The Stars Give No Hope

One

Thorne had woken up like he had every night: trembling and in a cold sweat. His mind had made some kind of alarm to wake him up at this hour of the night close to a panic attack for no reason, other than to remind him that it was at this same hour that hope was lost.

It was usually the nightmares that woke him up; sometimes he remembered them, sometimes not. But they revolved around the same things. The bloodied bodies scattering the battlefield front of Artemisia Palace, Levana using him like a puppet, the knife burrowed into Cinder's heart. All of this felt like it happened ages ago, and maybe it had. He had no way of telling time. But no matter how long it had been, the nightmares wouldn't leave him. Now, he dreamt of what happened at his Punishment Hours.

As if experiencing these things hadn't been enough.

Once he could steady his breathing, and the blood could leave his ears, a hoarse scream started to filter in, one he recognized.

One that came from the same prison cell he lied in.

He shot his head to the side and saw him beating his head to the wall, hands bound to stop him from hurting himself-- which didn't work-- and screaming his lungs out. He grimaced, still not used to see him like that, when before he had been hardened beyond emotion. He focused on what he was saying, which sounded unintelligible, but soon he could make out a word. No, a name.

Winter.

With a groan, Thorne crawled all the way towards him, grabbed him on the shoulders, and pulled Jacin from the wall, closer to him. He thrashed against his hold, wanting to be distracted in vain by self-harming himself even more, but soon fell limp and dissolved to sobbing, whimpers occasionally interrupting it.

Thorne knew that he could never calm him down, could never find the words to say anything, unlike the former royal guard when it came to calming her, so he lay Jacin down and lay between him and that wall, embracing him to both keep him from doing anything violent and try anyway to calm him down.

He suddenly feared that they were coming. He shushed him, sat up, and listened. His fingers went to his lips and he bit the tips of them, a habit that he developed ever since being thrown in that prison.

He kept listening. Nothing.

He sighed in relief and his teeth released his fingers. Not yet. He may have turned a bit claustrophobic, but at least he wouldn't be in that wretched throne room.

At least it would take longer to hurt her again.

He shut his eyes and willed her away, hating to remember, to dream, to think of the times in which he hurt Cress--

Bite your fingers, he thought. Just what Jacin does, but less violent. It works, it distracts him, and if he thinks of the pain...

He shook his head, and rubbed Jacin's arms when he saw him shiver, something he does often for some reason. Probably he feared that they would be arriving soon too, to take him away. For the Punishment Hours. At least he had actually calmed down, just breathing erratically. He would rather have that than screaming.

He flinched when he heard it. Footsteps, always in sync. How much time had passed since he'd woken up? Jacin had heard it too, his back already pasted with the wall far from the door, shrouded in shadows, only pale hair and dulled but widened blue eyes visible. Thorne found it hard to gulp. These things were part of a program, but he never knew the passage of time, and hoped it wouldn't be him, hoped it wouldn't be Cress.

The guards just had to stop by their cell. He heard one sliding a wrist and punching a code, while the other was silent. Soon the door was thrown open, and Thorne knew both of them flinched at the same time.

He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Time moved agonizingly slow as they stood there, smiling cruelly and waiting. When Thorne felt like he couldn't take the suspense any longer, one guard pulled him up with lightning speed, and Thorne thought his arm was close to being dislocated.

His pulse raced and he felt dazed as he was taken by the shoulders, knowing they wouldn't need to bound him, already weak and starved. He didn't know if he was hyperventilating. He didn't know if he sobbed as they dragged him.

All he knew was Cress.
...
They reached those doors he feared so much, and he was pushed in. He stumbled, and his eyes immediately landed on Cress. She was on her hands and knees, with those terrified eyes that were always directed at him. He hated it. Soon he looked at Levana, beautiful as she always showed herself, but he could see the deformed monstrosity beneath the façade. Something he couldn't forget easily. Then his eyes moved to the king of Luna, and through all his panic, he felt a pang of sympathy.

He could see the way Kai played with his hands. Tug, grab rub, repeat. Those same dulled, distant eyes that had seen too much, but then he would see the flash of fear fill them.

The witch lay a hand on his shoulder prompting him to look at her, and the dazed look graced his features, and there was the admiration, the love, the obsession. He looked mad as he took her hand and squeezed it, as if he needed to know if such perfection could exist. But then he snatched his hand from her, shut his eyes, and looked away.

He looked at Cress again, and the fear was still there. In her eyes. He tried to give her a look that would say how sorry he was, but without warning, he took a whip from a platter he didn't know was even there, and walked toward her with a balance and confidence that did not belong to him.

When the first hit landed on her chest, Cress wasn't the only one to scream.