The white table received a glare. Based on the reactions so far, Caspian could see where the game was going. He calculated and articulated his next words, “We’re not unreasonable. Much of what you think is falsehoods, gossip, deceit. Your comrades and leaders misled you. Everything you know is an illusion, and in time, we will make you agree. Have you heard of what happens to our prisoners? Of him?”
He remained silent, as if he was trying to keep his mind elsewhere. Caspian glanced at Turslo, who grabbed the prisoner by the neck and chin and forced his head up. As he did so, Caspian leaned in, blue gaze icy, staring him dead in the eye. “You know how many innocent lives you have stolen, all for your petty vendetta? Of course you do.”
The slightly warm table between them turned to ice, little by little, leg to surface. It encroached on the unwilling captive, sweat dripping off his face. A haughty look shone in his dark eyes. “Petty vendetta, diarana[2]? That’s what you think!” he scoffed. “Thought you crystal people were clever, but your prince is a dumbass.”
He had won. The more he talked, the more he revealed, and that was all Caspian needed. “It’s not just a vendetta. But those innocent civilians aren’t to blame.”
“Casualty.” He shrugged. “They’re the message. Our message.”
Turslo sent a short burst of crystalline ice to his hands, which was still in contact with the prisoner’s skin, causing him to jolt from the burning pain.
“Casualty? And I suppose your dead comrades are casualties as well?” Caspian dropped his tone almost as soon as it crept in. “Why continue this cycle of casualties?”
He glowered at the sadistic torturer. Caspian glanced at Turslo, who pierced the prisoner in the forearms with a razor sharp piece of crystal. Then he slowly traced down to the veins of his wrists and hands. It was sharp and painful, like the heat pumping through his veins were freezing and shriveling.
“You...You d-don’t understand. You people have never understood.” He dropped his eyes to the table, which let off chilly steam. “We need you to understand our pain. If it happens by inflicting pain, then s-s-so be it.”
Caspian looked at Turslo again. He pulled out the crystal, raised it high up in the air above his shoulders, and jabbed it straight through an arm. Even as his victim screamed, he did it again in four quick successions through both arms. Blood spurted and dripped off the table surface. There was an energy of excitement and delight in Turslo’s gleaming eyes and obvious grin as he worked. An energy that Caspian did not like. A gleam that he did not respect. An expression that he saw far too often.
He almost did not stop when Caspian tapped a finger on the table. “How about that for inflicting pain?”
“Go to hell, you damn diarana! All of you!”
“What did you intend to do here yesterday? What is this present battle for? There aren’t enough of you.”
He only clenched his jaw hard, veins pulsing in his temples and throat.
When Turslo backhanded him again and sent ice creeping in the veins of his wrists, turning its skin blue and black, and yanking tears and cries of pain out of the man, Caspian tapped another finger on the table. Then he raised his hand in the air, palm out to Turslo, who halted his efforts and moved to the back of the room.
Caspian crossed his arms and perched on the corner of the table. He drew out three smoky, crystalline bits of shrapnel, their tips as pointed as a tiny sewing needle. Their tiny size was a mask of harmlessness, but such shrapnel from crystallizing users drew many a shiver from Crystallians and Volcalans. His face betrayed nothing at all, but his eyes were hard and somehow as cold as ice. Emotion was indiscernible, dead.
He jabbed one shrapnel into the space of skin beneath a fingernail, instantly drawing a fit of cries from the hurting captive. Another fingernail. Then another. This form of punishment aimed straight at the hot sensitive nerves of untouched fingers, and caused an extreme amount of pain to the average person. The screams at this point were painful to the ears of those within earshot, but all three present soldiers remained cold and motionless.
“Name.”
In the pause that stretched for long minutes, the prisoner lay flat on his face, blubbering as he worked to recover. “J...Ji...Jillf-ford…”
“Jillford, let’s start over.” Caspian raised his head as the door slammed open, a blast of chilled air penetrating all of them. Brows raised, he said, “General Douglas.”
“Commander Caspian, I apologize for the sudden intrusion,” General Douglas said, huffing and agasp. He rested a hand on his heart. “Permit us lowly troops to continue from here, will you, commander? There isn’t a pressing need to have you do this kind of dirty work, sir. I don’t know what Captain Ried was thinking. Please leave it to us.”
Caspian showed the briefest of a smile as he rose. He put a hand on the general’s shoulder. “At ease.” He leaned in to whisper in the man’s ear, “Maybe five days. Level four.”
When he walked out, Ried stared at him in confusion. “What did you whisper to him?”
“Five days. Level four.”
Ried nodded as he gazed at Jillford. “That’s tough. He seemed to break pretty easily though. Are you sure?” He looked surprised at himself. “I apologize for the question, sir. I don’t doubt you. If you say it, you mean it.”
“Yes. Please report to me if there is anything new.”
Ried tilted his head. “You are going?”
“I wish to get to the heart of this matter, but I have a war to attend to. I trust you.”
“Will do. Have a good evening, commander. Excellent work.”
Caspian nodded and retreated down the corridor, aware that he would not have a good evening. With the war and battles raging on, he would never.
Footnotes:
[1] Life Status: The present status of an individual identity being alive, deceased, severely or mildly injured, missing, or unknown. This is a report from a militant or law enforcement agency, including fire control agencies.
[2] A swear word. A profane word.
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