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FIC: balm of hurt minds (Temeraire)
My first Ten in Ten story! I swear it was completed on the 17th, but is being posted slightly after midnight because titles are hard. (this one is from Macbeth, for the curious) Many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
inmyriadbits for the title and reading it over.
balm of hurt minds
Temeraire series
[AO3]
Warnings contain spoilers for Blood of Tyrants: torture
“Tenzing,” Laurence said, and Tharkay opened his eyes. Laurence was smiling down at him, his gaze warm in the torchlight, and his hands did not hurt as he helped Tharkay to his feet. The tunnels blurred together as they made their way out, and Tharkay was forced to lean on Laurence to a greater degree than he wished.
He was more than rewarded by the sight of the mountains when they emerged, familiar and sharp-edged under a clear blue sky.
He was--
Tharkay awoke in the stifling dark of the cave, face down on his rough cot. The fresh whip marks on his back burned with fever yet, and he could not control himself: he wept for the first time in the weeks since he had come here.
Hope always had cut deeper than knives.
Tharkay had been playing a game with himself since he was captured, the lone goal of which was delay. He had pretended his head injury from being captured was worse than it really was and spoke only Nepalese for the first week, until they produced a man who also knew the language. Then he did not speak at all.
They had been rather angry about that.
His torturers were being careful not to leave obvious marks, which Tharkay supposed was in his favor – he knew better than to think his resolve would bear up under more grievous injury. He would – could not – give them what they wanted, which was his confession to being a British agent smuggling opium. Tharkay did not know why they wanted it, but such an act would surely be his last, so he answered smaller questions to buy himself time. The hot irons were at least familiar, and the burns not as deep as the wound he had taken in Istanbul; the whippings were pure misery until he managed to pass out.
When they started on his hands, though, he nearly broke.
“Tenzing,” Laurence said, and Tharkay opened his eyes.
“Will,” he said tiredly. The vision of Laurence came closer, and Tharkay squinted into the torchlight, for he looked decidedly odd in the flickering light: a dirty cloth was wrapped around his head, and something dark and wet gleamed down his sleeve. Tharkay had thought his fever was fading, but it seemed not, given this fresh hallucination. Perhaps this time it would not recede, and he could be done.
Then Laurence knelt and slid an arm under Tharkay's shoulders, against the half-healed wounds there, and Tharkay gasped, more from shock than pain. That was real.
“My apologies,” Laurence said, freezing in place. He put his hand more carefully under Tharkay's neck. His palm was warm and a trifle sweaty; the embroidery on his cuff scratched. With his other hand cupping Tharkay's elbow, Laurence helped him to sit up.
Tharkay lifted a hand instinctively to touch him, but remembered his injuries in time, and let his arm fall. “You're here,” he said dazedly. “How--”
“Arkady, and a– someone familiar with the area.” Laurence smiled a little, adding, “He was not as congenial a guide as you were when we met.”
Tharkay knew exactly how uncongenial he had been while guiding Laurence on their first journey, and smiled back.
Laurence urged him to his feet, wrapping an arm low around Tharkay's waist, below where the blood had stained his shirt. Tharkay had some welts hidden there as well, but there was hardly any other place for Laurence to hold him up that would not hurt. His knees and stomach rebelled at the movement, but he steeled them both and leaned unashamedly into Laurence's side as they walked. It was easy to forget that Will was so tall, for he was a man who met one on the level in every sense, but Tharkay felt it keenly now, with an arm slung over his broad shoulders.
The sunlight made Tharkay blink away tears of pain, even as overcast as the sky was. Wisps of smoke were still steaming up from the wreck of the camp, and he recognized the smell of Longwing acid – Lily must be here as well. Tharkay spotted a guard he knew amongst the debris, face half-eaten away, and was viciously glad for it.
The wind was cold enough to make him shiver, even through the fever, but Laurence's arm was warm around him, and Temeraire's familiar shape was winging towards them.
He was free.
inmyriadbits for the title and reading it over.balm of hurt minds
Temeraire series
[AO3]
Warnings contain spoilers for Blood of Tyrants: torture
“Tenzing,” Laurence said, and Tharkay opened his eyes. Laurence was smiling down at him, his gaze warm in the torchlight, and his hands did not hurt as he helped Tharkay to his feet. The tunnels blurred together as they made their way out, and Tharkay was forced to lean on Laurence to a greater degree than he wished.
He was more than rewarded by the sight of the mountains when they emerged, familiar and sharp-edged under a clear blue sky.
He was--
Tharkay awoke in the stifling dark of the cave, face down on his rough cot. The fresh whip marks on his back burned with fever yet, and he could not control himself: he wept for the first time in the weeks since he had come here.
Hope always had cut deeper than knives.
Tharkay had been playing a game with himself since he was captured, the lone goal of which was delay. He had pretended his head injury from being captured was worse than it really was and spoke only Nepalese for the first week, until they produced a man who also knew the language. Then he did not speak at all.
They had been rather angry about that.
His torturers were being careful not to leave obvious marks, which Tharkay supposed was in his favor – he knew better than to think his resolve would bear up under more grievous injury. He would – could not – give them what they wanted, which was his confession to being a British agent smuggling opium. Tharkay did not know why they wanted it, but such an act would surely be his last, so he answered smaller questions to buy himself time. The hot irons were at least familiar, and the burns not as deep as the wound he had taken in Istanbul; the whippings were pure misery until he managed to pass out.
When they started on his hands, though, he nearly broke.
“Tenzing,” Laurence said, and Tharkay opened his eyes.
“Will,” he said tiredly. The vision of Laurence came closer, and Tharkay squinted into the torchlight, for he looked decidedly odd in the flickering light: a dirty cloth was wrapped around his head, and something dark and wet gleamed down his sleeve. Tharkay had thought his fever was fading, but it seemed not, given this fresh hallucination. Perhaps this time it would not recede, and he could be done.
Then Laurence knelt and slid an arm under Tharkay's shoulders, against the half-healed wounds there, and Tharkay gasped, more from shock than pain. That was real.
“My apologies,” Laurence said, freezing in place. He put his hand more carefully under Tharkay's neck. His palm was warm and a trifle sweaty; the embroidery on his cuff scratched. With his other hand cupping Tharkay's elbow, Laurence helped him to sit up.
Tharkay lifted a hand instinctively to touch him, but remembered his injuries in time, and let his arm fall. “You're here,” he said dazedly. “How--”
“Arkady, and a– someone familiar with the area.” Laurence smiled a little, adding, “He was not as congenial a guide as you were when we met.”
Tharkay knew exactly how uncongenial he had been while guiding Laurence on their first journey, and smiled back.
Laurence urged him to his feet, wrapping an arm low around Tharkay's waist, below where the blood had stained his shirt. Tharkay had some welts hidden there as well, but there was hardly any other place for Laurence to hold him up that would not hurt. His knees and stomach rebelled at the movement, but he steeled them both and leaned unashamedly into Laurence's side as they walked. It was easy to forget that Will was so tall, for he was a man who met one on the level in every sense, but Tharkay felt it keenly now, with an arm slung over his broad shoulders.
The sunlight made Tharkay blink away tears of pain, even as overcast as the sky was. Wisps of smoke were still steaming up from the wreck of the camp, and he recognized the smell of Longwing acid – Lily must be here as well. Tharkay spotted a guard he knew amongst the debris, face half-eaten away, and was viciously glad for it.
The wind was cold enough to make him shiver, even through the fever, but Laurence's arm was warm around him, and Temeraire's familiar shape was winging towards them.
He was free.