Golden Memories (Kiribaku/Bakushima)

Chapter 3

Kirishima could hear the muffled sounds of lock after lock unlatching as four guards entered his cell. He blinked open his bleary eyes half-heartedly, already craving the heaviness that came with sleep.

His eyes trailed up to his captives as their footsteps drew near. They all had their longswords gripped lazily in their hands, and one came up behind him to unhook the giant black chains attached to the collar resting around his neck. Two of the guards grabbed his arms, one at each side, and hefted him up in a standing position. They lead him out of the tightly secured vault and down the dimly lit corridors.

As they approached a pair of giant rusted doors guarded by another set of soldiers Kirishima straightened up. He could feel his muscles coil tightly underneath his skin, and his gaze hardened as the guards pushed open the doors to reveal a giant room decorated only by torches lit with blurred, white-hot flames.

Like being placed on a pedestal, Endeavor's looming form sat hunched over on a bear pelt-covered throne. Though flames licked off of his body, the king's stare was sharp and icy.

Crimson orbs met chilling blue as Kirishima glared at him, the guards shoving him forward until he stood in front of the Tyrant King. The soldiers tried to push him onto his knees, but Kirishima stood solidly on his feet, eyes never leaving his captor's.

The other two guards joined in, and collectively the four soldiers forced him onto the ground as Kirishima snarled at them.

Endeavor watched amused as it went back to two guards gripping his shoulders to keep him in place. His dark eyes roamed Kirishima's beaten and thinned body, like he was marveling triumphantly at a piece of his own art.

Which Kirishima concluded was a correct description of him, now. His body had been forced into a mid-transformation state: He was much taller than the average man with scales climbing up his body and large claws, horns, and sharp teeth-bordering-on-fangs. His red hair was thick and oily from lack of washing, and it hung in his face in tangled clumps. He wondered if he finally looked like the monster townspeople always thought he was. In the end, it didn't matter.

"The collar seems to be holding up quite nicely. I should take up that enchanter's skill more in the future," The king's tone was low and flat, the silence in the room making the sound pop painfully in Kirishima's ear.

His face screwed up in a sour expression, the heavy metal resting on his collarbones all too prominent as his knees hurt under his weight, the cool floor pressing into them uncomfortably. Kirishima didn't bother with responding; it was all routine by now. Endeavor would go on with his little tangent, Kirishima would end up trying to fight everyone and escape, he'd get caught, tortured, and placed back in his cold dark cell with heavy iron locking him in place. He felt helpless. Weak. But the half-dragon refused to let that shine through. Backing down ment giving up, and for his kind giving up meant the same as dying.

So he fought. He struggled and pushed to keep the fire in his soul alive because he knew now that no one would ever come for him; never did, and never will. It was sad, really. He was a miserable creature with only wisps of self-harming hope fueling him. He knew practically nothing about the hell-hole he was in, only that it was in the East. He couldn't transform, he was weak from restless hours of hunger and pain, and it was him against the world whether he was out or not.

Endeavor's rambling was like a buzzing sound muffled by cotton in his ears. But through the haze of waiting until he could attempt to spring up and get out, he picked up on information that made his heart lurch in his throat.

"Five years and still you refuse to let up." The tyrant glowered. "You're just like my son with how rebellious you are. It's growing rather tiresome..." Five years? It's been five years? How many moons was that? God, he was never getting out, was he? It was incredulous how long those years felt, like it should really be ten. And yet the time weighed down on him all the same. Five years.