Physically weak, mentally diminished, Kahn'a found the strength to send the most pious of prayer to Menphina. He was by no means a firm believer, but if there were immaterial guardians, surely the Lover could take him in pity. What good was the harsh training men received if their resolve, their determination could be swayed so easily? What good was loyalty if the hand that fed you eventually balled into a vengeful fist?
What good...
What good...
What good was a life of pain when ceasing to exist sounded much easier?
...
No.
His distress was poisoning his mind much like water would end up poisoning his lungs, if breathed in. How to stop it? The harsh Hyur figure standing there, slightly bent towards him, awaiting his answer. She was both saviour and executioner. No, she could be either. She could make it stop. Through messy eyes, he took the whole scene in. This unnatural room. The absence of natural. The very natural and distressing noise of water slowly dripping from him. The feeling of having a hundred snakes slithering down his skin. He shivered uncontrollably.
Kahn'a wanted it to stop.
She spoke. Gibberish Kahn'a could not make out, his tormented mind too busy drowning in endless depths. Quaking with a fear without a name, he brought his eyes to her perfectly apathetic face. There was nothing that spoke of compassion, of grace. What had he imagine? That his suffering would break a heart or two?
Inconceivable. The were hired thugs with official garb, that was the true nature of the Flames.
"I-" His voice was strangled, he had the hardest time forming words. "Why had I lingered in town, if not to turn myself i-in?!" he yelled with wrong intonations. This was a lie, concealed under questionable bluff. "I wanted to save my skin, s-s-so I drew attention to myself! Pl-please, I'll say anything you want, but no more water-"
And as if the single word had become a powerful trigger, Kahn'a screamed in despair. He looked every bit the challenged individual, rocking in his chair, ready for anything to make his pain stop.
...
'Don't give in, help is coming, stay strong.'
...
The world blinked as a clear voice started speaking those words to him. Grunting out of surprise, he spun in his chair as much as he could, trying to get a look at that new cruel being. A cruel one who dared give him hope. And whose voice was known to him, but the tones remained buried deep down in his mind, locked tight under what little protection he could offer his mind. It was right though. Kahn'a had to live. He had to resist. He cast an appalled look at Kresha, shaking with sobs.
"D-don't do it again! I'll say anything, anything you want to hear, but I beg of you, no more. Make it stop!"
Perhaps a tiny part of him started clutching those words as the those of the saviour. Don't give in. Don't give in. Don't give in...
Carry on.
What good...
What good...
What good was a life of pain when ceasing to exist sounded much easier?
...
No.
His distress was poisoning his mind much like water would end up poisoning his lungs, if breathed in. How to stop it? The harsh Hyur figure standing there, slightly bent towards him, awaiting his answer. She was both saviour and executioner. No, she could be either. She could make it stop. Through messy eyes, he took the whole scene in. This unnatural room. The absence of natural. The very natural and distressing noise of water slowly dripping from him. The feeling of having a hundred snakes slithering down his skin. He shivered uncontrollably.
Kahn'a wanted it to stop.
She spoke. Gibberish Kahn'a could not make out, his tormented mind too busy drowning in endless depths. Quaking with a fear without a name, he brought his eyes to her perfectly apathetic face. There was nothing that spoke of compassion, of grace. What had he imagine? That his suffering would break a heart or two?
Inconceivable. The were hired thugs with official garb, that was the true nature of the Flames.
"I-" His voice was strangled, he had the hardest time forming words. "Why had I lingered in town, if not to turn myself i-in?!" he yelled with wrong intonations. This was a lie, concealed under questionable bluff. "I wanted to save my skin, s-s-so I drew attention to myself! Pl-please, I'll say anything you want, but no more water-"
And as if the single word had become a powerful trigger, Kahn'a screamed in despair. He looked every bit the challenged individual, rocking in his chair, ready for anything to make his pain stop.
...
'Don't give in, help is coming, stay strong.'
...
The world blinked as a clear voice started speaking those words to him. Grunting out of surprise, he spun in his chair as much as he could, trying to get a look at that new cruel being. A cruel one who dared give him hope. And whose voice was known to him, but the tones remained buried deep down in his mind, locked tight under what little protection he could offer his mind. It was right though. Kahn'a had to live. He had to resist. He cast an appalled look at Kresha, shaking with sobs.
"D-don't do it again! I'll say anything, anything you want to hear, but I beg of you, no more. Make it stop!"
Perhaps a tiny part of him started clutching those words as the those of the saviour. Don't give in. Don't give in. Don't give in...
Carry on.
