The black passage stretching ahead of Fiesi is suddenly the interior of a cart's wheel, spiralling infinitely in wild, looping circles beneath his sprinting feet. It yanks left and right, ducking up and down, heaving and shoving, pain prodding him in every place that might topple his balance. The possibility of falling flat on his face has an awful temptation to it. At least then the ground might stay in one spot.

Even the wall shrinks away when he grabs for it. He staggers until smooth rock crashes into his outstretched hands and then claws himself along it, cold sweat plastering his shirt to his skin. His feet move sluggishly, too slow, his knees and ankles not bending in the right way.

This is like a dream. It is a dream, one he's lived too many times and now can't seem to escape.

Sarielle isn't following.

Whether that thought trips him or his legs fold of their own accord, he's beyond telling, but the next he knows his chin bounces hard off solid rock and he's watching a cascade of stars perform instead of reality. Blood spills into his mouth and spikes sharply in his senses. His tongue stings. His lungs ache. Air won't come as it should. Spindly pains poke between each rib and lance as far as his fingers, prickly as lightning, ringing in his ears.

Constricting nausea seizes his stomach. Everything still sways. He's drowning in bitter, metallic saltwater, ears throbbing from the imagined screams curled up in his head. Thinking is a chore, as is moving.

He throws himself onto his back, fingers scraping roughly against stone if only to anchor him to the present, and digs his heels in, attempting to scramble backwards. His right leg pulls out straight and then refuses to move. A loop of rope snags his ankle. Black, icy, agonising rope.

It yanks, and his spine grates the ground as he's dragged by it. Hands flat either side of him, he stares upward, begging not to meet Nathan's eyes and yet left with no other choice. They blink at him from so many angles that the genuine pair is somewhat difficult to pick out. Great clouds of malice bloom in them. The fire-made rope winds a trio of loops around Nathan's palm, clutched like an animal's leash.

He puffs out a sigh. "I was not ready for you yet. There is no need to be impatient."

He tugs again, and Fiesi clamps down on a yelp, trying to remember how to breathe. His vision darts in and out with the grace of a wriggling fish, flashing the way wet, silvery scales flash when wagged this way and that, in and out of a stream of light. Light. Sarielle's white feather has slipped his grip. Its flame still casts a veil of light over the scene, though little gratitude seeps through for the lack of darkness. At least darkness hides the monsters lurking within it.

He tosses out a hand and grapples, fingers eventually snagging the feather. Its stem is half-crushed in his slippery grasp. The soft brush of it against his skin, coupled with the jarringly cheerful rays of green it casts, does little to orient him. The flashes have slots, skipping between scenes at a dizzying rate.

His mother's russet hair blown in waves, white feather tucked delicately above her right ear. Green fire, blazing.

Ice glazing his skin. Hard rock against his shoulders. Breathe.

Heat, everywhere.

Breathe.

Green fire, dying.

Move. Do something.

His foot is free. He kicks at the ground until it wedges under his aching soles and then levers upright, throwing himself in a direction, any direction. Anything to keep moving until he stops feeling so small and scared, until his body feels like it belongs to him again, until fire that isn't there retracts its ashen claws from his skin. The screams are deafening. Laughter laces it, detached and broken, split in two. Dizziness blows a gust through him.

His shoulder slams against the wall and his forehead knocks into it. The dancing stars return. When they clear, there are icy fingers curled around his wrist.

Their presence is that of a ghost, dripping fluid chills that freeze him in place. Slowly, horribly, they solidify, so potently real and impossible to deny. He's aware of the frenzied thump of his heart, warm despite the frost stinging each pulse. Chest tight, he gives in to the cold hand's pull and summons the energy to turn, ridiculously regretful that he can no longer hide within the cage. The bars cut away his freedom, but at least they shielded him from this touch.

Nathan grins up at him, hooked fangs and carefree delight displayed. He shifts his grip, intertwining their fingers, leaning in so close that his breath's mist tickles the spot below Fiesi's ear. "One more attempt to run, little Kynig," he whispers, "and I will slit your throat."

He laughs as he withdraws, clearly enjoying whatever he sees on Fiesi's face in response. Fiesi can't feel his tongue. His mouth still tastes of copper. He gulps, wincing at the dry scrape of his throat.

The dark void of Nathan's eyes leers at him, a persistent reminder of what it feels like to die.

"Well," Nathan adds louder, nails curving in to bite at Fiesi's palm, "since you are so demanding of my attention, I suppose we will make this your show instead. You would like that, would you not?"

A cold finger snaps up to graze Fiesi's chin, and his breath rattles in his chest. He tilts his head up, eyes squeezed half-shut, stomach so tense it feels like a bloody-knuckled fist sunk into his torso. Black rods of pain lance over his skin. His flame just barely, weakly, flickers to life, its smouldering heat no weapon at all against the terror that crushes him from all sides. He fists the white feather harder, wishing it lent him strength rather than unwanted memories. It all clashes like a storm in his head: white and green, black and white, crimson red, burning cold and a sapping blaze.

"Nathan, stop this."

Relief gushes through him at Sarielle's voice -- something to cling to, something that belongs only to the here and now. He dares peek to the side. She stands a couple of paces away, torn flaps of sand-yellow skirt drooping limply from her waist, white tunic smeared with dust and charred all down one sleeve, awful-looking silvery burns eating into the skin beneath. She glares through frayed, looping blonde curls, left hand thrown across her chest to snatch at the hilt of her sword. "This is ridiculous," she adds, tone impressively firm. "Let him go."

Another finger digs in alongside the first, prowling the bony base of Fiesi's jaw. His chin is yanked nearer. Curled black strands of hair lash at his nose as Nathan's head turns, eyes glinting as they rest on Sarielle.

"Which one?" he asks, light curiosity skipping over the smooth smile in his voice. He taps Fiesi's cheek. "Fiesi Kynig? Or your father?"

She grits her teeth. "You--"

"I could even let Dalton Heathe go, I suppose." He gives a low, thoughtful hum, then a shrug that shudders through to Fiesi. "Sadly, he could not join us today, however. He is having trouble with his sight." A giggle trips from his tongue, eerily balanced between its childish lilt and the syrupy drag of insanity.

At the sound of Dalton's name, Sarielle twitches, lips twisting as bright flashes of emotion cast shadows over her gaze, though she somehow keeps herself steady. All Fiesi catches is the slightest hitch in her breath as she speaks again. "Let all of them go. This isn't what you want. You care for all of these people, and you don't want to hurt them. I know that." The crack in her voice then is far more obvious, the words wobbling on her tongue. Her knuckles whiten where they clutch her hilt.

Nathan's nails scrape as they release Fiesi's chin, and Fiesi fits his mouth around a shallow gulp of air, flinching as far back as the cold-iron grip on his wrist will allow. His heart is a tuneless drum that demands to run, but the swaying curtains of darkness lingering on the edge of his consciousness warn otherwise. He can only watch.

Something has shifted in Nathan's expression. His nostrils flare. "And what do you know," he hisses, serpentine flame swallowing the hand now loose at his side, "of what I want?"

Sarielle's stare is equal parts stern and pleading, hard yet broken. "Let them go."

There's a strung-out pause, an inaudible crackling in the air as Nathan's midnight flames swirl. His gaze breaks from hers and tilts downwards, face twisted so Fiesi can't quite see it. By the time it lifts again, his fanged smile has returned, and the scatter of dark scales crossing the bridge of his nose has spread further into his cheek. He angles a sideways glance at Sarielle. "That is not an answer to the question I asked. Which one?"

"All of them," she grates out.

Nathan clicks his tongue, tutting. "That will not do. You cannot have it all, songbird."

His grip on Fiesi's arm suddenly tightens, frosty flame digging hundreds of teeth into his flesh, before jerking forwards. The momentum is more than he's prepared to deal with; he topples forward, fighting to keep his feet under him, before a shove to his back seals his fate and he lands flat on his stomach. The air flees his lungs yet again. His wound throbs, and he wriggles a hand underneath him to press his knuckles to it, almost numb now to the warm trickle of blood. Should he still be bleeding? Do Cormé wounds ever stop doing that? What happens when he runs out? His heart, rather illogically, chooses to hammer with ever-more sickening haste. It pounds in his head, nearly flooding his ears.

He doesn't quite catch the command Nathan tosses to the soldier leading Reuben, though he sees a pale hand flash a gesture over his head. The soldier tugs Reuben to a spot opposite him in the cavern passage, forces him to his knees, and then whips out a knife.

"No!" Sarielle shouts, and Fiesi feels a sharp tug in his gut similar to the upward screech of her voice. He snaps out a hand to claw himself forward -- like that will make any difference -- then realises that the knife isn't headed for the Cormé nobleman's throat. Instead, it carries on, disappears behind his back, and re-emerges alongside a length of severed rope. Reuben draws his freed hands towards him, gazing first at the soldier and then at Nathan with the same rattling confusion that Fiesi is frozen with.

Sarielle's movement blurs the corner of Fiesi's eye, and then she's on her knees beside her father, hand lacing with his, whispers too soft to catch. Their foreheads rest against one another. It's a terribly lovely thing to witness amongst a setting of sharp darkness and terror and pain, and it brings Fiesi no warmth. He rubs at his ruffled feather, gentle green flame leaping between his fingers, dread stirring in his stomach.

He barely flinches when Nathan's foot stamps down near to his head, ordering attention. Sarielle's gaze reluctantly lifts. Her eyes are teary, growing less adept at hiding her fear.

"You cannot have it all," he repeats, "so make a choice. This will be a start. Fiesi or your father. Choose."

Fingers thread amongst Fiesi's hair, and he chokes on a yelp, lips pressed hard together as his head is yanked upwards, scalp stinging. Nathan bends down to his level. The slants of firelight and shadow conspire in perfect fashion, draping him in all the angles required to accent the deadly gleam in his gaze. The words he utters are hardly a breath yet clear as the most crisp of winter days.

"Kill him."

Satisfied, he retreats until out of view, hands clasped together.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Fun fact: Nathan referring to Sarielle as 'his songbird' is a beta Nathan thing which still exists in a oneshot somewhere. I am very glad that current draft Nathan is not quite that edgy, but Shaula apparently is. Sigh I hate her sometimes.

- Pup