And to think, he’d come to Eiselcross thinking it would be safer. Maybe Vurmas would have been. Maybe if Essek had gotten there, it would have been the shelter from his many, many enemies he’d hoped. It seemed like such a good plan, to go somewhere teleportation would be fraught. The risk of the journey had seemed worth it. Face down in the snow, held down by both an anti-magic field and the iron grip of the Scourgers, he sees his possibilities for escape slipping away. He struggles, tries to writhe away. They are stronger than he is, stronger than his desperation. He feels cold metal snap around his wrists, feels something arcane flair and then sink its tendrils into him. Feels the oily slick of anti-magic again, this time closer to his skin. The field dissipates, and one of the dead eyed assassins presses her sand filled hand to Essek’s forehead. Essek spits on her boots before the spell drags him into unconsciousness. -- Sleep is a stranger to Essek, and so waking is a terrifying, disorienting thing. The muddled thoughts, the lost time, he is a panicking stranger to it. He tries to get his bearings, but the light in here is blinding, and he can barely keep his eyes open. He tries to lift his arm to shield himself, but it is held fast to his side. He tries the other arm, then his legs, but all are held tight to something unyielding at his back. “Guten Morgen, Shadowhand Thelyss.” That voice. No. Panic empties all rational thought from his head. He wrenches at his bindings like a trapped animal, but all he manages is to tear the skin over his wrists. He hears the click of a tongue, tutting. “How unbecoming.” Essek hears footsteps, fine slippers on stone, and tries to open his eyes again. He squints against the light, and can just make out a man, now leaning over him. Trent Ikithon. “I’m sure you think you’ve outlived your usefulness, ja?” A smile, cold like a corpse in rictus, splits the Archmage’s face. “You haven’t. There is one last use I have for you.” Information, Essek assumes. One last chance at intelligence. Wring him for all he knowns before putting him down. There was a time he would gladly have turned coat to save his skin, but not for Ikithon. Never for him. Essek opens his mouth, ready to spit the foulest invective he can muster, but no sound comes out. He’s been silenced. As a precaution against casting, certainly, but if he cannot speak then he cannot spill his secrets. Horror chills Essek. If that’s not what Ikithon wants, then what? -- The pain is expected. He was warned that capture and torture was a risk, however remote it had seemed at the time, in accepting the position of Shadowhand. What preparation there was, what training he could have, he’d done, as the Crown required. Those sessions, in hindsight, were laughably tame in comparison to the real thing. As if a papercut could prepare him for a moorbounder’s claws. The pain is expected, but pain is not a currency in which Essek has often traded so directly, and it consumes him. Drives thought from his mind, giving his body over to helpless, useless reflex. He struggles and gasps and cries. Screams, begs, promises silently. Ikithon is a master, weaving magic that plucks at Essek one nerve at a time. Essek had expected knives, whips, the craven brutality the Dusk Captain’s surrogates warned of, but so far, the only blood that’s been spilled, Essek drew himself, trying to flee from his own flesh against unforgiving iron. He doubts that will last. Ikithon strikes him as something of a generalist when it comes to causing suffering. Ikithon still hasn’t asked him a single question. He speaks, occasionally, but Essek can’t focus, can’t understand him. In the small parts of him still capable of thought, he just wishes he’d shut up, because every so often, his voice strikes a syllable just so, and conjures something worse than agony. Because, blinded by light and half deafened by pain, occasionally Ikithon sounds like Caleb to Essek’s ears, and thinking of Caleb feels too much like hope for him to bear.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: Inspired by the above fill, Trent Ikithon/Essek Theylss dark, tw torture, noncon
Date: 2021-08-16 02:43 am (UTC)Maybe Vurmas would have been. Maybe if Essek had gotten there, it would have been the shelter from his many, many enemies he’d hoped. It seemed like such a good plan, to go somewhere teleportation would be fraught. The risk of the journey had seemed worth it.
Face down in the snow, held down by both an anti-magic field and the iron grip of the Scourgers, he sees his possibilities for escape slipping away. He struggles, tries to writhe away. They are stronger than he is, stronger than his desperation. He feels cold metal snap around his wrists, feels something arcane flair and then sink its tendrils into him. Feels the oily slick of anti-magic again, this time closer to his skin. The field dissipates, and one of the dead eyed assassins presses her sand filled hand to Essek’s forehead.
Essek spits on her boots before the spell drags him into unconsciousness.
--
Sleep is a stranger to Essek, and so waking is a terrifying, disorienting thing. The muddled thoughts, the lost time, he is a panicking stranger to it. He tries to get his bearings, but the light in here is blinding, and he can barely keep his eyes open. He tries to lift his arm to shield himself, but it is held fast to his side. He tries the other arm, then his legs, but all are held tight to something unyielding at his back.
“Guten Morgen, Shadowhand Thelyss.”
That voice.
No.
Panic empties all rational thought from his head. He wrenches at his bindings like a trapped animal, but all he manages is to tear the skin over his wrists. He hears the click of a tongue, tutting.
“How unbecoming.”
Essek hears footsteps, fine slippers on stone, and tries to open his eyes again. He squints against the light, and can just make out a man, now leaning over him.
Trent Ikithon.
“I’m sure you think you’ve outlived your usefulness, ja?” A smile, cold like a corpse in rictus, splits the Archmage’s face. “You haven’t. There is one last use I have for you.”
Information, Essek assumes. One last chance at intelligence. Wring him for all he knowns before putting him down. There was a time he would gladly have turned coat to save his skin, but not for Ikithon. Never for him.
Essek opens his mouth, ready to spit the foulest invective he can muster, but no sound comes out.
He’s been silenced. As a precaution against casting, certainly, but if he cannot speak then he cannot spill his secrets.
Horror chills Essek.
If that’s not what Ikithon wants, then what?
--
The pain is expected.
He was warned that capture and torture was a risk, however remote it had seemed at the time, in accepting the position of Shadowhand. What preparation there was, what training he could have, he’d done, as the Crown required.
Those sessions, in hindsight, were laughably tame in comparison to the real thing. As if a papercut could prepare him for a moorbounder’s claws.
The pain is expected, but pain is not a currency in which Essek has often traded so directly, and it consumes him. Drives thought from his mind, giving his body over to helpless, useless reflex. He struggles and gasps and cries. Screams, begs, promises silently.
Ikithon is a master, weaving magic that plucks at Essek one nerve at a time. Essek had expected knives, whips, the craven brutality the Dusk Captain’s surrogates warned of, but so far, the only blood that’s been spilled, Essek drew himself, trying to flee from his own flesh against unforgiving iron.
He doubts that will last. Ikithon strikes him as something of a generalist when it comes to causing suffering.
Ikithon still hasn’t asked him a single question. He speaks, occasionally, but Essek can’t focus, can’t understand him. In the small parts of him still capable of thought, he just wishes he’d shut up, because every so often, his voice strikes a syllable just so, and conjures something worse than agony.
Because, blinded by light and half deafened by pain, occasionally Ikithon sounds like Caleb to Essek’s ears, and thinking of Caleb feels too much like hope for him to bear.