I am the steel no enemy can shatter.
His life has been quiet since the last time. He had found himself with too much anger and pain to settle himself in any one place for long, so he had wandered. He had lingered at the edges and corners of Beqanna, training, working himself into bleak exhaustion each day so that he might sleep at night. And it had worked. He had settled into a mundane routine, one that forged his body into weapon, honing his mind and soul into that of warrior.
He would never be caught so unaware again. Never would he play the victim, not if he could help.
Certainly there are those stronger than him. More gifted, with great and terrible talents that might render all of his training inconsequential in a minute, but he would give them a good fight at least. He would not go down so quietly as he had last time.
The scars are there to remind him. Every day he must look upon them, the bright teal and shining silver. His coat had faded into a pale gray marked by dapples, but still the silver scars gleam, the teal standing out starkly against his pale skin, a terrible reminder of all he had endured.
In the end, none of that seems to matter anyway.
--
He doesn’t see him coming, doesn’t even know he has been taken until he wakes up in the stall. He had fallen asleep, a fitful, restless kind of sleep (he has not slept deeply since he was six months old). Until now, that is. He unknowingly, unwittingly, relaxes into a deep, peaceful slumber the likes of which he had experienced only once before in his life.
At least until he awakens in this new prison.
Even as the horror and realization hit, he is scrambling to his feet. His breath comes raggedly as he glances around wildly, trying to figure out just where he is. He forces himself still, forces himself to remember his training, his body, his tense muscles ready to fight, to flee, to do something. But he cannot seem to stop the soft ”No,” that escapes his lips on a sharp exhalation.
Turning, he glances around him, taking in the wooden walls of the stall surrounding him, the crisp scent of pine shavings, the blue buckets hanging in one corner containing water and grain, the metal rack full of fresh, sweet hay. He makes a full circle, realizing in a moment he is entirely boxed in with no obvious ways of escape.
”What… the… hell,” he utters disbelievingly, slowing his breathing until it is as controlled as his tense frame and steely muscles.
”HEY!” he shouts, wondering (hoping) there is someone around and that this is all a big mistake. ”Is someone there? Anyone?”
”We’re trapped!!” a voice wails faintly, muffled by the thick wood of the stall. ”Help! Please!” cries another. ”Who is that?” demands a third.
As realization begins to dawn, Shan glances swiftly around at the box surrounding him. He needs to help, needs to escape, needs to get these other defenseless souls out of here. And this is only wood, right? Surely he could get out of a wooden box.
Turning, he aims his hindquarters towards what appears to be the door (albeit one he has no way of opening in the traditional sense). And, with a grunt, he kicks with all of his considerable strength. The teal and silver scars flash in the dim light as his hooves fly backwards with astonishing speed before thudding heavily against the wooden door. The walls shake as dust rains down, but it holds firm. And so he kicks again. And again and again and again. He kicks until exhaustion sets in, until his muscles are weak and trembling, until his entire body shakes with the effort. He can feel the wood giving way, hear the splinter and crack, but every time he looks back, the walls are miraculously solid. The wood seems to be alive, healing and regenerating into a solid, impenetrable barrier once more.
God, he hates magic. Hates it with every fiber of his being.
As he stands there, legs splayed, wearied muscles quivering, breath coming in sharp, quick pants, he glares at the offending wall, wishing (as he has so often wished) that her were bigger, stronger. Better.
”Did you get through?” a soft voice asks tremulously.
”No!” The response is uttered in a low, guttural growl filled with frustration. He hadn’t, but he would. He would.
”Oh,” the voice responds softly, filled with disappointment. ”I’m sorry.” Shan merely shakes his head, doing his best to keep from falling to his knees.
That is when the screams start. Terrible, shuddering screams of pain. Of torment. His head jerks up as one of his companions wails in fear.
No. No no no no no.
For a long time, he can only stare at the wall in horror as those screams echo in his ears.
--
The next day continues in much the same fashion. He eats and drinks. He sleeps (or tries to). He does these things because he knows he must keep up his strength. They might capture him, cage him, torture him even, but they would never kill his spirit, his will to fight. He wouldn’t let them.
He spends the morning (or what he assumes is the morning) kicking at his stall door. The walls shudder and shake around him, the sound almost enough to drown out the endless screams, but never do they give in to his relentless beatings. He has the strength and stamina of a warrior. His months, years, of training had given him that much. But even he tires eventually. Even his body has a limit to how much it can give, how much it can take.
One by one, his companions disappear. He can hear their exclamations, their fear and horror, as their doors are opened. And then there is silence as they are spirited away to that nightmarish place where screams begin.
And then, finally, they come for him. He is resting, body still recovering from his most recent round with the door, when he freezes unexpectedly in place. He is stilled not through any will of his own, but through an unnatural, powerful force. He fights it, teeth gritted and muscles straining, but to no avail. He is well and truly stuck.
And then the door opens, a swift, seamless glide that belies all the hours he had fought with the damn thing. Clamping is lips together, he waits stiffly, unyielding. He would endure whatever they might throw at him. He always has.
Shannisoran