Runt [ManxMan]

Chapter Twenty-Eight

When Mason woke next, he was feeling a bit better, but still pretty shitty overall. He was still cold and wet and naked, but he could open his eyes without his head threatening to split apart, so that felt like some amount of progress.

Sitting up was still a chore, his body protesting every movement. He hadn't had the chance to catalog his injuries before, too preoccupied with the wolfsbane coursing through his system and seeing his father for the first time in seventeen years, but he took the chance to do so now. There were shallow claw marks across one shoulder, four parallel lines cut into his skin, and deeper cuts on his side, the lines crisscrossing and still oozing blood.

Mason knew this was not a good thing. He wasn't sure how long it had been since the rogue attack, but he'd been knocked unconscious by wolfsbane twice, so it had to have been hours at the very least, if not days. He wasn't used to seeing wounds in human form, but he was fairly sure his form shouldn't have affected how long it took his cuts to stop bleeding.

He sat up a bit straighter, peering through the bars toward where he'd last seen Dax, but couldn't see the alpha from where he was. The only window was in Mason's cell, a narrow thing high above his head, and very little light filtered through it. He thought it must have been nighttime, and wondered if it was the same day they had been taken. The light was barely enough to illuminate Mason where he sat, and the space past the bars was all cast in shadows.

"Dax?" he called into the darkness.

One of the shadows moved, but Mason still couldn't really see the alpha when he spoke. "Mason? Are you alright?"

The omega hummed, inspecting his side. He didn't really want to touch it, knowing well enough it was a bad idea to get dirt into an open wound. Not that he thought there was a chance it wasn't already covered in dirt, but he didn't want to make it any worse.

Was he alright? He was still bleeding, his entire body hurt, his stomach rumbled unhappily, his throat ached from how dry it was, and he was stuck in a small, damp cell in the territory of the pack he'd been running from his entire life. Saying he was alright certainly didn't feel like a true statement, but all things considered he wasn't terrible.

How could he possibly express that, though? He could attempt to sign it, but Dax wouldn't understand them even if there was enough light for him to make them out. With real words? It would probably take more effort than he would be able to give. He could just say he was fine, but he didn't want to lie.

"Blood," he said simply, watching a drop cut a path down his hip.

"You're bleeding?" the alpha asked, a bit of alarm in his voice. Mason wished he could see the man's face. He wondered if he still wore his stoic mask, or if the omega would have been able to see the worry in his eyes.

"Yes," he responded. "Not bad. Was bad, not bad now."

There was a squeal of door hinges somewhere above them, and Mason tensed, pressing his back more firmly against the wall, his eyes drawn to a growing light off to one side. Soon he could make out stairs that twisted in on themselves, and feet walking down them, then legs and then a whole man, holding a flickering fire in a little cage.

Mason didn't recognize the man, which helped him to relax a bit because it meant his father hadn't returned. The man hung the fire cage on a hook on the wall before approaching the wall of bars.

"Runt," he called. Mason winced at the word, pressing himself further against the wall. "Hey, get over here. Don't make me come in there after you."

Mason considered continuing to ignore him but thought perhaps it would be better not to make the man angry, so he carefully scooted closer, wincing when the motion pulled at the wound in his side.