Lionhearts ||Skephalo||

32

Bad trembles, his wrists aching in the hold of one of the many brutes who seem to make it their sole responsibility to torture him. His voice is still held in, pure terror preventing him from making any sound, just like before.

He can't even thank Lum for helping him, or ask him to thank Assu for all her assistance. He knows he owes the two piglin his life, undoubtedly. He would be dead from dehydration or starvation if they hadn't helped, and the healing potion that Lum had slipped him was enough to keep him from bleeding out in the next 'session' he was subjected to; he realized he had brought it to him then specifically so he would be saved.

But as he listlessly feels metal bite into his skin, carving wounds that would inevitably heal over the next reprieve, he allows his mind to drift back to the...incident.

He can still feel warm fingers trace the scar from his arm breaking, feel his hair being lovingly touched by invisible hands.

He has felt them before, he's sure; he can remember feeling like he had heard a familiar voice that filled his heart with longing, but also a fiery resolve to make it through everything and get out alive.

Skeppy couldn't be here though.

He chokes slightly as his breath is knocked out of him, and he tries desperately to regain it before anything else can happen.

The now-familiar burn of a potion trickles down his back, and he hears a voice whisper to him, a voice that sounds like...

Coals. Ashes, burning branches. It sounds black, like charred remains. The description comes unbidden into his mind. It's like fire. It burns, and bites. This is...

But it changes as soon as he registers its burning cadence, to a smooth voice that reminds him of satin and silk.

"Darryl," it whispers, "Let me help you. Let me show you how to fight back against them." Bad shakes his head ever so slightly.

I'm not a fighter, I'm a healer, he thinks, but he can't make his mouth open or his voice form words. Likely for the best, he thinks wryly as he blacks out from the pain in his body. He can't even seem to scream anymore.

* * *

He lays on the ground, surrounded by what he thinks is snow at first— grey, sticky, dry snow. Quickly realizing it's ashes, he sits up and surveys the area.

All he can see are barren hills and charred trees around him, their blackened branches bare of leaves. The ground is coated in ash, inches thick and falling from the sunless sky. He strains his eyes, searching for any cloud or break in the darkened sky, but as far as he can see, this place is locked in a perpetual evening state, the sky filled with clouds of smoke and ash.

His breaths are short, trying not to inhale the thick, biting air.

"Darryl, let me out," the voice murmurs, and he turns, searching the source as he stands, brushing ash off him only to rub it into the fabric of his clothes and into his skin. "Let me help you and help me be free of this place. It's horrible here and only you can help me. In exchange I can free you. I can bring you to your loved one. We can both be free."

Though it sounds tempting, he clears his throat and rasps out,

"This is a place where demons would live." No answer from the mysterious speaker, who he can't seem to spot. "You speak like a demon, and offer what you know is my deepest desires. Who are you? And WHAT are you?"

Though he sometimes falsely gives the impression of being naive and a bit clueless, Bad is not stupid. His tone is sharp as he questions the speaker, and he waits for minutes without answer, pulling his scarf over his nose to breathe easier.