#Zephyr is Evius' toddler son

[the-whumpening]

The Caged Tiger | Part 3

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CW: forced nudity, medical whump, humiliation, dehumanization, noncon touching (non-sexual)

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Faye dries Ash off and lugs the basin to a drain across the room. When she returns, Ozmund hands her a roll of measuring tape and strange metal calipers; she quickly sets to work detailing every specification of Ash’s body. As she dictates the numbers, a floating quill magically transcribes them in Ozmund’s book. At one particularly embarrassing measurement, Ash can hear Ozmund mutter under his breath, "I always wondered if it was barbed . . . "

When Faye is finished with her work, Ozmund saunters over and places two cold fingers against Ash's jugular; after a minute of stern silence staring at his pocket watch, he moves his hand to Ash’s sternum and continues to focus intently. In such close proximity, his spice-laden perfume stings Ash's nose. He tries to quell the trembling beneath his skin—the last thing he wants is to show fear—but even his teeth are chattering against his locked jaw.

“Respiration and pulse are elevated,” Ozmund dictates to Faye—or perhaps his magic quill? Ash isn’t sure. Unperturbed, Ozmund jams a finger in Ash’s mouth, pulling up his lip to expose his gums and teeth. Ash is too stunned to even be offended. “Gums are pink and”—he pokes at them—“react appropriately to stimuli. Teeth, though excessively worn, indicate an omnivorous diet. Canines are defined and enlarged; we’ll have to get a mold of those later. Surprisingly little sign of disease.”

He shakes his hand after removing it from Ash’s face, a glimmer of green magic fluttering in its wake. His book returns to his hand, and he tucks it securely under his arm.

“Tidy up and sanitize everything, please, Faye. He seems dehydrated; give him a vial of Devil’s Herb before you return him to his stall. For now, we’ll maintain the usual feeding cycles and adjust as needed.” Faye nods and gives a polite bow as Ozmund exits the room. He pauses in the doorway, then turns to Ash. “A little extra protein, perhaps. You’ll need your strength.”

What the hell just happened? Dumbfounded, Ash is paralyzed in place; he barely notices when Faye approaches him with a small vial of yellow-green liquid.

“It’s not dangerous, I promise,” she assures him, unplugging the cork and holding it to his lips. “It’s just an herbal tonic. We only call it that because it tastes . . . well . . . ”

He can already smell the acrid odor, and every fiber of his being wants to refuse to drink the foul concoction. Ozmund’s threat looms heavily in his mind, though—just stay alive. Surely he wouldn’t kill you this quickly . . . Hesitantly, his jaw quivering with resolve, he accepts the putrid potion. Immediately, his throat tries to reject the piss-flavored horror, but he forces it down, jabbing his elbow into the wall behind him to let out his disgust.

“I know, I know,” Faye quietly apologizes. “It’s an . . . acquired taste. But it’ll help you sleep and stay healthy.” As kind as she’s been to him, Ash is glad his voice left him long ago; if it hadn’t, he’s sure he would say something he’d regret.

As instructed, Faye unlatches his chain from the wall and leads him back into the small enclosure. He notices a pile of soft hay has been placed at one end—there’s even a modest woolen blanket and a set of rough cotton clothes. Faye redresses him in the fresh clothing, then attaches the chain to a low ring by the hay. From such a low position, his movement is restricted; he can’t stand all the way upright or reach the door. Before leaving to continue her work, Faye sets a tray in front of him. Raw meat is stacked in a surprising quantity beside a bowl of thick vegetable stew and a heel of bread. Surprisingly . . . hearty, for a prisoner. And yet, the only water offered to him is in a small trough attached to the wall.

The dichotomy gives him whiplash—on the one hand, Faye treats him quite a lot like a human, capable of reason and deserving of pity, at the least; on the other, Ozmund seems to view him as purely a beast, kept in a stall like a horse and forced to crawl on his hands. Ash doesn’t even want to dwell on the humiliating examination he’d been put through.

But then, Ozmund hasn’t been quite as cruel as he expected, either. Why hasn’t he hurt me yet? Other than making me fight Owen, which I would’ve done anyway given the chance. He’s healed me, given me plenty of food . . . What game is he playing? What the hell is he planning? I don’t understand . . .

Curled up in the warm hay, the Devil’s Herb pulls Ash deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. With Ozmund out of the room, his tensed, shaking muscles finally relax, and he falls asleep. In the comforting darkness, pleasant images flash before him, settling on a fantasy he often returns to when he imagines his future: instead of the cold and fearful dungeon, he's warm and safe in his bed, Evius at his side and tiny Zephyr cuddled between them. A family—different than he expected, but exactly what he dreams.