Work Text:
Pontius Pilate closed his eyes to the light. Even the soft flickering of the lamp in the dead of night was too much. It felt like legions were marching in his head. He quietly wondered just which of the Gods he had forsaken to be afflicted with such pain.
A cold nose nudged at his hand. He ran his fingers over soft ears and heard the sound of a canine sigh.
In the distance he heard the soft shuffle of feet across the stone floors. It sounded like waves crashing on sea cliffs, relentless and poised to drown him.
This pain had not afflicted him as a child. His body was hail and sound until the first day he set foot in Jerusalem. Now it was all wrong.
Banga nuzzled his hand again. He knows he must sleep and she is worried for him. It is late and in the morning he must sit in judgement of men. In the morning he knows he will send some men to death and others to life.
His head continued to pound and his stomach churned from the pain. He squeezed his eyes and prayed to all Gods, even the ones he does not believe in and knows are not listening, that in the morning something, somehow will take away the pain.