A/N: This fic contains graphic depictions of violence, torture (both physical and psychological), lots of blood, and more violence. You have been warned.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my world. Just my imagination borrowing them for a bit.
Chapter Three: Weak Knees, Can't Stand
The heavy rhythm of footsteps pulls Killian from sleep, the cold, empty sound of neat heels on stone echoing in the small space around him. He gasps awake, his injuries roaring to life as he struggles to sit up straighter against the wall, blinking the grogginess from his one working eye.
Hades and Claude stand in front of where the bars aren't, inside his cell.
"Did you sleep well, Captain?" Hades asks with a smirk.
Killian flashes him one of his own. "Oh, wonderfully," he rasps as he coughs away the sleep from his voice. "The accommodations here are quite lovely."
"Hmm, and here I thought my decorator was just being facetious when he told me that. Shame I sent him to the fires, I suppose," Hades shrugs, making a show of looking around the sparse cell.
Killian bites back a wince as he shifts slightly where he sits, his wounded arm throbbing sharply. The hard ground is unrelenting against his cramped legs, aching from however long he's spent curled up in the corner. He needs to stretch, he needs to walk around, he needs to get out of here.
He needs Hades to stop trying to make small talk and get it over with, whatever "it" will be this time.
"Are we going to sit around all day talking," Killian asks, "or can you just get on with it?"
"Night, actually, not that you can tell from here," the god corrects. "But sure, I suppose we can do it your way, considering you are the guest of honour." Hades nods to Claude, who steps forward heavily, his face reading nothing more than indifference as he approaches.
Killian waits, forcing himself to remain completely still, though his recent wounds scream to run, to move, to evade capture yet again, but there is nowhere else to go, not yet. He waits until Claude bends down, his huge arms reaching closer for Killian's jacket, ready to grab him and lift.
Now.
He punches upward as hard and fast as he can, slamming his fist into the larger man's chin. With a brief moment of satisfaction, he watches as Claude's head snaps up as he staggers backwards, away from the blow.
But not before the former guard lashes out a fist of his own, cracking Killian across his nose.
He reels from the punch with a quiet gasp, his head spinning to the right as his eyes water in response. He feels fresh blood running from the split skin at the bridge of his nose and he suppresses the urge to hold his face in his hand, blinking rapidly to clear his vision as Claude recovers and comes back for him.
With a heavy grunt, Killian lunges forward, pushing off the floor with his hand and foot as he kicks his left leg up and out as hard as he can toward the other man's legs, hoping to hit him in the knee, or perhaps higher, if he's lucky. Claude catches his ankle easily and yanks him forward, dragging Killian's upper body off the wall until he's flat on his back on the cold floor. The larger man doesn't let go, then. Instead, he grabs onto Killian's lower thigh with his other hand and twists sharply, bending his knee in a way it isn't meant to go.
The pain is excruciating. Killian arches wildly against the floor, trying desperately to relieve the pressure on the joint as Claude continues to turn his leg, Killian's fist opening and closing uselessly in the air, jaw clenched tightly as he struggles not to cry out from the shooting pains that manage to snake all the way up his back.
"Claude," Hades says somewhere just at the edge of hearing, and the next moment he's lying half curled on his side, his hand reaching shakily for his hurt leg.
He wheezes for air, sprawled on the hard ground, each breath through clenched teeth as he fights to get the pain under control, to keep his gasps from sounding like the sobs they might become if he's not careful. Sensation is gone below his knee, the joint itself radiating agony with every shudder his body makes, and he can barely stand the touch of his own fingers against it.
"Tsk, tsk, Captain," Hades says as he steps toward him, tilting his head to match Killian's angle. "I know you're trying to show me that you won't give up, but I never took you for an outright fool."
Killian takes a couple of slow breaths, the air coming easier than before, and he glares up at the other man.
"I didn't do it for you," he manages to rasp between tremors.
"No, you didn't, did you," Hades grins, crouching down beside him. "You did it to prove to yourself that you could, that you still have the free will to fight against me, despite whatever cost to yourself. Am I right?"
Killian doesn't respond, he can't. He's shaking too badly, and it's not just from the pain. Hades knows what he's doing, he knows what he's holding onto.
He forces the fear away, he forces himself to focus as best he can. No matter what Hades knows, he can't take away his choice from him, no matter what he does to him. Hades can't take his reaction, he can't take his defiance. And now, more than ever, Killian needs as much of that as he can get.
He takes a slow breath, shivering in determination as much as from agony, but he calms his terror, sends it far from where he needs to be.
"Tell me something, Captain," asks Hades, still crouched beside him. "Is it worth your life?"
The words echo around the small cell and return to his ears in a slightly different voice, real memories of a false world. Is she worth your life, pirate?
She was, then, and he is now, the fight so much more important than the outcome, the strength of his will the only thing he has left, in this realm without her.
He grins, just a slight curve of his lips, quivering slightly with the pain he's willing to endure, but it's a grin nonetheless.
"Yes, it is," he whispers hoarsely.
Hades sighs as he stands and nods to Claude, and this time Killian can't help flinching visibly as the other man grabs handfuls of his clothing and hauls him upright. He tightens his muscles against the fire that burns through his leg at the movement, struggling to put as much weight on his right foot as possible as Claude all but slams him against the wall. The familiar ropes twist their way out of the stone and wrap around his limbs, and he nearly cries out as they snake around his injured leg, securing him tightly to the wall once more.
He's gasping again, his head hanging limply on his chest as he fights for control. He's exhausted already and Hades hasn't even begun.
He feels the god take his hook again, twist it off his arm, and he struggles to pay attention, to be prepared for each stroke and slash of the sharp metal at his skin, to be prepared to hold back, but his head is so heavy, all he wants is rest.
He watches the tip hover over his right arm, and he's grateful it's not his left, his muscles on that side still so sore. Without a word, Hades plunges the metal into his bicep and then yanks it out in the same smooth, almost elegant, motion. Without a word, he grits his teeth and takes the pain, takes it and shoves it down deep, away from where it can distract him. Again, Hades tears a new hole in leather and skin, and again, he's silent, a muted grunt deep in his chest the only response he makes with each stab of the curved attachment. The hook moves lower, to his right thigh, the thin fabric of his pants no match to the sharp metal as it rips into him, again and again, then back up to his left arm and his chest, stab and pull, in and out.
How he manages to stay silent, he's not sure, fire and ice burning through each new tear in his body, but he credits exhaustion as much as his own determination. He feels his blood running down his arm, his leg, hot and wet on cloth and skin, his awareness flowing with it as well, and he tries hard not to lose consciousness now, not until it's over.
Hades takes a step back, admiring his work, his fingers tapping against the hook in his fist.
"I must admit, I do like the way you look now, just a little bit more broken than before."
Killian tries to catch his breath, to force sound through his throat, to respond. "I won't break," he rasps weakly, hoping to sound more confident than he feels.
A pause, and he can almost see the god choosing his next words. "That's what I've always hated about you, Captain," Hades says, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits as he watches Killian loll against his bindings. "You're so brave, so stupidly courageous, that you think you're unbreakable."
He leans in closer, and Killian manages not to flinch, though he braces himself against pain he knows is never far. Hades reaches out and grabs Killian's left knee, digging his fingers into the muscles and bone, and the pain he thought he had finally ignored comes rushing back, blinding agony racing up and down his leg from the other man's grasp. Killian clenches his teeth down hard over a scream, but he can't control the edges of sound escaping his mouth, the panting of breath as he fights with everything he has left not to break down, not now, not ever. His neck feels as though it'll snap with the pressure as he convulses against the ropes that bind him to the wall, jaw clamped so tightly his head hurts where it's pressed against the stone wall.
"You stood up to the Dark Ones and won," Hades continues, his voice low, tightening his grip on the wounded joint, and Killian's eyes fill with tears he desperately tries not to release. He's wheezing now, pain coating his every move, every breath, and he'd rather go without oxygen than awaken more of the torment that each rise and fall of his chest brings. "Fluke or not, that kind of strength has no place in my world, Captain. So either you can willingly choose to give up, or I'll be forced to show you just how weak you really are."
With a quick movement, Hades twists the hook into the muscle just above his knee and steps back. Killian collapses against the ropes with a groan, his strength gone, the pain fading too slowly to feel relief. His breath comes in uneven bursts, and he imagines the agony leaving his body with each force of air he pushes out, but it's not enough, the fire still burning through his leg and fresh injuries. He's aware of how closely he's the god in front of him is watching him, watching for weakness, for any signs of giving up, so he fights to fix a scowl on his face, despite his exhaustion.
"Claude, say goodbye," Hades says, stepping backward toward the opening of the cell.
The large man says nothing as he turns to follow.
Killian takes a quick breath, pulling the words easily to his mouth. "You looked better with my hook in your neck," he mutters hoarsely, softly, but clearly.
He can feel Hades glare, and he's tempted to lift his head from where it rests on his chest, tempted to make eye contact with the lord of this realm, tempted to wink at him in defiance. But he's too tired to do anything more than smirk mirthlessly.
Hades leaves without another word, the bars rematerializing over the entranceway, and he braces himself against the wall as the ropes vanish. This time, he doesn't fall, but sinks slowly to the ground, the hard stones at his back. His left leg crumples in front of him, the hook sticking out of his lower thigh, blood pooling on the ground from wounds on his legs and arms. He needs to pull it out, and he's pretty sure he won't die from blood loss, not down here. He needs it to finish his work, he remembers, as he eyes the corner where the loose stone waits.
With a soft groan, he reaches his trembling hand toward the shiny metal, fingers weak with pain and slicked with his blood already. He bites the familiar leather of his jacket, the metallic taste of blood no longer obvious amid the heavy scent of it all around him. He tightens his fingers on the hook, tightening his jaw on the leather, and breathes out slowly, shakily, as he pulls the hook from his leg in one smooth movement.
He wants to cry out, to scream, to rage against the pain of his body, he wants to, but he doesn't, swallowing his cries and screams and anger with a muffled sob as he blinks away the wetness that threatens his eyes. Not now, he thinks. Not ever.
He rests against the stones, fighting for control, searching for anger to fuel the strength he needs to continue. He thinks of every wrong he's suffered in his life, every moment of unfairness, every slight, but it comes to him detached, as if it no longer matters and, he supposes, it probably doesn't, not anymore. He's so tired, all he wants to do is sleep, to stop fighting, he's been fighting for so long. But not at this cost, not throwing in his lot with Hades.
Not at the cost of who he is.
With another groan, he lifts his right foot up and uses it to help push his body against the wall, sliding toward the corner with the loosened stone. He nearly passes out, his twisted muscles and open wounds shifting with each movement. But he continues anyway, inching closer to the other wall, his blood leaving dark trails on the hard floor.
He reaches the corner and lays his head against the wall with a sigh, the cool stone against his swollen eye comforting and soothing. He raises his hand, the hook clenched in his bloodied fingers, and he counts the scrapes as he draws the sharpened point along the cement between the stones, small puffs of dust the only sign of progress.
One, two, three, four, five.
His hand drops to his lap, the hook still held loosely in his fist, and pants, the effort so much more than last time, but so much more important, too. He rests for a moment, then lifts his hand again.
One, two, three, four, five.
Again, his hand falls, again he fights for breath, the cold wall slowly warming the longer his face rests against it. And again, he forces his hand up.
One, two, three, four-
He doesn't reach five.