Split of the Worlds

Red Depths - Past - Part I

N'Arahn swallowed dust, scratchy, old dust. He wheezed; the position in which he was pinned to the ground did not allow him to breathe too deeply, let alone cough in relief. By now he was no longer struggling. His reserves of strength were almost exhausted, only his rage kept him from giving up completely.

Jazahr's shoes came into his field of vision, only the gray tips of the cloth loafers visible beneath the long dark hem of his master's robe. One of the intriguer's captains had grabbed N'Arahn's horns and was pulling his head back, his breathing becoming even more shallow.

Whatever was coming now, it wasn't going to be pretty. It was not the first time Jazahr had had him chastised, and this time it had only been because N'Arahn had not been quick enough to kneel before his master. The intriguer despised warmongers; why he had been assigned as adjutant to him of all lords, N'Arahn did not know. Perhaps a punishment for something he had done in a previous incarnation. Perhaps just the usual random cruelty of the Red Depths.

The stretching of his hyperextended neck, the pain from the knees in his back and on his limbs, the dull throbbing of the deep bruises from the blows, all faded increasingly into the background. The young demon's field of vision narrowed, blackness swallowed the edges, slowly eating away any clear thoughts.

"I like you better this way." His master's voice was nearly drowned out by the rush of his own blood in his ears. Jazahr sounded almost regretful. "If only you would learn faster. But you warmongers know nothing but violence, understand nothing else. However, there is no need to worry, I will teach you humility and respect."

Cold metal, which immediately warmed up, wrapped itself tightly around N'Arahn's neck. Horror shot through him, tingling along every part of his body. No, no, no! Once more, against all odds, he found the strength to rebel, threw at least one of the captains off, but it was too late.

One free gasp; the almost-demons had let him go. Then, in one fell swoop, he lost control of most of his muscles. He drew in dust again as he lay face first on the stone floor. Hectic breaths made his chest tremble. Splinters of thought shot through his head. Anger. Panic. Helplessness. A trickle flowed from his hairline down the back of his neck; overly clear, he traced the trail the drop of sweat made on its short path across his skin.

Demon shackle. His master had put a demon shackle on him.

N'Arahn tried to calm himself. Just a new form of humiliation. Not even unusual. But the experience of powerlessness, of complete loss of control, had shocked him and panic was settling as an oppressive lump in his throat.

"You can start." That hadn't been meant for him, but for the captains who were still standing around him. He heard their soft noises as they moved. He forced himself to blink so that his eyes wouldn't get too dry, although he would have preferred to follow every movement. But he could see little beyond his master's feet and the hem of his robe, for Jazahr had placed himself in his field of vision.

Suddenly he was pulled up, just enough to bring him into a kneeling position. His head dangled onto his chest, held halfway upright by his arms.

"I know you want to fight. Your simple nature destines you to."

Wide straps were wrapped tightly around his chest over his clothes, wrapped around his arms, fastened to his wrists.

"I can have you beaten. But that hardly does any good, does it? Pain is your home, your drive."

The captains laid him roughly on his side, tied more slings around his legs and ankles, pulled his arms back so that his chest was stretched.

Tears gathered in N'Arahn's eyes. He didn't know whether it was from anger, despair or the fact that he had opened them so wide. Cold and heat flooded him as he was tightly bound.