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Consciousness returns to him at a slow crawl, thick and heavy, invading his mind with image fragments and elusive thoughts, along with the awareness of pain beyond anything he has ever experienced before. It seems to come from everywhere at the same time, all-consuming.
His head is pounding as if it has been trampled by a horse's hooves. Add to that the fact that there is a distinct wet and sticky feeling at the back of it, near the nape? Well, it is worrisome, to say the least. Yet he remembers nothing.
He tries to rub at his eyes before opening them but quickly realizes that he cannot for his hand is bound. Both of them, in fact. As are his feet. A slight shift of his body results in a wince and a stifled groan; best to remain hushed until he better understands his current predicament.
He stands there, quiet. Hurting and in the dark - in more ways than one.
Once he feels that his mind is clear of the confounding fog and all his senses are fully functional, he takes silent inventory. Other than being tied and suffering from an obvious head injury, he is quick to determine his state of near undress, wearing nothing but his coarse linen shirt. And while it usually runs the length of his thighs down to his knees, someone has obviously done something to it because every time he moves, he can feel its frayed bottom edge scratching over his bruised skin mere inches below his groin.
Bruised skin. Aye, his upper legs feel tender. And there is a burning sensation and a soreness originating from his ... arse?
God, no.
He blinks his eyes open with a hiss, suddenly not caring if anyone is still around to hear him. It takes some time for his sight to adjust to the dim lighting. With his head hanging, the first thing he manages to focus on is the altar, its simple wooden surface strewn with dark stains. He frowns, the slight facial shift adding to his growing list of injuries. He can only imagine the color blossoming on his abused cheek. Lifting his chin up a few notches, he takes in his surroundings. A church. Of course. Where else would one find such an altar? Or a high pulpit. Late evening then, he concludes, noticing the diffused light filtering through the few windows, its warm glow painting the sacred refuge in a tableau of simple beauty. Never had he seen the house of God from this angle - looking onto the nave and its rows of pews.
Strange, but beautiful. Except, not really. Because it is clear to him now that he was made the victim of something terrible and most definitely unholy in this very sanctuary.
Letting himself sag against his bonds, he closes his eyes and tries to remember. He had gone to the horse farm in Andover, looking for a job. The De Horsaigh lass (she could not be much older than him) had agreed to hire him to work the stables with her brother. He had been brimming with pride, intent on returning straight to town to tell Dean before he started his shift at the watch house.
Dean.
He swallows thickly, the thought of the blond soldier bringing about a whole new kind of ache. This one much deeper and more desolate than any of his physical hurt.
He had been cutting through countryside and was nearing the juncture to Ipswich Road when they accosted him, beating him until he could hardly stand on his own. And in the very light of day where anyone could have happened upon them.
They had all but dragged his useless form to him - their leader. Bennett.
He shudders at the thought of the dark-haired man with his intense gaze and commanding presence. Manu.
You have the look of your mother.
Oh, yes. The memories are definitely all returning to him now. Though instead of coming back in a trickle, they are surging forth in a torrential flow.
Let us see if I can make you beg as prettily as she does.
Manu's voice. Mocking and full of self-importance.
Do not fight me boy. It will only delay the outcome and bring about more pain for you.
Manu's touch. Cold and unforgiving.
Have you never been breached before? Stop wailing and take it like a man.
Manu's cock. Thick and invading.
You are a pathetic fuck, Turner. I might need to pay O'Gorman a visit. See what the fuss is all about.
Manu's intentions. Cruel and terrifying.
Dean. Bennett knows about him and Dean.
The sudden recollection startles him into action as he pulls at his bindings, frantically scanning the area for any possible means of escape. That is when he notices the smoke. Though it is barely discernible in the fading light, it does not take long for him to smell it. Choke on it. Something is burning nearby. Maybe someone is around, outside?
He tries to cry for help but his voice is hoarse and hardly any sound escapes his broken lips.
Try as he might, there is no escape for him. And then the flames are licking into the building and the truth slams into him, stealing him of breath as he goes numb.
The bastard has set the church on fire.
It dawns on him that he is meant to die in this place, tied to the very cross that holds him upright. The twisted symbolism behind it all does not escape his notice. Manu meant for it to be significant in its own perverted way.
You are a disgrace to humanity. Your sins must be atoned for and I will personally see to it. You can burn in hell as Satan's whore. You deserve no less.
Manu's words. His newly proclaimed fate.
He is too shocked to panic. He can only watch the flames as they burn everything in their path, slowly making their way towards him. The air is thick with heat and smoke and he coughs. He will probably die from smoke inhalation before the fire ever reaches him. Or the roof will collapse on top of him, ending his life quite abruptly.
He thinks about Dean. Of what could have been, despite its forbidding.
He fades. In and out. His head is still throbbing and he is often pulled back to consciousness from the pain or by his own coughing. He does not know how much time passes but thinks that it cannot have been that long, really. After all, fire ravages quickly and effectively. Maybe this is just how it goes, at the end. Everything having slowed to such a point, time almost at a standstill. Perhaps it is meant to be this way, allowing the dying to come to terms with what is happening to them. To say their goodbyes and declare any final wishes or whisper a few last words.
Pointless, really, if you are to die alone.
And it is that thought which finally draws a few tears from him as they silently run tracks down his cheeks.
He is used to being alone. Though he never imagined having to actually face death on his own.
Another coughing fit has him crying in earnest, this time the tears caused by the smoke. He thinks he can hear something new, something different from outside but the roaring of the fire is deafening and he has no vocal chords or lungs left to be of any use.
A section of the roof collapses but he cannot see through the dense smoke. The sound is horrific and he bites his lower lip, fear getting the better of him.
He closes his eyes for what he believes to be the last time. It will not be long now.
"Aidan!"
There is a voice.
"Aidan?"
Is his imagination playing tricks on him?
"AIDAN!"
Or is it Satan welcoming him.
But then someone other than him is coughing.
"Aidan Turner ..."
It is closer now. He thinks he recognizes the voice.
"Please, lad, answer me."
Mr. Armitage?
He opens an eye, and then the other. Richard is there, a fancy cravat covering his mouth and nose. His gentleman clothes are soot-stained and he has this fierce look about him, unbefitting his usual countenance.
"I will get you out of this inferno, I swear."
Those are the last words his mind register before blackness envelops him and he knows no more.
* * * * *
Aidan awakes with a gasp, struggling to sit up. But he is being held down, gently yet firmly.
He opens his eyes, finding himself abed, buried beneath expensive layers of soft fabrics. He turns his head to the side and sees that the sun has risen upon a new day for Dean is sitting on a chair beside him, as close as can be. He is smiling, his eyes alight with warmth and familiarity. There seems to be no trace of concern in that bluest-of-blue gaze, not a line of worry marring his perfect brow.
Just a dream, then.
Aidan relaxes, sinking further into the pillows. He wants to free his hand from the covers. He needs to reach out and find Dean's fingers. Touch him. But someone clears his throat and Aidan looks over Dean's shoulder, towards the doorway. Richard is there, standing tall and well-groomed, every inch the nobleman. He smiles softly, lifting a hand in greeting. "Hey."
His hand is wrapped in thick bandages.
It is only in that moment that Aidan breathes in sharply before forcing himself to exhale slowly.
Or perhaps ...?
He wants to start taking silent inventory but belatedly realizes how badly his senses are dulled. Giving Dean a wary glance - the blonde's smile has faltered, he notices - he wonders out loud, his voice raw, "Whatever happened to your hand, Richard?"