Chapter Text
Leandre was tired. His muscles ached. His mind was frantic, trying to come up with one final plan that would get him out of this situation. He couldn’t think anymore; pain filled his entire being, as if even his soul had been harmed.
He wouldn’t be surprised. With all the magics and hexes that had been flung around over the course of battle, maybe it had been touched by some infernal curse.
Leandre lay on the ground, blood spilling from the cuts and wounds on his body. He heard footsteps approach him, and closed his eyes. He refused to look at his killer.
“Love, why did you run? I wouldn’t have had to use such… forceful means if you hadn’t made it so hard for me to catch you. Ah well, I have you now. I’ll be sending you back home; say ‘hi’ to the squidges for me, won’t you?”
A ‘shing’ – a dagger being taken out of its sheathe, followed by a sharp pain in the chest.
Moments later, the pain spread throughout Leandre’s – or would it be Achros’ now? - body. Pain so terrible, so agonizing, it was hard to think. Someone was yelling at him – to… to do something. Pull a cart, he thinks? It hurt so much, he couldn’t remember what he was doing before. He looked around, and saw that he was attached to a metal cart, with an imp at the driver’s seat. The imp stared impatiently, threateningly.
He started to pull the cart. A cart filled with stuff. Stuff that didn’t matter to him. As the cart trailed behind him, the pain wouldn’t lessen. He kept moving forward. Another shout – stop. So he did. He waited for an order. Maybe if he listened, they would make the pain end.
Someone came by – a tall winged being with a long tail this time - and gave him another order. Told him to move boxes. And someone else, another order. And another. And another.
He did his best to follow directions, in hopes that one day one of these commanders would take mercy on him, take the pain away. He forgot who he was, before this ordeal happened. The pain was just too overwhelming for him to focus on anything but it. Didn’t even remember his own name – the commanders just called him and other like him ‘maggot-slime’ or ‘slave’ or some other insulting name. Didn’t matter, though. The words neither helped or worsened the suffering he was going through.
This continued, for an unknown amount of time. Might’ve been days, months, years. No way to tell. The hurt was never ending. Turned his mind into a slurry, with the only thing he could feel – other than the pain – being anger. Rage at the being that made him into this. This disgusting being.
He started to think about plans. He planned a way to overthrow his wicked owners. He planned ways to murder them, to take their positions, to free himself. Alongside this sudden clarity of mind, he realized the pain was easing. After all this time, it was starting to become bearable.
Leandre felt a tug. A feeling akin to when he was first summoned to the material plane. He prepared himself for whatever was going to happen next.