SP 4 509
The first punch had been the worst. It had slammed into his chin with a sickening crack that had sent him reeling, stumbling backwards in a grinning daze of stars and patches of tantalizing darkness. He could feel his blood rushing, the pulse quickening as the wind rushed past him, foreshadowing another strike. There was already the coppery flavor so familiar that came with such things, and it lingered on his tongue like an acrid honey, dripping from his chin in the tick it took for the next blow to land. It was different than the first, as if the fist desired to pass through him rather than to balk at the advent of flesh and bone. The wind rushed from his lungs, making room for the man's hand to creep just a few more inches deeper into his stomach, stopped only by the meager layer of muscle that instinctively contracted in rebuttal, the sharp pain dulling almost immediately as he felt his legs weaken and knees begin to shake. It was what he had wanted, what he had desired, and though he struggled to draw in another, spluttering breath, he couldn't help but grin ever wider, his vision still blurred from where his jaw had popped, the ache already spreading its root-like tendrils out and along the side of his face.
Others had gathered long before the fight had truly begun, and their voices were like faded fabrics tapping against dusty glass. Whether they were as filled with excitement as he was of if their shouts were those of distress, he couldn't quite discern. Instead, when the kick followed the two successive punches, he sailed backwards, his balance little more than a memory as he drifted through the air with a weightlessness that felt as though it might last forever. When he hit the ground, however, his body was reminded of its mass, its encumbrance, and with it came the ache of bruised bones and the sear of scraped flesh. His assailant did not waste time, and he did not desire it. His eyes flicked back and fourth, desperately searching for a few ticks before a shadow cast itself over him, imposing but welcome in that it offered him more of what he had come for. His own first struck out, one managing to find a place dangerously close on the other man's upper thigh. The attempt at the defense was met with a crushing boot that ground his shoulder into the cold, unmoving stones beneath him. An involuntary gasp escaped his lips a tick before the man had straddled him, sinking down to his knees before beginning a steady metronome of strikes one after the other in a rising succession.
It felt as though his head was going to burst at first, each connection of knuckles to cheek was its own blow, but as they continued, the sensations began to meld together. His mouth was filled with blood, his lips split and tongue bit from his fall, but his heart pounded with all the giddiness of a child. Consciousness fought against its darker sister, clawing towards the faded light not out of a desire of survival but that of the experience. He could feel the throbbing distress of his head that he had raised his arms in a vain attempt to protect, though what exactly he was protecting he couldn't quite place. He wanted to bask in the wincing snap of fist against skin, the jarring manner in which his head bounced off of the cobbles under him with each strike. It was more addictive that the most tender of touches, and he shuddered under the strain of keeping himself awake. There was more than just the pain and pleasure: there was the distinct flavor of fear that had begun to creep up around him. It had become hard to think, and he couldn't remember the last time he had taken a breath. Little lights danced in his vision whether his eyes were open or closed, and he couldn't quite tell the difference between either. The voices had dulled into a gentle roar, and each time a fist found its mark, it was like a slow tidal wave of force passed over him like a ripple in a pond.
He spluttered beneath the weight of his aggressor, arms too heavy to hold above him anymore, falling to the side like the spent leaves of autumn, his mind focused on a single, sudden realization: this is what is to die. A cry escaped his lungs, one of visceral, tearing fear, a noise that was drawn from him rather than released from within, and it sounded foreign to his own ears, like that of another, a phantom who resided within his own body. There was a tick that passed, a rush of air, but the promise of another press of knuckles was broken as he felt the weight of the man lifted from his chest. He blinked, bleary and confused, odd shapes and colors swirling before his disorientation as there stood another, and interference, a savior. With a groan, he tried to rise himself from where he lay, his head lolling to the side, blood running from his nose and lips to stain his already sullied tunic, the bloom of crimson spreading over the pale linen like a creeping flame. Words failed him, tumbling from his swollen lips in a messy mumble. Hands descended upon him, pulling him to his feet, supporting his weight with offered shoulders, but the voices were distant, unimportant.
What he wanted was right before him: a man - a true man - in armor and with weapon drawn. He pushed against those who, in the brief ticks it took for his addled mind to catch itself up to the current situation, changed from caretakers to captors. He stumbled forward, wanting to see what it was that was unfolding before him, to hear the words being said, to understand, to know. He didn't make it too far before he wavered and more hands moved to hold him steady. The only words he was able to manage in that moment as his dark eyes stared wide and transfixed on the knight before him were two: "Who that."