Chapter Text
The war party came late at night, as the sentries stood and the soldiers slept. They killed the sentries quickly, silently. The general woke in the silence, awakened by the silence. He reached for his sword and was struck in the head. Captured. Captured in an attack with no honor.
The next time he awoke there was a constant screaming, ceaseless and shrill. He struggled to gather himself, to stand, but the floor would not be still. Constant motion.
The thing he noticed most was the smell. He had been down in the pits of hellish war, filled with the blood and bowels of men and their rotting flesh, and yet he had never before smelled anything so noxious or fetid. He could hardly stand to breath without retching. He gathered his wits and felt his head; the entire left half of his face was tender and seemed swollen. Dried blood covered his head and shoulders. He hissed as his fingers discovered the source of the blood: a large gash hidden under his hair, still wet.
He didn't know how long he'd been there. He had slept twice, and his eyes were adjusted to the dim. He had seen neither food or water since he'd been captured. Captured. He'd been a damn fool, captured in his sleep. He hoped that his wife thought he had died in battle, a hero's death. That would be some consolation at least. At least his son would grow up hearing tales of his brave father. His son. He was not going to see the boy again, he was sure of it. His wife too. He would never be able to spend another night with her. He leaned against the cold stone and tilted his head back. Maybe he would die of pneumonia before he starved.
He slept four more times before the door opened. He was blinded by the low light streaming in. A withered husk of a man laid where the general had once been. Bones jutted out, struggling to break through skin. He did not struggle as two guards drug him down the corridor. He lacked the strength to care, or to even listen to them with any intent.
“I told ye' we left him in there too long – fucking gladiator he'll make now, a fucking kid could kill 'im.”
“Moron. She wanted him anyways. Called 'im soon's we broughts 'em in. Alls we's gots to do is cut 'im now.”
The man, this once great general, fought the haze that engulfed him, his instincts sensed an immediate crisis. His hands were bound now, linked together by chain and cuffs, his feet as well. The edges of his vision were black; he could see only what lay directly before him. When he lifted his head , he saw the knives on the table and knew. He used the chain that bound him, and a strength that came from deep within him, a beastly strength – savage and deadly. These men, these pigs would die with him. He took down seven all together. The pigs didn't realize when he broke the first two necks. He broke the next neck and then they came for him. He managed to kill another; his chain around the pig's neck. He maimed three others before he was taken down. Two would never walk again, the other could do nothing with his body and was killed later by his own men out of pity. Pity or disgust. And still he fought. This man, this general. He fought until they dislocated both shoulders. When he could no longer fight with his arms he kicked and bit like a wild animal; he tore chunks of flesh from arms and faces. His fierceness was no match for the horde of brutes that converged on him. He was lashed to the table, with ropes over his chest and stomach, hands tied above his head, legs tied apart. His body was immobile, he could only lift his head. He saw them come with the knife. He had fought them, and so he could face his end in peace. Let the darkness come, he thought.
But then he felt it. He felt the tugging on his testicles as they were tied off. He realized that they had no intention of killing him, they would castrate him, and make him half a man. He thrashed against his bindings. The tourniquet was meant to reduce bleeding before the would was cauterized; it did nothing to reduce pain. He felt it all. He struggled so the pigs might make a mistake and nick an artery, something, anything that would kill him. He was prepared to die, he was not prepared to become less than a man.
And then there was nothing.