Chapter Text
The Empire’s cells are cold and dark.
The guards hadn’t been tender either, but he knows that he didn’t deserve any clemency – not after he tried to assassinate Technoblade, their Emperor.
He isn’t certain what happened exactly – not after his failure to break his fall. He’d hit the ground and pure pain had shot through his body before he’d lost consciousness.
He’s woken up a few minutes ago and he is slowly coming to terms with everything that happened.
With his failure. They told him to kill the emperor. They promised freedom. They promised true freedom – freedom from his servitude. They also reminded him that he had to obey, and that he had no choice. They told him that the master wanted Technoblade dead. They promised that, if he did it, he would be free.
He failed.
He failed and everything hurts.
It hurts to breathe, and it hurts to move, and it hurts to think.
The prison is too quiet. He can’t focus on anything but the way his body seems to burn with pain. He takes sharp inhales, and every breath he takes feels like a stab directly through his chest.
Everything hurts.
He tries to sit up and cries out in pain. Clearly, trying to use his arms to hoist himself up wasn't a good idea. His left arm seems okay, and so is his hand, but the pain that shoots through his entire body when he tries to rest on the right hand shows him that the fall was bad.
He probably fell on his right side, with his arm and wing taking most of the impact, he guesses. He cannot move his shoulder either and his right wing hangs limply by his side.
He had tried to break his fall, though. He had tried desperately to flap his wings, even as he was spiraling down, the ground coming closer and closer far too rapidly. He had tried. But the moment Technoblade had thrown him away – the moment his wings had opened instinctively and hit the window frame with a crack – he had lost all chances of escaping unharmed.
And the moment he had let the pain take the better of him, he had lost all chances of escaping at all.
So he is in prison. He doesn’t know where exactly in the prison, but he has seen the castle enough to know that the dungeons lay deep under the ground, far from the throne room.
He doesn’t know if they dragged his unconscious body all the way down to the prison or if they had taken pity and carried him.
He doesn’t know if it would have made any difference in how much he hurts.
He coughs, and he feels pure agony. His lungs burn, and he wonders if this is a sort of punishment for his crime.
He has heard about the Empire’s feats in war – he had been part of them, part of the civilians who celebrated when the troops came back victorious – but he never heard about them treating their prisoners cruelly.
War is cruel, though, and he knows that he probably doesn’t deserve the Empire’s pity or clemency. Even if he is one of their own.
He isn’t a citizen; he is a traitor.
He worked against the Empire for years, taking the orders from his master, one after the other. But there are some crimes that can be forgiven.
Not this one.
He agreed to the assassination. He listened to the voice that promised to grant his dearest wish, to free him from his eternal bondage. He thought about his best friend, and how happy he would feel to no longer have to lie to him. To no longer have to hide his past from him.
And he’d betrayed the Empire.
And he’d failed.
He hasn’t heard about the Empire treating their prisoners of war cruelly, but he isn’t a prisoner of war. He is a traitor.
He doesn’t know what happens to traitors.
He doesn’t know if he will be executed, if they will make an example out of him, out of the fool who attempted to take their emperor.
He doesn’t know if he will have to stare into his best friend’s eyes on the day of his execution.
He doesn’t know if they will allow him to have some last words, a last visit, or if those are reserved for other types of criminals – for those who did not attempt a regicide.
(He doesn’t know if he would ask to talk to his best friend anyway.)
He doesn’t know if he could find the words to explain himself. Doesn’t know if he could even pronounce them, if he’d be able to make his mouth form the words. It never worked before, no matter how much he tried to find the words to explain his pact he’d been forced to make. The bondage that continues to hold him captive.
He doesn’t know if he could bear facing his best friend’s betrayed expression.
Perhaps it is better like this.
Perhaps it is better for him to be on his own. To slowly die of internal bleeding. To never have to face the consequences of his gravest mistake.
He doesn’t get to choose though.
He hears steps in the dark hallway of the prisons. Regular steps, at first firm and in time, exactly the way guards are taught to walk. And then, the pacing shifts, and he hiccups when he recognizes the exact rhythm of his best friend’s walk.
He presses his eyes closed, and shifts, presenting his back to the door and hiding under his cloak. The movement is agony, but he prefers that than to have to meet his best friend’s eyes.
The steps come closer and closer, until they stop in front of the cell.
His cell.
The one he has been thrown into because he tried to kill Technoblade.
The guard – his best friend – clears his throat.
“You are being held for the attempted assassination of our emperor,” he declares, his voice calm. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”
He shakes his head and curls up a little more. The movement pulls at his shoulder and forces his chest to brush very lightly against his arm and he lets out a whimper.
“Hey,” the guard calls. “If you speak now, if you tell us about your motives, we can have you healed.”
He shakes his head again and his best friend sighs. It’s the exact same sigh from when he’d lose games. Just a small, frustrated sound from the front of his throat.
“You shouldn’t make this harder on yourself, dude,” he says. “The advisors are furious. The more you tell us, the more you cooperate, the less…” He winces. “The less painful it has to be.”
He doesn’t move and the guard clicks his tongue.
“Hey,” he calls again. “Look at me.”
He shakes his head.
“Look at me.”
Again. It hurts a little and he realizes that he must have wounded his collarbone too. He lets out a tiny cry of pain, and he hears the guard gasp. Because they know each other by heart. They know what the other sounds like.
“Hey…” he says again, softer this time. “Look at me.”
This is no longer a request, but neither is it an order. It’s a plea.
He turns.
He meets incredulous blue eyes and a disbelieving expression. Everything on his best friend’s face begs for this not to be real.
“No,” Skeppy breathes. “No. Bad?”
Bad closes his eyes again.