All octolings need therapy
The elf had been there for two days, sixteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes. Jak had counted. He counted because the elf had not moved in two days, sixteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes.
Well, he had moved. He had cried, and squirmed, and bled, but he did not stand up or make any effort at all to run away. Part of this was because of the thick ropes bounding him down, Jak assumed, but surely any reasonable person would've attempted to escape. Or, at the very least, tried to fight back.
But the elf wasn't a person, was he? He wasn't human.
This, of course, is how the elf ended up here in the first place. Here being their camp. Jak's camp, with his wonderful friends that he's starting to wonder if they are any kind of wonderful at all. Would wonderful people spit on someone's face, jeering and laughing and digging their fingers into their wounds? Would wonderful people starve another? Would wonderful people help tie down another, then sit and count the minutes go by?
Though, perhaps it doesn't apply. The elf isn't a 'someone', anyway. He's an elf. It's different.
And elves are who Jak is supposed to hunt. For good reason, of course. Elves are manipulative, lying creatures, one that ensnare you in charms and take you of everything you own. It's only right they stay chained up in jail.
"Can you believe we found this one so easily?" Jak hears the sound of clashing weapons as one of his friends sits next to him. Her armor shifts as she sits. It looks heavy. Jak wonders why she bothers wearing it when they aren't hunting. "I mean, we didn't even have to attack. He was just sitting there, shaking like a leaf." She looks over to the elf, slumped and asleep. "A bit pitiful, don't you think?"
"I suppose." Jak rubs his hands on his thighs. "I don't know. I'm worried he was faking it. What if it's all a big trick, and we'll wake up one morning with him as the upperhand?"
She laughs. "You imagine things too much. Even if that was the case, he's too weak to do anything now. Don't fret so much. We'll take him to the jail in the town over, drop him off, pick up our due. Just like always."
"I guess so." He looks over to her, then back to the elf. "Hopefully he doesn't slump over and die before then."
-
Aymer quivers, his chains shaking as he does so. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, willing himself to fall asleep. If he does, they'll leave him alone. If he does, it won't hurt so bad.
He shouldn't have been out alone. He knows that now. He shouldn't have run away, run away from the people that were helping him even though he couldn't get it through his thick elf brain that the humans were the good ones. They put up with him for so long, and yet he ran. Just like he always does. Except now, he can't run. He won't.
It's scary, being alone. Surrounded by people who hate you, people who want to see you suffer. Only one of them has yet to work him over with their fists, and he dreads the day that time comes.
How many are there? A dozen? It feels like more. It feels like everyday he wakes up to new pain and a new cruel smile. But there can't be that many of him. The camp is small.
In the back of his mind, he wonders what crime he committed, and he nearly laughs out loud. Stupid, stupid elf, He thinks. You're a slap away from tearing your ears off and begging, begging to be human. You know it's not good to be an elf. That's your crime. You couldn't even be useful. No magic, you're too clumsy for chores, too ugly to sit and look pretty and too human-looking to be put on display. What's wrong with you?
Aymer breaths in heavily, tilting his head up to the sky. He flexes his hands and feet in their cuffs; they're still working. Maybe he could do some sort of labor. He isn't very strong, though.
As he breaths in the dusty camp air, his eyes staring at the sun, he feels a shadow cast across his legs. Someone's in front of him. Waiting. Waiting for him to look, so they can shout, Did I ask you to look me in the eye?! You think you're important enough for eye contact?!, and start pummeling him until he's shaking and crying just like how they found him. Always leave things better than how you found them. Better, in this case, is more beaten.
"Put these on." A sharp voice says instead. Old boots, nearly missing their soles, drop at Aymer's feet. "You're going to do a hell of a lot of walking tomorrow. Best get prepared."
Aymer can't help the frightened tears that fill his eyes.