(no subject)
Title: Sic Semper Tyrannis
Fandom: Tales of the Abyss
Word Count: 5,164 / 20,000 (?)
Spoilers: Guy's past, Fabre's role in the Hod war.
Summary: A slight twist of fate. Sync infiltrates the ferry after cursing Guy in Chesedonia, and when Luke is attacked, the others are forced to question why. Contains torture/violence.
Notes: What brought this on? I wanted Guy-torture. NO ONE WRITES GUY-TORTURE. So Guy-torture was written. Pairing-wise, I'm writing it neutral, but for those who like Guy/Luke... interpret it however you want? *shrug* Also, I'm a horrible person. Just wanted that out there.
Sic Semper Tyrannis
---
Tonight, a black out
A panic attack plan with no time to figure it out
We’ve issued a code red already dead
No open sign, no beacon light
---
They’d been talking - the five of them, with Ion acting mostly as an observer - about the information they had gained from Astor, the data Jade was still sifting through. Guy had just started to wonder how Jade could read so quickly while in the midst of a conversation on the basics of fonons when it hit him.
Something he could not, for the life of him, ever recall feeling.
He was no stranger to fury. He’d felt it in flashes since he was six or seven, back when his understanding was limited but his emotions were nigh out of control. But they had always been dulled somehow. Pere was around to act as a guiding light, always finding ways for him to express that anger instead of allowing it to build up. Over time he’d learned to suppress any urges he might have had, replacing them instead with a smile that may or may not have been real. And then there was the sword - the weapon he’d learned to use with astonishing proficiency, yet caution, because Pere had always told him that the Sigmund Style was like a shield - it was made for survival, not victory or assault.
But this was different; a little darker, and much more difficult to control.
It didn’t save the Gardios family, a voice whispered in his ear, dark and sourceless and so very angry. He blinked, confused, and lifted his head away from the wall, glancing around.
That one, small movement probably saved Luke’s life. Scarcely a second later, a flare of agony lanced up and down his arm and he hissed, one hand lifting with the intention of clutching it. It grabbed the sheath instead, and the pain faded away as he tore the sword from it and charged towards the only target he could see beyond the glaze of red over his eyes.
Red, blood red. Like the family slaughtered years ago, the family lost forever, the pain of hearing that everything, everything was dead and gone and he had to kill-
There were voices around him, people shouting protests, but he ignored them all. What mattered was that there was someone in front of him, someone he knew very well, someone he’d waited years to kill - why had he waited? No, it didn’t matter now - and patience be damned, friendship be damned, he was going to die. Today, now.
A glimmer of silver - his - and again - his opponent’s - and then, after a few exchanges, he heard a cry - a scream? - of pain, a blossom of bright, beautiful red on a torn chest, staining flesh and fabric. He wanted to laugh, but felt nothing but the anger, the crimson emotion that kept him going, kept him from throwing down his sword - why? - and remembering what Pere had told him, always, always told him.
Defense, survival, shield.
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill-!!
And he was about to do that. Truly, he was. But suddenly there was a flood of choking water around him, driving him back, and then something heavy slammed him into the wall, forcing the breath out of him. And in the background, someone was singing, the sound of it sapping his strength and causing him to drift away…
The last thing he saw before the red faded to black was Luke, lying motionless on the floor across the room.
---
Guy awoke in a tiny storage room, stretched out on his back on a cot, the entire room eclipsed in darkness besides a tiny light flickering beneath what looked to be the door. He stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, trying to remember what exactly had happened that could have brought about this particular development.
His eyes snapped wide as the memory came back to him, and he sat up, hand going to his arm. Sync. The mark carved into his skin. The ferry.
Luke.
He shuddered, hand lowering to his side. Unarmed; they'd taken his sword, of course. Why should they trust him with it after what he'd done? Even with how fogged and disjointed his memory was, he clearly remembered seeing blood. He'd come perilously close to cutting Luke's throat.
What had happened?
Gingerly he pushed himself off the cot, favouring his right leg. He'd taken a pretty heavy hit from Tokunaga, though it had likely saved Luke's life. The thought that he was the one who had caused his life to be in danger, though...
Guy cursed aloud, slamming a fist against the door. There was no telling what would happen now. His memory was starting to clear, and he could recall an overwhelming feeling of pure, unadultered rage, more hatred than he'd thought himself capable of.
Since when had his feelings about Luke been that severe?
It had to have been years...
He turned around and leaned heavily against the door, the palm of one hand pressed to his forehead. What the hell was his problem?
"... Guy?"
Guy stiffened, warily glancing back towards the door, though there was nowhere to look out. He didn't need to, though; the voice was unmistakable. "Luke?!"
"Y... yeah." He sounded terribly nervous, much like that day after escaping the Tartarus, when he'd caused a fair share of death for the first time in his life. More than anything, though, he sounded shaken. "Are you... you know... yourself?"
Swallowing hard, Guy closed his eyes, resting his head on the door. "Seems that way. Are you alright?"
"... I'm fine. Tear healed me. But..."
But you're wondering why I did that, Guy finished silently. "I'm sorry, Luke. I couldn't do anything to stop it."
Luke hesitated. Not much, but it was enough. "... Of course you couldn't. It was that God-General's fault, right? You didn't do anything."
Guy winced. "You don't sound so sure."
He heard a quiet sigh, then a low thud as Luke's back hit the door and he slid down to sit on the floor. "It's nothing." Not the most subtle evasion he'd ever heard. "Listen, Guy... the soldiers..."
"They won't let me out," Guy finished, when Luke was reluctant to continue.
"You knew?"
Guy shrugged, though Luke couldn't see it. "I assumed. I'm just a servant, and I attacked Kimlasca's heir. They're charged with defending you and Ion, and now I'm a risk. Even if Sync caused this, it still means he could come back and do it again."
Luke was quiet for a long moment, mulling that over. "Ion knows what it is. He says he can help you, but the guards won't let him. They said you'd have to stay here until Uncle decides what to do."
So he was at the mercy of the king, then. Wonderful. He did his best to conceal just how he felt about that one. "It's alright, Luke. As long as you guys are safe, I don't mind waiting it out. That's what's important right now."
His young master lowered his voice, words tentative. Where had all his self-confidence gone? "Guy... you... do you really mean that?" Guy blinked. "About keeping me safe?"
"What are you, an idiot?" The words came before he could even think about it. "Luke, come on. We're friends, right? Of course I want that."
Luke laughed nervously behind the door. "... I'm not an idiot. You're right though... of course you do. It's just..."
"What else happened?" Guy demanded quietly, a rising sense of urgency overruling any need for keeping things formal. He'd never been one for following the rules - at least not after Luke's kidnapping, anyway. With the situation as severe as he sensed it was, protocol was the last thing on his mind.
"Huh? Oh, uh..." Luke sounded flustered for a moment. "Not a lot, I guess. We got Sync to retreat, and then the guards took you away. We've just been talking about the curse slot and what the research was-"
"Curse slot?"
Realizing his mistake, Luke hastily added, "That mark on your arm. Like I said, Ion can fix it... he says it'll only do that to you when Sync is nearby."
Guy frowned again, making a note to remember that term later on. If Luke wasn't going to be honest with him, then he'd at least get Ion or one of the others to explain things. "How far are we from Baticul?"
"We're supposed to get there soon. ... Hey, Guy..."
He resisted the urge to sigh. "What is it, Luke?"
"... Nothing. They're, uh, waiting for me on the deck, sorry. I'll come back later, though." Yet another moment of hesitation, and then Luke added, "We'll get you out, okay? I don't know what else will happen, but... we will."
"... I know." Guy closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the door, listening to the footsteps of his friend's departure. "I know, Luke."
Luke had never hidden from him like that, never just... lied to him, because they both knew he was terrible at it. Not to mention that after all they'd been through, they'd never had a reason to hide.
... No, that was a lie. But his secret had always been safe, because unlike Luke, his deception had been flawless. Until now, no one had suspected a thing.
...Until now.
Guy shuddered, sliding down to the floor, ignoring the pain lancing up his leg as he did so. The thought left him cold, especially now, when - more than hate or revenge or anything of the sort - he felt little more than affection for the young man he'd practically raised himself. For now, there was nothing left to do but wait it out.
---
"Dammit, I told you, you can't take him anywhere until I see my uncle!"
Guy almost felt sorry for the guard, the poor man doing his best to stand firm against the furiously raging teenager who could very well become his king in the future. "I'm sorry, Master Luke, but we've been entrusted with your safety. We cannot set him free until His Majesty has given the order."
Luke started to protest again, but Guy shook his head, smiling patiently at him. "It's okay, Luke. It won't be for long, right? Just a few hours. I can handle it, so go do what you promised you'd do. I'll be waiting down below."
Luke stopped short, eyes widening, staring at him. "G... Guy... but that's-"
"Ha ha, you worry too much," Guy grinned, hoping the expression didn't seem as forced as it felt. It was the truth, and he wanted it to be okay. More than that, he needed it. For all their sakes. "Like I said, go do your part. Things'll work out." He paused a moment, studying Luke's expression, then added, "I know there's something you're not telling me, and something you want to ask me. I promise, I'll tell you when this is over."
The young noble couldn't find a response to that; his hands clenched into fists, and he averted his eyes as his best friend was led away from the port. "Guy..."
One more lie, Guy couldn't help but think, not bothering to struggle against the soldiers guiding him towards the lifts that would take them to the castle. He was branded as an assassin, a dangerous criminal against the crown. And depending on what Ion had told them, they may even have associated him with the renegade God-Generals...
I don't know how we're going to get out of this one.
They took him further into the castle than he'd ever been - which was only a handful of times, really, and not at all since Luke was forbidden to leave the manor - nudging him forward every now and then when he stumbled, his wounded leg giving him problems. Absently he hoped they wouldn't take too long in setting him loose. Patience was one thing, but it was really starting to hurt. "Take it easy," he muttered under his breath, despite knowing the guards would ignore it.
"Just keep walking," the commanding officer snapped back, a hand coming to rest heavily on his shoulder, guiding him this way and that, down the long staircase and finally to the wing reserved for criminals awaiting their sentence. Guy had never been this way, but he'd memorized the way en route, just in case. Try as Luke might, sometimes things went wrong. A fact of life he'd learned all too long ago.
He wasn't overly concerned by the manhandling, either; he knew they couldn't do much to him until word arrived from the king. After that it would be hit and miss - would Ingobert and his brother-in-law allow an important emissary to visit a friend and remove his ailment, or would they refuse to take that risk? He smiled a little at the vision of Luke's reaction to that.
Then again, Luke would likely be sent back to the mansion after all of this. One more potential situation he'd have to deal with when the time came.
The guards called for him to halt in a room just outside the cells, holding him still at swordpoint as they stripped him of everything but his tunic and breeches - gloves, belts, vest, capacity core. Boots. They took his boots! What the hell? He would've grumbled if he didn't expect to see them again in a few hours. A day, maybe. Two if Fabre was feeling particularly protective, which was a pointless notion considering the man barely looked at his son once a day. Either way, he'd get them back.
After they'd gotten that out of the way, he was led further inside, the light of the hallways fading with each step. It was a prison, after all; what did criminals who were likely to be killed need light for? You didn't need light to pray.
He shook aside such morbid thoughts. No sense in worrying himself into a hole. That was Luke's job - and it was also Luke's job to get him out of this hole.
"In here," the commander gestured to a cell off to the side, and Guy had all of three seconds to give it a less-than-impressed examination before he was shoved inside. Annoyed, he turned towards his captors, only to find one following him in, brandishing a key, which he used to unlock the shackles they'd placed around his wrists for the walk up to the castle. Which, he didn't bother to note aloud, had been humiliating.
"Thanks," he started to say, giving his sore wrists a light rubdown, but the guard motioned him back, cutting off his sentence.
"Against the wall," the soldier ordered, pointing. Guy followed his finger, a slow, sinking feeling in his stomach, and frowned tightly at what he saw. You've got to be kidding me.
Evidently not, he realized all too soon, as he was prodded to stand with his back to the wall, arms lifted to let the man lock each wrist into a manacle chained to the cold stone. Well, that was just peachy, wasn't it?
He resisted the urge to glare daggers at the soldier's back as he gave each chain an experimental yank, jarring his already-uncomfortable hands, then turned away, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving him in the dark once more. It wasn't the fault of the guards, who were merely following orders, going by the book. He wondered, not for the first time, just what the sentence was for assassins.
...Probably execution. The monarchy was littered with murderers anyway.
They could've at least let me sit down... He sighed faintly, leaning against the wall to take some of the weight off his abused leg, and sat back to wait.
Not like there was anything better to do.
---
If he'd known what was coming, he would have placed a little more effort into resisting. Hindsight was, as usual, absolutely useless.
They returned to his cell several hours later, just as stony-eyed and without mercy. Guy watched them warily as the leader approached, unlocking each of the shackles around his wrists and letting his arms drop. He winced, starting to ask if he was to be released, but the guard grasped his shoulder before he could do so, turning him around to face the wall.
That was it. He was tired of being ignored. Resisting the push with a look of annoyance, he protested, "Hey-"
It was all he had the chance to say. Before he could make it through another word, he felt a lancing pain rocket up his leg and straight up his spine, and he staggered, dropping to his knees. That bastard! On his injured leg, to boot!
"What the hell?!" he managed to choke out, trying to urge his much-abused legs to function again. By then the guards had collectively grabbed ahold of him, locking his hands back in the chains, this time with his cheek pressed uncomfortably against the stone.
"Be silent," the first guard hissed into his ear. "His Grace the Duke Fabre is here. Show some respect if you value your life."
Guy went still, eyes widening, hands curling into angered fists. Fabre. Duke Fabre.
Not Luke.
He had his answer, then. And somehow, he wasn't surprised.
The guards moved away, keeping a fair distance - in case he tried anything, no doubt, though what he was supposed to try locked up that way was beyond him - as footsteps behind him warned him of another man's approach. Light footfalls, the sound of a grown man in the fine shoes of a noble.
"Your Grace," Guy forced himself to say, his voice pitched to innocent confusion, "What's going on?"
Fabre was silent for a long moment, and then, without warning, there was the sound of a sword being drawn; he waited, and was not disappointed, the cool tickle of a blade at his throat.
"Who are you?" Fabre murmured.
Who was he? Guy didn't move, didn't dare speak. He was a Malkuthian, survivor of a massacre, fallen avenger of a slaughtered family. He was the prisoner of a rival nation, soon to be an enemy nation if Emperor Peony's proposal was refused.
He was a captive of the man who was famous for his hatred of anyone from Malkuth. The last living member of a family this man had been ordered to destroy.
Shit, Guy wanted to say, but could only stare at the opposite wall, giving nothing away, surrendering nothing, despite the feel of the razor-sharp metal against his neck, right above his collar.
No matter what happened, he wouldn't give this man anything.
"Who are you?" Duke Fabre said again, shifting his sword a mere inch. It was a good sword; he felt the sting as his skin was carved easily beneath it. A scratch, but a very obvious promise of more to come. "You cannot hide any longer."
That's what you think. Guy held himself perfectly still, despite how his leg was shaking, despite how badly he wanted to collapse and just give it a rest. This man had already taken his family and a good chunk of his dignity on top of that. "I'm who I have always been," he finally responded, voice tight. "Guy Cecil, servant of your son."
"Then why did you try to kill him?" The sword tightened again, and Guy knew that a few fractions of an inch would bring the blade to his jugular. He had to be cautious; he was just a servant, however attached Luke was to him. Servants were replaceable.
"One of the God-Generals placed a curse-"
"A curse slot," Fabre finished for him. "Do you even know what that is?" Silence was his only answer, so he continued, "The Fon Master explained it. The curse slot affects willpower, suppresses it, and stirs up hidden desires. You would not have attacked my son if you did not want him dead."
I... what? Guy had no response to that, so shocked was he by that revelation. Certainly Luke was still a frustrating - often infuriating - individual, but he was no murderer, and he didn't deserve to die for the sins of his father. He'd come to that conclusion ages ago, for if he hadn't, Luke would have already been killed. So why...?
"That... can't be right," he managed, mind racing. He still wanted to kill Luke? It wasn't possible.
"We have no reason to doubt the Fon Master," the duke countered, head shaking. "You are the only questionable one in this. Now explain yourself."
Guy pursed his lips, once again saying nothing. A thought came to him then: Luke must have known about the curse slot when they last spoke. He'd known.
He... thinks I want to kill him. He thinks I want him dead.
Everything else seemed insignificant in light of that one thing.
Fabre seemed to recognize that he wasn't going to talk, so a moment later the sword lowered from his throat, the metal grind of it sliding into the sheath shattering the hushed atmosphere. The duke studied him for a long moment, as Guy strained to look back at him, and finally the man spoke again. "His Majesty is concerned for Luke's safety, and has ordered me to find the truth of your story. I will have my answer, one way or another. You ought to make it easier for yourself."
"... There is no story," Guy responded quietly, barely hesitating. Lies would get him nowhere, and the truth would bring him death. Silence could at least keep him alive.
"...." The duke glared at him, then motioned one of his guards forward. "If that is your choice, then I will give you a taste of mine. You will explain yourself."
You wish, Guy snorted inwardly, though his brows furrowed, straining to see just what the man was planning to do in order to get him talking. He heard someone draw a knife, felt it slice and tear through the cloth of his shirt as they bared his back, and his eyes widened. Oh, hell no.
"Ten lashes to start," Fabre ordered, "Use your own judgement from there. Keep him alive." The door closed behind him, leaving them in the darkness of the torchlight.
Guy felt his body tense, hands clenching into fists against the wall. "Wait," he managed, trying to turn his head to look. "Wait-"
And then the whip came down, and the world turned red.
---
He had never been whipped before.
Raised a noble, and then a peasant, and then finally a servant, he'd had a reasonably fair life as far as punishment went. He'd never committed any crimes, never stolen or attacked someone for any reason but self-defense. He had killed plenty of people, but never murdered indiscriminately.
He'd witnessed a public execution, once in his life. It hadn't been pretty. But he'd never seen anyone tortured.
It had taken five slow lashes, the dungeon master halting expertly between strokes, to make him scream for the first time. He'd wanted to bite off his tongue for that, the very surrender of it. These were Kimlascans, and they were treating him like a common criminal - him, to whom they had done such grand injustice years ago. They had no right, and he loathed the very idea of giving them even something so little as that.
But it had been like nothing he'd ever felt before in his life, and with the whip tearing against a back already ripped from the lashes that had come before, blood trailing down his back in slow, steady streams, there was nothing more for him to do.
If he were perfectly honest with himself, he wasn't used to pain. He was usually so quick on his feet in battle that he could dodge most attacks, and carefully avoid still others so that a deadly wound became a scratch, a punch became a graze. He knew how to brace himself for an impact he couldn't avoid, shield himself and counterattack. But this? There was no dodging, no blocking, no attacking in turn. Years of agility training was useless to him, chained up like this.
He'd never felt so vulnerable.
"Ten!" He barely heard the call of the dungeon master, the whip coming down for the last time, forcing a hiss of pain through teeth clenched so tight they hurt, though that pain was nothing compared to the rest. He shuddered, slumping against the wall, staring towards the floor with eyes glazed red, and waited.
A hand brushed through his hair, grasping a handful and dragging his head back. "There's still another few hours before the duke returns. Will you answer him, or shall we continue?"
Answer him? Guy wanted to echo - might have done so, had his throat not felt so parched. He needed a drink. And some bandages. Maybe a curative spell or two.
Also, Luke. Luke would be nice to have around right about then.
... If Luke still-
"No," he said aloud, hating how his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and said it again, more clearly. "No. I..."
Luke said he'd come. So he'll come. He -will-. It'll just... take a while.
"No?" the man behind him echoed, and Guy blinked. For a moment, he'd forgotten he wasn't alone.
Shit... -shit-. Don't lose it already. They just started, for god's sake...
"I've been told you're a swordsman," the dungeon master continued, stepping closer, one hand lifting to press Guy's hand meaningfully against the wall. "You need a good grip for that kind of work."
Oh. Hell. No.
"GAH!"
"S-sir!"
"Bastard! He kicked me!"
Guy indulged a moment of smug satisfaction before a swift kick to the back of his knees sent him buckling, a fist slamming into the ragged wounds they'd already given him to keep him stunned while they chained his legs to the wall. The pain was hot and sickening, and for a long, terrifying moment, he couldn't breathe.
When he could feel again, gasping for air, his eyes stinging with tears he wouldn't let fall, the dungeon master lifted his hand again, fingers closing around his fist. His hand was massive.
"Rule one of this place," the man murmured in his ear, sounding all too pleased about his job, "Never fight back."
Guy started to respond to that - give and receive, after all, and he wasn't enjoying this nearly as much - but the hand around his started to squeeze, and the only sound that came to his lips was a choked cry as he felt several bones snap.
Gods, they'd snapped. Like nothing.
He felt hot tears in the corners of his eyes, and clenched them shut, fighting to keep them in. Oh, but it hurt.
"That's one," the dungeon master spoke again, and Guy felt his heart skip a beat.
His hands. His hands. One of the few treasures he'd had left, the ones he'd been so cautious with. A swordsman's hands were his lifelines, and he'd felt one snap.
Like nothing.
"Stop it," he whispered, before forcing himself into silence again. He wasn't begging. He wouldn't beg. Ever.
But oh. Oh.
He felt that same hand close over his right fist, and he made himself swallow back the scream he knew would come.
Lifelines, both of them.
Then the hand tightened a second time, and he screamed anyway.
Like twigs, like nothing.
---
"... Oi, he's coming around."
Guy blinked awake, unaware that he had blacked out. He wasn't sure how long it had been, but the voice was familiar. He started to lift his head, then stiffened, feeling the sharp, angry protest of every wound he'd acquired since the duke had left him. How many were there? Where was he hurt? He couldn't even remember.
He twitched a finger, realized he'd meant to unclench it yet could not. Tried to curse, but all that escaped his lips was a low hiss.
Someone was cutting his skin periodically, the wounds small and clean. He could feel his skin stretch uncomfortably as he shifted against the wall; his arms and neck were already covered in knife marks, the blood welled around the edges and half-dried, some dripping down his back to mix with the already-stained material of his pants. What was left of them, anyway - they'd whipped his legs, too, when he continued to refuse to tell them what they wanted to hear.
He didn't want to think about how much blood he'd lost.
The knife stopped, and he was given a moment or two of relief before the man stretched his head back by the hair for what must have been the tenth time, cold eyes searching his. "His Grace is still waiting for your answer."
Of course he is, Guy wanted to reply. Instead, he swallowed hard, ignoring the pain in his throat. Shook his head as little as humanly possible.
The man cursed under his breath and slammed Guy's forehead to the wall. Eleven, he counted mentally, when his head stopped spinning. Eleven times. He felt a bit of blood trail past his nose and kept his eyes shut.
The dungeon master - it was him, it had to be him, Guy's mind finally got around to reminding him - disappeared for a moment, returning with two guards, who held him up while his shackles were removed, and he was turned around to face forward once more. He cried out when he back hit the wall, struggling as best as he could, but they hadn't been steadily losing blood over the course of several hours. They weren't in pain that could only be described as excruciating with every breath they took, every movement. They were much, much stronger than he.
And so was the dungeon master, it seemed, for it was with the most minimal of efforts that he took Guy's arm in hand, bracing the other against his shoulder, and twisted.
Twisted, and oh god, there were spots of white beneath his eyelids, and there was pain, and there was a sound that vaguely resembled an animal dying and it was a full ten seconds before he realized it was him.
"There we are," the man smiled, his expression feigning a kindness that did not, in fact, exist in him, patting his shoulder, and it took every ounce of Guy's willpower not to scream again. "Dislocated that one. Ought to keep you from fighting too much. Shall we do the other?"
There was a long, painful silence, as Guy briefly considered the merits of begging versus a very extensive lineage of nobles who did not, did not beg for mercy.
The dungeon master was giving him an odd look, and he realized he was mumbling something under his breath. He stopped it, blinking blearily, and had a moment of sheer panic, wondering what he'd said.
Panic turned to widespread horror when the man turned away, leaving the room entirely.
He'd said something. He'd said something. The duke was coming back.
With what could quite possibly be a death sentence.
---
Note: Fic title means "Thus ever it be with tyrants". I'm usually against using anything but English for my own fic titles, but the title got stuck in my head when I heard Mae's song (which the lyrics from the beginning are from) and wouldn't budge.
Special thanks and waves to rem_sama who, against all odds, apparently inspired this monster, as well as manicalpha, whose ravings for more made me write it a hell of a lot faster than I normally would have. ^^
Chapter 2
---
Fandom: Tales of the Abyss
Word Count: 5,164 / 20,000 (?)
Spoilers: Guy's past, Fabre's role in the Hod war.
Summary: A slight twist of fate. Sync infiltrates the ferry after cursing Guy in Chesedonia, and when Luke is attacked, the others are forced to question why. Contains torture/violence.
Notes: What brought this on? I wanted Guy-torture. NO ONE WRITES GUY-TORTURE. So Guy-torture was written. Pairing-wise, I'm writing it neutral, but for those who like Guy/Luke... interpret it however you want? *shrug* Also, I'm a horrible person. Just wanted that out there.
Sic Semper Tyrannis
---
Tonight, a black out
A panic attack plan with no time to figure it out
We’ve issued a code red already dead
No open sign, no beacon light
---
They’d been talking - the five of them, with Ion acting mostly as an observer - about the information they had gained from Astor, the data Jade was still sifting through. Guy had just started to wonder how Jade could read so quickly while in the midst of a conversation on the basics of fonons when it hit him.
Something he could not, for the life of him, ever recall feeling.
He was no stranger to fury. He’d felt it in flashes since he was six or seven, back when his understanding was limited but his emotions were nigh out of control. But they had always been dulled somehow. Pere was around to act as a guiding light, always finding ways for him to express that anger instead of allowing it to build up. Over time he’d learned to suppress any urges he might have had, replacing them instead with a smile that may or may not have been real. And then there was the sword - the weapon he’d learned to use with astonishing proficiency, yet caution, because Pere had always told him that the Sigmund Style was like a shield - it was made for survival, not victory or assault.
But this was different; a little darker, and much more difficult to control.
It didn’t save the Gardios family, a voice whispered in his ear, dark and sourceless and so very angry. He blinked, confused, and lifted his head away from the wall, glancing around.
That one, small movement probably saved Luke’s life. Scarcely a second later, a flare of agony lanced up and down his arm and he hissed, one hand lifting with the intention of clutching it. It grabbed the sheath instead, and the pain faded away as he tore the sword from it and charged towards the only target he could see beyond the glaze of red over his eyes.
Red, blood red. Like the family slaughtered years ago, the family lost forever, the pain of hearing that everything, everything was dead and gone and he had to kill-
There were voices around him, people shouting protests, but he ignored them all. What mattered was that there was someone in front of him, someone he knew very well, someone he’d waited years to kill - why had he waited? No, it didn’t matter now - and patience be damned, friendship be damned, he was going to die. Today, now.
A glimmer of silver - his - and again - his opponent’s - and then, after a few exchanges, he heard a cry - a scream? - of pain, a blossom of bright, beautiful red on a torn chest, staining flesh and fabric. He wanted to laugh, but felt nothing but the anger, the crimson emotion that kept him going, kept him from throwing down his sword - why? - and remembering what Pere had told him, always, always told him.
Defense, survival, shield.
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill-!!
And he was about to do that. Truly, he was. But suddenly there was a flood of choking water around him, driving him back, and then something heavy slammed him into the wall, forcing the breath out of him. And in the background, someone was singing, the sound of it sapping his strength and causing him to drift away…
The last thing he saw before the red faded to black was Luke, lying motionless on the floor across the room.
---
Guy awoke in a tiny storage room, stretched out on his back on a cot, the entire room eclipsed in darkness besides a tiny light flickering beneath what looked to be the door. He stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, trying to remember what exactly had happened that could have brought about this particular development.
His eyes snapped wide as the memory came back to him, and he sat up, hand going to his arm. Sync. The mark carved into his skin. The ferry.
Luke.
He shuddered, hand lowering to his side. Unarmed; they'd taken his sword, of course. Why should they trust him with it after what he'd done? Even with how fogged and disjointed his memory was, he clearly remembered seeing blood. He'd come perilously close to cutting Luke's throat.
What had happened?
Gingerly he pushed himself off the cot, favouring his right leg. He'd taken a pretty heavy hit from Tokunaga, though it had likely saved Luke's life. The thought that he was the one who had caused his life to be in danger, though...
Guy cursed aloud, slamming a fist against the door. There was no telling what would happen now. His memory was starting to clear, and he could recall an overwhelming feeling of pure, unadultered rage, more hatred than he'd thought himself capable of.
Since when had his feelings about Luke been that severe?
It had to have been years...
He turned around and leaned heavily against the door, the palm of one hand pressed to his forehead. What the hell was his problem?
"... Guy?"
Guy stiffened, warily glancing back towards the door, though there was nowhere to look out. He didn't need to, though; the voice was unmistakable. "Luke?!"
"Y... yeah." He sounded terribly nervous, much like that day after escaping the Tartarus, when he'd caused a fair share of death for the first time in his life. More than anything, though, he sounded shaken. "Are you... you know... yourself?"
Swallowing hard, Guy closed his eyes, resting his head on the door. "Seems that way. Are you alright?"
"... I'm fine. Tear healed me. But..."
But you're wondering why I did that, Guy finished silently. "I'm sorry, Luke. I couldn't do anything to stop it."
Luke hesitated. Not much, but it was enough. "... Of course you couldn't. It was that God-General's fault, right? You didn't do anything."
Guy winced. "You don't sound so sure."
He heard a quiet sigh, then a low thud as Luke's back hit the door and he slid down to sit on the floor. "It's nothing." Not the most subtle evasion he'd ever heard. "Listen, Guy... the soldiers..."
"They won't let me out," Guy finished, when Luke was reluctant to continue.
"You knew?"
Guy shrugged, though Luke couldn't see it. "I assumed. I'm just a servant, and I attacked Kimlasca's heir. They're charged with defending you and Ion, and now I'm a risk. Even if Sync caused this, it still means he could come back and do it again."
Luke was quiet for a long moment, mulling that over. "Ion knows what it is. He says he can help you, but the guards won't let him. They said you'd have to stay here until Uncle decides what to do."
So he was at the mercy of the king, then. Wonderful. He did his best to conceal just how he felt about that one. "It's alright, Luke. As long as you guys are safe, I don't mind waiting it out. That's what's important right now."
His young master lowered his voice, words tentative. Where had all his self-confidence gone? "Guy... you... do you really mean that?" Guy blinked. "About keeping me safe?"
"What are you, an idiot?" The words came before he could even think about it. "Luke, come on. We're friends, right? Of course I want that."
Luke laughed nervously behind the door. "... I'm not an idiot. You're right though... of course you do. It's just..."
"What else happened?" Guy demanded quietly, a rising sense of urgency overruling any need for keeping things formal. He'd never been one for following the rules - at least not after Luke's kidnapping, anyway. With the situation as severe as he sensed it was, protocol was the last thing on his mind.
"Huh? Oh, uh..." Luke sounded flustered for a moment. "Not a lot, I guess. We got Sync to retreat, and then the guards took you away. We've just been talking about the curse slot and what the research was-"
"Curse slot?"
Realizing his mistake, Luke hastily added, "That mark on your arm. Like I said, Ion can fix it... he says it'll only do that to you when Sync is nearby."
Guy frowned again, making a note to remember that term later on. If Luke wasn't going to be honest with him, then he'd at least get Ion or one of the others to explain things. "How far are we from Baticul?"
"We're supposed to get there soon. ... Hey, Guy..."
He resisted the urge to sigh. "What is it, Luke?"
"... Nothing. They're, uh, waiting for me on the deck, sorry. I'll come back later, though." Yet another moment of hesitation, and then Luke added, "We'll get you out, okay? I don't know what else will happen, but... we will."
"... I know." Guy closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the door, listening to the footsteps of his friend's departure. "I know, Luke."
Luke had never hidden from him like that, never just... lied to him, because they both knew he was terrible at it. Not to mention that after all they'd been through, they'd never had a reason to hide.
... No, that was a lie. But his secret had always been safe, because unlike Luke, his deception had been flawless. Until now, no one had suspected a thing.
...Until now.
Guy shuddered, sliding down to the floor, ignoring the pain lancing up his leg as he did so. The thought left him cold, especially now, when - more than hate or revenge or anything of the sort - he felt little more than affection for the young man he'd practically raised himself. For now, there was nothing left to do but wait it out.
---
"Dammit, I told you, you can't take him anywhere until I see my uncle!"
Guy almost felt sorry for the guard, the poor man doing his best to stand firm against the furiously raging teenager who could very well become his king in the future. "I'm sorry, Master Luke, but we've been entrusted with your safety. We cannot set him free until His Majesty has given the order."
Luke started to protest again, but Guy shook his head, smiling patiently at him. "It's okay, Luke. It won't be for long, right? Just a few hours. I can handle it, so go do what you promised you'd do. I'll be waiting down below."
Luke stopped short, eyes widening, staring at him. "G... Guy... but that's-"
"Ha ha, you worry too much," Guy grinned, hoping the expression didn't seem as forced as it felt. It was the truth, and he wanted it to be okay. More than that, he needed it. For all their sakes. "Like I said, go do your part. Things'll work out." He paused a moment, studying Luke's expression, then added, "I know there's something you're not telling me, and something you want to ask me. I promise, I'll tell you when this is over."
The young noble couldn't find a response to that; his hands clenched into fists, and he averted his eyes as his best friend was led away from the port. "Guy..."
One more lie, Guy couldn't help but think, not bothering to struggle against the soldiers guiding him towards the lifts that would take them to the castle. He was branded as an assassin, a dangerous criminal against the crown. And depending on what Ion had told them, they may even have associated him with the renegade God-Generals...
I don't know how we're going to get out of this one.
They took him further into the castle than he'd ever been - which was only a handful of times, really, and not at all since Luke was forbidden to leave the manor - nudging him forward every now and then when he stumbled, his wounded leg giving him problems. Absently he hoped they wouldn't take too long in setting him loose. Patience was one thing, but it was really starting to hurt. "Take it easy," he muttered under his breath, despite knowing the guards would ignore it.
"Just keep walking," the commanding officer snapped back, a hand coming to rest heavily on his shoulder, guiding him this way and that, down the long staircase and finally to the wing reserved for criminals awaiting their sentence. Guy had never been this way, but he'd memorized the way en route, just in case. Try as Luke might, sometimes things went wrong. A fact of life he'd learned all too long ago.
He wasn't overly concerned by the manhandling, either; he knew they couldn't do much to him until word arrived from the king. After that it would be hit and miss - would Ingobert and his brother-in-law allow an important emissary to visit a friend and remove his ailment, or would they refuse to take that risk? He smiled a little at the vision of Luke's reaction to that.
Then again, Luke would likely be sent back to the mansion after all of this. One more potential situation he'd have to deal with when the time came.
The guards called for him to halt in a room just outside the cells, holding him still at swordpoint as they stripped him of everything but his tunic and breeches - gloves, belts, vest, capacity core. Boots. They took his boots! What the hell? He would've grumbled if he didn't expect to see them again in a few hours. A day, maybe. Two if Fabre was feeling particularly protective, which was a pointless notion considering the man barely looked at his son once a day. Either way, he'd get them back.
After they'd gotten that out of the way, he was led further inside, the light of the hallways fading with each step. It was a prison, after all; what did criminals who were likely to be killed need light for? You didn't need light to pray.
He shook aside such morbid thoughts. No sense in worrying himself into a hole. That was Luke's job - and it was also Luke's job to get him out of this hole.
"In here," the commander gestured to a cell off to the side, and Guy had all of three seconds to give it a less-than-impressed examination before he was shoved inside. Annoyed, he turned towards his captors, only to find one following him in, brandishing a key, which he used to unlock the shackles they'd placed around his wrists for the walk up to the castle. Which, he didn't bother to note aloud, had been humiliating.
"Thanks," he started to say, giving his sore wrists a light rubdown, but the guard motioned him back, cutting off his sentence.
"Against the wall," the soldier ordered, pointing. Guy followed his finger, a slow, sinking feeling in his stomach, and frowned tightly at what he saw. You've got to be kidding me.
Evidently not, he realized all too soon, as he was prodded to stand with his back to the wall, arms lifted to let the man lock each wrist into a manacle chained to the cold stone. Well, that was just peachy, wasn't it?
He resisted the urge to glare daggers at the soldier's back as he gave each chain an experimental yank, jarring his already-uncomfortable hands, then turned away, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving him in the dark once more. It wasn't the fault of the guards, who were merely following orders, going by the book. He wondered, not for the first time, just what the sentence was for assassins.
...Probably execution. The monarchy was littered with murderers anyway.
They could've at least let me sit down... He sighed faintly, leaning against the wall to take some of the weight off his abused leg, and sat back to wait.
Not like there was anything better to do.
---
If he'd known what was coming, he would have placed a little more effort into resisting. Hindsight was, as usual, absolutely useless.
They returned to his cell several hours later, just as stony-eyed and without mercy. Guy watched them warily as the leader approached, unlocking each of the shackles around his wrists and letting his arms drop. He winced, starting to ask if he was to be released, but the guard grasped his shoulder before he could do so, turning him around to face the wall.
That was it. He was tired of being ignored. Resisting the push with a look of annoyance, he protested, "Hey-"
It was all he had the chance to say. Before he could make it through another word, he felt a lancing pain rocket up his leg and straight up his spine, and he staggered, dropping to his knees. That bastard! On his injured leg, to boot!
"What the hell?!" he managed to choke out, trying to urge his much-abused legs to function again. By then the guards had collectively grabbed ahold of him, locking his hands back in the chains, this time with his cheek pressed uncomfortably against the stone.
"Be silent," the first guard hissed into his ear. "His Grace the Duke Fabre is here. Show some respect if you value your life."
Guy went still, eyes widening, hands curling into angered fists. Fabre. Duke Fabre.
Not Luke.
He had his answer, then. And somehow, he wasn't surprised.
The guards moved away, keeping a fair distance - in case he tried anything, no doubt, though what he was supposed to try locked up that way was beyond him - as footsteps behind him warned him of another man's approach. Light footfalls, the sound of a grown man in the fine shoes of a noble.
"Your Grace," Guy forced himself to say, his voice pitched to innocent confusion, "What's going on?"
Fabre was silent for a long moment, and then, without warning, there was the sound of a sword being drawn; he waited, and was not disappointed, the cool tickle of a blade at his throat.
"Who are you?" Fabre murmured.
Who was he? Guy didn't move, didn't dare speak. He was a Malkuthian, survivor of a massacre, fallen avenger of a slaughtered family. He was the prisoner of a rival nation, soon to be an enemy nation if Emperor Peony's proposal was refused.
He was a captive of the man who was famous for his hatred of anyone from Malkuth. The last living member of a family this man had been ordered to destroy.
Shit, Guy wanted to say, but could only stare at the opposite wall, giving nothing away, surrendering nothing, despite the feel of the razor-sharp metal against his neck, right above his collar.
No matter what happened, he wouldn't give this man anything.
"Who are you?" Duke Fabre said again, shifting his sword a mere inch. It was a good sword; he felt the sting as his skin was carved easily beneath it. A scratch, but a very obvious promise of more to come. "You cannot hide any longer."
That's what you think. Guy held himself perfectly still, despite how his leg was shaking, despite how badly he wanted to collapse and just give it a rest. This man had already taken his family and a good chunk of his dignity on top of that. "I'm who I have always been," he finally responded, voice tight. "Guy Cecil, servant of your son."
"Then why did you try to kill him?" The sword tightened again, and Guy knew that a few fractions of an inch would bring the blade to his jugular. He had to be cautious; he was just a servant, however attached Luke was to him. Servants were replaceable.
"One of the God-Generals placed a curse-"
"A curse slot," Fabre finished for him. "Do you even know what that is?" Silence was his only answer, so he continued, "The Fon Master explained it. The curse slot affects willpower, suppresses it, and stirs up hidden desires. You would not have attacked my son if you did not want him dead."
I... what? Guy had no response to that, so shocked was he by that revelation. Certainly Luke was still a frustrating - often infuriating - individual, but he was no murderer, and he didn't deserve to die for the sins of his father. He'd come to that conclusion ages ago, for if he hadn't, Luke would have already been killed. So why...?
"That... can't be right," he managed, mind racing. He still wanted to kill Luke? It wasn't possible.
"We have no reason to doubt the Fon Master," the duke countered, head shaking. "You are the only questionable one in this. Now explain yourself."
Guy pursed his lips, once again saying nothing. A thought came to him then: Luke must have known about the curse slot when they last spoke. He'd known.
He... thinks I want to kill him. He thinks I want him dead.
Everything else seemed insignificant in light of that one thing.
Fabre seemed to recognize that he wasn't going to talk, so a moment later the sword lowered from his throat, the metal grind of it sliding into the sheath shattering the hushed atmosphere. The duke studied him for a long moment, as Guy strained to look back at him, and finally the man spoke again. "His Majesty is concerned for Luke's safety, and has ordered me to find the truth of your story. I will have my answer, one way or another. You ought to make it easier for yourself."
"... There is no story," Guy responded quietly, barely hesitating. Lies would get him nowhere, and the truth would bring him death. Silence could at least keep him alive.
"...." The duke glared at him, then motioned one of his guards forward. "If that is your choice, then I will give you a taste of mine. You will explain yourself."
You wish, Guy snorted inwardly, though his brows furrowed, straining to see just what the man was planning to do in order to get him talking. He heard someone draw a knife, felt it slice and tear through the cloth of his shirt as they bared his back, and his eyes widened. Oh, hell no.
"Ten lashes to start," Fabre ordered, "Use your own judgement from there. Keep him alive." The door closed behind him, leaving them in the darkness of the torchlight.
Guy felt his body tense, hands clenching into fists against the wall. "Wait," he managed, trying to turn his head to look. "Wait-"
And then the whip came down, and the world turned red.
---
He had never been whipped before.
Raised a noble, and then a peasant, and then finally a servant, he'd had a reasonably fair life as far as punishment went. He'd never committed any crimes, never stolen or attacked someone for any reason but self-defense. He had killed plenty of people, but never murdered indiscriminately.
He'd witnessed a public execution, once in his life. It hadn't been pretty. But he'd never seen anyone tortured.
It had taken five slow lashes, the dungeon master halting expertly between strokes, to make him scream for the first time. He'd wanted to bite off his tongue for that, the very surrender of it. These were Kimlascans, and they were treating him like a common criminal - him, to whom they had done such grand injustice years ago. They had no right, and he loathed the very idea of giving them even something so little as that.
But it had been like nothing he'd ever felt before in his life, and with the whip tearing against a back already ripped from the lashes that had come before, blood trailing down his back in slow, steady streams, there was nothing more for him to do.
If he were perfectly honest with himself, he wasn't used to pain. He was usually so quick on his feet in battle that he could dodge most attacks, and carefully avoid still others so that a deadly wound became a scratch, a punch became a graze. He knew how to brace himself for an impact he couldn't avoid, shield himself and counterattack. But this? There was no dodging, no blocking, no attacking in turn. Years of agility training was useless to him, chained up like this.
He'd never felt so vulnerable.
"Ten!" He barely heard the call of the dungeon master, the whip coming down for the last time, forcing a hiss of pain through teeth clenched so tight they hurt, though that pain was nothing compared to the rest. He shuddered, slumping against the wall, staring towards the floor with eyes glazed red, and waited.
A hand brushed through his hair, grasping a handful and dragging his head back. "There's still another few hours before the duke returns. Will you answer him, or shall we continue?"
Answer him? Guy wanted to echo - might have done so, had his throat not felt so parched. He needed a drink. And some bandages. Maybe a curative spell or two.
Also, Luke. Luke would be nice to have around right about then.
... If Luke still-
"No," he said aloud, hating how his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and said it again, more clearly. "No. I..."
Luke said he'd come. So he'll come. He -will-. It'll just... take a while.
"No?" the man behind him echoed, and Guy blinked. For a moment, he'd forgotten he wasn't alone.
Shit... -shit-. Don't lose it already. They just started, for god's sake...
"I've been told you're a swordsman," the dungeon master continued, stepping closer, one hand lifting to press Guy's hand meaningfully against the wall. "You need a good grip for that kind of work."
Oh. Hell. No.
"GAH!"
"S-sir!"
"Bastard! He kicked me!"
Guy indulged a moment of smug satisfaction before a swift kick to the back of his knees sent him buckling, a fist slamming into the ragged wounds they'd already given him to keep him stunned while they chained his legs to the wall. The pain was hot and sickening, and for a long, terrifying moment, he couldn't breathe.
When he could feel again, gasping for air, his eyes stinging with tears he wouldn't let fall, the dungeon master lifted his hand again, fingers closing around his fist. His hand was massive.
"Rule one of this place," the man murmured in his ear, sounding all too pleased about his job, "Never fight back."
Guy started to respond to that - give and receive, after all, and he wasn't enjoying this nearly as much - but the hand around his started to squeeze, and the only sound that came to his lips was a choked cry as he felt several bones snap.
Gods, they'd snapped. Like nothing.
He felt hot tears in the corners of his eyes, and clenched them shut, fighting to keep them in. Oh, but it hurt.
"That's one," the dungeon master spoke again, and Guy felt his heart skip a beat.
His hands. His hands. One of the few treasures he'd had left, the ones he'd been so cautious with. A swordsman's hands were his lifelines, and he'd felt one snap.
Like nothing.
"Stop it," he whispered, before forcing himself into silence again. He wasn't begging. He wouldn't beg. Ever.
But oh. Oh.
He felt that same hand close over his right fist, and he made himself swallow back the scream he knew would come.
Lifelines, both of them.
Then the hand tightened a second time, and he screamed anyway.
Like twigs, like nothing.
---
"... Oi, he's coming around."
Guy blinked awake, unaware that he had blacked out. He wasn't sure how long it had been, but the voice was familiar. He started to lift his head, then stiffened, feeling the sharp, angry protest of every wound he'd acquired since the duke had left him. How many were there? Where was he hurt? He couldn't even remember.
He twitched a finger, realized he'd meant to unclench it yet could not. Tried to curse, but all that escaped his lips was a low hiss.
Someone was cutting his skin periodically, the wounds small and clean. He could feel his skin stretch uncomfortably as he shifted against the wall; his arms and neck were already covered in knife marks, the blood welled around the edges and half-dried, some dripping down his back to mix with the already-stained material of his pants. What was left of them, anyway - they'd whipped his legs, too, when he continued to refuse to tell them what they wanted to hear.
He didn't want to think about how much blood he'd lost.
The knife stopped, and he was given a moment or two of relief before the man stretched his head back by the hair for what must have been the tenth time, cold eyes searching his. "His Grace is still waiting for your answer."
Of course he is, Guy wanted to reply. Instead, he swallowed hard, ignoring the pain in his throat. Shook his head as little as humanly possible.
The man cursed under his breath and slammed Guy's forehead to the wall. Eleven, he counted mentally, when his head stopped spinning. Eleven times. He felt a bit of blood trail past his nose and kept his eyes shut.
The dungeon master - it was him, it had to be him, Guy's mind finally got around to reminding him - disappeared for a moment, returning with two guards, who held him up while his shackles were removed, and he was turned around to face forward once more. He cried out when he back hit the wall, struggling as best as he could, but they hadn't been steadily losing blood over the course of several hours. They weren't in pain that could only be described as excruciating with every breath they took, every movement. They were much, much stronger than he.
And so was the dungeon master, it seemed, for it was with the most minimal of efforts that he took Guy's arm in hand, bracing the other against his shoulder, and twisted.
Twisted, and oh god, there were spots of white beneath his eyelids, and there was pain, and there was a sound that vaguely resembled an animal dying and it was a full ten seconds before he realized it was him.
"There we are," the man smiled, his expression feigning a kindness that did not, in fact, exist in him, patting his shoulder, and it took every ounce of Guy's willpower not to scream again. "Dislocated that one. Ought to keep you from fighting too much. Shall we do the other?"
There was a long, painful silence, as Guy briefly considered the merits of begging versus a very extensive lineage of nobles who did not, did not beg for mercy.
The dungeon master was giving him an odd look, and he realized he was mumbling something under his breath. He stopped it, blinking blearily, and had a moment of sheer panic, wondering what he'd said.
Panic turned to widespread horror when the man turned away, leaving the room entirely.
He'd said something. He'd said something. The duke was coming back.
With what could quite possibly be a death sentence.
---
Note: Fic title means "Thus ever it be with tyrants". I'm usually against using anything but English for my own fic titles, but the title got stuck in my head when I heard Mae's song (which the lyrics from the beginning are from) and wouldn't budge.
Special thanks and waves to rem_sama who, against all odds, apparently inspired this monster, as well as manicalpha, whose ravings for more made me write it a hell of a lot faster than I normally would have. ^^
Chapter 2
---