The pain was breathtaking, but her relief overrode it. Croe grit her teeth, watching Mallos with intensity, her fingers clenching the chain so tightly the bones had locked up. Blisters bloomed over her skin like a pox, where it burned. The sizzle of it, thankfully, was drowned out by the splash and kriss of molten metal turning that fetid pond to steam. The pebbles of it, solidifying as they sank, drummed against her boots. It was very concerning, that the fire took so long, that her healing magic lay stubbornly silent, that everything once as easy as breathing had become so belabored, so exhausting. But Croe would think about that later. For now she had to get them all out of there, whatever it cost. Her forearms blackened, burns obscuring her tattoos. She managed a stiff nod at Sperantia’s question.
Once upon a time, she’d been tortured for a few days, when a mission went south. It had been more like the flames than the pool – varied and relentless, no room to think or hope or sleep, until Denny’d come for her. She found herself grateful for that experience, in this moment. It had shown her she could survive. But what Mallos was enduring…what he’d gone through for literal ages, before…it was sick. It would have broken her. Pain was one thing, but nothingness? Isolation and silence and darkness, going totally numb? Even the stench of this place must have stopped bothering him, after the first few nights. Rage swelled through her, lending fresh energy to the flames, but it was interrupted by his quip.
She managed to laugh. ”You better not be cooking, you little shit,” she giggled, a little uncontrollably. ”a poached cock is useless.” The first chain fell; she moved to the other. Moisture dripped down her cheeks in rivers, but she could not tell if it was sweat or tears.
In a blur, she freed him: the second chain was broken, she pulled him to his feet, dragging one of his arms over her shoulder to support his weight. Together, they sloshed across the putrid moat of that purgatory, scaled a staircase that had become as daunting as Everest. It seemed to take years, but Croe was so high off the thrill of finding him alive, she could have lived like that. Could have carried him forever. It was almost painful to release him, when they reached the top.
Or maybe that was the patch of skin that peeled off her arm when he slid down it, to the floor.
She hissed, clenching her fist, and knelt in front of him. Healing magic flickered in her veins, returning to life after being so smothered in the dungeon below – she clutched his stewed hand with her flambéed one, and called up the power to mend them both a little. Her burned skin tightened; his lacerations slowly knit together. The infection, though, was beyond her present abilities. She panted softly, straining against the limitations. His unguarded thoughts were an echo, as if his mind was far away, but she clung to the words and his hand, her dark eyes glistening.
”I love you,” she rasped. ”Sperantia is coming. We’ll get you watered and then get you out of here. Okay?” She leaned forward and kissed his knuckles, just as Sperantia came back through the door, rolling a water bottle in front of her. Croe reached for it, unscrewed the cap with a wince, held it to Mallos’ lips. It was lukewarm, but that was probably for the best; cold could burn like fire, in a parched throat. Her lower lip trembled as he drank. ”I’m…I’m so sorry I’m late,” she whispered, barely audible. Then louder, to Sperantia: ”Can you get him back to the penthouse? I think I can manage a shorter jump.”
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