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Tygra hissed. The restraints dug into his limbs. They’ll do worse, once Dawn arrives. And Tygra can’t suppress the memory of that dummy, being ripped in four. He shudders involuntarily. Four winds he’d called it. Clearly imagining Tygra in the dummy’s place, blood thirsty smile clear on Slythe’s mouth and a horrid excitement in his eyes.
For the sake of feeling like he was doing something, anything, other than just waiting for rescue, Did Lion-O even get my message? Did I even reach out? I swear I felt something connect but—
Tygra listened, listened for his captors, listened for rescuers. But he heard nothing. He felt- he felt- the sun. The sun was beginning to rise. It creeped over his face and Tygra was breathless. Dawn slowly crawled her way up the sky. Bloody red inch after bloody red inch, her light slowly creeping into the room. Despite his best efforts, panic sank its brutal claws into his chest and he began to pull and thrash.
But it’s hopeless, he can’t- surely Lion-O would save him- his message had to have gotten through- it had to it had to it had to-
Cruelly, Dawn’s dips her tender fingers into the room. There’s a flash and a click and a- Time slowed. It didn’t hurt, for a moment. Then- Pain Pain Pain as the brutal mechanisms began their terrible work. He could feel it keenly. The stretching of his limbs, the growing ache in his joints as, slowly, the ligaments and sinew that held his limbs to his body began to rip.
It was quite like ripping fabric, each thread popping as the tear began to form. Oh Spirits, Oh Thundera, he was tear tear tearing and in an instant-
Tygra screamed.
Desperate, high, pained. Like the animal he was. He screamed and screamed and screamed. The metallic scent of blood filled the room and Tygra choked on it. He stopped screaming. His voice had given out. And now the room was silent- silent if it weren’t for the drip drip drip of-
The door creaked open. And Slythe stepped in. Tygra’s ears twitched at the sound of Slythe’s scales sliding across the floor. The steady shff shff shff of his massive tail dragging on the floor drew closer.
He was beside Tygra now, leaning in close. The acidic smell of his breath joined the metallic scent of blood. And he just stood there. Breathing. Smiling. His tongue flicking in and out. Mouth opened just so-
He was smelling Tygra’s blood.
His eyes rolled back, tongue lolling, like he’d been presented with the sweetest of fruit, or rarest cuts of meat, still dripping blood…
Blood. It covered everything, covered Tygra.
Then, then, Slythe leaned closer still, a dagger like claw drew close. Too close. And Tygra drew back. Tried to. Tried to move, raise his arms, to slash out at that clawed hand- but he couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn't and Tygra was bleeding, there was so much blood, he was bleeding and bleeding and bleeding out and he couldn't move his arms or his legs and oh- his arms and legs and Tygra stared in horror at the bloody, mangled, not even stumps, of torn muscle and tissue and bone and it hurt, it hurt so much and Tygra couldn’t breathe and his arms and his legs and Slythe-
Slythe cupped his face. Slythe cooed at him. And then- slimy, disgusting tongue,
it t r a i l e d
across Tygra’s face and despite himself, Tygra whimpered. “There, there, Tygra,” Slythe drawled, voice mocking, “don’t cry now.”
He didn’t know he’d been crying. Tygra’s trembling lips closed over his mouth. Tygra shook. His blood ran warm still, but- Tygra felt so cold. And black spots began to flicker. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Slythe laughed. Had he said that out loud? Slythe’s laughter grew louder, yet distant at the same time.
‘i don’t want to die’
At his words, a scaled finger stroked his blood-soaked fur, lovingly, mockingly. ‘You will’
Trembling, Tygra shifted his gaze to the ceiling. He was aware of the tears this time. He didn’t want to die, not here and not with Slythe. The black spots stopped flickering and began to grow. He was going to die. He bit his lip, to keep in the whimper that threatened to escape. An effort to have some sort of dignity as he died. He failed. The pain grew numb. Like there was n o t h i n g there. Slythe shuffled. Tygra kept his eyes locked on the ceiling. Its tiles were beginning to fade and swirl, merging in and out with the ever-growing dark spots. And Tygra began to pray. Tygra prayed to every god he could think of, prayed that the others would come, prayed that this horrid machine would never be used again, prayed that this wasn’t real, he prayed and prayed and prayed. And to those gods he begged;
‘please’
Slythe reached out then, clawed finger gently, almost reverently, shutting his eyes. The motion was almost tender, almost loving. Almost. Slythe wouldn’t touch Tygra like that. Tygra mewled as his eyes were shut. He couldn’t open them, it felt like moving his limbs, an impossible task (therewasnothingtheretherewasnothingthere).
There was a shff shff shff of Slythe’s scales sliding away. He was still in the room. He’d want to watch, Tygra knew. But he just stood, wherever he was, leaving Tygra alone. Alone and mewling in the dark, like a helpless cub. In the dark and drifting. And drifting. And drifting. Until he was go-
Tygra’s eyes shot open.
He didn’t bolt upright or scream. He just lay, in his hammock-bed, shuddering and mewling. It was a pathetic sound, made of plaintive little calls, calls for comfort, calls for help. And no one came. Tygra screwed his eyes shut and clenched a shaky hand. His limbs were shaky, and if he were to try and move them, Tygra knew they’d be uncoordinated and- oh! His limbs, his limbs, his limbs!
Tygra sobbed as he tucked his legs up and wrapped his arms around his body, his claws catching hold in soft flesh He lay there, crying and holding and holding and holding and held until- the metallic smell of his blood his nose, no the air was sucked out of his lungs and Tygra whimpered and curled up tighter. He was praying again. Praying that this wasn’t some sort of death dream. And he held tight and prayed and prayed and prayed and-
Slowly, air returned to Tygra’s lungs. Slowly his desperate crying began to subside. And even slower still, Tygra’s shaking eased.
Gently, painfully, Tygra eased his claws out of his upper arm. His hand shook, and his claws were tipped with blood. Like Dawn’s his mind compared. Tygra winced. His other hand was much the same. Just as bloodied. Tygra just stared at his bloody claws, his shaking hands, wondering where that blood had come from, until-
Tygra cursed. That damn’ nightmare. It’s far from the first time he’s had that wretched dream. But it’s certainly the first he’s actually hurt himself over it.
Frustrated by his mind and the stinging of his palms, Tygra swung himself off the hammock without any proper thought. His knees buckled as he hit the ground, his palms thudding painfully against the floor.
The pain was as dear as anything, because he could feel it, feel it instead of that awful searing nothingness. And Tygra lay there, on the floor of his bedchamber, grateful to be in pain. Grateful, until he realised that he was still bleeding. And he should see to that. But his limbs were shaky and hard to maneuver. And it took more tries than he cared to admit to push himself into a sitting position.
Slowly, he pushed himself up. His legs were still shaking. He was still shaking. But Tygra began to walk with slow and unsteady steps, towards one of his work benches. It was where he kept his med-kit. They did have a dedicated medical room, but Tygra had his own, personal, med-kit. He tended to carry it with him, he had the most medical training out of all of them, and he also happened to have the most ‘accidents’.
It was quick work, the cuts weren’t deep. Though moving his hands stung something fierce. He would live. He would. He just had to keep telling himself that.
With a soft sigh, Tygra sank onto the work bench. There was still a trembling in his body, an aching fear that kept his vocal cords twitching and desperate to properly voice the help calls.
But who would he call?
Panthro would likely be in his workshop, tinkering with something or another, too far away to hear. He could hardly call upon the children, the poor cubs were already quite burdened by this whole, horrible mess they’ve found themselves in. Though he didn’t doubt Snarf would be quite sitting, Tygra had little interest in the old man’s form of fussing. Cheetara had been having awful nightmares of her own as of late and he didn’t want to burden her with this silly thing. He hadn’t actually been ripped apart, or anything like that. And that was hardly the most traumatic thing as of late.
That just left Lion-O. Tygra couldn’t go to him. He simply couldn’t. The prince had so much going on and it was Tygra’s job to support him, not the other way around. Tygra shook his head. There was no one to call, simple as that.
The worst part though, if Tygra called, Lion-O would come and come quickly. He’d stay with him until he’d settled. He was caring like that. A fine king, he’ll make.
But a poor advisor, Tygra would be. There’s supposed to be a barrier of professionalism between them. Sure, such matters Jaga had certainly rejected, but Tygra wasn’t his mentor. And by the Eye, Tygra hadn’t even met Lion-O before all this.
It was too soon for that kind of intimacy in their relationship.
Tygra stared up at his hammock. Where he’d lay there, sleepless and with imagined pains wracking his body. He glanced towards the door. Just a few hallways away was the kitchen, and, more importantly, the tea cabinet.
His sister, Sunda, loved making teas. And he used to suffer from terrible, screaming nightmares as a cub. So she’d made one for him. A special tea she brewed for only her little brother and only after nightmares. Like magic, it had always worked to settle his fearful little mind. It was fortunate that she’d made quite a few boxes of the stuff for him.
It was all he had left of her.
With a grunt, Tygra pushed himself up and added towards the kitchen.
On the countertop above him, Tygra could hear the bubbling of the kettle. In his hands rested one of the boxes of Sunda’s tea, and Tygra himself rested on the floor. It was a common fact most Thunderian kitchens weren’t made for eating in, solely for preparing food. That honour went to communal areas like fire pits or Gardens or wherever families and prides gather. As such, there was little space for him to sit or lay, other than the floor.
Too focused on the sound of water boiling and scent of the tea in his hands, Tygra didn’t notice the soft padding of feet. Nor did he catch the scents of sunbaked clay and sweet grass of his prince. Lion-O, seemingly, hadn’t noticed Tygra either, too busy yawning and rubbing at sleep swollen eyes.
But when they noticed each other, the boys froze. Hearts racing and bellies tight with embarrassment, nervous hands began to rapidly adjust sleep-clothes before they came to a stalemate and were left staring at each other.
As always, Tygra was first to right himself. “Ah!” he said, tugging at his shirt hem before bowing. “Good, uhm… evening, my prince.”
Lion-O gave a curt nod and bow of his own. “G-good evening to you too, my advisor.”
A beat passed between the two. Tygra’s gaze flitted about the kitchen, desperate to ignore how naked he felt and the fact that Lion-O apparently slept without a shirt. He was quite certain Lion-O was doing the same awkward glancing. If he was, it didn’t last long, as soon their eyes locked once again.
With a soft moan, Tygra gave up on keeping decorum and sank back down, patting the tile beside him. Getting the message, Lion-O plopped down. Tygra could smell the scent of nerves and… and something sweeter radiating off the lion. It took a moment for the prince to speak.
“So, uhm, what’s got you up?” His voice was worn, with a slight lilt to it.
Tygra’s tail flicked and his belly tightened. He shouldn’t burden his prince with these matters. But there was an irresistible sort of lull to Lion-O. One that eased the tenseness of his shoulders and tightness of his lips.
“Ah, I, uhm, had a nightmare. I just- my sister used to make me tea when I was little and… and I thought it would help,” Tygra admitted, his voice low. It felt silly to say it out loud, to admit to needing comfort like some frightened cub.
But if Lion-O minded, he didn’t show it. Instead he gave Tygra a soft, if shy smile. “Oh. I had one too. When I was a cub, Snarf used to make me these little honey cake things. He made some more recently— they’re in the icebox.”
Tygra made a soft sound, his tail flicking towards Lion-O. The larger Thunderian was squirming slightly. Seemingly embarrassed by his own admission. Hypocrite Tygra is, he couldn’t fathom why. Instead, he gently nudged Lion-O’s side.
“Since we’re both up, why don’t we enjoy each other’s company with good food?”
It was a soft, hushed question. The notion of professional boundaries flitted about Tygra’s head, joined by a looping, foreign anxiety in his belly that almost had him regret his offer. Almost. They were both in sleep-clothes, adrift in the aftermath of nightmares and indulging in comfort foods. Boundaries could wait for Dawn’s clever fingers.
Besides, Lion-O’s soft smile and slow blink told Tygra it was worth reaching out. This was hardly the first time he’d called for Lion-O without ever speaking anyways.