It was only now that Castor finally felt the pain of his wounds take to throbbing. Small trickles of blood seeped from the slashes on his arms and the pricking pain of his stab wounds were getting to be annoying. Castor wasn't one to cry out, not since he was a young boy and broken in on his first day in the mines. It was a precautionary measure, to make sure that he knew his place and that he was to work until the debt was to be paid, not a joint, not a word, not a protest out of place.
He was woken from his musings when her strength left him and she leaned in to him. He was bleeding just about everywhere but he supposed it didn't really matter. He just stood there, like a wall, until she found the strength in herself to stand on her own. Truly, he could not know what to say to her. And perhaps it shouldn't have, but almost seemed like a joke to her with the way she spoke. But he knew better than that. Perhaps that was just her way of coping with the slaughter he'd just committed.
He had nothing to say for himself; not quite in his defense. At least, however, he was glad to find no condemnation in her words. His head was lowered, looking at his feet, trying to comprehend what he'd yet just done. It was too easy, to tear a man to pieces. And perhaps that was what he was most afraid of, that it would become too easy that he might become complacent, that it was something that he would never hesitate to use if he wanted to. But he knew, deep in a corner of his mind, that this was a moment that called for it. There was no reason for her to be taken as she was, and he began to see the true folly of his own crime against her. He had not touched her wrongly in the way that these bandits had intended, true, but his intent, which he made clear several times, was perhaps worse all the more, ensuring to deliver her to a fate of complete uncertainty. But what choice did he have? More than two thirds of his life in the bondage of powers greater than he, one had been physical, one had no form at all, yet both had tormented him into the animal he had become. If this would take him one step closer to being free of these terrible hands that had now become his own, he would take it. Nothing else mattered. He couldn't let it matter.
He finally looked up at her, flexing the steel of his hands. "I don't regret what I just did," he said finally, his eyes saying he didn't. "You have value to me, yes. That, and no woman deserves to be violated in such a way. Not by worthless brigands. Even you, who tried to cut my throat, is worth more than they are." His eyes watched her bare back, trailing down the length of her body as she reached for the clothing of one of the dead men that seemed just about her size. "The treasure I seek, is not made of gold or embedded with jewels. I'm not a treasure hunter, I'm not much of anything really. I'm looking for a Relic, an ancient artifact that holds a great deal of importance to me." He bit his lip, not wanting to say anymore, but knowing she deserved answers, at least, after the horror she witnessed.
Castor walked, with a slight limp, his wounded leg causing him some irritation, around looking at the gold they had staked on the table and the wine they had been enjoying. He walked over to where the discarded remains of her clothes were, as few as they were, and plucked them from the ground. Carefully, he folded them and brought them to her. "My name is Castor," he said finally, realizing he never probably introduced himself.
