Enjoy! Major TW, read with the utmost caution.
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Aries Short Novel; Sharpened; Consequences (Part 2)
Gwyar/Khorne, age 15
Mr Cattell/Tyrgrim, age 35
Mrs Cattell/Gunnr, age 33
The Doctor, age 25
The Boss, age 25
Smith(ex), age 17 (deceased at 15)
Aurora(sister), age 19 (deceased at 11)
Irene (mother), age 45 (deceased at 37)
Again, Major TW, read with the utmost care and caution. Seriously, be safe. This is not, at all, for the faint of heart.
*~*~*~*
The hallway was quiet, and while the silence was usually unnerving, today the lack of noise was almost calming. A break before he had to step into the lobby in order to get out of here. He was almost glad for the peace. Knowing that he’d be caught off guard by the noise once he reached the lobby no matter how prepared he thought he was, was just about the only downside.
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…Gwyar never even got past the halfway point through the hallways to the lobby. Instead, he began hearing two pairs of footsteps, and after months of hearing those same footsteps… That was Mr and Mrs Cattell, getting closer to where he was, through and through. Still, he continued walking. He didn’t know why they were here but, well, there had to be a reason. And with how today was going so far, he nervously allowed himself to hope for a good one.
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When the footsteps got even closer and he rounded the corner to see both Cattells, his hope quickly diminished back into nothingness. He didn’t look them in the eyes, but neither were smiling. And while that wasn’t too worrying since they practically never smiled anyways, Mr Cattell quickening his pace to a speed walk with anger written on his face was. He barely had time to brace himself, panic leaping to clutch his chest, before he found himself on the ground. His face stung and he took longer than he’d like to admit to realize that he’d been hit.
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By the time he did though, Mr Cattell was speaking, anger in the command easy to find. “Get up.”
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He didn’t waste time with his confusion, finding purchase on the ground and pushing himself up was almost second nature at this point. Apparently, he still took too long as he felt a hand grip his arm and pull him up to his feet quickly instead. Trying not to stumble with the quick movement, he tried to shift. Instead, he was immediately being pulled by the arm further into the arena.
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He slipped into following as quickly as he could, trying to get a grip on the sudden change in situation. Mr Cattell was speaking, he needed to listen, he might tell him what he did wrong— What had he done wrong? He didn’t know. He didn’t know.
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His foot slipped as he tried to pay more attention to what was being said, the speaking stopped as he started stumbling and slowing. His arm was yanked forward, trying to speed him up again, the grip holding him tightening. The speaking didn’t come back. He tried to figure out what was going on. He did. He tried. His mind couldn’t hook onto enough to connect the dots. What happened— He’d just been— Today had been going so well.
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He skidded to a halt when he realized that Mr Cattell had stopped in front of a door, just barely keeping himself from colliding with him. He didn’t dare speak, not with the tension in the air.
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Without turning to him, Mr Cattell spoke, tone seeming eerily similar to a hiss. “I know this might be hard for a thing to understand, but just this once, all I need. Is for it to pay attention and listen.”
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Resisting the urge to shrink or shift, he stayed as still as he could. An answer wasn’t waited on, the door they were standing in front of was knocked on, and within seconds a guard opened the door.
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The room was obviously an office, with a desk and bookshelves and folders on the desk. And the Boss sitting at the desk, with the Doctor standing just to the side of him. Both looked upset. There were three guards in the room in various places, and the Cattells were there too, Mrs Cattell behind him and Mr Cattell still holding his arm. No one looked happy. What did he do?
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“We brought it.” The tone was firmer now, clear and loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Unceremoniously, Gwyar felt the grip on his upper arm tighten before he was pulled in front of Mr Cattell, the grip shifting to his back as he was pushed through the open door and into the room roughly.
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Another glance, trying to gauge how badly he’d messed up— Where was the guard that had opened the door? A sharp pain of a blunt something between his shoulder blades pushed him to the floor. Catching himself with one hand on reflex as a knee connected, the blunt object dug into his skin, pushing him further down. Far quicker than he’d like to admit his arm crumpled under the pressure. Within seconds, his other knee hit the ground and his forehead met the floor.
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“We aren’t blind, Tyrgrim.” Was that the Boss? That sounded like the Boss. He wasn’t sure. There was still something pushing into his spine between the shoulder blades.
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Silence stretched on for… He wasn’t sure how long. He didn’t know. He— He didn’t know. Apparently, he didn’t know a lot… What happened? Today had— Today had been going so well. This wasn’t fair. What did he do wrong? He didn’t want to be here. He felt a stinging heat build up behind his eyes, he wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t supposed to. Not here. Not in front of these people. Not when he’d done something wrong. What did he do?
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After some time in the silence, there was a slight hum, and then… “Hm… What to do with it… I mean, we don’t want a dull blade, now do we?” That was the same voice as last time, the Boss? He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure. He hated this.
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When no one spoke, the Boss continued, clarified. He didn’t sound pleasant. “Do we have any suggestions? We can’t let it go uncorrected at the very least.”
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Silence stretched again, and then something coldly metallic touched the back of his head. His breath caught in the back of his throat, he didn’t move. He didn’t shift. A voice came from behind him, one he didn’t recognize, so probably the guard. “It’s obviously past that, Sir. I’d suggest removal from your armory.”
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A click sounded somewhere behind him, somewhere from that cold piece of metal against his head and— If he wasn’t already frozen, he certainly was now. That… They were to shoot him. What did he do? He didn’t— He didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Panic clutched his heart, he couldn’t— He couldn’t. He just couldn't. He didn’t know. Tears were certainly stinging at his eyes now, and he squeezed them shut in an attempt to not cry. That wouldn’t help him… Would anything help him now though? He was— He was going to die. This was the end. Bullet to the brain, just like— Just like Smith— He didn’t— Please—
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The sound of something, he didn’t know what, landing on a desk shook him out of his spiraling thoughts in time to realize he hadn’t been shot… Yet. Because that was still going to happen. Probably. A different click came from somewhere else though, closer to the desk, and a voice spoke, grim and warning. The Doctor.
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“Remove the gun, now. This is your only warning.”
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The cold metal disappeared from the back of his head, silence stretching out with a new tension. He didn’t dare move from where he was still being forced to kneel on the ground. When someone did speak again, the voice belonged to the Doctor, somehow casual. Somehow sounding disappointed.
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“Removal isn’t necessary for this, I don’t think. After all, this is merely a missed weak spot. Every weapon has one. Isn’t that right, Gunnr? All that’s needed is to fix it. Sharpen it. Get rid of whatever its previous wielders, its previous forgers, had crafted into it. It belongs to the arena now, after all, not them.” A pause, tension lined every inch of.. Him. Every inch of him. “I believe, all that’s necessary here, is a severe correction. A… Reminder, if you will.”
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…His hands pulsed painfully, as if they were still injured. Well, one of them was, he supposed. The other didn’t have an excuse. His throat still felt constricted and the floor was starting to truly dig into his forehead. But he wasn’t going to die. He wasn’t. Because of the Doctor. He almost pushed his forehead more into the ground himself, only stopping himself from doing so because this was wrong. All of this was wrong.
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A small tapping noise was the only sound for a moment, and he couldn’t tell if someone was tapping their foot or a pen on the desk. He wasn’t sure if that really mattered. All he knew was that the sound continued as the Boss spoke.
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“Right then, as consequence for not doing as it was forged specifically to do, its wielders are to take it to 6B and wait for us to come correct it. In the meantime, the wielders will do whatever corrections they believe to be necessary and keep it sheathed for our arrival. Am I understood?”
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Almost immediately, the sound of Mr Cattell’s voice answering could be heard. “Yes Sir.”
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There were a few more seconds of silence, with his head against the ground and some blunt object digging into his back to keep him kneeling, and then… The object was removed from his back, and he could breathe a bit easier, lift his head just enough so that his forehead wasn’t pushed against the ground as much, and a split second after he had done so, he felt a firm hand on his upper arm and what had been said fully processed in his head.
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He was pulled up from the ground in a quick motion, with no words said between anyone else. With his head spinning to catch up, his eyes landed on the mask on the desk. The Doctor’s mask on the desk. His feet were forced to move with his eyes as he was almost dragged out of the room. He still wasn’t sure what he had done wrong. No one had told him. He was being taken to be corrected and he didn’t know what he’d done that needed to be corrected. How was he supposed to make sure he didn’t mess up again? He bit down on his tongue, trying to focus on just walking, on keeping up with the quick pace of the Cattells. He didn’t want to make this even worse. He’d find out eventually what he did wrong… Hopefully.
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For now, he kept his feet moving to keep up as he was pulled through the hallways of the back area of the arena. Forcing himself to not shrink or tense too much in anticipation of a correction he didn’t understand. He didn’t know what was being planned either. He didn’t know a lot right now. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to know. The only reason he thought he did was so that maybe then he could prepare. Maybe then he could figure out what he’d done wrong and apologize. Do whatever was needed to earn forgiveness without being hurt again. He didn’t want to be hurt again.
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…He didn’t really have a say though, did he? He could apologize, he could find out and apologize and even beg and they’d still hurt him. Still correct him. Because that was the only way he’d learn. Because… Because things couldn’t learn, things could only be corrected through— Through being beaten back into shape. He… He wasn’t a… He wasn’t… He didn’t want to be a thing. Did that even matter though? If he was a thing then he couldn’t just decide not to be. But— He wasn’t. He wasn’t a thing.
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Mr Cattell stopped in front of a door, and he stopped right behind him. Seconds later, the door was opened and he was pushed inside in front of the Cattells. Without a word, he heard the two enter and the door close. Turning, he backed up a bit, to give them room. Just to give them room, his pounding heart had nothing to do with that. Not like there was even a reason for his heart to be pounding anyways. This was just a correction. Corrections had happened before. There had been corrections before. There was no reason to want to back away into a corner. Especially since that was a terrible idea anyways, backing into a corner was never the right thing to do, that was more of a disadvantage than anything else.
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Staring at the floor, he didn’t dare to try and gauge how upset they were. The office had told him enough. The smell of blood in this room was just as overwhelming as the scent was back in the ring, and the gray monochrome that made up the stone floor, cracked and bloodstained were almost familiar. Every room here for corrections looked the same… Or at least most of them.
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Still, silence stretched for a moment, and then Mr Cattell spoke, voice biting with an angry, almost disappointed, sigh. “Just get on the fucking ground against the wall already. Gunnr, go grab the chains.”
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Suppressing a flinch as well as he could, he practically scrambled to kneel on the ground at the furthest wall from the door, desperate not to make anything even worse. Mrs Cattell's footsteps could be heard traversing the room, in time with Mr Cattell’s getting nearer to him. Until they stopped, and he was crouched down in front of him.
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“Not that I expect a thing to listen to me but, remember, these corrections hurt us more. We don’t want to correct it, but if it keeps messing up… Well, we have to. There isn’t any other way to get it back into the shape we need it to be in, after all. No other way to sharpen it.” Mr Cattell’s tone seemed mostly disappointed now, with only some restrained anger about being forced to do this. He had the urge to apologize, to ask what had been done wrong… Neither option would help at this point though, so his head was merely bowed.
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Seconds later, Mrs Cattell’s footsteps stopped nearby, the sound of metal shifting with her in the air. And then, in his peripherals, the cuffs could be seen in Mr Cattell’s hands. Mr Cattell spoke again, voice full of anger again. “Hands. Now.”
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Desperate not to make things worse, his hands were offered with as little hesitation as was possible. The shakiness went stubbornly ignored by him, there was no reason for them to be shaking. After a couple seconds, a click of the cuffs opening could be heard, and then he felt cold metal on either wrist. He tried to ignore the panic crawling up as the click of the cuffs closing was heard and the cold metal was felt encasing both wrists.
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“Face the damn wall.”
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With as little hesitation as possible, he turned in a haste to face the wall. The sooner this was over, the sooner the cuffs came off. He— He didn’t want these on— He was trapped— Wanted out, out, out— Get him out— He rested his forehead against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to ignore the cold metal around his wrists.
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His hands were forced up a bit as the chains were locked into place at the wall. Panic tore at his heart, making airways constrict. The sound of footsteps walking away, he tested the chains as subtly as possible, pulling and biting his tongue when they barely moved. Trapped. He was trapped. Completely, utterly trapped. Squeezing eyes shut even tighter, he pushed the forehead against the wall further, trying to ignore the panic that was beginning to drown out the rest of the world.
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A sharp noise of something quickly cutting through the air was the only warning before pain erupted at several places on— On his back. The one saving grace from moving from the force was his forehead on the wall and grip on the chains. A contrasting sting came as the cold, open air hit the new warmth that came from open wounds. The feeling wasn’t enjoyable, though that was probably the point.
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The next one, two, three were even worse. Overlapping with some of the previous ones, pinpointing exactly where each injury was located was difficult. The pain was the worst part. Dizzying and nauseating, stinging and throbbing, sharp and piercing. Breathing was hard, and not knowing when the next time the scourge would come down didn't help. The tears that had been held back previously were certainly making their way down now, unable to focus on much else other than the pain made keeping them back much more difficult.
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No matter the reactions, no matter the pain, the scourge came down again. And again, and again, and again, and again— Until differentiating between the strikes became too complicated, too difficult, too much. Accepting the overwhelming pain was easier, eyes squeezed shut and chain digging into raw hands making them bleed. Forehead pressed against the wall and tears running down cheeks, mixing with the sounds tearing from a raw throat. Well, mixing with sounds until something was suddenly clogging the raw throat, keeping any other noises or what may have been pleas from escaping. And then, raw pain was all there was. Over and over and over again— Stop— and again and again— Please— and again and again and— Please stop—
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Seconds, or minutes, time was hard to keep track of with pain still destroying all concepts of such a thing, passed by before the fact that there weren’t any new strikes coming down managed to process. That there hadn’t been any new strikes coming down for a while. Breathing was painful, stretching the injuries and keeping them open.
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There was movement, the sound of searing metal and speaking. No words could be made out through the fog of pain, and any attempts were met with overwhelming failure and stabbing pain that took all focus away immediately. Someone was close by again, crouched down and if the wind pushing against the open wounds were any indication, reaching out towards the tattered back. Trying not to move, the sound of cutting fabric was a distinct difference. The cold air of the room reached more of the skin as the shirt was cut and pulled off, pain shooting through the injuries where the shirt had been sticking.
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The back of the shirt was peeled away completely, and the hands that had done so reached up to the cuffs. Relief threatened to jump up, but diminishing just as quickly as the cuffs were tightened instead. Along with the cuffs tightened enough to dig into skin, the chains were shifted to allow for even less movement. Fear clawed back up, even more so as cold metal wrapped around at the neck. The clicking clang of a chain attached to that and the forehead pressed against the wall was suddenly pushed downwards uncomfortably and the chain was locked tightly to the wall. Giving an experimental tug up to relieve the stress of the arms being higher, the collar dug into skin and didn’t budge. A tug at the arms had the same outcome. Fear clung and caught any breaths that had been previously possible.
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Whoever had cut the shirt and tightened the chains had walked away by now, allowing cold air to hit more skin. Time passed, the sound of something being heated was the only sound to be heard over the pain of cold air stinging the open wounds, over the fear that threatened to consume every sense of rationality. Eventually, more footsteps approached, bringing warm air along too. For a second, the warm air was a nice change as the warmth got closer and then—
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It screamed. Pure agony exploded as skin and blood and scorching metal collided on its back. Pressure was applied, arms forced to move by the pressure and the cuffs dug into its wrists. The pain burned its mind, boring into every nerve and it begged. Screamed and begged for mercy it already knew wouldn’t be given. But not much settled in its mind, just that it needed the pain to stop.
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When the metal was finally pulled away, after what felt like an eternity of never ending pain, cold air hit its back and all it felt for another moment was pain. And then, it fell to the side, not having noticed the cuffs and collar being taken off until it collided with the ground. It stayed there, pain wrapped around it and made everything foggy. Voices drifted somewhere, but it couldn’t focus with the smell of burning and burnt flesh in the air, with the smell of blood that coated everything, with the slight acidic taste of vomit in its mouth. Dizzying nausea clung to it, just the same as the pain that refused to let it focus on its surroundings.
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Something came into contact with the newest injury, pain erupted in response and it tried not to- It really did, it swears it did— It whimpered just a bit, curling away from whatever had just hurt it more. More insistently, harsher, the same thing came into contact with it again. It curled away further, biting back a yelp as well as it could. When it was hit again, harsher, to the point that it was moved by the offender, it managed to realize it was being kicked through the familiar pain. Realizing that didn’t make anything easier as it went to curl, went to cry out in pain for anyone to hear— Please— Instead, a hand roughly grabbed its upper arm and yanked it up, practically dragging it as its legs refused to remember how to work.
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As it was dragged through the halls, it continued to slip and fall, nausea and pain and the resulting dizziness making walking hard. Each time, its arm was yanked and it was pulled forward unceremoniously. It couldn’t tell if someone was speaking, couldn’t tell what was going on beyond the pain that every movement caused. It stumbled, it was yanked, it flailed, it was yanked. It bit back a cry as it was yanked yet again, stumbling blind in pain and not going near fast enough for whoever was pulling it around.
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At some point, the one dragging it around stopped walking. Standing alone was almost harder though, and it found itself slipping where it stood, legs wanting to collapse and crumble beneath it. Before that could happen though, it was being roughly forced through a door and it collided with a wall. A wall that was too smooth and too close. For a split second, while it still had light, it tried to go that way, legs crumbling and pain keeping it where it was as a voice drifted over it. And then, darkness consumed it as it found what it assumed was the floor.
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The room was dark, and smooth, and small, and silent, and it couldn’t see anything. But the pain was still there, the smell of blood and burnt flesh, and it couldn’t focus past the cloud in its mind. Past the pain and fear and desperation. It deserved this though. It had done something, it didn’t know what it’d done but it’d done something to deserve this. It had to have done something. It probably broke, they were just repairing it. That had to be what happened. They didn’t want to hurt it. It had broken… It had. This was its fault. This had to be its fault. There was no chance that this wasn’t its fault. They didn’t want to hurt it. They didn’t. They didn’t.
Fall 
Night 
Hurricane Moon: 
