#also whats a cyoa if it doesnt have a flogging scene

[whump-in-the-closet]

15. Fear Tastes like Pine

previous.

cw: whipping (implied), burns (mentioned), inhuman whumpers

Valian slips an arm around you, helping you stumble to your feet. You want to push them away– but without their help, you would collapse. Your knees threaten to give out at the slightest increase of pressure.

So you cling to Valian and hope they can’t see your face. 

With so little distance between you and them, tiny details stand out.

Flecks of crimson blood on their hands.

Bitten down nails.

The sound of uneven breathing.

Singed flesh.

A stark-white thread that’s unravelled and floats into the air, drifting lazily. 

You focus on these details and try to drown out the agent’s voices. Try to drown out the unforgettable click, click, click of leather against the ground. 

Valian shudders against you. 

“Is it…?” The question is left unfinished, a whisper choked with old memories of chains and cells and running.

The burns around your throat fade in comparison. 

Valian whispers something in your ear– the roaring in your head blurs out the words but you think it amounts to ‘Stay strong’. 

The comfort is more than you ever gave them.

You don’t have time to regret how you treated them because one of the agents–you think it’s Keres– rips you away from Valian. 

The world fractures into silver-lined green. Silver-lined terror. An explosion of panic in your chest, twisting your ribs with the force of it. 

You’d forgotten the taste it leaves in your mouth. 

Cotton. Tastes like cotton. 

You’re half-dragged across the ground before coming to an abrupt stop. Keres grabs your wrists, yanking them up until you’re on your knees, face pressed into the tree trunk. Your burn brushes against the rough wood and it's all you can do to keep from screaming. 

An ant crawls over the bridge of your nose as Keres ties your hands around the tree. She steps back, calling over her shoulder for Solis.

You yank at the ropes. 

A futile effort to escape. 

Heart in your throat. Vision starting to peel apart– when did the fear stop tasting like cotton and start tasting like pine? 

Tree bark. Focus on tree bark. On anything else. On the way the ropes feel. On—

The crack of a leather whip in the air knocks all coherent thoughts away. 

Fear tastes like pine needles and salt tears. 

“Count,” says Solis and raises the whip. 

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