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"What is your name?"

His surroundings had long faded to a blur of off-white canvas and mud, but even through swollen eyelids, he could see the splash of a colorful uniform before him. The prisoner raised his head to give the illusion of looking the interrogator in the face, his lips thinning as the manacles cut into his wrists again.

"I asked your name, Sir." No anger. They'd long since learned that anger didn't get them anywhere, but impeccable manners mixed with the careful application of pain did. They'd burn in hell when they died. But not now- now they were very much alive, and their insistence made him answer.

"Nail," he said, wincing as his lips cracked again and he felt blood dribble down his chin. So terribly familiar.

"Thank you, Nail. You are Viscera?" The hands on his face were too smooth for this line of work. God, their owner must spend hours keeping them delicate; that meant he was high-up now, away from the thugs who only knew how to break bones and scream curses.

"Yes." He was too weak to give more than an attempted cough. Nail felt his mouth fill with an iron-tasting mucus and struggled to swallow, fighting a whimper.

"Good." The smile in the voice made Nail's stomach churn; he'd have retched if he'd had the strength for it, if he knew it'd bring up more than a mouthful of bile. "Thank you for your cooperation. Now, if you'll continue your good behavior... " He didn't bother listening for the rest. Same old rationale: "be a good traitor and we'll love you." But what was he betraying? Nail's vision swam and he saw his mother sitting in her parlor with a fan raised to her delicate face, eyes sympathetic to his pain. He tried to snarl, but his body wouldn't respond. He snarled on the inside, but he didn't tell them anything. Loyalty was bought with friendship, and there was one who was his friend, one who didn't shake her head behind his back and cast pitying glances his way when he thought he wasn't looking.

They took the manacles off his hands, pulled him from the pole. How long had he been chained there, the rough stone digging into his knees? Nail didn't remember. He stumbled along with feet that had forgotten how to walk.

His surroundings brightened. Nail closed his eyes.

They placed him on a pallet. It was simple straw, he knew, but it gave slightly under his bruised flesh and he blessed them and their families for this tiny measure of kindness.

"Thank you. Thank you." --The words left a scalding bitterness in his mouth.

When they gave him his first bit of food in a week, Nail had to chew every mouthful a hundred times to keep his stomach quiet. They told him they had saved him, with their -- he wondered from whom. Did they save him from the Viscera? From the lower Imperial interrogators?

Did it even matter?

Some deep biological instinct told him they were lying, but he didn't know if it had any truth to it or if it was just his body, his perfect Viscera body, gone insane. And he told them his nightmares, the visions that left him sweaty and writhing and biting his lip to keep from crying out in pleasure and pain.

They stripped him naked one night- he didn't think they had the power to eliminate his internal clock yet- and scrutinized him from head to toe.

Nail shivered on the table, turned his head away when he heard female voices and felt female hands running across his chest. One told him in a sorrowful voice what they'd have to do to him if he didn't tell them about Viscera magic, if he didn't tell them why half their army was dead.

He knew why, somewhere in his brain, but he couldn't answer, not even when they straddled him and laughed at his body's instinctive response like it was shameful, cut him with knives too sharp to scar, drove him into perverted cycles of desire and blinding agony.

At some point, he gave them a name they wanted, a rasping shout from his raw throat:
Lorena.

Nail knew they were moving him only because he was blindfolded and had plugs shoved in his ears to disorient him. When they set him down, they apologized for his earlier rough treatment-- for the fifth time. They left him alone until his eyesight returned. When it did, he met a man with long blond hair, an angular face, and limber fingers. His name was Evan Theroulde, and he'd a gaze so full of sleepy confidence it made Nail's body erupt in tremors.

Evan put his hands on each side of Nail's neck and asked him to talk about Lorena, smiling a friendly smile while two assistants stood by with their sticks of graphite and expensive paper.

Nail told them everything they wanted to know after Evan lit his every nerve on fire. He told them about the lady with her lips stitched closed, her eyes lined in black, her dress scarlet. He told them how she died, with a sick hatred gnawing at his ribs from the inside. His Lorena, in their hands, the memory given over to them for their use. It was such a sick betrayal. He'd stand by the Lord on judgement day and try desperately to explain it all away as some function of the pain and despair. But even as his every bone seemed bruised and aching, he knew with a terrible certainty that someone stronger, someone worth his fluids would not abandon friends. Evan cleared his throat and Nail looked up.

"Thank you, Nail," the three said in unison, smiling their sweetest smiles. "We'll see you again at your Naming ceremony, when you're feeling better. Take care of yourself."

They kissed him on both cheeks, their lips burning. He blacked out.

Nothing was broken but skin. As the thought leaked through his mind, Nail bared his teeth. Trust his Viscera upbringing, Viscera mind to instantly survey the damages-- bodycentric, always. But there was no permanent harm done- though they had defiled his flesh, it was still sacred and whole in the eyes of God. He felt a thick cloth covering his legs, a looser material over his chest and arms- probably linen, he decided.

At some point, he realized his surroundings were completely quiet except for a low roar, far away. Nail opened his eyes to find himself in a small tent, sparsely furnished with only the cot he lay upon and a small stool. It was only when he sat up that he noticed a huddled bundle of rags in a far corner. Nail had enough experience with the poor to recognize a human figure.

“Hello?” he asked, quavering slightly. Whoever it was didn’t answer, so he rose to his feet, more confident: after all, his tormentors were always uniformed. “I’m Nail Viscera.”

The person stirred and stood, a male form finally distinguishing itself from the garments.“Not for long.” The voice was that of a young man; it fit his face, as he looked over his shoulder at Nail, though his back was still turned. Blue eyes, youthful skin, and a smile with creases all around his eyes, young as he seemed.

“I beg your pardon?” As Nail took a step forward, the greasy smell of carrion enveloped him. He breathed it in heavily. The stench of bodies seemed to follow him everywhere.

“Look.”

The second step brought him to the young man’s back. Nail looked over the boy’s shoulder into a bowl of steaming intestines. He blinked, examined their blood-slicked length carefully-- he’d been privy to enough autopsies across the mountains not to dry-retch. They were human.

“The future.” The man’s grin was one he’d expect from a drunkard, overly good-natured and somewhat triangular. His short fingers traced the curves of the bowels as he raved in the most sincere tone Nail had ever heard from a madman’s lips. “Or the past. A ghost of murder- have you murdered? Death clings to you like some Foreign perfume- perhaps you’ve just been steeped in so much of it. And wait.” For a moment, Nail felt bits of bloody refuse on his hands, arms, skin-- all over. He shivered, but then it was gone and he snapped back to the present.

“I see a woman with sea-green eyes. She’ll hurt you. Or she has hurt you.” Lorena- oh God, Lorena. Her eyes were the color his kin called sea-green, weren’t they? Or grey? He didn’t remember; he’d never seen the sea. He ripped himself out of the thought as the oracle (for that was what he was, wasn’t he?), grasped his leg.

“A girl will die for you,” the man said. He turned around, and Nail finally saw whose intestines the Oracle was scrying. The man’s stomach was a gaping hole, the tattered cloths blood-soaked, and the long winding ropes of entrails slipped from the cavity.

“There is nothing for you here,” he said, “go to the city, Viscera. Enter. Breathe the soot. Feel the dust.” As the man lifted a revolver to his head and pulled the trigger, Nail turned and was thoroughly sick.

With his stomach emptied of bile, Nail took the revolver from the fingers of the dead man, trying desperately to avoid the bullet hole that seemed to stare at him. His hands shook- the man was dead, dead and staring right up at that blank canvas, with his intestines spilled out in a bowl before him. And why? Because he, Nail Viscera, was more important than this man’s life.

Was it pity he felt? Horror? A crushing sadness? All he did know was that he ached deep within his bones-- and yet he also felt his self-worth increase just a little. Upon realization, Nail stifled it with hatred and disgust. Was he really so base to take satisfaction from death?

He shook himself and looked over the revolver. It was a classic six-shooter; that meant five bullets left, presuming they hadn’t been used. He wasn’t going to open the chamber to investigate.

Nail felt the nerves in his skin prickle as the stench of decay grew stronger. He swore, for an instant, that he could feel blood running down his fingers and hot breath at the back of his neck. His hands closed tightly over the handle of the revolver to prevent them from shaking as he took carefully measured steps towards the opening to the tent. Don’t run, he told himself, just walk carefully. Concentrate on one foot in front of the other.

And then he was out in the afternoon sunlight and blinking teary eyes in the brilliance of the day. How long had it been since he’d seen the sun? Too long, too long- it took him several minutes to get adjusted. They truly hadn’t destroyed his sense of time, for all they’d tried.

The first things he saw were the rocks, the steep cliffs and the pebbled beaches where he stood. The cliffs stretched out before him into the distance. Offshore, great spires lunged up from the depths of what he assumed was the ocean.

The ocean. He’d never seen it before, and he cast his gaze out, out to the horizon marked only by a pale line. Sure, he’d heard of it, seen drawings, but they couldn’t compare to the deep green-grey of the ocean and the haggard beauty of the scene: grey clouds, wind ruffling his shorn hair, the sea heaving itself up onto pebbled beaches only to drag itself back out with a hiss. It smelled of salt and rot all mixed together, an earthy, primeval odor, and he breathed in deep as he just watched the waves, the dots of birds in the sky so far away.

There was a city somewhere around here, Nail knew. The Oracle had told him as much, but that wasn’t all- something in his periphery senses could feel the presence of a city. He turned around and there it was, rising directly from the cliffs, its walls blending seamlessly with the jagged rock as the beach fell away. The roar of the surf was muted, as it was far, but he could see and almost feel the vicious power of the waves that broke on the city’s walls. Towers stabbed into the sky, towers so high he wondered how they didn’t break off and fall, crumbling, into the sea.

He knew where he was: the towered city, the capital of the Empire. One main tower, six others, all surrounding at an equal height- though one was broken in half and cast a splintered silhouette against the darkening sky. Oh, there was a storm coming-- Nail could smell it above the thick salt of the ocean-- but the tower caught his attention. He knew it; all his kin knew it and it called to him with a quickening of his heart. Vitali’s Fall. The home they’d left in a blaze of glory and a sea of blood.

The cliffs were steep, but Nail turned instinctively to where a curving stair wound up the dark rock. Whatever effort had gone into chopping away at the stone had been enormous-- and why? He tried to clear the blurriness from his head.

He looked at the revolver and slid it through the belt that held up his pants, starting towards the cliffs. Nail winced at the feel of the pebbles under his bare feet- why hadn’t he noticed that before? Now that he was aware of it, every step was an agonized attempt to spend as little time on the rocks as possible. Somehow, he made it to the cliffs and stood on the smooth black stone of the bottom step, gazing up the stair. Nail felt the first drop of rain hit the back of his neck. Storm coming. Was it just his nervous ears, or had the roar of the surf increased?

He rolled back his sleeves with sweaty hands and began to climb. It was treacherous: the steps were shallow at best, with nothing to prevent him from falling to the beach below if he lost his balance. Yes, he’d fall and bleed out among the rocks as the sea came up... because it was rising, now, the waves lapping at the foot of the tent. Forcing himself to focus on his grip, he continued to climb.

Nail was halfway up when he looked back down at the tent. It was such a small pale rectangle on that pebbled beach and he felt suddenly dizzy, sinking to his knees on the shallow steps. Hands grasping at crevices and outcroppings, he felt himself falling even as the rock dug into his legs. Nail forced his vision up from the depths beside him, forced it to scan up the stair and to the towers that pierced the growing storm. God, it must be sunny at the top of the highest spire, where, he dazedly recalled from history lessons, the Emperor lived- an eternally sunlit room in a city beset by rain and storms.

He pulled himself up to the next step as the rain began in earnest, drawing white-cold lines across his face and digging into his scalp with icy fingers. Step by step, he climbed. And when Nail stood at the top, his plain clothing dirt-stained and ripped, his hands bleeding, knees bruised, he raised his head and stared at the plain. Its expanse stretched off for miles around the city, a flatland of stormswept grass and clumps of heather in the depressions. A road off in the distance had specks of people moving upon it and carts trundling down the earth; beyond that was forest, hills, and mountains like blue ghosts in the distance. And all around was the rain and the wind that slapped his sodden clothes against his shivering body.

Nail staggered towards the city, its towers now looming up a quarter-way to the zenith before they disappeared amidst the clouds. He stumbled, got back up again, kept walking. As the sky turned to a night darker than the storm, he heard the tolling of bells. He looked up to see the city illuminated with tiny golden lights, twinkling from... windows, surely. There were thousands, glimmering like pinpricks of flame in an oil-black night.

The rain stopped and the clouds moved on. The city reared above him, stretching halfway up the sky, and he stared at the five completed towers yet again. It used to be six, would have been six but for his house’s betrayal-- an ugly word. Suitable.

For all he felt about the Viscera, his chest clenched at the thought of the House, his room with its soft cushions, his mother, and everything else he’d left behind. But Nail’s feet did not falter and he didn’t look back.

When he reached the great gate with its pistol-wielding sentries, the wrought-iron monstrosity towering above him closed for the night, he bowed very politely and said, “I’d like to come in.” The words left his throat with a creak of disuse. The gate opened with a similar one. Nail saw the giant mechanical devices used for opening, the cogs, the levers.

“You’ll be waiting just inside for accompaniment," one of the guards said in a voice less generic than he expected, rough and lilting in its accent. “Shouldn’t be long. Master Theroulde himself wants to see you. Got some business to take care of. Oh, and-- welcome back, Viscera.” He expected a snicker, but none came.

The streets in front of him were mostly empty, labyrinthine passages wedged between houses that ranged from the familiar half-timbering architectural style to wholly brick, square houses with smoking chimneys, their windows illuminated. Chains of lanterns stretched out like pearls across the narrow alleyways, too narrow for the lamp-posts planted along the wider streets of brick and cobblestone. He watched a horse-- oh, he’d seen them back from the battlefront, but never in a city such as this!-- clop along the streets, tossing a jet-black mane. The streets angled up towards the bases of the five tall towers, rainwater splashing down gutters to pour into a series of grates around the walls.

“Sewers,” a man said. Nail turned, slowly, and recognized the blonde hair and prominent cheekbones, and, most of all, the smile. He felt himself shiver.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Evan said, his eyes on the city streets, “at least, not until your Naming. But my father wishes to see you, so I'm doing the fetching. He’s been good?” The last was to the guards. Nail didn’t answer; he felt like he was underwater in one of the silvery pools of his homeland, his movements slowed and comical, and he knew his words would only be bubbles rising from his lips.

“Aye. Just a bit dreamier than natural. What did you do to him, Master Evan?”

“I didn’t think it’d have this effect.” Nail felt one of Evan’s hands snaking up above his collar to rest on the back of his neck, the nails digging into his skin. “People respond differently to... interrogation techniques.”

“Can we go?” Nail finally said, stepping forward away from Evan’s touch. He still didn’t look at any of them, though his fingers curled into fists as he stared up at the towers.

“Still not normal.”

The next touch was a blow, sending him sprawling. Through glazed eyes, he saw Evan’s face, hearing him scream, “Wake up, damn you! Get yourself together!” A kick followed against his ribs, another to his hip, and he stopped counting as there were more.

At some point, spitting his own blood onto the cobblestones so he wouldn’t choke, with the draining rainwater rushing over his hands, sensation returned. The next kick came with a flash of pain that sent him another foot towards the gutter, but it also came with a determination that erased all thought: get up, get on your feet. Fight back.

It took one hand and then the other, the cuts from the cliff stinging, to raise himself and get a leg beneath him. Nail stood up shakily, stared around himself at the gates, Evan so nearby with blood on his knuckles, and the guards laughing from the distance.

He was in the Empire. He was in the towered city. He was a captive, and Evan was his tormentor.

“Going to fight back now, Viscera?” Evan asked, spitting out the words. Fight back, something he’d never done. But Nail cared nothing about these people, nothing about what they thought of him. It wasn’t like his Viscera upbringing where he had so much to lose. If he had smiled, it would be a reckless and humorless grin, but he didn’t smile, just thinned his lips.

“Sure.”

Evan’s fist was a blur towards his face and he followed his most powerful instinct. Nail ducked and hit back- a nicely formed, though weak, punch to the solar plexus. Evan was doubled up coughing when he wiped the mud from his eyes and stood straight. One of the guards was applauding, the smack of leather gloves ringing in the night. Perhaps Nail didn’t run, then, because he was curious, because the smell of soot was finally pervading his nostrils and he couldn’t help but stay on a dead man’s whim. Or perhaps he didn’t run because he had some kind of vengeance to carry out against these people who had stolen so many days of his life.

“I like you," Evan said, when he regained his breath, his mouth quirked in a smile half-illuminated by the lamp-post. "You’ll do."

“And I hold no love for you,” Nail responded instinctively- the truth: he didn’t like Evan, didn’t like the attitude, but he wasn’t sure he’d like anyone in this foreign place. They’d reached an understanding, though, and it was a mutual wariness with which they walked through the city streets, to the second wall and the towers beyond.

Dammit Triste be constructive. mad

I need to ship this to my beta at some point and see what he thinks. alternately, I've got a creative writing class starting next week. We'll see how wussy my teacher is.

Random note - the whole 'reading his own intestines' thing is cool, but seems highly unlikely. Wouldn't he be in agony? Like, AAAAAH MY ******** INTESTINES AAAAGH agony?

though they had ransacked his flesh, they had not defiled it.

I dislike the word choice here. I almost feel like the words should be reversed - ransacked gives me a picture of taking things that are necessary, while defiled makes me think more 'vandalized.'

after all, the torturers were always uniformed.

I think 'torturers' sounds clunky, but that may be just me. 'Tormentors'? In which case 'his' might be more appropriate than 'the.'

Death clings to you like some Foreign perfume

Capital f?

There were thousands, glimmering like stars in an ebony sea.

Not your best simile. Stars in a sea. Very strange.

Anyway. That's it.

Everybody loves Nail.

This is a thinly disguised bump. Also, you cannot see through the disguise. Your mind is now exploding.

Be prepared for the next chapter in which Celestria Is Bored and Amon Is Sick and Jasper Saves The Day.