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Retreat, Hell - Episode 20.5
🕑 Added 2023-04-02 12:30:40 +0000 UTCA/N: Well, this one took longer than I expected. Work's been a lot busier than usual, and a few different points of banter between John and Tyriel were particularly troublesome.
Work is continuing to be busy, but Episode 21 is mostly written. There's still a couple spots that I'm really not happy with, and a couple scenes that need to be hammered out yet (and I have a growing suspicion that there's a couple I wasn't planning on that are about to pop up), but the bulk of the chapter is there.
Not much else to say on this one, so I'll leave it at that. Enjoy!
Retreat Hell – Episode 20.5
“How are you enjoying your new music selection?”
“A few pieces are tolerable. Scoobert has produced acceptable works, and Moriset is not a pain to listen to.” Tyriel frowned, considering. “There was one piece, by Far-renk, that was somewhat striking, but it was the only piece by that musician.”
“I’ll see if we can dig up some more of Far-renk’s work,” John said, making a note on is pad. “And how have your meals been?”
“They are fine, at least palatable.” He raised an eyebrow at the human. “Are your doctors going to poke me again?”
“They were just making sure you weren’t malnourished,” John said. “We have a responsibility to ensure you’re not going to starve.”
“You can ensure I won’t starve by returning me to my life in the Empire.”
John gave him a soft smile, and Tyriel scored himself a point. He tapped his pen on a new spot in his notebook. “What did you like most about your life in the Empire?”
Tyriel paused, considering. “The comforting certainty. And being able to visit Pelianor.” Here he goes again, using innocuous conversation to pry for details.
“How does the Empire provide you with certainty?”
“There is never any doubt. Everything is clear. All uncertainty is washed away.” The corner of his lips twitched up in a subtle smirk. “Some reveled in it too much, I think, and nary had a thought of their own. But the connection to that certainty, it was always a comfort, even among the few of us who volunteered to leave Pelianor.”
“And how many of you volunteered?” John asked.
Tyrial opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. How far have I let these questions go? He closed his mouth with a scowl. Too far. He drew a deep breath as he glared at John, anger flaring in his heart, at John, and especially at himself. “I know what you are doing. I know what game you are playing. I am not answering any more of your questions.”
“I’m not playing any games, Tyriel. I’m just trying to get to know you better. You said you volunteered to leave Pelianor. Did you do that on your own, or were you volunteering with friends?”
Lips pursed, Tyriel locked himself in place, staring at the wall behind John, and refused to answer. The human asked him a few more questions, but Tyriel tuned them out, refusing to allow himself to acknowledge them as anything more than droning noise.
After a few more attempts, John sat back. “Very well, then,” he said, closing his notebook. “We’re done here for today.” He stood up and walked out without another word.
Nine hundred twenty-two enki later, guards come in and collect Tyriel, shifting his shackles, they took him by the arms and escorted him from the room in silence.
Eight hundred and forty-three steps, seventeen left turns, and four right turns, and Tyriel was returned to his cell. He stared at the door frame as they removed his shackles, refusing to even acknowledge the presence of his guards beyond their physical interactions.
The humans were swift and efficient about their business. In moments the door to his cell swung shut, and he heard the locks clicking into place.
Narrowing his eyes at the door, he raised his nose and turned to his bunk. He only got a single step, before he froze. Something is wrong … He glanced about, searching for what was out of place, and his eyes landed on his pillow, with nothing lying atop it. Where is it? He checked under the pillow, then under the bed. Nothing.
His heart began to race as panic flared. “No, no …” Where is it?! He quickly tore apart the few furnishings in his cell, flinging mattress, blanket, and pillow against the wall, before picking the bedframe up and tipping it over with a cry of rage.
Panting, he paced back and forth. They’re punishing me. I didn’t answer them and now they’re punishing me.
Clenching his fists, he stopped, forcing himself to slow his breathing. They are trying to mess with you. Don’t let them get to you like this. He took a deep breath, relaxing his hands, and quietly set about putting his bunk back to rights. The mattress, blanket, and pillow calmly restored, he sat down, closing his eyes with another breath, and began to meditate.
Meals came and went, but the guards did not come and collect him the next day, or the next. Or the next. Only silence filled the room, and Tyriel felt the isolation pressing in on him.
Days passed. He sat alone in his cell, with only the sound of the tray slot three times a day.
Meditation provided some refuge, and helped to focus his mind, but try as he might, he could not block out the silence.
He became restless, and could not sit still. Frequently, he found himself pacing his cell, trying to find in motion what the stillness of meditation could not provide.
They’re testing me … I have to stay strong.
He turned away from the wall and walked to the other end of his cell. “Stay strong. Stay strong. They want to wrap you around their fingers.”
He turned again. That’s exactly what they’re doing. What you let them do.
He turned again. “I didn’t let them do anything. They forced me to play their games.”
He turned again. They barely touched you. No knives, no burning mana.
“I would welcome the knives,” he muttered, head down, walking away from the wall.
How weak am I? To fold over so easily, over a little silence?
“I am polygem! I have endured the soul-fracturing forging of a managem twice over! I rival the skill and power of archmages ten times my age, and more!”
Yet you are letting them drive you insane. Again.
“Stop talking to yourself! Aggh!”
He turned again, shouting at his empty cell, his breath ragged. What use is my magic if I can’t touch it? What use is any of this?
His eyes fell to the twisted blankets on his bed, and his certainty returned. There is no use.
Calmly, he strode forward and collected the blankets. He twisted and knotted them together, forming a crude rope with a loop on the end. Turning, he walked the short steps to the sink and wrapped his make-shift rope around it. He placed the loop around his neck and knelt down. Letting out his final breath, he sat back, using his body weight to draw the loop tight around his throat.
His lungs began to burn, and instinct overrode conscious choice, but it could not override his constricted throat. He was satisfied. The last sound he would hear was the knot tightening around his neck.
The locks rattled, and his sell door slammed open. Guards rush in, physically grabbing him and lifting him off the ground, and air rushed back into his lungs. He screamed, kicking and flailing. He cursed them, spat, tried to bite as if he were nothing more than a wild animal, but they ripped the improvised noose off his neck, and wrestled him to the ground. Pinned under their greater strength and weight, he struggled to the last of his energy.
His breath coming in ragged gasps, his limbs barely responding, he fell limp. They picked him up and set him on his bed. Restraints were strapped over his torso, while his arms and legs were shackled down. Verifying that he was secure, the humans left his cell. Several heartbeats later, the lights dimmed and went out.
Exhausted and unable to move, Tyriel stared up into the darkness in despair. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he quietly cried himself to sleep.
The next day, the lights came on, and the guards returned. They removed his restraints, and told him to stand up. They brought out his walking shackles, sparking a twinge of joy that John would be visiting him again, even as he hated himself for it.
The new restraints secured, they escorted him from his cell, and he meekly followed along.
Two hundred and eight steps, seven left turns, and eleven right turns later, and he was deposited in the interrogation room again.
Six hundred eighty-four enki later, the door opened and John came in. He sat down, opened his notebook, and pulled out a pen. Taking a calm breath, he looked up at him. “Are you ready to cooperate now, Tyriel?”
Tyriel stared back at him, slowly taking a deep breath. He held it for a long moment, then deflated in a gust. “Yes,” he said, fidgeting with his fingers and the chain that connected his wrists to his ankles. “I will answer questions.” He fidgeted for another moment, then looked up as he took another breath. “There are questions that I just cannot answer, but I will tell you about other things.”
“What other things, Tyriel?”
He considered for a moment. “I can give you details of basic magic principles. I am not an archmage, but every elf knows how to do magic, and every elf knows at least the basics of the fundaments of the universe.” He shifted again. “And as a polygem, I’ve learned much of the archmages’ spellworks, and a few that they don’t know.”
John flipped his notebook back to the front cover, where folded packets of paper were held in several sleeves. He selected one, pulled it out, and unfolded the paper. He glanced over it in silence for a moment, then flattened it in front of him, and turned his notebook to a fresh page.
Over the next two hours, John asked him a series of technical questions, on a variety of subjects. They were largely simple questions, but more advanced and pointed than Tyriel would have expected from them.
Jotting another note down, John clicked his pen and set it down inside his notebook. The paper with his list of questions returned to its sleeve, and John closed the book. “I’m afraid that’s all we have time for today, Tyriel, but I think I can use this to go to bat for you. Thank you.”
He stood up, taking his notebook with him, and walked out.
Several enki later, the guards came in, and he was escorted to his cell. He counted the steps and turns only by force of habit.
The door opened, and he was backed into his cell once again. He stared at the door frame as the guards removed his shackles, refusing to even acknowledge their presence beyond their physical interactions.
The humans were swift and efficient about their business. In moments the door to his cell swung shut, and he heard the locks clicking into place.
Taking a breath, he slowly turned around, then stopped, staring at his bunk.
There, on his pillow, was his MP3 player.
He swallowed, blinking back tears. Quietly, he walked over to his bed, and sat down. He sat there in silence for a long moment, staring at the door across from his cell.
As the ringing silence began to press in on him once more, he screwed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth, and slowly reached over to pick it up.
Opening his eyes, he pressed the button to turn it on, and watched as the screen went through its start-up display.
A new playlist had been added.
He leaned over until he was lying on his bed, curled in a ball, the MP3 player clutched to his chest, tears in his eyes at what he had sold himself to the savages for, and pressed Play.
Comments
Patticus
That was an incredible chapter. Honestly, I think these chapters with Tyriel are my favorite.
aerolyte
Isolationism can break someone who is not prepared for it.
