40. Aemon
40
I f someone had ever asked me how I thought I would die, I might have said in battle or at the hand of an assassin, maybe even a jilted lover. But never in a million years would I have said strapped to a chair, covered in my own shit and piss, slowly dying from starvation. Not exactly the most glorious way to go, but highly effective, nonetheless. One more bullet. That’s all I needed was one more gods damned bullet, and we would have been home free. Fucking six-shooter piece of shit. The minute I pulled that trigger and the cartridge clicked empty, I knew we were done for.
Straps circle my torso, arms, wrists, thighs and ankles, holding me tight against the marble chair. I can’t move, can’t do anything more than flex, and it’s slowly driving me insane. I’ve been whipped and beaten over and over again, but it’s this fucking chair that’s going to do me in. The guards stop by periodically to shoot me up with wolfsbane, so I can’t shift. Sometimes they’ll give me sips of water, not enough to quench my thirst, but enough to prolong my suffering that much longer. I shouldn’t take it. I should refuse and just die already, but the instinct to survive is an evil bitch that refuses to let me go.
Gods, my head is so heavy. I swear somebody cracked it open when I was passed out and filled it with lead, and now it’s pressing against the inside of my skull, eye sockets, nose and ears as though trying to find a way out. I’m too weak to even lift it, so it just hangs limp, mouth dangling open. The drool that had been running down my chin those first couple of days has dried up, same with my urine. The pins and needles in my fingers and toes have turned to a numb ache that no amount of wiggling will fix. At least I don’t really feel hungry anymore, though I’m fairly certain that’s because it’s being muffled by the sharp pain in my abdomen. It’s mottled with patches of red, yellow and a deep purple, I’m guessing means I’m bleeding internally.
It’s funny the things you think about when you’re about to die. I’ve hardly thought about my childhood or what might be happening at the palace in my absence. I just keep replaying that kiss with Katya over and over, remembering every tiny detail: her taste, her scent, the softness of her lips as they moved against mine, the feeling of our bodies fitted together like two halves of the same person. I hope they’ve treated her better than me. The thought of someone hurting her is almost worse than living through it myself.
The door to my cell opens—the grind of metal over stone ricochets off the walls to beat against my eardrums. I wink open one eye, expecting to find a thick guard dressed in black coming for me, but it’s a woman. She steps into the room, her face scrunched up, fingers pinching her nostrils. Yeah. I can’t imagine I smell too good, but does she have to look at me like I’m a bloated rat corpse? “ What do you want?” is what I intend to say, but it comes out as more of a gurgled, “Whatta-oo-wa?”
“I’m a medica. I’m here to help you.”
I let out a humorless laugh.
Her brows pinch, and she cocks her head, eyes scanning my face, torso, arms, belly and legs. “I’d say it looks like you could use it.”
“Riiiight,” I say, stretching the word like I’m drunk. “So you all can start torturing me all over again? I’ll pass.” I allow my head to fall, hoping she’ll take the hint and leave.
She wrings her hands anxiously. “Sorry, but I don’t really have any more choice in this than you do. I doubt it’ll make you feel any better, but they’re not planning on torturing you again.” I lift my gaze to meet hers, giving her the silent go ahead to continue. “They want you well for tonight’s event.”
She doesn’t want to say “execution.” Who would have thought when I watched the prisoners get torn apart the last time I was in the arena, it would be a preview of my own demise. Getting my face mauled off by a herd of giant lizards isn’t going to be easy, by any stretch, but at least it’ll be quick. I hope.
I nod. “Do it.”