Begging For Mercy - Tumblr Posts

Augusnippets Day 10: Begging for Mercy

Fandom: The Dragon Prince

Summary: Aaravos tries to argue with Cosmic Judges for Leola.

    Aaravos couldn't seem to understand why his daughter was being punished for giving the humans magic. The girl had done it out of love, not mallis. She was young and didn't know she was breaking some old code. 

    Standing in front of the Cosmic Judges, the startouched elf tried to plead his daughter's case. As they argued, he could feel Leola slipping out of his fingers. Would he really lose his daughter?

    "She is but a child!" Falling to his knees, he yelled at the judges. "Show her mercy!"

    The judges stayed quiet, cold in their decision. The girl had broken their code. It had been written to keep them safe as well as to protect their future. Now that the humans had magic, their downfall would begin.

    "She has broken the cosmic order." The stern one spoke.

    "She didn't know any better! I allowed her!"

    Leola tugged on her father's clothing, "Daddy?"

    Trying to calm his voice, Aaravos spoke. "It's alright. It will be okay." Kneeling down to his daughter, he tried to comfort her.

    Deep down, Aaravos knew he would lose. That didn't mean he wouldn't try. After all, how could he give up on his daughter?

    So the elf argued. He fought with all of strength; trying to have the judges grant his Leola mercy. Maybe it would be an act of mercy to him too. After all, what kind of parent wants to lose their child before they die?

At the Hook (Line, Sinker)

Augusnippets day 10: execution | fake execution | begging for mercy

Word count: 499

Trigger warnings: description of death, implied/referenced panic attack

——————(0)——————

Mag knows his face goes pale when he sees the man waiting for them, the thick, wicked hook in the ceiling. The assistant holding rope in a telling noose.

They absolutely don’t care if this man’s reputation is being used to frighten them into obedience. Either that’s the case, or talking will buy Cassander time to scrounge up a miracle to let them escape, or they’re both fucking dead.

“Please,” he whispers; louder: “Please, no, I don’t, I don’t—! Not like this, fuck, not like this!”

“Not like this?” the man—Marcus? Marius? Martin?—says, an easy smile spreading across his face. “That can be arranged. There are plenty of ways to—”

“What do you want?” Mag interrupts, because they really don’t want to know all the horrible ways maybe-Marcus has found to kill people. He already knows this man would see him hung slowly, death by strangulation instead of a broken neck. “What do you want?! I’ll do anything!”

They want to yank the words back as soon as they leave—it’s too much to give. But maybe-Marius wouldn’t accept anything less, anyways.

“Are you sure?” maybe-Martin says, nearly pouting. “I’ve been wanting to see what a destroying angel will do to someone. It eases up while it’s liquefying your liver—what does the anticipation do to you, feeling better but knowing you’ll die?”

“No! Fuck no! Please, I said I’ll do anything, please!”

“Oh, calm down. I can think of some ways to use a thief as famous as you, if you’re willing to do anything.”

Mag’s heart leaps in relief; his first guess was right. “Yes! Yes, I’ll do whatever—!”

“What about him, though?”

And back down their heart went into dread.

“He’s my partner,” Mag says, not looking at where Cassander was forced to kneel beside him. “He’ll do whatever you want, too.”

Play along, they think, please play along, don’t act out and ruin this, it might be our only chance.

“Of course, yes,” Marcus(?) says. His smile widens, goes sadistic and ugly. “But I want to hear him beg for it.”

Fuck, we’re dead.

Because the keyword with Cassander is proud. He’d fought every step of the way here, to the point that he was more heavily restrained than Mag now. He never apologized or said he was wrong. He’d spit defiance to someone holding a knife to his throat.

A tense pause. Then:

“Please,” Cassander grit out.

Marius(?) raises a brow. “Go on,” he prompts.

“Please,” Cassander says again. Then, picking up speed: “Please, please, please, please, áni, áni, áni—”

He cuts off. The only sound is his frantic breathing.

Mag tries his best to keep from gaping, because what the fuck, while picking over the last word. What was that, another language? Ahni? Ahani?

… No. He’s saying áni. Because that’s Áléen.

“Please what?” fucking Martin(?) is saying.

The answering jumble of syllables is foreign to Mag, but apparently it convinces the motherfucker.

“Well, then,” he says. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”