The smell of ash was near, the fires burning into the sky from across the forest. I must reach the river, he thinks. The trees were dark and burning, the wind was harsh against his skin as the embers were quick to follow his steps.
Their voices carried through the air like newly forged blades. "Find him!" They cried. "We shall have his hide!" They bellowed. Screams of murder. Commands of death. That is what they sought. But the man they searched was far gone, deep down into the Mother Rhoyne, and their chains would never find him again.
He stumbled, his bare feet cutting against the harsh rock. He could not help his groan and painful cry. That is a rib, broken. Though, he was no stranger of being broken. The scars were truth enough to that. But I am whole again.
They will find me now. They would. His breath was all but gone. And the fires only burned brighter as more and more of the forest burned. The others were gone. But to safety. Yes, safety. May the gods be kind, he could only hope. And may Death be merciful as well.
"There you are, you foul little beast." The soldier calls. He cannot see the soldier, but he feels the sly grin upon his face. Their faces are always cruel. But he can bear it once more. He must.
"Rather fitting I find you on your hands and knees, jaos." Jaos, he thinks. A dog. A beast. A thousand words and insults for one, but none crueler than the first. Slave. He only laughs. I am a slave no longer. I am your jaos no longer.
"Take him." The soldier says to the others. "The General must claim his prize." And they drag him, his knees scraping against the hard rock and the burnt ash and debris of the fires, now slowly waning.
They throw him down upon the General's feet. A sharp kick slams his face into the dirt, his saliva mixing with his blood and teeth on the burnt ground. He chuckled quietly. You cannot break me, he wishes to scream. I will never beg.
They tie him to an ash ridden tree, white against the copper of his scarred skin. "Are you the Breaker of Chains? The soldier asks. He says nothing, and so falls the whip. It seared into his back like the scorching of the forest. But the pain meant little.
It came down again, harder this time. And again they ask him, "Are you the Breaker of Chains?" But he hears them not. He thinks of his wife. His lover. His goddess. Of her eyes, like molten gold. Of her lips, soft upon his own. Of her skin, warm against his touch.
His skin screamed as it came down again, but he did not. He would not given them that. His dignity was his. "Are you the Breaker of Chains?" They ask again. He hears them less so. He thinks of his sons. Of Marselen, of Mossador, of Moloro. Be strong, my sons, he wishes to cry. The Breaker will find you, as is promised.
The whip came down once more. But his mind was strong, left only on her smile. Of her golden eyes, so much like her mothers. I would have crossed the seas, for you, my Missandei. "Are you the Breaker of Chains?" They ask again, roaring with frustration. Now he can only laugh.
And it is loud. And it echoes. It carried by the wind and sung by the stars above. It only irks them more. The whip comes down again, and again, and again. With each strike, his laughter only grows louder.
"The man's lost his wits." He turns to face them, the soldiers masked, the General's violet eyes glimmering under the moonlight, evil lurking beneath them.
The General waves his hand dismissively. "Its wits are with it." He kicks at his face again, his jaw likely broken now. And again, the whip comes down. The General revelled in each strike, salivating in the spraying of blood across the dirt, the armoured man's face carved with glee as he whimpered, coughing up blood, but never saying a word.
The General grunts now with each strike, and the pain is unbearable, even the soldiers must look away. But he says nothing. "Call for your god, let him come. None shall save you from justice." The General says mockingly.
"Justice." His laugh is bitter, and biting. "Worry not, esteemed master. You will meet Him soon enough." We have served, and we will die. As will you.
"So it speaks?" And he strikes again, and again, and again. And a dozen times more, until there is nought but hanging flash and bloodied bone left of his back. He screams are silent now as the touching embrace of Death creeps its way around his sagging body.
The General holds the whip tenderly, caressing it like a child, smearing the blood into a dirty rag, careful to never let it touch his skin. "I will ask you once more, slave. Are you the Breaker of Chains?" You will not find him. On his knees, he can see his burned wrists, free of the shackles. He is all around us. He can feel the warm blood trickling across his back and onto the ground. He is in every drop of blood you spill.
He looks up at the General, his smile bloody and wide, his eyes full of an amusement none of them will ever understand. "I am." And he laughs. Even when the whip cracks again a hundred times more. Even as they drag him through the dirt by his hands, and promise him a painful death. Freedom. He has tasted it, they know this. And now they cannot steal it from him, nor beat it from him.
But they keep him alive. They tend to him. With the finest medicine and herbs, with the darkest magics, with their red robes ablaze. He pays them no mind. His chains are gone.
"I am." He whispers to himself, alone in the cage they have built for him. "I am."