AN: This chapter has proved the M rating, if your queasy about violence I would not suggest you to continue. Thank you for the encouragement and I hope you enjoy.
Robert de Sable never really left an impression on Desmond. He was just a name and a person in Altair's past, a reminder, and a lesson that not everything is what it seems. The contempt Altair felt for Robert was palpable, every time he took on the role of Altair he felt it, tasted it but it never felt like his own. Desmond was always able to distinguish between his apathy towards Robert and Altair's bitter hatred.
Now, as he watched the Templars fastened both his arms and feet together he was starting to feel the familiar loathing of Altair's settling in.
They took off his shoes throwing them in the mud, sullying them beyond repair; Desmond should probably stop purchasing white shoes, if he got the chance that is.
The Templars, once Desmond's socks were taken off lathered his feet with what appeared to be lard. Leaving it completely covered in the offending material. Desmond couldn't help quirking his lips in amusement. This was hardly any form of ruthless punishment, uncomfortable, yes but Desmond could live through discomfort.
The Templar replied with a grin of his own. "Don't get too comfortable, assassin were not through with you yet."
Robert was stood a few feet away talking to a few of his guards. He turned around to face Desmond once he was done, a small smile gracing his lips.
"I have a bit of a confession to make," Robert said taking a step forward, his attire bellowing in the wind. "I've never had the pleasure of interrogating an assassin before" He grabbed his gloves from the side of his belt. "Interrogation is an art that you, assassin would no doubt appreciate. The thing is if I push you too little and you'll stay defiant, too much and I could be speaking to a corpse. So instead of just going along with it I will give you the option to just cooperate."
Desmond considered the option. He wasn't a real assassin he wouldn't be able to withstand any of Roberts innovative forms of interrogation.
If Desmond spontaneously remembered how to arrive to Masayaf it wouldn't make much of a difference. Robert is supposed to make his appearance to the village after all. If not the following events wouldn't be able to unfold, but then that was the problem wasn't it. He didn't know how to reach Masayaf, couldn't even begin to fathom the direction of where the village is, or how to communicate it to the Templars. Robert would certainly kill him without the knowledge.
So to put matters into perspective, Desmond was screwed.
Desmond kept his gaze on Robert his face neutral at the hope that it wouldn't incite any anger.
"No, going to be defiant now aren't we. I can respect that." He motioned to one of the Templars who quickly went to his side, a simmering bucket in his hand, a warm glow coming out of it. "I don't expect it to last long." He took the bucket and inched his way to Desmond making his journey as painfully slow. He beckoned to his peer and pointed to Desmond. He spoke to his subordinate in his native tongue, French.
Desmond didn't have a good enough grasp of the French language. There were only a few phrases that he knew and they came from Altair's conversations with king Richard.
"Le maintenez." Robert said before facing his captive yet again. The Templar knight he was talking to took a position behind Desmond.
"Now that everything is in order I guess start explaining what you can look forward to." He dumped the contents of the bucket on the floor releasing dozens of burning lumps of coal. Desmond was only a few feet away, and he could feel the slight warmth emanating from the coal. Desmond flinched involuntarily revealing to Robert his distress.
A rookie mistake, Desmond could see the cogs in Roberts head turning as a slow smirk graced his face. Whether this move stemmed any chance of Desmond had, was too soon to say. Desmond steeled himself for what was to come; nothing good would come from it if he showed his hand all in one sitting.
"From what I can surmise, you might have an idea on what's going to happen, but in case you don't here's how it works. For every question I ask, I will expect an honest answer. Every time you answer the question to my satisfaction my college right there," Robert pointe to the Templar knight behind Desmond, his expression virtually nonexistent thanks to the helmet Templar knights had a tendency of carrying." Will pull you further from the coals, answer to my dissatisfaction and he will push you further into the flames, understood? Great than let's get started with a simple question shall we, like what were you doing out in the middle of road? It didn't seem like your comrade even knew you were around if not he would have helped you, unless the assassins are a more cold hearted bunch than I originally anticipated."
Desmond didn't answer. Robert sighed; the Templar knight pushed Desmond forward, the heat from the coals becoming stronger but bearable.
"Sore subject?"
No answer, another push.
"Or are you an apprentice, did you follow your master hoping you could gain glory?"
Again no response and again there was another push. This time Desmond was near enough to the coals where the heat was starting to burn his skin, making his feet sensitive to every rise and fall of the temperatures.
Robert didn't ask any further questions choosing to stay silent and watch Desmond reactions. Without the distraction, Desmond found his thoughts continue to focus on the burning sensation, the lard that was slathered on before seemed to enhance the effect. The lard started boiling onto Desmond's skin. It started slow but it gained increasing speed the closer Desmond's feet edged closer to the flames. The pain that was at one time bearable was now turning into slow, excruciating pain.
"Is this getting difficult for you assassin I could always come back later." Robert said the smirk from before coming back tenfold.
Desmond as usual didn't comment. Sweat was coming down at the side of his face, a cool diversion to his burning soles. His will, slowly breaking, as he bit his lips to keep from calling out.
It didn't work, the moment the Templar knight made one last push; Desmond's feet were touching the flames. He screamed at the top of his lungs, the constant pressure of heat pushing against his feet with no relief. He tried pulling himself away, but the Templar kept him at bay, keeping him firmly grounded to the spot. Desmond felt the burning sensation burrowing deeper into his skin, roasting him and essentially cooking him as one wood cook a pot roast. To Desmond, it felt as if he were walking the streets of hell.
"I guess your right we should get this over with. Who were the two assassins that tried to take the artifact from Solomon's Temple? "
Desmond couldn't say anything beyond the occasional cry of pain, his voice growing hoarse from the screaming. They started to push his feet further into the coals.
"Altair!" Desmond said with a scream, unable to take the pain much longer. "Altair and Malik." He said with a gasp, as the Templar knight, with permission from Robert pulled Desmond up a fraction. Desmond wasn't at a far enough distance where the flames were touching him, but the dancing flames served as a constant reminder that, that could change at any moment.
"He speaks, finally we are making progress, and to think, I actually thought we might have to take more drastic measures. Now let's start from the beginning, why were you at the middle of the road?"
Desmond gave a small shrug hoping it would be enough to sate Roberts's desire for information. This elicited a tired sigh, one a disappointed father might give to a troublesome son.
This was an incorrect response, which prompted a harsh push from the Templar knight.
This time as Desmond's feet touched the fiery coals, he blacked out for a few minutes, stars appearing to wake him up to remind him of the harsh sting of the flames against his skin, biting it and leaving it bright red. Words started to spew from his mouth before Desmond could stop himself. Unfamiliar words, that Desmond could hardly understand but apparently were the right things to say since he felt himself being pulled back.
His vision was blurry almost dreamy and there were horses galloping around, an orchestra of sounds rang through Desmond's ears adding to his discomfort in a way the coals never did. The voices of individuals layering one another that it was impossible to differentiate from one sound to another. It was like a badly made mix tape that had no form of obvious pattern. It was just there.
Impossible images of an all-out blood-bath of individual fighting each other. The apparitions, fought without any concern to their surroundings. Desmond even saw a soldier plunge his sword through what he assumed to be Robert, who only stayed in place engrossed with whatever kept him at attention.
Desmond felt his mind slipping; his inability to concentrate on one thing frightened him, the loss of control becoming a lot more apparent.
It wasn't until he was safely away from the flames did Desmond snap out of the delusion. A smug smile plastered onto Roberts face.
" I have to say, assassin I've gotten more out of you than I hoped, an assassin stronghold, my Al Maulim has been busy." He paused, signaling to his subordinate to leave. Desmond couldn't help feeling a moment of apprehension as Robert caressed the hilt of his sword. Robert noticing that Desmond was watching his movements laughed. "Do not worry assassin, at the moment you are worth more to me alive than dead."
Robert took a step back and continued to wait. It didn't take long for a group of guards to come and settle around the area.
"If I have time to spare I will send a doctor for you, we can't have you gaining an infection and dying on the journey now can we."
Robert started to walk away, leaving Desmond behind to, figuratively speaking, lick his wounds.
Desmond could see the swollen soles of his feet, the grotesque, and bloody wounds of his injury, that made his skin crawl. On Desmond's left foot a small portion of his skin was missing leaving behind a burnt residue. The charred edges of his foot were starting to turn yellow, white and some odd shades of brown. There were parts of his skin that were literally peeling off. Painful blisters started to sprout. His right foot didn't fare any better the entire.
Desmond almost lost whatever food he had left in his stomach but fought against. There was no point in making his situation any worse. There was no point in making his body weaker or exposing his burns to any unnecessary exposure that could cause infection.
Desmond turned to the guards, who gave no sign in wanting to help or any form of sympathy. Being an assumed murderer could do that.
The pain at least was starting to subside; whether that was in truth a good thing Desmond wasn't so sure. Third degree burns had a tendency to destroy nerve endings, from what Desmond remembered in his course in 'Health'. He also knew that if he didn't clean out the wounds, infection could start and it will be game over, permanently, no Lucy to bring Desmond back. Desmond couldn't dismiss this as just an illusion or a dream anymore the pain he felt was too real to ignore.
There were also the hallucinations.
Desmond shook his head. It was probably some form of delirium that derailed Desmond from the excruciating pain he was experiencing. That could easily be explained away, his ability to speak the Arabic language coherently, not so much.
Desmond didn't know how he could speak the language without having a conscious thought, he didn't remember giving away sensitive information, to Robert of all people but apparently he did, if not he would still be burning alive by the fire.
He did briefly contemplate on why he said to Robert, but shook his head his head starting to hurt.
It didn't matter anyway, Desmond needed to think of his survival, and right now he needed fresh water to wash out the dirt from his wounds.
Desmond racked his brain searching for the definition of water in Arabic. It took a few minutes, testing it out and seeing if he was saying it correctly before moving onto the guards.
The guard didn't give any indication that they would comply, but eventually grabbed the leather pouch from his belt and passed it to Desmond.
Desmond nodded his head in thanks and took a quick sip of water, relieving his parched throat. He then proceeded to dump the water carefully over his burn ignoring the sting from the water and making sure he got all the dirt from the wound.
Once he was done he finished off the water, Desmond lay down on the floor, and tried to fall asleep. It wasn't long until he heard approaching steps.
He sat up, minding his injury and watched the man come in. He was stopped briefly by the guards but with a quick exchange of words he was coming to Desmond.
The man wasn't wearing anything out of the ordinary, just a normal set of clothes of except of course for the bright red cross adorned on his chest.
He introduced himself as Peter, and set right to work, he gently placed ointment on his burn that smelled suspiciously of lavender, putting on wet bandages on the wound causing Desmond to hiss. The doctor didn't talk much, other than the occasional mutterings in French. He seemed intent on finishing his job and being on his way. He was careless when bandaging up the wounds, wrapping it up tightly, Desmond feared it might cut off circulation.
When all was said and done the doctor gave a curt nod gave a few statements in French that Desmond didn't understand but assumed it was something along the line of 'mind his feet' given that he made wild gestures towards them.
Desmond scoffed, he didn't have any true control over his injuries as long as Robert was his captor.
Le maintenez=french for Hold him down, thank you for the correction :)
Just a heads up, Robert was practicing a form a torture called foot roasting.
Unrelated subject: Torchwood
