"... and such a brave little thing, he was! He seemed to be trembling with fear himself, and he still ventured into the dark pit, only to help us deal with those dreadful wolf-rats. We can't thank your guild enough, Master Jiemma!"
Even before the kind Lady finishes her sentence, Sting knows that he's screwed.
The way Jiemma's enormous hand fastens its already painful grip around his arm, until it is nothing but torturous and bruising is more than enough to clue him in on what he's to expect once they make it back to the guild hall.
He is twelve now, a capable Dragon Slayer; but he's also a member of Sabertooth and he has learned the hard way, not to talk back to the Master. Not when he was in a bad mood; not ever.
So he lets himself get dragged along, always trying his best to control his breathing, for the aura surrounding the brute oafish form that is their Master Jiemma is so thick with malice and hatred that it might make him gag any minute.
He is well aware, that this would be his untimely end, so he suppresses the choke rising in his throat as good as he can, all the while forcing his muscles into obedience. If he stumbled into his Master now, he'd beat him to within an inch of his life.
Their way home isn't that long, but it feels like miles upon miles for Sting's fear-juggled mind.
He is well aware of what's to come, and he dreads it on a visceral level, a thundering, vile fear, that is deeply engraved into his bones by now.
So when Jiemma whirls around and sends Sting crashing into the opposite wall, there is no way for him to muffle the miserable sob rising in his throat.
He cowers down, arm shielding his face, as their Master draws closer, but the force of the humongous hands throws him back anyway and leaves him with ringing ears and a thick trail of blood trickling down his chin.
"No more, please! No more!" His mind silently pleads, but by now the boy knows better, than to word his thoughts aloud.
Jiemma is towering over his shrinking form, eyes aglow with violence, and booms: "Who told you to go there and sully the name of our guild? Who told you to "tremble with fear"? You're a member of Sabertooth and I expect you to act that way! I won't tolerate such a pathetic display of weakness in the ranks of my guild! Do you hear me?"
Sting is still crouched down, unsure if his shaking limbs would carry his weight, and since his voice is brittle and unsteady with held back sobs, he simply nods his head.
"DO YOU HEAR ME? ANSWER ME, YOU RUNT!" Jiemma's voice is deafening, but it shocks the boy's vocal cords into obedience. "Yes, Master. I- I understand. I... I will... It won't happen again."
"Enough with the whining! And speak clearly when you're talking to me! I won't stand a stuttering cretin in my guild!"
The kick aimed at his ribs takes Sting completely by surprise, so he has no chance to shield himself from the brunt of the impact whatsoever and gets flung right back into the wall.
His vision blurs, darkness closing in on him, as every last bit of air is forced out of his lungs, leaving his skin crawling and tingling.
Terror rises up in his chest now that he feels his body slowly backing away from him, consciousness dwindling, and only the crazed mantra of "no, no, no, no, don't pass out, he's gonna kill me" his mind screeches, keeps him from slipping into the void.
"... feet." Jiemma's voice is muted, tuning in and out like a broken radio, and Sting quickly shakes his head hard to dispel the fog - forcing their Master to repeat himself was never a good idea.
"Get to your feet, you piece of trash! It's high time you finally overcame this childish fear of yours."
As soon as the blonde has finally staggered to his feet, a rough hand fists into his hair and drags him along mercilessly, as he lets out a sinister laugh.
"I'll show you, that the darkness is nothing to be afraid of. Just you wait, you little wimp. When I'm done with you the dark will seem like a save haven... I'll teach you true fear."
With his mind pain-crazed and hazy, Sting didn't even realize where he'd been ushered to, but as the sturdy wooden door, covered in heavy studs, enters his field of vision, he comes dangerously close to fainting.
He'd never been behind those walls, and yet he's well aware, that the room harbors nothing but dread and despair. Anyone in Sabertooth knows. It's a place where members get dragged to when they loose a fight, fail a mission badly or otherwise attract their Master's raging wrath more than usual.
Upon return most of them sported dire injuries, some quit the guild without a single word of farewell, while others looked no worse for wear but from that day onward somehow seemed skittish and hollow, the smell of fear clinging to them like a second skin.
No one ever spoke of what had happened to them. Mostly because it was forbidden by an unwritten law, but secondly because non of the members were close enough to one another to share this kind of experience.
Except for Sting. In this harsh, cold place he is the only one blessed with a kindred soul to turn to, someone he came to know so intimatley, who's friendship he treasures so much, that the sole thought of somehow not being able to return to their shared room is more threatening than any horrors that Jiemma might have ready for him.
So, for the sake of a raven-haired boy with warm red eyes and a smooth, calm voice, he reigns his failing body in and steels himself for whatever nightmares await him.
The door opens and Sting only manages a quick glance around, before everything is cloaked in impenetrable darkness. He gets shoved inside and falls to his knees with a heavy, painful thud and the door slams shut, leaving him in a pitch-black nothingness, too thick and oppressive to be natural.
The muffled voice of his Master drafts through the silence, a sadistic, evil grin laced into the words.
"We'll start slowly... make yourself at home, Sting. Be patient, good things will come to those who wait. I'll be back for you."
And with that Sting is all alone in the dark, in a plain empty room that is covered in damp straw, cobwebs and grime.
He isn't too sure, if that's the usual state of the place, or if Jiemma has it specially prepared for the respective prisoner and he doesn't really want to dwell on the topic all that much, but his mind is already restless and keeps on wandering.
The first minutes he tries very hard to make out any of his surroundings, but soon it becomes clear, that his eyes won't get accustomed to this kind of darkness and he just lets himself fall to the ground.
'It's not that bad' , he keeps telling himself. 'We've been camping in a cave that was much scarier...'
'But Rogue had been with you that time!' A little voice at the back of his head mumbles.
'And Rogue can always keep the darkness at bay!' The voice was right, with his friend by his side, Sting's fear usually faded into nonexistence, giving way to a warm feeling of tranquility.
But now trapped down here with black covering his vision and numbing his ears, there's only ice-cold fear churning deep inside his guts.
"Well, but I could fend off the dark on my own as well!" He doesn't even notice he's answing the tiny voice aloud by now, and it doesn't really matter altogether since no one's going to hear him anyway.
"I mean, I'm the White Dragon Slayer... Bet ya didn't think of that..."
So he lets his magic unfurl around him, already relishing in the bright warmth, when a jolt of raging hot electricity runs through his body, making him seize and cry out in agony.
It's over as soon as it's began- the pain fades and with it every last ounce of magic energy Sting had left. A tiny spark lingers in his palm for a moment, so small it might have also been one of the stars dancing in front of his eyes, then it fizzles and is gone.
Suddenly Jiemma's voice roars through the room "What do you take me for? An idiot? Did you really think I'd let you sit that one out by lightening up the room? You damn, conceited brat, let's see how you like this."
The air is changing out of nowhere. As if someone had infused it with lead, it's too thick and heavy to breathe, it hurts; with every breath a little more, and a weight settles crushingly on Sting's chest.
He feels hands grappling at his neck, slowly fastening their grip, until the dense air won't fit into his wind pipe anymore and his whole body starts burning. He is still dizzy and faint from the deprivation of magic, thus the only thing he can do to save himself is to reach weakly for the hands on his neck- just to have his fingers grasp at nothing but thin air. Still, the pressure increases and Sting looses all feeling in his body, brain shutting down, thoughts zooming in on one thing: terror. Pure, mind-eating terror.
But before his consciousness wanes, a last dreamlike image passes his unseeing eyes.
Black strands, ruby gaze. Home.
After that Sting is swallowed by merciful oblivion.
When he comes to the air has thankfully gone back to being breathable again, and he gasps and wheezes until sweet oxygen floods his brain and the haze in his mind is clearing. His limbs come back to life in an agonizing fit of pins and needles that seems to drag on forever, but eventually this, too, subsides and he is once again, left with nothing more than his heartbeat thundering in his ears.
That is- until he notices something crawling around in the shadows. Something nameless and horrifying, if the sounds were anything to go by. A damp, ragged breath, a disgusting scraping and slithering, as if an oversized, grimy maggot was creeping around, drawing closer.
Sting tries to scurry away from the sound, but suddenly he can hear a second one right behind him, and another one somewhere to his left and all at once they're everywhere.
Moments later he finds himself surrounded by unseen, unfathomable things; his magic is gone and his body is still sluggish and stiff from lying on the cold hard ground for god knows how long.
A never known helplessness crushes down on him and keeps him frozen in place by an unyielding force.
But when the first monster touches his hand, it's skin cold, slime-covered and foul he bats is away with all the strength he can muster. The thing is thrown back a few feet, but it doesn't seem wounded and wriggles right back towards the boy.
Sting knows he can't put up much of a fight, but he still tries, as more and more of the maggot-things start brushing past his body.
His resistance lasts about thirty seconds.
Somehow the slime seems to numb his muscles and soon enough he can't do anything else but powerlessly endure them crawling all over his body, mouth opened in a silent scream.
The things cover nearly every inch of his form, one even manages to wriggle its way underneath his shirt, rolling around lazily as if basking in the warmth of his flesh.
He feels the urge to vomit building up in his stomach, gag after gag rising in his throat with every jerking move the slick heaps of dead flesh leave etched into his memory. But right before his stomach spills its contents, the haunting is gone.
The life returns to his trembling limbs and after a while the dry heaving lets up as well.
Sting sits shell-shocked and quivering, tears running down his cheeks, and he keeps rocking back and forth, as his hands fumble feverishly at his chest, his face, everywhere he'd felt the maggots only moments ago.
But he doesn't find any traces of slime what so ever. The only reminiscence of the nightmare is the need to scrub off the grime and the nauseating feeling of somehow being violated.
He doesn't even notice, he's started biting his nails until he tastes blood.