#emarra

That promise makes Bigby shrug fruitlessly against him. The clown only gives his shoulders a squeeze.

He opens his mouth to speak, to curse him out for the audacity, anything, but all that comes out is the sound of a wet choke and it becomes clear that a third tendril has wrapped itself around his throat.

“You know you don’t get a speaking part in this act.” Emarra warns with a firm pat on the back.

Then he crosses to stand in front of Bigby, speaking directly to the crowd again.

“How should he die?”

A hundred different voices shout a thousand different ways to die.

Asphyxiation. Flaying. Limb removal.

“Bleed him out!” One intrepid voice shouts above the rest.

Emarra shakes his head, exhaling a humored sigh as he leans in to listen to more suggestions.

Bigby is no stranger to the cruel options being hurled out, but something in his stomach turns and he feels the desperate need to cry.

Split him in two. Slice him up from the guts. Drown him!

“Throwing knives!” Another lone voice shouts.

“I like the way you think!” Emarra calls back, his approval palpable. “Throwing knives it is!”

The audience erupts again, their excitement rocks him to his core.

Bigby struggles against his confines as one of the freaks brings out a wheel to strap him to and a bucket filled with knives. The shadows, ignorant to his protests, walk him to the wheel and then affix him to it.

He wants to scream, he doesn’t want to give Emarra the satisfaction.

“Are we ready, Belbig?”

Bigby puffs his chest out and says nothing.

“We missed you.”

The wheel starts spinning, Emarra starts to throw his knives. Randomly at first, a couple of them don’t even make it close to his body, then he starts to pick up speed and precision.

One grazes his cheek, another cuts through his shirt but draws no blood, a third pierces him in the thigh.

Bigby swallows a cry, Emarra’s laugh is filled with mirth.

Mirth that makes his head spin opposite to the wheel.

The knives start to come in pairs, then in threes. They start to pierce him indiscriminately.

Thigh again, his stomach, one separates his middle finger from the rest of his hand, two into his shoulder with enough force that they dig into the wood behind him. His blood begins to paint the floor of the stage, slick and oozing, it shines under the lights.

Three more knives come his way. One pins his left ear to the board, the second severes the right one completely, but before the third makes contact between his eyes, the world fades to black.

Bigby wakes up gasping for air into a throat that feels raw, the red glow of the plugin night light on the other side of the room pulls his attention almost immediately and puts him back into his body.

That was stupid, he thinks, he wasn’t even scared.

Around him the outlines of the proof of his new life push the bad dream to the fringes of his memory. Shelves of knick knacks conjure up the image of Orfuse and Lucy excitedly shoving figures into his hands and babbling about what’s for dinner. The bookcase reminds him of the comic book he’d been meaning to read with Maelia.

He sighs, he doesn’t even remember what the dream was about.

Beside him, Tiger stares at him with her ears standing straight up. She broadcasts her concern directly into his mind with a sense of urgency that he can almost taste.

He hopes he didn’t yell too loudly, or at all for that matter.

Bigby takes a few minutes to lay there in his bed, absently petting her to soothe her nerves, before he finally decides that he must be awake for the evening and drags himself out of the bed.

His gaze lingers on a small wooden tiger that sits on his desk, the newest and most cherished acquisition from his employer. Peace settles in his chest and he heads down to the kitchen, savoring the cold of the ceramic tiling against his feet as he makes his way down the hall.

The coolness roots him to reality.

That was a really stupid dream.

A really really stupid dream.

When he gets to the kitchen he notices Zerkev, standing over a counter already brewing his evening coffee. Bigby doesn’t say anything as he takes the seat across from the newspaper that was already set out in the fuchsia’s usual spot.

His ears twitch before Zerkev even starts to speak.

“Evenin’, son.” He says, his normal drawl crowned by the sort of drowsiness that says he just woke up. “Sleep well?”

Bigby gives a non-committal “Mm,” in response and his ears continue to twitch.

“Me too. Thought I heard something, couldn’t get back to sleep afterward.” He continues with a shrug. “Happy for the company. Coffee?”

Bigby’s face scrunches up at the idea of coffee that isn’t the overly sweet kind he gets from the cafe by his job. He also couldn’t imagine asking Zerkev to make it that way.

Though he couldn’t possibly have seen the reaction, Zerkev moves to grab some juice from the fridge instead.

In the silence that settles around them, Bigby looks down at his hands and legs to check for damage that surely must be there as bits of the dream float around in his head.

More silence passes before both drinks are set on the table. A tall glass for Bigby and a mug for Zerkev.

Bigby loses himself to his reflection in the golden liquid.

Zerkev takes his seat and unfolds the paper, never one to force him into a conversation that he didn’t want to have.

The smaller troll puts both hands around the glass, still focusing on his reflection.

“What did you hear?” He asks bluntly, worry causing the hairs along his neck to stand.

What if he screamed out during the torture of his dream? He wasn’t even scared!

“Crashing?” Zerkev answers and it sounds more like a question. “Maelia knocking somethin’ over with his tail, no doubt.”

The lie comes from Zerkev’s mouth, but Bigby’s ears twitch in response as he adopts it as his version of reality too.

“Must’ve woke you, too.”

“Yeah.” He replies with what could be a little too much urgency.

Zerkev turns a page in the paper.

“Thanks for keepin’ me company, son.”