DAY 2: BOLT
the locked tomb au.
The room they locked him into wasnât exactly a cell, per se.
Well. It wasnât a prison, ontologicallyâthough it did lock from the outside, he didnât get to choose when he left it, and they had put him in there because he was a flight risk. But there werenât bars on the window (mainly because there was no window, and that was the primary factor that would chip away at his sanity; the solitude wasnât much of a punishment) and his toilet and sink were both separate and inside a little cabinet rather than in the room where he slept, so there was that.Â
He was given the illusion of agency through a shelf stocked with nutrient paste and basic dry ingredients so that he could manage his own meals, bland as they were; they also let him access the sonic cleaners every other day for the sake of hygiene, which he had to admit was much more diligent than he was in washing with water when in the wilds. His cot was thin and hard and the blankets scratchy, but it was clean and free of vermin. He had a little lamp by his bedside and the ceiling fixtures first attuned to, then maintained, his circadian rhythms.Â
The House of God, the Necrolord Prime, was infinitely generous with its indentures, and its Kindly Prince immeasurably epithetical.
Sairsel could almost have been happy in this particular state of captivity, if not for all the captivity. And the fact that he had been visited by one of Godâs Saints after the first full day they had left him in pitch darkness, which had suitably unhinged him, and told in the Abyssal Celebrantâs disaffected voice that plucking him out of his refuge with his family had now given them quite an easy target to mete out punishment if he stepped even one toe out of line.
