An excerpt in which King Isaiah talks to his captive (continued)
Previous
Content: Living weapon whumpee (sorta), mention of firearms and attempted assassination, mention of captivity + torture
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Scott sat the chair across from Jack, and sat down. “Jack, right?”
Something almost like surprise dared to flicker in the man’s eyes.
“I’m Scott. I believe you already know King Isaiah. Do you know where you are?”
Jack glanced around. “A cell.”
“True enough. Do you know why you’re here?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does. Because His Majesty doesn’t want to keep you in here.”
A bit more light dared to shine. Jack glanced up at Isaiah briefly. Then he said, quietly, looking away without moving his head, “I was meant to shoot someone. I succeeded.”
“He’s not dead, if that’s what you’re asking,” Scott said. “Why did you shoot him?”
Jack was quiet for a long moment. Isaiah saw the thoughts, the desperate plea to put them together into something coherent, racing behind Jack’s eyes. His eyes were so expressive. Isaiah remembered that about him, when they’d first met some years previous. Even while his body was stiff and straight-forward, his eyes could tell a novel.
“I…. I don’t know,” Jack finally said. “I don’t even know who….” He looked down, and his breath hitched at the sight of his metal hands. In the doorway, Isaiah tensed up, stomach rolling as Jack tugged up his sleeves. The metal stopped around his elbows, beige skin taut and rippled and shockingly pink. Jack let out a shuddering breath, “I don’t…. I don’t remember.”
Scott curtly nodded. Then he asked, “Where do your loyalties lie, Jack?”
Jack responded in a calculated, almost robotic, manner. “Her Majesty Queen Sofiel, Sovereign Ruler of Elyziom.” But there wasn’t truth in his eyes. It was a programmed and forced response, a response that made his throat visibly tighten, not a genuine one.
Scott shook his head. “You serve King Isaiah now, understood?”
Jack was quiet, eyes flicking between Scott and Isaiah. Isaiah fumbled to keep his posture relaxed, gentle, and maybe almost hopeful.
Scott pushed a bit more. “Would Liz want you to serve Sofiel?”
Jack’s breath hitched, eyes widening. “Liz is dead.”
“But if she was alive,” Scott insisted. “Purely hypothetically, of course. Would Liz want you to obey Sofiel?”
Jack lowered his head, visibly swallowing, breathing deep. “...No,” Jack muttered, so tense Isaiah was surprised he wasn’t shaking. “Liz would be… disappointed.” He spoke her name softly, as though he was afraid of someone ‒ David, Isaiah figured ‒ overhearing.
Isaiah had a sudden thought. An image of Sofiel standing near the doorway, watching, as David hit him, or mocked him. He thought about how his hair was currently down, dark curls free around his head; as hers often was.
Isaiah hated feeling any bit like his sister.
He stepped forward and around Scott, kneeling before Jack.
“Do you remember when we met?” Isaiah whispered, laying a hand on Jack’s jittering knee. It slowly stilled. “You were a sniper, watching from above, watching over me and that Archernus girl I was escorting. You shot the assassin before he could get close to us.”
Jack let out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes tight. “I am a traitor.”
“Lord Axelios tells us to give second chances,” Isaiah softly said. “This is your second chance, Jack. Your chance to obey what Liz would have wanted for you. Maybe even what you want for you, if that’s not too bold to offer.”
“I am a traitor,” Jack repeated. “I am a traitor to Her Majesty Queen‒”
Isaiah grabbed Jack’s jaw, remembering Scott’s words of perhaps needing to play along, to be a bit harsher, as sick as it made him feel. “She’s not here, Jonathan. I am. You proved yourself loyal to me when you stopped that assassin. Liz was loyal to me. Liz would not want you to be loyal to my sister. So where do your loyalties lie, Jonathan Gilmore?”
Jack’s breaths were deep and shuddering. His eyes gained a glimmer of green fire; the same fire Isaiah had once seen in him, after taking down that assassin, in the way he graciously accepted the king’s thanks, in the way he looked at Liz.
Isaiah released his jaw and stood up, “I’ll let you think about it.”
~
“Why did you do that?” Cael softly hissed. “He could’ve hurt you.”
Isaiah was quiet for a moment. Then he said, simply, “I will not be a distant king. I will not be a king who hides behind walls, who leaves his people to fend for themselves. And I will not be like my sister.”
Something softened in Cael’s expression. He let out a frustrated huff, and left King Isaiah taking shuddering breaths in the dim metal hall.
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An excerpt in which King Isaiah talks to his captive
Content: Living weapon whumpee (kind of), mention of firearms and attempted assassination, mention of captivity + torture
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“How’s Jonathan?” Isaiah asked as he finished his meal. The name felt almost sour on his tongue, aching to call him Jack instead.
“He’s awake, but he’s not talking,” Cael said, leaning on a wall. The pair sat down at one of the round tables, and in that moment they truly did seem like a king and his knight. “It’s not unexpected; he’s been captive for seven years. And he fought.”
“You witnessed this?” Isaiah said, chest tight.
“Yes. Many times. David…. Well, I’m sure you know that he….”
“He takes joy in physically hurting other people, yes,” Isaiah breathed. He wiped his sweaty hands on the hem of his robe and swallowed. “But you said that Jonathan fought. You pulled a microchip from his neck. So they didn’t program him by standard means. They couldn’t.”
“So it would seem,” Cael nodded. “As long as I knew him in that facility, he never stopped fighting. Now, he’s withdrawn, sometimes violent or at least crass and crude, especially towards me, but I think we can get through to him. I think he recognizes that he’s, to an extent, free. Jace says he’s testing boundaries.”
“Does he know what he did to Tylor?”
“I don’t think so. From what I’ve seen, the microchips control not only movement but memory. He’s been… confused, I would say. Dissociated. There’s no telling, right now, how much he remembers. I wouldn’t doubt that he’s also just scared.”
“Um, excuse me,” Scott was standing in the doorway that led to the bunks and bathroom, freshly dressed in some of Isaiah’s lended clothes. “I know this has next to nothing to do with me‒”
“Nothing at all, actually,” Cael muttered, almost glaring, still suspicious.
“But I might be able to help,” Scott finished. “Help you get answers, that is, out of your… captive, I’m presuming?”
“Something like that,” Isaiah nodded. “You used to interrogate people.”
“Yeah.”
“My lord, he helped torture you,” Cael firmly said.
Something almost like a smile fluttered across Isaiah’s face. It was good to be called ‘lord’ again. “I understand your concern, Cael, and I thank you for it. But Mr. Dale has been greatly kind to me. He was a prisoner, too.”
Scott seemed to stand a bit straighter. “The thing about interrogation… Your Highness‒”
“Majesty,” Cael harshly corrected.
Isaiah waved him off like the guard dog he was and motioned for Scott to continue.
Scott carefully sat at the circular table. “The thing about interrogation is that you do it to get answers. That was my job, back in Chicago. And yes I sometimes had to hurt people to do it. But it was business, not pleasure, not personal. What happened to you was torture for the sake of torture. That’s not at all what I’m suggesting with your captive.”
“Then, in your experience, Mr. Dale, how do we get answers?” Isaiah asked.
“Well, trust is the first thing you want,” Scott said. “I’m sorry, but I evesdropped a bit before coming in. Jonathan was held captive by your sister?”
“Yes. He’s a cyborg akin to Cael here, held captive for the past seven years and augmented against his will.” Isaiah looked at Cael expectantly.
Cael sighed, “He arrived at the facility where I lived seven years ago, and David Frost took great joy in beating him senseless. Then they replaced his forearms and, when it became clear that he wasn’t worth the effort it would take to condition him, they put a chip in his skull to control him.”
“He’s the one who shot Tylor,” Isaiah quietly said, remembering vividly the golden blood on the forest floor, and the stillness of my body.
“I see,” Scott slowly nodded. He looked at Cael, “Based off what you’ve seen from him, how conditioned to Sofiel is he?”
Cael frowned, thinking, “Decently so. Still has some fight in him. But between the physical repremanding and the microchip, I don’t know how much of his mind is actually intact as Jonathan Gilmore.”
Scott thought for a moment, then turned to Isaiah, “From what I’ve seen, those who are conditioned respond better to further conditioning, rather than an immediate attempt at any sort of deconditioning. That is, you’ll have to play along with him for a while.”
Cael snorted in a doubtful manner. Then his face went lax. “Wait, that’s exactly what Jace did with me! He acted as a handler, giving me orders, gradually lessening it until…. Oh, the tricky bastard.”
Isaiah softly laughed, amused at the thought. “He will make a good king.”
“I say this because you, Your Majesty,” Scott nodded towards Isaiah, “may have to treat Mr. Gilmore like a tool, rather than a person. It depends on what you want from him, and what his mental state is.”
Isaiah considered the words.
“May I speak to him?” Scott asked. “Again, I have experience with this sort of thing; at the very least I can get you information on his mental state and what course of action might be best for him. Depending on what you want.”
Isaiah deeply sighed, “I want him to have his own life. To make his own choices.”
“So, deconditioning.”
“Yes. Can you help with that?”
“First I need to know how bad the damage is.”
Isaiah led Scott down to the brig, where small cells with plexiglass doors lined one wall, maybe two meters wide by two-and-a-bit meters deep. Only once cell was occupied, and Isaiah hoped it would stay that way ‒ and, furthermore, not be occupied for much longer. Cael brought a chair down so Scott and Jonathan could sit face-to-face.
“When you can, ask him where his loyalties lie,” Cael said on the way. “Tell him he needs to comply or obey. Those are trigger words. They seem to work on him decently enough. Not as nicely as Sofiel would like, but they’ll get his attention.”
“One more thing,” Isaiah stopped Scott just short of the cell. “Call him Jack.”
“Jack?”
“Yes. Jack. A military nickname, of sorts. And, if you can, try to get him talking about Elizabeth Roland. Liz.”
“Jack and Liz, yes sir,” Scott nodded.
Isaiah fought a smile. He liked his authority being respected, liked feeling almost like a proper king again. It had been so long.
Cael hung back after opening the cell door, a sound which made Jonathan Gilmore, lounging mindlessly on his cot, sit up to attention. Isaiah’s stomach turned at the horror and hatred in which he stared at them.
Jack’s hair was still frazzled, needing a good wash. All of him needed a good wash, and maybe a shave. His green eyes were dull but harsh, like an unsharpened blade desperately swung at any perceived attackers. He sat stiffly, silver hands on his knees and chin down. He wore only a black shirt, black combat pants, and boots half unlaced. Isaiah tried hard to meet his gaze with gentleness instead of any sort of pity or horror.
Because apparently I need one now. Excerpts are generally organized by what story they come from and/or which group of characters features. Tagged groups/stories are in bold. Unsorted writings are the first section. This list will be adjusted as needed.
Content warning: Many of these excerpts discuss or at least mention or allude to things such as captivity and torture.
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Haircut
Vignette - The Universe's Temple
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Backwoods Arcana; in which a runaway king, along with five unconventional knights, works to regain his throne
Isaiah meets Tylor
Interrogation of Jack Gilmore part 1, part 2
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Daimon Forest / A Frost Covered Spider Web; in which a lord finally comes home, and sparks are kindled
Content: Mention of captivity and torture, mention of PTSD and trauma (and its effects)
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We sat in silence for a few moments, lit by the orange fire in front of us, surrounded by the gentle sound of popping and cracking wood.
Then I cautiously asked, “What about you?”
Saber hummed non-commitably, leaning on his knuckles and looking away.
“I-I’ve found that…,” I carefully started, eyes down on the needle passing through the light blue fabric, “the most frustrating part of being immortal… is the lack of scarring.” Saber glanced at me curiously, although I didn’t meet his eyes. “I know I’m young; not even a century. I’m a baby. And everyone acts like it. But I’ve been through quite a bit. A lot of missions. And…. Maybe it’s just something about me,” I gestured broadly to my chest and my eyes, “but I always seem to draw the attention of some rather… unsavory characters. Leading to a lot of captivity.”
Something almost like a smile fought its way onto Saber’s face. “Rite of passage.”
I half-scoffed and half-laughed, checking my cuneiform embroidery against my reference page, “Yeah, I suppose so. I’m young, so the injuries tend to stick around for a bit. But I still heal quickly, the scars still fade quickly and completely…. And by that time the following year, it’s as though nothing happened. For my body, at least.”
Saber let out a steady, calculated breath.
“You’ve been in captivity longer than I’ve been alive,” I muttered. “And you’ve only been out for, what, a year? Perfectly understandable that you’d have nightmares. But one thing that Robert always tells me, is that our minds can only hold so much. That is‒”
“One has to express what they think, sometimes,” Saber finished. “I know. I taught him that.”
“...Oh,” I choked, voice suddenly hoarse.
Saber managed a weak, almost genuinely amused chuckle. Then his tired smile faltered, and he let out a long breath. “It’s been difficult,” he signed. “Adam tried to get me to paint again. To draw. To play an instrument. He told me to start from the beginning: still life, anatomy, the simple fundamentals.” He scoffed, signing in a frustrated manner, “I am a god of art who cannot create art.”
“Well… how much have you tried?” I cautiously said. “I can’t imagine how frustrating it must be for you, of course. All of it. How frustrating, how upsetting, how scary.” Saber looked away at the last word. I was quiet for a moment, stopping my stitching. “What sort of art do you want to create? Right now, at this moment, what do you want to draw or paint?”
Saber thought for a long moment. I went back to stitching.
“A portrait,” Saber finally signed. “I did a lot of life sketching, back at Adam’s manor. The gardens. The architecture. But I want someone to sit still and let me paint them.”
“Then a model you shall have,” I whispered. “I’m sure we can find someone who can sit still for a few hours. Maybe someone with a lot of tattoos.”
Saber managed a bit of a stronger laugh.
His fangs glistened in the firelight, strong and slightly yellowed, and not just because of the flame. His saturated tawny brown skin seemed to glow. I noticed that he had various piercings in his ears, and at least one in his nose. I tried to imagine him decorated in gold, perhaps in an elaborately-embroidered black and white outfit akin to various Slavic designs. Lord Saber was also called the father of the näcken, the nixies, the rusalka.
I winced as the needle lodged itself deep in my index finger.
Saber’s smile dropped, eyes going wide, as his face snapped to me.
“I’m okay, I’m okay, it’s just a prick,” I said, sticking my finger in my mouth. It was just a prick, but it was bleeding a decent amount.
My father had bled out quickly.
“Let me see,” Saber whispered, gently reaching forward.
I hesitated, but gave him my hand. He held it gently, skin warm in a cold sort of way, like being submerged in icy waters for so long that it became second nature. I couldn’t tell if he was shielding his magical signature, or if it was just that weak.
His golden eyes flickered red, like fresh blood splattered on coins. He took a shuddering breath, lips parted, holding my hand a bit tighter.
I swallowed. “Saber. My blood is toxic to vampires.”
He glanced up at me curiously.
“B-but I’m sure a drop or two won’t hurt you,” I whispered.
In which Brian and Saber have their first proper discussion
Part 1 of 3
Content: Mention of captivity and torture, mention of genocide (planet destruction, dying species), mention of familial death
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I woke up sweaty and scared. The memories burned into my mind were already fading, to the point where I couldn’t tell what exactly they had been: my father’s death, my first wartime experience, any of the many times I had been held captive, some random amalgamation of fears and hopes.
The room wasn’t entirely dark. Aside from the gentle amber light of a bundle of star-shaped string lights, my own UV-sensitive eyes gave off a faint white glow.
Helion had been a bright planet. Even in the night. Bright and warm. So creatures like me, even with my Earthen Gemheart genetics, weren’t meant for the dark. Or for the colder northern lands.
Sometimes I wondered how, or why, I ended up in Frosted Web.
I put on my slippers and the silk-like robe I had gotten from my only visit to Helion; a soft and gentle material colored a sort of periwinkle or thistle purple. I kept glancing back at Darkin’s sleeping form as I carefully gathered up my sewing project. My steps were nearly silent on the old wooden floors as I softly exited our bedroom.
The hallway was brighter, sparsely lit with sconces that gave off warm light. I let out a breath, leaning on the wall, feeling the smooth wallpaper behind me, holding my sewing project to my chest.
Once I regained my breath, I padded down the hallway. I was going to just sit in the lounge, but as I got there I saw a bright, flickering light from downstairs. There was a fire built in the great room. I cautiously walked down the stairs, creaking below my feet, and found a not-yet-familiar black-haired figured sitting on one of the sofas.
“...Saber?” I softly said.
He jumped in his seat, spinning around in shock.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “I thought you would hear me. Or smell me. Lost in thought?”
Saber looked down, humming, turning back towards the fire. He was dressed in a shift-like cotton night dress, with a knitted blanket tucked over his legs. His inky black braid, slightly frazzled, hung weakly over one shoulder.
“May I sit?” I quietly asked, standing beside the sofa.
Saber nodded, looking perhaps a bit dumbfounded.
I sat, putting my sewing project in my lap. “Bad dreams?” I guessed.
Saber hummed an affirmative.
“Me too,” I sighed, mindlessly picking at the edge of the unfinished fabric.
Saber looked curiously at it, golden eyes dancing across the cuneiform script, trying to read it but being unsuccessful; yet recognizing it. “Helionian,” he softly said, with a note of fascination.
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I… only visited Helion once. It was, um…. It was destroyed… maybe 15, 20, years ago.”
I could’ve heard Saber’s heart break. “Please don’t look at me like that,” I whispered towards his stricken expression. “It was never really home to me. I feel very little kinship. No doubt helped by the fact that I… have never met another P’ral. Aside from the visit to Helion. But that was….” I looked away from him, ignoring the ache in my soul. My grandfather had been a P’ral; but I knew him only from my father’s stories, an old painting, and a gravestone.
I had never gotten to see the land of Gemhearts in its heyday. But I had seen Helion in its heyday. But I had Gemheart friends. I had no P’ral friends.
As far as I knew, my brother and I were the last remnants of P’ral blood.
It was awfully lonely, being a member of two of the rarest species.
“Can you speak it?” Saber’s voice surprised me, quiet but weighted.
“I‒ I think so,” I whispered, choking. Saber stared at me gently, expectantly. I took a breath and unfolded the piece of paper that acted as my guide for the cuneiform I was so delicately stitching. The only Helionian I knew. I spoke it softly, less as what it was meant to be and more as a poem, some string of words that hardly meant anything to me and yet meant everything.
“It’s a prayer,” Saber breathed when I finished. “Isn’t it?”
“...Yes,” I whispered, voice thick. “O sir Kendu, guardian of the golden pelt, bless this hunt, that we may walk freely across your fields, and return to our homes with bounty a-plenty, that we shall not hunger.”
“A hunting prayer,” Saber hummed curiously, looking me up and down, no doubt wondering how much of a hunter I was. “Kendu?”
I shrugged. “As far as I learned, he’s a sort of… hunting god. Or, hero. Something of that ilk. When…. When my brother and I were there… they called us Kenduan. I don’t know what it means. But I know it feels right.”
Saber lightly shrugged. “Perhaps that is all that matters.”
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There came a rhythmic beeping from the front door. It took Isaiah a full second to register it as the code lock on the front door of the safehouse. They fumbled for their fancy new gun, checking the magazine and turning off the safety, rounding on the door just as it opened.
Their breath caught in their throat at what their eyes met: a boy, 14 but looking younger, with warm white skin and short brown hair. The boy wore what Isaiah roughly recognized as a military uniform of sorts, with khaki pants and well-worn brown boots peeking from under the boy’s knee-length black coat. Strapped across his chest, there was a briefcase of sorts, and he also carried a well-worn grey and black bag on his back. To Isaiah’s surprise, the knees of the khaki combat pants were patched in a decorative manner, and there were beads on the otherwise plain black laces. He knew boots like that. The laces were round and brown, not black and flat.
The most striking detail of the young stranger was his eyes. Even from the distance, Isaiah could tell that the boy had heterochromia. Segmental. Blue and brown. He immediately saw the boy’s mother in his eyes, which made his breath and hands shudder. He clicked the gun’s safety back on.
“Hello, Isaiah of Shinar,” I smiled at my brother.
