38 Chapter 38

The torture was merciless and unrelenting. Suffisticuts screamed and cried, babbling incomprehensibly. His mind was on the edge of sanity. When his consciousness slipped, drifting toward oblivion, the most intense agony pulled him from the brink.

His head, tied in a stinking, blood-soaked sack, whipped back and forth, slamming against the wooden table. Instinctually attempting to escape the scalpels, burning irons and tongs, he worsened existing injuries. He was barely human, reduced to a creature of pure instinct—a mangled dog, strangling itself on its own chains.

When the abuse started, he waited for questions to come. Suffisticuts had no loyalty to his warlock master. Toward him, he felt only lust, fear and hatred. He would sell him out in a heartbeat, and enjoy it too.

To his despair, the torturer was like a mute demon. Through the dark fabric, Suffisticuts sensed the man's smoldering intent—to cause suffering for its own sake. His only form of communication was in runes and patterns, burned into his skin.

Such was the torturer's dreadful efficiency that persuasions were unnecessary. On his own accord, Suffisticuts confessed everything and anything he could think of. If there was the slightest chance, the slimmest possibility, of a tidbit alleviating his suffering, he yelled it at the top of his lungs.

Suffisticuts' unending misery and the smothering darkness made it impossible to tell time. Visions haunted his shattered mind like nightmares, that he already died, and that this was hell. Cast into a bottomless pit, this was to be his fate until the end of time, to be pierced, sliced, torn and burned over and over again. Forever.

And it ended. When his voice had given out, and when his struggles ceased. His ruined body lay there on the table, silent and unmoving. His tormenter finally spoke, his gravelly, thickly-accented voice whispering in Suffisticuts' ear.

"What is his name?"

Suffisticuts' only response was his head lolling uselessly to one side.

The man must've taken it as an answer. After looming menacingly for a long moment, the floor creaked as he receded.

There was a faint sound of metal against metal, then a thumping against wood. A lock turned somewhere, followed by a door creaking. Heavy footsteps thumped against stairs, the wood groaning under tremendous weight.

Some remote part of Suffisticuts' mind recognized the madam's voice. He visited the brothel frequently in the past.

"Mr. Scroop, are you…?"

She was promptly ignored by the hulking man. It was impossible not to hear him, stomping over to the front and wrenching it open, letting in the sounds of nighttime Teirm.

"I'm leaving. Don't let him die."

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Cedric sat in his study, tapping his finger against his desk. Earlier's conversation went about as well as expected. He hadn't thought he'd ever see a dragon mortified, but Saphira's reaction couldn't be described any other way.

Cedric intended his suggestion as a joke, but it didn't come out that way. He didn't know what came over him, why he spoke so seriously. Regardless, Saphira had exploded, berating and insulting him before leaving angrily.

'Why did I even bring it up in the first place? There wasn't a chance of it resulting in anything good.'

Cedric sighed, reaching into his vest and withdrawing a pipe. After stuffing and lighting his home-made dope, simply named 'pipeweed', he reclined in his chair, kicking his feet up.

For a while, he simply watched the blue smoke curling up against the ceiling, stewing in his own thoughts. Introspecting led him to a conclusion—isolation was the root cause of his oversharing. Because of his and Saphira's oaths, not to leak what they discussed, he got too comfortable.

In the end, human beings weren't meant for being alone. Sure, Cedric was surrounded by people since being reborn, but was he close with any of them? Was Fitch his family, or was Eragon truly his friend if Cedric was never, could never be honest with them?

His relationship with both was mostly a façade, pretending to be a real grandson, or a fellow teenager. Fitch's grandson – the real Cedric - had died of a fever when he was around two years old, and the old man himself passed away before the novel's advent. Eragon never would've known that original soul, and the name of an old widower would've been naught but a faint childhood memory.

Cedric leaned his head on his knuckles, blowing a stream of smoke. The mental image was rather unsettling—that of an old man, abandoned by his son, with his wife long dead and… being left to care for his grandson, only to have the child die in his arms. It was truly desolate.

'Nature really is smarter than people think… If you keep losing things, it won't be long before you're wondering what exactly you keep living for.'

It was a long time before he sighed, pushing back his chair and standing. After tapping his ashes into a tray, he restowed the pipe, looking for his coat and hat. He wasn't much of a drinker, but the mood suddenly struck him. Perhaps it was a good idea, going for a walk and stopping by an inn. Maybe he'd even pay Eragon a visit before they left.

Casting a dim circle of light with the lantern in his hand, Cedric made his way through the dark, underground passageways. Silent as a sepulture, with only the occasional sound of water dripping, the atmosphere was rather eerie. However, he wasn't frightened. Several traps were set, ready to expose and stymie any intruders.

A few eyes and ears lurked as well—bats and rats, nesting in the area.

After reaching the single, rickety, wooden door opening into the warehouse, he reached for the latch. Remembering his missing 'servant', he hesitated. He was confident in detecting an ambush, but perhaps he'd take a side-door, just to be safe.

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In the end, Cedric decided against visiting Eragon. Doing something like that seemed… hollow to him. What would they even talk about? They had nothing in common. They were from the same village—that was pretty much it.

He wandered the streets for a while, breathing in the chilly evening air. Eventually, his feet carried him to an upper-end establishment in a high-class district. Needless to say, the swill provided by the seedier taverns didn't appeal to him. The atmosphere and company even less.

Standing on the opposite end of the street, he noticed a crowd gathered around the opulent double-doors. The building reminded him of an opera house, at least from the outside. Finely dressed men and women talked and laughed, mingling among themselves. It was rather rowdy, the street being packed on both sides. Was there some function? Cedric didn't know.

For a while, he stood there, hands in his overcoat pockets. He wasn't sure if he'd enjoy the excitement. The queue seemed pretty long too. Besides, if it was an exclusive event, he might not get in without an invitation.

He was about to leave, planning to drink elsewhere, when someone suddenly called out.

"Excuse me!"

Looking over his shoulder, Cedric spotted a man in his twenties with dark hair, combed to one side, and a well-groomed moustache. He carried a cane in one hand, while the other circled the waist of a pretty woman, around the same age.

"My apologies, but do you have any idea what's going on?"

The pair approached him from a side-street, their expressions curious and friendly.

Cedric shook his head.

"Perhaps there's a famous performer tonight? I honestly couldn't tell you."

Coming to a standstill a few yards away, the man looked at Cedric, showing faint surprise.

"I see. But aren't you a tad young to be hanging around here? I'd wager you aren't a day over fifteen."

The woman, who hid herself shyly behind him, peeked over his shoulder.

"Don't bother him, Bertram. Maybe he's here with his family."

'Bertram' raised an eyebrow, glancing from his partner to Cedric.

"Are you?"

Cedric blinked, somewhat caught off guard. Was underage drinking even a thing? Maybe elsewhere, but in Carvahall, kids consumed alcohol regularly. They weren't given the strong stuff, but that was expected—they wouldn't appreciate the taste of expensive, distilled liquor anyway.

"No, I came alone."

Bertram's eyebrows drew together. He looked at Cedric again, scrutinizing him from bottom to top. His eyes travelled from the youth's black-leather boots and form-fitting trousers to his shirt and vest. Briefly, he noted his long, fastidious copper hair and handsome, pale face. Anyone would assume Cedric to be the scion of some wealthy family. However, those types usually didn't wander around unsupervised.

"Pardon me for being presumptuous, but it isn't wise to be without your guardian. I'm not sure if you heard, but there was a string of high-profile robberies recently. No kidnappings – we can count our blessings for that – but I one wouldn't put it above these brigands, stooping so low."

Using his cane, Bertram adjusted the hard, triangular hat on his head, similar to something one might see in the 18th century, back on earth.

"I don't understand why the city lord lets them run amok. Why if I could command the family retinue, I'd get rid of them myself-…"

He seemed about ready to start ranting, but his lady friend put a hand on his shoulder, silencing him.

"Hush."

She then turned her gaze toward Cedric, looking at him kindly.

"Won't you join us? We would like it if you did, right Bertram? But excuse me for not introducing myself. I'm Anne."

Stepping out from behind Bertram, she half-curtsied, a movement involving little more than nodding and pinching the hem of her skirt.

"…uh, I'm Cedric. It's a pleasure."

Caught off guard by the sudden proposition, Cedric tilted his head, glancing between the two. Why exactly would they invite him, a stranger, to be their third wheel?

Betram and Anne exchanged looks before the former nodded once.

"Yes, it seems a sound idea. If I have the gist of it, you were seeking entertainment in any case. We are in the same boat. The more the merrier, as they say."

Put on the spot, Cedric didn't know whether to accept or refuse. He did intend to take his mind off things, but high-society mingling hadn't been on his itinerary. Clearly, they assumed his background to be somewhat special, and while that was arguably the case, it wasn't in the way they were expecting.

Not wanting to cause conflict, Cedric shook his head.

"You're misunderstanding. I'm just an ordinary person. I'm ignorant of custom, and would just embarrass you two-…"

Bertram didn't let him finish, stepping forward and throwing and arm around Cedric's shoulder.

"Never mind all that nonsense. I, Bertram Cornwallis, couldn't care less. The so called 'customs' are nothing more than a means for people to be rude to each other in public."

He gave Cedric a half-smirk, squeezing his shoulder.

"Besides, if we took our eyes off you, I'm certain you'd get yourself into trouble. No, don't deny it. You certainly weren't planning on heading home, despite this place being full."

Cedric looked at him, mouth agape. What was this? He was rarely cold-approached by a pair of strangers, and had no idea how to handle it. However, he did get Bertram's hint—that they were worried for him, given his age, and him wandering alone after dark.

"…well, alright. I'll be in your care."

Bertram's smirk morphed into a broad smile, patting Cedric on the back.

"Excellent. Don't worry about us spoiling your fun—we're not stuffy types. Well, Anne can be – she has two younger brothers - but I'll try to stop her from henpecking you too much. And if you can barely see straight at the end of the night, well, there are spare rooms aplenty in the manor."

Pressing his palm against Cedric's back, he steered them toward the theatre.

Anne smiled reassuringly at him, coming up to Bertram's side, hooking their arms together.

"Don't worry. He acts like a hooligan, but Bertram has a gentle side to him. I wouldn't have gotten engaged to him otherwise."

Cedric let himself be dragged off. Perhaps he'd go along with this, just for tonight. He couldn't help being reminded of a young man with a different face and name, likewise being dragged off toward a club or bar by a group of boisterous fellows.

For a brief moment, he found himself wondering what happened to those familiar, friendly faces. However, the memories soon grew more bitter than sweet, and he forcibly put them out of his mind.

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