Rated M for torture.
C is for Castigation
August, 9:26 Dragon
The humid air stinks of sweat and blood and excrement and it is hot.
So hot…
He can't breathe, can't move. His body hurts everywhere, his lungs burn, breath coming in shallow, short gasps. He slips in and out of conscience, thoughts tangled, slow, numb. All he can think of is the heat, this incredible heat.
So hot…
Something crawls over his naked skin. A sharp pain. He winces but he doesn't move. He doesn't have the strength or the space to move. His shoulders scrape against the rough wooden planks to both sides of his body, leaving the skin there raw and itching.
Time crawls. Every second a minute, every minute an hour and every hour a lifetime. How long since they put him in the box now? Hours? Days? He can't tell because everything is dark.
Dark and hot.
Maker, it's so hot…
Every now and then, he hears voices. They are mocking, insulting, cruel. But he knows by now that, when he hears the voices, it means he's given some water. It's just a small trickle from above, barely enough to moisten his cracked lips and dry throat but it keeps him from dying of thirst. It also makes the heat ever more unbearable. The coolness on his face and neck only lasts a moment and makes the rest of him feel as if he's on fire.
Please, make it stop… so hot…
When the voices sound again, though, there's no water, just the voices and a scratching sound like nails on wood. And then … light… air… pain…
The sudden brightness hurts his eyes, the so much cooler air makes him shiver and leaves an unpleasant aching on his overheated, sweat-soaked skin. He cries out in agony when insensitive hands grab him under the arms and drag him upwards. Joints crack, stiff muscles scream in anguish as they are relentlessly forced to move after an eternity of immobility.
He crashes to the ground none too gently, his legs unable to support his weight. A flood of cold water washes over him, leaving him gasping and coughing and shaking in the dirt and all the time there are those voices, taunting, howling, laughing.
He tries to scramble to his knees but to no avail. A boot catches him in the ribs, sends a whole new kind of heat through his weak, exhausted body and has him curl up into a ball.
A new voice bellows orders but he doesn't understand what it says. He waits for more laughter, more kicks, more pain but none of it comes. Instead a blanket is wrapped around his trembling form and careful hands stroke his muddy, sweaty hair from his face.
"Relax, Howe," that new voice grumbles somewhere beside him. "It's over. You've made it. Didn't think you would, stubborn bastard."
It is the last thing he hears before the darkness returns but it returns without the heat and that is enough for him to embrace it.