Lucivar gritted his teeth and tried to shift to a more comfortable position, his wings cramped and aching, pinned beneath him as they were. The chains were too tight to allow that, though, and he twisted futilely, teeth bared with vicious frustration.
They'd purposefully left him lucid, undrugged. The room was empty except for the game bed, a small table, and a single lit candle, guttering slightly. There wasn't even a window.
He waited. It was a new game, no doubt about it – but what? It occurred to him, as images of the exquisite agony they could write on his body whirled through his mind that it was this, the fear of anticipation, that they wanted him to feel. That they were manipulating him to feel.
He snarled, twisting his head and shoulders to the side, muscles straining until his bonds chafed painfully at his bare skin and he trembled from the strain of fighting chains he could not break. He fell still, his breathing harsh and loud in the oppressively complete silence.
His eyes drifted to the candle. It looked about to go out, but then it flared up again. The pool of hot wax at the base of the wick lapped against the ridges of the candle's edge.
Lucivar began to count. One, two, three, four…he made it to ten, completely silent and motionless, before the witches got bored, as he had predicted. They announced their displeasure with the gut-tearing sensation of a knife twisting in his groin. He writhed, clenching his teeth so no sound could escape, not even a whimper.
His wild eyes caught the flame of the candle and fixed on it, staring at the wax, bulging slightly over the edge but not spilling over. He refused to blink, until his vision blurred and one flame became two, then four, then eight…quick panting breaths hissed between gritted teeth, his head swimming. The pain seemed endless.
He started to count again. Onetwothreefourfive eyes fixed on the growing puddle of wax and the single guttering flame nineteneleventwelve-
He reached thirty before he realized that the pain had stopped. He was curled on the bed, fists clenched, chest aching from the screams he'd held in. A single drop of wax breached the barrier of the edge of the burning candle, followed by a stream down the side. Reflexively, Lucivar tried to turn to take his weight off his wings, expecting to feel the painful chafe of the shackles on his wrists, but he met no resistance. He got up slowly, eyes searching the room before coming back to the broken chains on the bed, spreading his aching wings and rolling his cramped shoulders.
He prowled over to the candle and touched the string of hardening wax. A little pool of moonlight spilled through the window to surround the little flame, and he reached out to touch the little pinpoint of heat and light, feeling as though his mind and body were very far apart. His hand hovering above the candle, a jarring thought moved sluggishly through his mind.
Moonlight? There was no window…
He slammed back into his body screaming, his eyes snapping open. The wax hadn't spilled yet, burgeoning within the confines of its prison. Even as the pain subsided, Lucivar's body shuddered and trembled with leftover agony. He closed his eyes in weary disappointment.
Someone began to laugh, softly, cruelly. He half opened on eye, his fury an impotent knot in his belly, his wings aching beneath him, trapped, pinned, submissive. Lucivar barely caught a glimpse of the bitch's face before she crossed to the candle and bent to it.
It guttered once and went out.
