Fiesi loses track of what it is to be awake and asleep. Both are filled with awful, blinding darkness, and both hurt; the pain follows him even into his dreams. Blistering cold becomes everything. Frost lines his stomach and scrapes his throat every time he dares to breathe. Even his fingers are frozen, creaking and aching when he moves them. The cage sways listlessly. In the deeper parts of sleep, it's a raging sea tossing him back and forth and clogging his mouth and nose with salt, but most of the time it is simply what it is: hard, freezing, unforgiving metal.

He yearns desperately to summon flame, but doesn't dare. Nathan's presence flutters eternally in and out. He's not always there, but still terror seizes Fiesi's heart whenever he thinks of reaching for the forbidden light. He can't suffer any more than he already is. It's all already too much.

Some bleak part of him is hoping thirst or starvation claim him first, but that's a long road. And besides, won't Nathan just bring him back again?

His stomach turns over, snarling. Gritty sourness swamps his mouth. Face buried in his cold arms, he whimpers, half-wishing he had the energy to scream. Even without that horrible, horrible concept, death is still no escape. Death is worse. Death is always worse.

Dim light burns his eyes.

With a hiss, he lifts his head, fingers splayed in front of his eyes to shield them as he squints. His heart has sped up. Some nonsensical relief pumps through him at this crack in the darkness, a hypnotising desire to crawl towards the light as if that is escape. The bars in front of him are blurred, though they settle as his eyes adjust and the spots dancing in front of them fade, the grey edges of his prison and its room of nothingness sharpening. Beyond the bars, a flickering lantern approaches. The shadow-clad figure who carries it takes longer to identify.

The sight of black hair and pale skin skips jagged strings of lightning through his chest, though the sparks are quick to wink out. The tacky bitterness rolling under his tongue has a different feel to it, less dark and terrible and more simply wrong. His gut twists unpleasantly, an itch prowling through his veins, and he cringes back. He never did like to suffer Harlow's stare for too long.

There's nowhere to escape it here, however. Harlow barely breaks their eye contact as he sets the lantern down at his feet, then moves another step closer, so that the flame's amber strands turn the lower rim of his black cloak to silver while surrendering his face to far dimmer shadow. It only serves to further steal the light from his green eyes. His gaze is flat, his expression nothing at all. It's infuriating.

Palms flat against the cage's floor, Fiesi struggles to push himself up, the cage shaking as much as he does. He settles for tilting up his chin, lips twisted into a snarl. He doesn't like how tall Harlow is, either. "What do you want?"

"To talk," Harlow says simply.

Fiesi exhales through his nose, then grimaces. His wound apparently still objects to him breathing too hard. He flashes a wry, weary half-smile. "Well, I've got all day."

"Neither of us want Shaula free."

"Don't we?" Fiesi raises an eyebrow. He rolls carefully onto his side, then props himself up with one arm, allowing him to better hold Harlow's piercing gaze. "It seems" -- he winces as his stomach twinges with the movement -- "pretty clear to me that you're quite firmly on Shaula's side, Captain."

Harlow's lips twitch at the title. He folds his arms. "If you insist on taking such a black and white view as all Tía do, I'll take the lantern away and tell Noli to pay you another visit."

"No, no," Fiesi says in a hurry, tongue tripping over itself. His arm wedges protectively against his chest. "No, I--I can think in many colours, actually. My opinions are a kaleidoscope. Do carry on telling me why we're miraculously on the same side."

Jaw tightening, Harlow flicks his gaze aside for the first time. "You're as grating as your father."

"More grating, actually. I try to be." Fingers dragging through his hair, he takes his turn to look away, any forced smile in his tone evaporating. "Don't compare me to my father while I'm on my deathbed," he mutters. "It's embarrassing." His temples pound, voice beginning to croak. Sprightly as he can pretend to be through words, he's far too tired for this. He's too tired to do anything. The thought of his father makes him want to bash his head into the bars until he can claw his way back into some turbulent dream, if only to pretend that he isn't stuck here.

Harlow merely hums lowly to himself. In thought, maybe, though Fiesi knows how drained and empty the ro étoi's head must be, clogged only with seething dark magic. It's irritating that he never saw it before given how obvious it is now. He blinks back the despairing exhaustion and refocuses his glare.

Harlow's head tilts. "Do you know why I kept you around, Fiesi Kynig?"

"In the army?" Fiesi resists the urge to snort a laugh; it's not worth the pain. "You knew, then?" Teeth gritted, he slumps back to lying on his stomach, chin tucked against his folded arms as he stares through the bars at the shadows they twine on the wall beyond. He's found pressing the wound against the metal's chill provides a numbing kind of relief. "I'm guessing it wasn't my winning personality. You like Tía?"

In the corner of his eye, Harlow's arms shift against his chest as if wriggling with discomfort. "I despise the Tía." There's so very, very nearly emotion in that -- disdain, callous fury -- yet it's too distant to fully make out. "But they do feel so... strongly. You in particular. It interests me. You are fascinating to observe."

Phantom insects wriggle up Fiesi's spine. The back of his neck chills, and he swallows. His thoughts suddenly feel heavy in his head, burdens he can't shift, at the realisation that they're not his to view alone. Has Harlow really seen everything he's ever felt? What he feels now? His jaw clenches, aching. "Get out of my head."

"You're afraid."

"Of course I'm afraid." He jerks his head up, fingers sliding over the cage's floor as they curl. Being angry hardly seems worth it when he's so weak, but he tries anyway, glowering through the greasy strands of hair that droop over his eyes. Harlow's impassive returning stare latches a sharp hook amongst his ribs. He bares his teeth, a hoarse growl rumbling in his throat. "The world is probably falling to pieces out there, and I'm trapped in this tiny, dark prison, rotting away, covered in my own blood. People are dying and all I can do is suffer." The final statement chokes him. Perhaps it's a blessing his eyes are too sore to cry any more; Harlow doesn't need to see that. "You don't need your creepy abilities to know how terrified I am."

Silence rings. That unceasing green stare drills a deeper hole in his skull. Hissing inhale like a knife's blade, he jerks away from it, flicking a few fingers in a half-hearted gesture as if that will shoo Harlow's invasive power away. Dark, crusted scarlet coats them, itching under his nails. He swallows carefully.

"So, what?" Defeat strangles the question. He licks his cracking lips, failing to tease it out. He feels like he's sinking through the cage floor. "If you're not with Shaula, then are you going to let me go?"

"I can't risk that," Harlow says.

Fiesi tips his head on its side, a bitter smile cutting into his cheek. "Even if I say pretty please?" Desperation flails and drowns in sticky sarcasm.

"I've already tried to reach out to Noli once. Shaula knows this, and she's become wary. If I deceive her in that way, she will likely kill me."

"What a pity. My soul weeps for you." Fiesi's eyes narrow. He shoves himself up before he can think better of it, heat flaring beneath the blood dried into the creases of his palm, fire singing through his veins. He snatches a bar, then another, using them to claw himself closer to the edge of the cage and bring his nose level with Harlow's chin.

The cage tips at a dangerous angle. The skin on his knees smarts as he slides with it, but he's past caring. Fear is a seething, pounding mass in his chest, reverberating with the helpless wish to be free. It singes and swamps him and pops in his ears, leaping over itself and looping around, and before he knows it there's a knife's hilt in his hand. Its blade extends, all untamed azure blaze, flickers sure but hesitant and completely devoid of control. His hand itself shakes as he thrusts it forward, pushing its tip beyond the bars to snap at Harlow's tight, dark collar.

"Allow me to rephrase," he hisses. "You will let me go."

Harlow remains stiff. "I can't."

The bar Fiesi clutches rattles. He presses his forehead against it, heart a wild animal gnawing away at his flesh. "Let me go," he repeats, words grating between his teeth, torn to shreds. What kind of threat can barely keep itself together? "Or I get the pleasure of killing you, ro étoi."

Shoulders sloping, Harlow rolls his gaze to the side. "Tía minds can be amazing, yet they are painfully wild and blunt. You never think at all."

A frustrated snarl drags up Fiesi's throat. It hurts. Everything hurts. "I'll kill you. I--I'll do it."

"No, you won't." Impatience flicks out those words. Harlow's fingers drum on his arm, a dull, tuneless rhythm. "Now could we end this charade? You may have all day, but I would rather not spend hours upon hours slowly explaining this to you."

Violent, roaring energy flows with haste to fuel Fiesi's flame, steadily hollowing him out. His fingers clench tighter around the knife's formless hilt, aching, but refuse to let go. His lower lip quivers.

Harlow sighs. "Tía are characterised by strong emotion," he begins, speaking as if this is merely small talk, scholarly, as if the knife at his throat and the broken boy before him do not exist, "yet I sense the opposite in Shaula. I've seen desires, ambitions, cravings, but not raw feelings. Emotion appears to confuse her."

"I'm aware," Fiesi grates out. "All Synté are the same in that regard." For even this small comparison with Shaula, Rigel would object immensely if he was here, but the thread remains limp and quiet. His chest aches.

"Feelings are weapons to be used against her. Noli has already worked this out, but he is losing the battle on his own. You must--"

The air trapped in Fiesi's throat rushes out in a burst. "Nathan is... fighting her?" His knife implodes, flame sparking weakly between his fingers.

"As you say, we are on the same side. Our interests align." The line of Harlow's mouth flattens. "A miracle of sorts, but unfortunately true."

Fiesi's grip on the cage bar slides, his fingers growing numb and his head light. His heart's sprint has become a marathon. He returns to curling both hands around bars to anchor himself, tongue stumbling, light beginning to sting his eyes. "But you... He's still..."

"He can be saved."

Hope is a deadly poison, diluted by exhaustion's weighted seas. Fiesi's mouth flaps open and closed, expelling only air, ice crusting his thoughts to meld them as one heavy lump.

Harlow nods slowly, as if agreeing with something unspoken Fiesi can't comprehend. "I tried to capture the Diraldi girl in the hopes of using her, but I failed. I don't know where she is and expect she has fled the castle. The boy who was with her had some effect, but not enough." His stare is daggered. "You are what I have left to work with. Reach out to him, and I will aid you in giving Noli the tools he needs."

Mind whirling, Fiesi sinks lower into the corner of his slanted cage, jaw locked against a tired whine. Sarielle escaped. That's good. Dalton didn't? Cold, sunless, rancid air shoves in at all sides, squeezing the breath from his lungs. "Reach out?" he asks weakly.

"You and him have developed a connection, from what I can tell." Harlow hums under his breath. "Brotherly, maybe?" Fiesi tenses, and Harlow is potently aware of it, though his voice remains devoid of any smug victory -- jarringly devoid of anything at all given the pain roaring like feral beasts of blood in Fiesi's ears. "Use it. Make him... ah, feel something for you."

"Don't phrase it like that," Fiesi mutters. He drags a hand up his face, the motion stuttering as it catches on his nose, scratches blood and sweat into his forehead, snags on his hair. Every movement jolts and jitters like that. His flame buzzes, yet fizzles out before it stretches high enough to warm him.

"Do you understand?"

His inhale rattles. Slowly, with vision spotty and dim, he drags his gaze up to rest on Harlow. "I do. But you're wrong."

Harlow's crossed arms shift over his chest. "I'm--"

"Wrong. You're wrong." His teeth flash. This anger isn't hot; it's dry, bottomless, painfully chilling. His words crack like hard pottery. "You think you're some kind of genius, Rakis, but you're not. You don't know what in the world you're doing. Stars, you're just an empty shell. What do you know about human emotion?" He glares. "There's no winning against Shaula. Emotion is a petty, blunt weapon, and it doesn't faze her. It's beneath her. You think I didn't try pleading with Nathan? I still ended up here, didn't I?"

"Try again," Harlow says simply, and Fiesi smacks the bars with a fist. Their clang echoes emptily, the toll of a bell, the howl of an anguished ghost. His bones shake with it. He can't even hit something without splintering apart.

"We can't win." Each word comes out slow and deliberate, heavy with reality. "Shaula is too strong. It's too late. She's every nightmare you've ever had rolled into one, and now that she's free, nothing will stop her. I can't stop her." Biting his lip, he bows his head, choking on the shame of it all. "I never could. This is all just--"

"Then rot."

Fiesi's blurring string of words trips a few syllables onward before he registers Harlow's interjection. The light swings upwards. Blinking, he jerks his head up, gaze zeroing in on the lantern as Harlow lifts it. He's already halfway to the room's exit.

Heart skipping over itself, Fiesi snatches helplessly at the bars, staring frantically after the blank ro étoi. Awful and skin-crawling as his presence is, the idea of being alone again is a noose, coiling tighter and tighter and tighter as panic surges its crushing waves. "Hey, wait!"

Midstep, Harlow cuts a glance over his shoulder. "I'll find another way. Giving up is not in my nature, but I have no interest in expending more of my energy trying to save you. Rot away peacefully, Fiesi Kynig."

His steps have a pointed, repetitive thud. They fade, and so does the light, until silence and darkness smother Fiesi once more. His breathing has a rasping edge as it races in and out.

"I mean it," he whispers, so horribly pitiful, as if it makes any difference. "I can't... I can't do it, I..."

The phrase wheels around until it loses meaning and slurs on his tongue. The darkness folds in, and he sags into the bars, a shiver wracking his bones. Perhaps the only thing he can do is rot.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

It strikes me that this might be the first time Fiesi and Harlow have properly interacted in a scene. Kinda wild. Their dynamic is funny.

- Pup