Lionhearts ||Skephalo||

25

It feels like acid, eating at his skin in an exquisitely agonizing way. He whimpers and cries out as he's left in the cell, the guard outside the door looking vaguely interested. They watch as Bad struggles, straining instinctively against his restraints, sobbing as the liquid continues to drip down him.

It takes what feels like forever to finally stop, and by the end, Bad is panting, tears dripping down his face.

He isn't aware that he's speaking, too focused on the patches of skin that had been almost...eaten away, by the liquid, to notice his involuntary soft questions babbling out to fall upon uncaring ears.

"Why? Why are you doing this to me?"

His pathetic cries, barely whispered in his hoarse and broken voice, are met with an amused snort by the guard, who answers in a derisive tone,

"Mages get their magic broken and taken away. Ye all deserve to suffer."

The words are unwelcome, and Bad's exhaustion comes crashing in once the pain finally fades, but he can't. It's impossible to sleep like this, he's sure. He hangs his head, staring at the ground and studying it while taking slow, deep breaths of the hot, ash-filled air he's unfortunately grown accustomed to.

It's almost painful after a while longer, being forced to stand like this.

This time he's awake to feel as a ripple of magic overtakes his skin, soothing the pain. It seems to do a little for his arm too, but not much.
This is how I'm going to be trapped from now on?
He wonders distantly how soon prisoners usually die. They would probably die of dehydration, wouldn't they? He only survived because Assu and George had given him water.

Do mages just need less water? These are the thoughts that circle in his mind as he stands, silently drawing in painful gasps of air. The familiar bright green eyes reappear eventually, and he meets them wearily, almost glad for the consistency.

Hours have to be passing, he's sure. He watches the guards change, he watches them watch him, his struggling, his pain, his listless dangling in the chains.
It feels like forever, an eternity of gazing at a wall as he leans into the support of the shackles. The crushing exhaustion strangling out his other feelings, emotions and physical sensations alike.

And so, eventually...

He closes his eyes.

Zak places his hands on his hips, and draws him onto the checkered floor.

"Come on," he invites, his voice warm, "let's dance."

Darryl looks up in confusion, telling him,

"Zak, I can't dance."

His friend laughs, and sweeps him into a dance, pressing him close, whispering to him softly,

"I can~" Darryl's face grows warm, and he meets the other's warm gaze, leaning a little closer. "You're beautiful."

The words that fall from his lips into the still air between them is nothing like the playful compliments he said in their day to day interactions.
No, this is laced with a thread of intent, a thread of desire almost.

Darryl can feel his cheeks going hot, eyes widening.

"Geppy," he murmurs, "why would you say it like that?"

Zak turns them, still leading the dance, and leans into a dip, holding Darryl close.

"Don't you want to hear that?" He questions, and Darryl bashfully looks away,

"I can't lie and say I don't..." He feels his face be turned back to face the other's.

"Close your eyes, Darryl."

He's so close, and-

A flood of liquid pours over him, and he jerks out of his dream, out of the faint stupor he had fallen into after all that time of just...hanging there.

He shrieks, since the initial flood of liquid is followed by something dripping over his face and shoulders. He struggles again, finding himself partially unable to breath through what he thinks is cloth, but no-
He can breathe, but it's wrong, it's so wrong-

It almost feels like he's choking and yet he is still breathing, still drawing in broken gasps of air through the thing painfully pressing into his mouth.

Distantly, through his panicky, half coherent perception of the situation, he catches a glimpse of the substance now being poured over him, and he feels at first that he has to be hallucinating- the substance running over his body, the slimy, prickling substance...was lava.
He can't make sense of anything, unable to get proper breaths through what he realizes must be a gag of sorts. His shallow, rapid breaths are filled with the not-quite liquid that he chokes up just as quickly, the sludge running down his chin as he tears up, still dizzy from his inability to breathe.

Potion? Did they use, another potion? There's potions to resist being burned, right?

The irony of it is almost enough to be funny, that a potion with such potential for good would be used to torture someone in this manner, forcing them to do this, to choke and gasp and gag, just to breathe.

The lava drips down, pooling on the floor. Horrifyingly long minutes pass before Bad can breathe properly, without coughing the lava back out of his mouth or sneezing it up. Everything about this situation makes him want to cry, but he can't do it right now. His eyes hurt.
The guard laughs,

"I accidentally let ya fall asleep."

Sleep deprivation. Great.

The thought is bitter. He knows that if Assu was here, she'd let him sleep until she was changing shift at least, but she's not here, nobody is.

There's nobody here for him.
He can't help this slight bitterness from creeping into his body, with the pain and horror and terror.

The humiliation only builds when the guard takes the gag off, and decides to poke Bad's tongue as it lolls out when he gasps for breath, their finger bitter and something slightly salty on it stinging the sensitive surface.
He pulls his tongue in, glaring up at the guard, feeling indignation pricking at his eyes even though tears aren't coming. He almost would spit at them, lash out, an odd storm of violence building inside his chest.

I hate you. I hate this. I HATE THIS.

He feels beaten, helpless, and yet so angry, so sickened.
The guard leaves, but the sick, sticky feeling this whole event gave Bad doesn't go with him. Around him, the lava drains away gradually, and he's thankful that the potion at the least kept him from being burned when he inhaled the molten rock. He can't wrap his head around why he didn't drown, or suffocate, but at the same time he doesn't WANT to know.

He stares up at the eyes, the familiar hallucination setting him at ease in the most ironic way.
His mouth twists in a weak, sardonic smile.

"How pathetic," he murmurs, inaudible to anyone other than himself. He can't tell what he's referring to, but he slumps against the chains, resigning himself to this.

Come quickly, please.
Come quickly.

Things are just getting worse.