Chapter Text
He should have been screaming. He should have been breaking. But he only bled.
Though here, in these catacombs, it made no difference. Countless cells, connected in a labyrinth so vast and disorienting, neither the sobs of its captives, nor the screams of pain could escape, echoing through its corridors in a haunting cacophony. The stuffy air hadn't seen sunshine in centuries. It crept into the nostrils and down the throat, and it fogged up the lungs. It caused a cough, rattling and wet, the phlegm tasting like old pennies. Nobody noticed that there was one cry of pain missing.
There were no windows in the cells, no sunlight. Their withered inhabitans pale as ghosts, skin stretched over protruding bones, bruised and broken from maceration, from the chafing of the shackles, from sleeping on the damp and rough stone floors, whatever counts for sleep down here, feverish periods of unconsciousness, something akin to a temporary blissful escape... But there is no escape here, down here in this place that must be worse than hell, where there is neither day nor night, this place where time does not exist and only pain seems eternal.
Devoid of any light, of food or water, of human touch, of anything to pass the time, some prisoners might have longed for their cell door opening, in feverish moments, but no—
If this place was hell, the cultists were its demons. Raving and mad, clad in black cloth and iron masks, gruesome instruments of torture hanging from their belts. Every part of their skin not hidden by their robes was covered in tattoos and self-inflicted scars. Some were butchers, and they brought serrated knives with them, so wounds would not close, and curved hooks with barbs so big it seemed as if they were trying to fish for sharks. Hammers to break bones, pliers to pull teeth and fingernails. Some of the more brutish cultists did without any tools. They would break fingers and crush eyeballs, all with their own hands, hands as big as wagon wheels, face to face, lips drawn up, strained grunts exposing yellow teeth and blackened tongues, until finally the bones would splinter or the thumbs would dig deep into grey matter.
There were also the acolytes, female, all of them. Tattooed and scarred like the other, but slender. They were masters of their trade, and their trade was pain. They knew how to send the human body over the threshold, and they knew how to bring it back. Death could not save you.
And then, there was Bigby. He had never been in it with his whole heart. The old adage holds true, former prey makes for the best predators, but still. Where his fellow cultists tortured with a sadistic glee, for him, it was a grim duty. The cult had taken him in when nobody else would. They were just as depraved as he knew himself to be, and they accepted him. Still, he didn't choose his fate, he never wanted to be an abomination; could the same be said of his fellow cultists?
Nevertheless, he shed the blood of innocents all the same, hoping it might wash him clean somehow. Remove the stains off his soul, if such was possible at all. So far, it didn't work, but maybe it might, one day. The cult was his home, now, and dutifully he did everything that was expected of him.
He doesn't consider himself a believer, though he had to admit, since the day he had willingly sent his first sacrifice over the threshold, something or someone had been granting him dreamless sleep. Mercy. It's all he had ever wanted.
Bigby's face was devoid of emotion, a tranquil expression, as he ran his knife through the flesh. Well placed cuts, the gods — if there were any, who knows — wanted suffering, not a quick death. The blade severed tissue and muscle fibres, released tendons from their sheaths, spilled blood over his hands, warm and....
The tingling of the blood, so unexpectedly alive, tore Bigby from his stupor. Startled, he jerked the knife, enough for the sharp metal edge to scrape against one of the rib bones. There was a nasty scraping sensation, like fingernails clawing at the stone walls of a prison cell until they splintered, and something worse, something far worse. For the first time, the body under his hands trembled ever so slightly. Not the flinches of pain or the shakes of fear; the involuntary trembling of ecstasy anticipated, the trembling you feel under your lips as you run them, slowly, very lightly, across the chest of your lover and all the way downwards—
It was Damian. He opened his eyes, glazy and feverish. It was Damian, here on this table under him, it was Damian's blood all over his hands, it was Damian's eyes that were now looking at him, or through him, no, definitely at him, the light of the torches flickering playfully over his sweaty face, how could he not have recognized him sooner. There was elation in those eyes.
The flaggellant let out a soft sigh, almost sensual, and fear gripped Bigby. Fear gripped his throat with an iron fist, and strangled him, strangled him until he felt like his eyes were popping out of their sockets. He had broken many before. But he had only ever known one who bled with joy.
"Thank you."