A 'Demon' Interrogation pt 1

The man in long priestly vestments stared down at the nearly crumbled figure that refused to fall any further than his knees. Despite the torture that ran the gamut from beatings with boards, cat of nine tails, branding irons, and the breaking of bones. The manacles pulled his arms forward towards the floor out in front of him, giving him little leeway to position himself in anything other then seated on his knees or kneeling prostate, the man slumped for a moment letting his head rest against the floor for only a moment readjusting himself before pulling himself back into a kneeling position and spat a thick sticky glob of clotted blood onto the stone floor.

The priest held out a hand, opening and closing his fingers in a gesture to bring him something. After a few moments silent save for the ragged but steady breathing of the man on his knees.

“Father Atticus.” the voice of a young man said as he handed whatever ‘The Father’ had requested.

“Thank You, Maximillion.” The thickly accented voice, pompous and that of someone with a false sense of superiority.

“No Father the pleasure is mine” the young man, apparently Maximillion, said before the sound of backing away footsteps filled the quiet, but eventually Father Atticus began to make sounds again. Something that through the ringing in his head sounded like a grunt of frustration. The hard soles of his shoes clacking on the stone floor.

Father Atticus cleared his throat loudly to assure himself that his captive would hear him and choose to pay attention. The kneeling man didn’t raise his head to regard Father Atticus, letting his chin rest on his chest in an attempt to possibly catch a few seconds, maybe a minute of rest while the man before him ranted and raved again. Wishful thinking was all it was, because no sooner than the idea crossed the man on his knees' mind a hand grabbed him by his hair and lifted him to meet Father Atticus’ eyes.

“Good, now you will hear me.” Father Atticus said, stepping back and wiping his hand on his robe. “Now hell spawn, are you ready to admit to your crimes, or do you still believe you are innocent?” Father Atticus asked, making a gesture to show the man what he was holding, a slab of metal slightly longer than Father Atticus’ forearm, finished with a fine black stain, diamond shaped black metal rivets pocked the surface in a seemingly random pattern.

“No.” the words came out horse, and weezing rolling off the man’s chapped lips and falling to the floor having no energy to project. But it was enough for Father Atticus to hear.

“You are stubborn.” he admitted, there was a hint of a sort of sick appreciation behind his tone. Like he was enjoying having a toy not break so soon. “But it’s for nothing.” he said sure as the sun would rise tomorrow. “You will confess. That might be today, that might be tomorrow, a week from now, a month. It matters little to me. You will confess, and if you try to die before then, we will bring you back, and this colloquy we will continue until you do. “Has your answer changed?” Father Atticus questioned the man as he paced the circle to stand behind him.

The man lingered a moment, allowing Father Atticus some sense that maybe it was finally getting through, but then the words came. “Get on with it…”

“Still obstinate I see.” Father Atticus said, circling again to stand in front of the man. “Why is it that you are so stubborn?” he asked, his tone shifting slightly to a more quizzical one. “You adamantly stated you care for her, if that is true…” he said pacing behind the man again, slamming the studded board against the man’s back with a painful thwack, the man grunted slightly in pain but didn’t waver or slump, “why won’t you save her soul and just admit to your crime?” he questioned bringing the board to contact the man’s between the shoulders once again.

“You…know…why…” the man gasped out.

“Remind me, Merakas.” Father Atticus said his tone was one of a mocking version of the one he used for guiding his flock.

“Go to hell, Atticus.” Merakas spat

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