Pain radiated through his body, beginning at the throat and soon wracking him head to toe with agony. He contorted and writhed, muscles spasming with near-bone-cracking force, and the only thing he dared spare the willpower to control was keeping the clay bottle of liquid pain at his lips. He wouldn't be charged with drinking less than every last drop.

The person watching him with a cruel smile had long ago forsaken human appearances. They wore only a collection of rags tied in place with rough knots or with mud daubed and let to harden. The cruel smile faded, swallow after swallow, into a mild boredom, and their eyes wandered around the dingy dungeon chamber of stone and mortar. He was drinking, his conviction was clear, so he held no more interest for his captor. Or they had never been interested, and the mask of cruelty was too tiring, or too boring, to continue wearing.

He came to, alone in the empty room, after something akin to a blackout, with only mist-shrouded memories of licking at the rim of the bottle, lest he be accused of leaving a single drop.

"I have your family," they had said. "Drink every drop, or they die after the worst pain they have ever experienced, each of them watching in turn until the youngest is last." These dry words, flavored with malice that has been used too many times like a destitute family's last teabag, gave him his conviction.

He went home, crawling until he could stumble, stumbling until he could run, arriving to a happy home disturbed only by his fear, his appearance. They had never been taken, never been threatened or in any danger. His partner gave him a note, delivered by anonymous messenger.

"Now you know how far you will go."