afflicted

43: Azriel

Azriel crouched low, listening for any noise before he slowly crept around the corner and into the empty hallway with rows of closed doors. Something was wrong. He'd known it the moment they'd winnowed here. They should be swarmed by now with Maeve's soldiers. Had she really vacated this place that quickly? He and Rhys had come last night to scout things out and they were mostly as they'd left them.

Az creaked open a door at a time, finding empty rooms behind them all. They were all so barren that they echoed his footsteps. His brow furrowed. Contemplating turning back and finding Rhysand to regroup and get out while they still could, he wasn't sure why but sweat beaded on the back of his neck. Looking at the last door- the one directly ahead from the hallway- he felt a sickening dread filling his stomach.

Whatever was behind this door was bad. Really bad. He felt it in his bones like an old friend. Death loomed close, its sickeningly sweet smell filling his nostrils and stirring his brains with anxieties. He told himself to stop being a coward. Likely, it was another empty room. He only felt this way because it was the last one left.

He straightened his back, taking a deep breath and pushing the door open. Thick, humid darkness loomed beyond. Unlike the other rooms, he could make out nothing. It was just dark. He took a tentative step forward, but still saw nothing. A skittering noise scraped across the floor and his head whipped in its direction, taking a few steps deeper into that sightless void.

The door slammed shut behind him, and no amount of fumbling or stumbling around helped him find it. The door was gone. He was in a black space of nothingness. He'd gone mad. After everything they'd endured, his body had given out. Was he dead?

Another skittering noise snapped him back into his body. Something heavy and hard smacked into the back of his head, making his teeth bite down on his tongue and sending him sprawling forward. He coughed, spitting the copper tang of blood from his mouth. His arms were wrenched backward at an angle that threatened to break them, and Azriel growled, trying to fight back, but it was futile. No one should be so strong.

A harsh, mocking laugh sounded from the man leaning all of his weight on Azriel's back as he held his arms twisted and aching. Azriel spit out more blood, panting and inhaling the dust on the floor. He coughed, barely able to breathe under the crushing weight.

"Dirty bastards don't deserve to live," the voice- a younger male- snarled. Azriel stiffened, his heart sputtering in his chest. No. It couldn't... just no.

"Dirty cell for a dirty bastard with dirty blood," an even younger voice cackled, taunting Azriel. Az squeezed his eyes shut. It couldn't be real. None of it could be real. It was impossible- they would be much older by now... right? Their voices surely would have deepened and matured just as his own had.

Cold metal cuffs snapped tightly around Azriel's wrists, cutting off the blood flow to his hands. He couldn't think, couldn't fight back. It was all too much. The cuffs wrenched, snapping his arms into the air in a way that didn't allow him to rest. If he sunk down, he'd likely pull his arms from their sockets with his weight. They even stretched apart so he couldn't wrap his hands around the chains and lift himself up. His body just felt so heavy. He couldn't remember ever feeling so weighted down.

"Mom might hear," the younger one hissed under his breath. The older one scoffed.

"Like she'd do anything to save her disgrace," the older one laughed. "He was her greatest failure."

Something wet started to pour down his back and he arched and sucked in a breath through his teeth. The liquid sloshed around in the can as the older brother shook it, dousing Azriel's arms and torso. Once they'd used the first canister, they popped open a second one, ensuring his legs and all parts of his body were drenched in something chemical. It smelled like burning oil.