08-16-2019, 10:19 PM
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He never did mind the darkness that always seemed to engulf him each time he finally adjusted to the warmth of the sun. He might have admitted he preferred the obscuring shroud underneath different circumstances. The gloom of the jungle caverns would never be the same as the tenebrous nights in the forest he loved, with the moonless stars as the only light betraying his presence. Yet this darkness prevented him from examining the grievous wounds delivered by his torture; from cleaning them despite the agony that followed even the slightest movement. The best he could manage was to blindly tuck his entrails back inside their torn cavity and curl in on himself, shivering in pain. There Beck remained, bled out twice over on the grimy floor of the emprisoning caves with his wrists still shackled to a weight.
But if he was what kept Sam from breaking beneath the strain of this hell on earth, then he was happy. With his windpipe crushed and vocals severed from Jervis' jaws, he couldn't provide her with the comfort of conversation. In fact, he could barely breathe, much less cough forth the water effectively trapped inside his lungs. The boy could only sputter and gasp and gurgle on his own diluted blood. With his underbelly slashed open like a frog on a school desk, it took every ounce of energy he had left in him to remain present. How could he protect Sam if he slipped back behind the veil? There was another figure, but nearsighted vision combined with a gouged socket didn't allow for an identifying glimpse. With each passing day, suffocating hopelessness chipped away at Beck's resolve. Maybe they wouldn't be rescued. Maybe they would only retrieve Sam to teach him a lesson. Or maybe they had forgotten about him already. That was okay with him, he supposed. It's your fault. You deserve this.
Leroy's distant call silenced his doubts. The wounded cat struggled to prop himself up, exposed ribs heaving with the effort. A whisper of a sound escaped his parted lips, yet only the first syllable of the wolfhound's name could be wheezed. Beck slumped, old blood still trickling down his chin, yet his lambent eyes remained fixated on the shadowed direction he awaited the proxy's figure to emerge from. When Sam pressed against his tattered side, the poltergeist returned the gesture as best he could, the blood-slick chains attached to his cuffs faintly clinking between the exchange of hushed voices.
But if he was what kept Sam from breaking beneath the strain of this hell on earth, then he was happy. With his windpipe crushed and vocals severed from Jervis' jaws, he couldn't provide her with the comfort of conversation. In fact, he could barely breathe, much less cough forth the water effectively trapped inside his lungs. The boy could only sputter and gasp and gurgle on his own diluted blood. With his underbelly slashed open like a frog on a school desk, it took every ounce of energy he had left in him to remain present. How could he protect Sam if he slipped back behind the veil? There was another figure, but nearsighted vision combined with a gouged socket didn't allow for an identifying glimpse. With each passing day, suffocating hopelessness chipped away at Beck's resolve. Maybe they wouldn't be rescued. Maybe they would only retrieve Sam to teach him a lesson. Or maybe they had forgotten about him already. That was okay with him, he supposed. It's your fault. You deserve this.
Leroy's distant call silenced his doubts. The wounded cat struggled to prop himself up, exposed ribs heaving with the effort. A whisper of a sound escaped his parted lips, yet only the first syllable of the wolfhound's name could be wheezed. Beck slumped, old blood still trickling down his chin, yet his lambent eyes remained fixated on the shadowed direction he awaited the proxy's figure to emerge from. When Sam pressed against his tattered side, the poltergeist returned the gesture as best he could, the blood-slick chains attached to his cuffs faintly clinking between the exchange of hushed voices.