The Calling

“What is thine nature” asked Mordred as he stood before the chained figure of Lord Percival. Percival smiled at Mordred through his blood stained teeth and spat in his face, smirking as the red tinged saliva slid down his cheek. Mordred wiped the fluid away with the back of his hand as brought it savagely across Percival’s face. “I shall ask thee one final time!” he shouted in his face, “what is thine nature?”

“I shall not betray my King” said Percival hoarsely through cracked lips.

“He is not your King” laughed Mordred, moving into the center of the room. “he is but a boy” He stopped before a large cauldron and surveyed its contents before turning his head back to Percival, “he cares not of you nor your kind”

“Thee lie” said Percival, his eyes never leaving Mordred as he spoke.

“His motives are purely his own” chided Mordred.

“As are thee” spat Percival coughing as he spoke.

“Quite” said Mordred softly. He turned his attention back to the cauldron, with its bubbling fluid within. Steam rose and fell as the fire burnt beneath the pot, scolding the dark black metal and bubbles rose and burst on the surface of the water. Mordred pulled at a metal rod close to the fire and placed the end beneath the pot and stood watching as the tip glared a vicious yellow as the fire played over the metal. “Thoust has a nice body” remarked Mordred staring into the flame, “easily burnt...” he teased.

Percival pulled at his constraints as they bit into his skin, his arms stretched high above his head and the armour stripped from his naked torso. Small cuts and abrasions scattered across his body and traces of bruises stained his skin from the relentless onslaught of Mordred’s attention. His body felt weak as he hung limply struggling to maintain his posture in his harness. Through his swollen eye he could make out the form of Tristan laying on a harsh wooden frame, his hands and feet bound by shackles and pulled hard by thick heavy chains which ran through large metal spindles at each leg of the bed. Like Percival, Tristan had been stripped to the waist, and cuts and bruises littered his body with patches of dried blood layered over his torso. Percival glanced back at Mordred who was toying with the long metal pole which sat idly in the fire, tempted by the flame and glowing with the increasing heat. He watched in morbid fascination as Mordred pulled the poker from the flame and held it close to his face, grinning and pulled a hideous smirk in the shadow of the flame. “Now let me ask thee again...” he said carefully walking slowly toward Percival, metal pole gripped tightly in his hand. He stood before the weakened form of Percival and placed the poker close to his face. Percival could feel the heat from the metal warm his cheek as it hovered close to his skin. Mordred leant close to Percival and whispered, holding the pole menacingly close, “what is thine nature?” he whispered.

“I know not” said defiantly.

“Pity” mused Mordred teasing the red hot metal, “my friend” he said indicating toward the metal pole, “desires to taste bare skin” he laughed and moved over to the prone body of Tristan and moved the heavy pole over his body, “now I ask thee again, what is thine nature?”

Percival clamped his mouth shut tightly and turned his head from the sight as Mordred smiled and lowered the poker close to the skin of his comrade. Screams raged through the castle ruins and the metal touched bare skin and burnt at the rich tender flesh of the Knight. He pulled the poker from his body to reveal a deep red groove in Tristan’s skin, and stood menacingly close to the Knight once again with the metal pole held out over his chest. Mordred cast a glance toward Percival and smiled, before lowering the poker against the chest of his friend. Tristan screamed as the red hot metal singed his flesh, his body contorted with pain as the poker thrust down and ran over his chest. He could feel tears of pain and anger surge through his body, but despite himself remained quiet.

Mordred smirked and walked back to the fire, placing the metal back under the boiling cauldron and turned to survey Percival, “now...” he said softly, “imagine how the metal would cut through the flesh of...” he trailed off in thought for a moment before flashing Percival an evil grin, “a young girl” he laughed as a look of horror danced over the Knights face. “Or maybe a nice quite bath” he said looking into the bubbling pot, “I would imagine a pretty young maiden such as she would make good sport” he laughed.

“Thoust mind is twisted” spat Percival.

“Thoust shall tell me what I wish to know” stated Mordred simply. He pulled the poker from the fire once again and stared into the blazing white hot metal and moved silently toward the prone body of Tristan. He stood over the scarred and bloodied Knight and ran the tip of the poker along his torso, tracing the line of his breast bone. The Knight reacted to the light touch of the hot metal and writhed under its touch. “Thoust could end this...” he teased looking up at Percival.

“I shall not betray my King” Percival said quietly and looked away from his friend.

“Then so be it!” snapped Mordred and thrust the end of the metal into the side of Tristan. Screams filled the air as the poker punctured the flesh of the Knight and sunk deep into his body and echoed off the walls rebounding and filling the room with the sound of pain and torment. “Tell me!” shouted Mordred over the screaming, “Tell me!” He turned the poker in the wound and the flesh twisted under the pressure of the metal as blood seeped from the wound. He looked straight at Percival, anger flashing in his eyes, “Tell me!” he shouted manically.

Percival closed his eyes and attempted to block out the screams of his friend, “I am sorry, but I cannot” he whispered softly.

“Look at me!” raged Mordred, “Look at what thine stupidity is doing to your friend” he turned the poker in Tristan’s body again and caused yet another scream of pain. “Tell me and I swear this ends” Percival shook his head and looked at Tristan, tears swelling in his eyes.

Tristan matched his gaze and smiled slightly before an intense tearing of pain raged through his body as Mordred moved the metal further into his body, then pulled it out. Blood smeared the wound and cast a shadow over his torso and he could feel consciousness slipping away. Was this the end? he asked himself as darkness swept over his body.

Mordred stared down at the wound and placed the poker across the open scar, searing the flesh and a smell of burning filled their nostrils, while the echo of scream strangled their ears. “Bring me the girl!” snapped Mordred, his anger reaching a pique, “then we will see how quickly thee sing” he sneered.