Blood dripped from his arms and legs, hanging limply from thick cords glowing as though made of fire. Tendrils of smoke wafted up from his body, accompanied by a sizzling sound and the smell of burnt fur and flesh. He did not move, for his strength and energy had left him. He had long since stopped listening for the sounds of the other soldiers, finding himself glad not to hear their voices. Glad. Glad that they were no longer enduring this misery.
His breath left him, as a sharp pain racked his weakened body. He would have doubled over and fallen to the ground, if not for these cords holding him in place. Instead he merely sought to regain his breath, a much more difficult task than he had expected. He ached so terribly, unable to even raise his head to look at his aggressor. Shameful. The physical pain was nothing compared to the pain in his heart, intensified by his humiliation, his captivity, his loss of all things precious to him, things he had not the strength to protect.
"Look at me." The voice made his head swim.
Roughly another charr grabbed his mane and yanked his head up, and slowly he opened his eyes.
"Tell me what I want to know, and perhaps your suffering will end here."
He started to laugh, but he only choked on his own blood. He swallowed. The strain on his neck from being held up as he was damaged him more than he thought. It was getting so hard to breath. It felt like his lungs were caving in on themselves.
His eyes. They always returned to his captor. Of course there was pain, defiance, even anger. Sadness. Hate. But there was one thing the interrogator had not expected to see: satisfaction. A smug satisfaction. He would not allow these flame bastards to see him beaten to nothing. Inside he would laugh forever. He would never give in.
"No one would fault you for giving his location. From what I've been told, no one really likes him anyway. You would be doing the legions a service."
Still nothing. And everything the interrogator hated to see. The frustration was building. How long until they slit his throat?
The interrogator nodded as if to himself. "I am patient. Please, feel free to take a look around you."
His defiance, his anger and bitterness. All of his satisfaction. . . . The flame legionnaire smirked as one of the soldiers came forward with a white-tipped rod, burning so brilliantly. . . . It all turned into fear. He managed a slight shift of movement in his bindings, and as the rod was brought closer to his face, his jaw opened, but there was no sound. The last thing he remembered was the indescribable pain in his eyes, and the image of his beloved flashing across his mind, the last time he had ever seen him, the last time.