Waver did not fight. He didn't crawl into the cage on his own either, but he didn't struggle when he was nudged in with vaguely surprising patience from the guard, who waited until Waver was locked in again before adjusting some settings to expand the electric bars enough to give him room to sit up fully or lie down stretched out if he wanted to this time. There was nothing else in the cage.
And for a long, long time, there was no one else in the room either. The lights went down enough it was difficult to see anything beyond the dimly glowing bars of the cage, and even his own limbs looked like little more than silhouetted shapes in the darkness. His ruined shirt kept slipping uncomfortably down his arms, but he couldn't fix it even if it hadn't been ripped, not with the bar between his hands.
Waver settled on his knees in the middle of the cage, in the oppressive silence, feeling numb and violated. His skin was still crawling from the intrusion. He'd never felt anything like it before, that sensation of someone reaching into his magic, under his skin, digging around inside the core of him. It made him want to wash it out somehow, try to drown out the feeling of the foreign presence with his own magic-- but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything. He could only listen to the silence and the hum of electricity, and his own thoughts and fears and regrets twisting like vipers in his head. And he could sit here, kneel until his legs went numb and his knees began to hurt, and then he slowly, uncomfortably lay down.
First, he lay on his side for a while. Then on his back. On the other side. Turning this way and that on the hard ground of the cage, afraid of getting too close to the electric bars, it took Waver a long, long time to fall asleep. When he woke up, it was the same; he had no way of telling if he'd been asleep for an hour or ten. It was like that every time he managed to doze off, and he lost count. When he was awake, when he couldn't physically sleep any longer, he stared out past the bars until he could make out every corner of the room even in the dimness, every discoloration in the walls, the crack of space between the doorframe and the door. He couldn't feel his fingers. He tried to lay on them or breathe on them to keep warm. Once, he even tried getting close to the electric bars, but he was too afraid to risk it. All the while, Waver tried not to think about what had happened. He tried not to think about his father (dead), or his little sister (missing), or his father's new fiancee (probably also dead), the household staff or groundskeepers (certainly also dead). He tried not to think about what they would do to him, whether anyone would ever come again, or how much his arms ached and his tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth and his stomach hurt. He bit at the cut on his lip until it bled again, and again, just for something else to think about.
When the woman knelt by Waver's cage at long last, she would find him facing her and the door as he lay half-curled on his side, one arm tucked awkwardly to pillow his head as well as he could manage. The shirt had torn -- or been torn -- further, and slid all the way down his arms to hang in a rumpled mess of dingy cloth around the obstruction of the cuffs and his hands. His eyes were open, but he made no other move to show that he'd noticed her or heard, except a blink and a slow refocusing of his gaze. Awake, then, and not much else.
no subject
And for a long, long time, there was no one else in the room either. The lights went down enough it was difficult to see anything beyond the dimly glowing bars of the cage, and even his own limbs looked like little more than silhouetted shapes in the darkness. His ruined shirt kept slipping uncomfortably down his arms, but he couldn't fix it even if it hadn't been ripped, not with the bar between his hands.
Waver settled on his knees in the middle of the cage, in the oppressive silence, feeling numb and violated. His skin was still crawling from the intrusion. He'd never felt anything like it before, that sensation of someone reaching into his magic, under his skin, digging around inside the core of him. It made him want to wash it out somehow, try to drown out the feeling of the foreign presence with his own magic-- but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything. He could only listen to the silence and the hum of electricity, and his own thoughts and fears and regrets twisting like vipers in his head. And he could sit here, kneel until his legs went numb and his knees began to hurt, and then he slowly, uncomfortably lay down.
First, he lay on his side for a while. Then on his back. On the other side. Turning this way and that on the hard ground of the cage, afraid of getting too close to the electric bars, it took Waver a long, long time to fall asleep. When he woke up, it was the same; he had no way of telling if he'd been asleep for an hour or ten. It was like that every time he managed to doze off, and he lost count. When he was awake, when he couldn't physically sleep any longer, he stared out past the bars until he could make out every corner of the room even in the dimness, every discoloration in the walls, the crack of space between the doorframe and the door. He couldn't feel his fingers. He tried to lay on them or breathe on them to keep warm. Once, he even tried getting close to the electric bars, but he was too afraid to risk it. All the while, Waver tried not to think about what had happened. He tried not to think about his father (dead), or his little sister (missing), or his father's new fiancee (probably also dead), the household staff or groundskeepers (certainly also dead). He tried not to think about what they would do to him, whether anyone would ever come again, or how much his arms ached and his tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth and his stomach hurt. He bit at the cut on his lip until it bled again, and again, just for something else to think about.
When the woman knelt by Waver's cage at long last, she would find him facing her and the door as he lay half-curled on his side, one arm tucked awkwardly to pillow his head as well as he could manage. The shirt had torn -- or been torn -- further, and slid all the way down his arms to hang in a rumpled mess of dingy cloth around the obstruction of the cuffs and his hands. His eyes were open, but he made no other move to show that he'd noticed her or heard, except a blink and a slow refocusing of his gaze. Awake, then, and not much else.