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picfor1000Title: Blood Red
Author: Sal
Fandom: Star Trek: Enterprise
Pairing: Tucker/Reed
Summary: Time for the suffering to begin
There was blood.
Ruby red and warm, leaking and seeping from ninety-nine cuts.
He knew there were ninety-nine. Exactly ninety-nine.
Ninety-nine thin slices of red spread out in an intricate, macabre pattern across his body. Every one was the same length and depth. Every one had been carved into him with precision and terrifying skill. She had stood over his spreadeagled body and worked silently and tirelessly.
His own silence was absolute. At the beginning he had sweated and ached to cry out as pain threatened to overwhelm him, to push him into begging her to stop. As the ordeal continued, he reached inside himself to lean on his training and the stoicism that was part of his nature, helping him to tune out the unremitting agony. There was an awareness of the quiet mass of people present It was as if they were waiting for him to break and cry out; that was a powerful motivation to make no sound. The knowledge that his friends were being forced to witness this was another imperative. He wanted them to be proud of him. And he knew how much more they would suffer if he gave a voice to this pain.
The bonds were released and he was pulled to his feet. He struggled to remain standing and could feel the seeping flow from his wounds change direction. He concentrated on that sensation rather than the pain, and he stood still even though he was no longer bound. A low murmur of what might have been appreciation rippled through the gathered crowd and he lifted his chin, his stance expressing his pride and resilience.
His torturer approached and now he could see the wickedly sharp, curved blade held in her slim, delicate hand. He knew how strong her hands were; stronger than human hands. Another time he would be fascinated by the beauty of the blade, by the intricate cloisonne effect of the decorated grip but the sight of it now brought only the anticipation of more pain. Her robe, he thought idly, was the colour of his blood.
For the first time the blade approached his face and it took every last ounce of willpower not to flinch as it marked his cheek and sliced into the flesh. That one was going to bleed like a pig, he thought idly as he stared sightlessly ahead.
It was exactly the same length and depth as the rest. Odd, he thought, that one hundred would be a significant number here, too. In a culture so different, a world so far away from his own and yet this seemed to be a link between them.
He didn’t care.
It was over.
It was almost over.
The priestess stepped forward and bowed deeply to him, before she presented the knife. The blood covering the blade ranged from dark resinous stickiness to bright liquid red and was a testament to the amount of time that had passed. What blood he had left was roaring in his ears and he prayed that he could maintain consciousness until he had completed the ritual.
She bowed deeply once more and he gripped her wrist. Carefully, with the same precision she had shown, he drew the knife across the soft flesh of her inner arm. It was the latest cut amongst hundreds. She did not flinch. He released her and bowed, before tucking the knife into the sheath provided and slipping his arm through the lanyard so it hung by his side.
Now it was over.
The end of the silence was like a damn breaking as the crowd surged up, roaring and boisterous. Drum beats echoed the beat of his heart, the beat that was pulsing the blood through and out of his wounds. Finally, he saw his friends. He managed to smile at them and they smiled back but the strain they had undergone was obvious.
Archer was there, “Malcolm …,” he managed, before he shut his eyes, grief and guilt colouring his expression.
“I’m fine, sir, and it was my duty.” It had been. By the laws of this world, a man called a protector had to go through this trial to prove to all that he was worthy of the role. The people here were willing to enter into an alliance, but this had been a necessary requirement and he had argued that the benefits were too good to ignore.
It was tradition now that he retired with his closest friends to rest before a feast the next day. Doctor Phlox would be able to heal the wounds and prevent the scarring, but not until they left – and he would retain one on his shoulder as evidence that he had completed the trial if he ever needed to return.
They took their leave quickly, and Archer insisted that Tucker take him back to Enterprise using the transporter. In moments, he was on a biobed being hooked up to fluids and the painkiller was already kicking in. In some ways the relief from pain was almost as excruciating as that first cut.
He became aware of Tucker standing by the bed. He was dead white, eyes bright and every so often he sniffed and scrubbed his hands across his face. Words seemed beyond him and instead Tucker reached out to grip his hand.
He twisted his hand to interlink their fingers; a lover’s grip, not a friend’s. Staring at Tucker, he tried to gauge his reaction and was relieved to see the surprise mutate into something much more pleasing. Tucker’s soft chuckle was a ripple of liquid sound and his bright, blue eyes were warm with affection, and the blue banished the red haze.
Tucker leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead, “you get some rest, you hear,” and his tone was warm and intimate.
His eyes were already closing and the warm, expressive blue of Tucker’s eyes filled his thoughts as he slipped into sleep.
His dreams were the colour of blood.
Author: Sal
Fandom: Star Trek: Enterprise
Pairing: Tucker/Reed
Summary: Time for the suffering to begin
There was blood.
Ruby red and warm, leaking and seeping from ninety-nine cuts.
He knew there were ninety-nine. Exactly ninety-nine.
Ninety-nine thin slices of red spread out in an intricate, macabre pattern across his body. Every one was the same length and depth. Every one had been carved into him with precision and terrifying skill. She had stood over his spreadeagled body and worked silently and tirelessly.
His own silence was absolute. At the beginning he had sweated and ached to cry out as pain threatened to overwhelm him, to push him into begging her to stop. As the ordeal continued, he reached inside himself to lean on his training and the stoicism that was part of his nature, helping him to tune out the unremitting agony. There was an awareness of the quiet mass of people present It was as if they were waiting for him to break and cry out; that was a powerful motivation to make no sound. The knowledge that his friends were being forced to witness this was another imperative. He wanted them to be proud of him. And he knew how much more they would suffer if he gave a voice to this pain.
The bonds were released and he was pulled to his feet. He struggled to remain standing and could feel the seeping flow from his wounds change direction. He concentrated on that sensation rather than the pain, and he stood still even though he was no longer bound. A low murmur of what might have been appreciation rippled through the gathered crowd and he lifted his chin, his stance expressing his pride and resilience.
His torturer approached and now he could see the wickedly sharp, curved blade held in her slim, delicate hand. He knew how strong her hands were; stronger than human hands. Another time he would be fascinated by the beauty of the blade, by the intricate cloisonne effect of the decorated grip but the sight of it now brought only the anticipation of more pain. Her robe, he thought idly, was the colour of his blood.
For the first time the blade approached his face and it took every last ounce of willpower not to flinch as it marked his cheek and sliced into the flesh. That one was going to bleed like a pig, he thought idly as he stared sightlessly ahead.
It was exactly the same length and depth as the rest. Odd, he thought, that one hundred would be a significant number here, too. In a culture so different, a world so far away from his own and yet this seemed to be a link between them.
He didn’t care.
It was over.
It was almost over.
The priestess stepped forward and bowed deeply to him, before she presented the knife. The blood covering the blade ranged from dark resinous stickiness to bright liquid red and was a testament to the amount of time that had passed. What blood he had left was roaring in his ears and he prayed that he could maintain consciousness until he had completed the ritual.
She bowed deeply once more and he gripped her wrist. Carefully, with the same precision she had shown, he drew the knife across the soft flesh of her inner arm. It was the latest cut amongst hundreds. She did not flinch. He released her and bowed, before tucking the knife into the sheath provided and slipping his arm through the lanyard so it hung by his side.
Now it was over.
The end of the silence was like a damn breaking as the crowd surged up, roaring and boisterous. Drum beats echoed the beat of his heart, the beat that was pulsing the blood through and out of his wounds. Finally, he saw his friends. He managed to smile at them and they smiled back but the strain they had undergone was obvious.
Archer was there, “Malcolm …,” he managed, before he shut his eyes, grief and guilt colouring his expression.
“I’m fine, sir, and it was my duty.” It had been. By the laws of this world, a man called a protector had to go through this trial to prove to all that he was worthy of the role. The people here were willing to enter into an alliance, but this had been a necessary requirement and he had argued that the benefits were too good to ignore.
It was tradition now that he retired with his closest friends to rest before a feast the next day. Doctor Phlox would be able to heal the wounds and prevent the scarring, but not until they left – and he would retain one on his shoulder as evidence that he had completed the trial if he ever needed to return.
They took their leave quickly, and Archer insisted that Tucker take him back to Enterprise using the transporter. In moments, he was on a biobed being hooked up to fluids and the painkiller was already kicking in. In some ways the relief from pain was almost as excruciating as that first cut.
He became aware of Tucker standing by the bed. He was dead white, eyes bright and every so often he sniffed and scrubbed his hands across his face. Words seemed beyond him and instead Tucker reached out to grip his hand.
He twisted his hand to interlink their fingers; a lover’s grip, not a friend’s. Staring at Tucker, he tried to gauge his reaction and was relieved to see the surprise mutate into something much more pleasing. Tucker’s soft chuckle was a ripple of liquid sound and his bright, blue eyes were warm with affection, and the blue banished the red haze.
Tucker leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead, “you get some rest, you hear,” and his tone was warm and intimate.
His eyes were already closing and the warm, expressive blue of Tucker’s eyes filled his thoughts as he slipped into sleep.
His dreams were the colour of blood.
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Date: 2009-02-28 09:01 pm (UTC)Well done, and thank you xxx
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Date: 2009-02-28 11:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-28 10:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-28 11:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-01 05:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-03-01 09:11 am (UTC)