Abduction 12: "Stop."
[Day 16: 5:07 PM - Belal's Quarters; Belal's Bedroom]
[NOTE: This thread picks up from HERE.]
Time passed.
He could still taste him in his mouth. Poison. Bile on the back of his tongue.
For a while after the human left, Conrad simply sat unmoving on the bed, literally lost in his colliding, faltering thoughts as that taste set into his mouth. Vaguely, some part of him thought that it was reminiscent of iron. Then he realize that he had bitten his lower lip open. It was only a small tear in the thin, sensitive flesh, but the stinging pain and sharp, salty taste of blood were enough to bring him back to himself a bit.
There was a tall glass of water on his nightstand. He drank it immediately. It wouldn't matter if it was drugged. Nothing mattered anymore. Besides, he was dehydrated. His throat felt like sandpaper and his tongue felt rough and parched. The water was cool and clean and a welcome refreshment. It even managed to wash away some of the foul taste on his tongue. It was only after he'd drank the whole thing in three big gulps, however, that he realized there was no more to be had.
Though the omnipresent collar was still on his throat, the human had not deigned to chain him up, giving him free roam of the king's quarters. Only the study was locked. Conrad explored the bathroom for any hint of a working tap, but the water flow to the suite seemed to have been turned off. Frustrated beyond imagining and thirst still twisting in him, he prowled the bedroom and bathroom, searching for even a drop of water, but once again it seemed that the human king had covered every eventuality. Even the toilet had once more been filled with that wretched soap.
Once it was clear that there was no water available, Conrad simply poked about the room warily. All the books and anything resembling pens, paper, or a weapon was removed. The rooms couldn't have more harmless if everything had been padded in foam. It was almost maddening.
The Sitting Room, he explored last. A part of him feared finding the Box there, but when he warily stuck his head through the doorway to check, there was nothing. All traces of his despised prison were gone, leaving the slightly bewildering sense that it had never been there at all. That seemed to be the way of terrible things here: as soon as they happened, they vanished, leaving no trace, until only the memory of the horror existed. But Conrad could not say that there had been much horror during his time here. Days blurred and the events seemed less significant on a cognitive level than they did on an emotional level. Fear and confusion were tripping him up and so he had learned not to trust his memory.
The human had said six days. Or was it really three? Or maybe ten? There was no chronology, only darkness, loneliness, pain, and boredom, interspersed with Belal's voice and touch and disrupted by Greta's sad disappointment and the cold, comfort-less memory of Gwendal and Gunter's eyes.
After an hour or so of wandering around, he returned to the bedroom and curled up on the window seat again, staring outside. It was snowing again, thick heavy flakes that floated lazily down from an iron gray sky. The captive pressed his cheek against the thick, frigid glass and stared out longingly at the pure white world. He wanted to go outside. To feel the snow on his eyelashes, the cold wind on his cheeks . . . to hear the whisper of the flakes tumbling through the air and landing on the already frozen ground, layer by layer. Conrad had always loved the ice and snow, but Shin Makoku was far too temperate to sustain the frigid weather he adored. It saddened him that these were the only circumstances under which he could enjoy the snow.
He wanted to be like that: strong, cold, unfeeling, unyielding, and timeless. Cold was undefeatable and unstoppable, and, pushed to the brink, cold could draw the very fabric of the world to a halt. Absolute Zero. That's what it was called. Jose had tried to explain the concept to him, but it all seemed very complex and quite beyond his grasp. All that he had understood was that at Absolute Zero, the motion that sustained the Universe stopped. That's what he wanted to be. He wanted to be that cold.
He wanted this all to stop.
The sun slid across the sky, a spot of brightness hidden behind the low-hanging clouds, and snow slowly piled up on the window ledge. Though tired, the halfbreed did not sleep; instead, he sucked on a button torn off a pillow in the sitting room in the hopes of easing his hunger and thirst. No one came to see him.
Vague plans of escape rattled about his head and occasionally, he would rise and prowl around the rooms, looking for something of use. His purloined treasures were still safe under the mattress, but he held few illusions regarding how far a kitchen knife, some hair pins, and a bit of ribbon would get him. He had no energy and little strength. Even a circuit from the bedroom to the bathroom to the sitting room tired him out. Every moment he spent here seemed to drain him.
Once, in the Sitting Room, he slumped to the ground next to the doors leading to the hallway. Outside, he could hear the guards chatting in the human language, much as his own men had wont to do back home. It seemed like a long time since he'd heard a simple conversation. Laughter. A benign joke. One of the men spoke of a young daughter who would eat nothing but squash. Another man had two twin boys whom he could not tell apart. It seemed strange to hear these active participants in his ruin talking like . . . like . . . like they were just like Klapt or Lawrence or Brice.
Like they were just normal people.
Then the conversation turned towards him. A few minutes of listening was all it took. Their hatred . . . their contempt . . . was clearly evident. It had been a very long time since anyone had last held him in contempt. It was not a pleasant feeling.
Morning slipped into afternoon and the snow still fell. Exhausted and stretched thin by hunger and thirst, the afternoon hours found Conrad sitting in the center of the large bed, twirling the knife idly in his hands.
He was going to die here like this: a prisoner; a traitor; a whore.
A failure.
The human had said six days. Or was it really three? Or maybe ten?
It didn't matter. No one was coming. He had been left behind. In his mind's eye, he could see the future laying out before him, a long, straight, smooth road paved by fear and walked by the empty marionette he was becoming. In only six days. He wished he had a pen and paper, but it death would hardly be a word spilling from a messenger's mouth, he was sure. Still, in his empty, surrealistic way, he was confident in this.
He could not kill his captor. He'd never succeed. And he could not escape--even if he got past the guard, the human would hunt him down till his last breath. As long as one of them lived, he would never be free. Not ever.
And really, that only left one option.
He could feel them all standing behind him, phantom eyes on his back, watching him. Condemning him. He would never be forgiven.
His mother was ashamed. Stoffel & Raven, triumphant. His father's familiar brown eyes were impassive and Wolfram simply contemptuous. Gwendal would not look at him--neither of them would. Julia simply looked betrayed. Yozak, though . . . He was angry . . . infuriated by this display of weakness. Then there were the men . . . Men he'd fought and men he'd fought beside, some dead and some not. Gregor watching on with pity. Gunter's disgust. Lawrence with his oddly cold compassion . . . And then there was Yuuri . . .
Yuuri.
Yuuri whom he had loved and shamed the most. Yuuri, who above all the others would never understand.
But there was no other option left to him. His life meant nothing anymore--not like this. In this act at least some of the stain of his dishonor might be washed away.
". . . If I live, it will only be that man's victory."
The silence in the room was deafening. He wished that he could explain to someone that this was not giving up.
"This has to stop somewhere." All of it . . . it had to stop.
Yuuri . . . Yozak . . . It has to stop.
The captive exhaled heavily and turned towards the window. The blade flashed dully as he spun it in his hands and the fat, heavily flakes floated lazily down from the sky.
"When necessary, I cannot hesitate to use every tool at my command to preserve what has been built here. If you are afraid of being broken by this use, now is the time for you to back away from the duties you have chosen to shoulder. . . . If you believe you know better than I what Shin Makoku needs, I ask that you speak it. If you know better how to nurture this country I have watched over for years beyond your imagining, I would see you do it. If you cannot, let me find another who will act without allowing personal feelings to interfere to take up the duties you are unable to perform."
The brunet smiled softly at the falling snow. He'd never claim to know what Shin Makoku needed. But in this case he certainly knew what it did not need.
Moushiwake arimasen.
Conrad took a deep breath and stared fixedly at the swirling snow outside as he pressed the serrated edge of the blade into his throat.
Absolute Zero.
[NOTE: This thread picks up from HERE.]
Time passed.
He could still taste him in his mouth. Poison. Bile on the back of his tongue.
For a while after the human left, Conrad simply sat unmoving on the bed, literally lost in his colliding, faltering thoughts as that taste set into his mouth. Vaguely, some part of him thought that it was reminiscent of iron. Then he realize that he had bitten his lower lip open. It was only a small tear in the thin, sensitive flesh, but the stinging pain and sharp, salty taste of blood were enough to bring him back to himself a bit.
There was a tall glass of water on his nightstand. He drank it immediately. It wouldn't matter if it was drugged. Nothing mattered anymore. Besides, he was dehydrated. His throat felt like sandpaper and his tongue felt rough and parched. The water was cool and clean and a welcome refreshment. It even managed to wash away some of the foul taste on his tongue. It was only after he'd drank the whole thing in three big gulps, however, that he realized there was no more to be had.
Though the omnipresent collar was still on his throat, the human had not deigned to chain him up, giving him free roam of the king's quarters. Only the study was locked. Conrad explored the bathroom for any hint of a working tap, but the water flow to the suite seemed to have been turned off. Frustrated beyond imagining and thirst still twisting in him, he prowled the bedroom and bathroom, searching for even a drop of water, but once again it seemed that the human king had covered every eventuality. Even the toilet had once more been filled with that wretched soap.
Once it was clear that there was no water available, Conrad simply poked about the room warily. All the books and anything resembling pens, paper, or a weapon was removed. The rooms couldn't have more harmless if everything had been padded in foam. It was almost maddening.
The Sitting Room, he explored last. A part of him feared finding the Box there, but when he warily stuck his head through the doorway to check, there was nothing. All traces of his despised prison were gone, leaving the slightly bewildering sense that it had never been there at all. That seemed to be the way of terrible things here: as soon as they happened, they vanished, leaving no trace, until only the memory of the horror existed. But Conrad could not say that there had been much horror during his time here. Days blurred and the events seemed less significant on a cognitive level than they did on an emotional level. Fear and confusion were tripping him up and so he had learned not to trust his memory.
The human had said six days. Or was it really three? Or maybe ten? There was no chronology, only darkness, loneliness, pain, and boredom, interspersed with Belal's voice and touch and disrupted by Greta's sad disappointment and the cold, comfort-less memory of Gwendal and Gunter's eyes.
After an hour or so of wandering around, he returned to the bedroom and curled up on the window seat again, staring outside. It was snowing again, thick heavy flakes that floated lazily down from an iron gray sky. The captive pressed his cheek against the thick, frigid glass and stared out longingly at the pure white world. He wanted to go outside. To feel the snow on his eyelashes, the cold wind on his cheeks . . . to hear the whisper of the flakes tumbling through the air and landing on the already frozen ground, layer by layer. Conrad had always loved the ice and snow, but Shin Makoku was far too temperate to sustain the frigid weather he adored. It saddened him that these were the only circumstances under which he could enjoy the snow.
He wanted to be like that: strong, cold, unfeeling, unyielding, and timeless. Cold was undefeatable and unstoppable, and, pushed to the brink, cold could draw the very fabric of the world to a halt. Absolute Zero. That's what it was called. Jose had tried to explain the concept to him, but it all seemed very complex and quite beyond his grasp. All that he had understood was that at Absolute Zero, the motion that sustained the Universe stopped. That's what he wanted to be. He wanted to be that cold.
He wanted this all to stop.
The sun slid across the sky, a spot of brightness hidden behind the low-hanging clouds, and snow slowly piled up on the window ledge. Though tired, the halfbreed did not sleep; instead, he sucked on a button torn off a pillow in the sitting room in the hopes of easing his hunger and thirst. No one came to see him.
Vague plans of escape rattled about his head and occasionally, he would rise and prowl around the rooms, looking for something of use. His purloined treasures were still safe under the mattress, but he held few illusions regarding how far a kitchen knife, some hair pins, and a bit of ribbon would get him. He had no energy and little strength. Even a circuit from the bedroom to the bathroom to the sitting room tired him out. Every moment he spent here seemed to drain him.
Once, in the Sitting Room, he slumped to the ground next to the doors leading to the hallway. Outside, he could hear the guards chatting in the human language, much as his own men had wont to do back home. It seemed like a long time since he'd heard a simple conversation. Laughter. A benign joke. One of the men spoke of a young daughter who would eat nothing but squash. Another man had two twin boys whom he could not tell apart. It seemed strange to hear these active participants in his ruin talking like . . . like . . . like they were just like Klapt or Lawrence or Brice.
Like they were just normal people.
Then the conversation turned towards him. A few minutes of listening was all it took. Their hatred . . . their contempt . . . was clearly evident. It had been a very long time since anyone had last held him in contempt. It was not a pleasant feeling.
Morning slipped into afternoon and the snow still fell. Exhausted and stretched thin by hunger and thirst, the afternoon hours found Conrad sitting in the center of the large bed, twirling the knife idly in his hands.
He was going to die here like this: a prisoner; a traitor; a whore.
A failure.
The human had said six days. Or was it really three? Or maybe ten?
It didn't matter. No one was coming. He had been left behind. In his mind's eye, he could see the future laying out before him, a long, straight, smooth road paved by fear and walked by the empty marionette he was becoming. In only six days. He wished he had a pen and paper, but it death would hardly be a word spilling from a messenger's mouth, he was sure. Still, in his empty, surrealistic way, he was confident in this.
He could not kill his captor. He'd never succeed. And he could not escape--even if he got past the guard, the human would hunt him down till his last breath. As long as one of them lived, he would never be free. Not ever.
And really, that only left one option.
He could feel them all standing behind him, phantom eyes on his back, watching him. Condemning him. He would never be forgiven.
His mother was ashamed. Stoffel & Raven, triumphant. His father's familiar brown eyes were impassive and Wolfram simply contemptuous. Gwendal would not look at him--neither of them would. Julia simply looked betrayed. Yozak, though . . . He was angry . . . infuriated by this display of weakness. Then there were the men . . . Men he'd fought and men he'd fought beside, some dead and some not. Gregor watching on with pity. Gunter's disgust. Lawrence with his oddly cold compassion . . . And then there was Yuuri . . .
Yuuri.
Yuuri whom he had loved and shamed the most. Yuuri, who above all the others would never understand.
But there was no other option left to him. His life meant nothing anymore--not like this. In this act at least some of the stain of his dishonor might be washed away.
". . . If I live, it will only be that man's victory."
The silence in the room was deafening. He wished that he could explain to someone that this was not giving up.
"This has to stop somewhere." All of it . . . it had to stop.
Yuuri . . . Yozak . . . It has to stop.
The captive exhaled heavily and turned towards the window. The blade flashed dully as he spun it in his hands and the fat, heavily flakes floated lazily down from the sky.
"When necessary, I cannot hesitate to use every tool at my command to preserve what has been built here. If you are afraid of being broken by this use, now is the time for you to back away from the duties you have chosen to shoulder. . . . If you believe you know better than I what Shin Makoku needs, I ask that you speak it. If you know better how to nurture this country I have watched over for years beyond your imagining, I would see you do it. If you cannot, let me find another who will act without allowing personal feelings to interfere to take up the duties you are unable to perform."
The brunet smiled softly at the falling snow. He'd never claim to know what Shin Makoku needed. But in this case he certainly knew what it did not need.
Moushiwake arimasen.
Conrad took a deep breath and stared fixedly at the swirling snow outside as he pressed the serrated edge of the blade into his throat.
Absolute Zero.