It’s the tightness that’s the worst part – a pressure coming from within and from all sides that makes his body feel at once too big and too small for his skin. The injuries are a minor concern; he’s had far worse before and if he couldn’t handle bruises and broken skin he would hardly have made it far as an assassin.
The tightness, though. His skin itches with the need to run, to leap, to move more than a few feet before meeting another wall, and that bothers him more than what inevitably lies at the end of all this. In all honesty, he thinks his fate might be preferable to spending the rest of his life here, wasting away in mind and body until there’s nothing but a wretched shell left behind. After only a few days he’s already starting to feel stretched thin.
He’s almost too deep in thought to notice the footsteps approaching his cell. Almost, but not quite, because Achilles would never forgive him for falling so low.
(He wonders if Achilles is disappointed in him for getting captured in the first place.)
It’s one of the guards, eyeing him as if he’s on some kind of display. Connor turns his head away sharply, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
“It’s been a long time since we’ve had one of your people,” the guard says, almost conversationally. Connor remains silent, but apparently the guard needs little encouragement. “Normally we just kill them outright, you see. But you, though. Got to make an example out of you, haven’t we?”
Connor counts to ten silently, hoping by the time he’s finished the guard will have gotten bored and left.
“You do speak English, don’t you? Not just,” and the guard makes the kind of noises Connor is quite sure no human ever has made before. He can’t help but frown and glance over at the guard, who’s staring at him even more intently than before.
“I think you do, you know. And that means you’re ignoring me.” The guard grasps at the bars of his cell. “And I don’t like that. Not one bit.”
“Am I to care what you like?” Connor asks, breaking his silence at last. The guard’s eyes widen slightly before his expression settles back into a smirk.
“If you know what’s good for you.”
The guard is shorter than Connor and with a slightly more stocky build, probably around ten years older. Not a weakling, but only holding the upper hand so long as he still had his sword. It would be easy enough to goad him into coming into the cell, and then simply a matter of disarming him. He could take his uniform, sneak unnoticed until he found where Charles Lee was hiding…
“Perhaps I don’t.”
He expects the guard to get angry, but if anything his smile widens and Connor can’t fight the sense of unease that settles over him. “Well, that would be a damn shame. ‘Ey! Jameson! Someone here I’d like you to meet,” the guard yells, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps.
Ah. Not quite so easy as he’d first thought, then.
Jameson, as it turns out, is one of the largest men Connor has ever met – at least a head taller than him and about twice as broad across the chest. He also has the coldest eyes; a grey so pale it almost blends in with the whites, and Connor has to force himself not to back away when those eyes meet his.
“He’s been giving me lip,” the first guard says, almost cheerfully. Jameson gives a grunt of acknowledgement. “And I know how much you like their kind. Remember that last one?”
Jameson gives Connor a scrutinising once over, and this time he can’t help but recoil. “Not the same.”
The other guard shrugs, unabashed. “I’ll take your word for it. They’re all bleeding Indians to me. But if you’re not interested…” He begins to step in front of Jameson, only to be shoved out of the way.
“No.” The voice leaves no room for argument.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?”
“Stand guard,” says Jameson, and for the first time the other guard looks uncomfortable.
“Look, you know I don’t care what you get up to, but there are some things I don’t exactly want to watch.”
“Charles Lee and the others. They are… interested in this one. I will not have them interrupting.”
Connor’s heart pounds heavily in his chest, he can hear the steady thump of the blood as it passes his ears. He couldn’t take on Jameson in a fair fight, never mind one already weighed against him. He tries to think of something he could use to his advantage, but his cell is as bare as ever and his thoughts seem to be coming from a long way away, fading into nothingness before he can make sense of them. All he can think of his the hungry look in those cold, grey eyes.
“I… fine. But I’m covering my ears, mind you.”
“Whatever you do,” Jameson says levelly, “is your own business.”
FILL [1/?]
The tightness, though. His skin itches with the need to run, to leap, to move more than a few feet before meeting another wall, and that bothers him more than what inevitably lies at the end of all this. In all honesty, he thinks his fate might be preferable to spending the rest of his life here, wasting away in mind and body until there’s nothing but a wretched shell left behind. After only a few days he’s already starting to feel stretched thin.
He’s almost too deep in thought to notice the footsteps approaching his cell. Almost, but not quite, because Achilles would never forgive him for falling so low.
(He wonders if Achilles is disappointed in him for getting captured in the first place.)
It’s one of the guards, eyeing him as if he’s on some kind of display. Connor turns his head away sharply, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
“It’s been a long time since we’ve had one of your people,” the guard says, almost conversationally. Connor remains silent, but apparently the guard needs little encouragement. “Normally we just kill them outright, you see. But you, though. Got to make an example out of you, haven’t we?”
Connor counts to ten silently, hoping by the time he’s finished the guard will have gotten bored and left.
“You do speak English, don’t you? Not just,” and the guard makes the kind of noises Connor is quite sure no human ever has made before. He can’t help but frown and glance over at the guard, who’s staring at him even more intently than before.
“I think you do, you know. And that means you’re ignoring me.” The guard grasps at the bars of his cell. “And I don’t like that. Not one bit.”
“Am I to care what you like?” Connor asks, breaking his silence at last. The guard’s eyes widen slightly before his expression settles back into a smirk.
“If you know what’s good for you.”
The guard is shorter than Connor and with a slightly more stocky build, probably around ten years older. Not a weakling, but only holding the upper hand so long as he still had his sword. It would be easy enough to goad him into coming into the cell, and then simply a matter of disarming him. He could take his uniform, sneak unnoticed until he found where Charles Lee was hiding…
“Perhaps I don’t.”
He expects the guard to get angry, but if anything his smile widens and Connor can’t fight the sense of unease that settles over him. “Well, that would be a damn shame. ‘Ey! Jameson! Someone here I’d like you to meet,” the guard yells, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps.
Ah. Not quite so easy as he’d first thought, then.
Jameson, as it turns out, is one of the largest men Connor has ever met – at least a head taller than him and about twice as broad across the chest. He also has the coldest eyes; a grey so pale it almost blends in with the whites, and Connor has to force himself not to back away when those eyes meet his.
“He’s been giving me lip,” the first guard says, almost cheerfully. Jameson gives a grunt of acknowledgement. “And I know how much you like their kind. Remember that last one?”
Jameson gives Connor a scrutinising once over, and this time he can’t help but recoil. “Not the same.”
The other guard shrugs, unabashed. “I’ll take your word for it. They’re all bleeding Indians to me. But if you’re not interested…” He begins to step in front of Jameson, only to be shoved out of the way.
“No.” The voice leaves no room for argument.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?”
“Stand guard,” says Jameson, and for the first time the other guard looks uncomfortable.
“Look, you know I don’t care what you get up to, but there are some things I don’t exactly want to watch.”
“Charles Lee and the others. They are… interested in this one. I will not have them interrupting.”
Connor’s heart pounds heavily in his chest, he can hear the steady thump of the blood as it passes his ears. He couldn’t take on Jameson in a fair fight, never mind one already weighed against him. He tries to think of something he could use to his advantage, but his cell is as bare as ever and his thoughts seem to be coming from a long way away, fading into nothingness before he can make sense of them. All he can think of his the hungry look in those cold, grey eyes.
“I… fine. But I’m covering my ears, mind you.”
“Whatever you do,” Jameson says levelly, “is your own business.”