Raising Chaos.
masterlist.
cw: captivity whump, demeaning language, burning (specifically of someone’s hand) as a torture method, sadistic whumper, inhuman whumpee (let me know if i missed any)
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Chiar had learned to fear the sound of Bridge’s footsteps in the hallway. It had taken a while…how many days had he passed in this place anyway? When would they realize he wasn’t going to talk?
The idiots.
They couldn’t make him.
The footsteps came closer.
Chiar tried to push himself up. He had to be ready– had to be. He couldn’t face Bridge on the ground. He couldn’t.
His hands shook against the stones. Bridge had stopped bothering with the chains. Like he said, there was nowhere for the cryptid to go. No one for the cryptid to use his “abilities” on. Unfortunately, Bridge seemed to know that Chiar couldn’t hurt him unless he had skin on skin contact. He always wore gloves and long sleeves.
The lack of restraints served as just another way of reminding Chiar exactly what Bridge thought of him.
“You’re pathetic.”
I’m not pathetic.
His arms collapsed. Every part of him throbbed– Bridge hit hard. Harder than the thugs that used to wait for Chiar in the corners of the cities.
Chiar pressed his head back against the stones.
Silence.
A faint ringing in his ears.
And the door swung open. Slammed shut.
Chiar did not look up.
The footsteps were recognizable. As was the raspy breathing.
Leave me alone.
Bridge kicked him. Hard in the ribs. “Get up.” There was no pity in his voice. No sign of ever giving up. It was as hard and annoying as that first day.
Chiar didn’t move. He hissed in pain, but didn’t move. The stones provided more comfort than Bridge’s relentless questions.
“No.” There was no point in getting up. There was no point in listening to Bridge’s condescending questions either, so he covered his ears as best he could with his hands.
His Oath held him.
He would not break it.
I’m not pathetic.
Bridge was wrong.
He had held out. It hurt, but he was holding out. And that, more than anything else, was as good as spitting in Bridge’s face. There was a ghost of a smile on his face as he curled up on the floor.
But Chiar had not seen the annoyance on Bridge’s face that had quickly flickered to anger. Bridge grabbed Chiar by his hair, hauling him to his feet.
“What did you say to me?” Bridge drawled each word out, but behind the casual tone was an underlying threat.
Chiar heard it loud and clear. He yanked his head out of Bridge’s grip. The buzzing increased. Not loud enough to become distracting, but loud enough to make it hard to think clearly.
He smiled– more of a grimace– at Bridge. “I said, go fuck yourself.”
I can take whatever you throw at me, Interrogator.
Bridge’s mask of cordiality vanished. He backhanded Chiar across his mouth.
“It’s time you learned a lesson in respect.”
Chiar stepped back, the taste of copper coating his teeth. The buzzing turned into steady white noise.
But Bridge’s eyes were on Chiar’s hands– the energy had surged under his fingers. His already distinctive blue nails had taken on almost a glowing tinge.
Chiar spat the blood out.
Is that the best you’ve got?
Bridge smiled. It was not a kind smile. Chiar felt a shudder spike through his nerves as he glanced down at his hands.
For a brief moment, he thought about what it would feel like to wrap them around Bridge’s throat and surge. To have Bridge choke under his fingertips, unable to hold the wash of energy that Chiar forced into him.
Bridge was still smiling.
Chiar backed into the wall and as Bridge crossed the distance between them, put his hands out to stop him.
But Bridge only grabbed his wrist and jerked him forward, manacling his hand to the wall. His grip was stronger than Chiar expected, and he half-expected for the bones to crack under Bridge’s hand.
He cursed. Loudly. He was past caring if Bridge heard him.
But that infuriating smile never left Bridge’s face. “You’re going to learn respect, cryptid, mark my words.”
Respect?
For what? For who? For the humanity he’d lost? For the remnants of humanity that remained?
I think not.
Chiar wrestled with the metal on his wrist. “Once I’m free—” this was emphasized by another ripping yank at the chain, “Once I’m free, you’d better run–” Blood trailed down his arm.
There was no release, and the metal burned, so when Bridge approached, Chiar lunged at him with his free hand. In the darkness, his eyes glowed. Sparks of energy formed on his nails and traced their way up his arm.
Bridge backed away.
Chiar continued to yank at his chained wrist, spewing every curse he could think of at the Interrogator. He hated Bridge and his stupid condescending words and his interrogation tactics–
And–
Chiar’s thoughts came to an abrupt stop. The buzzing died down, replaced with an emptiness that swallowed him and an exhaustion that could drown him. The air bled with a heaviness that pressed down all around him.
Bridge had neatly stepped to the side and taken hold of Chiar’s free wrist in a gloved hand.
Chiar hissed at him, trying to pull away, but the Interrogator’s grip was as unyielding as the metal. Bridge tied a thick rope around the cryptid’s wrist, and looped the ends through a hook in the ceiling. When Bridge stepped back, Chiar’s arm was suspended in midair, though he tried to yank it back.
Chiar felt a spike of fear cut through his anger. “What is the purpose of this?” His tongue felt strangely thick.
The glowing in his eyes had died to little more than a faint light.
Bridge didn’t deign to answer. He stepped out of the cell.
Chiar’s head swam. The anger had quickly morphed into all-encompassing exhaustion. He collapsed against the ropes, only looking up to watch Bridge return with a torch.
A torch?
What did the Interrogator need the torch for? He choked on the fear rising in his throat. If he had eaten anything recently, he would have thrown it up.
In the darkness the flames moved like a creature of their own, bending, twisting, taking shapes beyond comprehension.
They came closer.
“This is a lesson you won’t forget.” Bridge’s voice dripped with false sympathy.
No.
No.
The flames flickered. Red. Blue. Red again as they enveloped Chiar’s hand.
He screamed. More from the horror of it than the pain. That was his hand— his hand— burning. The smell of charred skin— that god awful smell— was because his skin was on fire.
The rope frayed under the double pressure of Chiar’s frantic struggle to escape the fire and the flames themselves. With a final snap of the rope, Chiar curled in on himself, cradling his hand to his chest.
If anything, the pain increased with the absence of fire.
Chiar sobbed, the throbbing burn spreading up his arm and settling into a rhythm.
Dimly, he registered Bridge’s words. “Have you learned to respect me now, cryptid?”
The torch flickered closer in warning.
Keep that back. He needed that far far away from him.
Keep that back!
The words fell out of Chiar’s mouth before he could stop them. “Yes! I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” And then he curled back in on himself, held up only by the chain on his undamaged wrist.
Bridge was smiling as he left the cryptid in the darkness.
tagged: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @pigeonwhumps (let me know if you want to be added/ removed)
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Listen I’m sure someone has already talked about this scene, and way better than I ever could, but it makes me so feral and I need to talk about it too
This is hands down the most depressing scene in the entirety of NtN in my opinion.
Surface level it’s Gideon yelling at Crux, but the significance here comes from the exact word choice. “You could have lived for her. But you didn’t know how.”
She uses past tense.
It’s not about Crux (who arguably did live for Harrow, considering his purpose was raising and protecting her, and could by all means still do this if he changed his mind about dying for Harrow.) It’s not about the congregation who worshipped her.
It’s about Gideon, who can’t live for Harrow anymore, because she’s dead. It’s about the promise she broke at the end of the first book. She’s talking about herself.
Harrow made her promise that when it comes down to it, Gideon needs to save herself. If only one of them can survive, it has to be Gideon.
At the end of the first book, Harrow is actively planning to sacrifice herself so Gideon can live, bringing up the promise and then diving into what this is actually about. Namely, how she owes Gideon her life back.
And Gideon breaks that promise, instead deciding to sacrifice herself for Harrow.
“I can’t keep my promise because the entire point of me is you. There is no me without you.”
Gideon doesn’t know how to live for Harrow, how to exist without her, even though it’s the most important thing Harrow ever asked of her—and so she dies for her instead.
“You could have lived for her. But you didn’t know how.”
And the sacrifice ended up being rejected by Harrow, because it’s not what Harrow wanted. It never was. So Gideon ended up feeling rejected and like her life and giving it up wasn’t worth anything. And she still immediately offers herself up again without hesitation. She’s ready to die for Harrow all over again, even now that she’s already dead.
“Die. Die for her. It’s the only goddamn good you’ll ever do her.”
Gideon is fucking furious—so much that Nona can’t even place her voice anymore—but not at any of the people who would rightfully deserve her fury. Not at Crux. She’s furious at herself. This whole scene is so damn heartbreaking to me.
And out of all the cruel things Crux has done to Gideon throughout her life, this might be the worst one: telling the girl who died for the Reverend Daughter once and was ready to die for her a second time that she couldn’t even get that right. That she managed to screw up the one purpose she was actually supposed to serve, the only good she’s ever done for Harrow.
Gideon is dead. She can’t do what Harrow asked and live for her anymore. What the hell is she supposed to do if she can’t die for her, either?
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