****This chapter contains scenes of torture, thoughts of suicide, suicide, and violence****

****Please do not read ahead if these things are upsetting to you****

Lieder's screams haunted him, and every time he woke to the man's whimpering as he lay in agony, Wren lost a bit more of himself. Time and again, Wren had begged Talamayas to torture him, but the man had insisted that wouldn't be enough to sate his hunger for revenge. Until Wren suffered like Talamayas was, the vampire wouldn't be happy, but Wren didn't know if he could take much more of this.

Each day more of his men were brought in, and true to Talamayas' word, none were children. The youngest had been nineteen this year and had fought in many battles. That didn't make it any better as Talamayas strapped him into that torture chair, making sure his hands remained in the magic-binding shackles, and began his fun. The vampire wanted Wren to watch, forcing him even with Shan Sol's steel fingers on his face if necessary, like he was now.

Coda Song's youth only made his screams shriller as Talamayas snapped the first finger. It had been well known prior to all of this that Talamayas Sol was a torturer, so they'd stayed far from him if possible. Talamayas was a powerful flame wielder, which showed as dark magic pulsed in his hand and he lay it on the boy's thigh. Flesh singed and smoked, and the boy screamed, struggling, crying, and begging.

The entire time, Talamayas smiled.

Coda didn't make it like Lieder. Near the end, his heart gave out, and he jerked in the chair before he settled into his end. The light dimmed in his grey eyes and his head lolled back in the chair as he left their world. Wren cried. For each and every one of his people who perished, he wept, but he never begged for their lives. There was no point and it would only satisfy this man further.

Many came and went, different men, different screams, and different tortures. The worst part was when Talamayas threw them at his feet unshackled. If they came to, they unshackled Wren, and Wren did his best to heal the damage done, but removing the manacles didn't allow him the ability to get out of his cage that bound him. He'd learned the first time that he'd fantasized about escaping that if his manacles weren't on, the vampires didn't come back.

They'd starve him to death, and Wren would die, but he couldn't do that to his people. So, each time, he allowed his man to shackle him once more, and then he shackled them with the pair of shackles left behind. Then his men would eat, usually their last meal. Most didn't make it more than a few rounds of torture, and no matter how much Wren tried to ease their pain by healing them, it was all in vain.

They all died.

One by one. For years.

A day finally came that Talamayas was standing outside of his cell, and Wren looked up to him with hollowed eyes from years of watching his people die, all except for Lieder who sat in a corner of his cage, whole physically, but not all there. The man had started mumbling to himself, talking to his son who was no longer there. It kept him as sane as possible, sort of like how Wren had started to name the shadows and see the faces of the lost within them.

"Mage," Talamayas turned to Lieder and called for him. Lieder lifted his eyes but said nothing. "Time to pay back the favor I did you."

Lieder's eyes brightened in sentience that showed he was still there. "What is it you want?" They were the first words he'd said to a person in a while.

"For you to put Wren Song back together when I'm done with him tonight," Talamayas said with a smirk that ripped terror through Wren.

"As you wish," Lieder said, looking back into the corner.

Talamayas yanked Wren out of his cell, and he struggled all the way to the chair until the vampire strapped him in. The entire time, Lieder watched, and Wren wondered if the man got glee from this. Over the years, Lieder's treatment of him had turned bitter, blaming him for killing the Sol Mother and condemning their people to death, for condemning his son to death. Maybe Wren's screams would lull him into a pleasant sleep for once.

Injury was nothing new to Wren. Many a time he'd suffered grave wounds and worked his way through them, and he'd spent his fair number of nights in agony awaiting a healing mage to remedy his ails. This was something different. Something wrong.

For the first day, all Talamayas did was burn him. The vampire could charge his fingers with enough heat that their touch was like being stoked with a hot fire poker. Stroke by stroke, he ran them over his flesh and it blackened, curling back off of him or bubbling up in blisters that broke from the boiling heat. Each time Talamayas reached for him, Wren's heart jumped and he screamed.

Hell, he screamed so much that his throat was as raw as his skin.

By the time he was about to black out and couldn't take anymore, Talamayas reached for his throat with both hands, and then Wren shrieked. His breath singed his lungs, his head felt like it was about to burst from the blood nearly boiling, and his skin slouched away from his throat in an ooze, but he passed out too quickly to feel it.

Waking was worse than the torture.

Lieder had been instructed to heal his throat, as it was life threatening if unchecked, but the rest of him was left to fester. Everything stung and hurt, and there was no way for him to roll that wasn't agony. And of course, he'd pissed himself when Talamayas had grabbed his throat, so he was disgusting. Lying in his own filth and moaning in pain, he tossed and turned with no reprieve.

Not until Talamayas wanted to torture him again.

Lieder healed him with magic then and Wren was given a day to fully heal before the torture resumed. It went on for a while, and when Talamayas was too busy or bored of him, others did so in his stead. Some liked knives or whips, others breaking bones, and there were so many unconventional ways to torture that would never work without a healing mage. Simple things like ripping off nails or half drowning a man served no purpose when they didn't want information.

One of the men had taken in too far for Lieder the week last.

His torturer brought a friend, circling him with their dead black eyes, and Wren eyed the length of cord they had at their sides with fear. They were slow about it. They always enjoyed the buildup as he trembled and awaited the pain. Without a word, the first man ran his fingers over Wren's shoulder and he jerked back as he waited for them to cut his flesh. Instead, the claws trailed around as if measuring, and then the man secured the leather cord he had around his shoulder. One final run of his hand over the cord sealed it to his skin with a spell that melted into Wrens skin, and he hissed off a scream as he resisted the pain.

The remaining man came around to his other shoulder and did the same, both of them trailing the length of the cord a foot before wrapping it around their hands to get a better grip on it. That was when they pulled, and Wren dropped his face into his neck to clench his teeth as his skin stretched. It wasn't long before it tore, and he screamed as his shoulders popped out of their sockets. The sound of his agony went on until the inevitable crack as his joints gave, and a flopping noise drove Wren's eyes down to his arms as they rolled on the ground, no longer attached to his body.

Wren went into shock. Everything around him warped, pain turned into a spiral of the room trying to come down on him, and he lost the ability to form rational thought. There was still an urge to flex his fingers, to tighten his muscles and pull his arms back to him, but they were detached. Someone cursed, and then he was sure he heard Talamayas' voice, but Wren was too out of it to put meaning to any of it.

At least they put them back on. Lieder must have been over him for hours before Wren came to enough to understand what was going on. The mage who had long since forsaken him reconnected nerve endings and blood vessels, and the entire time, Wren stared up at the ceiling and wondered how hard it would be to kill himself.

All the bitterness in the world didn't stop Lieder from bathing him in tears as he worked, and the man couldn't stop muttering. So sorry. I'm so sorry. This isn't right. You don't deserve this. I was so cruel to you. Forgive me Wren. I know it's not your fault. I was grieving.

Forgive me.

Forgive me.

Forgive me.

They were Lieder's last words before Wren blacked out, and when he woke in his cell, whenever that was next, his arms screamed in agony as he used them to lift himself. Gasping, he leaned his back to the cold sand and stone wall and his arms fell limp at his sides. They'd need far longer to heal than a couple of days. Wren looked to Lieder's cell, to the only man he'd had for company for so many years, and he broke down.

Hanging from the highest horizontal set of bars, Lieder swung naked, all of his clothes tied and used to make a noose. There was no hope to save him, though Wren screamed anyway, cried out for someone, anyone to take him down. Shan showed up first, took one look at the man and cringed as he waited for Talamayas to join them. The Sol leader stared for longer, still neither of them taking him down.

"Bury him next to his son," Talamayas said quietly, and Shan bowed to his master before heading into the cell to finally lay him to rest. The Sol general even had the decency to wrap Lieder in his cloak before he carried him out of the cells.

"I can't give her back," Wren croaked, and Talamayas whipped his gaze over to where Wren was immobile against the wall, unable to fight back if Talamayas wanted to hurt him. The man never let him talk but to scream, and he wanted to say things. "I didn't mean to kill her. I was frightened. I'm sorry." Wren broke down into tears, but Talamayas just watched him with no expression.

"Your intentions mean nothing to me," Talamayas said. "She is gone."

Yes she was. That one mistake haunted him every moment, waking or sleeping in terror.

"He was the last," Talamayas said, and Wren didn't immediately understand. "The last of your people. He was all that remained, save you. I carved out your territory and hunted any stragglers. The Songs are no more."

Wren's chest hurt, and he wanted to clutch it, but his arms didn't move. All of his people? Every man, woman, and child... all of them dead because he'd reacted hastily in fear.

"Kill me!" Wren screamed, and Talamayas growled low and angry.

"No. You will suffer here until you can bare it no longer and your body gives out. As a grand general, that should take you some time. Now I have to go find another mage to heal you. You had a bit of time for those arms anyway. My men sometimes get carried away." Talamayas chuckled darkly, and Wren wished so much that he could reach out with his chains and rip his insides out. "Pity that man killed himself." Talamayas added, his humor dropping. "He was a good man and a good father. Perhaps without your family's warped ways, he could have lived out his life."

Wren crumpled when Talamayas left him, flopping on the ground like a dead man, and he barely felt the water as it drenched him from face to foot. There was nothing left outside the stone walls he'd been caged in for years. Even if he somehow made it out of this alive, his people were gone. Blood had washed the Song territory clean for his mistake, for his fear, and his chains didn't allow him as much leverage as they had Lieder to hang himself.

There was no way out of this until Talamayas decided it was time.

By then, there would be nothing of him left to even recognize death, and that was the only reason the man would let him go. If he was sentient enough to know that death was a sweet release, then he'd be forced to draw breath.

And now he'd have nearly a week of solitude.

That was worse than torture.

There was nothing to do down in the dark cells but think about every mistake he'd made, every life he'd taken, and more often than not, he passed out for the majority of it. The clank of metal woke him some time every morning with food fit only for a dog, and he scarfed it up despite his desire to perish. If he tried to starve himself, Talamayas would force feed him.

It was like that that unconscious took him, and he let out once last shudder of fear as the nightmares took him.

Red eyes, always those soft red eyes.

Long curls of onyx hair wound down to the vampire's waist as she sat in the desert, a story book in hand and all the children of his people gathered around. Wren had never heard but a gasp from her in real life, but in this dream, her voice was soft and melodious as she laughed and pointed at a picture. One of the children stood up and wrapped his hands around her neck with a fearless smile that made Wren wonder every night if peace hadn't been possible between their peoples.

These dreams warped his mind, pushed it toward beliefs that could never manifest in his conscious mind. Ones like this woman being kind enough to sit surrounded by mage children and do them no harm. That, perhaps, the mage children might see a vampire as anything but a beast, as a gentle mother, a source of comfort and laughter.

It never lasted.

This dream always changed. Sometimes they'd be walking down a stream hand in hand, sitting over a picnic blanket in a forest and eating watermelon under the morning sun, or skipping through water on one of the many beaches. The concept was the same, peace, tranquility, unity.

And then Wren appeared.

The sight of himself as a villain every night dropped him further into his own hell. The woman never saw him coming, too busy coddling a child to see his vicious grey eyes and the twisted smile on his face as he reached his hands down and choked her from behind. Wren was forced to watch it like an observer even though he was the most important actor, allowing him to see the tears that dripped from her eyes as his grip tightened and he laughed. The screams of his people's children echoed as he pushed her to the ground.

It wasn't satisfying from him to choke her without her knowing it was him, and he always rolled her so that she faced him, so he could see the terror in her eyes as he constricted and heaved breath over her in ecstasy and exertion. About then, the children tried to save her, tearing at his clothes until their hands sank into his flesh like talons. Blood dripped down his arms and yet he never let go, enjoying their inability to save the woman as he watched the light fade from her crimson eyes.

That wasn't even the worst part, which was saying a lot.

It was when he stood over her corpse and then looked down to examine his wounds. All his glee at her death faded and he turned on the children, hungry to squash them like insects. They fell under his feet, bursting into splatters of blood, and he had to cut down several of his own people to reach them, blinded by his rage and need for retribution that he didn't care who he ended.

At the end of each night, if he made it that far before he was woken, he was alone, sitting in a sea of corpses, and he looked around him with no more emotion than a man tired from a particular hot harvest day. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he brought his hand down and there was blood on it. It glistened, and he licked it off, tasting the sweet iron, and fangs lengthening in his own mouth.

He was his own monster.

It always ended with him screaming, so loud that it sometimes shattered his sleep and tore him back into his cell panting. There, alone, he begged for death, mumbled pleas for forgiveness over the corpses of his people, the corpse of the innocent woman he'd murdered, and no one ever answered.

Word Count: 2909