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They come for him by the river, just as Coen thinks for a moment, watching his siblings, that life just might be a little worth living, despite everything.
He always did have terrible luck.
It happens as he's teaching the kids to hook a worm, and then comforting them about mom.
He hears the soldiers before they do. Multiple footsteps. That's never a good sign.
Standing up, Coen positions himself in front of the others, arm held out. Yanna's got the message. She gathers the kids beside her, while Coen turns to greet the….fuck. The five soldiers plus Uriash that are approaching. They don't look too happy.
Before Coen can even open his mouth, to say a disarming word or two, one of them asks gruffly, "You Coen?"
"…I am," Coen replies, bristling at the tone of the man.
"Have you been around the village today?"
Something unsavory pools in Coen's gut. He had, of course, but there was no reason to be flagged down for trading with Rainer.
"I have," he admits, slowly, the words almost forcing their way out, "I don't see how that warrants an interrogation."
"Cut the attitude, kid," another soldier says, sounding tired. He looks at Coen for a moment, then shits his gaze to Yanna and the kids. Coen takes a step, interrupting his line of vision. The solider scoffs, thumbing the handle of his sheathed sword, "We have orders to bring you to our commander."
Behind Coen, Lunka makes a grievous sound that sets his heart racing.
"Am I in trouble for shopping?"
"Take it up with the commander."
"I-"
"I don't think you want your siblings to see you being dragged off," he interrupts, eyes narrowing into slits, mouth curling into an unsavory, satisfied grin, "But if you force our hand…"
The answer is obvious.
Biting his tongue, Coen gives a stiff nod. He turns to Yanna, then, and nods at her too, an understanding passing through them.
"Go straight home. Everything will be alright."
"Coen?" Lunka asks, voice teary, tears collecting in the corner of her eyes, "What is wrong?"
Something in him breaks, but Coen has spent so long being so strong only to break down now. He needs to be strong a while longer. Gently, he kneels down in front of her, cupping her cheeks, wiping away the tears.
"Nothing is wrong, sweet pea," he tells them all, giving her a soft, reassuring smile that reaches his eyes, "These soldiers just want to ask me something, that's all."
"So you'll be back?"
Coen looks over his soldiers, and hates how he cannot make such a promise. Not anymore, not while the world is in the state that it is in.
So he leans forward, kissing her on the forehead, running a hand through her soft hair under her head–covering, "Everything will be alright."
Pulling back, he squeezes her shoulder one last time, before turning to the soldiers. He knows he shouldn't feel grateful for being allowed to have this, but he can't help it.
"Weapons," one of the soldiers says, and with a barely suppressed sigh, Coen surrenders his dear sword. His father won't be happy to loose it.
With that, they begin to lead the way. Two fall in line behind Coen, while the Uriashi and another soldier leads. The remaining one stays close to Coen's side. It's a bit much, if Coen was being honest. The soldiers were all older than him, and much more trained. Coen was also on the smaller side, compared with the rest of the men he knew. There was no need for such measures.
But when did Brencis' men ever listen to reason? Men in power rarely did. Even if that power was in a northern outpost where the most adventure to be had was fighting off boars.
The road to wherever the men were taking him went through the village. Coen keeps his head down as he passes by the faces he's known all his life. They all turn to stare, stop whatever they're doing to watch him be led off by the soldiers. Coen is as ignorant as them to the reason, but he'd have appreciated if someone came up to ask why. But he understands their fear too much to begrudge them.
"Where are we going?" he asks, and isn't surprised to get no answer. In the end, he doesn't need to wonder for long.
In the center of the village stands a logged house. It's been unused for some time, because once it was a place for the silver miners to gather, hold meetings, and come to complain. Coen had gone there with his father a few times, before it was disbanded. No mining meant no miners.
It had a new purpose now, it would seem, swarming with uniformed men, reeking in a way. They parted at the door to let Coen's entourage pass through, some sneering, some watching curiously. None of them had a lick of soul left behind their eyes.
Coen is led through the main entrance, and then towards the corner, where a staircase goes down to the basement. If he remembers correctly, it used to be a cellar. Something akin to dread (but not quiet there yet) weighs down on his heart as he's pushed in.
The cellar, or what's repurposed of it, is dark. Coen almost misses a step, catching himself before he can fall on the Uriash —he doesn't think that would be too welcome. He ducks under a low hanging beam, and finally emerges in a dimly lit room with a table in the middle where a man, presumably the commander, sits. He is flanked by two guards, and the lanterns in the four corners send shadows dancing menacingly over their faces.
Coen hears the cellar door close, and then lock with a click.
"We've brought him, sir," the soldier besides the Uriash says.
The commander nods. He hasn't taken his eyes off Coen since he entered the room.
"I have a few questions for you today, Coen," he says in a deep, even voice, "It would do you good to answer them honestly."
"I have nothing to hide, sir."
"I do hope that's true, for your sake," the commander says. He nods his head towards Coen's person, "Empty your pockets. All of them."
Coen swallows, "Forgive me, but that doesn't sound like a question."
The commander tilts his head. Beside him, Coen hears the guard grimace.
"I'm going to repeat myself one more time," the commander says, slowly, repeating each word, almost by the syllable, "Empty your pockets, or I'll have my men do it for you. Understood?"
That sounds more like a question.
Slowly, he does what he is told. If he had been asked to do this yesterday, there would not have been a problem. But today, Coen had decided to get his nose in everyone's business (like helping a grieving grandmother get back her grandson's cross, but also cutting down some bandits hiding in the hills, while following a trail of strange markings).
He thanks his stars that he had been smart enough to burn the Manumit letter he'd stumbled across. The same could not be said about the strange letter from N to L.
Slowly, feeling his heart in his throat, Coen does what he's told; gently as to not jostle the paper. He'd sold the gold he'd found already —they would have done him no good— but the money he'd looted from the bandits remained, even after he used some of them to get supplies, and so did the denarii he'd earned from selling the various items he'd found.
The commander looked at the money on the table, and then lifted his eyes, "That's all, is it?"
"I don't know what else you expected to find, sir."
"Believe you me, Coen. The denarii is suspicious in of itself," the man chuckles. Coen doesn't like the way he sounds, "So tell me: Who gave it to you?"
"I…I found it. No, listen—" he cuts in before the commander can finish rolling his eyes and making a noise of frustration, "I swear. I was running errands for my neighbors when I stumbled upon some bandits just east of Laslea, in the Outlaw's Gorge. They attacked me, so—"
"So you murdered them, and stole their belongings?" the commander finishes for him, making Coen bite his tongue, "That doesn't help your case I'm afraid, Coen. If I send my men there, will I really find some chopped up bandits?"
"If the bears haven't got to them," Coen says, almost gritting his teeth.
The commander taps his finger on the table, watching Coen, who doesn't look away. After a moment, he clicks his teeth in disapproval.
"Corvin, send a few men out," he says. The man on his left straightens up, "Send a group up to investigate. Tell them to be careful and quick about it. There's not much time left untill mass."
"Sir."
He salutes his officer, gaze locking on Coen until he disappears up the stairs. Coen hears a soft knock, and then the turn of the lock. The door opens briefly, and then shuts once more with the final sound of a lock turning.
Silence.
The commander leans back in his chair, then jerks his head towards Coen, "Search him."
The men immediately rush in to do what they're told, ignoring his protests. When he manages to swipe his arm from a bruising grip and drive it into a stomach, he hears a groan in his ear, before the blow is returned in full, forcing Coen down on his knees, gasping for breath. He doesn't have the soft padding of an armor, and he sure as hell doesn't have their endurance and training.
Once he's down, it's easy work getting out the letter. Coen hears the rustle of it as a soldier not holding his arms behind his back hands it to the commander, who reads over it, eyes growing wider as he reaches the end.
Slowly, he looks up from the page, face placid in a way that can only be called dangerous.
"Where did you get this?" he asks, folding the thing and placing it on the table before standing up, "Who gave this to you?"
"No one," Coen says, voice still a bit raspy. His lungs are already damaged from years of build-up from the mines, and the punch to the stomach didn't help one bit, "Behind the outcasts' cemetery—"
"Oh for fuck's sake," the commander says. Suddenly, he's rounding the table, rushing forward until he's in front of Coen, and grabbing his jaw in a tight grip, forcing eye contact, "Do you take me a fool? Am I to believe that you're simply stumbling across incriminating items? Oh no, Coen. I think there's something else going on here. Something you're not telling me."
He lets go. Coen's head drops down, and he gasps for breath a second time as the commander lands a kick against his stomach, making him lurch, unable to move because of the arms holding him in place.
The commander sighs, rubbing his jaw, circling the room, until Coen manages to catch his breath. He stops behind his table when Coen ceases to cough, fingers tapping rhythmically against the wood.
"Who is L and N?" he asks. Coen would laugh, if he could.
"I don't know."
"What are they planning?"
"I don't know who they are—"
"Are they planning an attack on the Knyaz?"
"I don't—"
"Ah. I see this isn't going to work," the commander says. He stops tapping on the table, straightening up, "Pity. I did tell you it would be for your own good to tell the truth, Coen. It didn't have to come to this."
Coen looks up, voice rising, incredulous, "Come to what? I'm telling you the truth!"
They don't listen. The soldiers begin to drag him forward, manhandling him when Coen refuses to move. There's a door by the corner he hadn't noticed now, and can't see into with the commander and his guard and uriashi. As they file in, however, and the light from the candles settles over the room, dread begins to pool in Coen's gut anew.
There's a small tub in the middle of the room, with a pool of water in it. The guards drag him towards it, until his knees hit the edge and he can see his stagnant reflection in the dark water.
Distantly, he things he hears the sound of ice breaking, and a scream cut too short; as he always does when coming across water in large amounts.
"You're a smart lad, Coen," the commander says from behind him. He sinks a hand into his hair, pushing forward until Coen's nose touch the cool water, disturbing the smooth edge, "I'm sure you know what I'm threatening you with."
"I swear I don't know anything," he tries to say, albeit shakily, but it doesn't stop them from tying his arms behind his back and forcing him to lean over the edge of the tub. The wood rim digs painfully into his ribs, but it's the least of his worries.
"Tell me the truth, and it doesn't have to hurt," the commander says, trying to sound like a soothing mother. It wave of nausea rises in Coen's gut, "Are you with the Manumits?"
Coen's brow furrows, "Who—"
He's pulled under, the water drowning out the rest of his words.
Unprepared as he is, he chokes on it immediately, body convulsing, screaming at him to get out, to breathe. And Coen would, if he could, if he wasn't tied up, held down by three men as his is forced into the murky blankness that steals all the precious air from him.
It goes on, too long, until he thinks a new, permanent blackness is setting in.
He's suddenly looking at the ceiling, gasping, choking, heaving like it's the first time he's ever drown breath. He coughs and sputters painfully, so painfully in fact that the hand digging into his hair feels like a reprieve than anything.
"I will ask again, Coen," the fucker says, right by Coen's ear, whispering the words like a snake, "Are you or are you not with the Manumits?"
"I'm not," Coen tries to say, voice gruff, the water in his eyes making it difficult to see, "I don't know who the Manumits are."
"Then who is N? Who is L?"
Coen shakes his head, feeling tears of pain gather in the corner of his eyes. The hand in his hair tightens its hold, "I don't know. I—"
He cannot breath.
The water is cold, he knows, but it's hard to focus on anything when he's pushed under again, and again. Two more times, all because he gave the reply to the same question. Oh, but he was telling the truth. How could he convince them he was telling the truth?
He's pulled up again. He was sure that would have been the one to end him.
"Please," he says, weaker than ever before, a sob leaving his body, but mixing so painfully with a cough and a wheeze that he sounds like a dying animal, even to his own ears, "Please, please, I'm telling the truth. I don't know who N and L are. I don't know any Manumits. I'm not planning anything against Knyaz Brencis. I don't—"
Understandably, Coen has had a… difficult relationship with water, ever since Alin. He'd avoided water for a long, long time after his death. He only started going to the river and pond after Yanna was older than Alin had been, when he…
He stops moving, no longer finding the strength in him to struggle.
They pull him out, and this time drop him to the floor. The front of him is soaked, the cold wrapping around his body, adding to the list of tortures Brencis' men have prepared for him.
The commander looms over him, feet on either side of his body. Coen is too tired, too cold, too out of breath to care about what he has to say.
If he knew any Ls or Ns… Coen doesn't trust himself to say he wouldn't have given them away, even if it was a lie. Anything to get away from this.
A boot turns him to his back, to stare at the stone-hard face of his torturer.
"Commander Ulrich?" one of the men says. Coen can't see who is speaking, "It's almost time for mass."
"I see," Ulrich says, unhearing, eyes pinned on Coen but thoughts clearly far, far away. That is, until he comes to a decision.
"The prisoner confessed to being the being the recipient 'L' in the letter. L for Laslea," Ulrich says, nodding along to his own words, "It is the alias he used to communicate with the rebels. We will report our findings to the Knyaz at mass. You will corroborate my report."
Silence reigns once again. Coen closes his eyes, the tears streaming down his cheeks the only warmth in the room. Maybe the only warmth he'll ever have again.
"..Sir—" one of the men begins to say, but quiets down when Ulrich swirls his to look at him.
"Would you like to tell the Knyaz about the letter, soldier?" he asks, sounding actually distressed, "Without having a culprit to show for it?"
The man remains silent. Guess not.
Coen's eyes remain close, head pulsing against the stone floor.
"Get him up," Ulrich suddenly says, nudging Coen with the tip of his boot, "We need leave for the church."
Once more, Coen is manhandled by the soldiers. This time, he doesn't have the energy to resist, his feet dragging behind him as he's lugged forward like a corpse. Once they reach the stairs, the uriash takes over, handling him with the care extended to a bag of manure and the gentleness of a boor.
Coen doesn't find it in him to care. All of his thoughts are reduced to a singular point of focus: the image of his siblings' faces, etched with concern, as Coen was dragged away, the ever-consuming agony of breaking his promise to his family but especially Lunka; and the dread of his impending death.
Tears continue to roll down his eyes.
Nobody who cares is around to see it.
They're one of the first to arrive at church, of course. To his horror, he isn't placed outside, tied to a pole or inside, tied to…anywhere. As he's dragged forward, passing pew after pew, only one possibility remains.
The stone alter is cold as he's placed on it. Coen tries to stand up, to move, but the uriash lifts his head and bangs it down hard enough for the world to spin and the remaining fight to leave his body like the blood leaking through his skull, and painting the stone red.
He must have blacked out, because the next time he blinks, there's a comparably larger amount of people filling the church. At first, Coen thinks they're looking at him, horror and shock written over their faces. It fills him with something that is not hope, but perhaps relief in knowing maybe someone cares.
He looks up.
Gremla's tapestry looks down at him.
Oh.
Well.
The hushes die down when Pieter walks in, arms around Esme, leading her in. The crowd parts for him, and he pauses. He is the only one to see Coen before he sees the hell depicted above him.
But not even Pieter has the power to rescue Coen from the soldiers circling him. And when the doors open, following Florin's Latin hymn, and the village stands up in greeting of their lords, Coen knows it will be the last time he'll see his father.
Across from him, Brencis is the first one Coen makes eye contact with. Hazy as his sight is right now, he can still see the spark of regonition pass through his glowing white eyes, before it re-settles into his usual cold, monstrous norm.
Once he reaches the alter, he looks down at Coen like one would examine a table spread, taking in the blood, the wet clothes, the wrists bound so tight there's bruises.
"Is this the one, commander?" he asks, voice rising, masterfully commanding all attention, "Is this the traitor endangering the peace of our lands?"
Coen turns his head away, and in the crowd, behind the horrified gaze of his father, he finds the equally horrified gaze of Anca. He doesn't understand why that makes a fresh batch of tears roll down his eyes.
"Yes, sire," the commander says, the strength of his voice a far cry from what it was when he was threatening Coen, "We received intel from a street vendor concerning suspicious activity. That led us to this young man, Coen, son of Pieter, whom we have discovered has ties to the Manumits."
A gasp runs through the audience. Ignoring them, Ulrich steps forward towards the dais, his every step catalogued by each of the vrakhir. He kneels before Brencis while presenting the folded letter, who takes it with two fingers, opening it while his eyes trail over Coen's face.
"I never expected this from you," he tells Coen, his cold, undead hand reaching down to brush down his face. In the cold of the church and his soon-to-die body, even a monster's hand is warmth and comfort, "Is this how you repay me?"
No answer will satisfy him, Coen knows. So he keeps his eyes on Esme, on Pieter, hoping that they wouldn't have to see what was to come, but selfishly praying he wouldn't be alone when it did.
The paper rustles as Brencis reads over it. It takes longer than Coen had expected. Longer than it should. Out of curiosity, he turns his head to look at the vrakhir, breath stuttering when he finds the man —no, no. That is no man— looking back at him.
Brencis' fist curls over the letter, crumbling it into a ball. Gently, far more gentler than he should be capable of, he leans forward, a hand once again finding his cheek. Coen looks up at him. A familiar feeling, one akin to a dream, suddenly overwhelms him. Brencis' eyes look like twin moons. Coen thinks he'd like to do whatever those moons might want.
"Who is N and L, son?" a voice asks. Coen almost whimpers.
"I don't know," he replies, feeling his eyes burn. Is he crying? He doesn't remember why he should be crying.
"Are you working with the rebels?" the voice asks again.
Coen shakes his head, "N-no."
A hand, cool and wonderfully gentle, wipes away a tear, "Do you have any grievances against me, Coen?"
"I wish…" Coen begins to reply, an image materializing in his head, "I wish my mother didn't have to come to mass."
The fog lifts. The twin moons are gone. Coen thinks he hears a wet, choking sound, but he can't be sure. He doesn't feel pain. Who else might be making these sounds of death?
He makes to turns his head, to find out, but a hand slips into his head before pulling back just as fast. Quick gives up checking for the noise, but he does look at Brencis, who's staring between his hand —bloody from the where Coen had hit his head— and Coen. Is that smoke trailing up from the skin?
"Ambrus," the Knyaz says, straightening to his full height, "Take the boy to the father's room. I believe a private audience is in order. I will come to you after mass."
The hands wrapping around him are colder, but gentler than the soldiers. Coen squints at the patch of blood hair that's suddenly everywhere.
"Can I have a taste as we wait for you return?" Ambrus asks, voice right by Coen's ear. He sounds excited, running a hand up and down Coen's back. He doesn't know if Ambrus intends for it to be comforting, but Coen melts into it either way.
Brencis looks between them and his hand, before saying, "I wouldn't recommend it."
Amrbrus sighs. He helps Coen down the dais, and Coen is only know beginning to realise what was happening and who was ordered to…take Coen away. He tries to turn around as Ambrus leads them out, look over his shoulder, but Brencis has already turned to the crowd, and the vrakhirs' imposing forms prevent Coen from seeing his family.
Ambrus tuttes, bringing him back to the present.
"Eyes on front, Coen," he says smoothly, opening a door leading to a corridor. The sounds of the mass get further and further away with each step, taking away a part of Coen's life and replacing it with something new, "Believe me, you don't want to look back."
The doors close behind them.
Coen wishes he could have told Lunka goodbye.