Chapter Text
No one would ever say as much, but deep down inside, Caduceus knows that this whole thing is his fault.
After all, he had crafted Fjord’s Wildmother symbol, and he himself is practically a walking sign of illegal—at least, in the eyes of the Empire—worship. Or, at least, just general weirdness.
The group of Crownsguard clock the pair of them almost immediately as they’re searching for a good place in Rexxentrum to meditate and pray to Melora. Despite Fjord’s attempts to persuade the guards with his disarming charm and Caduceus’ absolute honesty (sprinkled with a healthy amount of omission), the Crownguard insist on shackling and arresting them for worshipping false deities.
As soon as the manacles appear, Fjord appears to be about two seconds away from summoning the Star Razor and bolting, but Caduceus shoots over a pleading look. He’s seen the curious glances of the many passersby and knows how much of a scene combat with the Crownsguard in the middle of a busy street would cause. It would be wiser to go along quietly for some time, then find an escape just as quietly, especially considering the capability of the other Nein.
Despite his (repressed) guilt, there is no way that he could have known that these particular Crownsguard have rather nefarious ulterior motives beyond simply imprisoning the pair. Perhaps he should not have underestimated the bad luck that seems to follow the Nein like a particularly bloodthirsty hound, but his unshakeable faith all too often paves a road to optimism-bordering-on-naivety.
It feels like a stone dropping into an empty pit in his stomach as soon as Caduceus spots the (too) familiar tools set out on a table in the large, windowless room in the Rexxentrum prison that he and Fjord have been brought to. He may have been isolated and rather sheltered spending his life in the Grove, but one doesn’t grow up that close to Shadycreek Run and speak often to its inhabitants without learning about some of the horrors that occur to the most unfortunate souls there. Besides, he had been there himself during the raid on the Sour Nest: his observant eyes had caught the implements of torture—almost identical to the ones spread out before him in this prison cell—as well as the aftermath in its various victims.
Those observant eyes now clock the slipping of gold from one palm to another as the Crownsguard hand over the lead on his and Fjord’s manacles to what appears to be a particularly crazed jailor.
“Found some hardy-looking ones for you,” one of the Crownsguard tells the jailor, not even attempting to lower their voice in front of the prisoners.
“Think they’ll last longer than the last ones?” another Crownsguard asks.
“They’d better,” the jailor says, even their voice creepy enough to send a shiver down Caduceus’ spine. “I paid good gold for this stock.”
A third Crownsguard scoffs as they make their way to the door of the room. “Yeah, yeah, sicko, just be glad you’ve got people willing to feed your sick fucking appetites.”
Caduceus wants to point out the Crownsguard’s own complicitness in what he knows is going to be illegal, not to mention highly immoral, but he wisely bites his tongue.
As soon as the Crownsguard have all left, the jailor focuses all of their attention on the two prisoners. “So,” the jailor begins with a slow grin spreading across their face, “which one of you is going first? Consider this choice my one and only act of generosity.”
The pair of prisoners lock eyes. Fjord puts on a brave face, the face of a ship captain and a champion of an ancient goddess, but Caduceus is far too insightful and knowledgeable of the half-orc’s masks to miss the fear in those yellow eyes. The environment, the situation, the bottomless dread is too familiar, reminiscent of a time where three of the Nein had been hurting and helpless and another had paid the price with their life. In other words, Fjord is about three seconds away from a debilitating flashback, and Caduceus will simply not stand for that.
“I will,” the firbolg announces. And before Fjord can release the protest on his lips, Caduceus adds, “This is the cost of generosity. Let me do this for you.”
Recognizing the hidden meaning in Caduceus’ words, Fjord touches the symbol of the Wildmother pinned to his shirt that the Crownsguard had allowed him to keep despite confiscating both of their sets of armors and other possessions. It would be a blow to his pride if he accepted the other’s offer, but more than that, he doesn’t know if he could stand to watch Caduceus—his guide to the Wildmother, his savior from Uk’otoa, his healer and caretaker for every type of pain, his mentor in faith, the father figure he hasn’t had since Vandran’s disappearance—be hurt.
Fjord shakes his head. “No, I don’t accept that price. I’ll go first.”
The jailor’s grin stretches wider. “Ah, but the cow spoke first. Don’t worry, though. You’ll get your turn soon, greenskin.”
They start to chain Caduceus’ manacles to a hook high up on the wall. As soon as their back is turned, Fjord starts to mutter the words and make the familiar gestures to send an array of eldritch blasts out, but his hands remain empty of any arcane sparks.
Somehow, the jailor catches even that minor movement in their peripheral vision and twists their head back to look at him. “Ah, ah, ah. No tricksy tricks in here. No, sirree. All of the fun in here is 100% organic.”
Fjord shudders at the absolute glee in the jailor’s voice. Unwilling to face that any longer than necessary, he turns his attention to Caduceus, who is watching everything silently. Part of him is worried by the firbolg’s lack of calm commentary, the deep voice that can soothe even the most unreasonable listeners, but he knows that sometimes Caduceus works the best when he can wordlessly fade into the background to observe everything with those all-seeing eyes of his.
As if reading Fjord’s mind somehow, the jailor immediately ties a blindfold around Caduceus’ head as soon as the manacles have been secured to the wall.
“Hey, now,” Caduceus speaks up. “This feels unnecessary.”
Fjord can only just make out the slight, uncharacteristic tremor in the firbolg’s voice, and the pit of dread in his abdomen deepens further.
“You’re going to be the cow’s eyes,” the jailor tells Fjord in a sing-songy tone as they begin to hook up Fjord’s own manacles to the opposite wall in a way that parallels Caduceus. “It won’t be able to see what’s coming, but maybe if you yell loud enough, it’ll be able to brace itself in time.”
Fjord swallows around the bile that’s beginning to rise up his throat, then grits his teeth. He’s determined not to play the sick game this jailor has set up, but as soon as the first crack of the whip that the jailor has grabbed snaps throughout the chamber and descends towards Caduceus’ unprotected back, none of his resolve can stop the cry that emerges.
“No!”
But the jailor does not heed his plea, and an irritated red line cuts through the firbolg’s fur, revealing the pale skin beneath. The choked sound that forces its way out of Caduceus’ mouth is a mixture of surprise and pain.
Before either Caduceus can recover or Fjord can give into the fit of begging that causes his chest to tighten, there is another sharp snap accompanied by the jailor’s maniacal laughter. That pained, surprised sound rings throughout the room once more.
Fjord shivers, overcome by a wave of numbing cold as his gaze drops to the bloodstained stone floor. He’s not fast enough. Not to warn the blinded Caduceus of the pain that’s all too quick to arrive. He’s not fast enough, and he’s not strong enough. Not to watch this and not to have been the one to take the blows in Caduceus’ place. He’s not fast enough, not strong enough, just not enough. Not enough to be worthy of Caduceus’ sacrifice.
Fjord pulls his eyes up from the floor, determined to watch this torture no matter how painful it is. Whatever pain he’s feeling is nothing in the face of what Caduceus is undergoing. And even if he can’t provide a warning for every strike, he can at least stand sentinel for his friend.
Another crack of the whip. Another blow. Another line of crimson staining grey fur. Another involuntary cry.
Fjord’s vision blurs with unshed tears, the scene refracting and fracturing like glass before his eyes. And just like a broken mirror, whatever guilt Caduceus may have been feeling at the beginning is magnified and reflected back on Fjord tenfold.