A/N - I am actually rather worried about myself as a person - it's very twisted and I somehow get the terrible feeling I'd be quite good at torture. Well, at thinking it up anyway.

Happy reading, I guess.

He had to admit, the cat o' nine tails was inventive, but Arthur was no stranger to pain.

After the first thirty lashes, Arthur had cocked his head at Braginski and said, "Is that all you've got?"

Braginski's violet eyes had darkened, and for a moment Arthur had felt that seeing his frustration made it worth the pain.

Thirty blows later, Arthur only just managed to wrench up the corners of his mouth, forcing himself to effect something like a smile. Judging from Braginski's expression of cruel satisfaction, he wasn't entirely successful.

The next time, Arthur lost count. His thoughts were starting to blur, like ink bleeding into canvas. It wasn't long before he lost consciousness, and the blankness of it was a blessing.

Of course, he was jolted back to reality at once. A kick, and a sharp pain blossomed in his side.

There was a grunt of irritation, and then Braginski's soft voice lilted, "What are you keeping in your coat, Arthur? I've scuffed my boot."

One of Braginski's lackeys hauled Arthur up roughly, and the Russian reached into his coat and drew out the watch.

A cobwebbing of cracks marred its glass face.

Arthur's knees gave out. He fell to the deck, suddenly feeling hollow.

His last link to Al…

Braginski turned the watch over and glanced down at Arthur. He tried to look deadpan, but something must have shown because the corner of Braginski's mouth twisted into a smile, and he pocketed the watch.

Then he shoved his boot in front of Arthur. "Lick it clean."

Arthur stared. Distantly he felt a faint flicker of surprise. Before now, he had never realised it was possible to hate someone this much. And wasn't it odd, but the thought was somehow comforting - at least he knew he could still feel.

Braginski feigned disappointment. "You aren't going to?"

For an answer, Arthur dragged himself forward and spat on the boot. "Go… to hell." He rasped.

Braginski smiled. "Fyodr!" One of his lackeys snapped to attention. "The Cat."

It was unrelenting. Arthur no longer tried counting the blows, no longer tried holding back his yells of pain. He'd screamed his throat raw before they stopped, kept on screaming even though there was no sound but the hollow wheeze of air.

Eventually Braginski held up his hand, and the beating stopped. "That's enough, I think; we don't want to kill him too quickly, da? Take him below deck." Braginski crouched down beside Arthur, put a gentle hand beneath his chin to tilt his face up.

His eyes crinkled in a smile. "Say your farewells to the sky, Arthur; who knows when you'll see it again?"

If you'll see it again.

Arthur didn't move his gaze away from Braginski. In the end, the Russian forced him to look.

The sky looked like it had been scraped too thin. Here and there were shredded clouds, dawdling across the stretched expanse.

Arthur thought of Francis, of his eyes as blue as the sky above wasn't.

He could have wept.

Arthur had no idea how much time had passed since he'd been dragged down here, whether it was days, weeks, months, or years.

He was in the bowels of the ship; there were no windows, and the hallway outside was light only when Arthur's food and water was brought down by the faint light of a guttering candle. The air was fetid, and it somehow felt as if the once-living wood of the ship had soaked in the pain and the fear of the prisoners who'd dwelt in this room before him.

Yet somehow, he was almost growing accustomed to it.

The sea whispered a lullaby against the sides of the boat, and Arthur wondered whether the crew of the Achéron missed him.

At once, the image of Francis sprung to mind: Arthur forced it back. He refused to think about the Captain.

Ludwig would probably miss having someone slightly more serious to talk to, and no question he'd miss Arthur keeping Gil off his hands. Feli would miss him because he was Feli, and formed emotional attachments faster than an overenthusiastic puppy, language barrier notwithstanding. Roderich would miss Arthur because he was 'the only person on board this thing who understands cultural refinement'.

Francis…

Arthur shook himself. Lovino would maybe miss having someone to argue with, who wasn't terrified of his temper or too in love with him to notice. He didn't really know Antoine, or Antonio, or whatever his name was, but somehow Arthur missed him anyway.

Gil would miss him, he knew - and suddenly an image sprang to mind, of a back laced with scars. "Some army psycho… He was fuckin' creepy."

Gil had come through this - more than that, Gil had escaped. If Gil could do it, so could Arthur.

A thought formed, fragile as a bubble. He didn't dare contemplate it; it was so indistinct and barely there.

At the back of his mind, Arthur Kirkland had hope.

For the first time, the door opened fully. For the first time, there was light.

He was so used to darkness that it nearly blinded Arthur's eyes. Stars and colours whirled in front of his vision, and he blinked hard to shake away his dizziness and focus on the shape silhouetted in the doorway.

For a moment he thought he was dreaming, because what he could see was impossible.

Al.

He was paler than he had been before, and he'd lost the rounded edges of youth. Now he was all sharp lines and angles. But it didn't matter; he was living, breathing, solid. Arthur reached out to touch him, willing this not to be some cruel delusion.

His hand was slapped away.

The air flew out of him. "Al?"

Arthur's brother looked at him, light haloing his soft hair, and his baby blue eyes were cold. "So you didn't lie," he said dispassionately, looking at Arthur but not addressing him.

Arthur suddenly noticed the hand resting on Alfred's shoulder, and he felt sick.

"Nyet." Braginski lilted.

Legs weak, Arthur stepped back into the darkness of his cell.

Braginski sighed. "Well, I have to say, this is far from the touching family reunion I was expecting."

Alfred laughed. "He hasn't been my brother since he left me to die."

He turned and just like that, he left. Without addressing a single word to Arthur. Before the light was gone, Arthur saw Braginski's hand on the small of Alfred's back, steering him gently with a lover's touch.

The sea licked at the sides of the boat, and Arthur wondered whether this was what it felt like to be dead.

There was another interminable wait, and Arthur's mind constantly circled back to Francis and Alfred. The double betrayal was scarcely believable. How could it be fair that two of Arthur's most important people stabbed him in the back? What kind of god would let that happen?

He vaguely toyed with the idea of giving up. It would be all too easy to just feed to the rats the food they tossed him or pour the grimy water away. His death would probably displease Braginski, the dissatisfaction of knowing that he'd lost a plaything.

But Arthur kept going. He kept going because of Gil, because of Ludwig and Roderich and Feli and Romano and everyone he knew, even those fucking Dutch cowards from the Mary Rose.

Because god damn if he was going to let anyone beat him.

Against the odds, Arthur was getting stronger, more determined – and then there was the key.

He was tearing into the crust of bread thrown in by his jailers and suddenly, his teeth cracked against something hard.

When he held it heavy in his palm, hands shaking, it was as if he could see the sky again.

It must have been from Al, there was no one else who knew where he was - no one else who didn't want to see him beaten and broken. Which meant that Al must have been acting when they'd met - and damn, but he'd got good at it - and maybe he'd been cold to ensure that Braginski would be less likely to suspect him when Arthur escaped.

He waited for what he guessed to be about a half hour. Then, fingers trembling, Arthur fitted the key into the lock.

It clicked.

The door swung open, and the creak of its hinges was beautiful. Arthur peered out, and the dingy passageway was empty. A steady light came from a small oil lamp, still half full. Must have been left by one of the guards, Arthur thought.

It crossed his mind that perhaps this was too easy. The key was one thing, but to have no guards and even a light provided?

Maybe he was just being paranoid.

Arthur picked up the lamp and threaded his way through the maze of passages, ears pricked for the sound of footsteps. But the ship seemed to be deserted.

Finally he stood on deck, and for a moment he just gulped in the salty air and revelled in the caress of the breeze. The stars smiled down at him, and didn't the moon look lovely? Everything was okay.

Somewhere behind him there was a laugh. Polished black boots struck the deck.

"I'm impressed, Arthur. I truly didn't expect you to be so naïve!"

Arthur turned to face Braginski.

"Did you not think it was slightly too fortunate? I didn't even think you'd fall for the key." Braginski's eyes sparkled with amusement.

"I thought…"

"Ah, of course!" Braginski's smile stretched, lips peeling back. "You thought it was our little Al come to the rescue, playing the hero." He tossed back his head and laughed in savage joy. He stopped suddenly, snapping forward to look straight at Arthur, a tiny smile playing at his lips. "It could never be so easy."

They closed the door on him again, but not before another beating. By the end of it, Arthur's ribs felt cracked, and he was pretty sure his hand was broken. By now the endorphins were beginning to subside, and it felt like his whole body was on fire with pain.

Arthur had kept fighting his way back up, and he'd been beaten down again and again and again.

Maybe it was time to stop struggling.

A/N - Fyodr is the Russian name that in English becomes Theodore. Just in case you ever needed to know.