((Happy birthday to @friendlylocalwhumper!))
“Well, well, if it isn’t lovely Lux.”
The voice, so close behind him, sends a chill of dread down Lux’s spine. Memories flood back, of being cut, admired, praised. The soft gloved hand over his mouth makes him go still.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay long,” Fionn murmurs, their voice coldly excited. “In a bit of a rush. But I have a moment to spare if you do.”
Lux’s breath comes hot and fast out his nose, paralyzed with fear. His magic is curled up tight, terrified and unable to come out, even make a spark.
“Oh, you do?” He can hear the torturer’s grin. “Well now, well now, that’s just lovely.”
He feels something cold and sharp press against his back, and a small, pitchy whine escapes his throat. Fionn keeps him still with nothing but the hand covering his mouth--he tries to urge himself to run, to turn and strike him, to do anything at all, but the memory of those few agonizing days has him stuck fast in place.
The knife tears through his shirt, his only good shirt, and it presses into his flesh below his shoulder. Lux’s breath hitches and he bites back a scream on instinct, he always gets hurt worse for screaming. The cold steel stays put for a few moments as Fionn drinks in the warlock’s fear and pain, then pulls out, leaving only white-hot agony.
“Such a good sport,” Fionn croons, patting Lux on the other shoulder. “Well, then, I’ll be seeing you, lovely Lux.”
They run off into the darker recesses of the city, leaving Lux to collapse and curl up around himself.
