Blue skies stretched on over the horizon, the sun set high at its peak. It was just transitioning to the afternoon, where warmth replaced the cool morning air and colored the world in bright and saturated hues. The salt-filled breeze brushed over tanned skin, gently disrupting short, coarse hairs against his scalp. The grass was soft and moist beneath, cradling his head and tired body. His breaths drew in and out with ease, even and relaxed.
It was perfect. He could lay here forever and never tire of it. If only time would stand still.
“Jude--!â€
Musical and playful, her voice was, albeit distant. The footfalls approaching were light like a dancer’s, coming closer still until he could feel the presence of another’s foot near either side of him.
His eyelids parted open into warm slits of crimson. There, above him, was her silhouette, the light behind her blinding him from making out her features. But he hardly needed to see her to know who it was. The shape of her wisping locks of raven hair were enough, her ears alert, fluttering slightly each time the wind caressed one.
“Jude,†more audible, it came, the tone almost chiding, though full of humor and warmth. “Wake up now. We have to go back.†He felt her bare fingers touch his face, the pads of her digits running over the scarring over his features. There was blood on her touch as she drew back, but for some reason this didn’t alarm him.
“Wake up…,†she repeated softly, a little more pleading. He didn’t understand; he was far from asleep by now, being able to watch her contently as he was, regardless if she was veiled in the blinding sun. But, for some reason, he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t find the strength or will to move...
“Wake up!†An order now. Almost desperate. Her hands were on his chest, shaking him slightly. He couldn’t reach out to her. She started beating on his torso with balled fists. His breaths were growing anxious, the situation slowly sinking in, filling him with anxiety. “Wake up!â€
Why couldn’t she see he was awake? Why couldn’t he reassure her he was alright? And most of all, why couldn’t he move?!
“w A k E   u P - - - !†Her words screeched against the sudden gale that tore through, piercing his ears, ringing in an echo as she screamed.
It seemed to tear the very foundation from their feet, the light behind her engulfing their surroundings like a blast. He wanted to press his hands to his ears and squeeze his eyes shut, but all he could do was stare in horror as her form was revealed in the flash. Some gray creature, with nothing but whites in her traumatized gaze, jaw stretching off her face until it was peeling off the weathered, bloated corpse that she was...
- - - -
Anchor jarred awake against the floor in a cold sweat, eyes wide and reflecting the same horror at what he had just witnessed. His irises were brighter than usual, but slowly dimmed as he drew in ragged, shuddering inhales.
A whispered curse passed his lips as he reached up shakily, chains dragging from the restraints against his wrists. His quaking fingers raked through his coarse, black hair before sliding back down his flushed and contorted features. A dry swallow then, pressing a palm to the cold earth to push himself up.
It was an effort; he was still incredibly weak after the second fight. The poison wielder had been more of a challenge than the pirate had hoped and left him terribly dehydrated after his body had expelled much fluid trying to rid itself of the toxins his knife-like nails had produced.
Though… he supposed he himself was to blame for half of it; using his own poisonous body to end the bastard’s life. It earned him his victory, but the cost was great. In this condition, he wasn’t sure if he’d have the strength to contend. Not like this.
[“He’s had a good run so far… but may I suggest enhancements at this point?â€]
Nagakane’s words floated into his memory like an echo. Anchor’s fingers curled into weak, trembling fists. His body was already ailing from the years in the mines from years past. What would something like this do to him? He felt... nervous. And he hated it. He hated feeling that familiar sensation of uncertainty when it came to him and his own. It was his life. It was his body. It was his.
[“... You will understand one thing.â€]
It was Elam’s voice now that came to surface. Anchor could still feel the throbbing pain against his throat as the other’s fingers dug in against it from under the metal circlet, squeezing along the fresh gashes from his recent fight. He could still smell Grave’s breath hissing against his skin,
[Your life is mine. The moment you betrayed me, then walked right back into my den trying to protect some helpless doe that was mine for the taking. You just haven’t realized it yet. You will kill for me. Someday soon,]
[“Even that doe.â€]
Anchor’s fists slammed into the cavern floor. It hurt. He didn’t care. Even though the words had passed, he still felt the same anger that had nearly taken him all over again. His breaths shook from his nostrils, growing in intensity until he growled in frustration. His temper threw him into a fit.
He raked his heels along the ground away from from the cavern wall his ankles and wrists were chained to. The metal dug into his already raw skin as he thrashed and yanked, as if he’d somehow break from the very earth it was embedded in. Grunts and seethes of frustration poured from his lips and between his gritted teeth. His pale, sick flesh went flush for his effort. His body contorted this way and that, twisting legs and shoulders in a mad lash like some wild animal. At some point, Anchor released some violent outcry while he jerked repeatedly against his restraints.
His legs gave out.
Anchor’s knees collided into the ground, his rasping roar weathering into pained and exhausted gasps. He still pulled desperately, though with less ferocity, with what strength he had left in his torso and arms. The rattling of the chains went on for a few more minutes, before gradually stilling, replaced with the sound of his harsh and labored breaths.
He stared out towards the cell bars in front of him, eyes wide with the recent, blind madness as his visible breaths panted out and dispersed into the cold air around him. But Anchor’s disposition twisted slowly; brows creasing over the anguished lines against his forehead.
He felt it suddenly…
That dreadful feeling he never wanted to feel again. The feeling that kept him submissive for years in That Place. The feeling of control being ripped from his fingertips.
Helpless.
And SLAM went his head. He had dipped it suddenly, letting his forehead collide into the ground punishingly. That awful feeling passed. Because to hell with it. He was not a child. And he was most definitely not a slave. Not to his past, and certainly not now. To Hells with Shael. To Hells with Elam Grave. He couldn’t trust either of them and he certainly couldn’t count on another to pull him through the gutter that was this world. He didn’t get this far riding on coattails or having his hand held through the darkness. Anchor dragged himself tooth and nail; through blood, piss, and shit.
Anchor was still breathing laboriously as he lifted his bruising head off from the stone below. There was still a madness to his countenance as he lifted a palm to his mouth, wiping away the slaver and sweat there from his recent fit. His hand lingered over his lips, eyes darting about searchingly.
If Elam Grave could not stand on equal ground with him... If they could not work together... Then he would have to die. Just as all others that got in his way. He would godsdamn crush him and whatever he was trying to build here. He would tear everything from his fucking greedy fingers…
...But how…?
There was a flicker in his peripheral, beckoning for his attention like the dull light of a firefly. His jaw set slowly as his gaze panned over, breaths easing from his nose as his palm slowly lowered from his features and back to the cavern floor. It slid over with a light rake of chains following behind, his fingers outstretching to the small little crystal embedded into the earth there.
The tip of his calloused, grimy digit made contact tentatively, like testing the temperature of a stagnant pool of water. He traced the shape down, following the veins that had become a familiar sight in this mountain. It was gentle, the way his finger drew over the patterns, going from one crystal to the next, towards his side and behind him and back to the wall where they seemed all the more abundant. Anchor’s form rotated in place to follow, palms sliding up the walls and over, eyes flickering over the different portions of the cavern wall like it were a canvas and he was the hungry artist trying to decide where to start.
All of these… they all went through these caverns. They might stretch through the entirety and beyond. An odd smile quirked up Anchor’s lips on one end.
More intently, he pressed his palms against the wall, brows drawing together. Sweat beaded from his temple and slid down the dark and purple bruises marring half his features. His breathing picked up again and an unearthly static sparked between his knuckles and contact along the crystals and stone.
[“...Another use of such ability will kill him.â€]
Anchor paused, that energy in the air fizzling out as more of Nagakane’s words seeped into his thoughts. He pulled his touch away slowly, looking down at his trembling hands. They weren’t shaking from fear or rage. It was simply strain and the pain wracking his abused form. That’s right. He was far too weak. He didn’t have enough within him. Yet.
A soft exhale puffed out of his nostrils and, after a moment of reluctance, Anchor turned from the wall and let his scarred back lean against it instead. Not yet. But soon. He supposed he would get whatever enhancements Elam Grave and the Curator spoke of. And then…
Then he would show them what the monster they created could do.
It was perfect. He could lay here forever and never tire of it. If only time would stand still.
“Jude--!â€
Musical and playful, her voice was, albeit distant. The footfalls approaching were light like a dancer’s, coming closer still until he could feel the presence of another’s foot near either side of him.
His eyelids parted open into warm slits of crimson. There, above him, was her silhouette, the light behind her blinding him from making out her features. But he hardly needed to see her to know who it was. The shape of her wisping locks of raven hair were enough, her ears alert, fluttering slightly each time the wind caressed one.
“Jude,†more audible, it came, the tone almost chiding, though full of humor and warmth. “Wake up now. We have to go back.†He felt her bare fingers touch his face, the pads of her digits running over the scarring over his features. There was blood on her touch as she drew back, but for some reason this didn’t alarm him.
“Wake up…,†she repeated softly, a little more pleading. He didn’t understand; he was far from asleep by now, being able to watch her contently as he was, regardless if she was veiled in the blinding sun. But, for some reason, he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t find the strength or will to move...
“Wake up!†An order now. Almost desperate. Her hands were on his chest, shaking him slightly. He couldn’t reach out to her. She started beating on his torso with balled fists. His breaths were growing anxious, the situation slowly sinking in, filling him with anxiety. “Wake up!â€
Why couldn’t she see he was awake? Why couldn’t he reassure her he was alright? And most of all, why couldn’t he move?!
“w A k E   u P - - - !†Her words screeched against the sudden gale that tore through, piercing his ears, ringing in an echo as she screamed.
It seemed to tear the very foundation from their feet, the light behind her engulfing their surroundings like a blast. He wanted to press his hands to his ears and squeeze his eyes shut, but all he could do was stare in horror as her form was revealed in the flash. Some gray creature, with nothing but whites in her traumatized gaze, jaw stretching off her face until it was peeling off the weathered, bloated corpse that she was...
- - - -
Anchor jarred awake against the floor in a cold sweat, eyes wide and reflecting the same horror at what he had just witnessed. His irises were brighter than usual, but slowly dimmed as he drew in ragged, shuddering inhales.
A whispered curse passed his lips as he reached up shakily, chains dragging from the restraints against his wrists. His quaking fingers raked through his coarse, black hair before sliding back down his flushed and contorted features. A dry swallow then, pressing a palm to the cold earth to push himself up.
It was an effort; he was still incredibly weak after the second fight. The poison wielder had been more of a challenge than the pirate had hoped and left him terribly dehydrated after his body had expelled much fluid trying to rid itself of the toxins his knife-like nails had produced.
Though… he supposed he himself was to blame for half of it; using his own poisonous body to end the bastard’s life. It earned him his victory, but the cost was great. In this condition, he wasn’t sure if he’d have the strength to contend. Not like this.
[“He’s had a good run so far… but may I suggest enhancements at this point?â€]
Nagakane’s words floated into his memory like an echo. Anchor’s fingers curled into weak, trembling fists. His body was already ailing from the years in the mines from years past. What would something like this do to him? He felt... nervous. And he hated it. He hated feeling that familiar sensation of uncertainty when it came to him and his own. It was his life. It was his body. It was his.
[“... You will understand one thing.â€]
It was Elam’s voice now that came to surface. Anchor could still feel the throbbing pain against his throat as the other’s fingers dug in against it from under the metal circlet, squeezing along the fresh gashes from his recent fight. He could still smell Grave’s breath hissing against his skin,
[Your life is mine. The moment you betrayed me, then walked right back into my den trying to protect some helpless doe that was mine for the taking. You just haven’t realized it yet. You will kill for me. Someday soon,]
[“Even that doe.â€]
Anchor’s fists slammed into the cavern floor. It hurt. He didn’t care. Even though the words had passed, he still felt the same anger that had nearly taken him all over again. His breaths shook from his nostrils, growing in intensity until he growled in frustration. His temper threw him into a fit.
He raked his heels along the ground away from from the cavern wall his ankles and wrists were chained to. The metal dug into his already raw skin as he thrashed and yanked, as if he’d somehow break from the very earth it was embedded in. Grunts and seethes of frustration poured from his lips and between his gritted teeth. His pale, sick flesh went flush for his effort. His body contorted this way and that, twisting legs and shoulders in a mad lash like some wild animal. At some point, Anchor released some violent outcry while he jerked repeatedly against his restraints.
His legs gave out.
Anchor’s knees collided into the ground, his rasping roar weathering into pained and exhausted gasps. He still pulled desperately, though with less ferocity, with what strength he had left in his torso and arms. The rattling of the chains went on for a few more minutes, before gradually stilling, replaced with the sound of his harsh and labored breaths.
He stared out towards the cell bars in front of him, eyes wide with the recent, blind madness as his visible breaths panted out and dispersed into the cold air around him. But Anchor’s disposition twisted slowly; brows creasing over the anguished lines against his forehead.
He felt it suddenly…
That dreadful feeling he never wanted to feel again. The feeling that kept him submissive for years in That Place. The feeling of control being ripped from his fingertips.
Helpless.
And SLAM went his head. He had dipped it suddenly, letting his forehead collide into the ground punishingly. That awful feeling passed. Because to hell with it. He was not a child. And he was most definitely not a slave. Not to his past, and certainly not now. To Hells with Shael. To Hells with Elam Grave. He couldn’t trust either of them and he certainly couldn’t count on another to pull him through the gutter that was this world. He didn’t get this far riding on coattails or having his hand held through the darkness. Anchor dragged himself tooth and nail; through blood, piss, and shit.
Anchor was still breathing laboriously as he lifted his bruising head off from the stone below. There was still a madness to his countenance as he lifted a palm to his mouth, wiping away the slaver and sweat there from his recent fit. His hand lingered over his lips, eyes darting about searchingly.
If Elam Grave could not stand on equal ground with him... If they could not work together... Then he would have to die. Just as all others that got in his way. He would godsdamn crush him and whatever he was trying to build here. He would tear everything from his fucking greedy fingers…
...But how…?
There was a flicker in his peripheral, beckoning for his attention like the dull light of a firefly. His jaw set slowly as his gaze panned over, breaths easing from his nose as his palm slowly lowered from his features and back to the cavern floor. It slid over with a light rake of chains following behind, his fingers outstretching to the small little crystal embedded into the earth there.
The tip of his calloused, grimy digit made contact tentatively, like testing the temperature of a stagnant pool of water. He traced the shape down, following the veins that had become a familiar sight in this mountain. It was gentle, the way his finger drew over the patterns, going from one crystal to the next, towards his side and behind him and back to the wall where they seemed all the more abundant. Anchor’s form rotated in place to follow, palms sliding up the walls and over, eyes flickering over the different portions of the cavern wall like it were a canvas and he was the hungry artist trying to decide where to start.
All of these… they all went through these caverns. They might stretch through the entirety and beyond. An odd smile quirked up Anchor’s lips on one end.
More intently, he pressed his palms against the wall, brows drawing together. Sweat beaded from his temple and slid down the dark and purple bruises marring half his features. His breathing picked up again and an unearthly static sparked between his knuckles and contact along the crystals and stone.
[“...Another use of such ability will kill him.â€]
Anchor paused, that energy in the air fizzling out as more of Nagakane’s words seeped into his thoughts. He pulled his touch away slowly, looking down at his trembling hands. They weren’t shaking from fear or rage. It was simply strain and the pain wracking his abused form. That’s right. He was far too weak. He didn’t have enough within him. Yet.
A soft exhale puffed out of his nostrils and, after a moment of reluctance, Anchor turned from the wall and let his scarred back lean against it instead. Not yet. But soon. He supposed he would get whatever enhancements Elam Grave and the Curator spoke of. And then…
Then he would show them what the monster they created could do.
Anchor's tumblr
Warning: will contain nsfw material, dark themes, and other mature content.Â
