Chapter Text
What is the word for an ocean-bed with no water?
Obvious, he used to think. The answer was clearly a desert. Desert was the Latin-root word, which meant he’d had to be taught it specially. Who by? He can’t remember. But an ocean-bed with no water isn’t a desert. It's hell. He would know, he’s in it. Slowly dying in it.
An ocean without water is hell.
He's been here for too long. A year, maybe? His skin has grown tough and dry like ... scales, sort of. His hair is worse. Every one of his muscles aches, and the less said about the state of his joints the better. And his scars! His skin is darker than it’s ever been, exposed as it is for too long every day to harsh, over-world sunlight with no healing relief brought by water. Weaving across his skin, more obvious than they had been before... before, are white scars, like those on whales or dolphins who got too close to the human ships.
Thinking about his scars makes him think about Arthur. Arthur is a scar, too, he supposes. What was it he’d said? Once upon a time, his greatest wish had been to meet him.
But that was before.
Now, the scar of Arthur arcs across the top of his mind. It cries and sobs, and uses up imaginary water Orm doesn’t have to spare, and waits to be rescued.
Orm won’t be rescued. He's here for the good of Atlantis. Arthur won’t care anymore. And mother.... well, she has Arthur. Orm’s new place is here.
Dying.
Things seem different now. His thoughts drift away like the sand does, and anytime he thinks he has a good line of thought it just vanishes. His nails are longer. Too long. More like claws, really, but dried and cracked, and one of them is ripped. He got it caught in something, but he can’t remember what. How uncivilised.
He tries to think of something nice. All of his memories are from Atlantis, and that is a place lost to him forever. The memories are coloured by grief and repressed resentment. Then he thinks about his brother, but that hurts too. Why won’t Arthur rescue him? Of course he won’t. Arthur knows that Orm belongs here in prison, far from home, because -
What was the reason?
Orm can’t remember.
He's so, so thirsty.
It’s all Arthur’s fault. His father’s too. Mother’s, for not coming to save him. His own, for failing. His and Arthur’s together, because they’re not truly brothers but he doesn’t want to be guilty alone. What good is that?
His fault, their fault, Arthurs fault. Does it matter?
The consequence is Orm's.
This isn’t Arthur’s fault. The poor bastard just didn’t know any better. If it isn’t the bastard's fault, then it must be his own. He got himself into this mess. That’s what a good ruler would do. Accept a consequence. Survive the beatings. Keep waiting for rain that never comes. So Orm, son of Atlanna, will keep waiting, and surviving, and try to remember what hope means.
The latest beating leaves him bleeding under the skylight. He is listless and dull like the murky pre-dawn greyness spreading across above him. Orm stares up at heaven as the stars die, as the edge of the sky in view brightens. His hair used to be the colour of fresh sun, he thinks. A bright, clean colour. He stares up until the light becomes too bright, and then forces himself to crawl away and hide from the cruel heat.
He’s coming to yearn for the stars, as if they can bring him home. Like the stars are a map.
Like a surface dweller.
Like Arthur.
It’s Arthurs fault. He presses his hands to his spilled blood and absorbs the water to stay alive and he stares at the brown stain and thinks it’s Arthur’s fault.
His hair is too long. It blocks his vision. If he has to fight, it will be an obstruction. Who is he lying to? Any chance of fighting is long gone. Those monsters come every so often and beat him, not every day but he can’t count them, and then he suffers until they come again. Suffering is all he’s good for. Sometimes he feels like suffering is all he’s ever done. All he does in this circle of hell is fight to survive.
He can’t think.
This is a tragedy. He doesn’t know, but he believes that he used to be brilliant. Knowledge, understanding, and politics – only months ago he believed he had all of it. He was clever. He isn’t clever now, though.
All he is is hurting.
His hair is dry, like dry grass.