Abandoned (Born From Shadows #2)

He was frightened. Panic and apprehensiveness were almost too inundating for the Fae. He wanted to thrash against the chains that bound him to the table, bite the Dwarf’s throat out before it had the chance to stab him with the knife.

Not again, he pleaded in his head. Please don’t.

But the Dwarf had no leniency for his kind and brought the blade down onto his stomach. The pain was blinding him into a scream. His throat ached from the sound but his mind only fixated on the pain in his stomach. It was worse than any burn, more vigorous than any poison, more painful than any other stab. It felt as if he was being ripped to pieces from the inside out and he could not stop screaming. Not even once the cursed blade had left his stomach, not even when he felt the wound finally heal over he could still feel the agony. Minutes passed and he was still screaming, endeavouring to find some release. More minutes pass and those screams turn to grunts, hours pass and the pain gradually diminished and he could breathe once more. Deep breaths, in and out. He thought he could stand the pain, could take a hit and not make a sound but this was something else. It was as if the pain had become a person who desired nothing more than to torture him.

His heart raced against his chest and then the woman stepped into the room, once again examining the wound. “Good, how long was he screaming after you abstracted it?”

“Forty-three minutes,” the Dwarf replied.

“And how long till he calmed down?” she asked.

“3 hours and 8 minutes.”

“And you only left the blade in for five minutes, correct?” she asked, her fingers still grazing the wound. It had scared, of that he was certain.

“Yes,” the Dwarf replied.

“Tomorrow, I want you to leave it in there for ten minutes and observe if it has a differing effect, after that, I want you to stab the wings. Investigate if the position of wound on the body matters,” she commanded and he felt the blood drain out of his face. Not again, please no, was reiterating perpetually in his head.

“Yes, my Lady,” the Dwarf replied. “Is there anything else you would like done for today?”

The woman looked him on with a cold glare, apathetically and unperturbed by the morality of her actions. What even is morality on the brink of war if not fiction? Perhaps it is an inversion of what once was, still ostensible but the complete antithesis of what it was before. All he knew was this agony was not something that an individual’s morality should be unbothered with inflicting.

“Not today. You have earned yourself a break,” she responded to the Dwarf and looked away from his body to exit the room.

In all the time he had been trapped he was yet to cry. But as the two left tears ungracefully dripped down the sides of his face. He could beg and cry all he wanted, still, no one was going to save him. He couldn’t even save himself.