The witness
An undisclosed location before the Instigator trials, possibly at or near Fort Hold. Nera and Derek are, like some other key members of the movement, tortured for information. When one of them seems about to break, the other is brought near to witness the treachery.
Her hands are not tied behind the chair; that would impede what she has been taught to know will come later. Nera's shape can be made out from the doorway of the dark room. She is seated, ankles tied, wrists strapped down to the sides of the chair, head back. She is immobile, and yet she commands the room; all faces are turned towards her, bodies leaned into her attention focussed solely on the gaunt woman. Even the man who stands behind her, slowly tilting her chair backwards, is leaning forward to look down at her face. She cannot see the door, angled away from it, but what little light enters through it is enough to cast shadows over the sharp planes of her face.
That little light that draws out the shape of her countenance is interrupted. The jagged shadows shift and raise and fall again, then lie after some transformation still, softer-edged. The light is split two ways now, filtering in through the irregular negative spaces trapped between each side of a man and the sides of the men who flank him. Who hold him. They're not far back - he's meant to hear and see what happens here - but out of the way of the door, just in case more men should need to pour in. Maybe in case anyone should need to pour out.
It may be that she knows someone else has arrived. They come and go at will, and she doesn't bother turning her head to try and see. Nera's breathing fills the room, harsh and ragged. What she does instead of looking is tip her head back; she clears her throat, then twists her head sideways just enough to spit. Perhaps she's offering a greeting to those at the door. "Come in closer, then." She's addressing the words, hoarse, to the senior of the guards. "In here, where you can hear me."
He's meant to watch, and listen. So he does as bid, silent, steely-eyed. But four more men arrive behind those first three shapes in the doorway, and of the four one steps forward to speak just into his ear. He turns his head slowly. Slowly, as if he needs to reply to what was said. As if he might whisper a request for repeat, or share some insight upon the scene. But he says nothing. When his mouth moves, his jaw pops, a soft sound made loud by its suddenness, and by proximity. The man who whispered jerks and jolts backward.
After that, Derek is allowed to watch in peace.
She doesn't hear. Her breathing is loud, and as his jaw pops, she's clearing her throat again, preparing to impart the information these men have been seeking. Their search has left her gaunt and bruised, hollow-eyed. She is watching, as the guard moves forward, bends down to hear. "Closer." Her words are a whisper. She cannot bear to do it out loud. She would pretend she tells a secret, to be kept in confidence. He obliges, lips twisting to a grimace that masquerades as an understanding smile, tilting his head in. "Closer." Closer again, his ear by her mouth.
She speaks distinctly, for all her voice is hoarse, her throat bruised. Her voice carries when she speaks into his ear, in a voice that's no whisper at all: "Fuck you."
No longer harrassed, Derek watches with absolute attentiveness, eyes steely and slightly narrowed. No other cue does his body betray of anticipation, suspicion, or concern. The tightness of his shoulders and the wound-up halt of his breathing are silent, untellable to the six men who surround him.
There is, after Nera's special secret, a second of stunned silence. Derek takes the chance to be the first to break it. He laughs. Softly and haltingly, deep in his stomach, deep with pleasure.
It lasts only two, maybe three beats. The fourth beat is something else altogether, the jerk of voice and breath that comes from a fist to the gut. Then there's an arm around his throat, an elbow below his chin, yanking back his neck and dragging him, half-strangled and still gurgling his amusement, away.
There's no way of knowing whether she registers the sound, or whose voice it is. The man who holds Nera's chair on that perilous angle steps back, then releases it, so another sound is added to the symphony of composed of Derek's strangled laughter and the swearing of the guards around her. It is the crack of her chair hitting the ground, the pained gasp that's drawn involuntarily from her. Then the dull sound of a kick.
Days or weeks later, J'lor and Nera pass ways just before the trials.
Her hands are not tied behind the chair; that would impede what she has been taught to know will come later. Nera's shape can be made out from the doorway of the dark room. She is seated, ankles tied, wrists strapped down to the sides of the chair, head back. She is immobile, and yet she commands the room; all faces are turned towards her, bodies leaned into her attention focussed solely on the gaunt woman. Even the man who stands behind her, slowly tilting her chair backwards, is leaning forward to look down at her face. She cannot see the door, angled away from it, but what little light enters through it is enough to cast shadows over the sharp planes of her face.
That little light that draws out the shape of her countenance is interrupted. The jagged shadows shift and raise and fall again, then lie after some transformation still, softer-edged. The light is split two ways now, filtering in through the irregular negative spaces trapped between each side of a man and the sides of the men who flank him. Who hold him. They're not far back - he's meant to hear and see what happens here - but out of the way of the door, just in case more men should need to pour in. Maybe in case anyone should need to pour out.
It may be that she knows someone else has arrived. They come and go at will, and she doesn't bother turning her head to try and see. Nera's breathing fills the room, harsh and ragged. What she does instead of looking is tip her head back; she clears her throat, then twists her head sideways just enough to spit. Perhaps she's offering a greeting to those at the door. "Come in closer, then." She's addressing the words, hoarse, to the senior of the guards. "In here, where you can hear me."
He's meant to watch, and listen. So he does as bid, silent, steely-eyed. But four more men arrive behind those first three shapes in the doorway, and of the four one steps forward to speak just into his ear. He turns his head slowly. Slowly, as if he needs to reply to what was said. As if he might whisper a request for repeat, or share some insight upon the scene. But he says nothing. When his mouth moves, his jaw pops, a soft sound made loud by its suddenness, and by proximity. The man who whispered jerks and jolts backward.
After that, Derek is allowed to watch in peace.
She doesn't hear. Her breathing is loud, and as his jaw pops, she's clearing her throat again, preparing to impart the information these men have been seeking. Their search has left her gaunt and bruised, hollow-eyed. She is watching, as the guard moves forward, bends down to hear. "Closer." Her words are a whisper. She cannot bear to do it out loud. She would pretend she tells a secret, to be kept in confidence. He obliges, lips twisting to a grimace that masquerades as an understanding smile, tilting his head in. "Closer." Closer again, his ear by her mouth.
She speaks distinctly, for all her voice is hoarse, her throat bruised. Her voice carries when she speaks into his ear, in a voice that's no whisper at all: "Fuck you."
No longer harrassed, Derek watches with absolute attentiveness, eyes steely and slightly narrowed. No other cue does his body betray of anticipation, suspicion, or concern. The tightness of his shoulders and the wound-up halt of his breathing are silent, untellable to the six men who surround him.
There is, after Nera's special secret, a second of stunned silence. Derek takes the chance to be the first to break it. He laughs. Softly and haltingly, deep in his stomach, deep with pleasure.
It lasts only two, maybe three beats. The fourth beat is something else altogether, the jerk of voice and breath that comes from a fist to the gut. Then there's an arm around his throat, an elbow below his chin, yanking back his neck and dragging him, half-strangled and still gurgling his amusement, away.
There's no way of knowing whether she registers the sound, or whose voice it is. The man who holds Nera's chair on that perilous angle steps back, then releases it, so another sound is added to the symphony of composed of Derek's strangled laughter and the swearing of the guards around her. It is the crack of her chair hitting the ground, the pained gasp that's drawn involuntarily from her. Then the dull sound of a kick.
Days or weeks later, J'lor and Nera pass ways just before the trials.