The Leader
An undisclosed location before the Instigator trials, possibly at or near Fort Hold. J'lor and Derek are, like some other key members of the movement, tortured for information.
They have not been here long.
Derek already wears war wounds. He wears them pridefully, chin up, eyes narrow, his hair a tangled mass in need of washing. Most of the sticky masses clinging to it are as dark as the hair itself, clotty and black, the soil of repeated meetings of head and face with wall and floor. He's half-stripped, unshod, sooty around the face. Other prisoners - oh, let's call them 'the accused' - get baths. Maybe Derek has refused them.
Maybe that's why he's brought to this room, stark and unadorned, little better than a mop-closet. Not to bathe. Not to be tortured. To be someone's torment. Someone's company. The two men that flank him shove him inside. They outmass him considerably and outstrip him in height. They're rough with him, nevertheless. One of them has a purple welt along his jaw. Maybe they have reason.
J'lor is not bleeding quite so much. Not yet, at any rate. It has been more kicking and punching for him, so there is a swollen lip and a fine bruise that spread, wide and purple, from temple to chin, along the right side of his face. His own hair, usually pulled back in a tidy queue, is down, brushing his shoulders, and falling into his eyes. They have not let him sleep for...some amount of time. He doesn't know how long. Just that his body would very much like to shut off, and they won't let it. He blinks very slowly, head tilted a bit to the side. One hand is cradled in his lap. The the guards that keep watch outside the tiny room observe as the other pair and the other prisoner arrive. As the man with the clotted hair is shoved inside. Seated up against the back wall, J'lor lifts his eyes, takes in the other, and continues his slow and wordless blinking.
Derek replies with one blink. No surprise, no amusement registers there. It is deliberate, slow, and probably painful. His eyes, usually sharp, are icy and blue enough - but their focus falls somewhere past the other man, and twitch. He wobbles a bit on his feet, then regains his legs' loyalty and stands rod-still as he was left, shoulders back, elbows out, hands behind his back. Maybe tied there. Maybe not.
The guards do the speaking for him: "Just like old times, huh?" Then there's some rough low laughter, none of it particularly heartfelt, and one of the men that flanked the disgraced captain joins the two that guarded J'lor to wait. The one who speaks is not the bruised one; and he speaks again. "Here's where you get to tell your man what it takes to get out of here." It's the bluerider he speaks to, certainly. He leans in the doorway. "We'll wait."
Another slow blink. The bluerider does not bother trying to stand. Seated or on his feet makes no different. He does draw in a deep breath as if he will do as bidden. But glazed klah-brown eyes instead fall onto the guard with the bruised face. And instead all he says, his voice warm and rolling as ever if a little raspy now, is, "That's nice work."
Derek's expression barely varies. His eyes shiver, as if he can't quite bid them keep stuck to any one thing, whether he might want to look at J'lor or not. But through whatever suffering he might be in, he finds some reason to bend his head a little, and let his gaze shake at the ground instead of the bluerider. As if he's shy about it. As if he's only done what was right.
"Five," remarks the guard leaning in the doorway. The word sends the man who came with him into action. What he does, what he gathers, is heard and not seen through the narrow doorway, unknowable business out in the hall. The slosh of water. The slither of something leathery and smooth. "Four."
"Well," offers J'lor helpfully, "we know they can count." His lips quirk upwards very faintly. Possibly at his own joke or possibly at the odd sort of humility Derek has displayed. He leans his head back against the wall and lets his eyes close. He has, he presumes, at least until they get to 'one' to rest them.
He has only until the other man gets to the door. "One," hisses the man in the doorway, stepping aside so the wet strap can come through. The guard swings, and bends, putting his back into it. The lash flies, and lands with a sick, wet whack. Cold wet droplets fly through the air, sailing toward J'lor. And Derek only arches, head coming up, eyes searching shakily for the ceiling. He barely breathes.
"Get him out of here," snarls the man in charge. The bruised one loops the wet strap around Derek's chest and hauls him back by it. "At your will with him," snaps the other at the men who guarded J'lor, then grabs Derek's elbow to escort him away.
It's the sound that has the bluerider's eyes snapping open, catching the tail-end of that smack of lash against back. He watches Derek in silence as the guard is once more grabbed and hauled away. J'lor offers nothing more than that dark and worn gaze attempting to hold the wobbling blue-grey until the ex-captain disappears. For the rider, there is less creativity. J'lor is seated. The guards have heavy boots. They waste no time putting them to use.
Some weeks later, Derek is brought to Nera.
Nearly eight weeks later, J'lor and Nera pass one another before the start of the trials.
They have not been here long.
Derek already wears war wounds. He wears them pridefully, chin up, eyes narrow, his hair a tangled mass in need of washing. Most of the sticky masses clinging to it are as dark as the hair itself, clotty and black, the soil of repeated meetings of head and face with wall and floor. He's half-stripped, unshod, sooty around the face. Other prisoners - oh, let's call them 'the accused' - get baths. Maybe Derek has refused them.
Maybe that's why he's brought to this room, stark and unadorned, little better than a mop-closet. Not to bathe. Not to be tortured. To be someone's torment. Someone's company. The two men that flank him shove him inside. They outmass him considerably and outstrip him in height. They're rough with him, nevertheless. One of them has a purple welt along his jaw. Maybe they have reason.
J'lor is not bleeding quite so much. Not yet, at any rate. It has been more kicking and punching for him, so there is a swollen lip and a fine bruise that spread, wide and purple, from temple to chin, along the right side of his face. His own hair, usually pulled back in a tidy queue, is down, brushing his shoulders, and falling into his eyes. They have not let him sleep for...some amount of time. He doesn't know how long. Just that his body would very much like to shut off, and they won't let it. He blinks very slowly, head tilted a bit to the side. One hand is cradled in his lap. The the guards that keep watch outside the tiny room observe as the other pair and the other prisoner arrive. As the man with the clotted hair is shoved inside. Seated up against the back wall, J'lor lifts his eyes, takes in the other, and continues his slow and wordless blinking.
Derek replies with one blink. No surprise, no amusement registers there. It is deliberate, slow, and probably painful. His eyes, usually sharp, are icy and blue enough - but their focus falls somewhere past the other man, and twitch. He wobbles a bit on his feet, then regains his legs' loyalty and stands rod-still as he was left, shoulders back, elbows out, hands behind his back. Maybe tied there. Maybe not.
The guards do the speaking for him: "Just like old times, huh?" Then there's some rough low laughter, none of it particularly heartfelt, and one of the men that flanked the disgraced captain joins the two that guarded J'lor to wait. The one who speaks is not the bruised one; and he speaks again. "Here's where you get to tell your man what it takes to get out of here." It's the bluerider he speaks to, certainly. He leans in the doorway. "We'll wait."
Another slow blink. The bluerider does not bother trying to stand. Seated or on his feet makes no different. He does draw in a deep breath as if he will do as bidden. But glazed klah-brown eyes instead fall onto the guard with the bruised face. And instead all he says, his voice warm and rolling as ever if a little raspy now, is, "That's nice work."
Derek's expression barely varies. His eyes shiver, as if he can't quite bid them keep stuck to any one thing, whether he might want to look at J'lor or not. But through whatever suffering he might be in, he finds some reason to bend his head a little, and let his gaze shake at the ground instead of the bluerider. As if he's shy about it. As if he's only done what was right.
"Five," remarks the guard leaning in the doorway. The word sends the man who came with him into action. What he does, what he gathers, is heard and not seen through the narrow doorway, unknowable business out in the hall. The slosh of water. The slither of something leathery and smooth. "Four."
"Well," offers J'lor helpfully, "we know they can count." His lips quirk upwards very faintly. Possibly at his own joke or possibly at the odd sort of humility Derek has displayed. He leans his head back against the wall and lets his eyes close. He has, he presumes, at least until they get to 'one' to rest them.
He has only until the other man gets to the door. "One," hisses the man in the doorway, stepping aside so the wet strap can come through. The guard swings, and bends, putting his back into it. The lash flies, and lands with a sick, wet whack. Cold wet droplets fly through the air, sailing toward J'lor. And Derek only arches, head coming up, eyes searching shakily for the ceiling. He barely breathes.
"Get him out of here," snarls the man in charge. The bruised one loops the wet strap around Derek's chest and hauls him back by it. "At your will with him," snaps the other at the men who guarded J'lor, then grabs Derek's elbow to escort him away.
It's the sound that has the bluerider's eyes snapping open, catching the tail-end of that smack of lash against back. He watches Derek in silence as the guard is once more grabbed and hauled away. J'lor offers nothing more than that dark and worn gaze attempting to hold the wobbling blue-grey until the ex-captain disappears. For the rider, there is less creativity. J'lor is seated. The guards have heavy boots. They waste no time putting them to use.
Some weeks later, Derek is brought to Nera.
Nearly eight weeks later, J'lor and Nera pass one another before the start of the trials.