Chapter Text
The chains are heavy and drags Dayle's limps to the cold stone floor of the dungeon. His head hangs low, the collar with a chain attached to the wall behind him is the only thing keeping the floor and him from colliding. He would have been strangled by it a long time ago if it wasn't for the the silver flute, that his master's guards ever so gracefully stuck down his throat to make sure that air wouldn't have a problem getting to his lungs.
Everytime he takes a breath the flute plays a broken tune. Hideous but not loud to the ear, which he is grateful for. His troat is hurting and he thinks it will be hurting for a long time, so it is in his own favour if he just got used to it. You never get used to pain though. You only learn to expect it. So much has he learned since coming to the castle. The master has been a good teacher but non the less brutal in his methods of discipline. This night in the dungeon is not the worst nor the mildest of Daley's punishments but it is the longest which makes him wish it had been the whip or the warm iron that his master had chosen instead.
Wet footprints echoes down the hall, they stop abruptly infront of Dayle's cell. The door is opened and light streams in, making Dayles dirty figure clear on the floor. His skin is greasy and his eyes red as if he had been crying for hours, his lips were dry and chapped, resting uncomfortably around the flute. He looks up with a whimper, and air flushes through the flute. A shadow is cast on him.
In the doorframe is his master, standing with a stiff back and relaxed shoulders, his tall person illuminated by the flickering light from the torches on the otherside of the cell. He smiles as he slowly steps into the cell and the scent of flowery incense and perfurme follows him, it drowns the stark smell of piss and rot there has orherwise preoccupied the cell.
"Are you ready to play now?" asks his master holding up one hand to signal to the guards to enter. Dayle tries to speak but only unholy tunes comes out of his mouth, he quiets down and nods slightly, the flute won't let him do anymore than that. Its sheath is scrapping the inside of his throat raw and he nows for sure that blood is been drawn.
"Good." His Master says and the guards comes over and frees him from his chains. They didn't touch the flute though. They let it stay and each of them takes a hold of Dayle's arms and hoists him up. They hold him tight and his Master walks over and gribs the flute tenderly, his hands slowly drumming on the instrument. Dayle mewls, closing his eyes tightly.
"Hold him still. Wouldn't want to damage those airways. I do after all have a nice little banquet tonight. Would be a shame not to hear the flute playing at its best." His master smiles, his perfect set of teeth becomes visible, in an eerily attempt at a compassionated expression, he gently strokes Dayle's cheek, tracing the scar of where a cropping whip had hit him once. He hadn't played well enough and Master had made his disappointment known.
"It wont hurt Dearest." His Master says and pulls the flute out slowly. Dayle can't breath. His Master is so close and it makes his body grow stiff, as if pain is waiting just around the corner. "There we go." Says master and ruffles Dayle's hair softly and gives the flute to the guard at his left. "Take it to cleanining. I want it in perfect condition."
The guards leaves, leaving Dayle and his master alone. His master smiling, praising Dayle for being good and taking his punishment without qualms. Dayle just nods and weeps. It takes all his strength to not fall to the ground grovel at his masters feet.
"Now Dearest, repeat after me." Master says and cups Dayle's head in his hands. "I am never going to go against Master's wishes. I'll be a good boy, listen and do as I'm told."
Dayle nods his head, sobbing heavily and barely able to see through his tears. He repeats his master's words in broken sentences, shaking and feeling like he is drowning.
"Good boy. Now let's get you polished for the banquet. "