There was a din at the square, the shouting of battle-weary soldiery mixing with an over-extended, over-excited troop of Capitol Guard, layered over by the preaching, wailing, and praying of a few hundred prisoners. They were at the brink, each group, and if things turned, in any direction, it boded ill for all of them. Faer was walking the thin line between outright incitement to rebellion and simply being a nuisance, depending on whether it was Hammerlyn's or Cole's troops he was in front of, and between committing treason himself and simply being outrageously exacting in terms of the law, depending on whether the official he spoke to were sufficiently juridical or not. The Captain of the Capitol Guard was there as a cloud of blows and curses, containing his troops, being appealed to be the prisoners, harassed by one set of Ainjir soldiers and berated by the other. But in this peculiar stew of subordinates, there was no one of enough recognized authority to tame the masses.
Except, perhaps, for Cole.
“Go!” Faer shouted.
“I–” Already half-away, Cole couldn't quite tear loose from the chaos, begging for his attention.
“Go!”
“Bu–”
“Go!”
The City Guard moved again to take the center of the execution square, and Cole's three companies stood in their way, shouting invective. Hammerlyn’s troops – those that had not taken the excuse of lack of clear command to take their much-needed rest – made to push their prisoners forward, into the morass. The justicers – iron-hearted as their patron virtue and outnumbered in the dozens – intervened, on account of the legality of the whole proceeding being in question. The Captain of the Capitol Guard hesitated; they saw him curse. For the hundredth time, he spun on his heel, snarling and headed for Faer. Faer wrapped his writ up like a baton, and prepared. He looked back at Cole.
“There is a deadline, Cole, but it isn't here.”
There was another uproar– blows had been struck, the Capitol Guard slamming into the soldiery, and being slammed right back into place. Sergeants appeared like splinters between them, shoving their men back away from each other. If Durante could see it, his old heart would burst with shame.
Faer looked back at Cole, held to the scene by the thinnest string.
“Even if I need you, I don't need you that much,” Faer shouted, shoving him away.
Cole was running before Faer had finished, the only thing holding him there the tie of responsibility he knew he ought to have, that Nika would want him to have. It had snapped easily under the strain of fighting exactly the same feeling that had made it strong in the first place.
There was a deadline.
Cole ran.
The Hall was long, and dark, and unmistakably angled downward. Nika knew it had to be straight and relatively smooth, or the phantoms at his side wouldn't be able to travel it in the dark. Knowing that didn't help keep his feet from tripping on odd stones, or his skin from prickling when he stepped in a puddle he knew would be cold, though he couldn’t feel it. The sudden sound of water in the dark shocked the system. The whole place was cold.
It occurred to him that they would take his shoes. If he were them, he would take his shoes away. They would probably take his clothes, as well, give him something else to wear, something indicative of his new status. They would see him naked.
He chastised himself for being silly: he wasn't shy. They would be seeing him in far more embarrassing situations beside. But that's where it would begin. And though he didn’t want it to, he knew it would work.
The Comids had tortured people. Gaius had them do it, so Nika could hear. Nika had always protested, but it had never mattered. He would be sent back, reminded of his only duty – to win the war – and sit in his tent, sleepless and unresisting. He could have killed his way to those who had cried out for mercy, and freed them – if only by killing them – but he didn't. If an ever-forgiving God could think him not guilty of their torment, then He was the only one.
Always he prayed – useless, empty prayers – prayers for miraculous intervention to save them, because he wouldn’t. Always he asked – silent, heartless begging – for the ones being tortured to give up, to say whatever they had to, to save themselves. Perhaps it was fitting, then, that no one would be here to do that for him. Even had they been – here, there was nothing to give up. No reason to resist, even. They would have his confession, and whatever else he could tell them, and then they would have it again, flavored with tears and screams.
And probably again.
And again.
Three days, at least.
It was in his nature to fight, though. He could feel himself build a sullen ball of defiance, bundled up under his ribcage, protected and tight as he could make it.
When they broke that little bundle inside him it would hurt all the worse because he knew its pointlessness.
But he was a fool, in that way. Always fighting, even when he shouldn't.
They stopped, and the dark swallowed all noise. They left time for Nika to grow nervous, not that he did. Why would he grow nervous? Because he did not know where the first blow would land? It was, as it always was, the last blow, and who would strike it, that worried him.
A voice resonated out of the dark. “Boots.”
Nika didn't bother to ask, but started to slip them off directly. Fumbling with his feet pushing his own boots off at the heel, it was little consolation, but still – he had been right. Boots first.
It would be more consolation if from here on out he could be wrong. He could come up with unpleasant futures for any given moment – all day, even. He would prefer to be wrong, now.
He set bare feet on the cold stone, and realized it had a film of mud, as if hewn out of the earth, rather than built from bricks or stone. Too deep for the touch of men. With some awkwardness, he knelt and picked up his boots with his manacled hands. He held his boots behind him, rather than attempting to hand them to whatever indistinct direction the voice had come from. Failure would only mock him.
The shoes disappeared from his hands. He heard the shift of fabric, and a noise of something scraping. Someone laid hands on the manacles, and his back. He was gently pushed and they began to walk, his feet slipping quietly on the rough stone or stepping noisily into hidden puddles.
They turned a corner and he went blind, in a flash of light.
“Turn this way.”
But what way was ‘this way’? The echo made it impossible to tell. But he knew this game, too – there was behind or before, left or right, and he would guess and be wrong, but guessing was better than–
Ah, but he took too long.
Someone slapped him, hard, across the face. A set of hands that couldn’t be the same ones landed on his arms, turning him the ‘right’ direction. They started to pull off his coat.
And good luck to them! Cole didn’t like tailoring, but he taught a damn good stitch, and at this point all Nika could do was sew his coat on to make it look respectable.
It took them a moment’s struggle, and by then some of the blindness had faded – it was a peculiarly bright lantern because of the mirrors arranged around the light, focusing it all back at his face. It was hidden in a clever little alcove, around a turn, so he couldn’t see it until it blinded him. It was better to admire this than feel the hands ripping the cloth at the back, while the guard in front made careless swipes at stitches, knife flashing in the light. It was very sharp – so sharp he could sometimes see the flecks of blood before he felt the pain.
The guard in front made slashes down the sleeves, then tore them down to the cuffs. The guard behind him, giving a few tugs to pull loose the remains of the coat and shirt, and bundled everything together. The guard in front then shoved sideways, into the cold stone wall, then over to face it, pushing hard against his shoulder to hold him in place so the other guard could rip the remainder of his shirt free. The cuffs caught at Nika's wrists and broke, but not before jamming up against the manacles, the edges cutting into his skin.
“Dominicus Galen,” said a voice, disembodied if only because it could not belong to the guards. Not a voice like that, quiet and small.
The guard with the bundle of clothes had walked to the shadowy end of the hall, to a door set into the stone. It was only then Nika noticed the small man standing to the side of it, hands clasped behind his back. He was in every way inconspicuous, with brown, close-cropped, curly hair, only distinct in that he was slightly too pale. Though Nika had not noticed him, it was clear that he had done nothing but notice Nika.
This gaze was familiar, but Nika’s stomach still knotted. He was a child again – a child walking for the first time outside of the Midraeic section of his village, under staring, pale colored eyes of the Ainjir, too proud to clutch at his father's hand though he was afraid. It shared some, too, in the look that Hammerlyn had watched him with, First and Second Year, before Nika had grown wiser and realized that was an entirely different gaze. When he had first arrived amongst the other Comid officers, some of this had glazed their glances, like light through colored glass, though never before had this familiar gaze been so cold, and causeless. This man was not watching for dark skin, or betraying expressions, or foreign gestures, or even the taint of sin.
He looked at Nika and saw nothing. Nothing interesting. Not different, but not living.
He had said Nika’s name just to see if he would answer to it, like asking a wave to wash the shore. It happened, as he expected, and he approved of that.
They let him off the wall, but Nika still pressed into it. His heart was beating faster for no reason other than lack of breath, because he forgot to take it. This was the person he had been waiting for, and he knew he was afraid, but there was no judgment laid on it – he should be afraid. Had it been a person who went about their business like a butcher – who picked and slaughtered and cut because it was a business, a job – perhaps it would have been silly to be afraid, but that was not this person.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence, then a strange, echoing noise seemed to come through the walls. Nika, still catching his breath, peeled away from the wall, but did not waste time trying to fathom mysteries.
The noise from the walls reached louder pitch, and Nika wondered if he was meant to be afraid of it. Nika almost missed the turning of the handle on the door, fighting the – in his mind – idiotic urge to stare back into the pale man’s eyes as if the somehow shallow void in them wasn’t terrifying. The pale man's hand shot out, restraining the Guardsmen.
Nika didn't register the violent swing of the opening door until Cole was in front of him, wrapping arms around him, pulling him from the wall and pressing Nika to him.
“Nika – Nika, are you all right? Are you hurt? Ah – Glory, Nika, I came as fast as I could.”
It was amazing that Cole was gasping that hard and could still get out a dozen words, half of them reduced to nonsense because he mumbled them through kisses or fit them over his heaving breath. Nika pushed back against him as hard as he could, the smile on his face painful in its depth.
The guards were gone, the door was gone, the dungeons were gone, the water, the stone, the air, the darkness – gone, gone, gone. Nika pressed back against Cole, burying himself as far as he could in his embrace.
Their clattering as they kept Nika from returning the embrace reminded them of reality. Still – it was not enough to bring back the dark that Cole dispelled. They and their noise were an annoyance, and a mystery.
“Say something,” Cole commanded, checking with hands and close-pressed body to make sure every part was there, every memorized line and soft touch. “Please, say something.”
“’Ras, you made it,” Nika said, finding his buried voice.
They kissed. Cole's body shielded Nika's, his arms seeming to hold more of Nika than it was possible for mere limbs to cover. Pressing their foreheads together, Cole squeezed his eyes shut, thumbs stroking Nika's face. “I won't let them hurt you. I won't. It won't happen.”
“Oh, God,” Nika gave a wet chuckle. “They're going to hurt me, 'Ras – you can't do anything about it. I don’t know how you even got here, but you can’t stop it now.”
Like a wave rising before it breaks, Cole filled his lungs, settling his shoulders back – spoiling for a fight. He would fight anything, but his hands gripped harder, his embrace more insistent and his interrupted kisses lingering – he would fight anything but he didn't want to let go, even to do that...
Nika pulled back, the inches between them like miles. He would have begged Cole for pity, for the mercy of being spared, also, from hope, but it was too late – only, what he hoped for was not to be spared.
“I'm sorry, 'Ras... I failed. I didn't mean to do this to you... but you can't, you know you can't. You have elsewhere to fight.”
Cole pressed them together again, hand running softly thought Nika's hair, burying his face at Nika's neck as Nika did at his. “Nowhere else would defeat mean death.”
Nika swallowed. “Sicut vivis, vivo.”
Cole's hand came up to stroke Nika's face, lift his head to kiss his cheek, whisper closer to his ear, “I love you, Nika.”
Nika brushed lips against his, pressing gently against him, voice thick and quiet, “I love you, 'Ras.”
They kissed again, lingering lest they admit to being parted, eyes closed to all around them.
But then they separated, as they had to. Cole brought their heads together again, each taking a breath from the air shared between them. When their eyes opened, Nika could not bring himself to smile, though he tried.
“I finally need someone to fight for me,” he whispered. “Do it, ‘Ras.”
Cole kissed his forehead, letting Nika rest against his collarbone a little longer. When his lover was ready, Cole let go.
Cole turned away from Nika, towards the door. He did not spare a glance to the pale man, or the watchful guards who waited on either side of the doorway. He hardly broke stride in leaving – except, at the last second, to grab the hand of the Dubh Sciath nearest him. He and the guard glared at one another for one brief moment before there was a sharp snapping noise, and Cole left.
The man screamed – Cole's parting gift to the echoing Hall, breaking their shadowy show, making the demons human in punishment for their inhumanity. Nika met the pale man's eyes with his own, and finished his smile.
“They think I am the brutal one,” he said.
The pale man smiled back to him. Perhaps had he not been so surprised, he would not have screamed, for the guard sucked down the noise quickly. Once he did, the pale man signaled for the guard to dismiss himself. Quiet fell again.
“You have had your goodbye,” said the pale man, when the silence had taken hold of them all again. His voice hardly echoed. “But you should not worry – you will be alive, at the end.”
Nika felt his skin prickle. He sent out the forces of his mind, to gather and hold every bit of warmth left by Cole's touch, sent screaming defense to the edge of his skin, to hold the line. It was only three days – three days at the least, according to custom and law.
“Dominicus Galen,” the pale man said again, stepping forward, letting his eyes roam to parts of Nika's body, noting them like a doctor, checking for ailments. He reached out, cold hand tapping first one arm, then the other, gaze running up as effective as fingertips over chest and neck and jaw. “A good, Midraeic name.”
He paused, pale eyes catching Nika's. He spoke quietly, like a man used to saying so. “These limbs belong to me now.”
He brought his head down, gesturing the remaining guard. He looked up again, once Nika had been pushed forward, the guard holding firmly at wrists and neck.
“You may pray to your God during, if you wish. I am fond of the Midraeic prayers; I have heard quite a few – perhaps, if I may flatter myself, all of them.” He smiled. “They can be beautiful. I may say them with you.”
The pale man put hands under Nika's jaw, raising his head. His fingers had gained no warmth, for all the closeness to Nika's skin, but Nika didn't shiver. Nika watched, and the pale man took his fingers away, his brief smile filled with pity.
“I have loved, because of God,” Nika said, the pale man joining, his Midraeic clear and well-practiced, as they turned towards the dungeon door. “Let him hear me.”
“The sorrows of death have surrounded me; the pains of Hell have found me. The fear of death disturbs me; have mercy upon me, God, and save me.”