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maderrLove Prison Break. He's still too damn pretty to be left alone in a pen. I'm just saying.
This is entirely Samantha's fault. Just want that clear. And unedited because I have no fucking clue where it's going yet.
Robin bit until the man screamed like a little girl, and held on until they went for a gut punch.
Bastards.
He waited a few minutes, until they were grunting and gasping and panting from dragging - yes dragging, because he was not going to go quietly and stoicly into this, no fucking way. The Holy Father could suck his right nut, the Mother could suck his left. Once the village men carrying him relaxed their guard again - for they were too worn from fighting him to keep it up - he latched onto the farmer to his right and bit down hard on his calf.
They dropped him like...well, like a young man who was shortly going to dead so what did a few bruises and boken bones really matter?
Robin endured quietly as he was lifted up and given a rough shaking. And they thought that would accomplish what? Where they trying to shake sense into him or the trouble out of him? Probably the second, because he was pretty sure none of them had the first. They wouldn't recognize sense if it punched them in the face and bit whatever bit of flesh it could reach.
Bastards.
He'd worked his ass off for them, from the moment he realized his mother hadn't gone to market - she'd just gone. And what did he get for working sun up to sun down from the age of seven?
Sacrificed. To a god he hadn't known they'd worshipped. Hadn't given the village enough credit. No wonder they'd always seemed so placid. A good cover for all the naughty things they'd been up to.
Weren't virgin sacrifices supposed to be girls? Crying and wailing in long white dresses? He'd listened at the school windows, at church, to whatever open window he could find at night, to learn all the stories the villagers had to tell.
Funny he'd missed all the parts where they worshipped Sirkin.
No wonder mom had high-tailed it. Would have been nice if she'd taken him along. But he wasn't surprised she hadn't, really. Even at seven he'd known she was awfully pretty. Young, pretty women didn't need kids.
But that was okay, because apparently young abandoned men were perfect sacrifices.
Bastards.
Robin started swinging again, bored with all the shaking. Several more bruises and an ankle he was pretty sure wouldn't be good walking anytime soon put an end to the latest debate. He never was much good at conversation.
By the time they got him the rest of the way up the hill, through the black temple he really wished he'd noticed sooner and onto the stone altar...he was too damned tired to put up more of a fight.
Didn't really matter any way. Who was going to miss him?
Well, maybe ol' lady Muller. But he doubted it.
Robin ignored them as they chanted prayers and whispered that he should be honored to be chosen as the sacrifice. If he'd had the energy, he woudl have pointed out that generally sacrifice, at least according to the stories he'd heard, meant giving up something of value.
His value? Less than that of dead whore. He was pretty sure a sacrifice should involve someone being sad to see him go. He twisted his head - kinda hard to do really, when everything from his neck down was tied pretty good to the stone slab beneath him - and looked at the men steadily working to make sure he didn't figure out how to break loose.
Not a tear or sad frown among them. After the kicks and the bites and the punches, he wasn't too surprised to see how eagerly and expertly they were tying the ropes.
He thought about saying something. Struggling came to mind too.
But in the end he lay still, and let them finish, and watched them go, then listened to them go...then listened to the silence.
"Could've at least told me goodbye," he muttered, and told himself his voice was hoarse from shouting and fighting and the taste of nasty farmers and shopkeepers. Not from tears.
Because even his mother had at least told him goodbye.
This is entirely Samantha's fault. Just want that clear. And unedited because I have no fucking clue where it's going yet.
Robin bit until the man screamed like a little girl, and held on until they went for a gut punch.
Bastards.
He waited a few minutes, until they were grunting and gasping and panting from dragging - yes dragging, because he was not going to go quietly and stoicly into this, no fucking way. The Holy Father could suck his right nut, the Mother could suck his left. Once the village men carrying him relaxed their guard again - for they were too worn from fighting him to keep it up - he latched onto the farmer to his right and bit down hard on his calf.
They dropped him like...well, like a young man who was shortly going to dead so what did a few bruises and boken bones really matter?
Robin endured quietly as he was lifted up and given a rough shaking. And they thought that would accomplish what? Where they trying to shake sense into him or the trouble out of him? Probably the second, because he was pretty sure none of them had the first. They wouldn't recognize sense if it punched them in the face and bit whatever bit of flesh it could reach.
Bastards.
He'd worked his ass off for them, from the moment he realized his mother hadn't gone to market - she'd just gone. And what did he get for working sun up to sun down from the age of seven?
Sacrificed. To a god he hadn't known they'd worshipped. Hadn't given the village enough credit. No wonder they'd always seemed so placid. A good cover for all the naughty things they'd been up to.
Weren't virgin sacrifices supposed to be girls? Crying and wailing in long white dresses? He'd listened at the school windows, at church, to whatever open window he could find at night, to learn all the stories the villagers had to tell.
Funny he'd missed all the parts where they worshipped Sirkin.
No wonder mom had high-tailed it. Would have been nice if she'd taken him along. But he wasn't surprised she hadn't, really. Even at seven he'd known she was awfully pretty. Young, pretty women didn't need kids.
But that was okay, because apparently young abandoned men were perfect sacrifices.
Bastards.
Robin started swinging again, bored with all the shaking. Several more bruises and an ankle he was pretty sure wouldn't be good walking anytime soon put an end to the latest debate. He never was much good at conversation.
By the time they got him the rest of the way up the hill, through the black temple he really wished he'd noticed sooner and onto the stone altar...he was too damned tired to put up more of a fight.
Didn't really matter any way. Who was going to miss him?
Well, maybe ol' lady Muller. But he doubted it.
Robin ignored them as they chanted prayers and whispered that he should be honored to be chosen as the sacrifice. If he'd had the energy, he woudl have pointed out that generally sacrifice, at least according to the stories he'd heard, meant giving up something of value.
His value? Less than that of dead whore. He was pretty sure a sacrifice should involve someone being sad to see him go. He twisted his head - kinda hard to do really, when everything from his neck down was tied pretty good to the stone slab beneath him - and looked at the men steadily working to make sure he didn't figure out how to break loose.
Not a tear or sad frown among them. After the kicks and the bites and the punches, he wasn't too surprised to see how eagerly and expertly they were tying the ropes.
He thought about saying something. Struggling came to mind too.
But in the end he lay still, and let them finish, and watched them go, then listened to them go...then listened to the silence.
"Could've at least told me goodbye," he muttered, and told himself his voice was hoarse from shouting and fighting and the taste of nasty farmers and shopkeepers. Not from tears.
Because even his mother had at least told him goodbye.
