Where I Stand

Yet Broken, Still You Breathe

Aiden is not dead.

His head throbs. The smell of blood and piss lies thick in the air, the acrid scent overwhelming his senses and making his stomach churn. He can taste more blood in his mouth, and some sitting damp and sticky in his shirt, plastering Aiden's hair against his neck and forehead along with mud and grime.

Everything fucking hurts. Everything also seems foggy which is a bad sign because that means he's either bleeding out or has been drugged, neither of which are preferable. His hands are bound behind him with a thick, coarse rope, as well as his ankles.

Groaning, Aiden tries to sit up. Vertigo immediately hits him like a wave and falls back against the meager pile of hay he'd been lying on. He has to take a few deep breaths to recover from the feeling, and instead settles for lying on his side with his eyes open and attempting to take in his surroundings as his vision shifts in and out of focus.

He's in a small dark room made of dirt and stone, a basement by the looks of it. There's a bucket in the corner and a heavy iron door off to one side with a tiny sliver of light coming from the crack between it and the floor. On the other side of the door, he can just make out a few muffled voices.

"--I don't see what good he'll do if other witchers show up at my door looking for him."

A voice, low and raspy. Whoever it is, the speaker has the lilt of someone well educated.

"You don't have to worry about that--" A second voice, but this one Aiden recognizes. Jad Karadin.

"Yes, but you witchers can be frustratingly persistent. Someone will come looking for his medallion eventually."

"Not if he's not wearing it--"

Panic hammers in Aiden's chest as he realizes the familiar weight of his Cat School medallion is missing.

"--I'll leave it with his armour, tell people that he was killed completing a contract. He'll be dead in a day or two anyway. No one will know the difference."

Fuck. No, no, no, this is not good.

"Hmmm. I suppose that works. Very well then, I'll take him off your hands. He's bound to prove useful for a few tests before he expires, and afterwards I can always dissect the body. Perhaps I can harvest something for my potions."

Harvest. Like he's some animal being traded for parts. Dread pools in Aiden's stomach. He feels like he's going to throw up.

There's the sound of coins being exchanged, then approaching footsteps. Aiden's heart hammers in his chest and he struggles in his bindings, fighting the waves of nausea that come with the movement. He needs to get out of here, and fast. Tugging with all the strength he can muster; Aiden manages to loosen the ropes on his ankles enough to shift one foot upwards. If he can just get it to give a little more, then maybe he can slide one foot out and stand up.

The door swings open, and light fills the tiny room, blinding him. Aiden flinches, squeezing his eyes (or eye, as he remembers with a sick feeling) shut, and curls in on himself.

A man stands in the doorway, dressed in fine silk robes, with a well manicured goatee and salt and pepper hair that's combed back neatly. His eyes are alight with intrigue.

"You're awake," he says, something akin to surprise in his voice. He calmly goes over to where Aiden is curled on the floor. "How fascinating. I knew a witcher would be resistant to my sedative, but this is truly remarkable."

The man leans over him, extending a hand and Aiden growls, fighting against his restraints. He does not want this man to touch him, but he can't seem to do much to fight him off other than snap his teeth and hope he bites down hard enough to deter the action. The man moves surprisingly fast for a human, keeping his fingers just out of Aiden's reach, lips curling in amusement. He grabs Aiden by the jaw and forces his head back until they're eye to eye.