In the dark space between dying and waking, Yusuf dreams of pale-eyed warriors riding hard across the dry earth. Two of them, a woman and a man dressed for the desert, bent low over their horses with dust rising up behind them. It’s not the first time they’ve appeared to him, and he hasn’t yet decided whether they’re anything more than conjurings of his desperate mind. He’s not entirely sure that it matters when he seems destined to live out his days in chains for the pleasure of these Frankish ghouls, living and dying and living again.
They seem endless, and endlessly creative in their cruelty. One well-dressed man doesn’t even disrobe; he simply spends hours flaying Yusuf alive, peeling back strips of skin and watching as the flesh beneath them heals. He questions Yusuf from time to time, idly curious, and Yusuf doesn’t answer. He understands the Sabir that these Franks speak to one another, but he’s kept that fact to himself. He has few enough advantages already.
Instead he spits the foulest Derja curses he can think of and fights in his chains until the man finally grows bored and slits his throat. Yusuf bleeds out hoping, as he always does now, that this death will be his last.
He wakes in chains, clean of blood, as always without a single mark on him. Often there is already another torturer at hand, always there are guards, but for now the room is empty.
There are shouts coming from the floor below. Shouts, and the clash of steel, and the part of Yusuf that was a warrior in another life has him sitting up, a swift movement aborted by the pull of his chains. They’ve learned their lesson since he strangled a man with them; there’s enough give for his torturers to reposition him to their liking, but not nearly enough to allow him free movement.
Yusuf swears under his breath, grits his teeth, and breaks his right thumb. Even so, it’s a grindingly painful effort to get the cuff off. He’s tried this before and never managed to get himself completely free before someone put a blade through his throat or worse, but from the sounds of carnage below, he thinks his captors must be distracted. Distracted enough, perhaps, to grant him this one precious chance at escape.
He frees his other hand and is struggling with the iron cuffs around his feet when he hears footsteps on the stairs, a man’s voice cursing in a tongue he doesn’t speak, and no, no, not now, not when he’s so close. Yusuf yanks frantically at the metal, grinding it painfully into his flesh.
There’s a clash of steel, a scream. The door swings open, and a corpse falls to the floor. A moment later, it’s kicked aside and a man steps through.
He’s tall, fair-haired and handsome with a blooded sword in his hand. As Yusuf watches, he stoops to clean it on the dead man’s tabard, smearing blood over the cross, then lifts his head. His eyes are wide and pale, and familiar, an apparition of dreams stepping into the waking world.
“I’m going mad,” Yusuf says out loud. The man blinks at him, then sheaths his sword and starts across the room, moving with deadly purpose. There are more footsteps on the stairs, and then the woman appears behind him, stepping over the corpse without a second glance. There’s an axe in her hand, dripping gore.
The man reaches for Yusuf and Yusuf kicks out hard, feeling bone crunch beneath his foot. He renews his struggles to free himself, desperate now. These two can certainly kill him, but if they don’t know he can come back he may have the element of surprise.
“Stop that, you fool, we’re rescuing you,” the woman says in Arabic, thickly accented.
It’s enough of a shock that Yusuf stills for a moment, and the man kneels down beside him, keeping a wise distance this time. His expression is earnest even with blood flowing from his broken nose down over his chin. He pats his chest. “Nicolò. My name. Nicolò di Genova.”
His accent is even worse than the woman’s. Yusuf stares between them for a moment, then says, in Sabir, “What do a pair of Franks want with me? And why should I trust you?”
The man starts when he speaks. The woman laughs, roughly and without humor. “I’m no Frank. You can call me Andromache.”
“As far as the rest,” the man who called himself Nicolò says, still so wide-eyed and earnest. “We are—like you. We’ve dreamed of you, since—”
“Since you died for the first time,” the woman finishes bluntly, ignoring Yusuf’s flinch. “Hold still. I’ll get those cuffs off of you.”
“Andromache,” says the man, sounding wary, but it’s too late. Steel flashes, and an instant later Yusuf’s lower legs explode into agony, the sickening feeling of flesh and bone coming cleanly apart. He howls, and cannot even fight against the hands that grip his legs, pulling at him. When he blinks his streaming eyes open, blood is soaking into the sheets beneath him, and the Frank is holding his amputated feet back against the ankles. The chains have been tossed aside. Yusuf gasps at the ceiling, feeling his flesh begin to knit itself back together, as the man says reproachfully to his companion, “That wasn’t kind.”
“It was efficient,” she retorts, unapologetic. “We need to move. There’ll be more of them soon.”
“Give him a moment.”
“Don’t speak for me,” Yusuf snarls, pulling away. Pain stabs up his shins, then subsides as the bones snap into place. The man sits back on his heels, wiping blood from his face with the back of his sleeve; sure enough, his nose has already healed, the bleeding stopped.
“Forgive me,” he says carefully.
Yusuf sneers at him, swinging his legs off the bed. Standing like this, he’s more aware of his nakedness than he has been in weeks. More aware than he wants to be that these two strangers have been dreaming of every violation and humiliation he’s endured since this nightmare started. He wants to cover himself; instead he squares his shoulders and glares.
The woman meets his eyes evenly. “You don’t have to come with us. But we can get you out of the city, if you want.”
Her steady, unsympathetic calm is in some ways easier to take in this moment than the man’s gentleness. And anyway, it's not like he has much choice. He nods jerkily. “Fine.”
The man straightens up and takes a step back, out of Yusuf’s space. Quietly, he says, “What should we call you?”
“Yusuf.” He has already decided to trust them, he realizes with an odd jolt. Maybe it’s just that even the dreams of them were the only things for so long that didn’t hurt. “My name is Yusuf.”
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timeasmymeasure
Re: FILL: even on the darkest nights [Joe/others, forced prostitution, non-con & rescue] 2/3
Date: 2020-08-11 02:15 am (UTC)They seem endless, and endlessly creative in their cruelty. One well-dressed man doesn’t even disrobe; he simply spends hours flaying Yusuf alive, peeling back strips of skin and watching as the flesh beneath them heals. He questions Yusuf from time to time, idly curious, and Yusuf doesn’t answer. He understands the Sabir that these Franks speak to one another, but he’s kept that fact to himself. He has few enough advantages already.
Instead he spits the foulest Derja curses he can think of and fights in his chains until the man finally grows bored and slits his throat. Yusuf bleeds out hoping, as he always does now, that this death will be his last.
He wakes in chains, clean of blood, as always without a single mark on him. Often there is already another torturer at hand, always there are guards, but for now the room is empty.
There are shouts coming from the floor below. Shouts, and the clash of steel, and the part of Yusuf that was a warrior in another life has him sitting up, a swift movement aborted by the pull of his chains. They’ve learned their lesson since he strangled a man with them; there’s enough give for his torturers to reposition him to their liking, but not nearly enough to allow him free movement.
Yusuf swears under his breath, grits his teeth, and breaks his right thumb. Even so, it’s a grindingly painful effort to get the cuff off. He’s tried this before and never managed to get himself completely free before someone put a blade through his throat or worse, but from the sounds of carnage below, he thinks his captors must be distracted. Distracted enough, perhaps, to grant him this one precious chance at escape.
He frees his other hand and is struggling with the iron cuffs around his feet when he hears footsteps on the stairs, a man’s voice cursing in a tongue he doesn’t speak, and no, no, not now, not when he’s so close. Yusuf yanks frantically at the metal, grinding it painfully into his flesh.
There’s a clash of steel, a scream. The door swings open, and a corpse falls to the floor. A moment later, it’s kicked aside and a man steps through.
He’s tall, fair-haired and handsome with a blooded sword in his hand. As Yusuf watches, he stoops to clean it on the dead man’s tabard, smearing blood over the cross, then lifts his head. His eyes are wide and pale, and familiar, an apparition of dreams stepping into the waking world.
“I’m going mad,” Yusuf says out loud. The man blinks at him, then sheaths his sword and starts across the room, moving with deadly purpose. There are more footsteps on the stairs, and then the woman appears behind him, stepping over the corpse without a second glance. There’s an axe in her hand, dripping gore.
The man reaches for Yusuf and Yusuf kicks out hard, feeling bone crunch beneath his foot. He renews his struggles to free himself, desperate now. These two can certainly kill him, but if they don’t know he can come back he may have the element of surprise.
“Stop that, you fool, we’re rescuing you,” the woman says in Arabic, thickly accented.
It’s enough of a shock that Yusuf stills for a moment, and the man kneels down beside him, keeping a wise distance this time. His expression is earnest even with blood flowing from his broken nose down over his chin. He pats his chest. “Nicolò. My name. Nicolò di Genova.”
His accent is even worse than the woman’s. Yusuf stares between them for a moment, then says, in Sabir, “What do a pair of Franks want with me? And why should I trust you?”
The man starts when he speaks. The woman laughs, roughly and without humor. “I’m no Frank. You can call me Andromache.”
“As far as the rest,” the man who called himself Nicolò says, still so wide-eyed and earnest. “We are—like you. We’ve dreamed of you, since—”
“Since you died for the first time,” the woman finishes bluntly, ignoring Yusuf’s flinch. “Hold still. I’ll get those cuffs off of you.”
“Andromache,” says the man, sounding wary, but it’s too late. Steel flashes, and an instant later Yusuf’s lower legs explode into agony, the sickening feeling of flesh and bone coming cleanly apart. He howls, and cannot even fight against the hands that grip his legs, pulling at him. When he blinks his streaming eyes open, blood is soaking into the sheets beneath him, and the Frank is holding his amputated feet back against the ankles. The chains have been tossed aside. Yusuf gasps at the ceiling, feeling his flesh begin to knit itself back together, as the man says reproachfully to his companion, “That wasn’t kind.”
“It was efficient,” she retorts, unapologetic. “We need to move. There’ll be more of them soon.”
“Give him a moment.”
“Don’t speak for me,” Yusuf snarls, pulling away. Pain stabs up his shins, then subsides as the bones snap into place. The man sits back on his heels, wiping blood from his face with the back of his sleeve; sure enough, his nose has already healed, the bleeding stopped.
“Forgive me,” he says carefully.
Yusuf sneers at him, swinging his legs off the bed. Standing like this, he’s more aware of his nakedness than he has been in weeks. More aware than he wants to be that these two strangers have been dreaming of every violation and humiliation he’s endured since this nightmare started. He wants to cover himself; instead he squares his shoulders and glares.
The woman meets his eyes evenly. “You don’t have to come with us. But we can get you out of the city, if you want.”
Her steady, unsympathetic calm is in some ways easier to take in this moment than the man’s gentleness. And anyway, it's not like he has much choice. He nods jerkily. “Fine.”
The man straightens up and takes a step back, out of Yusuf’s space. Quietly, he says, “What should we call you?”
“Yusuf.” He has already decided to trust them, he realizes with an odd jolt. Maybe it’s just that even the dreams of them were the only things for so long that didn’t hurt. “My name is Yusuf.”