[hr][hr][h3][center][color=39b54a]The Room. The Table. The Knife. The Iron. The Pain. The Pain. The Pain.[/color][/center][/h3][hr][hr]

The last thing Karlus remembered clearly was looking down on the rent and smouldering armour of the guard who had tried to stop him, the rest was a blur of nausea and pain. 

Everything had hurt, his whole body had ached, and his left arm had burned as if it was still aflame. That much he could recall. There were other fragments, trying to suck down the cool air down in panicked shaking breathes, the feeling of his head spinning as he had leaned over to retch and heave. He must have reached out to steady himself, but must there was no strength left in him, for the last fragment of memory was of Karlus crumpling against the side of the alley. The ground had rushed up to meet him, and with it came the embrace of oblivion.

Then there was stillness, quiet stillness. It wasn't too bad actually. After all the sound and fury and pain that had been existence, it seemed sweet, gentle almost. If death felt this, Karlus would not particularly mind meeting it. It was tempting, to just forget about everything, let go of his terrible past and hellish present that still trailed in its wake. The absence of everything would almost feel pleasant considering how horrible everything had been, if non-existence even felt like anything at all.

Karlus willed it then, to let go, to disappear into oblivion. And for a second everything seemed to fade away. The pain, the memories, even his own body. It just seemed to... drift... off... into...

[i][sub]Fuck.[/sub][/i] 

No, he was still here, still thinking. 

[i]Fuck.[/i]

Then he felt something, something other than his own confused mind in the void. 

Coolness, coolness against his cheek... his cheek... his burning, scarred, and ruined cheek. The pain rushed back suddenly, arcing though every fibre of his being. How had it been possible he had managed to forget it there but a moment ago? He shrank away from that hateful coolness, it only served to heighten the contrast in the agony he experienced. There were voices as well, angry and discordant, but he shrank away from them too. Karlus tried to crawl back down into whatever blissful hole his consciousness had momentarily resided in before this, but he could not seem to find the way.

Then came the hands grasping at him, pulling at him. Something else touched against his cheek again, but it was not cool this time, it was warm. Warm and living. It was a hand. A rush of memories came unbidden. Rough callused hands wiping away his tears when he had skinned a knee as a child. Clammy hands slick with sweat caressing his cheek in the dead of night, reaching below the covers. Cold hands, most loathed of all, wielding knives and irons. Cutting. Burning.

The hand struck against his cheek again and he was there. Ten years and more had passed but still he was there. The dark cells beneath the college where there were no windows to see the sky, buried beneath earth and stone so no one would ever hear the screams. They stood gathered around him, cloaked in shadows cast from the brazer of coals that stood next to the table to was chained on. 

[b]"Shall we begin?"[/b] A voice in the darkness spoke. He knew that voice though he couldn't see its owner. [i]Colndil. Master.[/i]

Chanting filled the room, one of the mages pulled a knife from inside the folds of their robe. Another stepped up to the brazer and drew the red hot branding iron from within. He tried to say something. That he was sorry that it wouldn't happen again. That he would be good from now on. Just please don't touch him. [i]Please don't touch me. Please. Please Please Please Pleasepleasepleaseplea-[/i] 

Then there was nothing except the pain.

And then, after an eternity, there was fire.

[color=39b54a][b]Green fire.[/b][/color]
[center]_____________________________________[/center]

Everything swam and moved for a long time afterwards. He floated in space, unsure of what was up or down. Lost in space and in time, half formed memories of people and places he had once known filled his vision. At one point he was sure he was on a ship. There had been a ship hadn't there? He had been travelling somewhere on ship, looking for something, no, looking for someone. Was this the same ship? Had it all been a dream? Wait, what been a dream? 

[i]The Room. The Table. The Knife. The Iron. The Pain. The Pain. The Pain.[/i]

No, that had all been real. That had all been real. He tried to push it out of his mind, find some other part of him, something to make sense of what was going on. Caracas. The docks at Caracas. The Brith, the tavern, the guards. That had all been real too. He had got off that other ship. This must be somewhere else. Somewhere else... Wasn't he just somewhere else?

[b]The Room. The Table. The Knife. The Iron. The Pain. The Pain. The Pain.[/b]

Karlus went there again.

In the bottom of the dingy boat that travelled beneath the streets of the Caracas, the prostate figure of Karlus cringed inward on himself. He feebly raised up his arms as if to see off unseen attackers. A small whimpering noise emerged from the corner of his mouth. He whispered to himself, still within the terrible dream, barely audible over the dripping of the sewers and oars parting the water.

[b][color=39b54a]"Please. Please don't touch me."[/color][/b]
[center]_____________________________________[/center]

Now he was floating again. He could feel his aching body gentle sway, moving but not under a power of his own. Had she come again? Taken a hold of him when his own instincts had failed like she had done all those years ago? No... he was distantly aware of his limbs and none of them were moving. Strange, very strange. Another recollection tried to stir within him but it would not come easily. He struggled for a minute, the mage's bruised and tired mind searching to make sense of what was happening.

Carried. He was being carried by someone. His father, his father had carried him and his brother like this when they had been too tired to climb the ladder to the sleeping loft. They had both loved to stay up in front of the fire listening to the adults talk, they had never wanted to leave. But in the end they had made him leave. They had made him leave to the place where he had become the fire, not merely watched it burn.

There were voices here as well. None of them were his father's, but he felt like he recognised some of them. He wanted to pay attention to what the voices were saying, but he was so tired. He wanted to stay up in front of the fire and listen to the adults talk. Where was Mathias? He would want to hear as well. Where was his brother? No wait, he wasn't there, he was somewhere else. He had to leave. They made him leave. Made him burn.

The memory threatened to engulf him once more. The Room. The Table. He pushed back against it, tried to stay within the moment. Tried not to think about The Room. The Table. The Kn- NO! Stay with the voices! Stay with the voices. The voices weren't there. If they weren't there then he can't be there. They weren't in The Room. The Table. The Knife. The Iro- STOP! Stop. Please. Please just fucking stop.

It would not stop. 

[b]THE ROOM. THE TABLE. THE KNIFE. THE IRON. THE PAIN. THE PAIN. THE PAIN.[/b]
[center]_____________________________________[/center]

When he came back from The Room (FUCKING STOP! FUCKING STOP! FUCKING STOP! PLEEEEEASE!) someone else was carrying him. He wasn't sure how he knew that, but he was sure that it was someone different. They held him differently from the last one. Another memory stirred, even older than from when his father had carried him to bed. His mother. Karlus was positive his mother had carried him in his arms like this when he had only been a babe. But that was impossible, he couldn't possibly remember that could he? [i]Is it impossible? Compared to your other memories is it in any way shocking?[/i] He shivered in the strangers arms. 

[b][color=39b54a]"Mama, please. Please don't let them cut me again. Don't send me away, I promise I'll be a good boy, I won't use magic anymore."[/color][/b]

The mage muttered and whispered his incoherent delusions to the Tiefling that carried him until they laid down on the bed in corner of the sick room. Even then he did not stop tossing and turning, shrinking away from threats that did not exist, pleading with people who were not there. Sometimes he would cry out as if in pain, tears streaming down his cheeks. Sometimes he would mutter a mantra beneath his breath almost too quiet to hear.

[b][color=39b54a]"The Room. The Table. The Knife. The Iron. The Pain. The Pain. The Pain."[/color][/b]