The heat of midsummer penetrated even to the dungeons beneath Maella Abbey, making sweat mat down Angelo's hair and sting his eyes as he lugged the heavy buckets of soured wine toward the torture chamber. The air was heavy and stale, and the cells he passed were silent, though he never raised his eyes to see if the prisoners were cowed by Marcello's efforts of the past few days, or if there were simply no prisoners left.
Normally, the task Marcello had assigned him was done by a group of trainees, made tolerable by jokes and laughter and many hands. The chore was less his punishment than the solitude was.
Or so he thought, until he turned a corner and the heavy air began to carry the first taint of blood and rot. His stomach churned; he had never had a cleaning detail during summer before, and now he wondered how Marcello could stand it, day after day. But then, the glowing praise accorded Marcello for his skill in breaking prisoners always carried a darker shadow, rumors that his half-brother enjoyed the suffering he inflicted a bit too much, and perhaps that was what made the results of his work tolerable to him.
The door to the interrogation room stood open, but the one that led to the torture chamber itself was closed, no doubt intentionally; one more obstacle for Angelo to deal with. The smell was worse here, seeping through the barred window that separated the two rooms, forcing Angelo to swallow repeatedly, and he had the sudden, horrible thought that perhaps Marcello had left his final prisoner here, dead and rotting, for Angelo to find.
His hand trembled as he reached for the door. He knew Marcello was very good at what he did; he had no desire to see what, exactly, that much-lauded skill truly entailed.
The room was blessedly empty, though the stench which rolled through the open door made him recoil; it was long minutes before he could force himself to pick up the buckets and continue. The usual torches had been replaced by oil lamps, wicks turned up high; Marcello wanted him to see this, the obscene dark stains on the floor and splashed up the walls, crusting the wood and metal of the various implements.
Angelo doubled over the drain in the center of the floor and emptied his stomach.
After, he felt weak and shaky, and though he wanted to hurry, to be done and out in air that wasn't too thick to breathe, to wash away the stench of death that he knew must cling to him, he knew Marcello wouldn't accept that one person couldn't do the work of half a dozen. He took up a brush and began scrubbing, deliberately not thinking about what he was scrubbing, or the churning in his gut, or the way the wine stung his knuckles when he barked them against the rough stone.
He was working on the rack - and dear Goddess, what had Marcello done that there was so much blood, too much to dry, still soft and thick and sticky against the wood - when he was shoved forward, pinned by a body twice his size. A hand closed on the back of his neck; another deftly locked one of the metal cuffs, rough with dried blood, around his wrist.
The hand on the back of his neck pressed forward, fingers doubtless leaving bruises; Angelo fought, but his head was pressed forward, until his hair fell into the congealed pools and the stench of rotting blood nearly made him ill again. "See your future, brother." Marcello's grip tightened. "One day, you will go too far. And the Abbot won't be able to protect you any more." He leaned forward, so that Angelo's ribs protested being trapped against the unyielding wood. "That day, you become mine. And it will be your own blood you're trying to scrub away."
A heartbeat longer, then Marcello's grip and pinning weight were gone. Angelo recoiled, violently enough that something in his elbow screamed in pain when he hit the end of the chain attaching cuff to table, yet still he struggled, possessed by a desperate, primal need to escape.
Marcello's laughter eventually penetrated his panic; some lingering shred of pride forced Angelo still, choked back the sounds that were not quite screams or sobs, forced his eyes up to meet his brother's mocking gaze.
"You truly are pathetic." Marcello produced a key and unfastened the metal cuff. In spite of himself, Angelo couldn't resist cradling his injured arm against his body; his wrist was bruised and scraped raw, and his sleeve felt tight around his throbbing elbow. "And unpardonably slow about this task. You will not leave this room until it is fit to be seen, and if that means spending the night here..." A cold smile twisted his lips. "Then so be it."
Angelo remained silent as Marcello turned on his heel and walked briskly from the room.
It was only when he heard to door's lock grate shut that he let his tears fall.
