Kanimir's woken by a solid blow against his hip, pain blossoming across his back and down his leg before he even has his eyes open. He groans, rolling to the side and peeling his eyes open. The world comes into focus quickly, the ache around his eyes faded to a tolerable irritant rather than a pounding pulse. He blinks for a moment, adjusting to a world not swaying and washed out, before flames lick at his spine and he lurches upwards, rising to his knees with relative ease. He pauses, then, clenching and relaxing his hands, feeling a soft, but present, thrum through his veins. A small smile pulls at his lips, slow and measured, before he quickly shakes it off and turns towards the Blessed, wary. There's a tray near the edge of the rug and she has yet to address him, so he reaches for it, sculling the water like the precious resource it truly is.
There's still a feeling of something not quite right in his gut, but he ignores it in favour of folding his legs underneath him and eating, quietly and quickly. The return of his power, if weak, is bolstering, washing away a little of the despair and helplessness that had gripped him the night before. He knows he cannot direct it towards the Blessed, knows that to do so would just be signing a warrant for his own suffering, but it's
there. He's not helpless, he never was, he was just alone and terrified. The pulse of Rivening through his veins gives a little of his confidence back, and his gaze scans the tent in a calculating way, if still wary.
For all that his self confidence has returned a little, he still flinches when she speaks. It's an involuntary action and he mentally slaps himself for it, but it doesn't really matter. She has a sway over him, that he cannot deny. She's...that thing inside of him that she's broken is
still in pieces and as much as he can tell himself he's not afraid of her, his power gives him the conviction not to be...he's still afraid. She sparks that cold, chilling fear in his chest that wraps around his lungs and makes it hard to breathe. He doesn't know what to do with it and so he simply ducks his head, feels the short tips of his hair brush against his neck and focuses on his anger for that particular offence.
He's finished the small bowl of oatmeal before she moves again, setting it aside and in the process of folding his hands in his lap and wondering what humiliation she has planned for today when something solid is thrown in front of him and he almost bodily recoils. Hand planted on the ground in front of him and halfway to pushing himself back, his eyes catch up with his instincts and an invisible hand slides ice down his spine. A collar. It's a fucking collar.
His gaze snaps up, trying to read her face, searching for some sign this is all a twisted joke. But who is he kidding, he knows well and truly that there is no joking here. She's tortured him for days on end just to make him obey her word, left him to suffer for hours upon hours just to hear him say he understood her twisted, fucked up plans to make him 'obedient'. Her eyes are cold and emotionless, and despite the anger and desperate frustration coiling in his chest, he knows he can't fight her.
His hand, previously so steady and sure, shakes with finite tremors as he reaches out for the collar. The material is cold and unforgiving under his palm, and he almost drops it in the attempt to pick it up. He swallows convulsively, mouth suddenly dry, and turns the heavy leather band over in his hold. A warning flicker starts at the base of his spine, fingers of flame dancing across his ribs, and he chokes back a pathetic sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl before lifting it, chain and all, to settle around his neck. His hands are shaking so badly he can barely find the clasp, breathing suddenly laboured, and whatever composure he has is slipping from his grasp like hot butter. Hot tears prick the back of his eyes and he wishes, suddenly, vehemently, for his Chakram, a dagger, something sharp and steel. For whom, he's not even sure anymore.
After what feels like an age, he manages to cinch the buckle, the tug of a few wayward strands of hair caught in the process little but a pinprick in comparison to the burning rocks settled over is lungs and the damp, heat in his eyes. The heaviness of it almost drags him down, his spine straightening forcefully as he tries to readjust his shoulders to account for the extra weight around his throat. He feels suffocated, like he can barely breath around the thick leather strap, even as he knows he wasn't capable of fastening it that tight. He has a feeling the difficulty breathing has nothing to do with the physical presence, but far more what it implies. He's spiralling again, the strength he had summoned from the feeling of magic in his blood lost in the crashing current of fear and desperation and self hatred. He can't look up, gaze fixed on his hands where they rest in his lap, clenched together fierce enough to make his knuckles pale, still shaking despite that, but even so he knows she's watching him.
@SanctifiedSavage
