#the whole scene was whumpilicious

[whumpflash]

(a lil scene + flashback for Tin-Man, inspired by a conversation with @whumpilicious a while back. Takes place the same night as this comic)

cw: violence, beating, vaguely referenced noncon

The Tin-Man had felt eyes on him since the moment he walked into the room.

He was used to that by now. Strangers staring at his arm, or leg, or even his missing eye. Such was to be expected when you looked less human than everybody else. But tonight was different. Tonight was worse. Because wasn’t it worse when someone who’d known you back when you were a whole person could see what you’d been made into?

He kept his own eye downcast as he served food, poured wine, took away plates. It was the same routine every time the Wizard entertained guests. Keep quiet, serve, do as he was told, and later…

He tried not to dwell on later. Later didn’t always happen, anyway. He hoped it wouldn’t happen tonight.

It was bad enough that the general was here. Old General Hobbs. More than capable in his command, and as cold-hearted as they came. He wasn’t all bad, though. Even commended the Tin-Man on his service once or twice, back when he’d served under him. Back when he’d had a different name, a different heart…

No. It wasn’t ideal to be revealed to an old superior, but it wasn’t the general’s gaze that was making his skin crawl. It was Captain Marsh that had that pleasure.

He’d barely been a lieutenant when they’d served together. To give such a man more rank, more power... It almost made him angry. But that wasn’t an emotion he’d ever been prone to, and nowadays he was even more numb to the feeling.

Still, the sight of Marsh had it echoing back at him, as if from a memory. He removed the dishes from the first course in a hurry, rushing back to the kitchen to close the door, to breathe.

And it’s like he’s a little younger. His hands are warm and his heart is beating and he has a name, a real name. The platoon is marching, slow and easy; they don’t have any urgent orders, or even really any orders at all. He catches Lieutenant Marsh eyeing him with contempt. The other man looks away. He--Faran--is a few inches taller and significantly broader than Marsh, and he suspects the other man is too much a coward to ever challenge him head-on. Still, he’s caught Marsh’s ire and he can’t remember how. He only hopes it won’t come back to bite him on the battlefield.

It’s later. A few days, or a few weeks, the Tin-Man can’t remember, but Faran is there, and he’s coming back to the camp after a night watch. To his surprise, he hears murmurs, rising and falling in volume and intensity. From time to time, there’s a shout, or a laugh. It’s well after sundown. Normally anyone without duties to tend to would be catching what sleep they could.

Not tonight. Some of the men--nine or so--are gathered around the Shedas prisoner, and Faran feels a pit beginning to form in his stomach. Marsh is with them. He’s saying something as Faran gets closer.

“-cheating. If you want to win the pot you can only use your hands, and anything permanent is off-limits.”

“Morgan swung on him for a good minute and the bastard still didn’t cry out,” another soldier cuts in. “They’re stoic as a stone wall. Hands aren’t gonna cut it.”

“Then maybe you’re just not going to win.”

“What’s going on?” Faran says. His voice is soft, barely audible among the group’s bickering, but the other soldiers still jump when they hear it. They look at him, almost accusingly, and for a moment he feels as if he’s the one in the wrong. But the moment passes.

The prisoner--the Shedas man--is bound to a tent stake, looking up at the soldiers with a mixture of wariness and contempt. He’s been beaten bloody. It’s a long moment before Faran says anything else.

“I asked a question. What are you doing?”

“We’ve been waiting on orders for nearly a week now, Faran. You can’t expect us to stand around without looking for entertainment.” Of course it’s Marsh that speaks first.

“This looks more like brutality than entertainment, Lieutenant. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s just a friendly competition,” another man, Morgan says. His knuckles are bloodied. “First one to make the shadow-beast scream wins the pot.” He adds, “Any tools are off-limits. And you can’t take an eye or a tongue or anything, so I don’t see what the harm is.”

Faran levels his gaze at Morgan, then sets it on Marsh. “If it’s so harmless, why are you going about it in the witching hours of the night? Don’t you think it’ll be fun for the rest of the platoon?” His mouth sets in a hard line as he adds the last bit. “Or do you not think General Hobbs will approve?”

It's the mention of the General that stops them, not any authority Faran could pretend to have. As the soldiers begrudgingly go back to their tents and their cots, he can feel Marsh's gaze burning into the back of his head. 

Not for the last time. No, Faran seemed to have a way of getting on Marsh's bad side. From the very beginning to his own death. And now, now that he's been broken into pieces, repaired, merged with something cold, inhuman, Marsh's eyes are on him again.

Burning, burning, burning.

tag list (it's been way too long since I did anything for this story ;-;)

@whumpy-catfish , @aseasonwithclara @thebluejayswhump , @unicornscotty , @whumpwillow , @grizzlie70 , @burtlederp , @madrono-but-i-am-not-a-fruit , @outofangband ,

#i know ill never have time to write/draw the whole thing #but i have the entire synopsis typed out if anyone is dying to know ;-; #i might draw a few scenes but theres too much going on for me to have time for the actual story #whump #whump writing #woowhump #violence tw #beating #captivity whump