Vocivore, Ltd. (27 of 40?)
Also on FFN and AO3 (ListerofTardis)
***Chapter 12 animation and art that will absolutely astound you!!!**********
***LETHAL Chapter 19 art in all of its BLOODSTAINED GLORY!!!!************
****KILLIAN AND HIS MASTER IN THE GORGEOUS CATHEDRAL!!!!!!!!!!!! CHAPTER 1 ART THAT KILLS ME EVERY TIME I SEE IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!*********
***AAAAHHHH!!! THANK YOU MY WONDERFUL COCONUT FRIEND!!!!!!***
Present (Friday, continued)…
At first, Emma had needed to keep a trash can handy.
Precisely one minute into her husband’s torture sessions, she would feel the beginning rumbles of nausea. Invariably, by minute five at the latest, she had already thrown up at least once.
People thought she was sick with worry and losing sleep over Hope. Never would they guess the kind of turmoil she experienced listening to Killian scream.
For weeks, she stumbled through the day-to-day, hidden earpiece in place, ready to excuse herself at the first sign of activity in Hell. Never knowing when she would need the seclusion necessary to listen for any clue amidst the suffering.
Sometimes, after it was over, she would seek a moment of quiet just to listen to him breathe, to assure herself that he was still alive despite all odds.
In those fruitless, frustrating days, the only time Killian addressed her at all was just before passing out, when the tortures were over for the moment and he could rest.
“Good night, Swan,” he would say, no matter the time of day, and she would dissolve into tears of helplessness and sorrow.
They had gotten nowhere so far, and how much longer could he survive like that?
Day seven, Henry and Ella had insisted she come over to dinner, and she’d accepted, thinking it safe because Killian had already endured his Session for the day. But a few bites into her pizza, Emma had heard the chaotic signs of the slave guards pulling her hapless husband to his feet, and in a panic, she had rushed to the bathroom without a word of explanation.
That was the day they’d started the brutal “Exchanges” game, where, depending on how satisfied the Master was, Killian would be allowed a certain number of conversational moments, all under the pretense of serving the creature better. Ignoring voices of concern outside the door, Emma cried again, this time with just a dash of relief. They were finally getting somewhere.
In the days that followed, Killian would ask carefully constructed questions, while Emma waited with bated breath only to have the Master dash any possibility of weakness. No, Killian needn’t worry; it kept control of its slaves even in the depths of sleep. No, the Master did not fear running out of slaves: as soon as all in this realm had given their lives in devotion, it would move on to a place with fresh screams and start again. No, Tripod, never once had a slave recovered their independence and tried to flee, even those far away on missions. Its control over them was total and permanent.
Emma learned that the Master gleaned more energy from male screams–something to do with the frequency of their vocal vibrations–and so it would probably leave some women and children behind when it moved on. She learned that it had not seen another of its kind for several centuries, and that it could reproduce alone but had not yet found the optimal warm ocean reef required.
She also learned more than she ever wanted to know about the limits of Killian’s tolerance for pain. As the days dragged into weeks, she gained the ability to predict his reactions. How hard a strike would have to fall to elicit a grunt. What his flesh sounded like when it was being torn, sliced, and burned. How much it took to drag out the actual, blood-curdling screams the Master sought. She made herself listen, not daring to miss anything useful that may follow… and feeling that somehow, her invisible presence as witness could give him strength and endurance, if not comfort.
More than half of the Exchanges were the Master asking Killian questions, at first a frustrating reality that felt like a waste of time and anguish. Killian had no choice but to answer truthfully and without hesitation, as proof of his loyalty, and Emma wanted to smack her head into a wall. They were meant to be learning about the Master, not the other way around! But then she recognized an opportunity… if she could plan carefully enough.
Killian listed places in Storybrooke which would be easy or especially lucrative targets for a raid. In theory, Emma could use this information to post extra guards, prevent the attack, and capture all the slaves. But then she might give away the fact that she was listening in, or somehow make the Master suspicious of Killian. So maybe the best course of action, she decided, was to stock the targets with supplies that could be beneficial to her husband, or at least his fellow slaves: food, medicine, bandages. Additionally, to the best of her ability, she would keep innocent people away from those areas in hopes of preventing injuries or abductions.
The difficulty was that she never knew when the attacks would happen. She couldn’t really justify the warning, “stay away from this particular building for an unspecified amount of time and, oh yeah, I can’t tell you why.” Still, it helped her feel like she was accomplishing something. And related injuries did lessen as a result.
Now, a month into their plot, Emma had stopped throwing up.
It wasn’t as if she had gotten used to it. The sound of every strike still hurt as if done to her instead. But somehow, she’d figured out how to detach from the pain, to sequester it away in order to focus. And finally, she had heard something that brought back the smallest glimmer of hope. Killian was being sent out on a raid. He would be somewhere in Storybrooke, close enough to see, to hold. To rescue.
Except… it hadn’t worked out that way. She’d had to let him go. Return to the Master, the torture, the screams. Dutifully, Emma continued to listen, but with a slightly different purpose now.
A shell phone conversation with Hope had been the only antidote to the unspeakable things she’d heard that morning. Apparently, the Master had plans of its own. Plans that, by the sound of it, involved added suffering on Killian’s part. He could not possibly endure much longer.
Even as she relayed more of the terrible tale to their new detective ally, Emma listened. The sounds were altered somehow. Less clear. Yet she had become an expert at deciphering the audio.
Killian was up, moving about to the best of his ability. He had not yet followed the usual routine of seeking treatment from the mysterious Z, and now, his laborious steps seemed to be taking him a far greater distance than the short trek to her location. And that could only mean one thing: it was almost time.
