he doesn’t need to breathe, does he?
He feels an ache in his stomach, and knows the name that’s carved there. He’s not blind – he should be, he knows this story, this is the aftermath, when Nerissa set the house ablaze after washing him in bleach, scrubbing off the painted clouds that had once been so painstakingly applied.
“I wanted you to see,” says a voice, and from the smoke appears the clown. It looks much the same as it had when Sleaze had first encountered him the toybox – face painted white, a red, almost sensuous mouth painted on, a smile that makes no effort to conceal its fangs. We all float here, Sleaze thinks, dazed, and inhales a lungful of smoke (breathing is still a habit). He chokes, and the clown laughs, a deep and terrible sound that sets Sleaze’s bones on edge.
“All this,” the clown gestures with his free hand. In the other hand, he clutches a bunch of balloons, all different colors. They bounce wildly in the air above the clown. They should be popped, in this coming fire, but they aren’t.
“All this, thanks to you, Sleaze. Or should I say Velvet? Or Cloud? Which do you prefer, buddy?”
Sleaze is silent. Mostly because he can’t engage the clown. Partially because deep down, he doesn’t really know.
“Sure, I gave her a little nudge, but you were the catalyst, weren’t you?” She loves us.
“You know what happened, right?”
Sleaze doesn’t answer.
“Lena’s mom died in the fire. She was sent off to foster care. And Nerissa, well…”
The clown laughs again. Sleaze wonders if he’ll ever stop laughing. The smoke burns his eyes.
“She just went off the fucking rails. I couldn’t have planned it better myself! Oh, I still visit her, sometimes, give her an idea here or there…but really, she does a splendid job on her own.”
The clown is silent. There is a crashing noise as part of the house falls in. Sleaze wonders why he hasn’t melted yet. He remembers that part. Melting. Going away.
“She killed her. Lena, I mean.”
Sleaze can’t help it – he cries out, short and desperate. He remembers the girl, how she had loved him and all the other misfit toys, had stabled them and cared for them.
“She didn’t make it quick, either. Police straight up though it was some kind of Satanic ritual, that’s how mutilated she was! Shame Lena didn’t just die in the fire with her mom. Probably would have been a blessing. Quicker, for sure.”
“All because of you, Sleaze. One stupid plastic pony. This is why it burns.”
The clown pulls down a balloon – a red one – and pops it with one sharp fingernail, laughs again when Sleaze jumps.
“You stupid boy. You deserve to be here.”
Then:
The fire is gone, and now Sleaze walks in a world of ash. The earth is buried in it, almost up to his ankles. The sky above him is gray and dismal. Ash floats down, like snow. The air smells faintly of smoke, and decay. There is an ocean in the distance, black and bleak, but it never seems to get any closer, or any further away, no matter how much Sleaze walks.
He walks, and walks, and nothing changes. So he starts to run. Still, nothing changes. He passes the same burnt trees, the same rocks. One tree has a bird perched on it. He stops to look.
It’s a vulture, but it’s gaunt, most of the feathers falling out. It lets out one feeble cry then tumbles to the earth, dead.
Sleaze takes a step back, disgusted, when he hears a voice.
“They’re all right, you know,” it says.
He turns to face it, and sees himself.
The same dark purple form, and when he sees it, he wonders if it’s a mirror of how he looks now, or a prediction of some future form. Either way, it is terrible – the coat is ill-kempt, mane falling out in patches. The creature is thin, nearing emaciation. And the eyes are the worst – too big for the gaunt face, and haunted, full of ghosts and ash.
“You were too stupid to see. You were always so stupid,” it – he – spits the word like it’s a slur. Maybe it is. Sleaze tries to run away but the creature is always there. Just like a shadow.
“It doesn’t matter, though,” the death-Sleaze says. He laughs, a sound like dry twigs snapping. It’s a rare-used laugh, a desiccated thing, the only thing reanimated in this terrible, ashen world.
Sleaze runs. It’s never fast enough.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” begins to death-Sleaze, then, “this is it, you know. This is your valley. I’m your shadow.”
That laugh, again. It’s getting stronger. It’s almost started to sound like the clown’s laugh, another dark thing bred in the dripping corridors of insanity.
“Here’s the kicker, though,” says death-Sleaze, “none of it matters. You don’t make it out of this alive anyway. So fear no evil, right?”
Then:
The other self is gone. The valley is gone. The fire is gone. The clown is gone. His father is gone.
Sleaze stands alone.
He’s on his knees, and weeping. The exertion of his sobs calls attention to his stomach, where he is suddenly aware of how it hurts, that blood is dripping down. A name is carved there, on flesh rather than plastic.
He doesn’t know whose name it is.
“See? There’s nothing for you,” says the monster, “your father, Lena, even yourself. They’re dead, or hate you, or both!”
It laughs. It sounds like the clown. Sleaze wonders if they’re one and the same. The monster’s mouth does look awfully red.
“So, Sleaze – if that’s what to want to be called?”
There are so many names. But he nods. It’s as good a name as any. He wonders what name is carved across his belly. The blood has begun to congeal, but every movement breaks it open again. He will bleed for a long time.
“Whaddya say, then? Are you in?” There’s nothing for me, back there thinks Sleaze. Just like the creature said. So he nods, again. Still on his knees, as if bowing to the monster the creature the master. A loyal solider in whatever war is brewing.
He shall fear no evil.
At first it doesn't quite sink in, the realization of just who has captured him once again. But the little man standing before him speaks as though they are old friends, as though they have met before. As his hands run across his skin, tracing the patchwork of scars littering his gray coat, a shiver of dawning horror and dread races down his spine.
Yet even now he is unable to move. No matter how he screams and rails inside his mind, telling his muscles to work, his legs to move - to run, to flee - he is unable to do anything.
Magic is the only explanation. In a second, the stoic resolve is replaced by a thunderous rage tinged by a terrible fear. But then his head is being pulled down by a supernatural force and a halter is slipped over his ears. With that halter comes a wave of unnatural calm, of complete apathy. Even though he knows this is not him, he cannot seem to bring himself to care.
In no time at all, he is being led down an aisle filled with stalls. He seems unable to prevent himself from following, unable to feel or show any concern. Whatever foul magic the little beast has used on him seems to work only too well. He walks along like a placid mule to the very end of the aisle, right through the doors that lead into another chamber. A chamber that reeks of blood and fear and defeat. He knows, without being told, that this is where all the others had been brought. To this torture chamber.
For a moment, the little man seems only interested in studying him, investigating him from chin to tail. Occasionally he touches him, a poke here, a prod there, all small, almost innocuous touches. But then he escalates from prodding to pinching, and from pinching to slicing - shallow cuts that split the skin, causing blood to trickle and revealing the flesh beneath. They sting and burn, but he has endured worse. So much worse. Amazingly enough, each cut heals quickly, sealing once again into smooth flesh moments after it is inflicted.
That is until the slices turn to gouges, deeper slashes that raze through muscle and tendon alike. The pain then is nearly unbearable, but he grits his teeth and endures. He would not give this creature the satisfaction of hearing his pain.
Little does he realize just how much worse it can get.
When he does not elicit the reaction apparently desired, Grumblesnakes changes tactics. As the damaged flash heals, Shan begins to feel a terrible pressure. His body burns briefly as the vise-like pressure increases, muscle and fat compressing against bone until that too finally gives way. The snapping of his first bone breaks the seal of silence, echoing in the still air even as it elicits an awful, agony-filled below from deep within his chest. In that moment, all rational thought flees and he becomes pure instinct. For the first time since that contraption (that dreadful halter) had been placed upon his head, he fights. It does not seem to matter that it is entirely fruitless, that his struggles will gain him nothing. His only thought is to escape the pain, the torment, by whatever means necessary.
But still that pressure squeezes in on him. More bones break, and still that crushing force continues. It continues until his bones crumble to dust and blood oozes through his bursting skin. It continues until he can no longer scream anymore, until the breath is pushed entirely from his body. It continues until he is covered in a disgusting soup of blood and sweat and waste.
Finally, when his vision goes blurry, black spots bursting in his eyes, when he can literally compress no further, it stops. And before he can completely lose consciousness, he is miraculously, magically, revived. His bones reknit as his muscles and skin expand and smooth.
Tears leak unbidden from his eyes, his breath ragged and heavy. The beastly little creature before him seems pleased. For a moment (for the briefest, heavenly moment) Shan thinks perhaps he might be done with him, but he soon discovers he is terribly mistaken.
With barely enough time to catch his breath, the next round starts. His screams are renewed as skin begins to peel away from flesh, exposing muscle and tendon and veins. He bellows until he goes hoarse, until his voice is little more than a whisper rasping from his lungs. This is a different agony, but one no less awful. He can feel the rip of skin, the sharp snap of sinew releasing flesh. The searing burn of skin peeling slowly away until only a monster of meat and bone is left.
When the screams finally fade, he finds he has nothing left to give. He cannot even muster the will to care. This seems to displease the little man, but he has lost nearly all sense of him from within his own personal hell of exhausted anguish.
In the next heartbeat, he finds himself suddenly whole again. But before he can pause to breath, before he can even blink, he is elsewhere. As he glances around, realization slowly dawns.
”No…” he whispers, his horror and despair genuine and heartbreaking.
He is back in the toy box.
He doesn't know how long he is there with Nerissa. For a while she plays with him, much like she had before, just as cruel and abusive. But when she grows tired of him, he is left inside the box. For weeks (months? years?) he is left to languish. Left with those mutilated Barbies and that monstrous princess doll who has developed an intense dislike for him (and a hellish glee in tormenting him). He is left until the days blur together and his mind turns to mush. Until he cannot seem to feel anything at all.
Then, as though none of it had ever happened, he is yanked back to that room, to that torture chamber reeking of blood and sweat and other unnameable things. His blood and sweat.
As his mind churns sluggishly, trying to comprehend what is happening, it slowly occurs to him that perhaps none of that had been real. That it is simply another terribly brilliant way to torment him.
The little man is still there, though he appears to be frowning now. He cannot even muster the will to wonder why he might be frowning. And then it doesn't matter anymore as suddenly, unexpectedly, he is back in his stall.
For days, he simply lays there, unable to find the strength to move. Somehow he does not hunger or thirst, nor does he pause to wonder why that might be. He seems to have simply gone numb, a numbness brought on by the need for preservation.
After days have passed, he finally begins to stir. More days and he is beginning to feel almost normal again. His body no longer aches in remembered pain and the fuzz surrounding his mind begins to clear.
All too soon however, boredom sets in.
So he begins kicking his door again, more from sheer boredom than any true belief that it will free him. He cannot even hear the stallmates that had surrounded him previously. He is left in silence, with only his own thoughts for company.
And such terrible thoughts they are.
Before long, even the kicking cannot stave off his boredom or those horrifying thoughts. He loses track of time soon thereafter, unable to follow the days as they crawl by. For a time, he begins talking to himself to help alleviate the loneliness, but all too soon he is talking to the walls. To figments of his imagination.
That is when the screams start again. For a while, he flinches every time he hears a fresh, bloodcurdling scream. And then he starts talking to drown out the sounds, the memories. He talks and talks and talks some more, talks until the words turn to babbling, until he is huddled in the furthest corner, making only an odd keening noise to drown out those hideous sounds.
Finally, after months and months (or is it only days? weeks?), the door swings open once more. With a horrible, gut-wrenching wail, Shan stumbles forward before falling desperately to the ground, shudders wracking his body as tears trickle from his eyes.
”Please,” he whispers in a garbled, almost incomprehensible tone. It is the only word he can manage after all this time. ”Please.”
Between one blink and the next, he is back in that chamber of horrors. This time no comprehension sinks in; there is simply no reaction to the sudden change of venue. Instead he stares blankly at the ceiling as he feels his very soul start to fracture at the seams, as though his entire being is breaking into a thousand unmendable pieces.
