Whumptober Prompt 24: You're Not Making Any Sense
Blindfolded - Narnia
A/N: I've had a prompt of my own for a while now dealing with blindfolds (inspired by a Wolverine comic book panel, actually), a second prompt that also fit in this story, and I'd never been able to use either till now. So here's a bit extra, combining those with one of the weekend prompts I missed. And it's not fluff. WARNING: major angst, cruelty, on-screen death, and pain ahead.
OOOOO
The world was dark.
Unable to see, I listened. Slow breathing to his left, and wind. A faint breath to my right. And I could feel. There was something hard behind my back, unyielding, round; and my hands were pulled around it. Wood, too smooth for a tree, rounded into a pole. Something dug into my wrists, painfully tight, with no give when I pulled. My whole face ached, and my temple.
And I could feel the blindfold wrapped around my hair and eyes. I pulled harder on ropes, twisting my hands.
"Ah." A slight Calormene accent, in a voice smooth and cruel; male. I stilled, listening. "My captive awakens." Male, and older than I was. The voice was followed by footsteps, not falling on dirt, but making the soft thud of foots hitting sand. A finger touched my face, calluses tracing down my face. "The High King himself, I believe."
If he knew I was awake, there was no point in keeping silent. "Am I not to know who is speaking?"
The finger dug into my cheek, a long nail opening it with the pain of a papercut. "No," the voice snarled, and I fell silent. I would hold driving him into a rage till listening was exhausted. The finger paused, and I breathed in. Salt air; we were near the ocean, the sand from a beach. The fingers suddenly gripped my throat, stronger than a Dwarf's, and I inhaled instinctively; but they didn't tighten. Not yet. It was a promise, and I knew it.
"So close," he whispered, longing in his tone. "So close. I can feel your blood moving under my fingertips, and with a grip I could stop it. So very, very close." The fingers left my throat. "And yet I must wait."
I heard the footsteps moving farther away; he was settling back into silence. "Wait for what?" I asked.
The footsteps ceased, and I heard the small drop of a person sitting down. "Do you truly wish to know?"
"Yes."
The man laughed. "I do not think you do. But I want you to, High King. I want you to. I want you to wait with me, your blood running faster and faster, as you wonder what I meant. We are waiting," and he paused, his voice hard. I leaned against the ropes, turning my head to the side to listen, my blindfold brushing the wood I was tied to. "Waiting for what will truly hurt you."
"And that is?" He laughed, a bitter sound, but did not answer. "You want me to wait to find out," I said quietly.
"And they said you're not the clever one. Don't bother with the ropes," he added as I twisted them again. "Only a blade could remove them, and you don't have that. Just wait, High King. Just wait," and his voice was cold and hard as a sword's edge at night, "for I swear from now till your dying breath, your life will descend further and further into misery. This, right now, is the calmest you will be this night, and by morn you will be dead."
I did not let my wariness show on my face. But the tightness of the ropes dug them further into my wrist, and they did not give at all. "You have the accent of a Calormene, but not their manner of speech."
"Barely an accent," and the snarl was back, and the footsteps, more rapid than before. They came close, and circled around, and I tensed, waiting for a touch. "I studied for years, years, to speak as one of your own, to become a common sight on the beach where you rode, to wait for the day you and your complacent—till you rode alone, past the place where I had the rope tied. Years, High King, years. And now—" the footsteps stopped, and I felt the hot breath on my face, smelled the fish he'd eaten. "Now I am tired of waiting." I tensed.
But the footsteps sounded again, moving to my right. To my right, where the faint breathing had come from, and suddenly I remembered, remembered riding down the shore, Edmund laughing on a horse beside me, the memory vivid and real in the darkness of the blindfold; I could see the starlight shining on his horse's mane, see him bend over in readiness to race, and that horrible moment where we'd both been falling-
I jerked out of the memory as I heard the sharp slap of a hand hitting flesh, and I heard Edmund's low moan of pain. "Edmund!"
"Peter?" He wasn't awake yet, I could hear the confusion in his voice.
"Edmund, stay still," I commanded, remembering the slight cut on my own face our captor gave when I spoke.
"Welcome, little King," came the Calormene voice. Silence, except for the footsteps, only they weren't circling around me. They were to the right, circling Edmund, and I could feel my blood begin to pound. "So you listen to your brother. Good, little King, quite good. Stay still, the High King said. Tell me, can you remain still now?" A muffled sound of cloth ripping, and oh, Aslan, Edmund's indrawn breath. I knew that sound, from when he banged a knee walking while reading, or the response to the cuts in the practice court.
He was staying still. Trusting me. And I was tied to a post, a few steps away from him. Oh, Aslan.
"Very good, little King. And now?" No ripping cloth this time, but Edmund grunted breathlessly, and I couldn't help myself. I lunged forward, pulling with all my might on the ropes. They tightened, digging in further, and I twisted, my back still against the post.
Then I heard the sickening sound of metal leaving flesh; Edmund had been stabbed. "Edmund!"
"Peter," and the strain in his voice froze me. "Not lethal," he gasped, and I slumped against the pole.
"Now, now, he told you to be still," the Calormene tisked, and I heard the sound of a punch.
"Don't, Edmund, don't be still, make whatever sounds you need to," I retracted swiftly, and a silence followed that remark.
"You are ruining my game, my delight, the drink I have waited for for years," and that was a warning in the tone, and I smiled. Provoking, confident; anything to get him off of Edmund and onto me.
"I would have thought you enjoyed such sounds, after waiting for them so long," and I imitated Edmund's most provoking tone.
"Don't, Peter, don't, he'll-"
A slap sounded from my right, and I held my breath, holding in the command to tell Edmund to stop talking. "You are right."
The footsteps came closer, followed by the sound of Edmund's frightened "Peter?" and I realised he couldn't see either, hadn't been able to see any of that pain coming, and I swallowed back my fury. I was playing a game, a horrid and dark game, and fury would not help me now.
The footsteps stopped right in front of me, and fingers, two of them cold, two warm and wet, trailed down my face. The air in front of me grew heated, and I heard his voice whisper directly in my air. "Do you know the sounds I want to hear, High King? You've made them once before, in the battle of Beruna. At Tash's bidding I came to see the White Queen, sneaking into her country, watching her sleigh by. By the altar of Tash, she was glorious. Tash's own cruelty lit her eyes, curved her mouth, and when she stood, I swear her crown reached to Zardeena. She hated those of Adam's race as Tash does, and she would never accept my service. But she drew from you, in that battle, before you killed her, a sound of exquisite pain. Do you remember?" He leaned closer, and I could feel his lips touch my ear. "You cried your brother's name." Then he was gone.
Fear filled my heart as his footsteps returned to the right, crying "Stop!" and hearing Edmund's alarmed cry of "Peter! What did he do to you?"
But the footsteps halted, and I strained forward, listening. No sound of pain—he had stopped. I swallowed. "Please," I begged. "Please, don't. I will make whatever sound you like—any of them—but please don't do this."
His hard laughter rang out again. "Have I kept my oath?" he asked instead, and I paused. His oath? "Remember, High King, I swore your life would go deeper and deeper into misery, till the first rays of the dawn touched you and I killed you. We have just begun."
"Don't-" I began, but the sound of ripping cloth, followed by Edmund's cry of pain, cut me off. "Don't!" I screamed.
"Not lethal," Edmund gasped, and I could hear the tears on his cheeks, hear it in the choked words. "I'm fine, Peter, I'm-"
A snap of bone this time, and Edmund screamed.
"Edmund!"
"Aslan," came his whisper, and I drew in a breath. Screaming would not help Edmund. But Aslan could; even His name, which gave us strength.
So I drew in a breath, and sent the word "Aslan" back to him.
"Aslan is good," Edmund called back, still with the tears in his voice. A grunt followed that.
"Aslan is King," I sent back. I winced and pulled again at the ropes with the sound of the next punch.
"Shut up," came the snarl, but Edmund ignored him.
"Wrong will be right-" only to be cut off by the next blow.
"When Aslan comes in sight," I finished.
"At the sound-"
Oh, Aslan. Edmund screamed again, and I felt the tears falling into the blindfold on my own cheeks. But for Edmund, I had to keep going. "At the sound of His roar, sorrows will be no more."
"Shut up!" The footsteps left Edmund and a stinging blow hit my own cheek, my teeth cutting into my mouth, but I thanked Aslan for it. A moment for Edmund to breathe.
"No sorrow means no pain," came the panted reply, and my heart sank as the footsteps left me and went back to Edmund. "Aslan is the cure from sorrow and pain." Another blow—oh, Aslan, help him—and a scream, long and agonised; the cursed cruel man must have hit one of the wounds.
"Aslan is not safe, but He is our safety," I sent back, willing myself to believe it. For Edmund, I had to, as I had at Beruna, when I saw the Lion again. Edmund's life was in His paws, but please, Aslan, help us.
"Aslan is safety," Edmund agreed, his words weaker. Aslan, guard his life.
"A cut for every time you say His name," our captor snarled, and I did not have to see to know Edmund's smile—though Aslan help us, it might be a bloody one, a faint one. Edmund would never disown that name.
"Aslan is safety," he repeated.
"Aslan is safety," I sent back. The footsteps came running towards me—oh, the power of the Lion's name, that it drove His enemies mad!—and I rolled my head with the punch. I waited till they were half-way back, and sent "Aslan is safety" back across the beach. The footsteps came swifter this time, and I prepared my head to roll. But when the footsteps halted, a searing pain flared in my upper arm as he buried the knife there. It whited out the dark world, and I must have made a sound, because when the world darkened Edmund was screaming my name.
"Not lethal," I sent back to him, blood on my lips, running warm down my arm. "Not—Aslan is safety," because the man in front of me howled in frustration, and I didn't want him back at Edmund.
Then the fingers gripped my throat, tight enough to cut off my air. "I will end you," he hissed, going suddenly cold. "But your brother first. Because I do not need to see your eyes, to know that would tear your heart apart. So listen, High King, because no matter what you say, all you will hear now is his screams."
I couldn't breathe, but he was holding me up against the pole. I gripped the rope in my hands for balance, snapping out my legs around his waist and twisting. With my legs wrapped around him I could feel him fall, and I pulled my leg up to his neck, and stomped down with all my might. Under my feet I felt the bones give and heard the crack. I slammed my legs back into the sand, panting.
A moment of silence followed.
"Peter, please, say something-" Edmund's voice, weak, and as desperate as mine when I'd pleaded for his life.
"I'm alive, and he's dead," I gasped.
"Did he get you?"
"Just a cut in my arm. You?"
Edmund didn't say anything.
"Edmund, how badly are you hurt?"
"I don't think I'll be awake much longer," and my heart froze at the softness in his words. Death wasn't something Edmund feared now, but oh, how I feared his.
"A moment, Ed, just give me a moment." I reached out with my foot, moving it along the sand till I reached the body, and found his arm. I followed the outflung arm to the hand, and there felt the cold metal of the knife. With my feet I pulled it close to the pole.
"Peter?"
Aslan, how faint his voice was.
"I've got a knife at my feet, Ed, just give me a moment." I moved myself to the left, then squatted, then sat, my hands brushing the sand. As quickly as I could, I worked myself around the pole till my fingers touched the knife.
It took far too long to saw through the ropes. I pulled my blindfold off and saw another pole, like the broken mast of a ship, barely visible in the darkness. I shoved myself up and ran for it, the knife still in my hand. The dark figure tied there slumped forward. I touched his shoulder gingerly. "Edmund?"
He did not answer. I swallowed, pulling back my fear. We're still Aslan's, I reminded myself as I brought the knife to the ropes around his wrists. His freedom was much quicker to accomplish, and I caught him as he fell, laying him on the darkness of the beach. The moon was a sliver in the sky, and I had to find his injuries by touch, a gentle hand over his mouth—thank Aslan, he still breathed, he still breathed. Bruises, a broken nose, and wet with blood. His shoulders, one of them dislocated, and two fingers broken, a stab wound in the arm where I had one, but what was killing him?
I felt down his chest, his ribs, and felt a warm, wet puddle. I pulled up his shirt and felt my hands grow cold.
He had stabbed the scar Edmund bore from the Witch's hand.
A moment later I pulled off my own shirt, packing it against the wound and pressing tightly. Edmund moaned, and I felt the urge to cry at the sound; it meant he was alive. I pulled his shirt all the way off and used it to bind mine in place. I pulled Edmund's head into my lap, looking around. I dared not use salt water to wash his wounds; the salt would be torture. His legs seemed sound, and I did not want to put his shoulder back in place till he was stable.
So I cradled him, praying to Aslan for help. A few moments later my brother's eyes flickered open.
"Peter?"
"I'm here," I soothed quickly. "Right here."
Edmund's eyes went from me to his stomach, and he scowled. But he looked towards the beach next, taking in the two poles, the black pile of our dead captor, and the waves on the beach. "We're free," he said softly. "Narnia was the first place I was truly free, after I met Him. For me, Narnia is freedom."
"And Aslan is our safety," I reminded him, though I smiled. It was good to hear my brother speak in sounds that were not born by pain. We stayed in the quiet of that reminder for a few minutes, listening to the waves, viewing the stars.
"You need to leave, Peter," Edmund said.
I hesitated. If we stayed like this, there was a very good chance Edmund could die, and to move him would be to make things worse.
But to leave him was another kind of torture.
"I will go to find help, but I will not go far," I promised. "Call me. If someone comes along, if the tide moves too high, call out to me. Promise me?"
"I promise." The true note in his voice-the honesty he had learned in Narnia-reassured me. "Aslan is still my safety."
I bent to give him the kiss of the High King on his forehead, and away from all others he did not mind, closing his eyes and accepting it. I lifted his head, gently sliding it onto the sand, and got to my feet.
"Kings of Narnia!"
That was Oreius' voice, and I turned swiftly. He ran down the beach, the Queens on horses behind him and a troop following. "Over here!" I called. "Lucy! Bring the cordial!" Oreius made way for her as she rode directly beside us, trusting to my arms as I swung her down and beside Edmund. Beside us Oreius swung Susan down, and she came to Edmund's other side, just as the drop fell between his lips.
"Thank You Aslan," I murmured as I saw his breathing ease, his eyes open, and his nose straighten. He opened his eyes and looked to me.
"Peter next," he ordered, but I held my hand up.
"I have no wounds that are lethal," I responded.
"Then let me help," my gentle sister said, getting to her feet and coming around. A soldier handed her supplies, and she treated my shoulder and washed off my face, Lucy trying to do the same for Edmund, but he pushed her off-gently-and said he was well now, he could clean off his own face. Susan checked it when it was done, and then pulled both of us into a hug, Lucy joining. I needed it; I held the three and stood, eyes open, enjoying the fullness of all I still held, and all I could now see.
"Merfolk heard the screams," Lucy told us. "We came as soon as we could."
"Aslan sent you in time," I responded, holding them all a little tighter. "Aslan is our safety."
"And Narnia is our freedom," Edmund murmured in response.
OOOOO
Also, quick note, this month resulted in eighty-odd pages of learning to write angst. I'm hoping I improved; I think I have. I definitely know where some of my flaws are now, and that's a start. But I wanted to add that, while I did enjoy this, I don't think I'll do Whumptober again. It's not my particular cup of tea. (Or shot of whiskey, to repeat the newer phrase.) It's more like Nyquil and RedBull mixed, and while it's an interesting experience it's not one I'll repeat. :)