sadcatjae

The ex-Arbiter picks himself up and grabs his cloak, throwing it on. Though unsteady on his feet, he shambles to the broken front door. He’d leaned it haphazardly over the open doorway, and it would take one strong breeze to knock it down.

He silently traces the splintered lines.

They revile me.

Pursing his lips, Mercy pushes the door and it hits the ground with a dull thump, bringing up a haze of dust. 

Of course they revile him. Did he expect to be welcomed with open arms? 

But there's Kasin. His bright expression and happy chatter about fixing this and fixing that, and his bewildering need to insert himself into Mercy’s space. 

The ex-Arbiter pulls the hood down over his face and he chances a look at the blackened tree. The guard called Dazer sits leaning against the trunk, sleeping as he usually does during his shift.

Contrarily, Kasin stands at attention from sunup to sundown, diligently watching the ramshackle structure. His attention is never threatening. It is determined. 

Mercy huffs sharply through his nose and heads towards the river. Just a quick wash. Long enough to clean the dirt and sweat from his body, and untangle the mess of his hair. None would be the wiser. 

The night is cold and expansive, colouring his breath white and his skin pink. Mercy enjoys the quiet walk. The town square is a mile away, and the revelry is contained within those lumined borders. He prefers the voices of the forest, which bears none of the human qualities that Mercy detests. There is simply survival - and he understands this well. 

He comes to the slow drifting river, moonlight glittering across the surface like spilled sugar. It’s a beautiful sight that only he’s privy to, and there is so little that belongs to him now. A faint smile ghosts across his cracked lips. 

Mercy glances around cautiously before slipping off his clothes. A pale, athletic figure is revealed to the eyes of the night. Scars, old and new, mar every inch of skin, leaving almost no place untouched. There is the new, too-tight skin of recently healed burns, winding its way around his body, and it’s impossible to distinguish one wound from another.

He drops the last item of clothing to the gravelly shore, and peers down at himself. Long fingers hover over the marred skin across his chest. His upper lip curls and his hand drops to his side; his hatred, not aimed at the one who gifted him these marks, but entirely turned inward for a reason unspoken. 

He pushes out a harsh breath and enters the water. The chill bites into his flesh and he enjoys the shock; a light laugh carried on his next exhale. 

While he washes the grime from his body, a strange calm descends upon him. Every layer washed is another year banished, and he wonders if this is what those holy men and women meant by purification. Is it possible for one like himself, born in filth and a lifetime of sin, to ever become purified? Is it truly as simple as washing oneself in a river?

He watches the water turn dark around him, eyes hooded. No matter how much he bathes, the water will never run clear. 

“What an ugly creature you are.”

Mercy instinctively reaches for his dagger but his hand snatches air. He twists around, every muscle taut, ready to attack. 

Three men stand on the shoreline, their figures blurry with drink and expressions drenched in wicked intent. Luna casts her unforgiving light upon their bared teeth and glinting eyes. 

The serenity of the night has turned against him. 

He’d been too lax, too careless. He always treated every situation as a double edged sword – but this time, he’d let exhaustion wear down his guard. 

Mercy rushes out of the water to grab his cloak. One of the men lumbers forward and kicks his garments out of reach, and the ex-Arbiter rears back, hands held over his face.

“No use hiding it now. We've seen everything.” The smaller figure swaggers forward and Mercy stiffens in recognition.

These drunken men had visited him earlier in the day. What was it that Kasin called them? Powle, Richard, Bolt. The smaller man is Richard Sunbury, and those two giant buffoons leering at him must be his men. 

Mercy stumbles back a step. He can’t find his voice. It’s trapped in his tightening chest, clogging up his airway like he’d swallowed a mouthful of gravel. 

“Demon of Midothal,” Sudbury jeers, ever encroaching on Mercy’s space. “You certainly do look like a creature of the seven hells. Your gruesome face offends me, demon. What will you do in repentance?”

The ex-Arbiter flinches when Sudbury grabs his shoulder. The acrid stench of hard alcohol fills the air between them, tarnishing every hard-won breath. 

“I asked you a question, you freaky bitch.” Sudbury’s fingers dig into his shoulder like steel claws, sending a deep ache through his entire limb. 

Mercy grits his teeth and snatches the farmer’s wrist. The Hollow stirs. It slithers into his periphery, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike–

CRACK!

Mercy collapses into a crumpled heap, white hot pain lancing through his beaten skull. He clutches the side of his head and hot blood oozes through his fingers.

Oppressive shadows wrap around his crumpled form. A colonnade of legs make his enclosure, trapping him within. He tries to rise but he’s kicked to the gravel like a mangy dog, the air forced from his very lungs.

“Now, now. The least you can do is entertain us,” Sudbury scolds, and his men guffaw in tandem. “We are honest, hardworking men who'd spent the whole day tilling dead fields. Aside from the pissy swill they sell at the tavern, how are we to ease our burdens?”

“Aye lads. This demon ain't so bad looking,” Powle says, licking his lips. "Watchyu think, Bolt?"

Bolt sniggers and brutally kicks Mercy onto his stomach. “He’s got the same fuckhole a woman does. Works the same too, don't it?"

No. No. 

Mercy painfully drags himself to his feet, limbs quaking beneath his weight. His head spins, reels; the earth lurching beneath his feet as he blindly fights for his freedom. But there are hands, large and coarse and violent, grabbing him, beating him, tearing at his limbs with disregard. 

When he’s wrestled to the ground, head shoved into the jagged gravel and arms wrenched up his spine, the Hollow – thankfully – engulfs his senses. 

Fear disintegrates. He disintegrates, as though he were a paper man, drowned in the river. 

He's lifeless, limp, and his eyes reflect nothing but the vile creatures that impose their will upon him. Dimly, he’s reminded of the dungeons deep within the belly of Midothal Palace, and a surge of bile trickles out his slackened mouth. 

At some point, he’s dragged across the gravel by his hair, and his skin is scraped raw. He tries to get to his feet, to walk, but there’s a core-deep pain, blistering and rending, that numbs his legs. He’s unable to stand for more than a few seconds before he’s dragged along again like a slain game. 

Gravel becomes soil becomes hard packed dirt. Through the impenetrable brume of agony, he knows that he’s being dragged down a road. Road means people. And he is exposed in all sense of the word. 

A pathetic sob bursts from his bloodied lips. Cruel laughter is the only response. 

His delirious thoughts turn to Kasin. The guard had protected him once before, he would surely do so again. But as soon as he thinks of that kind, handsome face, something ugly and acidic drowns out the rest of his thoughts. 

He is the Demon of Midothal. This is his repentance. 

Mercy hangs limp in his attackers’ violent grasp, allowing himself to be dragged naked through the streets of Everlost. When dirt turns to cobblestone beneath his raw body, he knows that they have reached the town square. 

Dazzling lights flicker and blur in his waning vision. Voices, rising and falling, are garbled in his ears, coming from both near and far. There’s the smell of alcohol and food and people, and he trembles. Shakes. 

Finally, they come to a standstill. They dump Mercy on the ground, bloodied and broken and bared for the entire town to gawp at.

He buries his face in his hands.

Hundreds of eyes score his body like Amos’ blades. Wounds, old and new, burn as though he were cast into the very fires of the seven hells, skin blistering and flesh charring, until naught remains but formless ash. 

“This is the Demon of Midothal! This is the fearsome Arbiter of the Empire. The merciless traitor to the crown. Now, nothing more than a lame beast not worth a single copper.”

Sudbury grabs Mercy’s hair. His abused scalp shrieks in pain when his head is wrenched back, and his face, his scars, are exposed to the scrutiny of hundreds. 

Mercy trembles and tries to turn his head away, but he’s slapped for his efforts. 

Black eyes, glazed and hooded, wander unsteadily over the voyeurs. Instead of fear or anger, as he's so accustomed to, his gaze is met with mirth. Laughter. Satisfaction. 

Thousands of miles he may be from the palace, here Amos yet thrives.

Wait. There’s someone there. Pushing his way through the crowd. And he's not laughing. There is nothing but anger wrought upon his kind, handsome face.

“Cease this at once!”

The grip on Mercy’s hair slackens and he crumples to the ground, eyes closing in relief. 

Kasin. It’s Kasin. That idiot boy has come to play the hero again. 

-

The Blue Guard draws his sword, overcome with a rage he’d never known before. He points his blade at Sudbury, emblazoned in righteous fire. 

“You dare commit such despicable acts and expect laudation?” Kasin walks towards the trio, each stride measured and determined. He looks ready to cut them to pieces. 

Sudbury raises his hands in surrender, smirk untouched. There are hundreds of townsfolk who clearly enjoy his justice. One uptight guard wouldn’t dare defy an entire town – not for this traitor. “Kasin. Lad. You know what this demon has done–”

“Must I remind you, Richard, of my words prior?” Kasin says, sharply. His blade flashes dangerously. 

Sudbury’s smirk falters. 

“You have broken the laws of the land. You have broken the contract between citizen and empire, and you will be judged for your crimes. All of you.”

The three men stare at the guard, stunned. Angry protest swells, but Kasin gestures to a nearby Blue Guard who starts guiltily. 

“Arrest these men and take them to Senior Officer Tophel. Wake him if you must. Report to him what has transpired here.” 

The guard scowls, reluctant to make the arrest, but duty drives him to carry out Kasin’s orders. He and three other Blue Guards break from the crowd and they drag the protesting drunkards away from Mercy. 

Kasin sheathes his sword and hurries to the ex-Arbiter’s side. He yanks off his own cloak to cover Mercy’s nudity and protect him from the countless eyes around them. 

As he kneels down, Kasin’s hardened expression softens in pity. His chest aches fiercely with surging emotion. Regret, guilt, anger. They tear strips from his insides, affecting his composure into something messy and uncertain. Calm. He must be calm. For Mercy. 

Kasin pushes blood matted hair from the man’s face. Those terrible scars are obscured by drying blood, the source of which he can’t see. 

He calls out in a gentle voice, his touch even gentler upon his cheek. “Mister Mercy? Can you hear me?”

Mercy slips in and out of consciousness, black lashes quivering as he flinches at the touch. Lips, swollen and marred with foreign teeth marks, move ever so slightly to form a silent word. 

Kasin intakes sharply, heart trembling anew. 

His anger becomes depthless. For the first time, he knows the thirst for violence. For revenge. The toxic keen that he’d long resisted for his brand of moralism. 

“Mercy,” he says, urgently, “I must take you to a healer--"

Mercy shifts, panting lightly. Panic seeps into his pinched features. His response is clear. No.

Kasin pulses his jaw, concern gnawing away at his composure. Though he is not a healer, he knows basic wound care, and he carries around his supplies in case of emergencies. Theoretically, he could care for Mercy, but this also means that the man may not receive the proper treatment he requires. If something goes wrong, or if Mercy's condition worsens, his life may be endangered.

Kasin will have to sit with him tonight. "No healer," he promises. "I will take you home, then. This means I must touch you. Do you understand?”

Mercy opens his eyes to swollen slivers. A weak light flickers in those glazed coals, indicating awareness. He gives a minute nod. Kasin smiles. "Thank you." The guard slips an arm beneath Mercy's shoulders and slowly raises him into a sitting position, cradling his body against his chest. Mercy is tall and not lacking in muscle, but he is surprisingly light. Kasin imagines his bones brittle and hollow, fragile as Mercy appears.

Like a bird, he thinks, and he can't unsee the comparison.

Shaking hands, scraped and bruised, rise to that scarred face. Reading his intent, Kasin pulls the hood of his cloak over Mercy’s head, hiding the latter’s vulnerability. 

Kasin feels the man relax in his arms, and he tightens his hold, securing his precious cargo. A painful lump grows in his throat. “You will be alright,” he says, quietly. “I promise you."

Mercy’s laboured breath puffs weakly against Kasin’s neck. Delusional bastard. But for a moment, however brief, he allows himself to believe. 

-

Mercy comes to on his cot, naked form exposed to the chill of the night. He shivers and tries to drag a blanket over himself, when something cool and wet brushes against his side. A sharp pain sears his flesh and he shrinks away from the touch. 

“You are awake.” Kasin’s face swims into view, softened by the warm glow of lamplight. He smiles and raises a damp cloth. “I am cleaning your wounds, lest they become infected. You must keep still for me, so I can finish quickly.”

A blaze of anger, of panic, roars into life, but the weight of exhaustion suffocates the heat, stifles Mercy's rationality.

He turns his head away from Kasin, silently acquiescing. 

“Thank you, Mercy.”

The guard cleans each wound with great care, washing out every bit of debris from the cuts and grazes, and sloughing the blood from his torn skin until he’s clean and dry. Mercy doesn’t react to the pains of the process, simply lying there silently, tersely, staring at the weary wooden wall. 

Kasin had cleaned and dressed the wounds on his legs and feet while he was unconscious, and there’s a helpless confusion about how Mercy is still alive. To be so vulnerable within another’s presence, and yet he’d been given care instead of further hurts. He, who is but a waning bad memory with no power to speak of. 

The guard raised not a single hand against him, nor uttered a single sharp word, and there is not a puzzle more perplexing. 

“What happened?” Kasin’s voice interrupts his thoughts, drawing him back to his body. He feels, intently, calloused fingers applying ointment to the gash in his side. The sting is nice. He’d not known pain to feel good before.

Mercy licks his lips. He tastes copper. Memories of the attack threaten to rise and he coldly disregards them, like he does with everything else. “The inevitable,” he replies, hoarsely. 

“What do you mean?” Kasin applies a bandage to the wound, trying - and failing - to hide the upset in his voice. 

“You…” Mercy turns to look at the guard. Kasin notes how clammy and pale the man is beneath those storm cloud bruises, and his heart clenches. “You are a fool.”

“For helping you?”

“They will condemn you.”

“They can do so, if they wish. It has no bearing on my work.”

Mercy glances at the guard’s chest. He’s not wearing his usual blue uniform. Instead, he’s in neat civilian attire. It’s not as splendid or luxurious as Mercy’s clothes, back when he was Arbiter, but they are a far cry better than his current rags.

The pristine white of Kasin's shirt is stained with blood, his blood, and Mercy’s mouth flattens. 

Kasin notices his stare and he smiles, rinsing the cloth in the bowl of clean water on the floor. The water has long turned red. “I was off-duty,” he explains. “Having dinner with my family. Don’t worry - I told them to return home before they could see anything–”

“I am not concerned,” Mercy says impassively, averting his gaze to the ceiling. The only reaction to Kasin dabbing at his head wound is a small pulse in his jaw. “Whether it be a hundred people or a thousand, I was seen regardless.” The pearl in his throat rolls. “I was seen,” he repeats, and he closes his eyes, as though he were greatly pained. 

“Yes,” Kasin says, simply. “Nothing I can say or do can change what those men did to you. However, I can assure you that this will never happen again.”

"Your assurance means nothing."

“For as long as I draw breath, I shall protect you.”

"You cannot."

"I can and I will."

Mercy opens his eyes. A single point of light enters their lifeless expanse.

Again. There's that impossible promise. One that is made with unshakeable confidence. “Why? And do not speak of puerile sentiments such as 'duty'."

“I believe in second chances, Mister Mercy.”

“I do not.”

“And yet your name says otherwise.”

Mercy glances at the younger man, regarding his warm smile with a modicum of wariness. “I am ‘Mercy’ because I am not. It is a name to taunt. A name of despair.”

“I think it is rather kind. It has much potential for humanity.”

Kasin displays his own mercy as he covers the ailing man with a blanket. Giving him a shred of dignity, however tattered it may be.

Mercy doesn't dream for the rest of the night. He sleeps peacefully, oblivious to the calloused palms cocooned protectively around his own bandaged hand.

When he wakes, the sun is low in the sky, and the shack is awash in the golden-pink afternoon light. He groggily glances around the barren space. Kasin is probably outside, standing at attention beneath the twisted black tree. Mercy feels oddly settled by this notion. He winces as he struggles to sit upright and he reaches for the flask of water sitting by his cot. When he notices the door, he goes still, stunned to his core.

Instead of the exposed doorframe, there is a new handcrafted door, securely fastened to the hinges. It's sturdy and of quality wood -- not even a kick from a horse could bring it down. There is a distinct boundary, between the ex-Arbiter and the world outside, and he takes a breath, deep and long, and feels every wired muscles relax for the first time in years.

He drags himself out of the cot to touch the door, both bandaged palms sliding across the new wood. His fingers catch on something metal. He leans down and inspects the thing -- a latch, a lock, not to keep him inside, but to keep everyone outside.

Kasin had afforded him a lock. One that he can choose to use at any time he so wished.

Mercy rests his brow against the door. After a long, long while of staring at the lock, he pinches the latch and slides it close.