SUPPLICATION
Written on October 1, 2021 (♎︎︎)
Author's Notes: Written for Whumptober 2021 for prompt No. 1: All Trussed Up and Nowhere to Go (Bound).
Even when it became clear that he was not going to break free of his bonds, Messam pulled at them at regular intervals, trying to force feeling back into his hands. As philosophical as he'd managed to be about the rest of it, not having a sense for where his fingers were unnerved him. If they had dislocated anything in the midst of tossing him about, he wanted to know. He didn't want to be in a situation where he couldn't hold a sword when whomever it was finally came for him.
He wondered who it would be. He was in Gallione, so it would stand to reason there'd be a Beoulve mixed up in it somewhere. It was strange, imagining himself cluttering up Igros like the Northern Sky had cluttered up Limberry a few seasons prior. He wondered if there would be some painfully awkward attempt at humor on Zalbag's part about the reversal of their positions—an eastern hero suddenly having to make do amidst western hospitality.
As so many pinpricks of sensation stabbed through Messam's wrists, he thought he saw something wavering in the stale, dry air above him—as if all the little shadows that float in the vision of a man staring too long into a light had taken on a more definitive weight and passed out of the realm of the illusory. The rotted timbers of the little fort seemed as if they were swelling for a moment. He closed his eyes, and he felt the drunken weight of his own nausea and vertigo come upon him as he spun and swam in the dark.
It had become pleasant to speculate about unpleasant conversations. He was on the verge of having fantasies of politics even. He thought of the trite speeches he would have to make in thanks to the Duke–of how he'd doubtless have to engage in pleasantries with Zalbag's unpleasant brother. He thought of having to ride home and to describe the courage of so many noblemen's sons, who died out in Mandalia with all the gracelessness he'd expected of the age.
His thoughts wandered. His breath stilled. When the door finally creaked open, he was far removed from the thudding of boots and the raising of voices. He had given himself over to begging the Saint for succor, and he had fallen back into darkness in want of a reply.
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