#18 - Just Strike!

Pelahir stared through the bars at the mess in the cage.  It looked like nothing so much as a savage beast’s den right now, with the  ruins of the bed scattered all over it, soaked with water, full of scorch marks, spattered with brown flecks. The body lying wrapped in the shredded feather quilt was alive, from the motion of the mounded up, sodden and scattered feathers, naked.

The table was untouched, save for the ink and blood splashed book.

“Hey,” he said.  “I thought we were going to train today, Shit-Head.” He turned to the guard who stood with the breakfast tray and motioned with his head and hands. Limyé. In the salle. He set the tray down, nodding.

There was a harsh whisper from Ahrimaz, on the floor.  “Read the book. Just read the scorching book you Cylak boy-toy.”

Pelahir pulled the journal towards him, looking at the mess it was, pulled it through the bars and then opened it, began reading. He turned back a page, read through to the end. He folded the book shut, softly, staring at the wreckage in the cage, set it back through the bars onto the desk.

“You tried to set yourself and us on fire,” he said.  He pulled off his deerskin gloves and looked at his hands, palms and then backs.  “But you’re naturally a Goddess priest.  Working with the Flame makes you ill.” He looked around at the soaked bedding.

No answer, not even a reflexive “I’m not him.”

He shook himself and put his gloves on, unlocked the cell door.

“What are you doing, Cylak?”

He came in, knelt down next to the lump and put his hand on it.

Ahrimaz reacted as if he’d drawn a sword, rolling out from under his touch, managed to stagger to his feet, launched a kick at the Cylak warrior’s head.

Pelahir ducked under and pushed the heel of Ahri’s foot, setting him spinning, nearly staggering.  “Scorch and Burn you!” he shrieked and tried to strike, a flurry of punches and kicks that would have been lethal had they been a hair faster, or if Ahrimaz had been less frail.  “Strike!  Strike me!  Strike back you cripple! Strike me!”

Pelahir ducked or blocked, only one strike came anywhere near, skimming past his cheek.  “Good shot,” was all he said.

Ahrimaz tried to pin Pelahir against the bars, trap him between the wall and the ruins of the bed but the Cylak slid away from every blow as though he were made of water.  “Hit, me, you bastard!  Hit me!” Ahrimaz was panting, flagging now.  “Avenge your other self! Just scorching, flaming… hit me!”

He was nearly out of breath, staggering.  “Burn me,” he panted at last, falling to his knees.  The dry feathers had been kicked up like a blizzard as he’d chased Pelahir around the tiny cell.  “Why?  Why won’t you hit me?” His hands fell and he leaned forward on his knuckles, all but crouched on the floor.  “Why?”

Pelahir reached out to touch his shoulder and all that happened is Ahrimaz shuddered but didn’t move.  The Cylak knelt down and put his hand under Ahrimaz’s chin and raised his head to look him in the eye. Ahrimaz tried to glare but had to squeeze his eyes shut against Pelahir’s open and trusting face.  “Because you want punishment so badly,” Pel said, finally.  “I won’t be the lash to flog you, you Shit-Head.  You never hurt me.  You maimed a ghost of me. A nightmare in this world.  And my Ahri is there, in your Empire to save him, now.  Is that not punishment enough for you?  You want me to add physical pain to it all as well?”

Ahrimaz, eyes still clenched shut, nodded spasmodically, against Pel’s hold.  “It’s what I deserve isn’t it?”

“No.” Pelahir gathered Ahrimaz against his shoulder and helped him up, one arm flung around his waist.  “Let’s get you into the bath, Shit-Head.  You’ve lost a lot of training locked up here.” He helped Ahrimaz stagger out into the hall and past the outer door that was unlocked by Limyé who stood by and nodded, following on.

“I don’t understand,” Ahrimaz said dazedly.  “I don’t understand how you can be so forgiving. I don’t understand why you won’t beat me.  I gave you every incentive.”

“I know.  Your father was a real shit-head to do this to you.”

Ahrimaz didn’t have the strength left to shout.  “Don’t soil my father’s character with your Cylak tongue.”

“Why not?  He’d have had me suck him off if he could, soil his dick with my tongue.”

“True.”

Limyé took over supporting Ahri into the bathing pool, and Ahrimaz stared in shock as Pelahir stripped his armour and padding off to slide in on the other side.  “We’re going to get you back in shape fast if you’re going this hard, Ahrimaz,” he said.

Ahri’s mouth closed, then he just shook his head.  “I just don’t understand.”