Death by Memory

[Vasht]

The broken man hung there by his broken wrists, slivers of rusty sweat snaking down his broken arms and pooling at the crook of his broken shoulders. He'd lost the strength of mind and will to continue screaming, hours ago; the remainder of this session would be silent, save for the subtle hissing of heated steel against his hairless flesh. The smell of burning meat crashed against his senses, driving through his nostrils and into the pit of his stomach, and if the muscles and ribs therein hadn't been turned to mush by the weight of their clubs, he'd have wretched all over the floor. Just as well. That floor was all he saw anymore, neck-bones having been shattered by the rack sitting next to him, no longer capable of supporting the weight of his welted head. Day after day, the fierce, forest eyes stared at that floor… Stared at old blood, his blood, flowing like gridlocked rivers down the cracks between cobbled stones, stared at the clumps of his hair he'd torn out before his wrists had gone the way of his spine and shoulders, stared at the dingy fingernails he'd lost struggling against the manacles, stared at the foul-smelling bile he'd thrown up two days prior. Through fading vision, clouded by the weight of concussion, he glimpsed a tiny, white stone perched upon the edge of an iron grate; the grate that'd been swallowing his blood and sweat and urine through these countless sessions.

"….........is that my tooth?"

_His voice shuffled through his throat like a large rat through a small pipe, more jerking and spilling out than actual speaking.

A calm, clear, too-precise voice answered the question in perfect monotony._

"Yes."

"Huh", responded Vash't Reinhardt, dangling with legs limp as rope. His mouth hung open, exchanging noisy, shuttery breaths when his swollen nose couldn't allow. Another sizzling pop caught his attention, and he managed to cut his eye far enough left to watch a small strip of charred skin being removed from his chest with a red-hot surgical needle.

"Huh", _he breathed again.

The Other's voice was heard some time later, "later" meaning five minutes later or nine hours later; time meant nothing in this place. Though the face was beyond eyeshot, it hardly mattered. He'd seen him before his neck gave through, remembered the lips that owned the words._

"And that'll be all the sigils for today, lad. You've done very well, yes, very well indeed. Now…"

Vash't heard something heavy being half-shifted, half-hefted from a wooden table.

"We need to check behind your eyes. See if the process is affecting anything back there. So I'm going to leeean your head back…"

_As this registered in his ears, he realized the sensation of his head being tilted backwards… and of the shrapnel that'd been his spine crackling and grinding at the back of his neck. Bone on bone, small chips of cartilage... he could feel the subtle vibrations in his tongue.

The ranger had not long to ponder the situation, however. Through the dim, he made out the long robe of the man who'd addressed him. In his hands, cradled next to his chest, was what appeared to be a small but stocky pair of binoculars with a peripheral shield and a strap for fastening to one's head. As the man approached, and fixed the device to his face, he couldn't help but ponder the scientific validity of it all. Such was his madness, he began to wonder, to really wonder if the man had ever undergone the proper medical training for what appeared to be such a complex and delicate series of procedures.

A small light within the device sprang to life, allowing Vash't to peer inside of it. What he saw caused another barely audible_ "Huh" _to stumble off his chapped, bleeding lips. Fixed within each glass (or where glass would be, had they been actual binoculars), was a corkscrew.

A small whirring sound filled his head. The last thing that Vash't saw was the corkscrews beginning to spin at a slow and steady rate. And the last thing that Vash't heard was a scream so horrific, it scarcely could have come from the lungs of a man._

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_He burst forth from the bedsheets, sitting up in a fury of breathing and sweating and gasping. His hands, whole, soft hands with fingernails et all, reached up to to feel the balls of his eyes behind their lids. Ten or fifteen seconds of this, convinced that they still belonged to him, and a he allowed said hands to drop to the sheets. The gentle hue of the blue inn room served as a startling contrast to the one he'd only just seen. Beads of sweat from his now matted hair stung in his eyes, a sweet sensation, and his vision finally settled as he wiped them clear. Sweeping over the walls and floor with slow, meticulous turns of his head, the beleaguered human's fierce face finally fell upon the placid form of the woman sleeping next to him.

A moment to drink in the situation.

As distant memories became close and vivid, he leaned forward, planting his face in his hands and heaving a great, great sigh of relief. He'd not been back there. He'd been here. The company, and the scenery, had greatly improved.

So as not to wake or startle her, he very gently slipped from the bed to stand at the foot of it, where his armor rested. Reaching out, he began to dress, never a sound coming from his nimble form. He'd not sleep another wink this night. The fear of falling back to that world would keep him up until morning; perhaps even two mornings. In the very moment before fastening his armor, his focus fixated upon the trunk of his body; his chest, shoulders, stomach, and, he knew, his back. The scars…

The scars pocked and snaked and curved and crawled over nearly every square inch of his flesh. In some way, perhaps the way twisted beyond sane reckoning, their pattern was beautiful. In any case, the cleanliness of the carnage, the ornate flare that their "artist" had given them showed a clear and present purpose to their situation. What had he said? Sigils?

Breaking his gaze, he locked and snapped the last fastener closed. Some other time, perhaps. Leaning forward, he placed his lips against her cheek with such ghostlike subtlety that it might not have woken a cat. One more glance to the room, just to cement it within his mind, and he slipped through the wooden door and down into the lobby below. Time to do some writing._