In Silence and Tears: A Short Story

His head still hurt where they'd struck him.

It throbbed, really, and he didn't care much for the nausea that overtook him every time he opened his eyes and attempted to focus on... well, anything. They'd been thorough, at least, in their attempt at rendering him incapacitated.

The bonds on his wrists cut into his skin where he'd twisted against them. He'd expected brass or even iron, something that would act as a reminder that despite the ache in his head, the dried blood on his chin from where they'd split his lip, this was still a civilized society. But instead it was mere twine, wrapped around so tightly he'd lost feeling in the tips of his fingers hours before.

"She's ready to see you."

He didn't raise his head. There was the scuff of booted feet on the bare floor before a hand gripped him under his arm, dragging him upright and onto his feet before his legs decided if they were willing to cooperate. He was led out of the room—though to give it such a grand appellation was surely misleading, as he'd seen closets stuffed full of mops and dustpans that boasted more grandeur—and into a dimly lit corridor that could've doubled as a corridor in nearly any building in any part of London. That is, if he they hadn't bundled him out of town when he'd gone and inconveniently lost consciousness. But, no. It still smelled like London. There was an aroma that permeated everything; a stench, really, that no other city could emulate. That is, if he wasn't confusing the odor of the building with the pungence of the man currently leading him towards a flight of stairs.

A groan escaped him as he began to trudge upwards. The other man's fingers dug into the flesh of his upper arm, and something cold and hard pressed against the back of his neck when he dared to slow his pace.

"Allow me an assumption," he ground out between ragged breaths. "Silver bullets in that fine weapon of yours, hmm? A waste of costly materials, you know, seeing as how anything used at that range will succeed in ending my life. Or do you mistake my malady for immortality, that I'm somehow gifted with the power to withstand a bullet ripping through my trachea?"

A quick movement behind him, and the arm holding the pistol elbowed him between his shoulderblades. At least he thought it was an elbow as he stumbled on the landing, his knees hitting the carpet before he was wrenched upward again, one leg dragging behind him as he struggled to get back onto his feet.

The corridor here was a riot of tapestries and medieval armour put on display, while gaslight glowed behind etched glass orbs, a series of miniature suns lining his journey towards the door at the end of the hall.

He thought he would be left to wait outside, dropped into a chair and told to stay for an inexorable length of time. It would be meant as another lesson, an exercise in patience, no doubt. But the door was opened as they approached, as if whoever stood on the other side had been anticipating their arrival. Out of the corridor then, into a room illuminated with firelight and little else. A few candles here and there, wicks trimmed and the fine aroma of beeswax filling his nostrils as he was pushed towards the center of the room.

"Why are his hands still bound?"

His breath hitched. The pain in his head, his lip, the bruises on his body were forgotten as terror rippled through him at the sound of her voice.

One of the men behind him stepped forward. He heard the flick of a blade opening, and then there was a tussle at his wrists as the threads of twine were sliced away. An attempt at stretching out his fingers nearly brought him to his knees again as the blood rushed into them, a pain as sharp as fiery needles racing beneath his skin.

"You may go now."

Both men coughed and shuffled backwards out of the room, one of them shutting the door with a soft click before their receding footsteps could be heard from the corridor beyond.