Whumptober prompts:
No. 7: The way you shake and shiver/Silent panic attack
No. 9: The very noisy night
No. 10: Poor unfortunate souls
No. 21: Coughing up blood
No. 25: Lost voice, No. 30: Please don't touch me
This time she has put on an apron. Just in case, as Marti definitely does not want any stains on her favourite pearly white satin dress, no way. She might look a bit ridiculous and out of place in it here considering the drab dungeon ambience and the fact that her patient is far too ill to be able to appreciate her looks. However, according to her philosophy of life, one should always dress like this is the very day you stumble upon this extremely attractive male specimen that you absolutely have to seduce. Of course, Marti is too much of a professional to have ever tried to seduce one of her patients, at least not as long as they are in her care, although some of them were quite handsome. The Nilfgaardian is strangely attractive, too, despite his pallor, the fresh scar in his face and the fact that he is in desperate need of a bath and fresh clothes. Tall and lean, in his early thirties at most, exactly as she prefers her men. Moreover, she likes his facial features with the high cheekbones and strong jawline, his cute, light-brown curls, although they are tangled and damp with sweat, and his pretty blue eyes. Rather uncommon for a southerner, come to think of it. If they ever met under more favourable circumstances, she might fancy the man. However, what are the odds? Tissaia has not told her what her plans for the prisoner are, but she will certainly not just let him go as soon as he has recovered from the aftereffects of the torture. If he ever really does.
Marti continues looking at the sleeping Nilfgaardian for a few more moments. He is still feverish, but his temperature has gone down a little since her last visit about two hours ago, and the chills are not as bad as they were earlier today. He is breathing more easily, too, and not sweating as excessively. Nor does he appear to be in pain. The potions are working. Good. He will need more of the pneumonia medicament later during the night. Now, however, she better get some more fluid into him. The sorceress takes the feeding cup out of her bag and magically fills it with tea. The pleasant smell of sage, rosemary and thyme wafts through the chilly dungeon air. Like before, she cradles the prisoner's head in her arm to support him and gently wakes him up just enough so he can drink. He blinks at her bleary-eyed, his gaze unfocused. Marti has no idea whether the man is aware of where he is and why, if he has any notion of who she might be, recognises her from earlier, or understands what she is saying. However, it is not important. More important at the moment is that he drinks from the proffered cup without showing any signs of rising anxiety. He seems to trust her. Excellent. This will make treating him a lot easier. If she could only have him transferred to the infirmary, so she would not have to walk all the way down here every couple of hours, several times a day, as well as at night. A proper bed in a room with a fireplace would also be beneficial to his health. But, alas, Tissaia refused her request. A prisoner's place is and remains in the dungeons, no matter what. Well, only a few more days ...
Suddenly, the prisoner starts to cough and Marti is truly glad of the apron which is soon sprinkled with blood-stained sputum. Not quite as much blood though as before and the cough attack does not last as long. Definitely some progress. Within three, four days, her patient will be a lot better, the healer suspects. At least his pneumonia will be.
Before she leaves to resume her work in the hospital wing, Marti dries off the accidentally spilled tea from the man's shirt and blanket with a quick spell, then tucks the woollen cover firmly around the sick prisoner. When she is done, he has already fallen fast asleep again.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
The night is quiet, a lot more so than the previous one. All her patients in the infirmary are sleeping soundly, some by themselves, others with the help of strong painkillers and soporific potions. In the dungeons it is no different. After her third visit there for more of the pneumonia medicament and tea, Marti stretches out on one of the unoccupied beds of the Aretuza sick ward, sighing and yawning heartily. Her feet feel like she has walked across the entire continent on them. Tissaia definitely owes her a new pair of shoes, the soles of this pair here must be worn down to almost nothing. At least the condition of all her patients has improved so much by now that she can finally allow herself to enjoy some quiet and relaxation. Before she will have to do her last medical round in the early morning and then pass the baton to her younger colleagues. Well, not the entire baton. The prisoner in the dungeons is her responsibility alone. Obviously, Tissaia is not keen on letting too many people know what she has done to the man. Marti is aware, of course, that in times of war hard decisions have to be made. She would never judge Tissaia for it. However, it is a stain on the brotherhood's reputation. After all, they claim to have rules and regulations against the maltreatment of humans. Everybody knows that Philippa Eilhart has been ignoring those rules for decades - or is it centuries? But Tissaia de Vries? That is certainly a novelty, she having always been a beacon of integrity and a stickler for the rules, the perfect role model for her young students. She would not even want her name uttered in the same sentence as Philippa's. And now she has stooped down to using the other sorceress's methods. Quite shocking. For a much better cause, sure, and the man is a Nilfgaardian war criminal responsible for the death of fourteen fellow mages, but still. He is a human being and probably only carrying out the orders of his emperor. The brootherhood's rules should not allow for any exceptions. Understandable that the Headmistress of Aretuza wants to keep the number of people knowing about it as small as possible. Well, Marti does not intend to shout it from the rooftops. However, before she leaves, she will remind Tissaia that she owes her - and more than just a new pair of shoes. The healer yawns again and closes her eyes.
Not long after she has finally dozed off, however, Marti is rudely jerked out of her slumber by a high-pitched beeping. Darn, the box in her bag. She almost forgot about it. Something must be wrong with the prisoner. He was alright when she was last down there less than half an hour ago, or at least as alright as possible in his condition. Quickly the healer grabs the bag that is sitting next to her bed, takes the wooden box out and shuts down the alarm. Hopefully her other patients have not woken up from the strange sound. She briefly glances around the room. Two or three of the injured mages are stirring a little in their sleep, but nobody is waking up. Good. While Marti slips into her shoes, she checks the signals from the box. The prisoner's heart rate is highly elevated, more than two hundred beats a minute. Not immediately life-threatening, but she better go check on him. He might be having another seizure. She heaves a deep-drawn sigh. Yet another long walk down. She will definitely keep on reminding Tissaia about it ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
She is here. Standing in front of him. Glaring at him from cold, piercing eyes. Reaching for him with long, claw-like fingers.
See where the night takes us.
Her icy voice. He shudders, cold chills running up and down his spine. Where the night will take them - he knows exactly where that is, what will happen, but can do nothing to stop it. He is helpless, trapped. The sorceress touches his shoulder and his body explodes with agony. He screams.
I need to know what Nilfgaard wants. If you resist or submit, it makes no difference.
He has heard those words before. Once more, they make him shudder with fear. She walks around him, the sound of her footsteps echoing ominously from the stone walls of the interrogation room. He knows what will come next.
'Tis not in my nature to be cruel. But you have taken someone from me, someone I care about deeply.
She lays her hands on his temples from behind. No! Don't. Don't touch me! he wants to shout, wants to beg her to stop, to have mercy, but there is no voice. No mercy, not for him. He starts to tremble uncontrollably, his heart racing like mad, his breath coming in panicked hitches in anticipation of the onslaught of pain. As much as he wants to, and he really does, he cannot give in, cannot tell the woman any of his secrets no matter what she is going to do to him. He cannot betray the White Flame. His saviour. He would rather die. He probably will. No, surely he will.
So now I will take your knowledge, your memories, your very being and leave you cold and helpless, trapped in the eternal darkness of your own mind.
He clenches his fists, his teeth, every muscle in his body going stiff with fear and the ever rising pressure in his head. He wants to cover his ears with his hands to shield himself from her words, but he cannot move them. His hands are shackled to the chair.
I know, I know you want to scream. But it's too soon. It's too soon because I haven't even started yet.
Her fingers dig deeper into his scalp as the pain intensifies. He can feel her magic invading his mind, violating his thoughts, piercing his consciousness with burning daggers of chaos.
If evolution has traced any groove at all in your brain, I will plough it somewhat deeper. And then you will know what a scream can really be!
He knows it. Knows it intimately well. And will never forget. So he screams, screams and howls louder than the universe.
