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I'm going to go collapse now. The rest of the prompt ficlets, I will be working on them over the weekend, yes? *smiles sheepishly* I apologise for taking them out of order again.
Title: Three Rooms
Rating: PG-13/light R (violence, allusions to torture)
Universe: Carogne
Characters/Pairings: Sebastien, memory of the General
Summary: In the wake of the General's death, Sebastien finds/makes a new space
Wordcount: 975
Warnings/Notes: Set very, very early on. Warnings for Sebastien's past as a torturer
Prompt: for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sablin27, who wanted Sebastien establishing himself after killing the General
Claimer: Mine!
Title: Three Rooms
Rating: PG-13/light R (violence, allusions to torture)
Universe: Carogne
Characters/Pairings: Sebastien, memory of the General
Summary: In the wake of the General's death, Sebastien finds/makes a new space
Wordcount: 975
Warnings/Notes: Set very, very early on. Warnings for Sebastien's past as a torturer
Prompt: for
sablin27, who wanted Sebastien establishing himself after killing the GeneralClaimer: Mine!
Three Rooms
Sebastien felt the edges of it, prowled bare rooms, sniffing in damp and mold. Sounding the space of it. Testing the safety of it. This ... new home. Or at least ... Well. Somewhere to stay, yes? For now. The rest ... the rest we will see.
It wasn't much. This space. Tchu. Not much at all. To be expected, though. No? To be expected. He had not been paid, these last few years. Hah! No need, little mischling. No need. Do you not have a home under my roof? Will I not feed you, and clothe you, and keep you safe? What need have you for money, little doctor? What need have you for anything, when you live by my largesse?
He shuddered. Put those thoughts, that voice, away. Or as far away as it went, as he could make it go. Not far. Never far enough. He felt phantom paws in his fur. Felt the pressure at the base of his neck. The threat, the hold. He felt that, even still.
He wondered, here, in a fit of rare optimism, how long it would take to fade. How long before the phantom fingers, the phantom voice, faded away.
Too long. Too long. But that was not for now. That was not for this.
This space, it was not much. Three rooms. Perhaps, later, the possibility of more. The floor above. If he could make it work. If he could find ... a thing worth selling. But for now, three rooms. A storefront. A workspace, in the middle, perhaps, one day, a lab or surgery. And behind, a backroom. For now, a place to sleep. For now, his place to stay.
Not much. It was ... difficult, to buy a place, in a city at war, in a quarter so far from those he had frequented in his service to the Families. To ... to the General. Stolen money, hoarded money, did not go far at all, when so few were willing to sell. Here, where people looked at him, not with pity or fear, but with hate. Here, where ... where the families of his victims lived. Where the brothers and mothers and sons of those the General had brought to him, and had him break, lived, and worked, and whispered their suspicions so close behind his back. This was Wekha territory. And the Wekha had been the General's enemies.
But that ... that was the point. Never again. Never more would he serve the Families, never again be the General's thing. So. Among his enemies. Among the Wekha. Death, fear, we will take this, yes? The other? No more. Never again.
This was yet doable. This was yet workable. He had ... a friend or two. An acquaintance, rather. Enough to bargain. Enough to weasel away three rooms, one a store, opening to the street. Enough for that.
The rest ... A saleable thing. A service to offer. The apothecary first, he thought. Easier. He had ... contacts, still. Purveyors, sellers, sources. His little network, paid for in General's gold. Because the General had wanted him to have the best tools, no? The best potions, the best poisons, the best salves. To keep someone on the brink the longest. To bring them back, and back, until they were used up, until they were done. Do this for me, the General said. No monies for food, none for wear. But gold for poisons, yes. Gold for that.
And a bargain, here or there. A deal, a contact, a whisper in the right ear, so this will be that little cheaper, so we may have also a little of that, free of charge. Enough to skim. That little bit of gold off the top, that sliver, here or there. Over years. Better as they passed. Sebastien, he was good at favours, yes? Tchu. Good at deals, and trades, and a favour here or there. Enough to build ... not a fortune. Not that. But enough for freedom, and that was more fortune than any other.
And now ... Now, he had a place. Far enough from the remains of the General's ilk, from the rebuilding of their power, to hold himself free that little longer. To keep himself, not safe, but away. To keep from the touch of phantom paws against his neck, and the whisper of an ugly voice against his ear.
Apothecary first, he thought. No more than that, at first. They wouldn't not trust him yet for more than that. Trust a torturer for a doctor? Hah! Not to be foolish, yes? Not to be stupid. But a potion, here or there. A salve, a tincture. Something to ease the throat, to soothe the belly, to dress the wound. To stir the loins. Little things. Always, to start with, little things. Then, later, when there is some trust, when there is less fear ... perhaps more. Perhaps ... perhaps he might be a doctor again. Perhaps he might be what he had been, before ...
Before the General, and little favours, and screaming in the dark, and crying sobs beneath his paws that begged him, please, please, stop this, let me go, please stop. Before poisons, and knives, and guards, and mischling. Before ... before that.
Not yet. Never yet. Too big a thing. Not for now.
But later. Later. He could have hope for that, he thought. In this new place. In this small hole, these three rooms, from which he might make a shop. In this place, he could hope for later.
Three rooms. It was ... a start. And Sebastien, he could do a lot, with the right start.
Yes. Yes, he thought so. Yes. This ... was enough.
This was ... good.
Sebastien felt the edges of it, prowled bare rooms, sniffing in damp and mold. Sounding the space of it. Testing the safety of it. This ... new home. Or at least ... Well. Somewhere to stay, yes? For now. The rest ... the rest we will see.
It wasn't much. This space. Tchu. Not much at all. To be expected, though. No? To be expected. He had not been paid, these last few years. Hah! No need, little mischling. No need. Do you not have a home under my roof? Will I not feed you, and clothe you, and keep you safe? What need have you for money, little doctor? What need have you for anything, when you live by my largesse?
He shuddered. Put those thoughts, that voice, away. Or as far away as it went, as he could make it go. Not far. Never far enough. He felt phantom paws in his fur. Felt the pressure at the base of his neck. The threat, the hold. He felt that, even still.
He wondered, here, in a fit of rare optimism, how long it would take to fade. How long before the phantom fingers, the phantom voice, faded away.
Too long. Too long. But that was not for now. That was not for this.
This space, it was not much. Three rooms. Perhaps, later, the possibility of more. The floor above. If he could make it work. If he could find ... a thing worth selling. But for now, three rooms. A storefront. A workspace, in the middle, perhaps, one day, a lab or surgery. And behind, a backroom. For now, a place to sleep. For now, his place to stay.
Not much. It was ... difficult, to buy a place, in a city at war, in a quarter so far from those he had frequented in his service to the Families. To ... to the General. Stolen money, hoarded money, did not go far at all, when so few were willing to sell. Here, where people looked at him, not with pity or fear, but with hate. Here, where ... where the families of his victims lived. Where the brothers and mothers and sons of those the General had brought to him, and had him break, lived, and worked, and whispered their suspicions so close behind his back. This was Wekha territory. And the Wekha had been the General's enemies.
But that ... that was the point. Never again. Never more would he serve the Families, never again be the General's thing. So. Among his enemies. Among the Wekha. Death, fear, we will take this, yes? The other? No more. Never again.
This was yet doable. This was yet workable. He had ... a friend or two. An acquaintance, rather. Enough to bargain. Enough to weasel away three rooms, one a store, opening to the street. Enough for that.
The rest ... A saleable thing. A service to offer. The apothecary first, he thought. Easier. He had ... contacts, still. Purveyors, sellers, sources. His little network, paid for in General's gold. Because the General had wanted him to have the best tools, no? The best potions, the best poisons, the best salves. To keep someone on the brink the longest. To bring them back, and back, until they were used up, until they were done. Do this for me, the General said. No monies for food, none for wear. But gold for poisons, yes. Gold for that.
And a bargain, here or there. A deal, a contact, a whisper in the right ear, so this will be that little cheaper, so we may have also a little of that, free of charge. Enough to skim. That little bit of gold off the top, that sliver, here or there. Over years. Better as they passed. Sebastien, he was good at favours, yes? Tchu. Good at deals, and trades, and a favour here or there. Enough to build ... not a fortune. Not that. But enough for freedom, and that was more fortune than any other.
And now ... Now, he had a place. Far enough from the remains of the General's ilk, from the rebuilding of their power, to hold himself free that little longer. To keep himself, not safe, but away. To keep from the touch of phantom paws against his neck, and the whisper of an ugly voice against his ear.
Apothecary first, he thought. No more than that, at first. They wouldn't not trust him yet for more than that. Trust a torturer for a doctor? Hah! Not to be foolish, yes? Not to be stupid. But a potion, here or there. A salve, a tincture. Something to ease the throat, to soothe the belly, to dress the wound. To stir the loins. Little things. Always, to start with, little things. Then, later, when there is some trust, when there is less fear ... perhaps more. Perhaps ... perhaps he might be a doctor again. Perhaps he might be what he had been, before ...
Before the General, and little favours, and screaming in the dark, and crying sobs beneath his paws that begged him, please, please, stop this, let me go, please stop. Before poisons, and knives, and guards, and mischling. Before ... before that.
Not yet. Never yet. Too big a thing. Not for now.
But later. Later. He could have hope for that, he thought. In this new place. In this small hole, these three rooms, from which he might make a shop. In this place, he could hope for later.
Three rooms. It was ... a start. And Sebastien, he could do a lot, with the right start.
Yes. Yes, he thought so. Yes. This ... was enough.
This was ... good.
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